|
Chapters One and Two
WARDADDY Book Preview
WARDADDY
by
James Anthony Allen
Welcome to Willie’s World
CHAPTER
ONE
Unrelenting, albeit subtle, the odor
invading the space where Olivia now sat was pitiless. Having
traveled many miles to Jasper Williams nursing home, she was hoping
at long last to discover the truth about her father. Before her,
sitting gracious and benevolent in a tattered rocking chair,
Olivia's beloved 82-year-old Grandmother Mabel swayed gently back
and forth, back and forth; the creaking noise of the rocker as
persistent as Olivia's urgency. Glancing out the single window
gracing this modest room, Olivia's soulful eyes observed the North
Carolina landscape hinting at the promise of autumn. She also found
the closed-in atmosphere, the trace of strong disinfectant, the lazy
horsefly sluggishly climbing the fraying lace curtain, all
conspiring to relay untold tales of numerous souls passing
through—each leaving a small residual of a very unambiguous scent:
The smell of waiting, the promise of deliverance, the peculiar
patience of embracing an absolute finality: Death. She shivered
turning her focus back to Mabel. And without a doubt in her
unsettled heart, Olivia realized time was no longer on her side…
Sitting rigidly in the high-backed, heavily lacquered
chair Olivia finally mustered the courage to simply come out and ask
Mabel to tell her what really happened that tumultuous day, during
those stormy times; unspeakable times which Olivia never knew the
full details. Something inside of her yearned to know what actually
happened to her father, what went on inside his head, inside his
mind. Frustrated, Olivia had previously spoken with her father's
doctors whom had instantly evoked doctor-patient privilege.
His mother, Olivia's Grandmother, would know... Mabel was the only
one who might truly grasp the mystery, the only one best qualified
to tell the tale properly. Would she allow Olivia to venture into
that dark, shadowy world? Would she tell her the secrets of her
father's lifetime? Or would Mabel take them to her silent grave, the
guardian of a family shame too deep, too dark to reveal? Olivia
needed to know.
Olivia's siblings didn't want to talk about her father.
And when they did speak, they singularly or collectively danced
around what Olivia assumed to be the genuine issues. Could she
extract the horrifying details before her Grandmother was too old
too remember, before embracing the inevitable end? Before passing
into the next realm?
What lashed-out without mercy at her father's once
razor-sharp wits? Olivia agonized. Was it something real, or
otherwise? Had her father imagined, or worse, fully experienced some
ill-conceived pain? And how was Grandmamma coping with the pain of
loss? Could Daddy have possibly known what was happening to him, to
his family? Or was it something so darkly malevolent Olivia's
Grandmother never wanted to acknowledge out loud? Was she now about
to break an inexplicable barrier within herself at this late age?
Mabel Jones, eighty-two, a touchingly frail frame of a woman with a
strong, steadfast soul, sat up straight in the rocking chair staring
at her aching wrinkled hands. These ghoulish, now-twisted
instruments once nurtured her son so tenderly, but also witnessed
and abetted a heinous crime. Haunted, Mabel's gray head shook from
the gentle onslaught of Parkinson’s disease.
Francesca, Mabel’s great grand-daughter, and Olivia's
little girl, looked out the small window at the stirring wind. A
lone bird feeder swung forlornly in the growing gust. The whirling
sand and the first flying leaves on the other side of the pane
mesmerized the vibrant four-year-old.
She was bored by the grown-up talk. Her Great
Grandmother’s suffering was of little interest to her. She found
more appeal in the mixture of dust, wind, and leaves in the
abandoned acre behind the nursing home. Francesca had flattened her
Kente-clothed doll against the window to share the view. Quickly
snapping her head from the window Francesca heard the determined
shrill of her mother’s voice.
“Grandmamma, Grandmamma!” Olivia said, tenderly shaking
her Mabel's shoulder.
She startled Mabel out of her daydream. Mabel struggled fitfully to
escape the overwhelming pull of memory, to remain in the present,
having been momentarily caught between the two.
“Girl... I remember that day... like it was yesta’dy.”
She said, solemnly. “I could’a died.”
“It like’ta killed me, her voice now croaking with what sounded as
an endless and timeless sorrow. I would’ve died for him, ya know.”
Mabel looked at Olivia with tender, world-worn eyes.
The look of a mother holding a newborn baby after being informed
that the baby had a terminal illness.
“Sonny was a planner—knew what he wanted. When his life
didn’t turn out like he ‘spected... he just unraveled.”
She looked fiercely past Olivia, over to the window,
seemingly right through Francesca. It was a long hard stare, as if
she could see a storm which neither Olivia nor Francesca could
perceive. Indeed she saw something larger, more deadly than the
actual storm approaching. Mabel was visualizing something that had
already been: The lives of her past loved ones. And one more life in
the tussle, her life perhaps; no, not her life but the life of her
dearest—her most prized.
“I never suspected it... never saw it comin’.” Mabel’s
gaze shifted from the window to her hands. She strummed her fingers
on their tips. “Everybody thought he was mean like his Daddy… like
your papa, ya know.”
“I still can’t believe it,” Olivia said in a slow quiet
voice. “No one ever explained to me what really happened.”
“Papa always said, ‘The old man said, that if you
didn’t plan to go nowhere, you’d be surprised how fast you got
there.’” She paused to think. “That’s one thing about my Sonny... he
knew that planning was the key.”
Just then a uniformed nurse barged into the room where
Olivia and Mabel were speaking. She was harried, angry because Mabel
no longer in her bed, but sitting in the rocking chair instead.
“Mrs. Jones, you know you shouldn’t be sitting up like
that.”
“I know, darling,” Mabel said patiently.
“Please let your bed do its work, Mrs. Jones,” the
nurse said as she led the fragile Mabel to the inclined the bed and
fluffing the pillows before Mabel lay back, sinking deeply into the
all-too-familiar comfort.
“Grandmamma?” said Olivia.
She hesitated the prompting of getting her Grandmother
started on a subject she had evidently avoided for so many years.
She had noted Mabel’s unusually harsh response to the mere mention
of the circumstances surrounding her father’s death. Olivia,
however, operated out of a sense of necessity. Now desperate for
information, she forced back the feeling she might already be too
late.
“Would you tell me the whole story from the beginning?”
“The beginning,” Mabel stopped to think. “Too doting,
they said.” “Too doting…”
Mabel looked slowly, deeply, painfully into Olivia’s
chocolatey grey-green eyes. Speaking softly she whispered, “What do
you think?” Mabel was afraid to answer the question herself, fearful
of the inexpressible truth, unwilling to fight the remorseless
demons.
This was one of those recurring, haunting questions
with which we often live. Olivia's was a grave question—one that, if
not handled properly, nor even discussed, would haunt us to the
tomb. Oftentimes such questions follow us into the very ground where
we are laid to rest. Mabel now listened for an answer from deep
within—coursing through her very bloodline; within the spirit of
God’s nature that lived inside of her.
Olivia pondered the question. She wondered where she was heading
with such (dangerous?) probing. How could this have anything to do
with the events which she now needed to know? Was Mabel going to a
place she didn’t expect or even want to visit, or was this her
attempt to throw Olivia off course? Either way, she thought, I must
get her to talk; she must tell me the truth before it’s too late.
“Classic text book, they said...” Mabel trailed off.
Now Olivia’s eyes had a puzzled, questioning look, a
sincere desire to comprehend Mabel. Her preoccupation, she hoped,
was about to be pacified. Olivia didn’t know what to think about the
issues to which Grandmamma had alluded, or the questions she herself
was asking. Still, Olivia was solely hopeful that her trip was not
in vain.
I’m not quite with her, Olivia thought. I’m not
up-to-speed with where Grandmama's going… or where she’s coming
from… and perhaps that's a remnant of Mabel's generation. But, here
I am right now, today… and I have nothing to lose.
Mabel reached back into her memory then, suddenly,
called to mind. “Your Daddy built his own house before he was
thirty. Did you know that?”
“No ma’am, I did not,” answered Olivia, awestruck.
“Your parents did without for a long time until they
moved. They stayed with Willie Sr. and me for quite some time. They
made do. But you wouldn’t know nothin’ ‘bout doing without,” Mabel
said disdainfully. “Your Daddy took good care of y’all!”
Mabel’s face transitioned to a distant place, to a
weary, exhausting time. She remembered her tiresome, dusty days as a
sharecropper’s daughter. Working in the steamy, unforgiving cotton
fields in Franklin County, North Carolina, slopping the massive
“special occasion” hogs (that’s what she used to call them, anyway).
She conjured the backbreaking task of hoeing the garden—with its
assortment of multicolored, seasonal vegetables—from sun-up to
sun-down. Upon finishing tilling and weeding, Mabel would then head
to the big house to perform domestic chores. One thing was for
certain though; Mabel couldn’t wait to get out of there.
There never was any time for Mabel Jones herself. And, as is the
case with most young ladies of her stance in America, not having any
time is what prompted her to leave home for marriage at an all too
early age. But, oh my, that Willie Sr. was such a lady’s man. He’d
come over to the house to call upon Mabel with a confident, swagger;
dishing up nothing but well-seasoned, irresistible flattery for
Mabel and, of course, Mabel's mama. Always, Willie, Sr. was forever
dressed sharp as a carpenter’s tack complete with his Dobb’s straw
hat jauntily cocked to one side as was his special fashion of the
day. She never saw him without a suit on until she married him.
Fine. Just fine, she mused, Willie Sr. and his friends.
“‘Buddy’,” Mabel murmured, reminiscing out loud. “They
used to call him ‘Buddy,’” she said, giggling sheepishly as if she
had long lost such a talent.
“Who, Daddy?, Asked Olivia. They used to call Daddy
‘Buddy’?”
Mabel didn’t hear her.
“Grandmamma, did folks used to call Daddy ‘Buddy’?”
Olivia inquired once more, breaking Mabel’s concentration.
“No, darling,” Mabel said gruffly, “yo’ papa, they used
to call yo’ papa ‘Buddy’.”
Mabel then remembered Willie Sr.’s tendency to quickly
demonstrate his violent streak. She pondered how odd it seemed for
her son Willie, Jr. to occasionally display similar inclinations,
though for the most part, her son had such a pleasant disposition.
Quivering lips, moist with the beat of events neither
too current nor too distant for Mabel, her mind’s eye flowed freely
with the long forgotten emotions of her loving heart. The difficult
events of which she would no doubt speak of with her granddaughter
were as real to her now as they were when they happened. Olivia
wondered if Mabel would have the strength to carry her back to those
horrific events and return safely. However, Olivia did not know her
Grandmother as well as she thought.
“Papa was too rigid, and Willie too soft,” she forged
ahead taking her time, “That’s what they said, you know. What do you
think, honey?”
Olivia didn’t know what to think. She only shrugged her
shoulders with resolve. After all, this is why she was here. Mabel’s
granddaughter wanted to know more about what happened to her father
while she was away in college. She never could get anything out of
anybody. No, she didn’t know what to think; that’s why she listened
so attentively.
“I don’t know,” Olivia mumbled through pursed lips.
Mabel suddenly became very animated. “Seems like
yesta’dy Willie became a master mason. I’d tell him, ‘You can’t wait
‘til you' 40-years-old to be a promising young man. What you think
of most of the time is what you will be.’” She turned from Olivia to
her great granddaughter Francesca, “And that goes for you too, young
lady.”
Francesca wasn’t really paying attention. Olivia was
surprised how all of a sudden Mabel was bubbly, full of energy,
almost vibrant. Mabel leaned forward to put more heartiness in her
voice.
“Girlie! Francesca! Listen to your Great-Grandmma
Mabel.”
Francesca turned on her heels, not knowing whether she
was in trouble for something or not. “Yes, Grandma. Uh-huh, Great-Grandmama.”
She said distractedly.
“Girlie, you’re not too young to start planting those
thought seeds in your head. You can be a doctor, you know.” Mabel
mused.
“Yes ma’am.”
Mabel leaned back to relax again, now secure in the
fact that Francesca was paying full attention.
Planning what one wanted to be was something which
Olivia could relate. Her plan had always included becoming a lawyer.
Not just any lawyer, but a corporate lawyer. She had planned,
studied and worked very hard in law school. And her hard work and
planning had finally paid-off.
Practicing law with the largest corporate firm in New
York City, Olivia was part of a firm responsible for some of the
largest takeovers, mergers, and acquisitions in the United States
She oft-times marveled at her good fortune—being a young black woman
entrusted with such responsibility. The money was good, as well. Her
Fifth Avenue apartment and garaged Mercedes were testament to such
luck.
But despite Olivia’s success, the great gaping hole
left by her father’s untimely and violent departure seem to
perpetually gnaw her gut. She wondered whether her father's plight
played a role in the string of bad relationships she had weathered.
There was the powerful firm partner, who attempted, unsuccessfully,
to get her fired when she finally broke things off; the young judge,
whose scandalized wife denied him sex upon learning of the affair,
(and it was the Judge's wife who left Olivia vitriolic voice-mails
to the salutation of “black heifer”). Plus there were several sweet
gentlemen with whom the flame burned warmly at first… but, despite
eligibility and even compatibility, that very same flame would
somehow inexplicable flicker and die—as a candle unattended in a
drafty, open window.
Mabel settled down into a more solemn demeanor. “He
knew what he wanted, my boy, he did,” she shrugged, “now this...” An
uncomfortable drain of energy caused her shoulders to droop.
“Maybe Willie Sr. was too hard. Maybe I was too soft.
Maybe Willie Jr. was sick. I don’t know what to think. People at
church seem to think it was a demon. Still, there was trouble from
the start. And it only got worse.”
Mabel’s thoughts faded as she did, into the yesterday’s
world. She sighed despondently as her head weighed heavily upon the
pillows.
***
CHAPTER
TWO
I
t was daybreak and the North Carolina
temperature was steadily rising. A finely-tuned ear could almost
hear evaporation teasing the moisture from the dampened surfaces of
the nearby grasses. The sun seared the lingering dew that rest
lazily on the gnarly, tangled kudzu weeds dotting the landscape.
Dawn’s moisture turned into minuscule waifs of steam that rose
dutifully towards heaven. The construction site continually fought a
courageous battle to keep the exponential kudzu growth from any
available soil. Soon it wouldn’t matter. In six months the project
would be complete.
Two pairs of boots walked through one of the many mud puddles. The
worn work trousers of Willie Jr. and Bubba Johnson—Willie’s friend
and co-worker— flapped in near unison, spreading flecks of wet dirt
forward and backward as they moved. Bubba and Willie walked briskly
to their section of the construction site. Each one greeted assorted
assemblies of younger African-American brick masons and apprentices
as they passed.
“Good morning,” Bubba said.
“How y’all doin’ today?” Willie asked, with the
confident assurance of a man radiating great pride.
Willie Thomas Jones, Jr. knew he had gained the respect
and admiration of most of the brick masons on the job site; and this
included that of both whites and African-Americans. He was among the
best in the State. Efficient as he was as fast with his tools;
Willie was bright too. A handsome man cutting a dash with the
ladies, his work ethic was exemplary. It was never an issue to stay
late if necessary, and he had no problem going the extra mile
whenever required.
Willie had no desire to stop at day’s end if his
section of the wall or structure was not yet complete. It was
rumored that if the lights stay on all night, and there was someone
to mix the cement, Willie Thomas Jones Jr. would remain at the site
until the job was finished. That’s the sort of guy Willie was—some
would figure him a "hard working fool."
Willie's co-workers found it hard to comprehend why a
man with such a beautiful wife and adoring family would want to work
so long and hard, at such a difficult job. This little gem of common
knowledge was notorious because Willie so often left for work so
early in the morning.
And on larger construction sites, which were often
pressed for time, Willie would work ceaselessly, taking no days off,
for weeks on end.
Most of the other masons had concluded that work was
just that: a job, nothing but a whole lot of labor. But it was
exactly his unusual work ethic that stood Willie out from the rest
of the crowd, what made him special. To Willie, his chosen
occupation was a chance to create something concrete, a masterpiece,
an object of beauty, a solid, tangible something. It was a way to
leave a legacy. Something people could never discount. His
confidence was often boosted when he drove by a building on which he
had worked; one which he knew his sweat, his labor, his hands had
assisted in constructing. It was both a satisfying and grounding
experience for him. Seeing these buildings of which he contributed
made him feel as if he was a genuine part of the world, not like a
second class citizen, but a member of the community in a way that
would outlast his short stay on Earth.
“Good morning,” said the younger guys aching for a
moment of Willie’s attention, “how y’all doing?”
“Jus’ fine, jus’ fine,” Willie would smile.
As Bubba and Willie approached their destination, they
spotted Jimmy Bugg, known as the "Bug Man” in Jimmy's circle. He
received this moniker because he was always "buggin." Jimmy, for
some reason or another harbored a tasteless disdain for Willie. Not
reserved for Willie alone, but for everything Jimmy Bugg believed
Willie represented. Jimmy held Willie’s entire world in contempt.
Jimmy Bugg wasn’t married and the guys at work assumed
this was why he had such a nasty attitude—because he wasn’t getting
any, shall we say, female companionship. Bug Man was a dark-skinned
and husky and not much liked by his supervisors. But they all had to
admit that Jimmy was without doubt one hell of a brick mason. This
well-seasoned reputation allowed Jimmy Bugg to strut his stuff
around the job site virtually unchallenged. He knew he wasn’t the
best African-American mason of the construction site, but he most
certainly wanted to be.
Jimmy believed Willie to be a mama’s boy, too soft—not
the rugged "ladies’ man" he considered himself to be. The soft dark
curls on Willie’s head (that he tended so carefully) coupled with
the tight swirls of hair covering his thick chest and washboard
stomach were, to Bugg anyway, a sign that perhaps Willie wasn’t all
man. Bugg thought any man who took too much care of himself was
probably suspect, vain… maybe even gay. And Bugg couldn’t stomach
such a thought.
A strapping six feet two inches tall, Willie was a
formidable figure. Years of hard, grueling labor had gifted him with
a taut, powerful body complete with bulging muscles. Ripples
strained against Willie's clothes as he worked, not unlike the
dignified efficiency of a racing stallion, bred and trained by the
best of the best. Bugg, on the other hand, was sloppy in appearance,
tending minimally to his physical form, as well as his overall
grooming habits.
Willie’s hands indeed revealed his hard work; but he
kept the severe nature of his labor secret by using lotion on them.
They were large with square palms, like the long, strong fingers of
a surgeon. He paid particular attention to his fingernails;
frequently filing away broken edges while keeping them clean
underneath. Unlike most masons, his hands were surprisingly supple
and free from scars. He kept his hands in this manner for loving his
sweet wife, Jackie.
Bugg believed many things about Willie which were not
true. He believed many things about himself which were not true as
well. Jimmy’s allies were equally envious and resentful of Willie.
They looked on in disgust.
Willie ignored the bunch as he and Bubba got closer.
“How you boys doing?” Bubba said anticipating some type
of antagonizing comment or body movement.
“Just fine,” said Jimmy’s cohorts.
“If it’s any yo’ bid'ness,” Jimmy retorted.
“Can it Jimmy!” Bubba knew he had to curb any
confrontation. “Nobody wants it or needs it from you this early in
the morning.”
“‘Cept maybe you, huh, Willie boy?” Jimmy taunted.
“Don’t you want it, Willie?” Jimmy asked, holding his crouch.
A few guys chuckled but most were silent in respect for
Willie.
“I know you sweet Willie. I’m sweet too. I’m sweet for
the honeys—sweet for yo' Jackie. You’re sweet ‘cause you a weak
mama’s boy.”
“I said can it Jimmy!” Bubba repeated rushing to get in
Jimmy’s face.
Bubba knew that the best way to handle these guys was
to go for the Jimmy's jugular—or that of whomever was commanding
negative attention at any particular time—and shoot him down like a
World War II Fighter. Willie and Bubba moved steadfastly
towards their work area.
"Toothless Mitchell," an apprentice, his crooked smile
revealing a large space where his front teeth should've been,
brought up the rear. “M-m-m-morning y’all!”
“Good morning, ‘T’,” Bubba said, noting that Willie had
copped an attitude from the encounter with Bugg.
It was time for an attitude adjustment. Bubba knew that Willie had a
short fuse connected to a soft spot. And Jimmy had laid fire to it
already this morning. Now it was up to Bubba, as had always been the
case since he had grown to know and respect Willie, to either wisely
lengthen the fuse, or put out the sparks.
“Hey, Willie,” Bubba said, “How you liking the new room
you added on?”
“Y-y-yeah!” added Toothless, “d-d-didn’t take you long
to b-b-build it.”
“Jackie’s decorating it and I love it,” Willie said,
with a gratifying light entering his eyes. “Oh, I tell you man, life
couldn’t be better... mighty fine, things are mighty fine.”
That was enough to get his mind off the pain inflicted
by Jimmy's tactless jibe and onto something more pleasant. Bubba
also knew every day he came to a job site where Jimmy was also
working; there would surely be a malicious, conscious effort to stir
up trouble from the “Bugg Man”.
“Well she sure is a beauty,” Bubba said, stroking
Willie’s ego.
If Willie didn’t know Bubba better, he would have
thought that he was making reference to Jackie, his wife, but this
was his loyal friend, Bubba. If it had been Bugg, he would have to
come to the defense of his family by confronting him. Willie shot
Bubba a curious little glance, a peculiar look which Bubba had seen
before, but one directed to others and not himself.
“W-W-Willie, you c-c-could of built a house,” Toothless
said oblivious to any tension in the air, “in a m-m-month if you’d
wanted t-t-to, couldn’t you?”
Toothless was as serious as a blood clot talking to a
heart attack; and dumber than the dullest pair of scissors in the
drawer. He really truly loved and respected Willie. Willie was as
honest as he was quick with his tools. It was hard for him to listen
to Toothless and his nonsense sometimes. Bubba had taught Willie to
take what ‘T’ said with a grain of salt, because it wasn’t
Toothless’ fault that he was slower than tree sap in the freezer.
Willie shook his head at Toothless’ admiring idiocy.
“Come on, let’s get to work!”
The sun baked the arms and necks of the brick masons as
they toiled in the brutality of its fire. These summer days were
cruel and unsympathetic. But a roasting brick mason had only to
imagine those cold winter days ahead (when work was scarce if
available at all), to appreciate such merciless boiling where money
was hard earned. There was plenty of work now. Willie Jr. and Jimmy
Bugg were progressing towards the middle on the same wall. They
moved dangerously closer... and closer still.
“Willie, my boy,” Jimmy said contemptuously, “you think
you’re so good,” Jimmy taunted, “I’m a better man than you’ll ever
be.” And with that provoking crack he chuckled, brimming over with
confidence. Jimmy continued, “Better man than you ever dreamed of.”
“Come off it Bugg. Don’t start nothin’,” Willie said.
“You buggin’!”
The younger masons laughed at Willie Jr.’s comment.
Toothless laughed, “B-b-buggin’!? Buggin’!”
Winny, a brick mason neutral to all causes except his
own, joined in the laughter. He laughed hysterically,
“Did you hear what Willie said, “buggin’?! Bugg’s buggin’!”
Toothless continued to laugh, pointing to Bugg. “Yeah,
J-J-Jimmy the bug man, b-b-buggin’!”
“That sounds like a dance!” Winny said.
Winny did a comical jig. Wiggling his butt, he jumped
around like a chicken with its head cut off. This irritated Jimmy to
no end.
Bugg voiced more loudly, “You think you’re better than
the rest of us. You’re tryin’ to be like the Man, ain’t you Willie
boy?”
“I ain’t got time for this,” Willie Jr. barked. “What
you tryin’ to prove Bugg?”
“I’m tryin’ to prove that a mama’s boy can’t do a man’s
job!”
The younger masons in the background groaned “Uuuhhhh”.
Willie could never figure out just what he had done to
Jimmy Bugg that caused him to be so confrontational. It must be
jealousy. If that wasn’t the cause, Willie thought, or the root of a
larger problem, then Jimmy wanted a challenge. Jimmy’s testosterone
level was high, as always. He just REALLY needs to get laid. Willie
giggled to himself strangely. Realistically, Willie thought, it must
be the by-product of Continental Tribalism. Willie believed a great
deal of the black-on-black violence was due to ancient tribal
rivalries which long ago had been imbedded into African genetic
codes. Willie, however, had not discounted the pressures of American
society. He believed societal pressures acted as a catalyst for
discord in a contrary world. Jimmy was from the wrong tribe… The
slave trader’s tribe.
It was a long standing belief which Willie held
closely; the tribal conflicts which existed hundreds of years ago in
Africa persisted through the generations in the subtle and brutal
way people of color fought amongst themselves. Instead of fighting
the thorn in their sides, plucking it out carefully, they chose
instead to scratch at it, and pull at one another like cats in heat,
expelling screams in the middle of a hot summer night. And so it was
with the people of color who were in America. Willie believed his
culture and people was destined to struggle with its genetic
composition to overcome the ugliness until their vision became
unimpeded and focused.
Profoundly deep within his psyche, Willie actually
admired Bugg. He had a genuine appreciation of Bugg's strength; and
the way he spoke his mind about circumstances which seemed relevant
to him. Sometimes, though, it didn't matter what the other person
thought about him, or how deeply Jimmy's sharp tongue could injure
feelings, Bugg would just let it fly. Jimmy would tell folks exactly
what he thought—as if what he believed in fact mattered.
How many a time has Bugg stepped on my toes and got
away clean? Willie’s thoughts were focused, but intent on keeping
the peace. No abuse, no hassle—I’m trying to do the right thing and
all. The more Willie considered this, the angrier he became. Angry
with Jimmy, angry with anyone who tried to bring him down—to hunt,
er... hurt him or his family, Willie thought. And Willie’s eyes
became fixed.
Willie had everything spelled-out for himself and his
world. He had the lot planned to a ‘T’. He knew what he wanted in
life and nobody was going to interfere with it. Becoming a
supervisor, then a foreman, and finally becoming a contractor with
his own crew were his goals. He had two beautiful children and
wanted no more. He had a lovely wife, Jackie, who attracted
attention as a fine Arabian mare on parade, muscles lean and firm,
head held high and proud.
And proud Jackie was; proud regardless of her lack of
college education or her impoverished upbringing. She was filled
with pride, though she and Willie lived with his parents for the
first years of their marriage. Yet struggling everyday, with pride
as her ally, Jackie was kept quite busy keeping Willie’s parents
from choking her, from smothering him, and from strangling their
relationship. Pride exalted her lovely face, perfectly made up at
all times, even at home. She changed clothes obsessively because as
a child she had but a few. She acted as if what she wore in the
morning would be old and soiled by afternoon.
Jackie chose her jewelry—although costume jewels
at best—with exacting care. Each piece of jewelry, each dress, skirt
or blouse she wore, flattered her chiseled features, perfectly
complimenting her fine-boned frame. And it was this very pride that
would betray her in time; causing her to ignore the signs which
signaled her perfect world was in serious trouble.
Willie refused to let her work; not even in a
department store where she would have fit in divinely. She
diligently, lovingly cared for the children, the house, and Willie,
whom she adored. She was as happy as she thought any individual
could be. Until Nicholas.
Willie built his house before he was thirty years old.
This fact alone required a great deal of sacrifice. He and Jackie
lived with his parents until the house was complete. And he was just
grateful to the Almighty for allowing Jackie the patience to endure
the constant pampering received from his mother. This fussing-over
and its hellish nature grieved Jackie. She never wanted anyone, much
less another woman, to lay hands on her Willie’s face. She wished to
be the only person to take care of her man, and to do everything for
him. Mabel was in the way of Jackie’s compulsive desire to totally
spoil her husband. Jackie so often clashed with Mabel’s
uncontrollable need to indulge Willie. She had done so his entire
life… that is until Willie met Jackie. Jackie did not want anyone,
not even Willie's own mother to do anything for him that Jackie
could do.
Jackie wanted to spoil him with her cooking. And found
she was unable do so while they stayed with Willie’s parents. She
wanted to lavish him with her lovemaking rendering him breathless.
She wanted to share her body with Willie tenderly, sweetly, rough
and hard, at all times and in all places. She wanted Willie to
receive her womanhood in every room at all hours. She longed to pull
off and toss her clothes aside with abandon, have him take her when
he was home sweaty and dirty; and when he was fresh from the bath.
She wanted to step naked from the shower, display her perfect body
showing-off firm, well-rounded buttocks and perky breasts that stood
at attention at the mere thought of her husband. And she harbored
this unabashed passion for him alone. She wanted to lie on the sofa
in the after-glow of their lovemaking and feel his sweat on her. She
desired most of all, the freedom to love her man at any time in any
way.
Jackie loathed having to cover up from the bath, having
to stifle her cries of ecstasy and subdue their excitement. She
disliked Mabel’s knowing looks, Willie Sr.’s leering eyes. She knew,
or at least imagined, Willie's parents listening to them while they
made love. The thought of which was a bitterness which no words or
time could heal. It alarmed Jackie to think that a perhaps drop of
this bitterness manifested as resentment towards her darling Willie.
Jackie yearned to have her own house, to make it a home
in her own fashion. She wished to make it the best place a young
family such as hers could have. When she and Willie finally moved
out, they did so hastily. The shifting of households meant the
breaking free of Mabel’s tethering to Jackie, and Willie Sr.’s bonds
to Willie Jr. It meant moving into a cozy, welcoming place—their
paradise. And so it was. After the move, Willie and Jackie felt as
though they had walked out of a cave into the sunlight. Although the
bitterness Jackie felt towards Mabel and Willie Sr. never quite left
her completely, her resentment towards Willie was at least safely
buried, if not forgotten … For now …
Back at the construction site, back to the reality of
Jimmy Bugg's unsolicited anger, Willie felt an inordinate amount of
negative emotion surrounding thoughts of his parents that, without
warning and quite suddenly, became a focus on the situation at hand.
Turn the other cheek, don’t start trouble at work;
after all, I got a wife and two children to feed now. Willie tried
to convince himself not to get involved, but his emotions were
getting the best of him—or was it emotion? He had never before felt
this new rush of strength, of mental energy. It was different. It
was strong, not easily controlled. Jimmy Bugg was bringing it forth
in Willie—the rage, the exasperation.
And here that clown comes, bringing trouble. But am I squirming too
much under Bugg’s thumb? Am I really a mama’s boy?
Bugg had indeed gotten under Willie’s skin. And Willie
had to do something. Pride was demanding he stand up, be a man...
and fight.
This has to stop. I’m starting to look appear a lot
like the person Bugg was always ridiculing—but I know I’m not that
person—or am I?
Willie pulled his trowel across a brick with a zing!
His eyes darkened and cut into Bugg. “What’ll it be, Buggman?”
Bubba shrewdly stepped in between the men. “Three rows,
starting at opposite ends. The first man to hit the middle the
second time down is the winner,” he said anticipating the
suggestion.
Willie Jr. and Bugg became locked in hateful stares.
They fixed angrily into each others eyes, not turning to acknowledge
Bubba’s diplomacy. Just staring defiantly at one another. If anger
had a charge, both men would have been electrocuted.
“Right!” said both Willie and Bugg in unison.
The job site was in pandemonium. Willie and Bugg
marched off to the end of the wall. The younger masons made bets on
who was going to win. Not that anyone really cared, but this somehow
took them away from the difficult labor at hand. And it broke up yet
another monotonous day. Besides, there was money to be made from
this foray.
Money and cigarettes exchanged hands. White workers in
the distance looked on with curious indifference towards the
excitement. The younger masons held their crotches, laughed, and
slapped each other on the back.
Willie and Bugg squared off.
Toothless, filled with the exhilaration of the moment
said, “On your m-m-mark...”
Willie, tense and nervous, prepared to begin.
“Get s-s-set,”
Bugg was furious because he couldn’t believe this wimp
had dared to challenge him. He was also delighted because he could
finally realize his foreseen destiny; to show everybody how much
better he was than Willie. He sneered fiendishly.
Toothless faked as if he was going to say "Go!" …
hesitated … then shouted, “G-G-Go!”
Their trowels zinged as Willie and Bugg slapped cement
onto the waiting bricks. The black masons rooted, cheered, and
smacked hands with both low and high fives. They hit hard hats
together which heightened not only the immediate tension on the job
site, but also affected the performance of their respective leaders.
For the masons witnessing the spectacle, it was entertainment. For
the participants, it was war.
Willie Jr.’s hands and eyes concentrated with rapt
attention on the bricks as he laid one after the other. Bugg’s hands
and eyes were filled with malice. He turned around to glower at
Willie.
Bugg worked to the middle first. Bugg’s alliance of
masons laughed, cheering with loud exuberance, slapped each other on
the back. Profuse sweat poured into Willie Jr.’s eyes as he reached
the middle and had to cut a brick in half with his trowel to fit it
into space left by Bugg. The wall had to be perfect and functional;
after all, they were at work. Willie’s alliance showed concern for
their hero who had dropped a number of bricks and scrambled
frantically to retrieve them as he craned his neck to see Jimmy.
On the second row Bugg was ahead, but not by much.
Willie had suitably regained his composure. By the end of the second
row, Willie Jr. had caught up to Bugg. Willie’s camp of masons
slapped each other on their backs as the excitement rose. Willie
Jr.’s eyes remained fixed firmly on the bricks.
Bugg kept sneaking peeks at Willie. On the third and
final row, the cheering increased. Willie kept slamming the bricks
onto the mortar, scooping additional mortar with the trowel,
slinging and spreading the mixture on the growing wall and smacking
the even more bricks onto the mortar.
Jimmy shot nervous glances towards Willie and his
superior skills. Ultimately those highly-seasoned masonry talents
gave Willie the lead in this rivalry. Bugg noticed Willie Jr. was
seven bricks ahead of him. He tapped his last brick into place with
his trowel, crushing Jimmy with a powerless defeat. But Jimmy Bugg
was tough. It would only take a short while for him to bounce back
from this trouncing with more vitriolic lip-service.
The job site erupted in thunderous jubilation. Bubba
rushed over to congratulate Willie Jr. Willie turned to Bubba who
stood with his trowel in the air. They smack trowels ceremoniously.
The younger masons whooped and hollered and, once again, cigarettes
and money changed hands in a redistribution of wealth and alliances.
Bugg’s men were sullen, yet underneath most knew Willie
to be the better mason. It was Willie's seemingly superior attitude
and high-brow demeanor they detested the most—his confidence and
self-assuredness. On that basis alone, they allied with Bugg. Bugg
was fairly defeated, but only for the moment. In Bugg’s eyes blazed
the cool calm of one giving birth to a strategy for revenge.
* * *
END OF PREVIEW
|
