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THE MAN

IN MY BASEMENT

a n ove l

Walter Mosley

S 27

little, brown and company

B o s t o n • Ne w Yo rk • L o n d o n R 28

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Copyright © 2004 by Walter Mosley All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Little, Brown and Company

Time Warner Book Group

1271 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-7595-0860-7

First eBook Edition: January 2004

Book design by Guenet Abraham ManInMyBasemnt_HCtext3P.qxd 10/24/03 8:16 PM Page v For the man of the world, Harry Belafonte 1

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PART ONE

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“Mr. Blakey?” the small white man asked.

C 14

I had answered the door expecting big Clarance May-15

hew and his cousin Ricky. The three of us had a standing 16

date to play cards on Thursday nights. I was surprised even 17

to hear the doorbell because it was too early for my friends 18

to have made it home from work and neither one of them 19

would have rung the bell anyway. We’d been friends since 20

childhood, since my grandparents owned the house.

“My house is your house,” I always said to Clarance 22

and Ricky. I never locked the door because we lived in a 23

secluded colored neighborhood way back from the high-24

way. Everybody knows everybody in my neighborhood, 25

so strangers don’t go unnoticed. If somebody stole some-26

thing from me, I’d have known who it was, what kind of S 27

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car he drove, and the numbers on his license plate before 2

he was halfway to Southampton.

“Yes,” I said to the small, bald-headed white man in the 4

dark-green suit. “I’m Blakey.”

“You have a stand-up basement, Mr. Blakey,” the white 6

man told me.

“Say what?”

“Teddy Odett down at Odett Realty said that you had 9

a basement where a man could stand fully erect, one that 10

has electricity and running water.”

“This house isn’t for sale, mister.”

“Bennet. Anniston Bennet. I’m from Greenwich, Con-13

necticut.”

“Well this house isn’t for sale, Mr. Bennet.” I thought 15

the small man would hunch his shoulders, or maybe give 16

me a mean frown if he was used to getting his way. Either 17

way I expected him to leave.

“Oh yes,” he said instead. “I know that. Your family has 19

owned this beautiful home for seven generations or more.

Mr. Odett told me that. I know it isn’t for sale. I’m inter-21

ested in renting.”

“Renting? Like an apartment?”

The man made a face that might have been a smile, or 24

an apology. He let his head loll over his right shoulder 25

and blinked while showing his teeth for a moment.

“Well, not exactly,” he said. “I mean yes but not in the 27 S

conventional way.”

28 R

His body moved restlessly but his feet stayed planted as 4

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The Man in My Basement

if he were a child who was just learning how to speak to 1

adults.

“Well it’s not for rent. It’s just an old basement. More 3

spiders down there than dust and there’s plenty’a dust.”

Mr. Bennet’s discomfort increased with my refusal. His 5

small hands clenched as if he were holding on to a railing 6

against high winds.

I didn’t care. That white man was a fool. We didn’t take 8

in white boarders in my part of the Sag Harbor. I was try-9

ing to understand why the real-estate agent Teddy Odett 10

would even refer a white man to my neighborhood.

“I want to rent your basement for a couple of months 12

this summer, Mr. Blakey.”

“I just told you —”

“I can make it very much worth your while.”

It was his tone that cut me off. Suddenly he was one of 16

those no-nonsense-white-men-in-charge. What he seemed 17

to be saying was “I know something that you had better 18

listen to, fool. Here you think you know what’s going on 19

when really you don’t have a clue.”

I knew that there were white people in the Hamptons 21

that rented their homes for four and five thousand dollars 22

a month over the summer. I owned a home like that. It 23

was three stories high and about two hundred years old. It 24

was in excellent shape too. My father had worked at keep-25

ing it up to code, as he’d say, for most of his life.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bennet,” I said again.

S 27

“I’m willing to pay quite a bit for what I want, Mr.

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Blakey,” the white man said, no longer fidgeting or wag-2

ging his head. He was looking straight at me with eyes as 3

blue as you please.

“No,” I said, a little more certain.

“Maybe this is a bad time. Will you call me when 6

you’ve had a chance to think about it? Maybe discuss it 7

with your wife?” He handed me a small white business 8

card as he spoke.

“No wife, no roommate, Mr. Bennet. I live alone and I 10

like it like that.”

“Sometimes,” he said and then hesitated, “sometimes 12

an opportunity can show up just at the right moment.

Sometimes that opportunity might be looking you in the 14

face and you don’t quite recognize it.”

It was almost as if he were threatening me. But he was 16

mild and unassuming. Maybe it was a sales technique he 17

was working out — that’s what I thought at the time.

“Can I call you later to see if you’ve changed your 19

mind?” he asked.

“You can call all you want,” I said, regretting the words 21

as they came out of my mouth. “But I’m not renting any-22

thing to anybody.”

“Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Blakey.” The 24

white man smiled and shook my hand just as if I had said 25

yes to him. “That’s my office number in Manhattan on 26

the card. I’d give you my home phone, but I work more 27 S

than anything else. I hope I’ll be hearing from you. If not 28 R

I will certainly call again.”

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Before I could say anything else, the little man turned 1

away and walked down to a Volkswagen, the new Bug, 2

parked at the curb. It was a turquoise car that reminded 3

me of an iridescent seven-year beetle.

He made a U-turn and sped away.

Across the street Irene Littleneck was watching from 6

her porch.

“Everything okay, Mr. Blakey?” she called.

“Just a salesman, Miss Littleneck.”

“What’s he sellin’?”

“I didn’t even get to that,” I lied. “You don’t buy if 11

you’re unemployed.”

Irene Littleneck, eighty years old and black as tar, 13

flashed her eyes at me. All the way across the road those 14

yellow eyes called me a liar. So I turned my back on them 15

and went into the house.

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14 C

“So you gonna call ’im?” Clarance Mayhew asked me.

“No.”

“Why not?” asked Ricky, who was no bigger than one 17

of Clarance’s fat legs.

“I don’t have an apartment down there, man. I mean 19

there’s junk been down there since my mother’s mother’s 20

mother was a child.”

“You could clean it out,” Clarance said. His face was 22

chubby and pear shaped. Underneath his chin was a crop 23

of curly hair about an inch thick. Hair wouldn’t grow on 24

his cheeks. That’s why the tan-colored man always looked 25

about ten years under his actual age. “I mean you ain’t got 26

no job so you ain’t got no money. You could clean up 27 S

down there and make yourself somethin’ to pay that damn 28 R

mortgage you took out.”

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The Man in My Basement

“You want a drink?” I replied.

“Hey.” That was Ricky’s way of saying yes. He was 2

darker than his cousin but not nearly my color. When my 3

uncle Brent used to see us coming, he’d say, “If it ain’t the 4

three shit-colored patches on a tatty brown quilt.”

I pulled a bottle of Seagram’s from beside the wood 6

chest where we played cards. I took a drink from the bot-7

tle and then passed it to Ricky. We never used glasses un-8

less Leonard Butts or Timmy Lee came over to play with 9

us. Clarance, Ricky, and I had drunk from the same bot-10

tle since we were babies in the crib.

We were playing blackjack for pennies and I was up 14

$1.25. That meant I had $15.76 left to my name. One 15

more bottle of whiskey and I’d be flat out of money.

“Lemme see some cards,” Clarance hissed off the back 17

end of a deep draught of whiskey.

He threw down his three — a heart queen, a deuce, 19

and a trey. Ricky slapped his cards facedown and took the 20

bottle back. I showed two spades, a ten, and an ace.

“Shit,” said Clarance. “You got all the luck tonight.”

I raked in thirty-seven pennies, thinking about luck 23

and waiting for the bottle.

My aunt Peaches would lend me the money to cover 25

the monthly mortgage payment to the bank. I’d bor-26

rowed on the house and Peaches wouldn’t let the property S 27

slip out of family hands. But if I had to go to her, she’d R 28

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give me all kinds of grief about how I should get a job and 2

how disappointed my father would have been to see me 3

falling apart like I was.

I took another draught from the bottle. It felt nice.

Good whiskey smoothes out after the third sip. Clears the 6

fuzz from behind your eyeballs and relaxes the spine. I’ve 7

always liked to drink. So did Clarance and Ricky, who we 8

sometimes called Cat.

“Wilson Ryder needs a man to help on those new 10

houses he’s putting up,” Ricky said.

“Yeah?” I took another drink and realized that I was 12

hoarding the liquor, so I passed it on to Clarance.

“Yeah,” Ricky said. “He’ll be down there tomorrow.

You should go ask ’im.”

“Yeah, maybe I will. Maybe so.”

“Maybe?” Clarance was shuffling the cards over and 17

over again, the way he always did when he was getting 18

high. “Maybe? Man, what you thinkin’? Like you some 19

kinda prince don’t have to work? They will take this house 20

from you, Charles. You gonna end up like old man Brad-21

ford — sleepin’ in somebody’s garage, eatin’ day-old bread, 22

and drinkin’ brand X.”

“Clara, baby,” I said, doing my impersonation of a half-24

hearted lounge lizard. “What’s all this tough love, darlin’?”

Clarance had height to carry all that weight. He stood 26

straight up and grabbed for me, but I pushed my chair 27 S

back and scrambled out of his reach.

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“Goddammit, asshole!” he shouted. “I told you not to 1

call me that!”

“But, baby,” I pleaded with my hands clasped as if in 3

prayer. “Clara, you tellin’ me I ain’t worthy.”

I knew calling his name in the feminine for the second 5

time would end the card game. We used to tease Clarance 6

in grade school by calling him Clarabell and then just 7

Clara. He stood there shaking, looking as mean as he 8

could manage.

I laughed. And for a moment there was a chance that 10

we would fight. Not much of a chance, because Clarance 11

knew he couldn’t take me. But we were both just high 12

enough to act like fools.

Ricky put the bottle down and picked up his sweater.

When he stood, that was the signal for Clarance to turn 15

around and leave. Ricky shook his head at me and fol-16

lowed his cousin out the front door.

They’d left their piles of change on the table where we 18

played.

Clarance and I had had these fights for more than 20

twenty-five years. I could still get to him. I regretted it 21

every time. But all Clarance had to do was be himself and 22

he made me mad. He’d always done better than I had. He 23

held a good job as the daytime dispatcher for a colored 24

cab company. He was married, but he still had more girl-25

friends than I did. He read the newspaper every day and 26

was always referring to events in the world to prove a S 27

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point when we were discussing politics or current affairs.

Even though I had made it through three years of college, 3

Clarance always seemed to know more.

For a while there I had a subscription to the New York 5

Times just so I could compete. But I never actually read 6

the paper. Sometimes I’d try to do the crossword puzzle, 7

but that just made me feel stupid. Finally, after losing my 8

job at the bank, I let the subscription go.

I did some things better than Clarance. I was good at 10

sports. But he wouldn’t compete with me there. He said I 11

was better than him but I couldn’t get a scholarship or 12

anything. And he was right. Like my uncle Brent was al-13

ways happy to say, “He could win the race, but he cain’t 14

beat the clock.”

So I tortured Clarance now and then, angry at him for 16

proving my inadequacies.

There were certain benefits to an early evening. The first 20

thing was that there was more than half the fifth of 21

whisky left over. I loved to drink. Loved it. But I didn’t 22

abuse alcohol. I never drank before the sun went down 23

and never drove while under the influence. Every once in 24

a while I’d make Ricky and Clarance sleep over when they 25

got too tipsy on a Thursday night.

You’d think I’d want to spend the evening with my 27 S

friends. As it was I spent almost every night alone, listening 28 R

to the radio or reading science fiction. I never got into the 12

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TV habit. I’d watch the news now and then, but that was 1

mainly to keep up with Clarance. Most nights I spent alone, 2

except when I had a girlfriend. But the last girlfriend I had 3

was Laura Wright. That had ended some months before.

It was mostly just me in the big house. The rooms were 5

large, with big bay windows everywhere. When I was 6

alone I’d wander around in my underwear, talking to my-7

self or reading about outer space. Those were the best mo-8

ments I had. With the evening spread out in front of me, 9

maybe with some music playing and a few shots of bour-10

bon, I had all the time I needed to think.

I couldn’t think when I was around people. In company 12

I was always talking, always telling a joke or laughing at 13

one. My uncle Brent used to say that my mouth was my 14

biggest problem. “Boy,” he’d say while sitting in the re-15

clining chair in the den, “if you could just learn to be quiet 16

for a minute, you might hear something worthwhile.”

My mother said that I was supposed to love Uncle 18

Brent, but he was hard on children. Brent came to live 19

with us after he had what my mother called a case of nerves.

There wasn’t much wrong with him that I could see, but 21

after his attack he came to live in our house. He kept the 22

garden in the spring and summer and sat in the old chair 23

in what used to be my father’s library. But my father was 24

dead by then and Uncle Brent called the library his den.

Brent loved to tell me what was wrong with me. I 26

talked too much, I didn’t study enough, I didn’t respect S 27

authority, and I was way too dark for the genteel colored R 28

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community of Forest Cove. That was down in South Car-2

olina, where Brent was born. Brent himself was a deep-3

brown color, with thick lips that were always turned 4

down as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. The only hint 5

he gave of being sick was that it took him a long time to 6

get out of his chair.

So when my mother was out and he’d let loose with one 8

of his insults, I’d say, “Fuck you, old man,” and walk 9

slowly away while he struggled to get up and after me.

Once outside I’d tear through the backyard and into the 11

family graveyard. From there I’d make it into the ancient 12

stand of sixty-two oaks that my great-great-grandfather 13

Willam P. Dodd planted.

That night in my house, wandering completely naked 15

through the half-dark rooms, I thought about how much 16

fun it was to torture my mean old uncle. When I’d es-17

caped into the dark-green shadows of those gnarly old 18

trees, I’d get the giggles from excitement. Sometimes Brent 19

would stand out on the back porch and yell for me, but 20

he didn’t dare to wander off from the house.

He never told my mother about my curses though. I 22

think it was because he was ashamed at not being able to 23

control a child.

The night after the day I met Mr. Anniston Bennet was 25

the first time I’d ever missed Uncle Brent. It had been 26

more than a decade, and I just then marked his passing.

27 S

28 R

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I still sleep in my childhood room — in the same bed.

C 14

The window faces east and the sun streams through 15

every morning, my natural alarm. That Friday I woke up 16

with a headache and a hard-on. I’d been dreaming about 17

Laura, about how she was so excited when I’d carry her 18

up the stairs.

I had to go to the toilet, but I was dizzy. I wanted to jerk 20

off, but my head hurt too much for that. I made myself get 21

up and walk down the second-floor hall to the toilet. It 22

was difficult keeping it in the bowl because the erection 23

was persistent. Even when I finished, it stayed hard.

I went back to bed with the intention of masturbating, 25

but my headache just got worse, and the thought of 26

Laura, as exciting as it was, also made me nauseous.

S 27

Finally I got dressed and went downstairs to the R 28

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kitchen. I wanted coffee, but the percolator was dirty and 2

the sink was full of greasy dishes. There were also dirty 3

dishes piled on the table and sink. I looked at the mess for 4

a while and decided that it was too much for me to do be-5

fore I had my morning coffee. And so I got my Dodge 6

from the garage and drove down to the Corners for coffee 7

and crumb cake at Hannah and Company.

“Morning, Mr. Blakey,” Tina Gramble said. She was Han-11

nah’s niece, a blond girl with tan skin. She was from a local 12

family and therefore accepted me as part of the commu-13

nity. Being a Negro, I was different. We would never be real 14

friends. But neither of us really wanted that, nor did we feel 15

left out of something. And so it was pleasant when we did 16

cross paths. Good morning meant just that.

“Hey, Tina. Could I get some coffee and cake?”

“You look like you could use it,” she said, managing to 19

smile and look concerned at the same time.

“Thursday night is blackjack night at my house.”

“Hope you won.”

“Big.”

After my coffee I drove down to the old highway, a graded 26

dirt road that led to Canyon’s Field. It was the shortcut 27 S

that would take me most of the way to Wilson Ryder’s 28 R

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construction site. The Ryder family had lived in the Har-1

bor for more than 150 years, a long time but not nearly as 2

long as my folks had been around. But you couldn’t tell 3

them that. Wilson liked to tell people that his family helped 4

to settle the east end of the island.

Both sides of my family had lived in that area as early as 6

1742. The Blakeys were indentured servants who earned 7

their freedom. The Dodds were free from the beginning.

It was even hinted that they, the Dodds, came straight 9

from Africa at the beginning of the eighteenth century.

My parents were both very proud that their ancestors 11

were never slaves. The only time I had ever seen my father 12

get angry was when Clarance’s father once asked him, 13

“How can you be sure that one’a them Blakeys you so 14

proud of wasn’t a slave at one time or other?”

It was a lovely ride. The woods were deep and green 16

down that way. There were three or four ponds in walking 17

distance from the side of the road. I decided that I’d go 18

fishing after asking Wilson for a job. I planned to tell him 19

that I could begin working that next Monday. That way I 20

could have a long weekend before going back to a job.

A group of eight or nine deer was crossing the road a 22

ways up from me. I came to a stop and so did they. The big 23

female looked at me with hard eyes, trying to glean my in-24

tentions. A sigh escaped my throat. I loved to watch deer 25

watching me. They were so timid and ignorant of every-26

thing but the possible threat. People think that they’re cow-S 27

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ardly, but I’ve been charged by a male or two. I respected 2

them, because with no defense except for their quick feet, 3

they lived out in the wild with no law or protection.

I once saw a group of fifteen or more of them swim-5

ming out to Shelter Island. Their heads just above the 6

water, they looked frightened and desperate out there.

Cowards don’t face terror. Cowards live on back roads, 8

behind closed doors, with the TVs blasting out anything 9

to keep the silence and the darkness from intruding.

The deer’s caution made them move slower than they 11

would have without my presence. I enjoyed the show.

When the final white tail bobbed off into the wood, I was 13

thoroughly satisfied.

My uncle Brent had been a hunter before he got sick.

He killed hundreds of deer down in South Carolina, 16

where he’d lived with his third wife.

“Hunt for the weekend hunters,” he’d tell me in one of his 18

few friendly moods. “Kill six bucks and make two forty.”

When I was a child I imagined that the deer used to sur-20

round our house in the evening, hoping that Brent would 21

come outside for a walk. Then they could stomp him to 22

death for the crimes he’d committed against their race.

“Chuck,” Wilson Ryder said. The tone of his voice mim-26

icked surprise, but it was also leveled at me offensively.

27 S

“Mr. Ryder,” I said in greeting. I hated the name Chuck.

28 R

And he knew it because I had asked him not to call me by 18

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that name eighteen years before when I had my first sum-1

mer job working for his family’s construction company.

Wilson Ryder was an older white man with yellowish 3

white hair and a big gut. His family had been in con-4

struction for three generations. Young men in my family 5

had worked for his family almost the whole time. He had 6

gray eyes, and fingers covered with yellow-and-black cal-7

luses from hard work and cigarettes.

We were standing in a wide circle of yellow soil that had 9

been cleared out of a scrub-pine stand. The trees stood in 10

an angry arc three hundred yards from the center of the 11

circle. There were the beginnings of excavation here and 12

there. Enough to give you the idea of the cul-de-sac of 13

mansions that the Ryder family intended to build. They 14

would level the whole island and sell it off stone by stone 15

if they could.

“What can I do for you?” Ryder asked me.

“I’d like a job, Mr. Ryder.”

His gray eyes squinted a hundredth of an inch, maybe 19

less, but it was enough to say that he wasn’t going to hire 20

me. Even more than that, the pained wince said that he 21

wouldn’t hire me, not because there was no job but be-22

cause there was something wrong somewhere — some-23

thing wrong with me.

“You would?” He smiled. There was a yellowy tint to Ry-25

der’s teeth too. All that yellow made me feel a little nauseous.

“Yes, sir,” I said, hating myself for it.

S 27

The squint again. This time a little more pronounced.

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There were men working on one of the excavations be-2

hind the builder, to his right. One man had stopped dig-3

ging and was looking at me. He was black, I could tell 4

that, but I couldn’t make out his features in the distance.

“You worked at that bank, didn’t you, Chuck?”

“Charles,” I said. “My name is Charles. And yeah, I 7

worked at Harbor Savings.”

“Why’d you leave there?”

“Let me go. I don’t know. Downsizing, I guess.”

Ryder’s eyes were very expressive. He was the man in 11

charge and not used to lying. I could see that he was won-12

dering if I believed my own words. That, of course, made 13

me question myself.

“No jobs,” he said with a one-shoulder shrug.

I could tell that Ryder wanted me to disappear, just as I 16

had felt about the white man at my door the day before.

But I wasn’t going to go away that easily. My family had 18

given Wilson’s grandfather one of his first jobs. My grand-19

mother delivered Wilson’s brother and sister. He couldn’t 20

whisper two words and expect me to go away just like 21

that.

“Well?” he said.

“I thought you had just started hiring.”

“It’s hard times, Charlie,” he said. “You got to get there 25

first if you want to work nowadays.”

“But somebody told me last night that you’d still be hir-27 S

ing today.”

28 R

“Well,” Ryder began. He was ready to carry his lie further.

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But then he looked at me, really I think he was looking at 1

himself, wondering why the hell he was going through all 2

those changes over some unemployed local Negro.

“You used to work for that bank, didn’t ya?” he asked.

“Yeah?”

“Why aren’t you there anymore?”

“I don’t know. They just let me go.”

“Well let’s just say that I’m lettin’ you go too.”

It didn’t make any sense. How could he let me go if I 9

didn’t even work for him? I almost said something about 10

it, but I knew that I’d just sound stupid.

Wilson gave me a crooked little smile and friendly nod.

Can’t win ’em all — that’s what the gesture meant.

I cursed him all the way down the road to the town of 14

Sag Harbor.

I grabbed a clam roll and a beer at the stand down by the 18

pier, using the last of my paper dollars to pay for the meal.

From then on I’d have to pay for whatever I bought in 20

change. I could already hear the teenage cashiers snicker-21

ing behind my back.

If suicide meant just giving up, I would have dropped 23

dead at that moment. With no job, no money, and no 24

chance for a job, I was as close to penniless as a man can get.

“Negro so poor,” my uncle Brent used to say of his less-26

fortunate brothers, “that he’d sell his shadow just to stand S 27

in your shade.”

R 28

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Walter Mosley

The weather was pleasant. I went to the end of the pier 2

and looked down at the tiny fishes coming up to get 3

warm in the weak sunlight. Two small jellyfish were wav-4

ing in the current. I sat on the edge of the big concrete 5

dock and stared down at the water. That was 10:45. At 6

12:15 I was still there. From the time I was a child, I’d 7

have moments like that. In class if I saw something inter-8

esting, usually something natural, I could stare the whole 9

period long. I never thought anything at these times. I 10

just stared at the spiderweb or the furious bird making 11

her nest. One time I watched an ant search the entire 12

third-grade floor for nearly an hour. She finally ended up 13

under Mrs. Harkness’s shoe. I was so shocked by the sud-14

den death that I broke down crying and was sent to the 15

nurse.

I hadn’t been in the bank since I was laid off nine months 19

before. Arnold Mathias was still at his post by the door.

Less a guard than a greeter, he knew everybody’s name 21

and any special need that he or she might have.

“Hello, Millie,” he said to the octogenarian Mildred 23

Cosgrove, who doddered in before me. “Mr. Hickey isn’t 24

in today. He’s got flu, I believe.”

“Oh,” the old lady said. There was shock and pain in 26

her voice. While she stood there, Arnold looked over her 27 S

head and saw me. He put up a hand, not in greeting but 28 R

to stop me until he had finished with Millie Cosgrove.

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The Man in My Basement

“Will he be in later?” she asked in a fearful, tremulous 1

voice.

“He won’t be back until next week, Millie.” Mathias, 3

himself in his late sixties and shaky, held out a hand to 4

steady the older woman.

“Oh,” she said again. “Well maybe I better wait until 6

Monday then. You know Mr. Hickey has all my records.

He knows what I want. Monday you say?”

“I’m sure he’ll be back by then,” Mathias said. “And if 9

he comes back earlier, I’ll have him call you.”

“That would be nice. Yes. You know I have to take my 11

money out of the stock market before the world goes to 12

hell in a handbasket. He talked me into it before, but now 13

I just want a passbook. I want regular interest with no 14

nonsense. The stock market is no better than roulette, 15

and gambling is a sin.”

“I’m sure Mr. Hickey will do what you want . . .”

The conversation went on for another few minutes. Mr.

Mathias listened to Mildred’s woes. Everyone knew that 19

old Mrs. Cosgrove had barely a hundred-dollar balance in 20

her account. She lived off social-security checks. But her 21

family had been some of the bank’s first depositors. Treat-22

ing her nicely was the best advertisement they could have.

“Yes, Charles?” the guard asked after Millie left. “Can I 24

help you?”

“No.”

“Did you want something?”

S 27

“Can’t anyone walk into this bank, Arnold?”

R 28

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Walter Mosley

“Of course. But I didn’t think that you had an account 2

here anymore.”

“I came to see Lainie,” I said.

“Oh, I see. Lainie.”

The greeter had reverted into guard and had no inten-6

tion of standing aside. So I went around him and across 7

the wide tiled floor of the bank.

It was a domed building with a round floor. At the op-9

posite side from the entrance was a group of seven desks, 10

separated from the main room by a waist-high mahogany 11

wall. The center desk belonged to Lainie Brown.

Lainie was the only black bank officer. She’d started as 13

secretary the year I was born. Her boss was a liberal 14

thinker, and she trained Lainie and then forced the bank 15

president, Ira Minder, to promote her.

Lainie had been my friend at the bank. We ate lunch 17

together, and she told me that she hoped to make me into 18

a loan officer one day. But then I was fired, and that was 19

the end to my banking future and our friendship.

“Charles.” Lainie was surprised but not necessarily 21

happy to see me. She was a heavyset woman with auburn 22

skin. Her eyes were large and spaced wider than most.

Every tooth had a space between it, and her smile, when 24

she smiled, seemed to wrap around her whole head.

But Lainie wasn’t smiling right then. Her look was 26

somewhere between surprise and caution. I might have 27 S

been a snake on her front porch or a strange purple sky.

28 R

“ ’Bout time for lunch, isn’t it?” I said.

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The Man in My Basement

“Uh, why I suppose it is.”

“I already ate, but I’ll sit with you if you don’t mind.”

“No,” her lips said. Her eyes held the same answer with 3

another meaning. I suppose somebody else might have 4

taken the hint and offered to wait until a better time.

“Well let’s go,” I said.

Lainie rose up out of her generous walnut seat, releas-7

ing a sweet odor. Her perfume was one of the best bene-8

fits at Harbor Savings. It was one of the few things I 9

remembered about work.

S 27

R 28

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14 C

Lainie ate a bagged lunch every day at 12:30. Ham or 15

turkey or chicken on white bread, with a fruit and a nov-16

elty cake. She sat on the picnic bench half a block up 17

from the Winter Hotel on a slip of property that was too 18

small to sell. She was wearing a white silk dress that was 19

decorated with prints of giant purple orchids. A single 20

pearl hung from a pendant around her neck. There was a 21

dark freckle on her throat, next to the pearl. I was think-22

ing that that small spot of dark flesh was far more pre-23

cious than some stone from an oyster’s belly.

“How’s Peaches?” Lainie had regained her composure.

She’d opened her bag and was peeling back the wax paper 26

on the sandwich to check out the meat.

27 S

“Fine, the last time I talked to her. Her husband’s 28 R

mother passed.”

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“I know. I was at the funeral. I was surprised not to see 1

you there.”

“Busy,” I said, not remembering the excuse I gave at the 3

time.

Lainie took a bite out of her sandwich and smiled. She 5

always smiled after the first bite of her sandwich. She told 6

me once that her mother, Arvette, made her lunch every 7

morning. I think the bread reminded Lainie of her mother 8

the way that Catholics are supposed to be reminded of 9

their Lord when they eat that biscuit.

Lainie and Arvette lived together just outside of town 11

in a small house where both of them had been born. Most 12

Negroes around the midisland lived in modest homes.

Our ancestors had been farmworkers mainly. Many had 14

come from the South over the decades, looking for a place 15

they could work in peace.

“I was out at Wilson Ryder’s new site this morning,” I 17

said.

“Really? Mr. Gurgel is the officer in charge of that loan.

He says that the Ryders have always been good business.”

She took another bite. But that was just eating — no 21

smile involved.

“Yeah. Well, anyway, I went over there to ask about a 23

job today. I mean, he had jobs. I know that because Ricky 24

Winkler works out there. But Mr. Ryder lied and said 25

that he didn’t have any jobs. And when I told him that he 26

was a liar, he started talkin’ about the bank and why didn’t S 27

I work there anymore?”

R 28

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Walter Mosley

Lainie took a big bite out of her sandwich. I think she 2

did that because she wanted time to think. After chewing 3

on her white bread and processed meat like it was a 4

mouthful of jerky, she stopped and took a deep breath. I 5

pushed down the urge to stand up and walk away.

“Did you ever take money from your drawer?” she 7

asked.

And suddenly it all came back to me like the plot of a 9

novel that I had read so long ago I didn’t even remember 10

the name of the book. But it wasn’t that long ago and it 11

was my own life that I was remembering.

It wasn’t really very much at all. I was a bank teller. I 13

counted money, gave change, made debits and credits. I 14

did passbooks, Christmas clubs, checking accounts, and 15

sometimes payroll. Anything else went to another win-16

dow. I wore a jacket and slacks every day with a tie. You 17

didn’t have to wear the tie on Fridays, but I did anyway. I 18

was good at my job. Always on time, friendly with even 19

the rude customers, I was good at math too.

But one day I was going to meet my then-girlfriend 21

China Browne for dinner. It was a Tuesday and I wasn’t 22

due for my paycheck until the end of the week. My ac-23

count was empty because I had just paid for an electric 24

food processor and China wanted to be taken out.

So I borrowed twenty dollars from the bank. I made up 26

my mind to pay a dollar interest when I got my paycheck.

27 S

And it really wasn’t any big sum. If they asked me about 28 R

it, I could just say that I must have made a mistake. Peo-28

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ple make mistakes in banks all the time. Mr. Gurgel, the 1

senior loan officer, once missed a zero and the bank was 2

out ninety thousand dollars for a week.

Of course Friday came and went. China and I went 4

down to New York that weekend, so I put off returning 5

the twenty until I got paid again. But by that time two 6

more weeks had passed, and I figured if nobody noticed, 7

then why should I worry? Probably if I had left it at that, 8

everything would have been okay. But there were five or 9

six other times when I needed money. It was never more 10

than fifty dollars.

“No,” I said.

“Well that’s what they thought,” she said. “The presi-13

dent said that they had proof.”

“How could that be?” I felt indignant even though I 15

knew that I was guilty. “If they had proof, then why didn’t 16

they have me arrested?”

“Mr. Mathias told me that they had discussed it and the 18

bank felt it wouldn’t serve their interests to prosecute.” I 19

knew that she was reporting what she heard because the 20

words she was using were not hers.

“Why not?”

“Because it wasn’t a lot of money and almost every col-23

ored person in the Harbor has money in the bank. If the 24

bank prosecuted you over a couple’a hundred dollars, the 25

customers might get upset and take their money to East 26

Hampton.” Lainie peered into my eyes as she spoke. I S 27

don’t know if she saw my guilt there or not.

R 28

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Walter Mosley

I was guilty. Every time I pocketed a few dollars, I ex-2

pected to return it. But it wasn’t like the money I used to 3

steal out of my uncle Brent’s wallet. I took that money be-4

cause I hated him. I hated the way he smelled and the way 5

he talked about my father. I took it because my father’s 6

family had come directly from Africa, but Brent said that 7

my father really didn’t know our roots. He said that we 8

were like all other American blacks, that we came from 9

“slave-caliber Negroes who were defeated in war and sold 10

into slavery because they didn’t have the guts to die in 11

battle.” He said that there was no such thing as free 12

Africans who had “chosen to come over and sell their 13

labor in indentured servitude” and that American Negro 14

citizens never existed before 1865, as my father claimed.

I kept Brent’s money. He used to complain to my 16

mother, but I’d just tell her that it must be his illness 17

affecting his brain. I don’t know what she thought about 18

it all. She didn’t like Brent’s mouth either, but he was fam-19

ily and my mother was the sweetest woman in the world.

“Well,” I said to Lainie. “I didn’t steal anything and 21

now people at the bank are telling everybody that I’m a 22

thief and I can’t get a job. And you didn’t even tell me.

Didn’t warn me or anything.”

“I’m sorry, Charles,” she said. “I just didn’t know what 25

to think. Mr. Mathias told me about what had happened.

And I was afraid that you’d lose your temper and that if 27 S

they did have some kind of evidence that they’d take you 28 R

to jail. I was worried about you.”

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The Man in My Basement

She was getting weepy. Lainie had a kind heart. But I 1

wasn’t in any mood to worry about her crocodile tears.

What about me? Here I had waited until I was down to 3

my last dollar, thinking that I could always pick up a job 4

somewhere. But nobody in the Harbor would hire a thief.

And even if I went out of town, people would still ask for 6

references.

What I wanted to do was yell at Lainie until she felt the 8

pain that I was feeling on the inside. I would have yelled 9

if I were innocent.

“I’m sorry, Lainie. It’s not your fault. It’s just that bank.

I probably made some mistake and they decided that I 12

was a thief. That’s all.”

“What are you going to do?”

I considered her question for a moment, and then I 15

thought a little more. I opened my mouth, but there was 16

no answer forthcoming.

“I got to go,” I said. “Thanks for tellin’ me.”

S 27

R 28

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14 C

I did go fishing — in a small river not two miles from 15

my house. I caught three good-size trout, not for pleasure 16

but to eat that night. I wanted to cook dinner but couldn’t 17

bear the idea of counting out pennies to some high school 18

cashier at the IGA.

It was after 6:00 when I got home. There was a little day-20

light left in the distance, but it was dusk. My plans were all 21

set by the time I got in, so I went right to the phone.

A woman answered after seven rings. “Hello?”

“Mona?”

“Hey, Charles. Hold on.” She put the phone down 25

with a loud knock and yelled, “It’s Charles!”

A few moments passed and then the phone hissed as it 27 S

was being picked up.

28 R

“What?” a man’s angry voice said.

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The Man in My Basement

“Hey, Clarance. Listen, man, I got to borrow a hundred 1

bucks fast.”

“So?”

“This is no joke, Clarance —”

“Naw. That’s right. This ain’t no joke at all. This is dead 5

serious. I been thinkin’ about you and how you act since 6

last night. And it burns me up. Here I am tryin’ to be 7

your friend and all you wanna do is dis me. Well that’s it.

I’m through with you, man. I called Ricky and told him. I 9

said no more Thursday-night blackjack, no more Saturday-10

night bar hoppin’, no more nuthin’. We’re through.”

Clarance was sputtering. I almost made a joke but then 12

thought better of it.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean nuthin’. You 14

know it was the whiskey —”

“You sorry all right. Unemployed, drunk loudmouth is 16

what you is.” Clarance usually tried to articulate in the 17

ways of school learning. That kind of language was pro-18

moted among the older colored families of the Harbor.

But when he got angry, he talked street.

“I said I was sorry, man. What more do you want?”

“I don’t want nuthin’ from you. I don’t want you to call 22

or ask me for money or nuthin’ else. Just stay away from 23

me, you hear?” And with that he hung up the phone in 24

my ear.

I realized then that I didn’t have any kind of plan. All I 26

was going to do was borrow a hundred dollars from S 27

Clarance to put some cheap food in my refrigerator.

R 28

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Walter Mosley

I washed out a griddle and a saucepan, a glass and a 2

plate and utensils to cook and eat with. Then I cleaned 3

my fish and dredged the fillets in cornmeal. Fried fish 4

with hot sauce and a side of turnips was my dinner. I 5

laughed because it was better food than I would have had 6

if I had the money to go to the diner.

There were two shots’ worth left in the whiskey bottle, 8

just enough to keep me between self-pity and drunken 9

tears.

The house was a mess. There were piles of clothes and 11

dirty dishes in every room. Junk mail and bills were 12

thrown into corners, and every chair had something piled 13

on the seat.

I went upstairs to my bedroom and threw the blankets —

along with a notebook, two dirty dinner plates, and a 16

dozen loose stones that I had picked up — from the bed.

I lay with arms and legs dangling over the sides of the 18

small mattress. On the windowsill next to my head was a 19

book I had been reading. Neglect’s Glasses. It was a science-20

fiction novel about a kid in the ghetto who had found a 21

pair of sunglasses somehow imbued with the intelligence 22

of an alien race. The ghetto child, just days away from his 23

initiation into a youth gang, is drawn into a swirl of 24

knowledge that takes him places that he never knew were 25

possible.

I laid there on my bed, reading, for well over an hour.

27 S

The boy, whose name was Tyler, was transformed into the 28 R

unknown hope of humanity. He did good things because 34

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The Man in My Basement

the glasses always made him feel the emotions of those 1

lives he touched. And so when he hurt people, he experi-2

enced their pain. Helping others made Tyler feel good 3

about himself.

I would have read the whole book that night if it wasn’t 5

for chapter twelve. That’s where Tyler looked closely at his 6

parents and in a flash of divination realized that his father 7

would soon be dead. I couldn’t take the revelation and 8

threw the slender hardback into the tin trash can, deco-9

rated with astronauts, that had sat in the same corner for 10

more than thirty years. The book hitting the can set off a 11

burble of beer bottles jostling together.

There were five empties in the can under a holey T-shirt 13

and a few wads of paper. I found four more under the 14

bed. On the outside of the windowsill, there was one 15

dead soldier, as Clarance called them. That started my 16

journey back through the house. There were bottles 17

everywhere. Some were only half empty. One or two al-18

most full. There were bottles on the front porch, in the 19

backyard, on the patio chairs. On the roof there were a 20

few left over from friendly spring nights when Laura and 21

I made love in my sleeping bag up under the stars.

They were behind the couch and on the inside ledge of 23

the fireplace. By the time I finished, there were fifty-one 24

bottles on the old dining-room table. Those empties 25

would make me two paper dollars. And with them I 26

could keep my pride.

S 27

I remembered what I was doing and who I was with for R 28

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Walter Mosley

almost every bottle found. The ones in the backyard were 2

from a party the summer before last. It was Ricky and 3

Clarance with some other guys and girls. The police had 4

to come over to tell us to turn the music down.

It was the only time in my life that I had sex with two 6

women in one night. The first was my girlfriend at that 7

time, China Browne. We’d been dancing and got to get 8

kind of amorous. I took her up to my mother’s old room.

It was over pretty quickly because I was so excited. China 10

fell asleep and I went back downstairs. There were lots of 11

people there dancing and talking loud. I felt a sweet sense 12

of calm and started putting beer bottles back in a wooden 13

crate. China’s friend Jane Sadler started picking up with me.

We were just talking and laughing about what a good 15

time everybody was having. We filled two crates and were 16

carrying them out to the backyard. Then we heard this 17

noise, a moaning out behind the garage. I winked at Jane 18

and we snuck around the corner.

It was Clarance and this white girl who had come with 20

somebody, I didn’t know who. But she was with Clarance 21

right then. They were kissing furiously in the faint light 22

that shone over the back of the garage. He was moaning 23

in a deep bass and she squealed between their soul kisses.

Jane put her hand on my forearm. At first I thought 25

that she wanted to give the newfound lovers some pri-26

vacy, but when I looked I could see that she was just 27 S

steadying herself. Jane had skin my color and bright eyes 28 R

and long curly hair.

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The Man in My Basement

Suddenly Clarance spun the white girl around. She 1

lifted her miniskirt while he pulled down her panties.

Jane’s grip on my forearm tightened. Clarance started 3

fumbling with his zipper then. The white girl was waving 4

her butt around and moaning. Clarance kept fumbling.

“Hurry up!” The white girl’s hushed cry was exactly 6

what I wanted to shout.

“I got it now,” Clarance said, throwing down some-8

thing. The next morning I realized that it was the wrap-9

per from a condom.

He bent his knees and took a long slow slide into his 11

new friend. Her welcoming moan made my heart skip so 12

hard that I thought I might be having a seizure.

Clarance started slamming hard against her backside.

The smacking flesh and high-pitched barks from the girl 15

made me sweat.

“I cain’t hold it, baby,” Clarance barked. “I cain’t hold it.”

“Come come come come come,” she answered.

And then they were both silent and rigid. After a mo-19

ment Clarance made a grunting sound that was no more 20

than the crack of a dry leaf and the girl exhaled through 21

her open mouth.

Jane pulled me by the arm. When we got around to the 23

other side, she kissed me. I led her straight to the basement.

There was no inside connection from the house. You 25

had to go outside and through a heavy trapdoor to get 26

down there. I suppose that it was called a basement be-S 27

cause it was under the house, but it was more like a crypt.

R 28

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Walter Mosley

I snapped on the light and Jane kissed me again.

“Don’t say a word,” she told me as she lifted her skirt and 3

I dropped my pants. She sat back on my great-grandfather’s 4

oversize traveling trunk.

It should have been safe sex but it wasn’t. I was happy 6

that I just made love to China because I didn’t want those 7

moments with Jane to ever end. I rocked back and forth 8

on the balls of my feet while she stroked my other balls 9

and scratched both of my nipples with the long, press-on 10

fingernails of one hand. We were looking into each other’s 11

eyes. Every once in a while she’d lean forward to kiss me, 12

but when I returned the gesture she moved her head back 13

and sneered.

The trunk rocked precariously, but we had the balance 15

of cats in heat. She undulated on her hips and quivered 16

while I pushed and pulled, feeling the veins standing out 17

all over my body. I started to move faster but Jane said, 18

“Slow it down, baby. Slow it down.”

When I finally came I moved back in one small show of 20

responsibility. The emotion on her face while she watched 21

my ejaculation was the deep satisfaction that comes from 22

victory.

China stopped seeing me after that night, and Jane 24

never returned one phone call. Maybe they compared 25

notes; I didn’t care. That night was a highlight for me.

Two women and a chance to see the Master — that’s 27 S

what we called Clarance when it came to women — in 28 R

action. I was at peace for a whole week. I didn’t do any-38

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The Man in My Basement

thing except pack the trash into bags and put the crates of 1

empty beers in the basement.

That’s why I thought about the basement. It was Jane 3

and China Browne that jarred my memory.

It was a large, dark room crowded with stuff from the 7

Dodd and Blakey families. A little something was there 8

from every generation. I had one great-auntie, Blythe, 9

who considered herself a painter. There were fifty or more 10

of her awful canvases leaned up against the walls and be-11

hind a useless coal-burning stove. Her trees and houses 12

and people looked like a child’s pitiful attempts. There 13

was my great-grandfather’s traveling trunk and stacks of 14

old newspapers that were yellow and brittle from fifty 15

years or more before. We had old furniture and rugs and 16

straw baskets filled with two hundred Christmases of 17

toys. The cobwebs looked like they belonged on a movie 18

set, and it was cold down there too.

Eighteen wooden crates of empty beer bottles were 20

stacked in the middle of the cobblestone floor. They were 21

all I was interested in. It meant twenty-four dollars at the 22

beer-and-soda store at the Corners. I dragged the boxes 23

out into the light, rubbing my face now and then to get 24

off the tickle of cobwebs. When I got all the crates, I 25

looked around some more to see if there might have been 26

something else of value there.

S 27

It was a big basement. Thirty feet in either direction.

R 28

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Walter Mosley

The ceiling must have been ten feet from the floor. An-2

niston Bennet was right: it would have made a nice apart-3

ment without all that junk. It was a well-built hole. Dry 4

as a bone and cool year round because it was deep in the 5

rocky earth. I used to think that ghosts lived in that cel-6

lar, that the spirits of my dead ancestors came from out of 7

the graveyard behind my house and played cards or talked 8

all night long in the solitude of that room. I left them 9

Kool-Aid and lemon cookies in the summer. When the 10

food was still there the next day, my father would tell me 11

that the spirits had eaten the ghost food that lives inside 12

the food for the living. He told me that it was like a bless-13

ing and now the food left over had to be buried in the 14

trash like the dead.

27 S

28 R

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Late the next day I was in my newly cleaned kitchen, C 14

ready to cook.

Twenty-four dollars can buy a lot of canned spinach 16

and baked beans. I also got rice and polenta and a big bag 17

of potatoes. One whole chicken with celery and carrots 18

could make a soup to last me a week if I stretched it.

I’m not a good cook, but I can make simple dishes.

That’s because I used to love spending time with my 21

mother in the kitchen. She never made me work. All I 22

had to do was sit around and make her laugh. That was 23

until eighth grade. Then, when she got sick, I helped out 24

a lot. Brent said that my mother had to work through it, 25

that being sick was all in her head. He was healthier than 26

she was and still expected to get waited on.

S 27

R 28

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My chicken was boiling and I was cutting celery into 2

slantwise strips and suddenly it came to me. I dug Annis-3

ton Bennet’s card out of my pocket and dialed his Man-4

hattan number. It wasn’t until the fourth ring that I 5

remembered it was Saturday. I thought that at least I 6

could leave a message. He didn’t give me a home phone 7

anyway. His name, in lowercase blue letters, was centered 8

on the white card, and the phone number was in the 9

lower right-hand corner in red.

“Hello,” a woman’s voice said. I almost answered but 11

the surprisingly natural-sounding recording continued, 12

“You have reached the Tanenbaum and Ross Investment 13

Strategies Group.” Then there was a click and the same 14

woman, in a different mood, said, “Mr. Bennet,” then an-15

other click and she was back on track saying, “is not in at 16

the moment but will return your message at the earliest 17

possible time. Please leave your name and number after 18

the signal.” Then there came a complex set of tones that 19

sounded something like a police siren in a foreign film.

“Mr. Bennet? This is Charles Blakey from out in the 21

Harbor. I guess I’d like to talk to you about what it is you 22

want exactly. I mean, maybe uh, maybe we can come to 23

some kind of arrangement. I don’t know. My number 24

is . . .” Leaving information on an answering machine al-25

ways seems useless to me. Most of the messages I’ve left 26

have gone unanswered. I didn’t have much hope that any-27 S

thing would work out. Anyway it was early May and all I 28 R

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had was a pocketful of change. A summer rental wasn’t 1

going to do much for me right then.

So I called my aunt Peaches. That was her real name.

Her mother was Clementine and her father was actually 4

named Apollodorus. My father used to say, when we were 5

going to Clemmie’s for Thanksgiving dinner, “Well let’s 6

go over and visit the mouthful.”

“Hi, Aunt Peaches. It’s me — Charles.”

“Yes, Charles?” She wasn’t sounding generous.

“How’s your family?”

“Everybody’s fine.”

“That’s good,” I said and then waited for her to ask af-12

ter my health.

She did not.

“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Peaches.”

“Has it?”

She knew full well that it had been more than three 17

years since I had been by, and I was only allowed in then 18

because her husband was at work. We didn’t live more 19

than two miles apart, but the only time I ever saw her was 20

if we happened to bump into each other in town. That 21

was because of her husband, Floyd. Floyd Richardson was 22

a lawyer who practiced in Long Island City. When I 23

dropped out of college, he hired me — to make something 24

out of me, he said.

Well, I was only twenty-one and not really ready to 26

work that hard. I didn’t like the law or research. I wanted S 27

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to be a sailor. Floyd and I had a rough time of it. When 2

he finally fired me, he told me that I was a shame to my 3

race. That reminded me of Uncle Brent, who always 4

added, “The human race.”

After that I wasn’t a welcomed guest in their home.

Floyd rarely gave me a nod if we passed in the street. I 7

didn’t mind much. Floyd wanted to act like he was my fa-8

ther, like it was him who did for me. Aunt Peaches was 9

nice, but she was so formal that talking to her was like be-10

ing read to from a book of etiquette.

“I needed to ask you something,” I said, having given 12

up any hope that we could be friendly.

“I really don’t have much time, Charles. Floyd’s coming 14

home soon and I have to get his dinner.”

“Well, you know I lost my job,” I started.

“Oh?”

“I had some money left over from that T-bill Mom left 18

for me when I turned thirty, but that’s all gone.” I paused 19

but Peaches had no consolations to give. “And, well, I 20

kind of borrowed some money on the house. I’m looking 21

for work, but I still have to come up with the payment.

It’s already two weeks overdue.”

Peaches didn’t say a word, but the quality of her silence 24

had changed. I could almost feel her growing anxiety.

“Peaches?”

“Why do you want to do this to me, Charles?”

27 S

“What am I doing to you?”

28 R

“You’re thirty-nine years old —”

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“Thirty-three,” I corrected.

“— thirty-three years old and you don’t even have two 2

nickels to rub together. What would your mother say?”

“My mother is dead. Maybe you could leave her alone.”

“Rude.” She said the word like it was a club to blud-5

geon me with. “Rude. And then you want me to write the 6

check. I’m sorry, Charles, but I have to agree with Floyd 7

about you. There’s no helping someone who can’t help 8

himself. I just hope you don’t lose our family home with 9

your foolishness. But maybe it would be better in some-10

one else’s hands anyway. I can see you don’t have a gar-11

dener anymore and from what I hear it’s a pigsty on the 12

inside.”

I hung up. It was the only way I could get her to feel the 14

pain that she was inflicting on me. I knew she was right.

I knew that my life was messed up. But what could I do 16

about it when I couldn’t get a job or pay my bills?

I spent the entire night cleaning. I collected eight big 18

plastic bags of trash. I swept and dusted and mopped and 19

straightened. When I’d get tired I’d stop for a little 20

chicken soup and black tea. Then I was off again, up and 21

down through the three floors. At 4:00 in the morning I 22

dragged the bags out of the house and into the street. I 23

wasn’t going to let Peaches and Floyd defeat me. I’d put 24

the house in perfect shape. I had plans to wax the floors 25

and mow the lawn. I’d trim the hedge too. After that I’d 26

paint the house. This last thought almost defeated me.

S 27

How could I paint with no money? I couldn’t even buy a R 28

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Walter Mosley

roller or brush, much less all the gallons of paint that I’d 2

need.

Outside I noticed a spark. At first I thought it was a 4

firefly, and I stopped to catch a glimpse of it again. Fire-5

flies were a miracle to me. The fact of their light seemed 6

somehow to prove that there was a God.

After a moment the light appeared again. But it wasn’t 8

a firefly at all. It was Miss Littleneck smoking a cigarette 9

in the dark. At first I was mad, thinking that she was spy-10

ing on me. But then I thought that if she was really spy-11

ing, she wouldn’t be advertising with an ember. It was 12

almost as amazing as a firefly — that old woman sitting 13

out on her porch all night long, smoking one cigarette af-14

ter another, waiting for either a miracle or a heart attack.

The next day was Sunday. I’d fallen asleep on the sofa in 16

my father’s library. After three hours’ sleep I was out in 17

the front yard with a scythe.

That was a gas.

Christ’s Hope Church was just three blocks up from 20

my house and many a churchgoer had to drive past my 21

place. Almost everyone slowed to see me stripped to the 22

waist, cutting down the dead weeds and grasses that had 23

grown wild for years.

Peaches and Floyd drove by. They came to a virtual stop 25

in order to gawk. I smiled at them and waved. Peaches 26

said something to her husband and they sped off to God.

27 S

28 R

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That was one of the hardest days I ever put in. Twelve C 14

thirty-nine-gallon plastic bags of trash and dead weeds. I 15

only had two empty bags left. In the afternoon I broke my 16

fast with instant coffee, baked beans, and quick-cooking 17

polenta. I carried the meal on a tray up to the third floor, 18

to my mother’s sewing room, which was a small chamber 19

off her bedroom. There she had a treadle-powered sewing 20

machine and a small table meant for piecework.

I put my tray on the table and stared out the window 22

like I used to do as a child when my parents were out. Her 23

window was the observation deck for my fortress. I could 24

see our family graveyard and my great-grandfather’s stand 25

of oaks and then up the side of the piney hills behind our 26

community. As a child I sat there for hours shooting BBs S 27

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at Confederate soldiers or the English. I was a patriotic 2

Yankee fighting to protect my home.

My mother was still alive in that room. The basket with 4

her threads and yarns sat next to her spindly maple chair.

Her worn sewing slippers lay underneath the table, mak-6

ing it seem as if she would soon be coming up to use 7

them. I could see her in my mind, long face and coffee-8

and-cream-colored skin. Her nose was broad but not so 9

flat and her eyes were as round as some forest creature’s 10

orbs. She always smiled just to see me. That smile was 11

always waiting for me upstairs in her room.

My father was dimmer in my memory. Much darker 13

than Mom, he was thick. Not fat but strong like a tree 14

trunk. He had big hands and a giant’s laugh. Nobody 15

expected him to drop dead, certainly not me. Maybe if I 16

had warning I would have looked closer, listened more 17

attentively while he was still alive. As it is he’s just a big 18

hole in my memory, a hole where there was a yearning. I 19

looked away over the hills because if I paid too much at-20

tention to my father’s absence, the yearning would turn 21

into a yowl.

A dead leaf from the previous fall was tumbling on a 23

sudden wind. Its progress was almost musical; it seemed 24

to be tinkling in the breeze. I looked and listened and 25

then realized that the phone was ringing downstairs.

My foot hit the last step to the first floor when the ring-27 S

ing stopped. The leaf was still blowing in my mind’s eye 28 R

and I was laughing. I sat down next to the phone, won-48

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dering whether or not to go up for my beans and corn-1

meal. My hesitation was rewarded with another ring.

There was a great deal of static over the line.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Blakey. Anniston Bennet.”

“Oh, Mr. Bennet. I didn’t expect to hear from you un-6

til at least tomorrow.”

“I call into my messages every six hours unless I’m 8

somewhere where I can’t get to a phone. You’re interested 9

in renting me your basement?”

“We can talk about it.”

I thought I heard the hiss of a sharp intake of breath.

Maybe it was the bad connection, but I got the feeling 13

that Mr. Bennet was not a patient man.

“I don’t have time to come out there again, Mr. Blakey.”

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you then.”

We were silent for a few beats while the chatter of the 17

static went merrily along. At one point I thought the con-18

nection might have broken off.

“I can come out there on Friday,” Bennet said in a re-20

strained tone. Another conversation interfered with us 21

over the lines. It was some foreign tongue, sounded Ara-22

bic but I’m not too good with languages.

“What time?” I asked over the new conversation.

“Four. Four in the afternoon.”

“I’ll see you at four then.”

“Four,” Anniston Bennet said one more time, and the S 27

connection was broken.

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Walter Mosley

There I sat, listening to phone static from some foreign 2

land, happy even though I had just made the first step 3

toward giving up my solitude. I tried to imagine the little 4

white man coming into my kitchen while I was standing 5

there in my drawers with a hangover.

From there I wondered about the word hangover for a 7

while. Was it an old seafaring term? Was the image of a 8

sailor throwing up over the side of the ship, hanging on 9

for his life? That brought me around to thinking about 10

liquor, Southern Comfort to be exact. Ricky loved South-11

ern Comfort and I did too.

“Hey, Cat,” I said into the receiver.

“Charles, hey.”

“You doin’ anything?”

“Uh-uh, man. Not me. Clarance out with his wife an’

kids. He sure don’t wanna see you after Thursday night.”

“Yeah.” I paused, anticipating the drink. “Hey, Ricky?”

“Hey what?”

“You wanna pick up a pint of SC and come on over?”

“Shit.”

“I’ll pay you for the whole thing when you get here, 22

man.” That was a good offer and Ricky knew it. “I need 23

some help with my basement.”

“Okay,” he said. “I gotta give my sister a ride, but then 25

I’ll be over.”

27 S

■

28 R

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“Is it dry?” Ricky asked, holding his tumbler of iced 1

Southern Comfort and peering down into the darkness of 2

the cellar.

“Yeah. These doors are triple ply and high. No rain can 4

get in.” I took a few steps down and pulled the chain on 5

the light.

Ricky followed.

“Big down here,” he said.

“All this junk, man. I gotta get rid of it.”

“Why? You gonna rent to that white man?”

“No,” I lied.

I’ve lied all my life. To my parents and teachers and 12

friends at school. I lied about being sick and not coming 13

in to work, about romantic conquests, my salary, my fa-14

ther’s job. I’ve lied about where I was last night and where 15

I was right then if I was on the phone and no one could 16

see me. I have lied and been called a liar and then lied 17

again to cover other falsehoods. Sometimes I pretend to 18

know things that I don’t know. Sometimes I lie to tell 19

people what I think they want to hear.

It’s not such a bad thing — lying. Sometimes it pro-21

tects people’s feelings or gives them confidence or just 22

makes them laugh.

But I never told a lie like that one-word fib to Ricky about 24

Anniston Bennet. Somehow I knew that I shouldn’t talk 25

about the little man who calls from Arabia about a base-26

ment sublet. I wanted to keep those cards close to my vest.

S 27

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“Damn, you got some old stuff down here,” Ricky was 2

saying.

“Junk.”

“Uh-uh, man. This is antique-quality shit.”

“Shit is right.”

“No, Charles. These old dolls and wood toys are valu-7

able. So’s the furniture, the trunk, probably the clothes in 8

the trunk, and maybe even these old paintings. You can’t 9

tell, man. These people out here spend five hundred dollars 10

on an old broked-down chair in a minute.” Ricky had lived 11

his teenage years in Brooklyn with his father. The way he 12

talked was different than the way most of my friends did.

But he had an eye for profit. One summer he and Clarance 14

ran a nighttime hot-dog stand in East Hampton. Charged 15

three and four dollars for hot dogs, and got it.

“How do I sell this stuff ? Yard sale?”

“That’s sucker shit right there, man. Uh-uh. There’s 18

some dealers in East Hampton and Southampton. I know 19

who they are, but you know they wanna rob you. But 20

there’s this sister out around Bridgehampton run a little 21

store that specializes in old quilts. Narciss Gully. If we 22

could get Narciss out here to look at your stuff and then 23

broker it with the other dealers, then you might make out.”

“You know her?”

“Ten percent.”

“Say what?” My tumbler was empty and I just felt the 27 S

Southern Comfort in my blood.

28 R

“Ten percent,” Ricky said again. “I don’t do any man-52

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ual labor and I’m not responsible if at the end you don’t 1

think you got enough money.”

“What does she get out of it?”

“I’ll suggest ten percent for her too, but she might ask 4

for as much as twenty.”

“Thirty percent gone and you two don’t do nothing but 6

introduce?” I was arguing, but I knew it was a lost cause.

I had the woman’s name; I could have called her on my 8

own. But that would have cut Ricky out — I would never 9

have treated a friend like that.

I spent the next day pulling junk out of my basement. It 13

was a day full of the dry husks of spiders and centipedes, 14

and dust on top of oily grime that had been laid down be-15

fore the Civil War. I washed and swept and scrubbed with 16

every brush I had — even my uncle Brent’s old tooth-17

brush. My work yielded six boxes of old books (including 18

three diaries from three generations of Blakeys and 19

Dodds), wooden toys, tools that I couldn’t even figure out 20

how to hold, and so many piles of old clothes that I could 21

only make a stab at separating them. Tuxedos and jeans, 22

fancy dresses and all kinds of undergarment straps, dried-23

up elastics, and buckles. Most of the clothes looked like 24

they could have been for children, but it was just that I 25

had a long line of short people in my family. My parents 26

were only the second generation of big Blakeys. I’m six S 27

foot two. My father was six one.

R 28

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I moved all the furniture out of the living room and 2

brought in the loot, piling it in each of the corners ac-3

cording to type. When the job was done, I sat in the wide 4

seat of the bay window to appreciate my labor.

I liked hard work. A big pile of stones that need to be 6

moved, a field to plow. What I love is a big job that takes 7

muscle and stick-to-itiveness. I’m not into a lot of details 8

or measuring or comparing. I don’t want to build a steam 9

engine; just give me a sledgehammer or a shovel and I can 10

work all day long, all month if I have to.

“Hello?” The voice came from the front door, which was 14

open. “Mr. Blakey?”

I had been asleep. The room around me was dim be-16

cause there was no light on and the sun was setting out-17

side.

“Mr. Blakey?” She was tall and thin, brittle looking on 19

first glance. That was probably because she was so tenta-20

tive coming into a stranger’s home.

“Over here,” I said. My voice was heavy from sleep, but 22

there was a quality to it that was different. I don’t know if 23

you want to call it musical or assured or maybe mature, 24

like a man.

“Charles Blakey?” the tall woman asked.

“Yeah. And I guess you’re Narciss Gully.”

27 S

Hearing her name calmed the skittish woman a bit.

28 R

“Oh,” she said. “It was dark and I didn’t know . . .”

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I went to the wall near where she’d entered the room 1

and turned on the light.

“. . . didn’t know if something was wrong.” She was 3

brown, mostly dark brown, but here and there it light-4

ened a little, lending a subtle texture to her skin. I imag-5

ined the broad sweep of clouds across the earth from an 6

astronaut’s view. Or maybe it was a parchment, incredibly 7

old and almost erased by age and rain, the slight grada-8

tion of color coming from sepia glyphs whose secrets were 9

now gone.

“. . . I mean it was so dark,” she continued, obviously 11

still nervous about coming into a strange man’s house 12

without the proper reception.

I didn’t help to relieve her fears, looking her over, think-14

ing strange thoughts about her skin.

“. . . and you were just sitting there . . .”

“I’ve been working all day pulling stuff out of the cellar 17

because Ricky said you’d come by at eight. I guess I 18

worked so hard that I fell asleep here in the window.” And 19

there it was — the truth. There was no lie in my words, 20

body language, or voice. And again I wondered what had 21

happened. It was almost as if I were in one of my beloved 22

Philip José Farmer fantasies. Like I had gone to sleep in a 23

mundane world and awakened in a fantastical place where 24

the colors were brighter and youth was eternal. It was par-25

tially like that, like some fantasy, but this new world of 26

mine was only subtly different; only my point of view and S 27

clarity of vision had altered.

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“Oh,” Narciss said, looking around the large living 2

room. “There’s a lot, isn’t there?”

She wasn’t a beautiful woman, except for that skin.

Probably my age, give or take. Her face was squarish and 5

the white-rimmed glasses were too big for her features.

Her eyes were a muddy color and her fingers were too 7

long it seemed. But when she splayed out those digits to 8

indicate the immensity of the trove I had uncovered, I 9

appreciated their reach.

“You think it’s worth anything?”

“I can’t tell until I’ve studied it, but it certainly looks in-12

teresting.”

“Hey, Charles?” came another voice.

“In here, Ricky,” I said.

When he came in I was disappointed because he wasn’t 16

carrying a bottle in a bag. Whenever I heard Ricky’s voice, 17

I got the urge to drink. I wondered then how often since 18

we were children that we had been sober together.

“Hey, Narciss. How are you?”

“Fine, Richard,” she said.

“You guys met, huh?”

“Yeah, Cat.” Ricky winced when I called him by his 23

nickname. I didn’t use it again that night.

Narciss was already down on her knees, looking through 25

the toys. She had on close-fitting khaki trousers with a 26

matching woman’s jacket. She took off the jacket, reveal-27 S

ing a loose black T-shirt. She was dressed for hard work.

28 R

While she worked Ricky and I sat side by side in the 56

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window seat, watching her plow through my family’s ac-1

cumulation of junk.

“You wanna go get a shot at Bernie’s?” Ricky asked me.

That meant the drinks were on him. That was our code —

the man who suggested drinks paid for them.

I wanted to go. But I was also interested in everything 6

about Narciss. By then she was sitting in a half-lotus po-7

sition, going over old photographs and letters that my 8

mother kept in a miniature steamer trunk she’d inherited 9

from some aunt or another. With every new letter she 10

clucked her tongue or hummed. I felt like she was a 11

teacher impressed by my homework assignment.

Narciss was marking out a history that would probably 13

have captured the interest of historians and anthropolo-14

gists around the nation. But for me there was only her, 15

scrutinizing a pile of refuse that, if it weren’t for her con-16

cern, I would have used to make a bonfire in the back-17

yard.

S 27

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14 C

Ricky was fidgety. He wasn’t used to sitting around 15

while others worked.

“I saw Clarance last night,” he said.

“What’s he have to say?”

“Nuthin’. He’s gonna add a rumpus room onto the house 19

this summer. He asked if I could work on it, but I told him 20

that I was already working for Wilson Ryder. I told him 21

you were looking for a job, but he didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t have to do me any favors, Ricky,” I said. “I 23

don’t need Clarance’s charity or yours.”

“You need somethin’,” Ricky declared.

He wanted me to take up the bait and fight or make a 26

joke out of it or anything. But I just stuck out my lower 27 S

lip and shrugged. I didn’t have the energy for that kind of 28 R

talk right then. I focused my attention on Narciss. She 58

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was writing down notes on slips of yellow paper, which 1

she attached to different pieces. She also made entries in a 2

small spiral pad she had.

“Hey, Charles?” Ricky said.

“Hey what?”

“Could I use your phone?”

“Local or long distance?”

“I wanna call Bethany. She said that —”

“Okay,” I said, cutting him off. “Make your call.”

Ricky gave me a sullen look and then went into the 10

kitchen to use the ancient Princess phone in there. I heard 11

him say Bethany’s name and then I returned my attention 12

to Narciss.

She seemed extremely competent. Now and then she’d 14

take some reference book or another from her shoulder 15

satchel to prove or disprove some point she was making 16

to herself. She would write more notes and then move on 17

to the next object. In the meanwhile Ricky was laughing 18

and chattering on the phone in the other room.

I was having a fine time in the chilly window seat, 20

watching the earth-toned woman judge my lineage. The 21

moon shone on her, glaring over my shoulder.

“Are you hungry?” I asked Narciss after it was com-23

pletely dark outside.

“I’d like something after I’m done here,” she said.

“We could go over to Dinelli’s in Southampton,” I of-26

fered and immediately I was sorry. I didn’t have a single S 27

paper dollar to my name. I probably didn’t have enough R 28

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Walter Mosley

in change to cover a dinner at Dinelli’s, and my only 2

credit card had been canceled more than a year before.

“That would be nice,” Narciss Gully said.

She turned back to her work, and I jumped up to go to 5

the kitchen.

“Be right back,” I promised.

Ricky was cradling the phone with both hands against 8

his face. His voice was low, and I knew that he must have 9

been getting somewhere with Bethany Baptiste. Bethany 10

was a heavyset young woman who liked food, dancing, 11

and men. She could never get enough of any one of them, 12

and we all loved her for it.

She’d been married once but that didn’t take. Bethany 14

married Lawrence Crelde, but she was in love with 15

Clarance, who was already married. Whenever Clarance 16

called, Bethany came running, and one day when she got 17

back, Lawrence was gone. Bethany wasn’t upset about los-18

ing her husband, but she was devastated when Clarance 19

refused to leave his own wife for her.

Ever since then Bethany was alone. She’d go out with 21

this man or that for a few days or weeks, but something 22

always got in the way. Right now it looked like Ricky was 23

going to be her date. At any other time I would have sat 24

back and waited for him to finish with his line, but right 25

then I had my own troubles.

“Ricky,” I said.

27 S

He waved at me to go away.

28 R

“Ricky,” I said a little louder.

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Again he waved.

“Get off the phone, man. I have to talk to you.”

“It’s Charles Blakey,” he said into the mouthpiece. And 3

then after listening to something, he said to me, “Bethany 4

says hey.”

“Tell her that you have to talk to me for a minute.”

“Let me call you back in five?” he said. Whatever she 7

said must have been promising because Ricky smiled and 8

whispered something so soft that I couldn’t make it out.

“What you want, Charles? Damn. Here I am tryin’ to 10

promote somethin’ an’ you all up in my face.”

“I got to have forty bucks, man. Got to have it.”

“Charles . . .”

“No, Ricky. No games. No fuckin’ around. I don’t have 14

a single dollar bill, but Narciss wants to eat.”

“Who cares what that skinny bitch want?”

“Sh!” I was worried that she might hear us even though 17

we were whispering. “I care.”

All of a sudden Ricky was sly. He let his eyes almost 19

close and then he nodded. “I see,” he said.

“I’ll pay you back the minute this stuff is sold. Fifty dol-21

lars for forty.”

Ricky reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of 23

twenty-dollar bills. He must have had six hundred dollars 24

in his hand. He smiled and peeled off two bills. He handed 25

them over and then grinned again.

“You got what you want now, brother?” he asked me.

S 27

“Thanks,” I said.

R 28

3rd Pass Pages

ManInMyBasemnt_HCtext3P.qxd 10/24/03 8:16 PM Page 62

Walter Mosley

“Well then can I get back on the phone and get what I 2

need?”

Ricky was crooning to Bethany before I had left the 4

room.

I found Narciss holding up a lopsided pink glass vase.

She was scrutinizing every aspect of the vessel like a 7

budget shopper studying a possible buy from an over-8

crowded reject table.

I sat there with knots in my stomach. It made me sick 10

to have to ask Ricky for charity. And watching Narciss sift 11

through my family’s history now somehow made me sad.

The cold from the window worked its way into my gut. I 13

wondered if I was getting sick.

“Oh my,” Narciss said.

“What?”

Instead of answering she came to me with a wooden 17

box held delicately in both her hands. She sat down next 18

to me, placing the old scarred box between us. Other 19

than its obvious age, it was unremarkable. About a foot 20

long and six inches in depth and width, it was plain and 21

held together by smith-made iron hinges. There were 22

three letters roughly carved on the lower right side of the 23

lid — jld.

“Look.” She lifted the lid.

Inside there were three hand-carved masks, rust to dark 26

brown, ivory I was sure. Each one was about five inches 27 S

from crown to chin and three inches from one cheekbone 28 R

to the other. They were simple images with sloping fore-62

3rd Pass Pages

ManInMyBasemnt_HCtext3P.qxd 10/24/03 8:16 PM Page 63

The Man in My Basement

heads and slitted eyes. One was smiling, one possibly feral, 1

and one looked like he was whistling through an O-shaped 2

mouth. They were laid out on an old crumpled newspaper.

Two of the faces had been broken in places but were 4

seamed back together with some kind of adhesive. There 5

was a blue splotch on the delicate chin of the leftmost im-6

age. They were beautiful and commanding, fitting perfectly 7

in the wood box that, I supposed, was built to hold them.

“It’s the history of your history,” Narciss whispered.

The words came to me as truth. I believed I was look-10

ing at the cargo, carried on some European ship, of an 11

African who had sold himself into indentured servitude.

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