Charles Johnson - Sorcerer's Apprentice

“How much this thing set us back?”

“Two fifty.” My jaws got tight; I toss him my receipt. “You want me to take it back? Maybe I can get something else.…”

Loftis, he say, not to me, but to the receipt, “Remember the time Mama give me that ring we had in the family for fifty years? And I took it to Merchandise Mart and sold it for a few pieces of candy?” He hitched his chair forward and sat with his elbows on his knees. “That’s what you did, Cooter. You crawled into a Clark bar.” He commence to rip up my receipt, then picked up his flashlight and keys. “As soon as you buy something you lose the power to buy something.” He button up his coat with holes in the elbows, showing his blue shirt, then turned ’round at the tunnel to say, “Don’t touch Miss Bailey’s money, or drink her splo, or do anything until I get back.”

“Where you going?”

“To work. It’s Wednesday, ain’t it?”

“You going to work?”

“Yeah.”

“You got to go really? Loftis,” I say, “what you brang them bags of trash in here for?”

“It ain’t trash!” He cut his eyes at me. “There’s good clothes in there. Mr. Peterson tossed them out, he don’t care, but I saw some use in them, that’s all.”

“Loftis…”

“Yeah?”

“What we gonna do with all this money?”

Loftis pressed his fingers to his eyelids, and for a second he looked caged, or like somebody’d kicked him in his stomach. Then he cut me some slack: “Let me think on it tonight — it don’t pay to rush — then we can TCB, okay?”

Five hours after Loftis leave for work, that old blister Mr. Peterson, our landlord, he come collecting rent, find Mrs. Bailey’s body in apartment 4-B, and phoned the fire department. Me, I be folding my new jacket in tissue paper to keep it fresh, adding the box to Miss Bailey’s unsunned treasures when two paramedics squeezed her on a long stretcher through a crowd in the hallway. See, I had to pin her from the stairhead, looking down one last time at this dizzy old lady, and I seen something in her face, like maybe she’d been poor as Job’s turkey for thirty years, suffering that special Negro fear of using up what little we get in this life — Loftis, he call that entropy — believing in her belly, and for all her faith, jim, that there just ain’t no more coming tomorrow from grace, or the Lord, or from her own labor, like she can’t kill nothing, and won’t nothing die…so when Conners will her his wealth, it put her through changes, she be spellbound, possessed by the promise of life, panicky about depletion, and locked now in the past ’cause every purchase, you know, has to be a poor buy: a loss of life. Me, I wasn’t worried none. Loftis, he got a brain trained by years of talking trash with people in Frog Hudson’s barbershop on Thirty-fifth Street. By morning, I knew, he’d have some kinda wheeze worked out.

But Loftis, he don’t come home. Me, I got kinda worried. I listen to the hi-fi all day Thursday, only pawing outside to peep down the stairs, like that’d make Loftis come sooner. So Thursday go by; and come Friday the head’s out of kilter — first there’s an ogrelike belch from the toilet bowl, then water bursts from the bathroom into the kitchen — and me, I can’t call the super (How do I explain the tunnel?), so I gave up and quit bailing. But on Saturday, I could smell greens cooking next door. Twice I almost opened Miss Bailey’s sardines, even though starving be less an evil than eating up our stash, but I waited till it was dark and, with my stomach talking to me, stepped outside to Pookie White’s, lay a hard-luck story on him, and Pookie, he give me some jambalaya and gumbo. Back home in the living room, finger-feeding myself, barricaded in by all that hope-made material, the Kid felt like a king in his counting room, and I copped some Zs in an armchair till I heard the door move on its hinges, then bumping in the tunnel, and a heavy-footed walk thumped into the bedroom.

“Loftis?” I rubbed my eyes. “You back?” It be Sunday morning. Six-thirty sharp. Darkness dissolved slowly into the strangeness of twilight, with the rays of sunlight surging at exactly the same angle they fall each evening, as if the hour be an island, a moment outside time. Me, I’m afraid Loftis gonna fuss ’bout my not straightening up, letting things go. I went into the bathroom, poured water in the one-spigot washstand — brown rust come bursting out in flakes — and rinsed my face. “Loftis, you supposed to be home four days ago. Hey,” I say, toweling my face, “you okay?” How come he don’t answer me? Wiping my hands on the seat on my trousers, I tipped into Loftis’s room. He sleeping with his mouth open. His legs be drawn up, both fists clenched between his knees. He’d kicked his blanket on the floor. In his sleep, Loftis laughed, or moaned, it be hard to tell. His eyelids, not quite shut, show slits of white. I decided to wait till Loftis wake up for his decision, but turning, I seen his watch, keys, and what looked in the first stain of sunlight to be a carefully wrapped piece of newspaper on his nightstand. The sunlight swelled to a bright shimmer, focusing the bedroom slowly like solution do a photographic image in the developer. And then something so freakish went down I ain’t sure it took place. Fum-ble-fingered, I unfolded the paper, and inside be a blemished penny. It be like suddenly somebody slapped my head from behind. Taped on the penny be a slip of paper, and on the paper be the note “Found while walking down Devon Avenue.” I hear Loftis mumble like he trapped in a nightmare. “Hold tight,” I whisper. “It’s all right.” Me, I wanted to tell Loftis how Miss Bailey looked four days ago, that maybe it didn’t have to be like that for us — did it? — because we could change. Couldn’t we? Me, I pull his packed sheets over him, wrap up the penny, and, when I locate Miss Bailey’s glass jar in the living room, put it away carefully, for now, with the rèst of our things.

Among watchdogs in Seattle, Berkeley was known generally as one of the best. Not the smartest, but steady. A pious German shepherd (Black Forest origins, probably), with big shoulders, black gums, and weighing more than some men, he sat guard inside the glass door of Tilford’s Pet Shoppe, watching the pedestrians scurry along First Avenue, wondering at the derelicts who slept ever so often inside the foyer at night, and sometimes he nodded when things were quiet in the cages behind him, lulled by the bubbling of the fishtanks, dreaming of an especially fine meal he’d once had, or the little female poodle, a real flirt, owned by the aerobic dance teacher (who was no saint herself) a few doors down the street; but Berkeley was, for all his woolgathering, never asleep at the switch. He took his work seriously. Moreover, he knew exactly where he was at every moment, what he was doing, and why he was doing it, which was more than can be said for most people, like Mr. Tilford, a real gumboil, whose ways were mysterious to Berkeley. Sometimes he treated the animals cruelly, or taunted them; he saw them not as pets but profit. Nevertheless, no vandals, or thieves, had ever brought trouble through the doors or windows of Tilford’s Pet Shoppe, and Berkeley, confident of his power but never flaunting it, faithful to his master though he didn’t deserve it, was certain that none ever would.

At closing time, Mr. Tilford, who lived alone, as most cruel men do, always checked the cages, left a beggarly pinch of food for all the animals, and a single biscuit for Berkeley. The watchdog always hoped for a pat on his head, or for Tilford to play with him, some sign of approval to let him know he was appreciated, but such as this never came. Mr. Tilford had thick glasses and a thin voice, was stubborn, hot-tempered, a drunkard and a loner who, sliding toward senility, sometimes put his shoes in the refrigerator, and once — Berkeley winced at the memory — put a Persian he couldn’t sell in the Mix Master during one of his binges. Mainly, the owner drank and watched television, which was something else Berkeley couldn’t understand. More than once he’d mistaken gunfire on screen for the real thing (a natural error, since no one told him violence was entertainment for some), howled loud enough to bring down the house, and Tilford booted him outside. Soon enough, Berkeley stopped looking for approval; he didn’t bother to get up from biting fleas behind the counter when he heard the door slam.