of something that kindled a spark way down in the pit of my stomach.
“I’m a Louisiana boy,” I said. “Down where the peppers burn out your mouth and the gators grab children right offa their swings.”
“I love hot food,” she said, with a lingering emphasis on the word
I reached out with a single finger, touching her forearm ever so slightly.
“And I love spicy women,” I said.
Charlotta speculated on the sensitivity of my touch.
“You wanna go down and get some dinner?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “But I think I might need my strength.”
We walked side by side down the stairs and through the hallway. She bumped up against me now and then, not by mistake. When we got to the dining room all the seats but two were taken, and they were not together. I went to a chair between an older woman and a young man, while Charlotta made her way to a seat on the opposite side. She caught my eye now and then, smiling and pushing out her already protruding lips.
Miss Moore sat at the head of the table while a young girl of thirteen or fourteen brought out the food on large serving trays. People were talking amongst themselves softly. The room was filled with the aroma of buttermilk biscuits that had been brought out and placed along the center of the table in three baskets. Miss Moore hardly had to raise her voice to get their attention.
“Everybody,” she said. “I would like you to meet Mr. Hendricks. He’s only going to be with us for a week or so. He’s down from the Bay Area, looking for work before he gets married . . .”
The last words raised Charlotta’s eyes a bit, but she didn’t seem bothered.
“. . . he’s taking Kit Mitchell’s old room, and I hope the rest of you will help him out if he needs it. Mr. Hendricks, these will be your neighbors for the next seven days.”
She went around the table with her eyes then, introducing my housemates. I didn’t remember most of their names, even then. There was Charlotta and Melvin Conroy, a young man merely named Brown, and an older gray- headed woman called Mrs. Mulrooney.
“Welcome to the congregation, Brother Hendricks,” Brown said as he reached for a biscuit.
“Brown, please,” Miss Moore said then. “Wait for grace.”
The young man, who had a flat face and expressionless eyes, smiled and leaned back in his chair.
“Mr. Hendricks,” Miss Moore said then. “Will you lead us?”
I bowed my head and everybody around the table, and the serving girl too, bowed theirs.
“Lord,” I said. “Bless this bounty and bless this house. Bless the people at this table who give thanks for your gifts, and bless the poor son lost from your light. Thank you for keeping us together and keeping us strong while we worship in your name and your teachings. Amen.”
“Amen,” fourteen voices agreed.
When I opened my eyes I saw Miss Moore smiling, Charlotta grinning, Mr. Conroy grimacing, and everyone else reaching for food.
Dinner was comprised of chicken and dumplings, collard greens, creamed corn, and peach cobbler for dessert. Every bite was delicious and there was more than enough to go around. I found myself feeling sorry that I had used a false name to get my room. I would have gladly paid twelve dollars a week to eat like that every night. Living alone, I often settled for hamburgers or canned spaghetti.
“That was a beautiful prayer, young man,” the older woman to my right said. “You must spend your Sundays with the Lord.”
“I spend every day with him, ma’am.”
“Brenda,” she said. “Mrs. Brenda Frail.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Frail,” I said.
There was a lot of talking and jocularity at the table. It was the friendliness of strangers. The only thing we all had in common was our race. There were Negroes from one setting to another and not any three who were the same color. There was nothing unusual about that, though. Being black in America was the simple fact of not being white. From the high-yellow Mr. Conroy to almost black Brown we ranged. Anyone looking at me would say that I was dark of color, that is, unless I was standing next to Fearless, who had retained every pigment of his African heritage.
Not one roomer was from Los Angeles originally. Most were from the South, but a few hailed from the Midwest. Everyone had at least one job. Most of the men had two. Even old Mrs. Mulrooney and Brenda Frail had part-time jobs, one at the five-and-ten and the other taking tickets at the Grand Avenue Cinema during the matinee.
“How do you like your room?” a man whose name I’d already forgotten asked.
“It’s fantastic,” I said. “I can’t imagine anybody not wantin’ to come home to that.”
I was hoping to get a dialogue started on Kit Mitchell, but all I received was a grunt from Miss Moore.
There were eight men, six women, and one girl. The oldest was seventy-four, that was Mrs. Mulrooney, and the youngest was Trina Harper, the serving girl. There was a mechanic, a chef, two domestics, two janitors, two waitresses, and a dry cleaner.
After coffee I followed my new neighbors through a door into the sitting room. This room was furnished with three couches, a few stuffed chairs, two small gaming tables, and a rabbit-eared television set. There was also a rather large built-in bookcase with at least a couple of hundred books jammed in. I made a mental note to peruse the collection before moving on.
“You look like a smart man, Mr. Hendricks,” the youth called Brown said to me.
