Dark End of the Street

I parked near Poplar and walked through the projects asking anyone I saw if they knew a woman named Wordie. Didn’t feel uncomfortable or uneasy. Most people in the projects were a hell of a lot friendlier than those you’d meet in those yuppie cracker box apartments that lined Metairie. Shit, this was a community. I knew I’d find Wordie within ten minutes. People here actually knew each other. Had to if they wanted to survive. About five minutes later, a little old black woman with enormous – almost Jackie O-sized – sunglasses carrying a walker pointed to the next street over. Said Wordie had a Santy Claus on her porch.

I thanked her, popped a couple of fresh pieces of Bazooka in my mouth, and walked up the winding hill where yellow, red, and brown leaves scattered over me like ticker tape.

I soon saw the plastic Santa Claus, black and carrying a fat sack, standing by a corner unit. A crushed Coke can and stray headless Barbie doll lay at the foot of the Santa like discarded presents. I knocked on the worn wood of the screen door.

At the top of the hill, a group of teens lingered by a convenience store pay phone waiting to sell crack to white kids from the suburbs. At the base of the hill, two black children dressed in starched school uniforms walked by my Bronco carrying backpacks heavy laden with books.

Just as I was about to look in the window, the door swung open revealing one of the largest women I’d ever seen. Even larger than the woman at Wild Bill’s. This woman could kick her ass. Her arms were the size of my thighs. Her thighs were as large as my waist. She wore a heavy scowl upon her lips as if she’d been waiting for me to show up all day so she could vent all her problems upon me.

“Hello, ma’am.”

She had on a tight black muscle T-shirt, black biker shorts, and pink Jelly shoes. Her hair had been woven and dyed into a mismatched pattern of yellow and red braids. I wanted to ask her where in the hell she got size-forty biker pants.

I didn’t. I was scared.

“You Wordie?”

“Maybe. Who the fuck is you?”

“A friend of Clyde’s.”

She crossed her arms over her massive breasts, the left one adorned with a tattoo of a red rose.

“His sister’s trying to find him.”

“Listen, I got to go,” she said, trying to close the door. I could hear the chatter of Oprah Winfrey inside.

“What’s Oprah talkin’ about today?”

Wordie gave me a frown. “Oh, I don’t know. Some woman givin’ advice to women whose got husbands that peckers don’t work.”

“You married?”

“Hell no,” she said, giving a little laugh, then catching herself and then trying to close the door again.

“His sister Loretta sent me.”

Wordie put her hands on her massive hips and said, “You know Loretta Jackson?”

“She’s family.”

“Hmm.”

“She’s like family.”

“Really?”

I nodded.

“C’mon in,” she said, leaving the wood door to batter the frame. I followed her inside to Oprah and the smell of smoked meat and greens.

The greens were great. Firm and salty, but with that smoky flavor that tasted like home and JoJo’s and everything I valued. I liked Wordie, and for the moment Wordie seemed to like me. Well, she acted like she liked me in between commercials and Oprah – which did truly feature stories about men whose peckers didn’t work – as she showed me old brown vinyl picture albums containing clippings on Clyde James that dated back to 1964 and his work in gospel.

“Do you think I could borrow this sometime?” I asked. “Would love to make copies of these articles.”

She looked at me, her face pinched tight, and then back at the television.

I turned back to the newspaper clippings that were yellowed and worn thin from constant reading. I flipped to a page with an article whose headline read WIFE OF NEGRO MUSICIAN EXECUTED. I slowly read the story, the page smelling like mothballs and silverfish:

MEMPHIS – Police discovered the bodies of two Negroes early Sunday morning in what detectives are calling an apparent execution.

The victims have been identified as Mary James, 29, and Eddie Porter, 33. James is the wife of Clyde James, a local singer. Porter played organ in James’ band, said Bobby Lee Cook, owner Bluff City Records.

According to Detective Ray Jenkins, Memphis Police Department, the bodies were found at the James’ home, 433 Rosewood Ave. about 10 a.m. Both had suffered gunshot wounds to the back of the head.

Jenkins would not say if the department had any suspects. No arrests have been made.

Cook said Clyde James has reached national success with a recent chart topper called “Lonely Street.” He said James was devastated when he learned of the death of his wife and friend. Cook said the singer is with family and members of the First Zion Church.

“Eddie Porter was one of the finest musicians I’ve ever known and will be greatly missed by everyone in the Memphis’s recording industry,” Cook said.