Walter Mosley - Fearless Jones

She shuddered again, and I grabbed her head with both hands to steady it as I ran my tongue slowly from her chin up across her lip. I spent many minutes on that scar. It drove her wild. She used those moments to take off our clothes and lead us to the bed.

Again it was a new kind of lovemaking for me. Usually there was a game I played with women. They adored my big thing and ignored my skinny chest. I pretended that I was a wild animal, furious and feral in my passion. It led all too quickly to something explosive and not quite real. But with Charlotte it was different. There were some explosions, but at other times there was a settling in. Like when we lay on our sides, me deep inside her, facing each other.

“A man cut me on the face, and when it healed I headed for L.A.,” she said in a strained whisper.

I stroked her cheek in reply.

“Would you do somethin’ like that?” she asked.

“Neither,” I said.

Her face framed the question that a moment of passion would not allow into words.

“Not cut you or run,” I said.

She twisted my ear pretty hard, and I came so violently that I lost consciousness for a while.

I awoke to the smell of coffee, disoriented because I didn’t know where I was. I had to look around the bare room a couple of times before I remembered Charlotte. The floor was finished pine with no rug. The open closet was a door-size indentation with three dresses hanging on wire hangers. The single bed I was on was the only furniture in the room. I realized that the furniture in the living room must belong to the flat-voiced roommate; that Charlotte had nothing; that she was just a refugee from the violence of her recent past.

I tried to get up, but the bed was too comfortable. The pillow had the sweet smell of some kind of hair product, the sheets were clean. My bed back at Fontanelle’s was a six-year-old’s smelly mattress with no sheet on a gritty, pitted floor. I had the urge to get married right then. I could get married to Charlotte, get a job with the city, move out toward Compton — maybe even change my name.

“Paris, you ’wake?” She was standing at the door.

“Uh,” I admitted.

“I got coffee on the deck.”

IT WAS CROWDED on the deck, and the kitchen chairs we used rocked a little on the metal grating that stood for a floor. But the early evening was pretty, and Charlotte’s conversation was just what I needed.

“What kinda trouble you in?” she asked after her second cup of coffee.

“I don’t really know,” I said.

“How could you not know? Is somebody after you?”

“Maybe. They have been. One or two. One of ’em burnt down my little bookstore over on Eighty-nine and Central.”

“You worked there?”

“I owned it,” I said with faded pride.

“I used to go by there. I mean when it wasn’t burned. I always wanted to go in, but I was scared.”

“Scared’a what?”

“I don’t know. Things out here scare me. People don’t act normal. It’s like you gotta know some kinda secret handshake or sumpin’.”

“You come up here to get away from that man cut you,” I said, only partly as a question.

“Not only that,” Charlotte said. “I wanna be a cook too. Not just a cook that make stuff but a chef. I wanna own my own restaurant. You know my mama was the best cook in our whole town, and I learned from her. Back where I come from, you could only cook for a house fulla dirty kids in a backwood shack, or up in some rich white peoples’ houses. I want my own place.”

“You know I got to go soon, Charlotte.”

“Say that again.”

“You know —”

“No, not that, just my name.”

“Charlotte.”

She smiled and got up to kiss me.

“You was just what I needed, baby,” she said.

28

WHEN I GOT TO the hospital it was almost eight. I left Charlotte with the promise to call in a few days; just that little pledge made me feel that I might be alive and free after this mess was over.

The hospital room smelled sour, like a mound of dead skin.

Fearless was sitting at Sol’s bedside speaking in low tones. That made me happy because it meant that Sol was listening and talking.

“They brought me here to die,” a voice to my left said.

I turned to see an ancient white man sitting up in a bed. He was so small that he seemed like an infant allowed to sleep in a grown-up bed. The odor was coming from him.

“What?”

“They brought me here to die,” he said again. “The doctors and the lawyers and Marjorie.”

“Are you sick?” I asked.

He raised a skeletal hand and waved me to his bedside.

I glanced at Fearless, who had stopped talking for a moment to look in the direction of the voices. He saw me and then turned back to continue his conversation with Sol.

“They’re trying to kill me,” the man said after I had moved to his bedside.

“Who is?”

“They all are. They bring me here and stick me with needles and make me take poisons and hope that I die. They aren’t going to operate,” he said indignantly. “I don’t have fever. Here, feel my forehead.”

He was cool as a cucumber, as my mother often said.

“See? I’m not hot or bleeding. Why would they leave me here without my things? Why would they leave me with all these sick people’s germs if they’re not trying to kill me?”

I had no answer. I once heard a sermon in my uncle’s church where the minister claimed that there was no Earth, only Hell and Heaven. Where we were was an upper level of Hell. And when we died, we either tumbled the rest of the way down the mountainside or rose on an angel’s wings. I wasn’t sure about the Heaven part, but life sure was feeling like Hell to me.

“Fearless knows,” the aged gray-headed man said. “Fearless knows.”

I wondered if Fearless had gotten us mixed up in yet another hopeless cause, but then I remembered the troubles we were in were of my doing.

I went to Fearless ready to ask if I had to carry that old man out on my back. But the words died in my throat when I peered over his shoulder.

Sol’s face was shrunken and blue. His teeth glistened between parted lips, and he wasn’t breathing. He hadn’t drawn a breath in some time.

But still Fearless babbled on.

“Fearless.”

No reply.

“Fearless!”

“What? What you want, Paris?”

“Who are you talkin’ to, man? He’s dead.”

“I know that. You think I don’t know a dead man?”

“Then who are you talking to?”

“His soul,” Fearless said. There was a hint of embarrassment in his voice.

“What?”

Fearless put up his hands to silence me. “My momma used to say, a long time ago when I was a boy, that when a man dies, his soul is lost at first ’cause he don’t know he’s dead. It wanders around and could be lost forever. But if he sees you and he knows who you are and he knows that you’re talkin’ to him, then he tries to answer back. But when you don’t answer, he knows that he must be a spirit. Your voice becomes the messenger, and he realizes what has happent an’ he knows to go for Heaven.”

Then, instead of getting up and talking to me about our business, he turned back to Sol and started muttering again. I sat in a chair far away from the tiny man and waited until my watch said eight-thirty, then I went to Fearless again.

“How long you plan to keep this up?” I asked.

“Momma said to do it till dawn.”

“Visitors’ hours end at nine, Fearless. We don’t want the nurse to see you hoverin’ over no corpse.”

Fearless hesitated, then he turned away from his divine mission. “I guess that’s enough. I think he must’a heard me.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Now let’s get the fuck outta here.”