For love of Imabelle

6

When Jackson woke up he found himself lying on the couch covered with the two dirty blankets. His joints were stiff as rigor mortis and his head ached like a jack hammer was drilling in his skull. The dim light burnt his eyes like pepper and his mouth was cotton-dry.

He twisted his neck as carefully as though it were made of glass. He saw Goldy sitting at the table in his sloppy black gown but minus his bonnet and wig. A covered pot sat before him on the table. Beside it were a loaf of sliced white bread in oiled-paper wrapping and a bottle half full of whiskey.

The air was blue with smoke and thick with kerosene fumes. The room was cold.

Goldy sat dreamily blowing on the gold cross he wore about his neck and shining it with a handkerchief gray from dirt.

Jackson threw off the blankets, staggered to his feet, grabbed Goldy’s fat greasy neck between his two black hands, and began to squeeze. Sweat beaded on his black face like pox pimples. His eyes had turned fire-red and looked stark crazy.

Goldy’s eyes popped and his face turned rusty gray. He dropped the cross, grabbed Jackson back of the neck with both hands, jerked down with all his strength, and butted heads with him. The momentum tipped his chair over backward and he went down on his back with Jackson on top of him, both knocked groggy by the butting. The bottle of whiskey fell to the floor without breaking, and rolled beneath the couch.

The blankets had sailed over the kerosene stove and were beginning to sizzle with the smell of burning wool and cotton.

The brothers threshed about the floor, grunting like two hungry cannibals fighting over the missing rib. Finally Goldy got his foot in Jackson’s belly and gave a shove, separating them.

“What’s the matter with you, man,” he panted. “You done blown your top?”

“You doped me!” Jackson wheezed.

The blankets draped over the stove began to burn.

“Now look what you done,” Goldy said, trying to free his left foot from the folds of his gown so he could get up.

Jackson clutched the edge of the table, knocking off the loaf of bread while clambering to his feet, then stepped on it as he lunged for the burning blankets. He snatched up the blankets to throw them outside, but the door was padlocked on the inside.

“Open the door,” he coughed.

The room was black dark with smoke.

“You done made me lose the key,” Goldy accused, scrabbling about the floor on his hands and knees looking for it.

“Goddammit, help me find the key,” he shouted angrily.

Jackson threw the blankets to the floor, and began crawling about helping Goldy search for the key.

“What do you lock the door for all the time?” he complained.

“Here it is,” Goldy said.

Getting to his feet to unlock the door he stepped on the bread also.

Jackson kicked the blankets into the hallway.

“You’re going to be found dead locked up in here someday,” he said.

“You ain’t got the brains you were born with,” Goldy said, pushing Jackson aside to get through to the store for water to throw onto the smoking blankets.

Afterwards he tore up a carton and gave Jackson a piece of cardboard to help fan the smoke from the room, bellyaching the while, “Here I is, putting myself out to help you just because you is my brother, and there you is, trying to kill me first thing.”

“How are you trying to help me,” Jackson grumbled while he fanned the smoke. “I come to you for help and you give me a mickey finn.”

“Aw, man, eat your dinner and shet up.”

Jackson picked up the squashed loaf of bread and straightened it out, then sat at the table and lifted the lid of the pot. It was half-filled with boiled pig’s feet, black-eyed peas and rice.

“Ain’t nothin’ but hoppin’ john,” Goldy said.

“I like hoppin’ john, all right,” Jackson replied.

Goldy closed the door and padlocked it again. Jackson gave him a disapproving look. Goldy found the bottle of whiskey beneath the couch and poured Jackson a slug. Jackson looked at it suspiciously. Goldy gave him an evil look.

“You wouldn’t even trust our mama, would you?” he said, taking a swallow to show it wasn’t doped.

Jackson took a drink and grimaced.

“Do you make this stuff yourself?”

“Man, quit beefing. You ain’t givin’ me no money to buy you no good whiskey, so drink that and shet up.”

Jackson began to eat with an aggrieved expression. Goldy cooked a C and M speedball and banged himself with quiet savor.

“I called your landlady,” he said finally. “Imabelle ain’t come back.”

Jackson stopped eating in the middle of a chew. “I got to go out and find her.”

“Naw, you ain’t, unless you want to get arrested by the first cop you run into. Your boss has got a warrant out for you.”

Sweat started forming on Jackson’s face. “That don’t make no difference. She might be in trouble.”

“She ain’t in no trouble. You the one what’s in trouble.”

Jackson dropped a polished foot-bone atop the pile on the table, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked at Goldy with the deadly indignation of a puritan.

“Listen, if you think I’m going to set here after being cheated out of my money and kidnapped out of my woman, you got another think coming. She’s my woman. I’m going to look for her too.”

“Take a drink and relax. You can’t find her tonight. Let’s give this business a little thought.”

He poured Jackson another drink. Jackson looked at it with distaste then downed it with a gulp and gasped.

“What kind of thought?”

“That’s what I want to know. Just what kind of things has your woman got in that trunk besides clothes?”

Jackson blinked. The food and the whiskey and the close air in the small tight room were making him sleepy.

“Heirlooms.”

“Come again.”

Jackson’s thoughts were growing fuzzy and he suspected Goldy of trying to trick him.

“Copper pots and pans and bowls,” he shouted angrily. “Stuff that was given to her when she got married.”

“Copper pots! Pans and bowls!” Goldy looked at him incredulously. “You want me to believe that her and that slim man has gone off somewhere to cook?”

Jackson was so sleepy he could barely keep his eyes open.

“Just leave her trunk alone,” he mumbled belligerently. “If you want to help, just help me find her, and leave her things alone.”

“That’s all I’m tryin’ to do, Bruzz,” Goldy protested. “Just tryin’ to help you find your gal-friend. But I don’t know yet what I’m looking for.”

Jackson was too sleepy to reply. He stretched out on the couch and went to sleep instantly.

“The stuff was too strong,” Goldy muttered to himself.