corner. Sing one of your pretty songs. You might get a week at the Apollo on the Gospel Caravan.”
“Essie would drop dead,” said Laura.
“Rape Essie!” said Buddy.
Grinding of brakes in the street below as a too-fast car comes to a sudden stop.
“How much should we sell it for?” asked Laura.
“What?” said Buddy.
“The Holy Water,” Laura pursued.
“A dollar a bottle.” Thus the price was set. “A bottle and a label will cost you about two cents. See the profit? See the Caddy by Christmas? Hum-mm-m! Baby, you’re built—no false brassieres!”
“Naturally not. Ouch! Buddy, what I want is an apartment.”
“I’ll call up Marty.”
“Who’s Marty?”
“The fixer, the man behind the men
behind
the men. Get you anything.”
“Colored?”
“You know he
can’t
be colored,” said Buddy.
“I hear there’re six hundred applications for those twenty apartments in that new building on the Hill.”
“Marty’ll get your application on the very top.”
“I never did put in no application.”
“Then he’ll just get you the apartment,” said Buddy.
“Money under the table?”
“Marty don’t need money.” White sheet, raw chocolate-brown, that Buddy without pajamas.
I got to get me some nice silk nightgowns, thought Laura, at least to put on to take off.
“Marty knows about your church,” said Buddy. “You might never see Marty, but he knows about you.”
“Just
who
is Marty?”
“The man.”
“What man?”
“Behind the throne of Harlem,” said Buddy. “And sitting in your bathroom, too.”
“What?”
“All over your bathroom,” said Buddy.
16
THE DEVIL’S HAM
T he winter prospered them. Their two-parlor church grew until so many people wanted to attend that it could no longer hold them all and when the new young leaves were coming out in the spring, Essie found herself standing at a window high up on the ninth floor of a brand-new apartment house looking out over the prettiest edge of Harlem.
“The park! And the river down there!” said Essie. “Laura, how in God’s name did you ever get this apartment for us?”
“Buddy—through Marty,” said Laura. “Don’t frown up—because otherwise we never would have had it. Now you can send for your daughter.”
“Thank God for this ham, even if the Devil did bring it!” Essie joked—an old slavery-time joke, it was about a black mother whotaught her son that it was a sin to steal; if you did steal the Devil was in you. But they were both hungry and the master’s smokehouse was full of hams. So one night the son took a ham from the white man’s smokehouse, ran back past their cabin, and threw the ham in the window. The black mother cried, “Thank God for this ham—even if the Devil brung it!” And they ate the ham.
Essie loved the apartment. All she moved out of her old place was her motto: G OD B LESS T HIS H OME . It didn’t go very well with the modernistic couches and things Laura put in the parlor, but Essie hung it firmly on the wall, nevertheless, and there it stayed.
It was a big apartment. Essie had a bedroom and Laura had a bedroom. There was a dining room, an alcove room, a pantry, and a kitchen. The alcove could be a bedroom, too. They paid cash for the furniture, all the fine new furniture, and it only took two weeks’ collections at church. They had six girls now passing tambourines, besides the marching-up collection at the end.
“The Lord has blessed us indeed,” said Essie. But the holy services were not unalloyed. For some reason, Birdie Lee was a nightly thorn in Laura’s side—and Buddy was a thorn in Essie’s. Birdie Lee could sing too loud to be a little woman, and the way she played the drums—they had a small combo in the church now—excited the worshipers to a frenzy and took the spotlight—had there been a spotlight—off of Laura. Without a personal spotlight, Laura was lost, whereas Essie’s sweet placidity continued to glow, even as attention shifted. She
“Essie would drop dead,” said Laura.
“Rape Essie!” said Buddy.
Grinding of brakes in the street below as a too-fast car comes to a sudden stop.
“How much should we sell it for?” asked Laura.
“What?” said Buddy.
“The Holy Water,” Laura pursued.
“A dollar a bottle.” Thus the price was set. “A bottle and a label will cost you about two cents. See the profit? See the Caddy by Christmas? Hum-mm-m! Baby, you’re built—no false brassieres!”
“Naturally not. Ouch! Buddy, what I want is an apartment.”
“I’ll call up Marty.”
“Who’s Marty?”
“The fixer, the man behind the men
behind
the men. Get you anything.”
“Colored?”
“You know he
can’t
be colored,” said Buddy.
“I hear there’re six hundred applications for those twenty apartments in that new building on the Hill.”
“Marty’ll get your application on the very top.”
“I never did put in no application.”
“Then he’ll just get you the apartment,” said Buddy.
“Money under the table?”
“Marty don’t need money.” White sheet, raw chocolate-brown, that Buddy without pajamas.
I got to get me some nice silk nightgowns, thought Laura, at least to put on to take off.
“Marty knows about your church,” said Buddy. “You might never see Marty, but he knows about you.”
“Just
who
is Marty?”
“The man.”
“What man?”
“Behind the throne of Harlem,” said Buddy. “And sitting in your bathroom, too.”
“What?”
“All over your bathroom,” said Buddy.
16
THE DEVIL’S HAM
T he winter prospered them. Their two-parlor church grew until so many people wanted to attend that it could no longer hold them all and when the new young leaves were coming out in the spring, Essie found herself standing at a window high up on the ninth floor of a brand-new apartment house looking out over the prettiest edge of Harlem.
“The park! And the river down there!” said Essie. “Laura, how in God’s name did you ever get this apartment for us?”
“Buddy—through Marty,” said Laura. “Don’t frown up—because otherwise we never would have had it. Now you can send for your daughter.”
“Thank God for this ham, even if the Devil did bring it!” Essie joked—an old slavery-time joke, it was about a black mother whotaught her son that it was a sin to steal; if you did steal the Devil was in you. But they were both hungry and the master’s smokehouse was full of hams. So one night the son took a ham from the white man’s smokehouse, ran back past their cabin, and threw the ham in the window. The black mother cried, “Thank God for this ham—even if the Devil brung it!” And they ate the ham.
Essie loved the apartment. All she moved out of her old place was her motto: G OD B LESS T HIS H OME . It didn’t go very well with the modernistic couches and things Laura put in the parlor, but Essie hung it firmly on the wall, nevertheless, and there it stayed.
It was a big apartment. Essie had a bedroom and Laura had a bedroom. There was a dining room, an alcove room, a pantry, and a kitchen. The alcove could be a bedroom, too. They paid cash for the furniture, all the fine new furniture, and it only took two weeks’ collections at church. They had six girls now passing tambourines, besides the marching-up collection at the end.
“The Lord has blessed us indeed,” said Essie. But the holy services were not unalloyed. For some reason, Birdie Lee was a nightly thorn in Laura’s side—and Buddy was a thorn in Essie’s. Birdie Lee could sing too loud to be a little woman, and the way she played the drums—they had a small combo in the church now—excited the worshipers to a frenzy and took the spotlight—had there been a spotlight—off of Laura. Without a personal spotlight, Laura was lost, whereas Essie’s sweet placidity continued to glow, even as attention shifted. She
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