Sugar Page 10

  Sugar shrugged her shoulders and hugged herself. She suddenly felt vulnerable, like a child.

  “She lied to me, you know, lied to me about where she was going.” Pearl’s body went limp and her head hung heavy on her neck. “I didn’t want her to leave ’cause I knew something was going to go wrong, you know.” Pearl was quiet for a long time and then she lifted her head up to look at Sugar. Sugar had never seen so much pain and sorrow in a person’s face, and was surprised that the sight of it caused her own heart to ache. “J-Joe had placed the shoes on the table, just for a second while he turned to put his hat on the hook. They was new, shiny black shoes, wing tipped and all. They had just come . . . we ordered them from the Sears catalogue. You know, he just wasn’t thinking.”

  She trailed off again and looked into the dusty realm of the house. Sugar knew she was seeing it all over again. “The tablecloth had a crease in it too. I forgot, don’t know why but I forgot and placed it on the table anyway. I didn’t even notice it until I saw the shoes.” She shivered as if a cold wind had suddenly blown through. “Those were bad signs, the two of them resting against one another. Evil coming in twofold.” She shook her head and a sob escaped her. “I told her maybe tomorrow she could go to her friend’s house, but she insisted.”

  Pearl looked behind her quickly and then back at Sugar. Her eyes were wide with grief.

  “They brought her to me . . . her womanhood cut from her . . . Jude.”

  She whispered the last eleven words. Sugar only caught the name, Jude.

  “Who was she, Miss Pearl?” Sugar was afraid to ask, but propelled to.

  “She was my daughter. She was my daughter,” Pearl said and quickly covered her mouth. “She was my daughter,” she said again in a whisper.

  The words opened up old wounds in Pearl’s heart and soul and she ran from Sugar’s house, pain gripping her spirit like an old familiar enemy.

  Sugar leaned against the wall and slid to the floor. Something had happened here, something that she knew she did not want to become a part of but found herself somehow already deeply rooted in. It was her past resurfacing all over again.

  Before Sugar knew it, twelve years had passed, and it was becoming harder and harder to survive the streets and the men of Detroit and Chicago. She was tired of slopping toilets, wiping tables and slinging hash.

  She was tired of her stomach turning from eating fish and chips fried in two-day-old grease. Tired of coming home to a rat-and roach-infested room in a three-story walkup that should have been condemned years ago.

  One window, thin mattress, sink and hot plate: ten dollars a week.

  Johns humping and pumping on top of her. Calling her all kinds of sweet things—ain’t worried ’bout how she feeling or whether it was good to her or not. They ain’t give a shit, just as long as they could and make their worries go away. Harder! Faster! They would ride her like a prized racehorse.

  Thirty minutes of that shit was like living a whole lifetime in hell.

  “You gotta pull it out sometime—it can’t stay in there forever, honey baby!” she would coo into their sweaty necks.

  See, these johns wanna keep it in there for as long as possible. It’s warm and safe. They be smilin’ and talkin’ all kinds of shit hoping you let ’em go on just a little bit longer. It done got real good to them and they don’t want out notime soon.

  But then it’s over. The cold air hits and reality kicks them in the ass all at the same time. The money is on the bed or the floor, and suddenly, Sugar ain’t his sweet baby no more. She ain’t his fine black thang. She ain’t nobody, nothing but a whore.

  His fantasy is over. But for her, the nightmare continues. You see, she ain’t got no place or no person to go to to make her forget. Not even for a short time.

  The circles under her eyes and the constant shaking of her hands were telling her she was near to falling apart. She needed to get out. She needed to get home. But where the hell was home?

  She hadn’t heard from the Laceys in years. She hadn’t bothered to send a postcard or a telegram since she left Mary’s house in St. Louis. For all Sugar knew they were dead, and if they weren’t, they probably assumed she was.

  A maniac john with a six-inch switchblade helped her make a quick decision as to when and where she would go. He sent her running for her life and straight to the next Greyhound bus bound for St. Louis. She left that city with a bleeding gash on her neck and the blood-stained clothes on her back.

  St. Louis wasn’t home, but it would have to do.

  Sugar showed up at the stoop of what used to be the hottest colored whorehouse in town. The neighborhood had changed drastically. Twelve years ago, there were at least six different night spots in a four-block radius. Now those bars and clubs had been transformed into a butcher shop, Chinese laundry, storefront church and liquor store.

  Twelve years ago you couldn’t find a family on Sullivan Place, east of Macon Avenue or west of Joralemen Street. Well, not the mommy, daddy and baby kind of family. That area was comprised of hustlers, pimps and addicts. They of course called themselves singers and dancers. It was the place to live if you were colored and wanted to be thought of as somebody. Now there were children playing ball in the street and young mothers pushing carriages, smiling as they admired each other’s babies.

  The street still sparkled, just the way it did the first time Sugar arrived, and now she squinted her eyes against it, not needing to strain her neck to gawk at the tall buildings. She’d seen taller in the past twelve years.

  A ROOMS FOR RENT sign hung pitifully in the first-floor, grime-laden window of the three-story brownstone. It replaced a sign that hung there twelve years earlier that proudly stated: PUSSY FOR SALE—INQUIRE WITHIN.

  Sugar, her neck bandaged from the near-lethal cut she received in Detroit, sat down heavily on the steps that led up to the red door. Her sable-colored skin was ashen and chafed. Her once full figure was diminished by a good forty pounds, causing her clothing to hang and sag on her frame.

  Never considered a beauty by anyone, she was now pitiful.

  A round-faced little girl with large almond eyes, a small mouth wet and sticky with red Italian ice, stopped to stare intently at Sugar. Sugar hardly noticed the child, but when she did she asked her, “Mary Bedford still live here?”

  The little girl was dressed in a red and white sunflower dress, her thick hair piled up on top of her head; the ends curled under. She gave Sugar a small queer sort of smile and slightly tilted her head to the right, examining the soiled rag that was wrapped around Sugar’s neck. Satisfied, she plopped down on the stair step next to Sugar and began using her Popsicle stick as a shovel, digging out the dirt that lay between the cracks in the sidewalk.

  Sugar looked at her, immediately reminded of the little girl from long ago who’d first asked her about her mother. The thought stirred deep emotions within her. Sugar looked around quickly and nervously, half expecting the little girl’s mother to appear, snatch her up from the stair step and drag her away by the collar: We don’t deal with the likes of them!

  The little girl stopped her digging and looked up at Sugar. She shielded her eyes from the high noon sun and said in a distinctive Southern drawl, “Yeah, she live here. She be back soon, went down the road to the store.” She considered Sugar a bit longer and then returned to her digging.

  A heaviness consumed Sugar and she leaned into the hard stone stairs, allowing the heat to soothe her aching back. Her body, soul and mind were tired. She let out a loud sigh. Not one of relief but temporary contentment.

  “You hurt?” the little girl’s voice trailed up to her. She was pointing a tiny finger at the bloody rag that was tied around Sugar’s neck. Her face was scrunched up like she was smelling something rotten.

  “Yeah,” was all Sugar managed to say and then sighed once again, looking off into the distance.

  “Grandma, grandma!” The little girl shouted and bolted up and past Sugar. She ran into the waiting arms of a short, fat woman
who looked like she’d seen better days. Sugar looked at them then turned away. Expressions of affection always made her feel uncomfortable.

  The woman held the little girl tightly as she looked over at the bundled heap of a woman who sat on her stoop. She patted the girl’s head and moved her behind her wide mass as she cautiously approached the woman. Mean was sparkling like diamonds in her eyes as she edged closer. Recognition quickly replaced the cold icy stare, and then pity.

  “Sure nuff, if it ain’t Sugar Lacey!” The short stout woman came toward her, the little girl behind her grinning and clinging to her skirts.

  “She been waiting for you for a long time, Grandma,” the little girl said and winked at Sugar.

  It was Sugar’s turn to shade her eyes with her hand. Was she seeing right? Was this Mary Bedford standing before her?

  Grandma?

  She looked up and into the aged face of Mary Lucille Bedford. It sure was Mary. Sugar had expected her to look older, but not as old as this. She certainly didn’t expect to see her without one of her extravagant, flowing wigs. But there she stood, her thin silver strands pulled back into a tight bun. She wore a demure pink color on her lips and just a hint of blush on her cheeks. Gone was the heavy foundation, false eyelashes and light blue eye makeup that once graced her face.

  Sugar thought Mary looked like life had slapped her around and then dumped her on the curbside to die. She looked horrible. The years of heavy smoking and drinking had taken their toll on Mary, but she was smiling.

  “Mary Bedford, as the day I was born,” Sugar finally managed to say. With difficulty she stood up, leaving her hands at her sides like limp weeds, staring at Mary and her grandchild. Mary’s face gave away what she was thinking. It was a strange mixture of shock, pity and disappointment. “Come here, girl,” she said, hugging Sugar. The faint smell of Evening in Paris filled Sugar’s nostrils.

  Three months came and went. August faded swiftly into the past and Thanksgiving was upon them. The three of them sat holding hands around a beautiful golden brown turkey. The lights were turned off and Sugar looked around at the faces illuminated by soft candlelight. Mercy was looking so much like her grandmother—pecan-colored skin and thick rosy cheeks. She smiled at Sugar, winked and bowed her head.

  Mary began: “Thank you, Lord, for the food that we are about to receive and thank you for the life you allow me to have every single day. Thank you for my beautiful granddaughter Mercy and for my beautiful friend Sugar.”

  Sugar bowed her head lower. Even after three months of living with Mary and Mercy, she still couldn’t get used to the kind words, the hugs and the kisses. She felt she did not deserve any of this.

  “Please continue to rain your blessings down on us, amen.” Mary ended and Mercy echoed her amen. Sugar mouthed the words, feeling the soundlessness of it quake her soul.

  They ate until their fattened bellies stuck out comically in front of them. Afterward they sat in the small parlor that now held a brown, somewhat battered tweed sofa and two ivory-colored wing chairs.

  Boarders came and went through the day, wishing them Happy Thanksgiving. Mary did not allow one of them to leave empty handed. She sent them off with slices of sweet potato pie, bowls of cole slaw, slices of ham and turkey. “Ya’ll just better make sure you bring my plates back clean!” she’d yell as they went through the door and up to their separate rooms.

  “You are too nice,” Sugar said as she stroked Mercy’s lolling head.

  “Girl, they ain’t got shit. Look at them, young and living on their own. They should be home at they mamma’s house where they could save some money and get good cooking all the time. But these children nowadays in a rush to get out and be independent.”

  Mary shifted in her chair and wiped at her chin. “I try to help them any way I can. I got so much and they have so little, what’s wrong with giving a little away? It’s better than letting it go to waste, ain’t it?”

  Sugar nodded her head and looked down into the sleeping face of Mercy.

  “She is out like a light. I’ma take her up to bed,” Sugar said, and lifted the six-year-old up from the couch. She moved slowly to the back of the house where she and Mercy shared a bedroom. “We’ll play cards when you get back,” Mary whispered to Sugar’s back.

  When she returned, Mary was stretched out on the couch. “Oh, what happened to the card game?” she said with a laugh. “You got niggeritis now!” she teased further. As she came closer to Mary she realized that her position was a bit awkward. Coming still closer, she saw that her face was locked with pain.

  “Mary!” she screamed, “what is it, what’s wrong?”

  Mary stared at the ceiling; white foam oozed slowly from her mouth. Her body shook violently as each bolt of pain ripped through her like lightning.

  “Oh shit, Oh shit, Oh God, Oh shit, Mary!” Sugar was screaming and shaking the old woman. “Help!”

  The waiting room of Cook County Hospital was dimly lit and filthy. Cigarette butts spilled from the standing ashtrays and littered the floor. The thick smell of smoke and sickness hung heavy in the air. Beige-and-green-tiled walls added to the misery of the people who had to be there.

  People wandered in and out of the area, moving around restlessly as they awaited word of a loved one’s condition.

  Sugar sat stone still. She was tense and wary of everyone and everything around her. She’d never been in a hospital and after tonight, didn’t want to have to return to one. Mercy was in a fitful sleep on her lap; a blanket encircled the two of them like black butterflies emerging from a cocoon.

  The ambulance had come quickly. Sugar cursed herself for not having thought of calling for one. A boarder named Jonah heard the screaming coming from his landlady’s apartment and rushed down to see what was happening. He was the one to call for an ambulance. It would be him that Mary would have to thank for saving her life . . . if she lived.

  “Is there someone here with Mary Bedford?” a tall, white, wiry-looking man asked in a gentle voice. He had a white jacket on and a clipboard in his hands. He peered patiently over the glasses that sat at the very tip of his thin straight nose.

  “Yes,” Sugar said in a voice so low, even she hardly heard it.

  “Are you family?” the doctor asked, looking at his chart.

  Sugar froze. She wasn’t family. Would they tell her anything if she wasn’t family?

  “I want Grandma, Mommy,” Mercy said in a sleepy voice. Sugar’s heart stopped beating. The child must be dreaming. Mommy?

  “Oh, so you’re Mizz Bedford’s daughter?” the doctor said, now peering at her with tiny black eyes.

  Sugar’s head nodded yes, as if some unseen force was guiding it.

  “Well . . . Mizz. . . . uh . . . Mrs. . . .” The doctor stumbled and looked to Sugar for assistance. Sugar, still in shock by the turn of events, could not read the doctor’s face.

  “Well, Mizz Bedford has suffered a stroke and—”

  “She comin’ home now?” Sugar heard someone say and turned her head to see who it was. All the eyes peered back at her. She had spoken those words. And then suddenly, they were coming again, like water flowing from a faucet. She wanted it to stop but it wouldn’t. “Shecominhomenowshecominhomenowshecominhomenow.”

  Fear was thick in her throat like molasses, trapping the words.

  The doctor was flustered. “Uh, no, she’s suffered a stroke . . . not too severe, but she’ll have to stay here for a few weeks until her condition improves,” the doctor said carefully, aware that the woman he spoke to was on the verge of having a nervous breakdown.

  “Can we see my grandma?” Mercy asked in a composed voice that stunned both Sugar and the doctor.

  “Yes. Just for a minute, though,” the doctor said and stepped back, pointing down a long corridor.

  Mercy hopped off of Sugar’s lap. She held her hand out to her. “C’mon Miss . . . uhm . . . Mamma. Let’s go see Grandma,” she said and winked.

  How did this little girl get to be s
o strong? Sugar wondered.

  Mary was in a ward with at least thirty other women. Some were moaning. Others were turned on their sides or stomachs, sleeping. Sugar was aware of the sound her shoes made as she walked down the long ward toward Mary, sounding like a large clock inside her head. Clickclickclick. She wanted to run screaming from there, but she looked at Mercy and found the strength she needed.

  Mary lay before them, her pecan complexion almost white. Her silver, silky hair dry and brittle. Her face twisted to one side.

  Sugar was overwhelmed with sorrow. There were tubes running out of Mary’s nose, mouth and arms; her eyes were closed and to Sugar, she looked dead.

  It’s funny, Sugar thought as she washed up the last of the supper dishes, how life repeats itself. Here she was once again, taking charge of the Bedford house. Collecting money and making sure the boarders conducted themselves properly. No loud music after ten. No loitering on the stoop. She had handled it all quite well, just as she did twelve years ago.

  Mercy was a tower of strength. She never complained, not even when Sugar overcooked the eggs or burned the bacon. Not even when her hair parts were crooked and her bangs drooped. She just smiled and went skipping off to school.

  But Sugar knew the girl was torn up inside. She saw the tear-stained pillow cases when she did the laundry.

  People in the neighborhood, the former hustlers, pimps and prostitutes (some gone straight, others still living the life), came and did what they could when they could. They brought casseroles filled with baked macaroni and cheese, sweet potato pie, smothered pork chops and fried chicken. They took away loads of dirty clothes and returned them clean, folded and smelling of Borax. They did all of this for Mary, because over the years, Mary had done so much for them.

  Sugar went to visit Mary every day while Mercy was in school. She fed her soup with a shaky, unsure hand, while she tried to keep a smile on her face.