Standing at the Scratch Line (94 page)

More shocking news. Serena was momentarily confused. This was something that Amos had planned. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision. Why wasn’t she told that he was considering such a move? “Does King know about this?” she asked, wondering if she was the last to know.

“Yeah, we talked about it.”

“Where is he now?” An edge had entered her voice. She was indignant that King would keep information about her brother from her.

“He and Sampson went out early this morning. I guess they’re bringing in another shipment.”

Serena grimaced. King was bringing in more bootleg alcohol. This was a source of continuing irritation to her. The Tremains as a family had the opportunity to become part of colored society in West Oakland, to be respectable and legitimate. In the five years that they had lived in Oakland, they had purchased numerous pieces of property and had started a number of thriving, legitimate businesses. If King would only drop his cut-and-shoot friends along with his underworld activities, she was sure that they would be welcomed into polite colored society. Despite her best arguments, King had consistently spurned this opportunity for social advancement and risked their reputation for money that they did not need. Serena shook her head and said in a voice filled with acid, “Another fool throws away his family’s future!”

Amos had appeared content to leave without arguing further with Serena, but her last comment infuriated him. “How dare you!” he snarled, pointing a finger at her. “You’re the one that threw away this family’s future! And you’ve done it over and over again!”

“What do you mean?” she asked icily.

Amos returned her hard look and said, “You think nobody knows what you’re doing or what you’ve done, but you’re wrong!”

“What are you talking about?”

Amos waved a hand dismissively in her direction. “Even if I told you now, it would be too late. You had your chance to stay out of the game, but you wanted to roll the dice and you got snake eyes! Now the dice have been passed on and you can’t change your throw, because this game is for keeps!”

“You’re talking in riddles! If you have something to say, come out and say it! Don’t hide behind words!”

For the first time Amos laughed. “Like it’s me who’s been hiding behind words all this time!” He shook his head and said, “I don’t have time to argue with you. Good-bye!” He turned and walked out into the front hall.

For the first time she wondered whether Amos knew about Sister Bornais’s curse. Then she discounted the possibility. How could he? He had never said anything in the last five years to indicate that he was aware of Sister Bornais’s words. But he must know something. Otherwise why did he blame her for Della’s problems? Why did he walk out the door with such anger? What did he know? In between these questions, the aching in her chest swelled with each breath; a rasp was being drawn across her lungs. She knew by evidence of things unseen that she would never laugh and talk with her brother again. There was a finality about his good-bye that crashed and ricocheted against walls of the empty house like the peal of a bell.

The front doorbell rang. Serena made no effort to answer it. The bell rang several more times, then the door was unlocked. A woman’s voice called out. “It’s me, Mrs. Whitlow!” There was a pause then, “Anybody to home?”

Serena answered tiredly, “I’m here, Mrs. Whitlow. I’m here.”

Mrs. Whitlow stuck her head around the doorjamb and asked with concern, “Is you alright, Mrs. T.? You needs me to fix you somethin’?”

“I’m fine, Mrs. Whitlow. I just need to sit and think for a while.”

“Okay then, if’en it’s alright with you, I’ll just go ahead and fix dinner. Is the mister playing cards tonight? Do I got to put on somethin’ extry?”

Serena exhaled slowly. “I think he is, so I guess you better put on a pot of chile or chicken and dumplings. The menu for tonight’s dinner is on the stove.”

“I’s on it, Mrs. T.” Mrs. Whitlow replied as she went into the kitchen.

In the darkening parlor Serena wondered for perhaps the millionth time if she could have made a different decision at the orphanage outside of Port Arthur. Even if she knew beforehand the problems her family would suffer, did she really have a choice? With her knowledge of LaValle’s physical limitations and personality defects, common sense and logic led her once more to the conclusion that he could not have survived the pressures of being the only boy who was not King’s son. He was not physically or mentally tough enough to withstand the ostracism that would have naturally developed. One of the driving forces in her life was a need to protect and nurture LaValle. She did not love him more than Jacques; it was just that LaValle needed more attention. It stemmed from the illnesses of his infancy. What Serena told no one was that she blamed herself for his physical weakness and illness. She blamed herself for trying to abort him. In her heart she was sure that was the principal cause of all of his problems. Serena felt compelled to take any action that would offset her mistaken attempt to murder her firstborn child.

It was too late to change courses now. Amos had been right about one thing: the die was cast. Even if she thought LaValle stood a chance as a ten-year-old with the introduction of Elroy (which she didn’t), how could she go to King and explain to him what she had done? Too many years had passed and too much heartache. All the sacrifices that she had made to ensure LaValle had a healthy life would be in vain.

Serena had not forgotten the rest of Sister Bornais’s curse, that LaValle “
gon’ be a mama’s boy all his life, which ain’t gon be that long really and mo’ than that, he gon’ be the cause of the death of his youngest brother. You don’t follow what I say, you gon’ be left with no sons at all!”
The words uttered by the voodoo woman climbed out of the depths of her memory and slowly crisscrossed her consciousness like a heavily burdened mule train ascending a steep incline. She decided that she would send the Oblate orphanage another check. Perhaps she could defer or mitigate the impact of the curse with the expenditure of more money. Perhaps when LaValle was sixteen . . . perhaps that would be time enough to bring Elroy into the fold to avoid this last ominous aspect of the curse. Serena had no desire to lose both her sons, yet she was willing to risk it, if the only alternative was to welcome another child into her house to supercede LaValle’s position as the oldest. Serena could not admit it, but it was a primal jealousy that buttressed her reluctance to include Elroy in her family. It was the fact that he was Mamie’s son.

She heard the sound of her sons running up the front porch stairs. Lavalle’s voice was loud as he taunted his younger brother. She heard the brash bravado of LaValle’s tone and knew that he was trying to bully Jack. The sounds of a scuffle broke out on the porch and then she heard LaValle wail in pain. She pushed herself to her feet and went to the front door. When she opened the door she saw LaValle’s angry, tear-stained face. Immediately he sought her support and pointed at Jack.

“He hit me with that stick!” LaValle wailed. “I think he broke my finger!”

Jack, who was smaller than his brother, said nothing. He stood quietly and gripped a short wooden pole. He did not try to persuade or manipulate his mother. He simply stared at his brother.

The look on Jack’s face sent a shaft of pain through Serena. She had seen the same look many times on King’s face and she realized even without Elroy, LaValle was not destined to hold the top position long. He did not possess his younger brother’s toughness. It was simply a question of time. His descent would only be hastened by the introduction of Elroy. After checking LaValle’s finger, Serena took possession of the pole and sent the boys to wash up for dinner. It had been a tremendously long and arduous day and she was happy that it was finally over. It’s best that I double the money that I send to the orphanage and maybe buy some turkeys for Christmas, she thought as she set the pole by the door. When she turned back into the house, she hoped that nightfall would bring some respite from the harshness of daylight.

T
 U E S D A Y,  
J
 U N E  1 5,   1 9 3 7
 

When King walked out on the platform of the San Francisco train station to wait for the arrival of the six-fifteen from Los Angeles he was already tired, but he was in no way sleepy. The events of the day were roaring around his mind like high-octane race cars on a small oval track. As a group, the thoughts were whirring around too fast for him to examine closely, but every once in a while one of them would pull up for a pit stop and he would have the chance to mull it over before it too roared away, gaining speed until it lost definition. A long-term mystery had been solved, but its resolution brought only anger and no peace of mind.

His day had begun at one-thirty in the morning in dense fog. He had nosed his fifty-five-foot cutter out of its slip in the Alameda Estuary and cleared the mouth of the Golden Gate in less than an hour despite the thickness of the vapor. He had one man standing at the prow with a signal lamp. The rest of his crew was at the railings keeping an eye and an ear out for other vessels. King had confidence that his powerful twin Chrysler 700 engines would give him all the speed and mobility he would need to avoid a collision. He had a schedule to keep: a rendezvous with a freighter called the
Baja Queen.
The ship was part of a fleet of smuggling ships that King and and his partners had amassed over the last years of Prohibition. Although the ships had been originally intended to smuggle bootleg alcohol, they now carried everything from guns and mercenaries to migrant workers and cigarettes. He stared out into the obscuring grayness of the fog and felt at peace. It was the best part of the trip as far as he was concerned: being alone on the bridge with the movement of the sea beneath him.

The train whistled its arrival. The sun had disappeared behind Twin Peaks and the sky overhead was a pale blue fading to gold, with only a few yellowish clouds floating in the distance. There was no evidence of the morning’s fog. A brisk wind swept along the platform, not quite strong enough to blow hats off, but King kept a firm grip on his flat-brimmed Stetson. He pulled his hat more firmly on his head and turned up the collar of his greatcoat, then started to walk down to where the colored car was destined to stop. A redcap walked up to him and asked, “Mr. Tremain, is you waitin’ to pick up somebody? Does you need help with luggage?”

“How do, Tommy Lee?” King asked with a trace of a smile. He pulled a ten-dollar bill from his money clip and handed it to Tommy Lee. “My wife is comin’ in from LA with baggage,” he explained. Tommy Lee nodded gratefully and hurried away to secure a cart. The train chugged into the station shooting steam out of its vents and shrieked to a stop. King gritted his teeth and waited for Serena to disembark. This was not going to be a pleasant meeting, but he was ready for it.

The news that King had received reminded him of the summer in Bodie Wells when he had entered the bull-riding competition in the county rodeo. He had never ridden a Brahman bull before and he had the luck of drawing one called Red Smoke. Once out the gate he discovered the animal was pure muscle. It flung itself skyward, leaving the ground with all four feet, then it took turns throwing its hindquarters to the left and the right. King did not last the required eight seconds. He was thrown off before the bell sounded, but his grip hand was caught in the ropes. He was dragged and tossed around like a rag doll until he freed his hand, then he was thrown against a barricade. He barely got out of the arena before the animal charged him. The news he had heard today made him feel that he was once more astride the Brahman, being pitched to and fro, riding on countless ribbons of muscle.

The colored passengers had only one exit at the back of the car and therefore they trickled out in ones and twos. King watched while men in trench coats and fedoras and women in furs and thick high-heeled shoes walked past him into the station. King turned away from the wind and lighted a cheroot. Then Serena appeared. She was wearing a rust-brown coat trimmed with red fox. Her matching hat was also trimmed in red fox and she had a red fox stole casually draped across her shoulder. Their eyes met and there was no love or warmth exchanged in their looks. King gestured to the porter, indicating that Serena was the one for whom he was waiting. The porter hurried to his task.