I said, “Melody, doesn’t fate puppeteer humans in a weird way? There I was coming out of that joint, I had just called a garage a hundred miles away. The engine of my car burnt up on my way here from Saint Louis a week ago. I was depressed, lonely, and hopeless in a big, friendless city.
“The mechanic had just dropped the bad news. The charge to get the car is a hundred and fifty dollars. I have fifty. I was blind with worry when I came out that door.
“My elderly mother has to have a pancreas operation. I came here to work for a contractor in the suburbs. I’m a talented carpenter. I need my car to get to work. I’m committed to start work the first of next week. Mama’s going to die sure as the sun rises in the East unless I get that money for her operation.
“The strange wonderful thing is, Darling, with all these problems I feel so good. See those garbage cans glittering between the tenements? To me they are giant jewels. I want to climb up on those rooftops and cry out to the stars, I have met, I have found the beautiful Melody. Surely I’m the luckiest black man alive. Convince me you’re real. Don’t evaporate like a beautiful mirage. I’d die if you did.”
Out of the side scope in my eye I saw those awesome thighs quivering. She almost crashed the Lincoln into the rear end of the gray Studebaker ahead of us.
She cut in sharply and grated the Lincoln’s wheels against the curb. She shut the motor off and turned toward me. Her eyes were blue bonfires of passion. The pulse on the satin throat was maniacing. She slid close to me. She zippered her scarlet mouth to mine. That confection tongue flooded my mouth with sugar. Her nails dug into my thighs. She gazed at me.
She said, “Blood, you sweet black poetic panther. Does that prove I’m real. No, I know I don’t want to evaporate, ever. Please, let’s don’t go to a bar. You can’t solve your problems with alcohol. My parents are out of the city until tomorrow noon. Settle for coffee and conversation at my place. Will you Blood? Perhaps we can find solutions to your problems there. Besides, I’m expecting Mother to call me at home later this evening.”
I said, “Angel of mercy, I’m putting myself in your tender hands.”
She lived a long way from the black concentration camp. She drove for almost an hour. I could smell the pungent odors of early April plant life. This white world was like leaving Hell and riding through Heaven. The neat rows of plush houses shone in the moonlight. The streets were quiet as maybe the Cathedral in Rheims.
I thought, “Ain’t it a bitch? Ninety-eight percent of the black people back there in Hell will be born and die and never know the joys of this earthly Heaven. There ain’t but two passports the white folks honor. A white skin, or a bale of scratch. I sure got to pimp good and cop my scratch passport. Well, at least I get a Cinderella crack at Heaven. This is good. It’s hipping me to what I’m missing.”
We turned into her driveway. I saw the soft glow of a table lamp behind blue drapes in the front room. She parked the Lincoln in a pink stucco garage that matched the house. The garage was connected to the house. We went through the back door. We passed through the kitchen. Even in the dimness it sparkled. We moved like burglars through the half-darkened house. We walked on deep-pile carpet up a stairway. We got to the top. She stopped.
She whispered, “Blood, I was born in this house. Everybody in the block knows me. If some friend passed and knew someone was at home, we might get an unwelcome visitor. We’ll go to my bedroom in the rear.”
I followed to her bedroom. She flipped on a tiny blue light over a mirrored dressing table. The bedroom was done in pale blue and off-white. The queen-sized bed had a blue satin canopy over it. I sat down on a white silk chaise next to the dressing table. She switched on an ivory radio. Debussy’s “Clare de Lune” sweet-noted gently through the room.
She kicked off her tiny black calfskin shoes. She was even more beautiful here than she had been in the street. She stroked my ear lobes with her fingertips.
She said, “Mommy’s pretty black panther don’t run away now. I’m going downstairs and make coffee.”
She went down the stairs.
I thought, “I’m gonna crack on her for scratch. She should be good for a C note at least. A C note ain’t bad to break the ice with. If she springs for it, I’ll tie her to that bed and put my Pepper-specialty on her. It’s certain to flip a young broad like her who’s lived in Heaven all her life! Besides, I ain’t never sloughed around in a bed with a canopy. Especially one in Heaven.”
I heard the faint bounce of her tiny feet on the stairway. She came into the bedroom with a silver service. We were going to have coffee in style. She set the gleaming tray on the dressing-table top.
She said, “Blood, pour us a cup. I’m going to get out of these clothes. Then we can chat.”
I poured two and left them black. I sipped mine. She stepped into a walk-in closet. She stepped out a moment later. All she had on were black panties and the red top of a transparent shortie nightgown. Her small, but sculptured bosom straight-jutted against the red gauze. She sat on the foot of the bed facing me and crossed her legs. I handed her the cup of black.
She said, “So, you’re going to stay in town for a while?”
I said, “Baby, if I get strong enough encouragement I’ll stay all my life. Baby, it’s a pity I had to meet you when I’m in bad shape. I want to be good company, but that car problem and Mama won’t let my mind stay on a pleasant track.”
Her ringers snapped “eureka.”
She got off the bed and went to the dresser across the room. She opened the top drawer and took out a bankbook. She came back and sat on the bed. She tapped the red nail of her left index finger against her white teeth. She studied the book’s figures. I saw a frown hedgerow her brow. She got up and went to the dresser and threw the book into the open drawer and banged it shut.
I thought, “This broad has over-drawn. She’s gonna try the check con on me.”
She stooped and opened the bottom drawer. She brought out a foot-long, foot-tall metal pig. She walked to the dressing table and put the porker on the table beside me.
She said, “Blood, this is the best I can do to help you now. I don’t get my allowance for a week. I have less than a hundred dollars in my account. Cheer up, there must be at least a hundred dollars in quarters and halves in this bank. Believe me, I can vividly imagine what it’s like to be colored and faced with your problems. Let’s say it’s a loan.”
I hefted the poker for a moment to check its gross weight. It was heavy all right. It felt a C note heavy. I reached out and took her hand. I guided her to my side on the chaise. I put my arms around her. I kissed her and sucked at that sugary tongue like a suicidal diabetic. I leaned back from her. I looked into the heart of the blue fire.
I said, “Baby, it’s a wonderful secret that you’ve discovered. Not many people know it’s better to give than to receive. Maybe it sounds crazy, but I wish you weren’t so beautiful and generous, so perfect. I don’t see how you can miss capturing my foolish heart. You’re a cinch to make me yours forever. Baby, I’m just a poor black country boy. Please don’t hurt my heart.”
She sure had an appetite for the Jeff con. The blue fire softened. Her eyes were misty and serious. She held my head between her dove-soft palms.
She said, “Blood baby, I’m white, but I have been more unhappy than any black person all my life. My parents have never understood me. When my whole being cried out for love and understanding, they gave me shiny things to stop my tears.
“Non-whites are like dirt to them. They are narrow and cold. If they found out you had been here they would disown me before they dropped dead. There’s a sweet warmth that you have. I know that you can make me happy. I am so desperate for love and understanding. Please give it to me.”
I said, “Baby, you can dump all your money on the black horse to win. I’m gonna win ’em all for you, beautiful.”
She said, “Blood, you’re a black panther; I’m a white lamb. I know nothing can stop that panther from taking the lamb, soul and body. The lamb will bide her time to take the panther. The lamb needs and wants it that way. Now listen carefully and please catch the clue of my tragedy so nothing will shock you in my bed.
“Blood, perhaps you are aware of the structural flaws built into the columns of the world’s most famous building. It’s the Parthenon. The flaw is called entasis. This contrived flaw is necessary so that the fickle human eye sees only perfection. I am a lot like those columns. I am not old, but I am beautiful. My tragedy is that unlike the entasis that gives perfection to the columns, my entasis must be concealed to protect my perfection. Can you understand?”
I thought, “What the hell, so this broad’s got a prematurely-gray cat. Maybe it’s a little off-center. If it’s odd it
