Doom Fox (31 page)

He sits, an alien being, in a trance, staring at L.A.'s hyped-up pace and urban phantasmagoria as the La Salle moves through the city. The city, he thinks, that shot my every dream down before it dumped me into a dungeon. And poor Junior's dreams too, he thinks, as Junior parks in front of a rickety, time blistered hovel of a house off Central Avenue.

A wan, three girl, two boy group of staircase faces stare at them through a sooty window as they go up a dingy, buckled walkway to the front door. Dottie, Junior's pregnant ex-sexpot, unkempt in a tattered robe, opens the door with a grotesque smile. The smile, her face, reveal to Joe the brutality of her own sentence in her minimal security dungeon behind invisible walls in the so-called free world.

Joe and Dottie embrace. They carry the groceries into the kitchen. His five timorous one to eight year old grandchildren stare up at him in fearful awe as Dottie introduces him and they shake his hand solemnly in turn.

Junior shows him through the barren three bedroom house. Joe drops his possessions on a lumpy bed in the rear of the house. Joe glances about at the peeling wallpaper, lopsided dresser and ragged carpet. He follows Junior into the mildewed living room. They sit on a saggy sofa and light cigarettes as they watch a newscaster on a snowy T.V. screen report that Tom Bradley will be interviewed shortly on the station.

His grandchildren dart in and out of the room, peep at him from door frames as they chew potato chips. He catches glimpses of Dottie's cumbersome bulk as she clatters pots and pans and he is reminded of Reba, pregnant with Junior.

Joe found dinner surprisingly delicious, given his first and lasting impression of Dottie as a worthless campus chippie in that bloody alley eleven years before.

Next morning, promptly at ten, Joe walks into his parole officer's office. An elderly case-burdened Mister Sheehan recites the usual cautions against felon company, demon drink, drugs and gambling. A handshake and ten minutes later Joe walks out to the La Salle with the understanding that on January the second he will start employment for Hoffmeister Plumbing.

Joe treats Junior to a spaghetti western he's been dying to see. Junior pulls Joe out to a poolroom midway through it when he realizes the gore and blasts of gunfire are making Joe nervous, perhaps rekindling terrible memories. Junior pool cues rusty Joe into sweaty exasperation as they guzzle a six pack of verboten stout malt liquor.

Dottie fires evil eyes at them when they walk in arm in arm bellowing, off key, Ray Charles' 'Going Down Slow.'

Dottie grins and fries them pork chops when they grandly present to her a pint of Courvoisier.

The week goes swiftly to Christmas Eve for Joe in the role of grandfather, in the warmth and fun with grandkids who discovered that he is really gentle Grandpa the lovable clown, not a boogey-man killer.

Joe lies across his bed at noon, smoking a cigarette. As usual, he thinks about Reba. Two days before, Junior had called him to the phone. He remembers how his knees quivered at the sound of Reba's voice asking how he was doing, inviting him to come to dinner on Christmas Day. Instantly that he hung up, his excitement, his hope, soured with the thought that Junior had probably begged her to talk to him, invite him to dinner.

Is that Junior and Dottie squabbling in their bedroom down the hall? He gets to his stockinged feet and creeps down the hall to ear range.

'Goddamnit Jo Jo! Don't keep bugging me about that motherfucking dinner! You go to your mammy's dinner looking like a fucking bum, but me and my raggity ass kids are staying right here in this motherfucking roach heaven.'

'Mama's got a slew of presents for all of us, Dot. Please, baby, go!' Junior pleads.

'Fuck your mammy's presents! Now stay out of my face, nigger, with that dinner party shit!' Dottie shouts.

Joe goes back to his room. He shaves. He goes to the living room to find Junior sitting disconsolately staring out at the scabrous terrain of the nearly deserted ghetto street.

Joe slugs an affectionate fist against his slumped shoulders. 'Spunk up, soldier! Let's make a run' he commands as he pulls astonished Junior through the front door with him.

Their first stop is the May Company where, guided by Junior, Joe purchases mini wardrobes for Dottie and the children. He remembers gifts for Reba and the twins, even an atrocious necktie for Baptiste. Next stop is Dorman's Men's Shop and indigo raw silk suits for themselves. Then, down the block, Stetson blue suede shoes and boss accessories. They make the last stop a Thrifty Discount Store on Central Avenue. They leave the store with a Christmas tree and decorations and a complete layette for Dottie's unborn baby.

They walk to a knot of people at an alley mouth near the parked La Salle. A wizened old bootblack, dressed in a red ragged doorman's suit, turns from the ring of gawkers, exclaims, 'Big Joe!' as he steps to the sidewalk beside his one chair stand to pump Joe's hand.

Joe grins. 'Hey, Cootie!' he says as he and Junior peer into the alley over the heads of the crowd at a white haired old man in bloodied overalls, struggling in a full nelson applied by a burly black uniformed cop. 'What's going on, Cootie?' Joe says as he moves into the alley followed by Cootie and Junior.

'Grandpa Sylvester just stabbed a 'ho older than bed bugs a zillion times' violence-jaded Cootie says almost casually as Joe spots the bloody heap of a grey haired woman sprawled on the alley floor. An incongruous purple satin ball gown, its tarnished sequins dully agleam, hiked up to her apricot thighs, pocked with black needle tracks.

'Why'd he waste her, Cootie?' Joe almost whispers.

He shoves through the crowd to within a few feet of the barefooted corpse, with uncommonly shapely legs for an old woman, sheathed in well ventilated nylons.

'She jumped outta the alley on him and cut his wallet outta his ass pocket with a razor. She fell and busted her noggin 'ginst a telephone post gittin' in the wind down the alley. Give Sylvester a chance to git her and rassle with her awhile for his poke 'fore he started hittin' her with his switchblade after she hit him a coupla deep licks with her razor.'

Joe trembles as he stares down into the dead feline grey eyes sunken in the gargoyle face of the bloody corpse.

Joe's heart jumps cycle to see apricot light glint from the scraggly mass of dirty gray hair, to remember how the rosebud mouth cannibalized him with pro artistry in the hot shadows of her trick trap. He shakes to recognize the doll feet that spurred his back when he galloped to climax between her notorious thighs long ago in the youth of his man-prince.

'Delphine!' he groans silently to himself as he staggers back to the sidewalk. He strides quickly away to the La Salle.

Junior says, 'Did you know her, Papa?' as they put packages into the car trunk.

Joe heaves a sigh. 'Naw, thought I did for a moment ... feel sorry for an old mudkicker like that, iced for stealing.' They get into the car and Junior pulls away for home as a city meat wagon and a pair of police cars shriek behind them.

Within an hour, the children dance and clap hands around the lit up Christmas tree as Dottie tries to hide her tears. At midnight he slips away to his bedroom. He undresses and examines his fractured bankroll. He shrugs, grins and falls into bed to dream about Reba and the dinner party the next afternoon.

The Allens arrive on time Christmas Day, in early afternoon. Junior parks the freshly polished La Salle, its glossy finish reflects Baptiste's carefully arranged plaster statuary that depicts the Nativity Scene on the lawn. A backdrop of shrubbery rings the pink stucco house. Baptiste glares at them from a living room window as they alight and start up the walkway.

Belle spots them from a den window. She goes to the door. Baptiste moves his loaded shotgun a bit further into concealment in the folds of window drapes behind his chair. From his chair, he is virtually camouflaged behind the Christmas tree but has a total view of living room, den and dining room.

The Allen children chatter in their pastel finery. They are butterfly garish in the grey funereal overcast. The Allens move past Sadie's and Belle's Porsche and Caddie, parked in the driveway, to the open front door. They enter the house and walk a gauntlet of holiday kisses, hugs and words of affection from Reba, Belle and Sadie.

Joe is aswoon for a pounding moment as white-satin clad Reba embraces him and broils him giddy with the perfumed pressure of her curves. Joe, Junior and Dottie seat themselves on the den sofa. Electricity crackles the air as Reba flits in and out of the den, compulsively eye-locking with Joe.

The children go to admire the tree. They spot Baptiste and cry out. He smiles painfully and staggers out to dole out half-hearted pecks and hugs before he retreats back to his lair.

Shortly, they serve themselves and the children from a buffet table in the dining room. It is loaded with steamy mounds of golden browned turkey, salads, candied yams, ruby cranberries and airy homemade rolls. Ice cream and several frothy desserts cap off the feast.

Joe, Junior and Dottie drink heavily and sit silently after dinner. Dottie rises and frowns aggravation at the muffled sound of the kids in mischief. She hurries from the den to squelch a forbidden romp through the upstairs part of the house. She returns with them in tow.

Reba leads everybody into the living room to open the mountain of presents banked beneath the tree. Baptiste scuttles away until the squealy furore is over before he returns to his command post to open his presents.

At twilight Belle and Sadie dance the last time to the music of the den phonograph. They say goodbye and leave. Moments later Dottie screws up her face and complains of headache and nausea.

Reba puts an old dance record on the turntable that hit the charts when she was a teenager. She turns and stares into Joe's eyes, which he shyly averts.

Dottie thanks Reba for everything, gathers the children and gifts. The Allens move toward the front door. Reba opens the door and kisses the children, Dottie and Junior as they move out. Joe lowers his cheek for her to kiss. Baptiste half rises, quivers with rage on his chair.

Reba kisses Joe and tipsily whispers, 'Joe, unless you have a hot date, you don't really have to leave now ... do you?'

Joe looks into her eyes as he whispers hoarsely, 'Reeb, you've been drinking ... Baby, please don't say anything to me you don't mean.'

She laughs. 'I'm serious ... I'm inviting you to stay. I'm ... ah, curious to know if you can still cut a bad rug.'

Junior glances back, smiles as he steps back to the doorway. He winks mischievously as he says, 'Papa, if you gonna keep Mama company a while longer, I'll take my people home and come back to get you later ... much later.'

Joe nods. Reba shuts the door. Joe takes her into his arms. He dances her into the den to nostalgic strains of music they haven't danced to together since they were teenagers. Baptiste glowers, puffed with righteous indignation in his lair.

The couple laugh, drink, chat and dance under the baleful scrutiny of muttering Baptiste until midnight. They collapse on the den couch after a dance. Reba rests her head on Joe's chest. He blows into her ear as he runs his fingers through the silky brambles of her disheveled hairdo.

Reba giggles, whispers 'Sweetie, I need a nap. Besides, that evil old watchdog won't go to bed until he sees you leave ... dance me one more time to the sewing table.'

They do. Reba fumbles as she slips a front door key from the table top into Joe's suit pocket. She whispers 'Come back in an hour or so ... I'll be in the front bedroom.'

At the door she says loudly, 'Goodnight Joe. There's a cab stand on the corner.'

She shuts the door. Joe walks to a corner Go Go joint. He sips whiskey at the crowded circular bar. He scarcely watches the half nude hip slingers on the stage for watching the clock. He contains himself until two a.m. to make certain that watchdog Baptiste is down for the night.

Unsteadily Joe makes it down the block toward the house. He notices only dim night lights are on in the living room and in Reba's front bedroom. He halts on the sidewalk, stares at Theodis, tipsily fumbling with the fence gate.

'Hey you, niggah!' Joe hollers as he walks up into Theodis' face.

'You addressing me, Mister?' he asks as he recognizes Junior's scarred double.

'Yeah, you. Who you looking for this time of night?' Joe says as his narrowed eyes sweep the dapper figure of the handsome young dandy.

'Jerry Bradshaw!' Theodis blurts out. Reba's door key slips from his sweaty hand to clink against the sidewalk. He stoops to retrieve it. 'Car key' he mumbles as he straightens up.

'Shoot! You're drunker than me. His folks live two houses down' Joe says with a grin as he points a wavering index finger toward the house.

Joe moves into the yard, goes down the walkway to open the front door. He steps inside the darkened living room, freezes. He stares at Baptiste emerging from the shadows with his shotgun trained on his chest.

'I saw that harlot give you the key. But you're not lighting here tonight. Now drop that key and let that door hit you in the ass before I blow you in two.'

Sobered considerably, Joe grins and drops the key to the carpet. He says 'Sure, Baptiste, you win.' He turns, takes a step through the door before he whirls back with a backhand to Baptiste's chest. The shotgun flies through the air with Baptiste. He glares at Baptiste struggling to pull himself from beneath a coffee table.

Joe says, 'I should chastise your gray ass for trying to bar me from the house where I was born. Next time you get on my case, I will. Go to bed, niggah, and stay out of trouble.'

Joe picks up the shotgun and box of shells off the carpet. He moves into the hallway leading to the staircase. He goes up the stairs to the landing. He stands, for a long moment, gazing at the boarded up rear bedroom. He turns and looks through Reba's half opened bedroom door.

Reba is lying on the bed in a diaphanous berry red gown. His Goddess's Bambi face is ethereal in the rose glow of the night light, smiling at him, arms outstretched to him. He snorts like a frenzied stallion, steps in and closes the door behind him.