“There’s a watchmaker with no hands explaining to his young assistant how to fix a clock, and a dog headed down a dark alley-way. At the end of that alley is a woman’s face glowing and smilin’ down on the cur.”
“You remember all that, Mr. Grey?”
“Your father lost interest in the naked woman, but he saw somethin’ new in that paintin’ almost every week. He realized after Max died that he was a real artist whose work spoke out aftah death.”
There was benign joy in the face of Moishe Abromovitz. He nodded and smiled at the old man.
“Okay,” he said. He picked up the phone and pressed a button and said, “Esther, ask Miss Small to join us, will you?”
You sure it was all right, signin’ all them papers, Uncle Grey?” Robyn asked on the bus ride back to South Central L.A.
“You mean because he’s a white man and he might cheat us?”
Robyn nodded and the old man smiled.
“No, baby. Moishe ain’t gonna cheat us. All you got to do is tell him money you get from Mossa and get him to make out what the taxes ought to be. He’ll charge you maybe thirty dollahs an’ send you the forms to send in your taxes once every three months. That’s the deal me and his father made. I never did it, though. You the one. You the one gonna make Coy’s dream into somethin’ real.”
“What happened to Coy?” Robyn asked.
The pain that invaded his chest was sharp and sudden, like a knife stab.
“What’s wrong, Uncle Grey?”
“Pain,” he uttered.
“From what?”
“I cain’t talk about what happened, Robyn. I cain’t.”
The girl took his right hand and pressed the thick muscle in the webbing between his index finger and thumb.
The hurt, and then the release from the girl’s massage, eased his memory of Coydog dancing on feet of fire, being strangled by a white man’s noose.
“He died,” Ptolemy whispered. “He’s gone.”
When they got to Ptolemy’s block Robyn took out her knife and held it so that it was hidden by her wrist and forearm.
“He try an’ mess wit’ us an’ I cut that mothahfuckah like a Christmas goose,” she said to Ptolemy as they walked.
“You evah et goose?” the old man asked.
“No,” she said.
This caused Ptolemy to laugh. He giggled and tittered, and then so did Robyn. They were like childhood friends remembering days long ago and carefree. In this way they made it to Ptolemy’s door with no attacks or retaliations.
There was a small can on the floor in front of Ptolemy’s door.
“What’s this?” Robyn said to herself, kneeling down.
“Is it a peanut can?” Ptolemy asked.
“Yeah.”
“That’s a treat Miss Dartman bring down for me sometimes. Hand it here.”
Ptolemy put out his hand and dutifully his newly adopted daughter complied. He could feel the heft of the ammunition Hilly had left him.
“It’s heavy, Uncle,” Robyn said. “What is it?”
“Nuthin’. Nuthin’ at all.”
The phone rang later that night as Ptolemy watched a comedy show on TV with Robyn. Watching television was the closest thing to revisiting his previous state of dementia. The people spoke too fast and the jokes weren’t funny at all. People dressed like they were going to fancy parties but instead they were at work or walking down the street in broad daylight. Everybody was in love all the time, and in pain too. The stories never went anywhere, but Robyn laughed and giggled from the first moment to the last. He liked to see the young woman laughing. It was to him like a gift from God, and so he liked watching TV with her, when her hard life let up for a moment and she didn’t need her anger or her knife.
Ptolemy was just getting ready to get up and say good night when the phone rang. Robyn bounced off the couch and answered.
“It’s for you, Papa Grey.”
“Hello?”
“Hello, Ptolemy,” a woman’s voice greeted.
“Hi. How are ya, Shirley?”
“Just fine. I was bakin’ me some fudge here and I thought about you. Do you like chocolate?”
“I like you, and if you make chocolate, then I like that too.”
“You must’a been a mess when you were a young man, Mr. Grey.”
“No. Not me. When I was younger I couldn’t take three steps without trippin’. I was quiet and shy, couldn’t put my words together for love or money.”
