Bailey's Cafe Page 2

  It’s not gonna happen now. The best I can see for baseball is the same old way. The Rickeys of the world calling the shots because a hundred Jackie Robinsons isn’t gonna really integrate baseball and baseball is not going to help integrate America. Having Jackie Robinson out there with Pee Wee Reese is the same as having my mother and Mrs. Van Morrison’s maid trading gossip in the back kitchen. We all ate together—Marie, her brother, and Bella—but that wasn’t bringing about no real change because Mrs. Van Morrison’s neighbors wouldn’t dream of eating with her, while Mr. Van Morrison wasn’t about to sit in anybody’s boardroom. And until that happens, real power getting shared at the top, nothing but a game of smoke and mirrors is going on at the bottom.

  I know my position about that Second Coming out at Ebbets Field doesn’t sit well with most people, but I call. ’em as I see ’em. And if you’ve got a problem with how I feel, well, there are other cafes. It’s never been my ambition to win a popularity contest. If it had been, I wouldn’t have married a woman even I have a hard time liking. (I told you I’d be getting to you, darling.) But liking Nadine has nothing to do with the fact that these have been twelve wonderful years.

  We’re the right kind of fit, me and my woman. I can talk a blue streak and I believe that she hasn’t strung more than six sentences together in her whole life. Nadine doesn’t have to go on and on about anything. She times what she has to say and makes those one or two words count. I’d get plenty of care packages while I was overseas, but short short letters. Some of the guys got mail from their girlfriends and wives that it would take ’em a whole hour to read, telling them everything Aunt Tessie, Aunt Muriel, Cousin Joe was saying, describing how the snow looked outside the window, what the dog was doing—that kind of stuff—along with the usual how-much-I-miss-and-love-you’s. And even those women who weren’t too flowery with the words would fill up the page with x’s and hearts. I dreaded mail call cause it meant I was going to get ribbed. Deenie doesn’t waste words and so she wasn’t gonna waste paper. My letters came in these little thumbnail envelopes that weren’t much bigger than the stamp. How the guys would laugh. But like I said, she has perfect timing. And going into the third year of my stint in the navy, when I didn’t think none of us were gonna survive now that we were winning the war against the Japanese, and my nerves were wound so tight I feared popping loose like a lot of good men around me, I got this one-line letter: If you don’t make it home, I’m marrying the butcher. Love, Nadine.

  I knew she wasn’t kidding. My wife doesn’t kid. There was no way to imagine her smiling as she wrote that letter, because Deenie rarely smiles. It was one of the hardest things I had to get used to when I first met her. She looked like an African goddess, plunked right down on the third row of bleachers at a Brooklyn Eagles game. A full, round face holding an even rounder set of eyes, all of it as dark as that gorgeous unruly hair. She had it in one thick crown of braids that circled her head. When my eyes moved down, the scenery got even better: one of those gazelle necks, a compact chest, an invisible waist, and then what can only be described as a Bantu butt. I can’t remember anything about her legs or the turn of her ankles; my journey ended at that butt. Only a fool keeps on traveling when the road’s brought him to paradise.

  I did a lot of dreaming between the fifth and sixth innings. You do a lot of dreaming when a face and body like that is sharing the same plank of wood only ten feet to your right. Luck was with me and the Eagles were in fine form, sending them long and deep into left field, giving me plenty of reason to turn my head in her direction and reassure myself that no, I wasn’t imagining it, those lips do look like that, those eyes do look like that, and yes, the butt was still there. I did think it peculiar she was watching the game so quietly. I took it that she must be a Grays fan and it was certainly one of those days they must have wished they’d kept themselves in Pittsburgh. But even when they threatened to make a small rally at the top of the seventh with two men on and Josh Gibson, of all people, up to bat, she wasn’t smiling and cheering like the other Grays fans. Little for them to be happy about later: two ground fouls and a foul tip meant even the mighty Gibson could be put out.

  That game was doomed to be over at the top of the ninth and I was wracking my brains over how I was going to meet this strange girl without appearing to be a masher. I’d already made sure there was no wedding ring, and surprisingly she must have come to the ballpark alone. A kid no more than thirteen was on her right and the fella in the plaid suit on her left was pushing seventy. And if it turned out she did happen to be into geriatric papas, I wouldn’t have no problems beating him up. And I was even willing to tie one hand behind my back to make it a fair fight. But Mr. Plaid Suit went on about his business and I was left to follow her at a distance as the crowd made its way out of the park.

  Tall as she was, with the pink ribbons in her straw hat and the wind fluttering the pink swiss dots in that voile dress, she was easy to follow. I had to hold myself back from grabbing each fella by the scruff of the neck who had the nerve to turn his head and watch her as she passed. One jerk almost walked right into a pole and I couldn’t resist a snide Good for you, even though he was no more guilty than me of absolute awe over the motions of that unbelievable rear end. No idea that kept popping into my head for introducing myself would work if this was a nice girl. Nice girls who looked like that had heard it all before and weren’t about to take the bait from some strange man. And how I wanted her to be a nice girl—because I had made up my mind to follow those swiss dots out of the ballpark, onto the elevated train over the East River, and even up into the Bronx if need be. And when you’re from Brooklyn, that’s the same thing as committing yourself to the ends of the earth.

  She stopped at a peddler’s to buy a raspberry ice. I hate ices; they break me out in hives, which has little to do with the fact that I stopped and bought one too. Only three feet away now; my hands were shaking and my heart was pounding so fast I couldn’t hear the traffic on the street. And something told me then, in that way you just know things, that if I didn’t make my move at that very moment I would lose her. I cursed myself for all the naps I’d taken during elocution classes. Mrs. Fitzpatrick had warned me I would rue the day when I sneered at learning to round my vowels properly. I could have been standing there right now, putting her under my spell, as I talked about the wonders of raspberry ice, delving into the origin of raspberries; the origin of ice in general; the origin of summer, which made the need for ices all so possible and her obvious delight in them all so understandable. Nothing directed at her specific person more closely than that, not even turning my head her way—it would label me a masher—but just standing there, you know, elocuting out into the air, would be enough to get her attention, dammit.

  My throat was so clogged up I wouldn’t have made it through all of that anyway, and she was about to walk off from the peddler’s cart. One run behind at the bottom of the ninth, so you make an all-or-nothing play for the home team. When this girl walked out of my life, what on earth was I going to do with this melting raspberry ice? Since I knew the answer was Absolutely nothing, I dumped it right down her back. She spun around and called me a clumsy fool. I smiled broadly and agreed with her. Then she smacked me in the head with her straw purse. The courtship was on.

  My first big letdown came when I found that she didn’t care much for the movies. I really didn’t either, but I kept looking for ways to get her alone in the dark. And I’m a little ashamed to say that after discovering she was, indeed, a very nice girl it became exciting to try and make myself her one exception. I think that’s why it took me weeks to realize that Nadine wasn’t much of a talker. All of my conversations had one slant, which only required a firm no from her. And even after I’d given up and moved on to other subjects, the sound of my own voice was so pleasing to me I only needed one or two sentences from her to let me catch my breath before I started off again. But the problem was that when I came to the real amusing parts of my life’s story, she did
n’t laugh. And I can remember pausing—to let her laugh. I remember the pauses getting longer and longer—to drop her a subtle hint or two. And longer and longer, until I worried that she might be retarded.

  —You don’t laugh much, I finally ventured.

  —I laugh all the time, she said.

  But she was just being mean, because she didn’t. And I knew it wasn’t me; I’m a very captivating fella. And besides, what about all those times at Coney Island?

  We practically lived at Steeplechase Park. Nadine was from the Sea Islands and she’d always agree to see me if I offered to take her out by any kind of water. One of the nice things about Brooklyn in those days was that I had a lot to choose from. When my money was tight we’d promenade across the Brooklyn Bridge, pretzels for me, a fruit ice for her. And if I was flush, Sunday suppers at the old Iron Pier on Brighton Beach. Coney Island was the best cause there was always something to do there if you had a little or a lot. And Nadine didn’t much care as long as she could smell or glimpse the water. Seeing how she grew up on an island, it was odd she didn’t know how to swim, and I’d have the hardest time just getting her to wade near the edge of the beach. She’d spend hours on the boardwalk, though, and that’s how I learned she rarely laughed at anything—it wasn’t me.

  Steeplechase Park had a bit of amusement for just about everyone’s taste—except Nadine’s. Did she want a fast and furious ride? we could get on the steeplechase horses; she wanted slow? we could get on the carousel. She wanted high and exciting? the roller coaster; high and soothing? the Ferris wheel. The human pool table and two-headed baby for the bizarre, the strolling minstrels for the ordinary. If she liked dark, loud, and scary, there was the Fun House. If she wanted dark, quiet, and romantic, there was the Tunnel of Love; but I already knew not to bother wasting a ticket with this stone-faced girl on that one. Why on earth did she always agree to come when nothing about it pleased her?

  —I don’t know what you’re talking about. I enjoy myself every time we’re here.

  —Nadine, you haven’t smiled all afternoon.

  —But what does that have to do with being pleased?

  At home I had a whole notepad filled with columns of female names, and at least two of them were still speaking to me. I didn’t need to be spending my time with this nut case. Unrequited lust can only carry you so far. What does that have to do with being pleased? Just that it’s something everyone in the whole universe understands—like slitting your throat with a knife. Go to Upper Borneo and smile; they’ll say, He’s happy. Go there and slit your throat; they’ll say, He’s dead. It is basic. It is simple. And I was out $2.15 while this dimwit wouldn’t even ride the bumper cars with me because it was too tight a fit. But Nadine was still leaning against the boardwalk railing—on her third cherry ice—patiently waiting for me to answer. Like I was the dimwit.

  —I’m more than my body, she finally said.

  Now there was a piece of wisdom. She certainly was. She was also that vast empty prairie between her ears. I had been more considerate to this girl than to a dozen of the others rolled up together and had gotten no appreciation. No effort on her part. Wronged and wounded, that was me. Misused. Abused (yeah, I could feel the blues coming on). And with me definitely the offended party in all of this, why was I also feeling just a tiny bit guilty?

  —Nadine, I am deeply hurt by what you’re implying. I have only thought of you as a lady. And I have never, never had anything but the most honorable intentions in mind.

  —Good, she said. Then I accept.

  —You accept what?

  A man palsied with fear is an awful sight. The sea breezes were chilling the circles of sweat spreading under the armpits of my shirt. My mind went totally blank except for the message my throbbing temples sent racing across it: Please, God, oh, God, no, God, please. I didn’t mean what she thought I meant and if she means what I think she means, I need a way to find out if that’s what’s really happened, and if that’s what’s really happened, then I’ll have to fight my way out of it, yes, there must be some way I can get out of it; but these next few minutes are going to be the worst of my life (I had yet to meet the Japanese) and what’s the most that she could do, huh? what’s the most? hit me? she’s done that before; call me a slimy double-dealer? well, let her say it; cry and wail? well, let her cry; the cops’ll come by, I’ll get arrested, but then I’m only sentenced to thirty days.

  I summoned up the courage to stare her down. I was going to the slammer like a man. I saw the same set face. The same quiet attention to her cherry ice. But looking deep into her eyes, I saw that she was laughing. Down at the bottom of those dark orbs, she was bent over double and howling. She laughed and laughed and laughed.

  —I’ve never seen a man more scared.

  To put it mildly, I was crushed. And, taking pity on me, she tried her best to stop. Calmly finishing her ice, she disposed of the paper cone in the trash. I saw that a giggle would burst through from the bottom of her eyes every now and then, but she was getting herself under control. As angry as I was with her, I knew she’d only gotten even.

  —Let’s do the Helter-Skelter now, she said.

  She held out her hand to me. I took it. And to this day, I’ve never let it go.

  Sure, she taught me a lesson, and a whole different way of looking at her—and women—which doesn’t negate the fact that my wife is still a little strange. While most of what happens in life is below the surface, other people do come up for air and translate their feelings for the general population now and then. Nadine doesn’t bother. You figure her out or leave her alone. Falling in love with her, there was no question that she was going to be a part of my life, but if I could have gotten a handle on her at times I’d probably have liked her more. I knew why I finally married her; I just didn’t know why she married me.

  I wasn’t what you’d call promising material. My job as an indoor aviator at the St. George Hotel was about what Miss Fitzpatrick had predicted for me: We are on the verge of unimaginable changes in this country. There are several men in your race who will rise to the top. You won’t be one of them. My elevator only ran between the lobby and tenth floor. The penthouse elevator was in the rear, and true to her words, I didn’t stay long enough to be promoted to that. After marrying Nadine, I quit to become a Fuller Brush man. I bought into all of their flimflam about early retirement and Cadillac sedans because I knew I could talk to anyone about anything. And a little common sense meant that you started with the dirtiest house on the block and you’re sure of a sale to build on when you got to the next house. Nadine had told me that it would be smarter to work it the other way around. But who was listening to her? She was too mean to even buy from me when I was practicing my sales pitch.

  War broke out in Europe and saved us both from starvation. It’s odd how events can be going on three, four thousand miles from you, deciding your fate on the very ground you stand on, but the dominoes taking as long as they do to reach home, you never make the connection. I can vaguely remember reading in the early part of ’36 that German troops had reclaimed some of their land on the west bank of the Rhine. Like most people, I scanned the headlines before going on to the sports page. And since I always picked up the afternoon paper to read while I took a bite of lunch between rounds with my suitcase and brushes, I’m sure I glanced right over the news that six years later I was being called up to ship out from Camp Smalls and head to the Pacific.

  Nobody missed the meaning of Pearl Harbor. Those headlines were three inches tall and they yelled that the dominoes had finally come home. I was proud to be assigned to the messmen’s branch because the talk at Camp Smalls was all about Dorie Miller, another messman, third class, on the USS Arizona, who had carried his captain and other wounded men to safety before manning a machine gun and shooting down six enemy planes at Pearl Harbor. The navy gave him credit for four planes. The newspapers gave him credit for nothing. No surprise to me. I had already learned from baseball who does and doesn’t ex
ist when it comes to my country needing heroes. Dorie Miller was the Satchel Paige of the war in the Pacific. But we all knew his name, which is what really counted, since we were the ones who were being sent over there to face those same maniacs.

  We weren’t getting into Tokyo

  I told Nadine I didn’t know when I would be back. But I told her I would miss her dearly, think of her every moment, and carry her picture next to my heart. She told me nothing. I promised I would write every chance I got. I promised that my wedding vows would remain as sacred as the day I made them. No shore leave. No women. No wine. No song. She called me a liar—and a pretty lousy poet. Then I stopped all that crap and told her the truth: I knew this would be the most exciting thing to ever happen in my life. And that was when she finally told me that she loved me.

  We weren’t getting into Tokyo

  —Who you gonna kill?

  —We’re gonna kill Japs!

  —Louder

  —Japs! Japs!

  —Louder

  —Japs! Japs!

  —Who you gonna fuck?

  —We’re gonna fuck Japs!

  —Louder

  The first thing you learn in basic training is to march in time. It makes no difference if you’re headed for the cockpit of a plane or the cramped engine room of a cruiser. Navy doctors. Navy dentists. Painters. Metal-smiths. Warrant officers assigned to intelligence, who would spend the war at the Navy Department in their dress whites, learned to march in time. Though there wasn’t anybody at Camp Smalls slated for those jobs when I was called up. I marched beside many Fisk and Howard men and a few Yalies too, but they were going to be regular seamen or steward’s mates just like me. Those types mostly hung together and I didn’t like ’em cause they beefed too much. They came in acting like Jim Crow was something new, like they got drafted from Mars somewhere. They had been living with segregation, and so how did they figure the navy expected them to die without it?