Ms. Etta's Fast House
By Victor McGlothin
DAFINA BOOKS
Copyright © 2007
Victor McGlothin
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-1381-5
Chapter One
Penny Worth o' Blues
Three months deep into 1947, a disturbing calm rolled over
St. Louis, Missouri. It was unimaginable to foresee the hope
and heartache that one enigmatic season saw fit to unleash, mere
inches from winter's edge. One unforgettable story changed the
city for ever. This is that story.
Watkins Emporium was the only black-owned dry goods store
for seven square blocks and the pride of "The Ville," the city's
famous black neighborhood. Talbot Watkins had opened it when
the local Woolworth's fired him five years earlier. He allowed
black customers to try on hats before purchasing them, which
was in direct opposition to store policy. The department store
manager had warned him several times before that apparel wasn't
fit for sale after having been worn by Negroes. Subsequently, Mr.
Watkins used his life savings to start a successful business of his
own with his daughter, Chozelle, a hot-natured twenty-year-old
who had a propensity for older fast-talking men with even faster
hands. Chozelle's scandalous ways became undeniably apparent
to her father the third time he'd caught a man running from the
backdoor of his storeroom, half-dressed and hell-bent on eluding
his wrath. Mr. Watkins clapped an iron pad lock on the rear door
after realizing he'd have to protect his daughter's virtue, whether
she liked it or not. It was a hard pill to swallow, admitting to himself
that canned meat wasn't the only thing getting dusted and
polished in that backroom. However, his relationship with
Chozelle was just about perfect, compared to that of his meanest
customer.
"Penny! Git your bony tail away from that there dress!" Halstead
King grunted from the checkout counter. "I done told you
once, you're too damned simple for something that fine." When
Halstead's lanky daughter snatched her hand away from the red
satin cocktail gown displayed in the front window as if a rabid
dog had snapped at it, he went right on back to running his
mouth and running his eyes up and down Chozelle's full hips and
ample everything else. Halstead stuffed the hem of his shirttail
into his tattered work pants and then shoved his stubby thumbs
beneath the tight suspenders holding them up. After licking his
lips and twisting the ends of his thick gray handlebar mustache,
he slid a five dollar bill across the wooden countertop, eyeing
Chozelle suggestively. "Now, like I was saying, How 'bout I
come by later on when your daddy's away and help you arrange
thangs in the storeroom?" His plump belly spread between the
worn leather suspender straps like one of the heavy grain sacks
he'd loaded on the back of his pickup truck just minutes before.
Chozelle had a live one on the hook, but old man Halstead
didn't stand a chance of getting at what had his zipper about to
burst. Although his appearance reminded her of a rusty old walrus,
she strung him along. Chozelle was certain that five dollars
was all she'd get from the tight-fisted miser, unless of course she
agreed to give him something worth a lot more. After deciding to
leave the lustful old man's offer on the counter top, she turned
her back toward him and then pretended to adjust a line of canned
peaches behind the counter. "Like what you see, Mr. Halstead?"
Chozelle flirted. She didn't have to guess whether his mouth
watered, because it always did when he imagined pressing his
body against up hers. "It'll cost you a heap more than five dollars
to catch a peek at the rest of it," she informed him.
"A peek at what, Chozelle?" hissed Mr. Watkins suspiciously,
as he stepped out of the side office.
Chozelle stammered while Halstead choked down a pound of
culpability. "Oh, nothing, Papa. Mr. Halstead's just thinking about
buying something nice for Penny over yonder." Her father tossed
a quick glance at the nervous seventeen-year-old obediently standing
an arm's length away from the dress she'd been dreaming about
for weeks. "I was telling him how we'd be getting in another
shipment of ladies garments next Thursday," Chozelle added,
hoping that the lie sounded more plausible then. When Halstead's
eyes fell to the floor, there was no doubting what he'd had
in mind. It was common knowledge that Halstead King, the local
moonshiner, treated his only daughter like an unwanted pet and
that he never shelled out one thin dime toward her happiness.
"All right then," said Mr. Watkins, in a cool calculated manner.
"We'll put that there five on a new dress for Penny. Next weekend
she can come back and get that red one in the window she's
been fancying." Halstead started to argue as the store owner
lifted the money from the counter and folded it into his shirt
pocket but it was gone for good, just like Penny's hopes of getting
anything close to that red dress if her father had anything to
say about it. "She's getting to be a grown woman and it'd make a
right nice coming-out gift. Good day, Halstead," Mr. Watkins offered,
sealing the agreement.
"Papa, you know I've had my heart set on that satin number
since it came in," Chozelle whined, as if the whole world revolved
around her.
Directly outside of the store, Halstead slapped Penny down
onto the dirty sidewalk in front of the display window. "You done
cost me more money than you're worth," he spat. "I have half a
mind to take it out of your hide."
"Not unless you want worse coming to you," a velvety smooth
voice threatened from the driver's seat of a new Ford convertible
with Maryland plates.
Halstead glared at the stranger then at the man's shiny beige
Roadster. Penny was staring up at her handsome hero, with the
buttery complexion, for another reason all together. She turned
her head briefly, holding her sore eye then glanced back at the
dress in the window. She managed a smile when the man in the
convertible was the only thing she'd ever seen prettier than that
red dress. Suddenly, her swollen face didn't sting nearly as much.
"You ain't got no business here, mistah!" Halstead exclaimed
harshly. "People known to get hurt messin' where they don't belong."
"Uh-uh, see, you went and made it my business by putting
your hands on that girl. If she was half the man you pretend to
be, she'd put a hole in your head as sure as you're standing
there." The handsome stranger unfastened the buttons on his
expensive tweed sports coat to reveal a long black revolver cradled
in a shoulder holster. When Halstead took that as a premonition
of things to come, he backed down, like most bullies do
when confronted by someone who didn't bluff so easily. "Uh-huh,
that's what I thought," he said, stepping out of his automobile
idled at the curb. "Miss, you all right?" he asked Penny,
helping her off the hard cement. He noticed that one of the
buckles was broken on her run over shoes. "If not, I could fix that
for you. Then, we can go get your shoe looked after." Penny
swooned as if she'd seen her first sunrise. Her eyes were opened
almost as wide as Chozelle's, who was gawking from the other
side of the large framed window. "They call me Baltimore, Baltimore
Floyd. It's nice to make your acquaintance, miss. Sorry it
had to be under such unfavorable circumstances."
Penny thought she was going to faint right there on the very
sidewalk she'd climbed up from. No man had taken the time to
notice her, much less talk to her in such a flattering manner. If it
were up to Penny, she was willing to get knocked down all over
again for the sake of reliving that moment in time.
"Naw, suh, Halstead's right," Penny sighed after giving it
some thought. "This here be family business." She dusted herself
off, primped her pigtails, a hairstyle more appropriate for
much younger girls, then she batted her eyes like she'd done it
all of her life. "Thank you kindly, though," Penny mumbled,
noting the contempt mounting in her father's expression. Halstead
wished he'd brought along his gun and his daughter was
wishing the same thing, so that Baltimore could make him eat it.
She understood all too well that as soon as they returned to their
shanty farmhouse on the outskirts of town, there would be hell to
pay.
"Come on, Penny," she heard Halstead gurgle softer than
she'd imagined he could. "We ought to be getting on," he added
as if asking permission to leave.
"I'll be seeing you again, Penny," Baltimore offered. "And
next time, there bet' not be one scratch on your face," he said,
looking directly at Halstead. "It's hard enough on women folk as
it is. They shouldn't have to go about wearing reminders of a
man's shortcomings."
Halstead hurried to the other side of the secondhand pickup
truck and cranked it. "Penny," he summoned, when her feet
hadn't moved an inch. Perhaps she was waiting on permission to
leave too. Baltimore tossed Penny a wink as he helped her up
onto the tattered bench seat.
"Go on now. It'll be all right or else I'll fix it," he assured her,
nodding his head in a kind fashion and smiling brightly.
As the old pickup truck jerked forward, Penny stole a glance at
the tall silky stranger then held the hand Baltimore had clasped
inside his up to her nose. The fragrance of his store-bought
cologne resonated through her nostrils for miles until the smell of
farm animals whipped her back into a stale reality, her own.
It wasn't long before Halstead mustered up enough courage to
revert back to the mean tyrant he'd always been. His unforgiving
black heart and vivid memories of the woman who ran off with a
traveling salesman fueled Halstead's hatred for Penny, the girl
his wife left behind. Halstead was determined to destroy Penny's
spirit since he couldn't do the same to her mother.
"Git those mason jar crates off'n the truck while I fire up the
still!" he hollered. "And you might as well forgit that man in
town and ever meeting him again. His meddling can't help you
way out here. He's probably on his way back east already." When
Penny moved too casually for Halstead's taste, he jumped up and
popped her across the mouth. Blood squirted from her bottom
lip. "Don't make me tell you again," he cursed. "Ms. Etta's havin'
her spring jig this weekend and I promised two more cases before
sundown. Now git!"
Penny's injured lip quivered. "Yeah, suh," she whispered, her
head bowed.
As Halstead waddled to the rear of their orange brick and oak,
weather-beaten house, cussing and complaining about wayward
women, traveling salesmen and slick strangers, he shouted additional
chores. "Stack them crates up straight this time so's they
don't tip over. Fetch a heap of water in that barrel, bring it
around yonder and put my store receipts on top of the bureau in
my room. Don't touch nothin' while you in there neither, useless
heifer," he grumbled.
"Yeah, suh, I will. I mean, I won't," she whimpered. Penny allowed
a long strand of blood to dangle from her angular chin before
she took the hem of her faded dress and wiped it away.
Feeling inadequate, Penny became confused as to in which order
her chores were to have been performed. She reached inside the
cab of the truck, collected the store receipts and crossed the pebble
covered yard. She sighed deeply over how unfair it felt, having
to do chores on such a beautiful spring day, and then she
pushed open the front door and wandered into Halstead's room.
She overlooked the assortment of loose coins scattered on the
night stand next to his disheveled queen sized bed with filthy
sheets she'd be expected to scrub clean before the day was
through.
On the corner of the bed frame hung a silver-plated Colt revolver.
Sunlight poured through the half-drawn window shade,
glinting off the pistol. While mesmerized by the opportunity to
take matters into her own hands, Penny palmed the forty-five
carefully. She contemplated how easily she could have ended it
all with one bullet to the head, hers. Something deep inside
wouldn't allow Penny to hurt another human, something good
and decent, something she didn't inherit from Halstead.
"Penny!" he yelled, from outside. "You got three seconds to
git outta that house and back to work!" Startled, Penny dropped
the gun onto the uneven floor and froze, praying it wouldn't go
off. Halstead pressed his round face against the dusty window to
look inside. "Goddammit! Gal, you've got to be the slowest somebody.
Git back to work before I have to beat some speed into
you."
The puddle of warm urine Penny stood in confirmed that she
was still live. It could have just as easily been a pool of warm
blood instead. Thoughts of ending her misery after her life had
been spared fleeted quickly. She unbuttoned her thin cotton
dress, used it to mop the floor then tossed it on the dirty clothes
heap in her bedroom. Within minutes, she'd changed into an undershirt
and denim overalls. Her pace was noticeably revitalized as
she wrestled the crates off the truck as instructed. "Stack them
crates," Penny mumbled to herself. "Stack 'em straight so's they
don't tip over. Then fetch the water." The week before, she'd
stacked the crates too high and a strong gust of wind toppled
them over. Halstead was furious. He dragged Penny into the
barn, tied her to a tractor wheel and left her there for three days
without food or water. She was determined not to spend another
three days warding off field mice and garden snakes.
Once the shipment had been situated on the front porch,
Penny rolled the ten-gallon water barrel over to the well pump
beside the cobblestone walkway. Halstead was busy behind the
house, boiling sour mash and corn syrup in a copper pot with
measures of grain. He'd made a small fortune distilling alcohol
and peddling it to bars, juke joints and roadhouses. "Hurr'up,
with that water!" he shouted. "This still's plenty hot. Coils
try'n'a bunch."
Penny clutched the well handle with both hands and went to
work. She had seen an illegal still explode when it reached the
boiling point too quickly, causing the copper coils to clog when
they didn't hold up to the rapidly increasing temperatures. Ironically,
just as it came to Penny that someone had tampered with
the neighbors still on the morning it blew up, a thunderous blast
shook her where she stood. Penny cringed. Her eyes grew wide
when Halstead staggered from the backyard screaming and cussing,
with every inch of his body covered in vibrant yellow flames.
Stumbling to his knees, he cried out for Penny to help him.
"Water! Throw the damned ... water!" he demanded.
She watched in amazement as Halstead writhed on the ground
in unbridled torment, his skin melting, separating from bone and
cartilage. In a desperate attempt, Halstead reached out to her,
expecting to be doused with water just beyond his reach, as it
gushed from the well spout like blood had poured from Penny's
busted lip.
Penny raced past a water pail on her way toward the front porch.
When she couldn't reach the top crate fast enough, she shoved
the entire stack of them onto the ground. After getting what she
went there for, she covered her nose with a rag as she inched
closer to Halstead's charred body. While life evaporated from his
smoldering remains, Penny held a mason jar beneath the spout
until water spilled over onto her hand. She kicked the ten gallon
barrel on its side then sat down on it. She was surprised at how
fast all the hate she'd known in the world was suddenly gone and
how nice it was to finally enjoy a cool, uninterrupted, glass of
water.
At her leisure, Penny sipped until she'd had her fill. "Ain't no
man supposed to treat his own blood like you treated me," she
heckled, rocking back and forth slowly on the rise of that barrel.
"Maybe that's cause you wasn't no man at all. You' just mean old
Halstead. Mean old Halstead." Penny looked up the road when
something in the wind called out to her. A car was headed her
way. By the looks of it, she had less than two minutes to map out
her future, so she dashed into the house, collected what she
could and threw it all into a croaker sack. Somehow, it didn't
seem fitting to keep the back door to her shameful past opened,
so she snatched the full pail off the ground, filled it from the last
batch of moonshine Halstead had brewed. If her mother had ever
planned on returning, Penny reasoned that she'd taken too long
as she tossed the pail full of white lightning into the house. As
she lit a full box of stick matches, her hands shook erratically
until the time had come to walk away from her bitter yesterdays
and give up on living out the childhood that wasn't intended for
her. "No reason to come back here, Momma," she whispered, for
the gentle breeze to hear and carry away. "I got to make it on my
own now."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Ms. Etta's Fast House
by Victor McGlothin
Copyright © 2007 by Victor McGlothin.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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