Queenie Monroe, strong-minded yet feeble in body, was ready to die. Some people desire to live forever but not Queenie. She wasn’t crazy. Didn’t take a genius to know when it was time to give up the Ghost. She’d seen plenty of life and plenty of death in her years. The coming journey held no mystery for her. She just wanted to get on with it.

On her seventy-ninth birthday she felt death hovering. The crow on her tin roof cawed three times and the rooster refused to announce the sun, his stunted bantam body standing motionless in the front yard, not even pawing the earth for worms. A cool breeze crossed her cheeks at noontime as the sun blistered above. Kneeling in the dirt at the foot of the porch, Queenie cast bleached chicken bones and shuddered as each pair crossed at their apex, thirteen times in a row. Clawing herself upright, the old woman sat on the lip of the porch and waited all day for Death to arrive. He did not.

At eighty, she put on the only dress she owned, a blue rag, braided her wild, nappy hair in two long plaits to wrap around her head, snapped in some ill-fitting dentures and picked up a Bible to hold. She rocked on the front porch of her shack, bear grease rubbed into her skin until it was slick so she didn’t have to swat or slap at mosquitoes. Long past midnight Queenie waited for Death to come claim her. But the bastard didn’t show.

When she was finally able to get out of that rocking chair and onto her small cot, Queenie was angry. Every joint in her body ached from staying in one place for so long. Her feet were swollen. Her mouth hurt. She’d even given up her last pinch of snuff for the evening because she wanted to be able to face Death properly, with some good smelling breath. Real ladies didn’t dip snuff. Didn’t spit either. Yesirree, Mr. Death was in some kind of trouble with Queenie Monroe. And most people in Lauderdale County, Alabama, knew better. There are just some things that you did not want to do. But then, thought Queenie, “Mr. Death must not be fully ‘quainted with Queenie Monroe. He sure don’t know me iffin he think he can leave me hangin’ ’round like this.”

Late on the evening of her eighty-first birthday, Queenie sat on her rickety porch again. This time she had no plan. Her hair was loose, falling about her shoulders. It still wasn’t quite all gray. Even at eighty-one there was enough black to be salt and pepper. But it was tangled, matted in the back, so nappy that you couldn’t pass a comb through it if you tried. Her skin hid her age also. Wrinkles appeared around the corners of her eyes, small fine lines that identified her as elderly but certainly not eighty-one. Her eyes were a different story. They showed every year, every humiliation, plus all the anger and despair a black woman can feel, wrapped up and multiplied by a thousand. Her eyes were ancient, brooding and green, a watery, rheumy color depicting years misspent and slipped away, of drinking and laying with low, common men, of loving, hard, fast and embracing hate just as voraciously as love.

Queenie dressed in an old pair of overalls, more tatter than cloth, no shoes, with barely a shirt to cover her low-hanging, belly-button reaching tits. But she did leave her teeth in. It didn’t seem right to pass with not a tooth in her head. She wanted the undertaker to be able to fix her mouth with a handsome smile. If she wore her choppers, save everyone the trouble of looking for them when they came to get her.

So now, here she was waiting for this fool to show up. There was no Bible, only a bottom lip full of snuff. That Bible had been a sore spot anyway. She debated about using it the last time but her idea to hedge her bets won. Last year she thought she’d carry it just in case she got a chance to get through the Pearly Gates. This year she thought about it long and hard and knew for a certainty that she wasn’t going to heaven. She’d put too many spells on people and fucked too many married men in her day. A body got to be straight, truthful, she figured. Heaven wasn’t the place for her. And, of course, the snuff was from a desire for that wicked weed, tobacco.

At about eleven she rose to go inside to bed, cursing under her breath. She stood there, in the dark, angry, cold and disappointed.

“Mutha fuckah, where is you? I knows you can’t be scared of me. I’s ready to go. Shit, come on with it.”She wasn’t expecting an answer and when it came she took a step back on the loose plank and almost tripped.

“Woman, I’s right here. Been here. Waitin’ on your sorry ass to decide you ready to go.”

He came round from the side of the house, where he’d been sitting in the dirt, brushing off his fancy clothes. He was a little bitty man. About half her size and so high yellow, his skin glowed in the dark and lit the whole yard up like a lantern. He wore all purple except for the strip of black felt around his furry derby. His shirt was a rich lilac and his alligator shoes a deep burgundy-purple. The jacket to his suit was slung over his shoulders, exposing suspenders and braces reminding her of days past. He looked more like a new time pimp than Death. In fact, as she peered at him even more closely, standing in front of her, with the glimmer of his face showing his features, she recognized him. It was River Jordan Williston. The only man she had ever wanted to marry, a man she’d fucked long and hard in her prime.

“What ya doin’ here River? You been dead for years. Know you can’t be for real.”

“I’se for real woman. Sure enuf for real. Now gits your stuff ‘cause we ’bout ready to head on.”

Queenie was suspicious.

“Now wait a minute here River. First off, I don’t recollect you bein’ place in no charge of me. Who is you now an’ why is ya here?”

River sighed deeply.

“I see you is gonna give me some trouble. Thought if I waited some you’d come right along, be tired enuf and through enuf to jus’ come on. But you jus’ as mule headed as you always were. Dammit, I wish you would do like I say for once.”

Queenie moved back over to her chair and sat down. She slowly bent and reached underneath the rocker, between one of the loose floorboards and pulled out a small tin can. She opened it up, carefully and slowly. Placing the top on her lap, she used her thumb and forefinger to pinch a goodly portion of snuff, her pinkie finger held delicately away. Her bottom lip naturally opened and the snuff dropped right into place. It tasted good, soothing. A much better feeling than store bought cigarettes.

River just watched until finally he’d had enough. He took his jacket from over his shoulder and rested it on the wooden porch ledge. He plopped his narrow ass on the top step and stretched out his little legs, relaxing.

“You is a might smaller than I remembers.”

“I ain’t no smaller. Your ass jus’ got bigger. A lot bigger.”

Queenie didn’t take offense. It was true. In the last ten years or so, since she gave up fucking, she started to eat more. Even with those damned dentures that spoiled some of her enjoyment, she could still eat at least a chicken a day.

“Well, is you gonna tell me why you here or not?”

“I ain’t no Death, if that’s what you thinkin’. I came to claim you, but I ain’t no Death.”

“Well, who is ya then?” Queenie asked but knew the answer already.

River looked up at Queenie and she saw the glint of pride in his eyes, matched by the glint of gold in his front teeth. He grasped his suspenders and puffed out his small chest. She couldn’t believe that at eighty one she still felt a hot surge between her thighs. This little man-thing recalled to her the nights of passion they’d spent together, the quick interludes behind the barn, out in the fields, wherever he wanted, whenever they felt the urge. She wondered if he could still use it like before. Was it still big?

“I been sent by the Devil hisself, sent to bring your ass on to him.”

River must have expected her to say something or act scared. He didn’t stop holding his suspenders, but his self-assurance fizzled and he looked at Queenie with uncertainty. She hadn’t even missed a beat in her rocking chair. She showed no signs of being impressed or even moved by the information. She just kept looking, mainly at his crotch.

“Stop that. I ain’t no man no more. I ain’t interested in no tail. ’Sides, even if I was, you looks like my old mammy now. Woman, you is old.”

Queenie shrugged. “Age ain’t no nevermind to me. I always be wantin’ it.”

“Some thangs don’t change, does they?” Then River gave her one of his sweetest smiles, trying to move her along. This time she did miss a beat, in her rocking and in her heart. Truth told, she had loved herself some River Jordan back in the day. She wanted to stay right on that porch, talking about the old times with him but she knew she had to go. Question was, where was she going? It’s good the Devil sent River, she thought. Maybe I can git a little somethin’ outta this ’fore I has to go.

She stopped rocking altogether and looked at River real hard, to make him know she was serious.

“All right. I’se gonna go with you, but first, before I get to the Devil an’ all, I wanna visit heaven. Just to see. Can you do that?”

River didn’t want her to know how low on the totem pole he was, but, on the other hand, he knew his limitations. He studied on her request, knew it was irregular, felt she was out to trick him but he didn’t rightly know how to handle Queenie. It was the first time he’d been sent to claim a soul all on his own. He was glad she wasn’t in a rush for him to answer.

“Well I gots to look into this. Be back in a minute.”

He rose from the porch stepped and stretched out his short body, arms over his head, grabbed for his jacket and started around the side of the house where he came from. She didn’t hear anything, not a rustle of leaves or a twig break. He was gone, just like that.

And just like that he appeared again on the porch, shaking his head in wonderment.

“Mr. Devil say he ain’t got no problem with you goin’ up there for a visit. We is supposed to wait here for a guide to show up an’ then we gonna go look ’round heaven.”

They made small talk for a few minutes, she asking about this person or that, him answering to the best of his ability. There was very little surprising gossip. All the people she suspected of going to Hell were the ones he knew about. But it was good to get confirmation, good to know that she was smart when it came to reading and studying people.

There wasn’t a sound anywhere. Crickets stopped their chirping, even the wind stopped moving. Everything was still, quiet. Then, all of a sudden harp music came from out of nowhere, playing softly. River looked at Queenie and shook his head, a disgusted look on his face. She heard him mutter,

“They’s always tryin’ to make some show. Shit, it don’t take all that.”

First a white shod foot appeared on the bottom step. Then a leg, an arm. A full body, all clothed in pearl-essence, bathed in a halo-light. Now Queenie was impressed. This had to be the finest young buck she had ever seen. He wasn’t little and puny like River. Nor was he anywhere near yellow. He was broad-shouldered and bespectacled, with little wire-rimmed glasses, the sign of an intellectual. His legs were about the size of River’s chest cavity and his smile gleamed, purely white, not a gold tooth in sight. He was more than a woman’s dream. He was a fantasy breathed into life. Her old heart danced a beat.

River saw her fascination and couldn’t resist a twinge of jealousy. He got tired of them heaven boys always being the object of desire. He said to Queenie, as loud as he dared,

“Yeah, he do look good on the outside, I give him that. But he couldn’t fuck worth a damn when he was livin’. I knows. I gotta hold to some stuff he was gittin’ regular. Man ain’t know how to treat the kitty cat. Not like I done treat yours.”

The guide looked at River with pity.

“That’s your problem,” he said in an educated voice, “always concerned with sex. There were and are other things in this world to worry about.”

River humped and hunched his shoulder away from the angel. All the while Queenie acted as if she was spellbound. She couldn’t hardly open her mouth for fear the new man might smell the snuff. She turned her head and spat in the bushes. Finally she got up enough nerve to ask, “What be your name, Mr. Angel?”

The man flashed a large beatific smile.

“It’s Jackson, Granny. May I take your hand to lead you to heaven?”

River was outraged. Before Jackson could touch Queenie, he threw himself between them.

“Ya ain’t touchin’ her. She’s mine to take with me. All you supposed to do is show her a little bit of heaven. I mean us, ’cause I’m going too. Then we, her and me, is going where we belongs. You got that pretty boy? Don’t try no funny stuff here. Don’t mess with me.”

Jackson did nothing more than raise one eyebrow at River, like he was observing some kind of low-life gnat.

“I understand Miz Monroe is headed, uh, elsewhere. My intent is to show her some courtesy, nothing more. I do know my job.”

Queenie literally pushed River out of the way and laid her hand on Jackson’s wide forearm while she twisted her big ass down the steps. She twittered like a little girl and Jackson indulged her, compassionate, like an angel should.

River followed, talking angrily to himself, mad at having someone else in charge.

“This shit ain’t right.”

Meanwhile, Jackson, up ahead, made small talk with Queenie. Referring to her as Granny, trying to soothe her fears. Although she didn’t feel grandmotherly towards him, in fact was trying to scheme on getting a peek at his private parts, she accepted his references gracefully. She just noted that had she been in a position to fuck him good, he wouldn’t be calling her no damn ‘Granny’. He’d be calling for her pussy. She knew that, deep down inside.

Queenie was so busy thinking about Jackson and sex that she hadn’t noticed the landscape change until he started to point things out to her. She’d reached heaven and paid it no attention thinking of what she would have enjoyed doing to and with this big buck. She didn’t care what River said about his skills. Besides, River had to be lying. How could this big, beautiful package not be skilled, not be the lover he looked like? She fluttered her rheumy eyes up at Jackson.

“Jackson, this here is such beautiful place. You thinks maybe I can speak to God a bit an’ see if I can stay?

She heard a roar behind them and turned to see River hopping up and down with anger. He was so little he looked like a child. Red smoke puffed from his shoes every time he landed on his feet. His hat fell off and she could see little, tiny, red horns sprouting on each side of his high-yellow forehead.

“You can’t do that, you can’t do that Queenie. You is supposed to go to Hell. I gotta take you, you gotta come on.”

Jackson grinned at River, watching as the pint-sized demon lost his temper. He turned to speak in a reassuring tone to Queenie.

“God would love to speak with you. It is never too late, never too late to repent. Just wait here one moment and I’ll arrange for you to speak with Him, Granny.” He glared over at River. “Don’t leave here with this woman or you’ll be in big trouble with my Boss Man.” Jackson disappeared just as he appeared, with harp music.

River walked up to Queenie and grabbed her arm.

“Woman is you crazy?”

Queenie sniffed and looked down her nose at River.

“No, I ain’t crazy. I’se feel like mayhap I wanna stay here ‘stead of going with you. Jackson treat me like a lady. He be holding onto my arm an calling me ‘Granny.’ Ya ain’t done nuthin’ but cuss at me since you came to git me. I prefers to be wid him.”

River looked at her and laughed. A real down deep in the stomach laugh. He picked up his hat from the ground and dusted it off, slapping it against his scrawny legs. He put it on his head at a jaunty angle so that one red horn stuck out, then flung his jacket across his shoulders again.

“Queenie, I can’t argue none with you ‘bout that Jackson. But you sure ’bout this? Sure you gonna be happy with this arrangement, ’cause you ain’t gonna be able to change your mind.”

Queenie was surprised at his laughter, surprised that he was taking things so well, especially after his display of temper earlier. But she didn’t want him to think she was hesitant or going to change her mind. She felt victorious. She had a chance to stay in heaven. All those years she thought she’d end up in Hell. “Damn, things was funny how they worked out.” She silently corrected herself. No more cussing. She must say things like “darn” now. She tried to imitate Jackson, his tone of voice as she condescendingly spoke to River for the last time.

“Yes, I am sure that I would like to stay here, forever.”

River grinned, a small, little queer grin and backed away from Queenie. He tipped his hat forward, blew her a kiss from the tips of his fingers and vanished, in a haze of purple smoke. Queenie, somewhat disturbed, looked around to find Jackson. She hadn’t thought it would be quite so easy getting away from River.

Jackson returned and if he noticed River was gone, he didn’t say a word about it.

“God said he didn’t have to see you Granny. He said that you are more than welcome to stay.”

Queenie could have jumped for joy. She rubbed her knotted, arthritic hands together in anticipation.

“Is I gonna be made to look like you, to be young again?”

“Oh no Granny. You will have to stay like you are.”

Suddenly, noise filled the air and a bunch of angels started strolling towards them, all of them men, all of them gorgeous and firm bodied. Shades of black, brown, tan. Thin waists, beautiful full lips, big thighs, big bulges where their private parts were housed. Queenie felt a stirring down below, and flush develop across her face. As each passed and greeted her, she was addressed as “Granny.”

At the end of the long procession, she thought she heard an echo of River’s raucous laughter. Here she was in heaven, dying of lust, never to be sated. She was going to be horny for eternity, non-stop. Heaven was to be her Hell. Jackson couldn’t contain himself, he smiled, his teeth causing an iridescent glow strong enough for her to blink and raise a hand to cover her eyes.

“Ah Granny, whoever said God doesn’t have a sense of humor was wrong."

I decided I wanted to get to know Jesus one Saturday in May as I waited in the barber shop for Malcolm and Andrew to get edged up. It was crowded and I sat in a corner listening to the men small talk. I did not like the place – too busy with kids squirming around and eruptions of laughter from all over. The barbers gestured with combs to make their point, some men leapt to their feet (the ones who waited), to make theirs. I was uncomfortable around people other than my family. I never knew where to look or what to do. I could hear Mama in my head telling me that people would think I was crazy, so I made sure not to look at anyone and sat by a small table where there were magazines with pictures to look at and started turning pages.

There was a card in one of the magazines and all you had to do was to fill it out and send in the mail to get a set of books all about Jesus. The postage was paid and I put it in the mailbox on the way out. We had a Bible at home but I didn’t understand it – even though I had vowed to read it over and over again. Each time I started I got stuck in Genesis. It made no sense to me that Eve could be blamed for so much just because she wanted to taste a fruit. Why was Adam such a pitiful excuse so that Eve had to get all the punishment? I pictured God as Mama, I was Eve trying to know about things and get a little taste of life and Malcolm was clueless Adam who was favored, did what he wanted and suffered no consequences. Just thinking about it too long burned me up inside.

The very next Saturday we were fanning ourselves with the windows open – sitting around when the doorbell rang. It was me, Mama, Andrew, Malcolm, Aunt Dee-Dee and little Andre being a family. Malcolm looked out the window and ducked his head back in. Daddy had been dead since February and Malcolm thought it was his duty to be up in everything when he was home. He had to open the door, he had to take out the trash, he had to speak to Mama on the side when she yelled at Andre too much or got mad at me for day dreaming so much that I burnt the food for dinner. All that conferring with Mama got on my last nerve.

“It’s a man say he come because somebody wants some books about Jesus.” Without a word everyone turned to look at me. If it was about books then I was the one.

“Sister, you know about this?”

I nodded. Mama waited.

“I sent in a card for some books to tell me about Him.”

Mama sighed.

“Malcolm go let the man in.”

Malcolm went downstairs.

“Sister, I can’t fault you none about wanting to know about Jesus. That’s good. But you need to let me know when you do things like this.” She was shaking her head all this time because she was feed up and tired. Since Daddy died there was nothing that any of us could do to please her. Except Malcolm. She saved her smiles for when she held Little Andre –he made her happy. I nodded and sat down waiting for the man to get upstairs. Seemed like it took him a year.

When he entered the room, breathing hard, we were all surprised. Malcolm helped him climb up because the bottom half of his body was all twisted and his arms were in braces. He had a big long head with pretty curly hair and mouth full of gleaming white teeth. He wore a dark suit like he had just been to church. Andrew took his fingers out of his mouth and wiped them on the side of his pants knowing at some point he was going to have to shake hands. Little Andre just acted like the baby he was, not knowing he was about to meet the only daddy he would ever know. He hid his face in Aunt Dee-Dee’s bosom.

Mama stood up.

“I didn’t know you was.. didn’t know…”

The man had an easy smile, his lips gliding around his teeth like sweet molasses on pancakes.

“Mrs. Thomas?” He bowed his head in Mama’s direction.

“Yes sir.”

“That’s quite all right. I am used to climbing stairs in this neighborhood.”

I had never heard anyone speak quite like this man. His voice was rich, cultured.

“My name is Thaddeus Roberts. I came because Theodora sent in a card to receive our Bible stories series that tell children all about the heroes of the Bible, from the creation and Adam and Eve all the way to Jesus and his life.” He was still standing and heaving with the effort to get up the stairs. A small trickle of sweat was on his brow. I felt bad that Mama had not asked him to sit down yet. But as soon as I thought it she remembered.”

“Why don’t you have a seat Mr. Roberts. Sister, go get Mr. Roberts a nice glass of ice water” That was code for don’t use no plastic and fill it with a good amount of water and bring a paper towel too. I was careful to carry it back, taking baby steps because I was known to trip over my feet. I was twelve.

Mr. Roberts stayed for a while and talked to us and Mama bought the Books of the Bible on a payment plan and Malcolm read them through and I was mad at him for beating me again at something. He was sixteen and Andrew was nine and still a two finger sucker so that the bone showed through on his right second finger. Andrew also had pretty soft hair like Daddy used to have and was generally quiet in his ways except that when either Malcolm or I crossed him he would act crazy – yelling and screaming at the top of his lungs. Most of the time we let him be and so did Mama. I know she had to be still tired after dealing with Daddy because she let Andrew run wild, having fits when he wanted to and being a baby for too long.

Somehow Saturdays became a ritual. Mr. Roberts came over to sit and talk and take a glass of iced tea, reclining on the best sofa, braces on the floor next to the Basset table Mama got during the Blackout. She wanted a television but all she could get was the table and it was our living room centerpiece. No one could put anything on it, not even Malcolm. Mama hit him once when he put his feet up. But it was a playful hit and I wanted to yell at her because I knew better – if it had been me, just like when we played cards, my face would have been on the floor.

On the days when Mr. Roberts visited, my mother shooed us out of the living room trying to give Aunt Dee-Dee a crack at a husband. Malcolm came in from whatever he was doing to stand behind Mr. Roberts when he walked up the stairs, and then went outside until Aunt Dee-Dee stuck her head out the window. Then he would run in again and help Thaddeus down the narrow staircase. I do believe Mama would have let Mr. Roberts put his feet up on her Basset if he had been so inclined. She thought little Andre needed a daddy and her mind was fixed on Mr. Roberts – the man who bought Jesus books in our lives, struggled up the stairs in order to court my Aunt and was content with iced tea instead of the Pabst Blue Ribbon that my own daddy used to chug down like water. All I had to do was wait – I was sure Mama was going to get her way.

We had not had a card playing night since before Daddy got mugged and went blind and then died and left us alone in Brooklyn. I don’t know what was on Mama’s mind but she decided that it would be a good thing to have a night devoted to cards and that Thaddeus should join us. She called Lula Belle and Lula Belle’s husband, Gerald, Thaddeus and Aunt Dee-Dee. My job was to take care of little Andre and I was as mad as fire. Didn’t seem like there was a day I didn’t get mad.

Opening the door for Aunt Dee-Dee she gave me her apple check grin and thanked me for taking care of Andre so she could have some fun. When she said that I got over being angry about babysitting because I knew she worked hard at the nursing home feeding people. Sometimes she needed a break.

Thaddeus was right behind her but this time Dee-Dee helped him up the stairs and when they got to the top I saw him turn and smile at her with his white, white teeth. His smile made you forget that the bottom of him was as twisted as a tree trunk turned on its side, that he was not a straight man but a crooked one. Little Andre was walking but not good. He went up in front of them, taking forever to climb each step. The good thing was that he couldn’t really fall because they were right behind him. I decided to wait in the foyer. Lula Belle was on the way and it made no sense for me to run up and then run back down again.

Lula Belle was right on time and I opened the door before she pressed the buzzer. Perfume filled the air and when she hugged me, I closed my eyes and let her pour all over me. Both my mother and Dee-Dee were her friends and I worshipped her. After my Daddy died my mother decided her hands were not as steady as they used to be and she started sending me around the corner to Lula Belle’s bootleg shop in the basement of her house to get my hair done. Lula Belle told me that I didn’t need to get my hair straightened any more. All I needed was a wash and curl. Just like that the straightening comb disappeared from my life and that made me happy.

During the week Lula Belle didn’t do hair. She kept kids like Little Andre. Aunt Dee-Dee loved that Little Andre had a place like home to stay and that Lula Belle treated him like family. She made good stuff to eat -- collard greens, big slices of cornbread with real corn in it, and salad with lettuce and tomato Sometimes she even made caramel cake and let Little Andre bring some home in a brown bag for me and my brothers. That’s when Mama talked to us and said that we had to start calling Lula Belle ‘Aunt Lula’ on account of she didn’t have children but loved us because she loved Mama. I didn’t really understand it but Aunt Lula was good to me and made me smile whenever I saw her. If it made her feel good to pretend that we were some kin to her I didn’t see a problem with it. Malcolm thought different though. It wasn’t that he didn’t call her ‘Aunt,’ he just didn’t call her anything. But I can say that he was polite and he smiled at her and held the door if she needed it and if he saw her on the street with groceries he carried them home for her.

The day after I turned ten my mother took me to my first horse race at Aqueduct so that she could play the horses. Hitting the regular numbers didn’t pay as well and sometimes Mama had an itch to go gamble instead of waiting on the number’s man, Mr. Sheyanne, to come around and bring her money when she won. Waiting got on Mama’s last nerves. Besides which, she whispered one time as he walked out the door, “Gotta give him a tip every time I win. The more you win, the more tip. Downright shame.” Now generally speaking, at that point, I would’ve asked her what a ‘tip’ was but this time I shushed my mouth. I was good at figuring I’d learn about something on down the line. And, of course I did.

A tip is for service. Mr. Sheyanne took the bet, placed the bet, collected the money and brought the money to the winner, all secret like because playing the numbers can get a body locked up. So, since Mr. Sheyanne did the work, somebody had to pay him. Sometimes it was Maggie Mae, my mama, and sometimes it was someone else. But each time somebody was supposed to pay the number’s man. When I found that out, I thought Mr. Sheyanne was a pretty smart man being that he got money from almost everybody on Ashford Street where we lived. Numbers were a big deal on our block. People paid their bills with the winnings, brought school clothes in the fall and sometimes they got a Christmas miracle so their kids got presents under the tree, all behind hitting the number.

I started to pay close attention when Sheyanne came around when I found out about tips and such. Checking out his clothes got me no information. They were generally torn and dirty and the way his hands shook when he counted folding money made me want to reach out and do the counting for him, kinda like when somebody stutters. You want finish their sentences but know inside that’s rude so you let them struggle and pretend you don’t mind waiting till they get done. And you don’t really. Well, after a while you don’t anymore. But he didn’t seem no different than the other five or so men that lived on the block. He had a little apartment by himself in Miz Bettina’s basement, he was prone to drink a bit on Saturday night and wander through the block singing but that was all I could pick up from looking and listening to the adults who talked about him.

There was a mystery to Mr. Sheyanne. He didn’t look like the type of man who got tips all over the place. He was old and stinky with a belly that hung over his waistband and a big hole in the front of his mouth where a tooth should have been. Mind you, he always had a cigarette hanging from his upper lip that plugged up the hole and sometimes got stuck if he wasn’t paying attention but other than that, he didn’t look nothing like I expected a rich man to look like. Maybe he saved his money and hid it somewhere like in a mattress or under his bed? I wasn’t exactly sure but I figured again, I’d find out by and by. An answer would creep up and I’d snatch it and hold on. Nobody gets answers like me.

So on February 12, I didn’t feel like going to the racetrack but Mama did, and when Mama got a notion to do a thing it was best to go along. She said I didn’t have to go to school and that skipping school every once in a while wouldn’t hurt me because I was so smart. I knew she was lying but at nine I was hip to her ways. In my head, I saw myself zipping my lips shut. Because I am smart, just like Mama said.

One time, when we were playing cards with my Aunt Dee-Dee and my brothers, I let it slip that Mama wasn’t exactly telling the truth about the cards she was holding. Well really, I out and out said she was lying. She was sitting right next to me and without even a warning, her hand snaked out and smacked me, right in the kisser. I almost peed myself. Everyone was quiet while I picked up my cards from the floor.

I didn’t know what to do so I dealt the cards out again. All the while tears stood in my eyes and I wanted somebody to rub my cheek or say something but nobody looked at me. Mama had corrected me for calling her a liar, only I hadn’t really called her that. I got carried away by the fun we were having and forgot that I wasn’t supposed to say certain things. I wished hard that she would forget that it was her job to correct me, especially in front of people. But that wasn’t possible. My mama always knew what she had to do with me and with my brothers. Raising us right, she said, was her number one job.

Everyone in the room had to pretend that nothing happened and keep on playing. I didn’t want another smack and Aunt Dee-Dee wanted to be polite. So we played until it was time to stop and I got over being hurt and embarrassed since I had to sit there for so long afterwards. My heart only pinched when Mama looked in my direction. Then the tears would feel like they wanted to come but I’d bite my lower lip hard, almost until it felt like blood, then I wouldn’t want to cry anymore.

I was proud of myself for being so tough and mad at Mama for the way she took everything so seriously. But I did learn a good lesson that night. I stopped thinking of Mama as somebody I could play around with even when she played with us. I learned to be quiet until I was able to know her mood. That one smack saved me getting a whole lot more and from then on I was a quiet child. That’s why I say I’m smart. I know when to keep it buttoned up. Not a lot of kids my age know that.

I started to practice stuff like looking Mama dead in the face, saying “yes m’am” and “no m’am” with my lips and cussing her like a sailor in my head when she got on my nerves. I was excited when I finally understood that she could not read my mind and that I could call her anything in my head. But I didn’t do it often. It made me feel bad inside if I did it too much. I saved it for those special occasions like when she called me from the front room to get her a glass of water when she was two feet away from the kitchen sink. Or to come change the television when she did not feel like getting up and turning the knob. It burned me inside that she would laugh sometimes and say “That’s what kids are for, to serve their parents.” But it just had to burn because there was nothing for it.

We rode the subway to the horse track. It was cold, even for February, and I remember wearing my fake blue fur coat with white mittens and a white wool cap. Mama fussed about the wool cap because, she said, wool breaks your hair off. But it was the only one I had. She pulled the collar of my fur coat up to the point where my ears were covered, reached in the back of her closet for a raggedy scarf, and wound it around the bottom half of my face. When she finished dressing me, she pulled on her knee high black boots, her overcoat and a hat. We headed into the wind, walking the six blocks to the A train on Shepherd Avenue.