Bittersweet

© 2013 by Ahmad Fakir. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/26/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-7206-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-7207-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-7208-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013911776

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Acknowledgments

About The Author

Chapter One

Pineview, Mississippi

December 24, 1988

Despite a bone-numbing windchill, the air is crisp and clean. Wispy white clouds dot azure skies as the sun peeks over the horizon. In cities and towns domestic and international, holiday hysteria has shifted into overdrive. Even in an eye-blink of a town like Pineview, which boasts a scant six hundred residents, everyone exudes peace, joy, and good tidings. Pine-scented perfume emits from Christmas trees towering over quaint country roads. In town, Christmas carols ring from scratchy speakers and Santas in ill-fitting costumes solicit contributions.

Outside Campbell’s Barber Shop, a well-worn establishment catering to a lower-income clientele, a candy-striped barber pole turns constantly. Inside, the shop’s white walls have yellowed. A ripped barber chair vomits foam. Balls of hair litter the floor. The chairs lining a back wall are faded and logged with grease. Outdated magazines have been scattered atop a wooden table. Trash cans overflow with bottles, fast-food wrappers and discarded lottery tickets. Unconcerned by the activity inside the shop, a water bug inches across the floor.

Here Beau Jack Campbell, owner, operator and self-appointed sage, regales customers with his knowledge, wit and prophecies. Fair-skinned and bearded, an earring studs his right lobe and his shock of white curls has been trimmed to perfection. His middle has expanded while his hairline continues to retreat. His blue cutting jacket is stained, wrinkled, and littered with clippings. As he finishes a customer, he snaps the apron with a flick of his wrist and sends the loose hair flying.

The shop phone rings incessantly, old-school hustlers lumber about, and glittering straight razors assault stiff leather sheaths. Elgin Mathers, a regular at the shop, sits deathly still as Beau Jack applies hot foam to his steel-grey undergrowth. An armchair secretary of state, the barber freely shares his expertise in yet another area, this one foreign affairs.

If we stop electing these henpecked presidents, he expounds as he trims the back of Elgin’s hair, they’ll respect us more overseas. Their wives advise them on foreign policy when they ought to be consulting with their secretary of state.

After pausing to examine his work, he says, Don’t get me wrong, now. I don’t have a problem with women being liberated. They can drive trucks, work construction, even climb a telephone pole as long as they’ve got dinner ready when we get home. I wish I had some church folk in here! He finishes with the oratorical style of a country minister.

Come on, preacher! a customer shouts.

Get the offering plates! another deadpans.

Could have been one of the greatest preachers in Pineview, Mississippi! Beau Jack yells.

Laughter washes over the room. A man known as Radio grins his nearly toothless smile. Slender and stooped, he earned his moniker with his incessant chatter and the musical accompaniment he insists on providing whenever his favorite selections play on the radio. Long retired, Radio whiles away the hours in a threadbare barber’s chair swigging corn liquor, playing the harmonica and shooting the breeze.

I’m glad there aren’t any broads on the premises, he says. They’d be picketing, protesting, and raising all kinds of hell. He briefly accompanies Stevie Wonder on You Are The Sunshine of My Life with his harmonica. Then he calls out to the customers, Anybody know when Jimmy Lee’s wake is?

Haven’t heard a thing. Beau Jack says. Jimmy Lee Perkins, a legend in his own time. According to rumor, when one of his women was leaving the tourist home, another was arriving. I can still see him now cruising Crenshaw Boulevard in his sky-blue Cadillac. Had a woman in front and two in the back. I thought about asking his widow, Jonnie Mae, about the wake but I hear she’s having all kinds of problems.

Hell, who isn’t? Radio wipes saliva from the instrument.

Are you going through menopause?

Nope.

Hot flashes?

Come on, Beau Jack, that’s a female thing. He looks at himself in the nearest mirror. On second thought, I just might be. My hair’s gone, down to my last few teeth, and my pole don’t rise like it use to. What do you call that?

Beau Jack carefully trims the moustache of another customer. That’s what you call menopause for men. Ever have trouble remembering the days of the week?

Not yet.

Then she’s got two problems. You don’t.

Hope none of his women show up at the wake, Radio says.

I second the motion! A wake for a snake. That’s what they oughta call it. The boy was smooth now, always cruising. Thought he was a pimp, always bragging about what some woman did for him. Beau Jack shifts into overdrive.

Be good to Daddy, and Daddy’s gonna be good to you. That’s what he called himself, Daddy. See these alligator shoes? A gift from Arlene. Couldn’t wait til it got cold to show off his mink.

Rufus Withers, whose dark ruddy complexion sets off a misshapen nose and a thick prospector’s moustache, wonders, Why’d she marry a bum like him anyway?

As Beau Jack’s third customer plants himself in the chair, the master barber says, Jet-black hair with more waves than the Atlantic, built like Adonis, and skin as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Boy wasn’t bad looking, either. I ain’t no fag but Gable didn’t have shit on him.

Four miles away, Samuel Ruffin stands at the entrance of the James Lee Perkins estate. A short, pigeon-toed Black man, he is squinty-eyed, dark skinned, and has a flattened boxer’s nose. He is also the proprietor of the S.D. Ruffin Funeral Home. Dressed to the nines, he is the epitome of elegance, class and refinement. A blinding white shirt shows beneath a grey three-piece suit. Ivory cufflinks secure his sleeves and a pricey watch clings to his wrist. Large black wing tips have been buffed to a terrifying sheen. A black bowler serves as the capstone for his natty attire.

After he pounds repeatedly at a paint-starved doorway, he tires of the exercise and looks around. Bricks faded by age have been chipped at the corners. A potted plant begs for water. The porch’s wood planks creak beneath his feet. The picture windows are soiled, the light blue door is battle-scarred, and the bell no longer works. Before he can retreat to the comfort of his midnight-black Eldorado, the door creaks open and lets a sliver of light shoot through.

As he turns back, the arc widens. An obese, matronly woman stands at the landing clad in a dress that could double as a tent. Jumbo hair rollers sprout from her scalp. Ruffin is subjected to more scrutiny than a germ under a lab slide, and her jaw tightens. Gripping a Bible and a half-eaten apple, she heaves, huffs, and shuffles before a tight stream of words escape her lips.

"You selling anything? ‘Cause if you are, you can keep stepping!"

No, ma’am, he says sheepishly. In a rare polite gesture, Ruffin tips his hat. May I speak with Mrs. Perkins?

About what? Her words come at him like frenzied bullets, and he ducks for cover.

It’s a sensitive matter concerning her husband James.

Her arms rest against ample hips as her brows arch. Jimmy Lee died a week ago.

That’s precisely why I’m here. May I come in?

She scans the visitor even more closely before saying, Wait here. I’ll see if she’s up to it.

Ruffin lowers his attaché case and a gleaming white handkerchief whips into view. As he dabs moisture from his receding hairline, Mabel Weeks suddenly reappears. She doesn’t feel like talking, she says.

Are those your words or hers?

I don’t think you hear well! I said she doesn’t feel like talking! Now will you leave or do I have to throw you off the porch? Thick fingers curl into a fist as her eyes narrow.

Let’s be civil about this, dumpling. Please tell her it’s Sam Ruffin the mortician. She’s expecting me.

The fire in her eyes smolders and her tone softens. Have a seat while I tell her.

Ruffin bustles through the doorway and paints on a smile. Mabel turns unexpectedly and her eyes widen. Where do you think you’re going?

You told me to have a seat.

Not in here, fool! On the porch!

Minutes later, the door reopens and Mabel emerges. Okay, she’ll see you. But only for a minute. As Ruffin inches forward, she shouts, Did you wipe your feet?

Yes, ma’am, he says in a barely audible tone.

On which mat? The green one or the brown one?

The brown one, I think.

The merchant of morbidity has apparently passed the test. He is ushered into a sparsely furnished sitting room where he is directed to a hassock. Mabel settles into an overstuffed chair. Tattered orange chairs nudge each other and a seedy white hassock kisses the one on the left. Roses bent and prickly curl in a floral vase. Inexpensive artwork hugs the fading walls. A gold spittoon salutes in a corner.

Moments later, Jonnie Mae Perkins lumbers inside. Now eighty-four years of age, she stands a mere five feet six. Rotund and wrinkled, her hair is a rat’s nest of salt and pepper spirals. Her glazed pin-dot eyes starkly contrast her oversized nose and lips. Flesh jangles whenever her arms twist. Sagging breasts protrude. Thick brown support hose knots at her knees.

Good evening, Mrs. Perkins, he says. Let me extend my heartfelt sympathy. I realize this is a difficult time but this matter demands your attention. A week has passed since your husband’s departure but his body remains in the morgue. I was wondering if you… .

Ruffin pauses and the flow of his words dissolves. Ever the perfectionist, he straightens his tie, clears his throat, and cuts to the heart of the matter. Would you like us to prepare the remains?

Mabel explodes. So this is how you drum up business! Trying to get rich off the dead! Bunch of goddamn leeches!

Ruffin’s jaw tightens. His body stiffens, his brow knits, and his perfectly aligned teeth grind. He manages to dismiss the remark. If we’re to do business, I’ll need a copy of his life insurance policy and certificate of death. How soon can we expect those?

Swinging backward in her rocker, Jonnie Mae’s eyes flutter open. The chair lurches forward and her lips part. Talk to Jimmy Lee. He’ll know what to do. Coming home from work in a little while.

Bludgeoned into silence, Ruffin recoils. He grapples with his briefcase and attempts to speak to Mabel. Ma’am, could I speak with you in the outer room? What did you say your name was?

I didn’t. It’s Mabel. Mabel Weeks. Ms. Weeks to you.

She spits an apple seed to the floor and pulls herself up. As she barrels toward the doorway she heaves, belches then scratches her dimpled rear end. The hallway is narrow, musty and only large enough for a single body to navigate. A naked bulb has been suspended from the ceiling. A small painting of the Last Supper hugs an adjoining wall.

Ms. Weeks, we’ve got a problem, Ruffin says. Are you related to Mrs. Perkins?

Just a friend. She picks something from her teeth.

Is she aware of the circumstances?

What circumstances?

Emotion thickens his voice and shakes his ample frame. That her husband is deceased.

Reckon she ain’t. Mabel shrugs.

Are you telling me she doesn’t know her husband is dead?

Mabel presses a finger to her lips. Don’t say that word too loud. She’ll get upset.

Is there an executor of the estate? Ruffin asks.

A what?

Who handles her financial affairs?

Ms. Jonnie does her own business, Mabel states matter-of-factly. Been doing it for years. Of course you wouldn’t know that ‘cause you think she’s stupid. All I do is cook, buy her medicine and keep the house clean. Ms. Jonnie does the rest.

Ruffin stares in disbelief and scratches his head. That’s absurd! How could she grasp the legal complexities of a contract? Apparently she suffers from Alzheimer’s disease.

Now it’s Mabel’s turn to scratch her head. What was that word you used? Complex…

Complexities.

Hoisted erect, Mabel lumbers toward the next room. Let me go look that up. Can you spell it?

Don’t bother. I’ll use laymen’s terms. Was Mr. Perkins gainfully… uh, did James Perkins have a steady job?

I reckon. Mabel shrugs again.

What was his occu… what did he do for a living?

A lot of stuff. He was a painter, carpenter, and a pipe fitter. Called himself a pipe layer but you can’t prove that by me. All of you think you’ve got the best ding-a-ling in the world.

Ruffin twists his face into a horror mask and unleashes an excruciating sigh.

Don’t be lookin’ at me all funny, she says. You brag about your ding-a-ling, too.

Teeth sawing, the death master does a slow boil. His nostrils flare, his neck stiffens, and his palms perspire. Pools of sweat bead across his forehead. His t-shirt sticks to his chest and his valentine undershorts feel as if they’ve been enameled on. As he speaks, his tone escalates and a twinge of frustration creeps into his voice.

Ms. Weeks, I am a businessman. I didn’t drive all the way over here to discuss my sexual anatomy or related conquests. Where do they bank?

Flushed with anger, Mabel lashes out, Money! Money! Money! That’s the bottom line, ain’t it? You don’t care about the dead! All you care about is your Cadillac!

After a pause, she adds, Union Trust!

Exhausted by the proceedings, Ruffin closes the conversation. As of his death, all of Mr. Perkins assets have been frozen. I suggest his widow obtain the services of an attorney.

The screech of automobile tires sound from the driveway. A horn blares. Cars collide like tanks in a war zone. Rear lights shatter. A bumper crumples like an accordion. A car alarm sounds. Ruffin waddles toward the doorway and his mouth falls open. What in the hell?

As he grasps the doorknob, he steels himself for a worst-case scenario. The rear of his custom Eldorado is mangled beyond recognition. The left light dangles. The other light lies in the dirt. The Cadillac is a write-off. Beside the vehicle is the motorist responsible. His vehicle suffers a dented fender; otherwise the damage is minimal. Elroy Bubba Bickers turns to him and asks, This your car?

Yes, it’s mine! Ruffin fumes.

Why’d you park it here?

"Because I don’t recall seeing a no parking sign! Can’t you see?"

You’re darn tootin’, he says proudly. I was state champ at the rifle range. Got a trophy, kiss on the cheek, all kinds a stuff. Wanna see?

Caught in a cyclone of confusion, Ruffin loosens his top button and removes his necktie. With his eyes shooting daggers, he summons the right words. What I’d like to see is your driver’s license and insurance information!

Bubba digs into the pocket of his bib overalls and extracts a crumpled driver’s permit. Scribbling the information onto a piece of paper, Ruffin demands the insurance papers. The glove box produces a coffee-stained document.

Something wrong? Bubba asks.

I’ll say! I need your current insurance information. This expired two years ago!

That’s it there. Bubba grins.

Ruffin mumbles an obscenity and erupts. This is worthless! Whose gonna pay for the damage?

Gotta call your folks, I reckon. Bubba smiles. I have no intention of calling my insurance company!

The rush of words creates a particular urgency. As Ruffin turns to leave, he adds, You’ll be hearing from my attorney!

Sure you don’t wanna see my trophy?

Back on the porch, Mabel chuckles. Bubba’s a mess, ain’t he?

Ms. Weeks, my car sustained extensive damage, so evidently I’m missing the punch line! May I use your telephone?

"Telephone? Never had one. Fixing to get one,