X. Atkins - Richmond Noir

Going out the side door, Tug ran from Mrs. Richardson’s yard directly into his own. There was no fence dividing the two row houses. He gently lifted Marguerite and patted her head.

“I didn’t mean to leave you. It’s just that Mommy was rushing me.” As he turned to go back the way he came, Tug heard raised voices from the second floor of his house.

With Marguerite in tow, he ran inside and crept up the carpeted stairs. He walked past the bathroom and glimpsed Mr. Not shaving at the mirror that hung over the sink. Then Tug rounded the corner and saw his mother sitting on her bed, arms crossed, smoking a cigarette. He took a few quiet steps back and watched as Mr. Not turned his head at odd angles, like a bird trying to see behind itself, as he delicately pressed blade to skin to get the last bit of stubble from his lower jaw. Silence had overtaken the bickering couple. Tug thought he heard the faint music of an ice cream truck, but didn’t run to his mother. He went and hid with Marguerite behind the long velvet drapes on the second-floor landing, where he could observe. He listened for something he could not know he was listening for, a prelude to a kind of dance. Velma’s shaking foot kept time...

Ray Harold Vermeer studied himself in the mirror, touched a hand to his temple. The phone rang and Velma got up to see who was calling; when she saw Betty Richardson’s number on the caller ID she didn’t answer, but let it go to voice mail.

“Vee, I swear, Regina’s just bluffing.”

Velma placed her cigarette in the ashtray, rose from the bed, and walked toward the bathroom, as if she had been summoned. “Then why did you come over here this morning? You say this is my house, but when you and Regina argue, she threatens to fly on over here and act a fool, same way she did the time we moved in, calling me a slut in front of my neighbors.” Pulling another cigarette and matches out of her robe, Velma lit up with trembling hands.

“Will you forget about her for one minute! Why can’t we just spend a little time together like we used to before Harold came into the picture and Regina went on the warpath? Take off that bathrobe. Daddy wants to show you something when he comes out the bathroom.”

“Ray Harold, I’m tired of you thinking you can show up here any time you feel like it and disrupt my plans, just so you can get some and then go on about your business.”

“Hey, wait a minute. I didn’t come here just to bed you, woman. I got good news!” Ray met Velma in the hall and stood there in his undershirt. The phone rang again. Neither made a move to answer, until finally Velma could stand it no longer. She went and picked up the receiver.

“Regina, stop calling my house.” She listened. “Well, bring it on, then!” She slammed the phone down. “That’s it. We’re moving! As soon as I can get my things together, me and my son are leaving this house. I don’t care if it’s in the historical register, it’s never going to be mine!”

“Wait a minute, Vee. Look, I was going to surprise you, but I guess I’ll go on and tell you. I think we’re close to getting a contract to start work. You remember I told you the mayor knew my daddy and my granddaddy? Well, he put me in touch with some people I need to know. People who matter. I want you to be cool until I get this contract on the old Hippodrome. Vee, we’re going to—”

“Ray Harold.” She called his name as if it were a command to be quiet. “I’m not interested. When are you going to acknowledge to everyone, including Tug, that he is a Vermeer, that he is your son, your only son? And when are you going to stop belittling him? I’m tired of being laughed at by my enemies, pitied by my friends, and scorned by my family, all because I haven’t figured out how to leave you.” Velma walked past Ray Harold and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

Ray Harold banged on it.

“Velma, come on out so we can talk this over. I don’t have much time before—” “Before what?” said Velma through the closed door.

“Before you have to go home to that witch? You know, I used to be impressed with you, how you were a man of position in the community, one of the top black contractors in Richmond and from a good family. I didn’t think you wasn’t honorable the time one of your schemes to be a major player in the renovation of down-town fell through.” Velma opened the door to the bathroom with tears in her eyes. “You remember that night? You buried your head in my lap and cried like a baby. I had a boyfriend who wanted to marry me, but I gave him up for you, and when I had your son, you didn’t even claim him until you saw he looked just like you. That’s when you moved us into your daddy’s house. Your daddy’s house . This isn’t my house or yours!”

Ray Harold slapped Velma so hard she stumbled backward into the bathroom. He followed her inside and shut the door.

Why did they go in there? What are they doing? Tug couldn’t see them, so he left his position on the landing and lay on his side in the hallway inhaling dust as he peered under the door. Mr. Not’s feet flanked the toilet bowl. His pants aren’t falling around his legs like mine do when I’m sitting down so he must not be using it. What’s he doing? A few inches away, his mother’s feet faced the toilet bowl.

“You told me I made you feel brand new. You told me you were getting a divorce. You didn’t tell me I’d have to share you with your wife, and you won’t even tell our son you’re his father, acting like you’re some kind of white man and I’m your concubine.”

Tug bit his underlip till it hurt, then kept biting it.

“You can’t leave well enough alone. I brought you from nothing. You and that little faggot live in a fine house, you wear the best clothes money can buy. You use my credit card and it says Vermeer. People know that boy’s my son. And you know I’m still trying to work things out with Regina so that things can be divided—”

“You go ahead and divide whatever you want to. I’m taking Tug back to Charles City.”

Mr. Not’s shoes tapped the floor three times. The second tap made the fine mahogany floorboards ring as the door rattled and bounced in its frame. Startled, Tug rolled back, then returned to the same spot, desperate to see what was happening. It didn’t occur to him that the door might fly open at any second. All he knew was that he had to get closer to see as much as he could.

“You’re not leaving me or taking my son anywhere!” shouted Mr. Not. Then Tug heard a rattle-bang of flesh against metal. His mother’s feet stumbled, and he moved even closer, sticking his nose as far under the door as he could. He saw two knees on the bathroom floor — hers.

“Ray Harold, please! Don’t do this!”

What’s happening in there? Marguerite, we have to help Mommy! Somebody! Mrs. Richardson! Batman! Gabriel Ogun!

He cried out, “Mommy!” and the door opened suddenly, and sunlight beaming through the stained-glass bathroom window put Mr. Not’s face in deep shadow. He stood with his legs wide apart, his face a mask of anger when he looked down and saw Tug on the floor.

“Go play” — he inhaled all the air around him — “son. Your mama and I have to discuss some things.”

“You’re not my daddy,” said Tug. “You’re Mr. Not!”

“Go play, Tug. It’s all right,” said his mother, but she didn’t look him in his eyes. Instead, she stared at the back of Mr. Not’s head.

Something heavy, a zag, wrapped around Tug’s stomach and squeezed and squeezed and wouldn’t let go until it released itself down his legs. He was awake and the blue zig-zags were marching across his wide-open eyes.

“Go change your underwear, sissy,” said Mr. Not. Then he stepped back into the bathroom and closed the door in Tug’s face. When Tug’s head cleared, he knew the zig-zags were really drops of blood on the tiled floor. He knew Mr. Not wouldn’t disappear under the house like the Wicked Witch. What would Mr. Spock or Batman do? What would Gabriel Ogun do?