Sweet & Sour

“You act like yo shit don’t stank!” she charged as he packed his clothes into a faded brown suitcase. “You think you can just waltz in here, get a piece of ass and walk away like nuttin’ happened? Well let me tell you sumthin’, mista; you a crazy ol’ fool ifn you think you can make it out that door and leave me standing here pickin’ up after the mess you made. What I’m ‘posed tell Lani you gone to, huh?”

He didn’t say a word. Lani was the only person in the world he gave a damn about. When he finally spoke, his words were hard to get out. “Tell her I went to visit a friend; she’ll understand,” he muttered.

She followed him into the bathroom. “Understand my ass! The girl only six years old. How you gonna do that to six-year-old girl who worship the ground yo triflin ass walk on?” she snarled.

He turned defiantly toward her, his finger waving invasively on the outskirts of her beat red face. “Don’t start with me woman!” he admonished. “You knew this wasn’t gonna last forever; I told you that when we first got together!”

Her eyes – only seconds before filled with the bitter, unforgivable fury of a woman scorned – were suddenly turgid with fear. Tears began to well like pools of rain gathered in the puddles of a last ditch effort. “But baby, we had some good times togetha you an’ me, didn’t we? Why don’t you go sit down in yo nice, big easy chair an’ watch some T.V. while I fix you yo suppa?” she coaxed rubbing his shoulders.

“I don’t want no suppa,” he stammered throwing off her advances as he made his way back into the bedroom. “I wanna catch the 6:15 ‘fore yo mutha drop Lani off.

“Ain’t that just like a man,” she accused. “Love ‘em and leave ‘em, huh? Well ain’t you just the James Dean of all niggas.”

He stared down into the suitcase on the bed – hands on hips – trying to remember if he’d already packed his aftershave. Without turning he spoke. “Now you look here you two-timing, back-stabbin’ snake in the grass. If you wouldn’t a bin messin’ round wit Charlie Walker while I was out trying to make some money to feed you an’ your daughter, maybe things be different.” He faced her. “But I don’t play house with no ho, so don’t throw that bit at me!”

“Ho? Who you calling a ho?” she only half demanded. “I ain’t never had nuttin’ going on wit Charlie Walker. He just came round to see if I needed any work done round the house while you was away, that’s all.”

He snatched the watch on the dresser and wrapped it around his wrist. “Yeah, I bet he did. ‘Trim yo bushes, Ms Trinny? Fix yo pipes, Ms Trinny?’” he mimicked sarcastically.

She convinced him to stop long enough to adjust his collar. “An’ what’s this I hear ‘bout you telling Miss Lizzy on the corner she’d make a fine bride someday ifn there was a man come round well enough to suit her?” she cross-examined, her mouth curling into a semi-sneer.

“Ah cut the gas, woman. Alls I said was she’d make a fine wife someday ifn she could find her a man her daddy found fittin’ enough to give his blessing. That’s all. There you go blowin’ things outta proportion again.”

The room fell silent. The west window framed the first few rays of the sun’s descent into streets lined with tiny dim-lit jazz bars and dirty, late night pool halls. A tired siren whined somewhere in the distance.

“You gonna leave me some bread?” she asked defeated.

“Ain’t got but about 50 bucks on me,” he confessed. “I’ll give it to you, but I want you to promise me you’ll put some food on them pantry shelves ... look like Old Mother Hubbard’s house up in here. That should gitchew through till the end of the month. Promise,” he demanded shoving the money into her palm.

She gripped his fist, pressing it hard against her thigh. “I promise,” she breathed, her lips moving closer to his, her chest heaving in the swell of the late summer swelter. He pushed her aside moving once again into the bathroom to retrieve the aftershave he was certain he had not packed.

“Baby please don’t leave me!” she pleaded grabbing his arm. “I’ll be a better woman to you, I promise. I’ll cook more; I’ll clean more; I’ll even git the laundry done on time from now on so’s you don’t hafta wear them same ol’ socks over an over. Just don’t go!”

He threw on his hat, snapped the suitcase shut and headed toward the front door. “I told you I was leavin’ an’ I meant it!” he insisted slamming the door behind him. She watched him from the window as he set off down the sidewalk, a noticeable stride of confidence in his step as he tipped his hat to Miss Lizzy on the corner before crossing the street and vanishing from sight.

She fell limp in the easy chair, staring across the room at the yellow-stained wallpaper that was peeling from age. After what seemed like ages she rose, slinked into the kitchen, sat down at the table and cracked open a bottle of bourbon. She poured herself a stiff drink on the rocks, slammed it down and poured another. The taunting sounds of children’s laughter came streaming through the bars on the open kitchen window above the sink; a light breeze fluttered the curtains slightly.

“How did I let this one get away?” she wondered slumping into the chair as the ice in her bourbon slowly melted away. “I played all my cards right. I played by his rules this time. It isn’t fair!” She let out a muffled sob and poured another.

The clock on the wall affirmed that her mother should have dropped Lani off by now. She needed to make herself presentable. She dabbed her eyes, being careful not to smear the mascara that was beginning to run from the corners. She was washing out the glass when the knock came.

“Where’ve you bin?” she chastised opening the door. “I was beginning to worry…”

They stood facing one another through the familiar bent mesh of the dented metal screen door. It was August 1956, and the night heavy air began to settle sedately over the city. A lone saxophone moaned St. Louis Blues down at Nubby’s Bar.