Chester Himes - The Heat's on

Sister Heavenly kept to the road until she knew she couldn’t be seen from the house, then she turned over to the next street and doubled back.

The house nearest to hers on the same side of the street was in the next block. It was owned by an old Italian couple who lived alone. They were good friends of Sister Heavenly. The man ran a provision house and was away from home during the day.

When Sister Heavenly called, his wife was in the kitchen, straining and bottling wine.

Sister Heavenly asked permission to sit in the attic. She often did this. There was a side window in the attic which offered a clear view of her own house, and whenever she found it necessary to check up on Uncle Saint she sat there watching for an hour or two. The old couple had even provided her with a rocking-chair.

Sister Heavenly climbed the stairs to the attic and, after opening the shutters, settled into her chair.

It was hot enough in the attic to roast a goose, but that didn’t bother Sister Heavenly. She liked heat and she never perspired. She sat rocking gently back and forth, watching the front and back of her own house at the end of the adjoining block.

An hour later Uncle Saint said to Pinky, “You is dry enough, put on some clothes and git.”

Pinky didn’t have a change of clothes in the house and he was more than twice the size of Uncle Saint. The black pants and T-shirt he had taken off were bloodstained and filthy.

“Where am I gonna git some clothes?” he asked.

“Look in the souvenir trunk,” Uncle Saint said.

The souvenir trunk sat beneath a small dormer window in the attic.

“Take a chisel, it’s locked,” Uncle Saint added as Pinky started ascending the stairs.

There wasn’t any chisel in the kitchen and Uncle Saint wouldn’t go to the garage to get one. Pinky couldn’t go because he was buck naked, so he took the poker for the stove.

It was an old-fashioned steamer trunk with a domed lid and was bound with wooden hoops. Sunshine slanted on the dust-covered top and when Pinky began prying at the old rusty lock, dust motes filled the air like glittering confetti. All of the windows had been closed after the night’s performance to keep out the heat and now the sweaty odor of the dancers lingered in the blazing heat. Pinky began to sweat. Sweat drops splattered in the dust like drops of ink.

“Hey, this stuff is coming off,” he called down to Uncle Saint in a panic.

“That’s just the excess,” Uncle Saint reassured him. “The main part ain’t coming off.”

With sudden haste, Pinky levered the poker and the lock flew apart. He raised the lid and looked into the trunk.

The souvenir trunk was where Sister Heavenly kept various garments left by her former lovers when they had lammed. Pinky rummaged about, holding up pants and shirts and cotton drawers with back flaps. Everything was too small. Evidently Sister Heavenly hadn’t counted any giants amongst her lovers. But finally Pinky came across a pair of peg-top Palm Beach pants which must have belonged to a very tall man at least. He squeezed into a pair of knee-length cotton drawers and pulled the peg-top trousers over them. They fitted like women’s jodhpurs. He looked about until he found a red jersey silk shirt worn by some sharp cat in the early 1930s. It stretched enough for him to get it on. None of the shoes were possible, so he closed the trunk and went down to the kitchen and put on his same old blue canvas sneakers.

“Why didn’t yer git a hat?” Uncle Saint said.

Pink turned around and went back up the stairs and rummaged in the trunk for a hat. The only hat which fitted was a white straw hat with a wide floppy brim and a peaked crown like the hats worn by Mexican peons. It had a black chin strap to keep it on.

“Look around asee if there’s some sunglasses,” Uncle Saint called.

There was a shoe box of nothing but sunglasses but the only pair that fitted Pinky had white celluloid frames and plain blue glass lenses. He put them on.

Uncle Saint surveyed his handiwork when Pinky stood before him.

“Not even you own mother would recognize you,” he said proudly, but he called a warning as Pinky started off. “Keep out the sun or that stuff’ll turn purple.”

Sister Heavenly’s eyes popped. She stopped rocking and leaned forward.

From out of her own front yard came the blackest man she had ever seen, and Sister Heavenly had specialized in black men. This man was so black he had blue-and-purple tints to his skin like wet bituminous coal glinting in the sunshine. Not only was he the blackest, but he was the sportiest man she had ever seen. She hadn’t seen anyone dressed that sporty since minstrel shows went out.

He was walking fast and there was something about him, especially down around the legs, which reminded her of one of her short-time lovers called Blackberry Slim, but his legs were thicker than Slim’s. And that red jersey silk shirt rising from those peg-top legs was identical with one that Dusty Canes used to wear. But that hat — that big white flopping hat with a chin strap, and those blue-tinted sunglasses with a white frame; she had never seen anyone wear a hat like that but Go-Go Gooseman.

“My God!” she exclaimed aloud as she suddenly recognized the man. “That’s Pinky and he’s been in my souvenir trunk!”

Her mind started working lightning fast.… Pinky in disguise. She had expected him to make a move but she hadn’t expected to get such a lucky break. Naturally he was headed for the cache.

She jumped up so quickly she overturned the rocking chair. The old Italian woman tried to stop her in the kitchen to share a bottle of wine but she hurried past and went around the house. She stood behind a green lattice gate and watched Pinky loping past. He didn’t look in her direction.

She folded up her parasol to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, and kept well in back of him.

He went directly to the subway stop on White Plains Road and climbed the stairs to the waiting platform. Sister Heavenly was blowing and puffing by the time she reached the turnstile. She acted as though she hadn’t recognized Pinky and went down to the other end of the platform.

Looking around he saw her and gave a start. There was no place for him to hide. His only chance was to brazen it out. Everyone was staring at him. Once her gaze wandered in his direction. He stared back at her from behind his blue sunglasses. She looked at him for a moment curiously, then turned as though she had not recognized him and watched the train approach.

Two cars separated them. Both of them remained standing so they could peek around the doors when the train stopped and see if the other was getting off. But neither saw the other peeping.

They rode like this down to Times Square. Pinky jumped off just as the doors were closing. Before Sister Heavenly saw him, the doors were closed. She saw him stop and turn and look directly at her as her coach passed.

She got off at 34th Street and taxied back to Times Square, but he had disappeared. Suddenly she realized that he was trying to outsmart her. He had ridden down to Times Square and had given her the slip on the chance that she might have recognized him. He figured he was throwing her off his tracks. But there was only one place he could have anything cached, and that was the apartment on Riverside Drive.

She hailed a taxi and told the driver to step on it.

The driver leaned over a little to peer at her through the rearview mirror. My God, she’s still trying, he thought. But all the time she’s already had, if she ain’t made it yet she’ll never make it now.

Sister Heavenly had him stop in front of Riverside Church. She got out and paid him. He paused for a moment to watch her, making as though he was writing in his record sheet. He was curious. She had rushed him up here as though it were a matter of life and death, and all she wanted was to go to church.