Friday, 03 July 2009

• A Minor Blues, Chapter III

  
   FRIDAY NIGHT, September 6, 1935
   
  "He's got strength and and one hard head, that's all. You got the speed
  and the stamina, son. Wear him down, stay away from that right, watch
  when he tucks his left arm in close to his chest, that's when he's gonna try
  a roundhouse like the one that split your cheek".  Grandy struck the cowbell,
  signaling the start of round six, and Delano bounced out of his chair.
  In the opposite corner, Horace Boulware did the same, a little less
  bounce, a little more deliberation. He came at Delano at an angle,
  protecting his punished left side. Out of the corner of his eye, at the
  edge of the crowd, Delano saw Angela Beauchamp, the reason for tonight's
  festivities.

  Spoonbill saw where his young partner was looking. He yelled out,
  "Fight now, pussy later!"  Horace charged, Delano dodged, took a hit on
  his upper arm, then tagged Horace in his pained left side. It was a solid hit,
  and Horace staggered. Delano pressed his advantage, repeated the blow.
  Horace dropped his guard, and Delano pasted a right on the bigger boy's mouth.

  The crowd roared when they saw the blood, even the two deputies who had
  happened on the scene were cheering Delano on now. A sprinkle of dust
  fell from the rafters of the barn, mixing with the smoke-filled air.
  Horace spit out a tooth, his eyes started to regain their focus. Delano
  almost hated to do it, but Angela's lips were waiting, along with the
  rest of her fine black body. He layed a right against Horace's ear, and
  the big boy went down.
  "Spoondog! Spoondog!" To Delano's ears, the hated nickname never sounded
  so good. He raised his arms triumphantly, got locked in an embrace by
  Spoonbill, then lifted up onto two sets of shoulders, from where he could see
  Angela cradling Horace's head in her bare arms. She didn't spare a
  glance for the victor, for whom she was supposed to be the spoils. His
  supporters turned him around, and he saw the deputies ushering a white
  boy out of the barn. It was Frank, Doc Hatton's boy.  Spun around again,
  he saw Horace getting helped to his feet, looking lost. Angela gave
  Delano a look as if he had just slapped her Grandma. Delano was let down
  to his feet, but nowhere near as fast as his heart had been.

  "You should have seen yourself, boy. Jack Johnson would be proud of
  you." Spoonbill had seen the reversal of fortune as well. He gave Delano
  a drink from his flask. The crowd was calming down, some were settling
  their debts, others were denying theirs. As soon as the deputies left,
  there was bound to be more fighting, and more work for Doc Hatton in the
  morning. Spoonbill dabbed at Delano's cheek with an iodine-soaked
  kerchief.
  "There's other women, son. Look at Shondelle over there giving you a
  once-over. She respects a winner. Get cleaned up, I'll keep her busy
  till you get dressed."
  Delano shook Spoonbill's hand off his shoulder, walked outside, ignoring
  the congratulations of the men in his wake. It was a hot humid night,
  but cooler out here by about ten degrees than inside Gandy's barn. He
  didn't want Shondelle, who was at least five years older than him, and
  used one time or another by most everybody in the barn, including the
  deputies.

  "You smoke?" It was the Hatton boy, come out of the shadows, offering
  him a cigarette from the pack in his hand. Silently, Delano took it ,
  thanked him. Frank lit it for him, one for himself. They stood there
  for a minute. Frank broke the silence. "You sure were good in there,
  Spoondog."
  "Better'n Horace was all I had to be. That ain't no big thing".
  "Shit, you looked like Joe Louis in there, knocking out Primo Carnera two
  months ago. Same number of rounds, too. "

  "How you know I looked like Joe?"

  "I seen him in the newsreels. At the movie house in Picayune". That guy
  with the nose taught you to fight?"
  Movie house. Picayune. Delano had never seen either. They were from two
  different worlds, him and Frank. He had only read about other places,
  never seen an ocean. He knew Frank and family had just come back from
  Biloxi after a two-week stay on the beach. Frank was still a white boy,
  but his face had a little color now anyway.

  "Yeah, what he knows, anyhow. He boxed some in the army. In France."
  He said the name of that mythical country as nonchalantly as possible.
  "When he wasn't consorting with French women, he was fighting."

  "Are they different? White women and Negro women?"

  "Shit, I don't know. Spoonbill says they all pink inside." They both
  laughed when this worldly observation caused Frank a choking fit.

  Spoonbill appeared out of nowhere. "This ain't good, young Frank. Your
  Daddy will tan the rest of you, finds out out you been hangin' with the
  coloreds."
  "I just hope the deputies don't say nuthin'. I know your people won't."
  Spoonbill nodded agreement. The blacks probably knew the family trees
  of the town's whites better the whites themselves, most of whom couldn't
  be bothered to learn colored folks names, much less who was kin to
  who. And blacks sure didn't share gossip with anyone not of color.

  "No, we won't. But you best run along anyhow."

  "Could you teach me to box like that, Mr...."
  "Spoonbill is fine, son. I'm used to it. And what would Doc Hatton say to
  that?"
  He doesn't pay much attention to what I do. As long as my grades are
  good, he wouldn't notice if both my eyes were swelled shut."

  "Spoondog here needs a sparring partner, one who cain't hurt him none.
  Right now, you fit that bill". Spoonbill said with a laugh and a long pull
  from his flask. Want some?"

  Frank took the flask, started to wipe the rim. Aware of both Spoons
  looking at him, he put it straight to his lips and took too big a sip.
  Gagging and choking back tears, he passed the hootch to Delano.

  "Was it the whiskey made you gag?" Spoonbill teased, "Or the nigger
  spit?'

  "Both", Frank replied, getting a laugh from Spoonbill and a playful
  punch from Delano.

  "Okay, you get up tomorrow morning before church, and every day 'fore
  school next week, you run to that lake of yours, and back. Every day,
  you run that stretch. Then on Saturday, meet me an' Spoondog here at the
  barn. We'll see what we can do wit' you. One more thing", The older man
  said as he plucked the pack of Lucky Strikes from Frank's shirt pocket.
  "That was your last cigarette, for both of you. Hear me?"
  ---------------------------------------------------

  
  Jack finished his pulled pork sandwich, chased it with a long swallow of
  beer from the plastic glass, and listened to Audie Boulware wrap up the
  tale of his uncle's fight with Spoondog.
  "He married Aunt Angela, they had three kids, a bunch of grandchil'ren,
  he still dwells on that fight to this day."

  "So I know now why he dislikes Spoondog, I guess. Doesn't explain why he
  rejects the possibility that the man didn't fake his death somehow."

  Jack had met Audie when he limped into town, the Grand Prix starting and
  stopping as the last of the gas sloshed in and out of the fuel pump. He
  saw the resemblance between the proprieter of the town's only service
  station and Horace, even with the thirty-five year age difference. The
  round face, widow's peak hairline, wide shoulders, thick fingers, were all
  giveaways. For his part, Audie was curious about a white man that
  could pick out black kin. He was even more curious about Jack's quest,
  which prompted the meal at Ace's Up B-B-Q, on Melissa's nickel. Now they
  were on their second pitcher and Jack's second sandwich, the big man's
  third.

  "Wishful thinkin', I guess, Jack. Hell, I've heard people say that they have
  seen Spoon since then. And then there's the rumor about some record he
  made in '53 or '54."

  Jack hadn't heard these rumors. "What was the name? Any idea?" Audie
  replied while topping off both cups. "Don't know the name, don't know
  the label, just heard tell it was his best ever."

  That was a low bar, Jack thought to himself. He changed the subject.
  "What about his kin? Any left around here?"

  "Never was none but his Mama's stepsister. No one knew who the Daddy
  was, his Mama died birthing him. All the aunt did for him was give him a
  last name and a bed. All this is before my time. I heard stuff as a kid
  from Uncle Horace, and old man Grandy before he died. I remember hearing
  how Delano was smarter than the teacher the state sent to town to teach
  us Negroes how lucky we were."

  It was Audie's turn to ask a question. "I guess he's alive, you say he
  sent a letter to Doc Hatton's boy. Here it is, 2000. That makes him
  eighty, eighty-one. Where do you suppose he is? And how did he know
  Frank had died?"

  Jack had wondered about that himself. "Maybe he's internet savvy, maybe
  he and Frank stayed in touch. After all, he knew Melissa's married name
  and address. I haven't got that angle figured out yet. I still have a Georgia
  connection to check out. That P.O. box in Atlanta, and Spoon's big hit
  was recorded in Augusta. I will be headed that way soon".

  Jack drained his cup and got to his feet, listed toward the restroom
  sign, talking louder than he meant to as he went. "A matter of fact,
  Brother Audie, I need to get goin', fin' me a motel."

  When he returned, he saw a fresh pitcher on the checkerclothed table,
  which Audie was picking up with exaggerated care.

  "Whoa, Br'er Audie! Thanks, but I've gotta hit the road, man. I'm
  jailbait already."

  "Truer words never passed a pair of lips, son. Thusly, you are not driving
  anywhere tonight." Audie set the pitcher down after filling both cups, a
  commercial-perfect drip of foam running down the side of each.

  "Sez who?"

  "Sez br'er Sheriff, boy." Audie flashed the badge pinned inside his
  wallet, then slid it back in his hip pocket. Now, sit down, and let's finish
  this pitcher."

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