What you want, Albert?
Was Samuels distressed? Was he depressed?
The laugh that issued from Socrates' deep chest was hard earned. You the one said he was livin' with a woman hated him. What do you think?
But you said you didn't know about his wife, Biggers argued uselessly.
You ever hate anybody, officer?
I asked you a question, Mr. Fortlow.
'Cause you see Lydell hated somebody. He hated a man and he killed him. He couldn't help himself. And if you put that man in front'a him today he'd kill him again. All he wanted was to wipe that man from his mind. That's what he talked about.
So he killed himself because he couldn't kill his wife's boyfriend again? Biggers asked.
I don't have no idea, man. I wasn't in his head. We just got drunk together.
So he didn't give you any indication that he intended suicide?
There weren't no play in Lydell, officer. No play at all.
What is that supposed to mean? the policeman wanted to know.
It means what it means, man.
Socrates turned on his radio that night. There was jazz playing on the university station. Fats Waller. The image of a smiling fat black man came up in Socrates' mind. He was laughing and playing those ivories. He was cooing and wooing. Socrates knew that there must have been tears behind all of those funny lines. And then the announcer said,
Waller suffered a diabetic attack on tour and the all-white hospital turned him away. He died from the disease of racism and he left us his legacy like the smile an undertaker draws on his corpse.
Socrates wondered who he could blame for Lydell's death. He wondered that until he drifted off to sleep.
a day in the park
S
ocrates got to the front stairs of the house on Marvane Street at six fifteen that Sunday morning. The block was lined with a few large homes left over from the more prosperous days of South Central L.A. Most had been subdivided into rooms for let or knocked down and replaced by large stucco apartment buildings. There was the big brick house a few lots down, the one that the radical college students called the New Africans once occupied. It was vacant. The young college radicals had splintered into two smaller organizations, Socrates had heard, neither of which could afford the rent.
The police surveillance house across the street was empty now too. Without potential revolutionaries to spy on the police saw no reason to maintain their presence on the block.
The only industries left were Luvia's private retirement home and the crack house down toward the end of the block. Even at that hour there was a fat man in a cheap suit who had driven by for a quick blow job in the deep lawn. Socrates couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman down on one knee before the fat man.
Socrates was remembering the days when he and Right Burke sat out on the front porch of Luvia's and watched the cops sneak in and out of their nest. Right Burke had been Socrates' best friend but now he was dead.
It had been almost a year. Socrates wasn't invited to the service. Right's sister had come down from Richmond in the Bay Area and organized the funeral with Luvia Prine. The women had blamed Socrates for Right's death. They were angry because Right had gone out with Socrates one night and the next morning he was found at a bus stop, dead from an overdose of morphine complicated by a large quantity of alcohol.
He didn't blame them but still he'd gotten himself up and out of bed at five in the morning to come down to Luvia's retirement home.
She the onliest person I ever met who might be able to stare you down, Socco,
Burke had once said to his friend.
You know she ain't afraid of nuthin' but Jesus and I do believe that even he would say yes ma'am to her.
Socrates remembered the suicide of his friend with no guilt or even remorse. He was dying to begin with. All those pills he took did what they were supposed to dothey stopped the pain.
Three young girls walked past the big man, looking frightened and beautiful in calf length pastel dresses that set off their dark skins like three flames. The smallest child, who must have been about ten, smiled at Socrates and waved as they walked past.
They got to walk through hell, he thought, just to get to Sunday school.
When the girls got past Socrates they began to run, giggling and laughing as they went. They looked back over their shoulders at Socrates and screamed as if he were a monster.
A car door slammed. The fat man had finished his business. He turned over the engine on his old Buick and cruised past Luvia's home looking straight ahead.
Socrates Fortlow, what you doin' at my door? She was at least five eight but weighed no more than a hundred pounds fully dressed. Luvia Prine had the stare of a heavyweight though.
Miss Prine, Socrates said as a greeting.
Well? She held a bunch of freshly picked dahlias.
I heard that somebody picks you up here at six forty-five an' takes you to Right's grave on the first Sunday of every month. Topper Saint-Paul told me he heard that.
The flesh around Luvia's watery eyes hardened into two tight squares. What I do and where I go and who I go with ain't got nuthin' to do with you.
An' Right told me that you were a Christian woman. Socrates fought to keep the humor he felt out of his voice. He enjoyed the vehemence of Luvia's hatred. He
was
a bad man. He had done awful things. And even if Luvia didn't know exactly what crimes he had committed, she could feel that he had done something. That intimacy, even though it was shown in distaste, made Socrates feel kinship toward the hard, churchgoing woman.
And what do you mean by that?
I mean that a Christian woman, on a Sunday too, would not keep a man from paying his respects to his dead friend, Socrates said.
I ain't keepin' you from nuthin', Luvia said angrily.
You didn't let me come to my friend's funeral. You didn't even let me know where I could send no flowers or even a card to say I was sorry and sad.
You don't deserve to be invited with decent folk, Socrates. It's your fault he's dead. He was alive when he left wit' you and then the police called to say that they found him cold on a bus stop bench. And where were you? You don't deserve to stand at his grave. You ain't earned a place to pray.
Socrates could tell by the waver in Luvia's voice that she felt deeply about his crime. He almost lost heart then and turned away, allowing her her victory over Satan.
Almost.
You see? he said instead of leaving. What kind of real Christian woman would put herself in the place to make a judgment on a man's soul? It's a blasphemy for somebody to say that another man is unworthy in God's eyes. But here you go sayin' that I cain't pay my respects to my friend. Here you go actin' like the Lord give you the power to judge.
The squares screwed themselves down to pinpoints. Luvia actually shook in her loose Sunday dress suit. Her fist grasped so tightly on the bunch of hand-picked flowers that he heard the stems cracking.
You tell me that I killed Right but the truth is I saved him, Socrates added.
Saved him!
That's right. You had him up in that room moanin' from all the pain that that cancer could make. Your doctor couldn't get him the kinda medicine he needed to kill the pain. All you could do was leave him upstairs to wither and die. No dignity, no manhood. Just four walls and a Bible on his nightstand. You ain't never asked me about what happened, Luvia. You think you know but you wasn't there. You didn't see him in his final suit tellin' stories and laughin' about the short skirts some'a these girls wear out in the street. You didn't hear him say good-bye to Charla and then tell me t'leave him on the bench. He said that he wanted to stay and watch the lights, Luvia. What business did I have to tell him no?