volume.
“Make it have more sound,” Ptolemy demanded.
“But you not gonna be here, Papa Grey.”
“Make it more.”
Hilly turned up the volume and then said, “I’ll be out on the front porch waitin’, Uncle. It stink too much in here.”
Hilly went out of the door, leaving it ajar. Ptolemy was quick to close the door after his great-grandnephew and throw the bolt. Then he moved quickly so as not to forget what he was doing. He scanned the piles of boxes and stacks of cartons, dishes, clothes, and old tools. He looked under the tables and through a great pile of clothes. He shuffled through old newspapers, letters, and books in the deep closet. He looked up at the ceiling and saw a large gray spider suspended in a corner. For a moment he thought about shooting that spider.
“No,” he whispered. “You don’t have to shoot a spider. He too small for shootin’. Anyway, he ain’t done nuthin’.” And then Ptolemy remembered what he was looking for. He went to the closet and took out a stack of sheets that his first wife, Bertie, had bought sixty years before. Under the folded bedclothes was an electric steam iron set upon a miniature ironing board. Under the iron lay three unopened envelopes with cellophane windows where Ptolemy’s name and address appeared.
One by one Ptolemy opened the sealed letters. Each one contained a city retirement check for $211.41. He counted them: one, two, three. He counted the checks three times and then shoved them into his pocket and stood there, wondering what to do next. The radio was on. It was playing opera now. He loved it when people sang in different languages. He felt like he understood them better than the TV newsmen and women who talked way too fast for any normal person to understand.
There was a plane crash in Kentucky. Forty-nine dead. It was Monday, the twenty-eighth of August. The spider stared down from his invisible webs, waiting for a fly or moth or unwary roach.
Somebody was waiting for Ptolemy. Reggie. No, not Reggie but, but . . .
There was a chubby young stranger standing on the concrete stairs of the tenement building when Ptolemy came out into the daylight clutching his outside right front pocket. He squinted from the bright sun and shivered because there was a breeze.
“What took you, Papa Grey?” the unfamiliar stranger asked.
“Do I know you?”
“Hilly,” he said. “Hilda’s son. I’m here to take you shopping. Did you lock the door?”
“’Course I did,” Ptolemy said. “It’s Monday and you always lock the door on Monday. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, uh, um, Saturday, and, and, and Sunday. You always lock the door on them days and then put the key in your front pocket.”
“Hey, Pete,” someone yelled from down the street.
Ptolemy flinched and backed up toward the door, hitting the wood frame with his shoulder.
A tall woman, almost as fat as the stranger who called him Papa Grey, was coming quickly up the block.
“Hold it right there, Pete!” the woman yelled. There was a threat in her voice. “Wait up!”
Ptolemy reached for the handle of the door with his left hand but he couldn’t grasp it right. The woman climbed the stoop in two big steps and slapped the old man, hitting him hard enough to bump his head against the door.
“Where my money, bastid?” the woman shouted.
Ptolemy went down into a squat, putting his hands up to protect his head.
“Empty yo’ pockets. Gimme my money,” the woman demanded.
“Help!” Ptolemy shouted.
When she bent down, trying to reach for the old man’s pocket, he twisted to the side and fell over. The woman was in her fifties and dark-skinned. The once-whites of her eyes were now the color of cloudy amber. She grabbed Ptolemy’s shoulder in an attempt to position him for another slap.
That was when Hilly grabbed the woman’s striking wrist. He exerted a great deal of strength as he wrenched her away from his uncle.
“Ow!” she screamed. She tried to slap Hilly with her free hand.
“Hit me an’ I swear I will break yo’ mothahfuckin’ arm, bitch,” Hilly told her.
Almost magically the woman transformed, going down into a half crouch, weeping.
“I jes’ wan’ my money,” she cried. “I jes’ wan’ my money.”
“What money?” Hilly asked.
“It’s a lie,” Ptolemy shouted in a hoarse, broken voice.
“He promised to gimme some money. He said he was gonna give it to me. I need it. I ain’t got nuthin’ an’ everybody knows he’s a rich niggah wit’ a retirement check.”
“Bitch, you bettah get away from heah,” Hilly warned.
“I need it,” she begged.
“Get outta heah now or I’ma go upside your head with my fist,” Hilly warned. He raised a threatening hand and the amber-and-brown-eyed black woman hurried down off the stoop and across the street, wailing as she went.
One or two denizens of La Jolla Place stopped to watch her. But nobody looked at Hilly or spoke.
