For All Time Page 5

  FAYARD

  DAWN IS THE BEST TIME for escapes. The smell of maple and pillow-soft dough tickles my nose and coaxes me from sleep. Someone is making pancakes. Through the open window the breeze brings mystery and the clang of the streetcar, the bubble of the working man’s coffeepot. At dawn you can blend in with the folk on their way to work. The hustlers are done for the night and the drunks are sleeping the drink off. The sun isn’t really up yet, and if it is, it looks like a woman laughing, her head turned up just enough that you can’t see her face. Like she’s got a secret that’s about to bubble right out of her.

  A cool breeze blows the lace curtains in from the open window along with the sound of the early morning autobuses rolling by. I wipe the crust out of my eyes with my left hand; my right one’s pinned under a warm, sleeping angel breathing feathers across my neck. Her heavy thigh is hooked over my stomach, pinning me down. I don’t want to move. It’s not that I don’t like to slip out on a girl unnoticed—better the memory of me than the real thing. It’s just that I’m so comfortable. Even with a price on my head and knowing her daddy could come home at any minute, I slept like a baby.

  I lean over and kiss her forehead. She stirs a bit with a weak smile and yawns, cupping her hand over her mouth to hold in the stink. Now ain’t that cute?

  I slip my arm out from under her and roll my shoulder. Pins and needles shoot up my bicep. I like a girl with some meat on her, but heavy is heavy no matter how pretty it is.

  “Shh . . ,” I say softly, and try to find my shoes in the near dark. I snatch my shirt off the chair and button it blind. Her dark eyes finally open when I pull my cap over my head. Her hair is wild and shook loose of all the pins and things she put in before she went to bed, before I snuck in her window and made her promises I’ve got no intention of keeping. The guilt of it is tugging at my suit jacket, but I beat it away. I did what anybody else would do on their last day of freedom. Everything I damn well wanted to—I hustled a ticket to see Ethel Waters at the Dunbar Theatre (front row of the balcony, but still good), ate a steak at Miss Bethel’s on Broad Street, and spent all but my last dime on a brand-new pin-striped double-breasted summer suit from King Fats’s own tailor in West Philly. The very last dime went to flowers for Sable, the prettiest girl on Thirteenth Street, and when she turned me down, I pulled out one rose and took my chances with Ruby.

  “Do you have to go?” she asks.

  I nod. “You know I do.”

  “You have to write. You promised, and you said you always keep your promises,” she says, her voice sweet yet pleading.

  My guilt’s grown a foot taller, and it’s tapping on my shoulder now.

  “You know Fats, baby. I gotta get out of town and fast. My uncle got me a job on the railroad. I don’t know where I’ll end up.”

  Her eyes flash, and I can tell she’s seeing dollar signs. A Pullman porter is the best thing a colored boy can aspire to be besides a postman. For the next week or two, she’ll probably tell all her girlfriends how she lucked out, while she waits for a letter that’ll never come. My guilt grows fists and knocks me out the window I used to climb in here last night. My bum knee groans at all this early morning activity.

  “Hey!” a woman yells from across the street as she makes her way out of her apartment. “I know that ain’t Mary’s boy!”

  I lean up a bit on the ledge and snatch a violet from the window box of the next apartment and tuck it behind Sable’s, I mean Ruby’s, ear. She leans down for another kiss just before her daddy kicks open her bedroom door.

  I’m down the rain gutter and across the street on feet that fly before he can even think to get his gun.

  * * *

  I’m still catching my breath, my new custom suit in a suitcase, when I find myself staring at my uncle. I can’t say he ain’t imposing as he stands there bald and red-faced, brown-freckled and seething on the train platform.

  “Now, it wasn’t my fault, Uncle Max,” I lie. I’m late, so by extension I’ve made him late, and that is a direct violation of Mr. Pullman’s 241 rules of conduct for porters. Uncle Max is a stickler for the rules. Makes you wonder how his only son ended up in Eastern State Penitentiary.

  “Don’t even bother,” he says. “I don’t care and I don’t have time to correct you. The conductor is already on site. Just be grateful he’s hungover and not looking to do any real work. I’ll be the porter in charge for this run.”

  “Hey! That’s a promotion! More money, eh, Unc?” I say excitedly.

  His mouth pinches even further into a flat line. “You best tone down all that eagerness, boy,” he says, his voice low and stern. “No. It ain’t more money, just more work and more of a chance to get docked and into trouble. I need you on your best behavior. No, let me rephrase. I need you on my best behavior. Whatever you think I would do, do that. Anything else is a violation.”

  “You got it,” I say, eager to please him. “Hey, I read the book, Uncle Max. I—”

  He cuts me off and snatches the rule book I’ve pulled out of my pocket and tucks it into his. “Good. Now that you’ve read it you can focus all your attention on me. That rule book don’t know everything about everything. I am your Bible and your Jesus Christ, and if you disobey me, you’ll wish it was as easy as laying down and dying,” he preaches.

  His words knock the wind out of me. I guess that’s the point. He looks me up and down and dusts invisible dirt off my shoulder before pulling my cap farther down on my head. I’m the mirror image of him now, tall and broad-shouldered, slim and long-fingered, in a gleaming white shirt, black pants, and matching jacket with six silver buttons.

  “Your mama would cry if she saw you like this,” he says softly.

  My heart constricts. She would. This was her dream, the opposite of the living nightmare I put her through before she died. A defiance against that premonition she had, something about an untimely end. It scared her to death to think she might outlive me. At least God saved her from that horror.

  I back away to put some space between my uncle and me. I clench and unclench my fists and turn my back so he can’t see the water building in my eyes. I raise my hand and nod my head like I see someone I know just so I can blink away the tears and swallow the lump in my throat. When I turn around, I know I shouldn’t have even bothered pretending, ’cause that dimple of his is winking in and out of my uncle’s cheek as he tries to get his own emotions in check.

  The Thirtieth Street Station of the Pennsylvania Railroad sits right in downtown Philly on the west bank of the Schuylkill River. It’s big, open, damp, and busy as hell. Everybody I see has got somewhere to be and something important to get to. They’ve got adventure in their eyes, and luck trailing behind them like a trained dog. As for me, I’ve got work and lots of it.

  “So, where do I start?”

  * * *

  “Hey! Gimme a hand with that trunk,” someone yells.

  I jog over to the guy, sweat soaking me to my draws. “Can’t we take off the jacket at least?” I complain.

  He told me earlier his real name is William Longfort, but everybody calls him Pal. Light-skinned and lanky, Pal shakes his head. “Against the rules. They’ll let you die of heatstroke ’fore they let you take off that uniform. That’s why we workin’ so hard to get us a union.”

  I laugh out loud at that one, the first real hard laugh I’ve had in weeks. “Ain’t no railroad union letting Negroes in.”

  He scowls and I have to swallow my smile. I put my head back down and try harder to carry the weight of the last trunk we’ve got to haul.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You playboys don’t pay attention to the real world, how it’s changing and how you got to make it change. The Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters will be the first colored union recognized by real industry in the nation. Mr. A. Philip Randolph been working for years to get us there, and when we do, we’ll get paid for loading and unloading. Get us a real pension worth something, and get conductor pay when we do conductor work.”


  I nod. “That sounds real fine.” I try to put more enthusiasm in my voice than I feel. I can tell a true believer when I see one. I just got here. I can’t be too choosy about friends.

  “Our time is long overdue. The AFL is gonna listen this time.”

  “Don’t go filling his head with that Brotherhood nonsense, Pal,” my uncle growls as he surveys the quality of our work. His cap hides his eyes from view, but you can tell they’re angry. “I don’t want you talking up the Brotherhood with my nephew. This here is his future, and that union foolery will kill his prospects before they even get a chance to take root.”

  “I don’t know why you won’t join us, Max. You need this as much as we do.”

  “That’s right, I do need this. I got a sister with no husband, two daughters in high school ’bout to graduate, and if I’m gon’ make sure they don’t have to rock white babies to sleep at night for the rest of their lives, I’m gon’ need money for secretarial school. Mr. Pullman’s company been good to me. I aim to be good back.”

  “Not as good as it’s been to the white folks,” Pal says.

  A flash of something hot sparks in Uncle Max’s eyes as a train whistle, high and long, blows close by. I put my fist on his chest, knuckles right against his heart.

  “Hey, Unc,” I say softly.

  Uncle Max points his perfectly manicured but rough finger at Pal. “You heard what I said.”

  Uncle Max and Pal stay locked in a staring contest for what seems like an hour. Finally, Pal breaks and smiles.

  “You keep your nose clean, kid. We’ll talk later.”

  I nod in understanding, but I’m distracted. There’s a girl standing on the platform. Navy dress, black heels, red lips. Blooming, like she sprang from the concrete. I know her. No. I used to know her. I’m sure of it. I know her like I know family, even if we’re distant. I’ve seen her sitting across the table at Sunday dinner spreading butter over hot cornbread. No, that can’t be. I’ve seen her on the street outside my building. No. A girl like her couldn’t walk down our block without Peanut, Blind Man, or Dee Dee saying something slick as she passed by. Then they’d call up to my cousin Shelby and he’d lean out the window to whistle. I’d do it too to see what was going on and then… No. I’d remember a fight like that. I’d lose ’cause it would be four against one and I’d have to do it because she deserves better than to be whistled at like a dog that’s gone off her leash. No. I didn’t see her at our table or on the block.… I could never have forgotten a face like hers.

  “Stop staring. You look like you havin’ a fit or somethin’.”

  “Sorry.”

  Uncle Max claps me on the back. It’s quick and hard, meant to snap me to attention.

  “It’s okay. She is a pretty one. But keep your distance. Fraternization ain’t allowed, and her daddy don’t look too nice either.”

  I blink and look again. I didn’t even notice the man standing in front of her. He’s short with a thick, graying mustache and eyes like sharp teeth.

  “Matter of fact, why, don’t you help Willie get ready for dinner service.”

  “But I was on luggage with Pal,” I protest.

  “That’s right. You were on luggage. Luggage is all packed. Now you’re on dining service. I promised your auntie I’d keep you out of trouble, and that girl looks like a whole heap of trouble.”

  “But—”

  “Let it go, boy. You need this job?” He narrows his eyes at me.

  It’s a rhetorical question. He knows I do. My knee pops as I start to move; it still does this when I stand in one place for too long, and it’s been almost six months since my run-in with Fats. I take one last look over the old man’s shoulder to see if I can see her face again, but she’s turned her head and all I have is a memory. For now, that’s enough.

  9 TAMAR

  I COVER MY NOSE WITH one of Granny’s good handkerchiefs, a blue one, embroidered with a tiny bird bending its neck back. It’s the only thing I got to block out the train smoke wafting through the air. Tears cloud my vision, but I dab the corners of my eyes like a lady when what I really want to do is cover my whole face. Beauty is pain. My sister, Patience, used to say that as she plucked her eyebrows to slits or squeezed herself into a girdle. I didn’t get what she meant because I downright refused all that high-fallutin’ mess at finishing school, but now I understand. Lord help me, I do. My feet pinch in shoes too tight and too high. My slip is bunched and makes my thighs sweat, and that’s not to mention the pin keeping my cloche hat in place, digging into my scalp. Daddy made me wear gloves, too, like it isn’t one degree cooler than hell’s waiting room today. I set my cello down on the platform and cross my arms over my chest before I catch Daddy’s eye. He doesn’t even have to say anything. I know already what I’ve done wrong. I open my eyes wide to release the furrow in my brow and drop my arms to knit my hands daintily at my waist just like Miss Edith taught us. I’d grumble if I weren’t so happy to finally be rid of the place.

  “This is unacceptable!” Daddy’s voice booms across the platform. “I demand to see the conductor.”

  The porter smiles even though Daddy’s been as rude as he can be.

  “Sir, I’m afraid that is impossible. I am the porter in charge for the duration of your stay with us. I assure you that you will be more than comfortable in a sleeping car all to yourself.” He waves his hand over in my direction. “Not to mention how much safer it will be for your daughter.”

  “My daughter is none of your concern,” Daddy says icily. He puffs himself up to his full height, which isn’t much, and closes the space between the two of them. “She is under my protection and has no need of being relegated to inadequate conditions in order to appease other patrons. Our seats weren’t held because the money from your white patrons is obviously worth more than that of your Negro patrons.”

  The porter’s face doesn’t betray anything. I have to wonder: IfI Daddy punched him, would he even flinch? Would that smile stay right where it is? “No, Mr. Williams. Your case is special. Most colored passengers who can afford a sleeping-car ticket are usually relegated to the less-expensive seats in the colored car once we move below Washington, DC, but I thought that an esteemed man such as yourself would prefer a private car. We aren’t fully booked, so I’ve worked to move other passengers to the car ahead of you.”

  We’re being upgraded, but that doesn’t matter to Daddy. It’s the principal. Being moved at all for white folks is an insult.

  “Doctor,” my father says.

  “Excuse me?” says the porter.

  “Doctor Williams.”

  Daddy continues to be awful, and I pretend not to see him embarrass himself once again. A white conductor from farther up the train is found and Daddy pleads his case, albeit with a much stiffer back and a forced smile instead of a grimace, as the porter in charge gives instructions to other workers. One of them smiles at me real sly. He raises his hand to indicate he might take my cello, but heat rises to my cheeks, and instead of telling him to back off, I turn away.

  Why did I do that? Feeling stupid, I turn back and he’s gone.

  Finally, the older porter, whom Daddy first spoke with, Mr. Max, leads us into the Pullman Palace Car. Daddy hasn’t gotten his way. It smells like freshly starched linens and lemon oil. A chandelier hangs above the middle row of seats, and a scarlet rug runs the length of the car. Matching wine-colored silk shades cover the windows, and intricately carved foliage and fruit are etched into every wooden beam.

  “There are bench seats here with a table for correspondence,” Mr. Max says as he gives us a tour. “With a few added pillows and cushions, the benches can be converted into beds, and these wooden cupboards above your heads fold down and convert into beds as well. At the end of the car we have compartments with doors. Your ticket indicates two berths for you and your daughter, but as fortune has smiled upon us, you’ll both be able to enjoy your own sleeping compartments in the private car. Take your pick.”

  He’s
trying to make it sound grand, like the privacy we’re receiving is because we’re very important people, like Josephine Baker or Duke Ellington. But our privacy isn’t a choice. I wouldn’t mind a little company. At best it would keep Daddy on his best behavior and give me someone else to focus my attention on. I choose the first of four small closet-sized rooms and slide my cello gingerly through the slim doorway.

  “I will be your personal porter for this evening. I want to make sure your needs are met completely.”

  “Will we at least have access to the dining car?” Daddy asks, the anger he exhibited earlier losing steam.

  Mr. Max sighs and leans forward a bit, like he’s about to tell a child that he’s just failed all his exams. “We want to make sure you are as comfortable as possible, Dr. Williams.”

  The emphasis on Doctor isn’t lost on me.

  “You and Miss Tamar will have access to the dining car from ten to ten thirty in the evenings and from six thirty to seven in the mornings for breakfast.”

  “And what will we do for lunch?” I ask.

  “You’re welcome to lunch in the colored smoking car. There are a number of—”

  “No, thank you,” my father says quickly. “We won’t suffer the indignity of it. We’ll have our meals brought here. Provide us a menu and we’ll make our selections well ahead of time.”

  “As you wish, sir. Is there anything else, sir?”

  Daddy shakes his head.

  I wait until the sliding car door opens and closes before I kick off my shoes and fall back onto the bench closest to my room. “Did you have to be so mean to the man, Daddy? He’s only trying to help,” I say as I unpin my hat and toss it onto the table.

  “And do you have to be such an embarrassment?”

  “Me?”

  “Asking about lunch like some gluttonous cow. Scowling like an alley cat at every man and child as they pass by on the platform. We would not even need this trip if you had tried harder to find a place for yourself before graduation. This whole business was your mother’s foolish idea.” He paces the train car. “Sit up straight and put your shoes back on.”