I’m not one of those old women always poking her nose into everybody
else’s business because she doesn’t have nothing to do. I’m no
busybody. I keep an eye out because I used to be the president of
our Neighborhood Watch Association. If I wasn’t disabled by this
arthritis, I’d be out and about as much as anybody else. Meantime I
keep watch, like on that couple living catty-corner across my back
fence. That young woman sits in her backyard lawn chair and I mean
she’s showing everything she’s got. When I look at her through my
binoculars I can see that butterfly tattoo on her thigh. And that
dog of theirs never stopped barking. At least it didn’t until I
tiptoed over there one midnight and threw a chunk of poisoned chuck
steak over the fence.
Like I say, I’m not a busybody. People
around here appreciate what I do because I don’t intrude or
complain. Course, there’s been times when I’ve had to make anonymous
calls to Crime Stoppers, but I had good reason. Once it was because
those kids was selling dope on their bicycles. They rode up and down
the streets after dark, especially on Railroad Avenue. They knew
enough to stay away from Doucette’s Saloon or Doreen’s. Al Doucette
might come out with his shotgun blasting, and Doreen, well, she
might invite them in for a sample of one of her girls who won’t turn
them loose til the end of time. My motto is, “Live and Let Live,”
you know? So I wasn’t bothered about them until that day they rode
by me and Barbara Mackie and one of them hollered, “Looka them two
black bitches!”
Barbara is such a lovely girl. She was
mortified! She didn’t deserve that disrespect. She’s good about
taking me to the clinic for my arthritis and she brings me that
Meals on Wheels food. I can drive myself, but most of the time I
don’t have to. So, when them boys called me and her names, I decided
the police needed to know what they was up to. Later that night I
got in my Chrysler and parked in Boston Alley off Railroad Avenue
and waited. Sure enough, they came. I saw them getting their dope
supply from some South American-looking white man in a Mercedes.
Now you tell me, what is a Mercedes doing on Boston Alley or
Railroad Avenue after midnight? So I took down the license plate
number — I always carry my binoculars with me wherever I go.
For the next month I waited nights in
the same spot until I was sure of their schedule. Mercedes Man
always showed on Tuesday and Thursday at midnight. Course I had my
loaded forty-five on the seat beside me, just in case. After I got
my evidence I went home and gave all the information to Crime
Stoppers. Sure enough, Lieutenant Arceneaux arrested all four of
them The Riverville Daily Press called it “The biggest drug
arrest in years, due to the diligent efforts of Lt. Arceneaux.” I
don’t mind that Arceneaux got all the credit. He deserves it, being
as he’s the first black man to get promoted that high. We all so
proud of him. I hear he got a special commendation from the police
chief. I just hope they gave that boy a raise.
It was nice, the money they sent me
for tipping them off, but I didn’t do it for the money. I did it
because them boys was evil. Mercedes Man got twenty years in the pen
and those boys got five even though their lawyer claimed it was
their first offense and they was only eighteen. I waited until they
was locked up and then mailed them all post cards. Course I didn’t
use my real name:
This is what you get for calling
respectable black women Black Bitches. I hope this learns you your
lesson.
Yours truly,
A Respectable Black Woman
I’m not worried about them when they
get out of the penitentiary because I keep my forty-five on my bed
stand, right next to my Bible. And I know how to use it… My late
husband—God rest his soul—showed me how to use it. Just let them
boys or anybody come round here with some mess.
Barbara Mackie works for the city and
drives a city car, and she don’t abuse the use of that car, no sir-ree.
She drives to and from work, and the rest of the time it sits in her
driveway. She don’t even let her husband use it, although he’s tried
to. Now, I’m not one to criticize other folks’ business, but I do
think Barbara is too trusting with that husband of hers, even if he
is a preacher, a pretty good one so I hear. I’m a Methodist myself,
so I don’t have no love for long winded sermons. I hear Reverend
Mackie gives his congregation their money’s worth. He can preach for
two hours without breaking a sweat. Barbara’s invited me to their
church, but I think people ought to stick to their own religion. One
thing I can say for Catholics, they know how to get into church and
out on time, yes, sir-ree. I went to Mass once, out of curiosity,
but I have no intention going to a two hour long sermon with
Reverend Mackie, much as I admire his wife.
But I’m getting off the subject... I
was talking about Crime Stoppers and about my backyard neighbor what
likes to sit naked on her lawn chair. Well, when I looked over
there, I saw a green Pontiac I hadn’t seen before parked in her
driveway. So, I got in my Chrysler and drove around the block, slow.
Like I done with Mercedes Man, I took down the license plate number.
And no, I didn’t need my binoculars. I could see the license tag
with my own eyes. After driving about the neighborhood for two
weeks, I saw it sure wasn’t that woman’s husband. I know what her
husband looks like because I seen him in their backyard barbequing.
Naked Lady was fooling around on her husband. So, I called Crime
Stoppers and told them the license tag and reported a burglary in
progress.
You can’t believe how quick the
police came! I’m sitting on my screened-in back porch—with the
blinds turned down so the sun won’t hurt my eyes—and I hear the
police siren. The police car pulls up in front of Naked Lady’s house
and before you can say ‘Jack Johnson’ the green Pontiac speeds off.
After more time, the police leave. I didn’t see that green Pontiac
after that, and I didn’t get no reward that time, except the reward
of knowing I was keeping the neighborhood safe from crimes like
adultery.
Next time I saw Naked Lady—this time
she had her clothes on—was Saturday morning when Barbara drove me to
Piggly Wiggly’s.
I asked Barbara, “I wonder who that
women is over yonder, talking to that man?”
“Oh, Miz Henrietta, you just kidding
me. That’s Mattie Welcome. She and her husband live right back of
you.”
“That’s her husband?”
“No,” Mattie said, “that’s her
husband’s law partner. Her husband’s that lawyer who’s suing the
school board in that desegregation case.”
My opinion of Naked Lady fell even
lower. “Do tell,” I said. “I do declare.”
Later on that afternoon I sat on my
back porch listening to the Brooklyn Dodgers on the radio. I still
call them the Brooklyn Dodgers even though they’ve moved to Los
Angeles. The Dodgers were playing the New York Yankees in the World
Series, and I was happy the Dodgers won, four games to none. I felt
so good after the Dodgers’ victory that I took out my typewriter and
wrote a letter to Lawyer Welcome.
Mr. Clyde Welcome:
I don’t like to mess in other folks
business because I’m not a busybody. But I think you should know
your wife is fooling around with your so-called law partner She and
him is stabbing you in the back
I think it’s a dirty low down
shame this is happening right under your nose.
A Concerned Christian Citizen.
The only reason I didn’t sign my name
was because I didn’t want Mr. Welcome to think one of his neighbors
was spying on him. I wanted him to know this information came from a
legitimate source, not out of spite.
Well, I guess my letter had good
effect, because a few days later I saw Lawyer Welcome and Naked Lady
having a terrific fight out in their back yard. Yelling and
screaming something awful. This supposedly “professional” couple
acting trashy where everyone could see! I told Barbara Mackie about
this fight the next time she drove me to my arthritis treatment, but
I could see she was preoccupied.
“Anything wrong, child?”
“My husband’s been sending out
resumes, Miz Henrietta,” she blurted. “There’s a church in Las Vegas
he’s big on. He wants to move to a bigger one.”
“Well, child” I said, “your husband’s
a well educated man, an ambitious man. It’s to be expected.”
She was quiet in such a strange way it
came to me she wasn’t telling me something important. I decided to
come right out and ask.
“Child, there something you want to
tell me?”
Barbara’s eyes rolled back till I saw
nothing but the whites. Then she burst into tears. I didn’t want to
push her, so I just said, “An old woman like me’s seen a few things.
You’d be surprised what I know, what I’ve done. When you good and
ready you just tell me all about it.”
I left it at that. I know how doggish
some men can be. Barbara drove me home, her quiet and me thinking
about my late husband Harry. He worked down at the docks making good
money for a black man, I tell you. We never had kids on account of
my ovaries, but that didn’t bother him. We was happy for the longest
time until he started going through his so-called ‘mid-life crisis.’
I say he just started to let his doggish nature come out. Did he
think I’d not know what was going on?
I told him, “Harry, I want you
straight home after payday, you hear? I know you and them so-called
buddies stop off at Doucette’s drinks, but I don’t want you
overdoing it.” What I didn’t say was I
had spies in Neighborhood Watch telling me things. He had started
stopping off at Doreen’s cat house. Didn’t he know I’d smell a woman
on him through all the liquor he drank? He must of thought if he
drank lots and sat around people smoking, them women’s smell would
get soaked out. Men don’t realize how powerful us women’s sense of
smell is.
Harry can’t say I didn’t warn him
plenty. “Stop your nagging, woman!” he’d say. I let this go on for
awhile. I even tried to get his sister to talk to him, but that
no-count sister of his took his side. That’s when I realized I’d
have to take things into my own hands.
I started buying him a fifth of Old
Crow every Friday. I’d have it waiting for him when he got home.
You’d think he’d won the war. He’d drink until he passed out, sleep
late on Saturday morning, and of course he’d be back on the streets
later with them no-count buddies of his. I did this about six or
seven months before I started putting poison in his whiskey.
“Looks like you’ve had a nip
yourself,” Harry would say.
“Just a teensy-weensy taste,” I’d say,
and smile. Which was true. I had to have an explanation for the seal
being broke on that whiskey bottle so he wouldn’t suspect something.
The first time I put rat poison in his whiskey, he started vomiting.
Lucky for me, he’d drank so much so fast that he thought he’d just
drunk too much on an empty stomach.
“Honey,” I said, “you want me to buy
you some Scotch whiskey, maybe some creme de menthe, so it won’t be
so hard on your stomach?”
“Hell no!” He pounded the table so
hard it shook the liquor bottle. “Creme de menthe is for women and
sissies. I need me a man’s drink.”
He kept on drinking Old Crow, and I
kept on putting in a little more poison each week. He thought he was
feeling bad because of his hangovers. Then he thought he was getting
arthritis like me, aching all over. But being the kinda man he was,
he was too proud to admit anything was wrong. And his breathing got
worse.
“Honey, that’s just asthma,” I told
him. “You know how your sister has asthma. It must run in your
family. Maybe you ought to go see Dr. Ross.”
“I’m fine, woman. What I want to see
Dr. Ross for? To give away my hard earned money? I just got to ease
back on things a little bit.”
I knew if I kept carping on him seeing
a doctor he’d do the opposite. So it worked out just like I wanted.
Only it didn’t happen the way I
thought. His co-workers said maybe he got careless, maybe his
reflexes was slower. I hear they also whispered he was hitting the
bottle a bit too much over at Doucette’s saloon. What happened was
he didn’t get out of the way of one of those three hundred pound
sacks of rice. It swung towards him when he didn’t see it coming and
knocked him flat. It fell on him and squished his chest. By the time
they got it off him he was dead.
Lt. Arceneaux come by and told me
Harry was dead, only he wasn’t no Lieutenant back then. My heart
started pounding when I saw a police car pull up to my front door.
“Mrs. Henrietta James?” Officer
Arceneaux said, ever so politely, “I have bad news.” And then he
told me what happened. I struggled to keep my face from smiling,
while the whole time that young man was so respectful. And then I
started thinking about how much Harry’s pension would be. It just
goes to show how it’s better to be lucky than smart.
That’s me, one lucky old lady. It all
worked out better than I planned. Since the whole dock crew saw it
happen right in front of their eyes, nobody asked any questions. I
get his pension check plus social security, so I have plenty to live
on. That’s what I meant when I told Barbara Mackie that I know
things, I’ve done things. She got to learn that, otherwise she’ll
let that preacher husband be the death of her.
“You just can’t be too kindhearted
with a man who don’t respect you like you want to be respected,” I
told Barbara. “I sure ain’t going to let no man be the death of
me...”
***
The world is full of evil, yes it is.
Barbara Mackie finally told me what’s bothering her, and I can’t say
I’m surprised. She thinks her husband is cheating on her. Only thing
is, she doesn’t know with who. Didn’t I say men are doggish?
“Miz Henrietta, he hasn’t touched me
in almost a year,” she was crying
“A year!” Now, I’m not surprised by
much, but that just floored me. “Child, no wonder you’re so upset.
You mean to tell me your husband ain’t done his husbandly duty in
almost a year!”
“Yes’m.” She was crying even worse.
We were sitting on my back porch. She
was supposed to be taking me to the clinic for my arthritis
treatment but I saw she wasn’t herself so I invited her back there
for a little woman-to-woman talk. She’s right about the signs. I
remember how Harry made excuses for not doing his husbandly duty,
but I never let that much time go by.
Barbara is the prettiest brown skinned
woman you ever saw, nice figure, any man would be glad to have her.
So I figured, that kinda thing to be going on, yes indeed, he’s
cheating.
“What should I do, Miz Henrietta? I
love him so much.”
Now I’m not the kinda woman to get
myself involved in other folks’ business and I didn’t want her to
think I was taking sides.
“Have you followed him? To catch him?”
I wanted her to think for herself, not put ideas in her head.
She cried worse. “Yes’m, I did. He
only goes to church meetings and choir practice and looks in on
shut-ins, The rest of the time he’s home with me.”
When Barbara said ‘choir practice’ my
ears pricked up.
“Who all’s at choir practice?”
She looked thoughtful. “Just the
pianist, Linda Sweet, with the adult choir, and Lawrence Hamilton
with the adult choir.”
“What kind of woman is this Linda
Sweet?”
“Oh, Miz Henrietta, it’s not Linda
Sweet. She’s old. She must be fifty if a day.”
I didn’t bother to explain to her
about older women’s sexual feelings.
“Plus Linda’s husband’s in the choir.
No, my husband’s real diligent with the youth choir. He says they’re
the future of the church. Sometimes he gives one or two of them a
ride home.”
“A ride home, you say?”
“Yes’m, he just real conscientious
that way.”
I didn’t like where my mind was
starting to go. I knew what I had to do, but all I said was, “Well
child, it’s good you got this off your chest. For now, let all this
be. Come on now, take me to my arthritis treatment at the clinic.”
That Thursday I kept an eye on the
Reverend Mackie and his choir practices. I parked my car down the
street from the Reverend’s church, lights off, motor too. I didn’t
even turn on the car radio. When choir practice finally ended,
Reverend Mackie took the kids home, and he took that boy Albert
Taylor home last, only he detoured into the cemetery park. I watched
him pull in there, and then I saw him and that boy get in the back
seat together.
I felt like I’d fallen down a
cesspool. I left, knowing what I had to do. Before daylight that
morning the letter I wrote the Reverend said
I been watching you. I know about
you and that choir boy.
You got three days to stop your
filthy perversion. Meet me midnight Thursday in front of your
church. I got evidence of your filthiness. It’s time for you to take
a long vacation, and if you don’t I’m showing my evidence to the
newspaper.
A Concerned Christian
Citizen
The sun wasn’t up yet when I drove to
his house and left the letter under his windshield wiper. If he or
Barbara came out and saw me I planned to say I needed Barbara
to take me to the clinic right then.
When I drove to his church that night
I brought my forty-five because a doggish man is still a dog even
if he is a preacher. Plus, things never turn out exactly like you
expect, so it’s best to be prepared.
I got there just before midnight. I
parked with a clear view of the front of the church steps where I
expected him to be. Through my binoculars I saw him arrive. He
couldn’t stand still, looking around like he was trying to see who’d
put the letter on his car, looking jumpy even from a distance.
The single street light in front of
the church was shining down on him when I got out my car and headed
towards him. He was looking in the opposite direction when I came up
behind him and he almost jumped out of his skin.
“You! You! You!” His voice got higher
and higher
“Who was you expecting? Your
boyfriend?”
“How’d you find out?”
The little weasel was whining. It made
me mad. “The question is, do you want Barbara to find out?”
“What do you want?” His hat brim made
a shadow like a mask over his eyes.
“You act like you can’t read, Preacher
Man. You leave town or I’m going to the newspaper. Barbara’s my
friend and I intend to save her from you. You know what you
have to do. If you ain’t gone by Sunday, the newspaper’ll
know by Monday.”
Then I left. Last time I saw him he
was sitting on the church steps with his head in his hands.
That’s when things got ugly. Next
morning when the men’s choir came to the church for rehearsal, they
went into the dressing room to get their choir robes and the
Reverend was hanging by his neck from the light fixture.
After that my arthritis came down on
me so bad I quit being the president of the Neighborhood Watch.
Which was just as well, because Barbara had a nervous breakdown, so
I spend most of my time comforting her as much as I could. I tell
her I got faith she’s going to get through this. I lost my husband,
too, I remind her, and I came through it.
That boy Albert ran off from home
soon afterwards. His parents got a postcard from him in San
Francisco saying he was staying in some men’s shelter and that he
was O.K. His parents notified the police but they never caught up
with him. I guess lots of young people run away to California.
Naked Lady and her lawyer husband got
divorced and sold their house. Some strange looking people moved in.
They always
playing loud music and smoking marijuana cigarettes and having
parties, disturbing the neighborhood.
Something tells me I’d better keep my
eye on them.
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