When Jake was ready to leave, Zeddy announced that he would take a little jaunt with him to Harlem.
“You ain’ta gwine to do no sich thing as that,” Susy said.
“Yes I is,” responded Zeddy. “Wha’ there is to stop me?”
“I is,” said Susy.
“And what foh?”
“ ’Causen I don’t wanchu to go to Harlem. What makes you niggers love Harlem so much? Because it’s a bloody ungodly place where niggers nevah go to bed. All night running around speakeasies and cabarets, where bad, hell-bent nigger womens am giving up themselves to open sin.”
Susy stood broad and aggressive against the window overlooking Myrtle Avenue.
“Harlem is all right,” said Zeddy. “I ain’t knocking round no cabarets and speakeasies. Ahm just gwine ovah wif Jake to see somathem boys.”
“Can that boy business!” cried Susy. “I’ve had anuff hell scrapping wif the women ovah mah mens. I ain’t agwine to have no Harlem boys seducin’ mah man away fwom me. The boy business is a fine excuse indeedy foh sich womens as ain’t wise. I always heah the boss say to the missus, ‘I gwine out foh a little time wif the boys, dearie,’ when him wants an excuse foh a night off. I ain’t born yestiday, honey. If you wants the boys foh a li’l game o’ poky, you bring ’em ovah heah. I ain’t got the teeeniest bit of objection, and Ise got plenty o’ good Gordon Dry foh eve’body.”
“Ise got to go scares them up to bring them heah,” said Zeddy.
“But not tonight or no night,” declared Susy. “You kain do that in the daytime, foh you ain’t got nothing to do.”
Zeddy moved toward the mantelpiece to get his cap, but Susy blocked his way and held the cap behind her.
Zeddy looked savagely in her eyes and growled: “Come outa that, sistah, and gimme mah cap. It ain’t no use stahting trouble.”
Susy looked steadily in his eyes and chucked the cap at him. “Theah’s you cap, but ef you stahts leaving me nights you …”
“What will you do?” asked Zeddy.
“I’ll put you’ block in the street.”
Zeddy’s countenance fell flat from its high aggressiveness.
“Well s’long, eve’body,” said Jake.
Zeddy put on his cap and rocked out of the apartment after him. In the street he asked Jake, “Think I ought to take a crack at Harlem with you tonight, boh?”
“Not ef you loves you’ new home, buddy,” Jake replied.
“Bull! That plug-ugly black woman is ornery like hell. I ain’t gwineta let her bridle and ride me. … You ain’t in no pickle like that with Rose, is you?”
“Lawd, no! I do as I wanta. But I’m one independent cuss, buddy. We ain’t sitchuate the same. I works.”
“Black womens when theyse ugly am all sistahs of Satan,” declared Zeddy.
“It ain’t the black ones only,” said Jake.
“I wish I could hit things off like you, boh,” said Zeddy. … “Well, I’ll see you all some night at Billy Biasse’s joint … S’long. Don’t pick up no bad change.”
From that evening Zeddy began to discover that it wasn’t all fine and lovely to live sweet. Formerly he had always been envious when any of his pals pointed out an extravagantly-dressed dark dandy and remarked, “He was living sweet.” There was something so romantic about the sweet life. To be the adored of a Negro lady of means, or of a pseudo grass-widow whose husband worked on the railroad, or of a hardworking laundress or cook. It was much more respectable and enviable to be sweet—to belong to the exotic aristocracy of sweetmen than to be just a common tout.
But there were strings to Susy’s largesse. The enjoyment of Harlem’s low night life was prohibited to Zeddy. Susy was jealous of him in the proprietary sense. She believed in free love all right, but not for the man she possessed and supported. She warned him against the ornery hussies of her race.
“Nigger hussies nevah wanta git next to a man ’cep’n’ when he’s a-looking good to another woman,” Susy declared. “I done gived you fair warning to jest keep away from the buffet-flat widdahs and thim Harlem street floaters; foh ef I ketch you making a fool woman of me, I’ll throw you’ pants in the street.”
“Hi, but youse talking sistah. Why don’t you wait till you see something before you staht in chewing the rag?”
“I done give you the straight stuff in time so you kain watch you’self when I kain’t watch you. I ain’t bohding and lodging no black man foh’m to be any other nigger woman’s daddy.”
So, in a few pointed phrases, Susy let Zeddy understand precisely what she would stand for. Zeddy was well kept like a prince of his type. He could not complain about food … and bed. Susy was splendid in her matriarchal way, rolling her eyes with love or disapproval at him, according to the exigencies of the moment.
The Saturday-night gin parties went on as usual. The brown and high-brown boys came and swilled. Miss Curdy was a constant visitor, frequently toting Strawberry Lips along. About her general way of handling things Susy brooked no criticism from Zeddy. She had bargained with him in the interest of necessity and of rivalry and she paid and paid fully, but grimly. She was proud to have a man to boss about in an intimate, casual way.
“Git out another bottle of gin, Zeddy. …”
“Bring along that packet o’ saltines. …”
“Put on that theah ‘Tickling Blues’ that we’s all just crazy about.”
To have an aggressive type like Zeddy at her beck and call considerably increased Susy’s prestige and clucking pride. She noticed, with carefully-concealed delight, that the interest of the yellow gin-swillers was piqued. She became flirtatious and coy by turns. And she was rewarded by fresh attentions. Even Miss Curdy was now meeting with new adventures, and she was prompted to expatiate upon men and love to Susy.
“Men’s got a whole lot of women in their nature, I tell you. Just as women never really see a man until he’s looking good to another
