The Portable Promised Land Page 4

  Camilla whipped around and motioned for three women from the Amber side of the aisle to step forward. The three moved from the crowd and into the open, self-righteously stuck their hands on their hips, and made circles with their necks as if to say, Whatcha got to say now? Coltrane’s jaw dropped and his eyes sunk back into his head and his shock made it clear even to Amber that these were three women of whom Coltrane had carnal knowledge.

  The Reverend called out, “Miss Clothespony, please! This is a day for closure!”

  To which she shot back, “Oh, we gettin closure right now!”

  And with that Coltrane dashed off into the house, trailed by Amber, her eyes burning with homicide, followed by Camilla screaming, “Get that rat!,” followed by the three neck-swiveling women, followed by most of Amber’s friends. Coltrane’s people stood their ground, seeing no way to save him from the beating of his life. As Coltrane raced through the house, zigging and zagging, breaking stuff and denting shins and tripping and falling and bolting up to sprint off, a single-file line of fire-eyed females chased him up the front stairs and down the back ones, nipping at his heels like a murderous high-speed conga line. Soon Coltrane found himself running through Vietnamish hallways that were a jungle of broken glass and grabbing hands and flying chairs and kicking legs and spitting fires, unable to find a path out of the house, every moment less and less able to avoid the swarming, bloodthirsty mob.

  Later, at the hospital, Coltrane said he had no idea Camilla had planned to ruin the day (though Amber felt Camilla had done “the perfect sisterly thing”). He winced as a nurse tended to the cuts on his face and chest from being kicked by high heels and secured the cast on his twice-broken left arm.

  “What happened to you?” the nurse said.

  “Oh, I had a Breakup Ceremony.”

  “What are you, stupid? What did you think would happen?”

  “Well, I dunno. I guess I thought my Breakup Ceremony would be different.”

  “I’ve been to maybe five Breakup Ceremonies,” she said, “and I don’t even know how the ceremony’s supposed to end because every single time someone goes postal.”

  “Yeah,” Coltrane said. “I’m not really sure if these Breakup Ceremonies are such a good idea. My dad always said, ‘It’s cheaper to keep her,’ and I never really knew what he was talkin about cuz he was always broke. But now I get it.”

  THE SAD, SWEET STORY OF

  SUGAR LIPS SHINEHOT,

  THE MANWITH THE

  PORTABLE PROMISED LAND

  Trust me, if you’d asked any Negro in Harlem, “Who’s the coldest saxophone player around?,” durin them two months in the summer ah 1942 they’da looked at you like you was crazy. “Sugar Lips Shinehot,” they’da said. “You new in town?” Yeah, for a short while Sugar Lips Shinehot was the top saxophonist in Harlem and probably the best sax player livin. Now them history books won’t whisper a thing bout Sugar Lips cuz them jazz historians is out there tellin the stories they wanna tell. But I’ll tell the story cuz it ain’t half bad and it’s all true. If I’m lyin, I’m flyin. And I ain’t seen a feather all day.

  Back durin them two months Sugar Lips was top dog, even Charlie Parker was scared ah him cuz any time Sugar Lips wrapped them thick, pillow-soft lips round a mouthpiece he swung hard nuf to make rain, thunder, and lightnin stop and pay attention. Womenfolk paid, too. They say one night ol’ Satchmo threw a party and Lena Horne, Katherine Dunham, and Mahdaymoyzell Josephine Baker all went by Satchmo’s hopin to have they lips caressed and massaged by some sugar lips. Quiet as it’s kept, not a few men was there for that, too. As the night lost its pigment, word ah the widely shared thought got round and by time that night had turned high-yaller they had the biggest catfight you could imagine up in there. Per some accounts, Katherine slugged Josephine. Others said Lena soaked Katherine wit a glass of vodka. All’s certain is everyone in Harlem laid claim to bein there and Sugar Lips had set three of the finest Negro women alive to riotin.

  Sugar Lips had always been pretty good wit a horn, though he never struck fear in nobody until he locked hisself up in his apartment on 166th and St. Nicholas for nine months, blowin til the paint cracked from the heat from his horn. That’s when he knew he could smoke like West Hell. So he looked out his window, saw the sun was in bed snorin hard, throwed on his jacket and porkpie hat, rolled on over to Minton’s where Bird and them was inventin bebop, and walked in the way you walk in when you know you baaad.

  Minton’s was a do-or-die sorta joint for jazz cats, where someone who blew the crowd away could become the king ah Harlem, but mos cats got blown away by dudes like Bird, Dizzy, and Monk, and if ya got blown away it was likely some patron would snatch ya off the stage, take ya out back, and whip ya head til it’s flat like a dime. It was that sorta spot. But when Sugar Lips leapt up on the bandstand he started to blowin some horn blowin like no one else belonged in the blowin bizness. Drinks stop bein served, reefers stop bein sold, and a couple that had been in the batroom blendin pulled up they draws and ran out to hear that horn.

  Bird hisself happened to be under the bandstand sleepin at the time and woke up, grabbed his horn, and started a cuttin contest. He went at Sugar Lips hard as he could, notes spittin from his horn as fast and furious as Negroes runnin in a riot, but from the git-go Sugar Lips was scorchin through solo after solo, gettin that crowd whoopin and hollerin, shoutin and stompin, and when he blew into his last solo he was swingin so hard a few women fainted, a few men cried, and anyone anywhere near the joint thought the Holy Rollers was havin service wit the Holy Ghost hisself as guest preacher. By the time he finished the sun had had a cup of coffee and Sugar Lips had even Bird admittin he’d outbirded Bird.

  Now, Sugar Lips ain’t go crowin round Harlem like he was the new mayor or nothin. He went bout bizness like always, but let him try to pay for a steak or taxi or anythin. No one in Harlem would take his money. Got to where he had to add a extra hour to gettin anywhere wit folk wantin his autograph or askin him to play on they record or ladies inquirin bout what time he might get back home so’s maybe she could be there, too. Time slid on and men from them record-makin companies came callin wit contracts and promises bout makin him a big-time star. And Sugar Lips was bout to sign one ah them contracts when some-thin butted in.

  One night, two months to the day since he cut Bird, Sugar Lips bounced outta Minton’s wit his horn in his hand and on his arm a sealskin-brown broad with six months in front and nine months behind. She was hot as July jam. They was jus a block from his apartment when they made a shortcut thru ah alleyway and found two white Navy boys hidin out. In ’42 servicemen was barred from jus settin foot in Harlem cuz they thought them boys was comin uptown and gettin all sorta vernearally-classified diseases. So for them boys to sneak up to Harlem meant them riskin they whole Navy careers jus to knock the pad with a woman fine as the one Sugar Lips had.

  “What’s goin on here?” one ah them Navy boys said.

  Sugar Lips jus looked at him and kept walkin, but they stepped in his way.

  “Ain’t gonna intradeuce me to the gal, darkie?”

  “Y’all should think of something better than darkie if you hope to get under m’skin,” Sugar Lips said. “Try Sambo. Or coon.”

  Navy boy got nose to nose wit Sugar Lips. “I was sailin all over the Pacific savin your coon hide when I thought that one up, Sambo, so I think you like it.”

  “Well, I don’t. But you think on it and catch me right here tomorrow night, man,” Sugar Lips said and started to walk around the sailors.

  “Did you call him ma’am?” one of them asked.

  “No.”

  “You callin me a liar, boy?”

  Before Sugar Lips could open his mouth the sailors went to bangin on his head and shoulders and ribs like he was a drum. The gal ran off, but when Johnny Law showed up it was too late. Sugar Lips had blacked out right after seein a big red brick flyin at his soft lips.

  When you a Negro white folk is like doors. You got to go thro
ugh them to get most anywhere. If you want to play at the Apollo you got a door called Mo Leviathan. If youse to get a contract wit Savoy Records there’s a door named Herman Rubinsky. If you need space in a rooming house, or to see a moving picture, or to buy a beer, or sometimes jus to get cross town without gettin your head bust open, there you is, face to face wit a door. And when there ain’t no door the door is jus then bein built. Doors don’t always open up and sometimes them doors get heavy and Negroes get tired of knockin on door after door to get anywhere, but if you want to go through there’s lil choice.

  For Sugar Lips it seemed like the Navy boys had chain-locked a whole lotta doors at once cuz even months later, after mos ah the bones and bruises had healed on up, he still couldn’t blow his horn, or kiss, or do anythin truly important. Where them sweet lips used to be there was jus a mangled ol’ fist. Bird was back top that sax hill, them record-sellin companies had put away they tracts of con, and he couldn’t find no broad to boil his hambone. Times was hard for Sugar Lips, and if not for throwing an occasional house-rent party he’d have been sleepin in the gutter.

  So Sugar Lips was surprised one afnoon to hear someone honkin outside his window like they was honkin after him. It was a short, jet-black man wit a sharp fire-red Pontiac wearin a checkered zoot suit and diamonds on every finger. Sugar Lips had never seen him before, but glad fer company, he threw on a coat and hobbled downstairs.

  “Sugar Lips, I’m Gabriel.”

  “Afternoon,” he said.

  “It’s all in the street about your problems. I came to see if I could be of any service.”

  “What do you do, sir?”

  “I’m in the problem-solving game, my friend. It was them crackers tore you up, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You can’t play your horn?”

  “Nah.”

  “You can’t kiss your women?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Make you mad?”

  “Sure.”

  “Make you mad at all crackers?”

  “Uh, sometimes.”

  “So mad you hate them?”

  “I don’t know about all that.”

  “Wish you could wipe them honkeys off the earth as you know it?”

  “What Negro hasn’t once or twice?”

  “Well then,” Gabriel said. “This here’s your lucky day!” Sugar Lips stared at him.

  Gabriel whispered, “I’ve got a friend who can clear whitey right off your earth forever.”

  Sugar Lips thought Gabriel was beatin up his gums and runnin his mouth, but he stayed curious.

  “Hey, this is solid,” Gabriel said. “I guarantee results. My friend will take care of you. He’s the world’s best problem solver. Take my card and meet us at his office tomorrow night.”

  Gabriel hopped into his Pontiac and raced off. The business card had the name “Reverend Doctor Bernard Z. LeBub,” and under it smaller words: “Problems Solved,” and under that even smaller words: “For You Hoodoo.” A Harlem address was printed on the bottom.

  The next night Sugar Lips met Gabriel and his boss, Reverend Doctor LeBub, who was draped in the whitest white zoot suit your eyes could register. He was papa-tree-top tall, blindingly handsome, and so light you couldn’t be sure if he was Negro or not. He appeared to be a man who could outchase the fastest skirt-chaser, outpick the best lock-picker, outroll the best dice-roller, outrhyme the best dozens player, and con the most felonious of felons. The sorta cat who could be a king ah kings if jus he wanted. The Reverend Doctor grinned widely at Sugar Lips.

  “Sugar Lips,” Gabriel said. “May I introduce my boss, Reverend Scratch.”

  “I thought his name was Doctor LeBub.”

  “The Reverend has many names,” Gabriel said. “But enough idle talk. For a small price Reverend Scratch will do what you wish — he will remove the white man from the earth as you know it. Ad infinitum.”

  “What’s the price?” Sugar Lips said.

  Gabriel began to speak, but the Reverend Doctor raised his hand and Gabriel immediately hushed. “My son, I am a Reverend and a Doctor,” he said. “You can trust me.” He slid his arm around Sugar Lips’s shoulder. “I am offering you relief from everything that ails you. Everything. When I am finished you will know boundless freedom. For this favor, do you ask the price?”

  “If you from Harlem you do.”

  The Reverend Doctor was not amused. “You puny lamb amongst wolves in the valley of the damned! When a shepherd comes bearing salvation on a platter do you ask when can I eat the apple? Why can’t I look back? How much will the nails burn? You have one chance and there is one cost. When thou art offered salvation doth thou asketh the price?!”

  The Reverend Doctor threw up his desk to reveal a door in the floor. He flung the door open, stepped in, and slammed it behind him. Sugar Lips’s heart got to punchin at its skin and he was as close to leavin as ninety-nine is to a hundred when Gabriel rushed to his side. “Don’t concern yourself with the price,” he said. “We’ll haggle about it later. You’ve got a tremendous opportunity here. I wouldn’t blow it if I were you.”

  Sugar Lips was justly afraid ah the Reverend Doctor, but as Gabriel spoke he calmed down. Somehow the Reverend Doctor had made his curiosity grow.

  “Are you ready to rid yourself, my friend?” Gabriel said.

  “I think so,” Sugar Lips said.

  Gabriel led Sugar Lips through the door where the Reverend Doctor had gone and down countless flights ah stairs to a room filled wit manila candles and a white bathtub brimmin wit milk. Gabriel helped him undress and get into the tub, then waited til Sugar Lips was relaxed. Young boys in black robes entered one by one til they lined the walls. The Reverend Doctor came in and stood at the foot of the tub, staring at Sugar Lips, not saying a word. Sugar Lips heard scufflin in another room like three or four men was fightin. The boys began chantin, but Sugar Lips could hear a boy screamin, then, suddenly them screams stopped and a boy in a white robe came rushin in and shoved two whole eyeballs in Sugar Lips’s mouth. His skin crawled wit the thought of eyeballs in his mouth, but slowly they taste took over him. Bitin them was easy as bitin a crunchy milk-chocolate egg, though a liquid came out the middle that seeped down his chest, burnin like whiskey. The Reverend Doctor told Sugar Lips to close his eyes and someone dripped warm wax on his lids. Without wanting to he fell asleep.

  Sugar Lips awoke that next afternoon in his own bed. He couldn’t remember what had happened after he’d swallowed them eyeballs — certainly not walkin to his apartment or gettin into bed. But he had a strong feelin he had somethin new, some-thin important, but he couldn’t recall what that was. He felt a joy, but didn’t remember what to feel joyous bout.

  Then he heard a car honkin outside his window. He knew that honk anywhere. It was Carolyn from down in Grenitch Village. She’d been up in Paris for the summer and knew none ah his troubles. Sugar Lips had once had a taste for lotsa flavors and his sweet lips had led him to every flavor from double chocolate to mocha to cinnamon to cherry to butter pecan to cookies’n’cream and when he needed a lil’ vanilla, nothin tasted like Carolyn.

  He leaned his head out the window to call to her and saw her blue Buick, but no Carolyn anywhere. He flew down them stairs and opened the door but still, no Carolyn at all. Her car sat front ah him, the motor runnin, but no one in sight. He stood in that doorway for a long time lookin round, expectin her to jump out and surprise him, but nothin happened. Then Carolyn’s Buick suddenly zoomed off down that street.

  Sugar Lips stepped out to look around. Some well-dressed Negroes was over here peacockin down the street like they was late to they coronation and some Negro winos was layin over there like crumpled up pieces of paper and some Negro children was slidin up, around, and through a double-dutch rope like magic and it looked to be a normal day in Negro Heaven. Then he saw a Cadillac drive by wit no one inside it. Then another. He turned to run to the newsstand down the block to read bout this new driverless car but got only a few
steps before he hit what felt like a brick wall and was knocked on his backside. He looked up and saw nothin, then felt hisself jerked to his feet by his collar. A Negro man came runnin from nowhere, talkin frantically to the air, apologizin for Sugar Lips to the air. The Negro bent to help him up.

  “Ay boss,” the Negro said, “what choo doin runnin inta white folk like dat?”

  “What white folk?” Sugar Lips said.

  “You crazy? The one ya juss smacked inta. The one almoss beat ya to a pulp.”

  “I ain’t seen nothin,” Sugar Lips said. But then everythin made sense. He leapt to his feet and looked around. The Man was nowhere in sight. The Woman, neither. But this was Harlem. He walked to the bus stop careful to walk in a straight line and not make sharp turns lest he run into someone he couldn’t see and hopped on that number six downtown. There appeared to be open seats all over, but jus to be safe he stood near the front and looked out the window. As the bus rumbled downtown he saw Negro shoeshine boys on one knee, snappin and crackin a rag as though polishin a shoe, but no one in the shoeshine seat. He saw Negro doormen in uniforms, movin through they ritual of noddin, smilin, and openin the door, but no one steppin through. He saw ice vendors handin blocks of ice over to the air, waiters placin food in front of tables wit nobody, and women pushin empty strollers. He saw a Negro havin a fistfight solo, a Negro in handcuffs trudgin along by hisself, and once, a high-yaller with a right arm and leg and no left arm or leg — a man with jus half a body!

  The bus got to 42nd Street and he got off. He looked round and saw less than half the normal number of peoples on that street and they was all Negroes. No white cops directin traffic. No white waitresses takin orders. No white men in suits movin down the street. Jus Negroes percolatin everywhere, shoppin, drivin, sellin ice cream. He felt the weight of tuggin on door after door drop away. Without bein able to get at them doors it was like he couldn’t go nowhere, but then again, without bein able to get at them doors it was like he could go nowhere. Wit no place to go and no place bein exactly where he wanted to be he felt like a jus-freed slave.