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I knew the job was gone, and even if an apology rectified things with Cain, I couldn't apologize. To hell with him, the job and the fighters. Hoorray for my brother.

Cain's letter the next day was as stiff as a short jab: “Rita Johnson, your services will no longer be necessary.”

I was in a state again that was blood-line familiar. Up a tree, out on a limb, in a pickle, in a mess but I didn't pack my bags (or leave them) and go back to Mother.

Survival was all around me but it didn't take hold. Women nearly as young as I, with flocks of children, were creating their lives daily. A few hustled (I had obviously little aptitude for that); some worked as housemaids (becoming one of a strange white family was impossible. I would keep my negative Southern exposures to whites before me like a defensive hand); some wrestled with old lady Welfare (my neck wouldn't bend for that).

While the total trust of a child can mold a parent into a new form, Guy's big smile (Mother said he laughed an awful lot for a baby) and happy disposition lost its magic to make me happy. He believed in me, but he was a child and I had lost belief in myself.

My head stayed high from habit, but my last hope was gone. Every way out of the maze had proved to be a false exit. My once lively imagination would not come up with one more fantasy. My courage was dwindling. Unfortunately, fortitude was not like the color of my skin, given to me once and mine forever. It needed to be resurrected each morning and exercised painstakingly. It also had to be fed with at least a few triumphs. My strength had fallen away from me as the pert features fade from an aging beauty. I didn't drink and had run out of pot. For the first time in my life I sat down defenseless to await life's next assault.

CHAPTER 31

I had often noticed Troubadour Martin at Cain's. He was extremely tall and dangerously thin. When I used to see him, he reminded me of the phrase often used to describe me, “A long drink of water.” He came to my house a week after my job ran out. That was how I'd begun to think of it. His movements were slow and his speech a long time coming. We sat in my living room.

“Hello, Rita.”

“Hi, Troub.”

Pause.

“Heard you not working for Cain.”

“No. The job ran out.”

Wait.

“Well, you find anything yet?”

“No, I'm taking a rest.”

Hesitation.

“Of course.”

Delay.

“Maybe you can help me.”

I demurred. This time I didn't intend to jump at the first persuasion. He was black and handsome, and when the light fell right across his face he looked like a thin Paul Robeson. I also knew he wasn't one of the men who sent out for drinks.

“Maybe you know I deal in clothes?”

I knew he was a gambler.

“No.”

“I have a connection for ladies' dresses and suits. New.” He shook his head before my question. “They're not hot. I run sort of like a catalog business. I'll tell you what I need. See, you won't have to do nothing. I'll bring the things, and ladies can come over here to try them on.”

He smiled slowly, and dropped his eyes. I saw the Southern shyness of the man and knew the clothes were stolen.

“You know how you ladies are. Wouldn't like to undress unless there's another lady around.”

I didn't know about that. I said nothing.

“And you don't have to sell, I'll do that. I'll give you a percentage of the money. How's that?”

There was nothing to think about. I agreed.

I'd have money coming in and my time would be my own. I could read all day, and take Guy to the park and to movies. I would have the time to teach him to read. And I'd be beholden to no one. Troubadour wasn't interested in me romantically, so I didn't have to concern myself about getting involved with him.

“All right, Troub. When do we start?”

“I'll bring some things around tonight.” His words lingered in his mouth. “Uh, Rita, uh, I'm glad to be working with you. Every time I used to see you, I thought to myself, ‘That's a real nice lady’ Sure did.”

He left me a demure smile.

After two months my closets were filled with expensive two- and three-piece