A Kind of Grace Read online

  East St. Louis, Illinois, is twenty miles across the border and the Mississippi River from St. Louis, Missouri. Our home sat on Piggott Avenue, between 14th and 15th Streets on the south end of town, in the center of a rough-and-tumble precinct. Tiny, wood-frame shotgun houses with painted cement porches lined both sides of our block, except for a fifty-meter stretch of assorted businesses directly across from our front porch.

  For a certain kind of man, those enterprises catered to almost every need. He could grab a haircut, shave and shoeshine at the barbershop, then walk to the corner convenience store for a pack of cigarettes before joining his buddies in the poolhall for a cold beer and a few games. Or he might lay down a bet on someone else's cue stick and listen to the blues playing on the jukebox. After that, he could fill his tank in the tavern next door and grab a fifth for the road at the liquor-sales counter. The Swahili Club, a bar and lounge just around the corner on 15th, catered to the velvet-banquette-and-tablecloth crowd. Ruby D's, another lounge in the vicinity, had similar ambience.

  The entire one-block radius around our house was a magnet for assorted winos, pimps, gangsters, ex-cons and hustlers. But we always said hello to the men who called the spot headquarters. Two of them, who were known to everyone in the neighborhood as Squirrel and Doug, were around so much they seemed like neighbors. My father had grown up with them. They practically adopted Al, who worked in the barbershop shining shoes for 35 cents with the kit Daddy had given him as a Christmas present. In addition to Squirrel and Doug, I vividly recall three other men whose nicknames were Slick, Dick and Bubba. They wore sunglasses, wide-brimmed hats, shiny alligator shoes, brightly colored suits with bell-bottom pants and open-necked print shirts. And lots of gold chains. Slick, Dick and Bubba were reputed to be the biggest gangsters in town—men who'd actually committed murder, according to local legend. The men greeted Al the same way each time they walked into the barbershop. They extended an open palm and waited for my brother to slap it, a gesture known as “givin'em five.” “Hey little A.J., what's up, man? Anybody messing with you?” they'd ask him during the ritual.

  Al pulled his box over, shined their shoes and listened to their war stories. When he was done, they gave him fives—bearing Abraham Lincoln's picture. I walked out on the porch one afternoon and found them sitting on the steps with Al, helping him put his train set together. During my brother's senior year in high school, Slick, Dick and Bubba were ambushed late one night and gunned down, gangland style. When Al heard about it, he cried as if a member of our family had been killed.

  I never feared the men who hung out on the corner and in front of the liquor store. Whatever bad things they did, they didn't do them around us. When our parents weren't around, these men were our protectors.

  During the day, things were quiet, except for occasional joking and friendly arguing. As the sun descended, the action heated up. Cars abruptly pulled up to the liquor store and poolhall, or came screaming around the corner. Men and women climbed out and entered the clubs and taverns. Sometimes they ran back out, shouting over their shoulders at someone inside. When arguments turned ugly, with curse words or murder threats, Squirrel and Doug usually warned us to get off the street and go inside. At other times, events exploded without warning.

  That's how it happened the night my sister Debra narrowly missed being shot. Al was stooped over, shining someone's shoes near the doorway of the barbershop. My great-grandmother was on the porch talking to our neighbor, Mrs. Newman. Two men burst out of the tavern screaming and cursing at each other. One of the men turned to walk away and the other pulled a gun out of the front of his trousers. At the same time, Debra, oblivious to the altercation, was darting across the street toward our front yard.

  The unloading gun chamber sounded like Fourth of July fireworks. Debra didn't realize what was happening or how close she was to the line of fire until the victim dropped dead on the sidewalk practically at her feet. If any of those seven bullets had missed their target, she would surely have been hit. She stood there, looking at the dead and bleeding body, stunned.

  Al ran across the street, the shoeshine rag still in his hand, and rushed my great-grandmother and Debra inside. When they told Angie and me what had happened, we jumped up. We were eager to run out and see the corpse. But my brother wouldn't let us. He said the sight was too gruesome.

  Another night, we were all outside when a guy nicknamed Bird was shot as he came out of the tavern. He survived and filed charges against his assailant. A month later, he was shot and killed late one night inside Ruby D's, along with Ruby the tavern owner, her security guard and another man. The men in the barbershop told Al that the police caught the man who did it, thanks to a clue left by Ruby. She wrote his name in her blood before she died.

  The violence and intrigue fascinated us. We were too young to perceive the danger. But my mother deplored it and tried to shield us from as much of it as possible. She didn't want us playing in the street or peeping out of the windows to see what was happening. “One of these days you're going to look out that window at the wrong time and whatever's out there is gonna get you,” she warned me.

  Eventually, the violence did hit home. It changed forever the way I regarded murder and drug abuse. My parents got a call from the police in Chicago telling them that my grandmother Evelyn, who wasn't yet fifty, had been murdered in her sleep by her boyfriend. A chilly silence engulfed our house for days. My parents never explained the circumstances of her death, but from the whispering I overheard, I surmised that it had been drug-related. First the men and women in the neighborhood, now Evelyn. I was still in elementary school, but I was old enough to make the connection. It seemed that every time someone I knew died violently, drugs or alcohol were somehow involved. No one had to tell me to stay away from them after that.

  2

  Momma and Daddy

  Because my parents were so very young and weren't well educated when they married, the odds were against us from the start. Our lives were an almost constant struggle. It's remarkable that Momma and Daddy were able to provide for all of us and hold our family together.

  When I was very young, our lives were happy and mostly tranquil. The whole family ate dinner together, with my father at the head of the table, my mother at the other end and two kids on each side. No one raised a fork until we entwined our fingers in front of our plates, bowed our heads and said grace.

  Even when there wasn't a lot to eat, our meals were always tasty. Daddy had an extra helping of neckbones each time Momma served them. On Fridays, we looked forward to fried fish and spaghetti.

  Despite the shortages and problems, my parents never allowed us to think of ourselves as disadvantaged or as victims. While they wanted us to strive for more, they also taught us to be grateful for what we had. I always sulked while walking home at the end of a day spent with my friends who lived in housing projects. Our house was several blocks from the village of high-and low-rise apartment buildings and I felt isolated, living so far from my playmates. One day, I walked into my house and said to my mother, “I wish we could live in the projects.”

  Momma stopped what she was doing, whipped around and looked at me as if I'd cursed. “Jackie, have you lost your mind?” she asked. Her voice became more passionate: “You should be glad you have a house to live in. People live in projects because they don't have anywhere else to stay.”

  The nights my parents went to the movies or to dinner were always exciting. Daddy walked into the living room, smelling of cologne and looking razor sharp in his wide-brimmed hat, polyester slacks, print shirt and shiny crocodile shoes. “How do I look? Good, huh?” he'd ask. We all eagerly nodded.

  Looking at the photo on the wall of him in his Lincoln High football uniform, I could see he'd gotten heftier over the years. My father wasn't a football standout, but he'd been one of Lincoln's best hurdlers. Indeed, he might have been able to earn an athletic scholarship in track after graduation. But he honored his responsibilities to his wife and growin
g family and went to work.

  From where I sat watching him put on his overcoat, he looked ruggedly handsome. The combination of his deep voice, dark complexion, full head of hair and high cheek-bones reminded me of singer Lou Rawls and the great NFL defensive end Deacon Jones.

  My parents were an attractive couple. Momma was beautiful. She had gentle eyes and caramel-colored skin. I thought she looked just like Diahann Carroll, who starred in the TV show Julia. Of course, Momma had added pounds since high school, but they'd settled in all the right places. She had an hourglass figure, which she maintained with a combination of daily housework and nightly exercises. Debra, Angie and I giggled whenever she stretched out on the floor and started doing sit-ups to the crooning of Al Green on the stereo. “Laugh if you want to, but just wait,” she'd say, between deep breaths and crunches. “Someday you'll have to do the same thing.”

  Having a pretty mother was fine when she went out with my father. But I got tired of people asking me if she was my sister. Her visits to school for awards ceremonies were more annoying than joyous. The boys who passed us in the hall treated her like she was a pretty new classmate. As we walked down the crowded corridors, me in braids, jeans and a T-shirt and my mother in a perfectly coiffed pouf, sweater and slacks, bug-eyed stares and whistles followed us. One boy ran up to me after she left and exclaimed, “Wow, your mom's a fox!”

  When I came home, I indignantly reported the comment to Momma, who by now had donned her familiar flowered housecoat and slippers. Her eyes never left the pot she was tending on the stove as she shrugged and said, “I'm not thinking about those mannish boys.”

  When my father wasn't home to dictate, Al and I argued about what to watch on TV. My brother wanted Bonanza. I wanted anything else. On nights when Good Times and Sanford and Son aired, we were in accord. On Sunday evenings, the whole family watched The Ed Sullivan Show. The night the Jackson 5 performed, I sang along with every song and swooned over Randy Jackson, the youngest brother. Al always danced whenever soul or rock-and-roll singers appeared on the show. As James Brown performed one evening, Al spun and slid around the room, doing a somewhat more manic imitation.

  The one thing we didn't do as a family was go to church. My father wasn't big on church services, but my mother roused Al, my sisters and me early every Sunday morning to dress for Sunday School and church. “You can worship everything else during the week, but on Sunday, you'll worship God,” she'd say whenever one of us balked at getting up early or begged to stay home.

  Donning our Sunday best—pressed dresses, white knee socks, patent leather shoes, gloves and purses, and for Al, a suit and shined shoes—we walked single-file down the street. Angie was first, Debra was behind her, then me, followed by Al. Momma, clad in nylon stockings, a suit, pillbox hat and gloves, brought up the rear. We looked like a gaggle of geese with their Mother Goose as we marched the two blocks down 15th Street to St. Paul's Baptist Church.

  Like most kids, I dreaded sitting through the services. Sunday School wasn't so bad. Not because of the stories we read and the lessons we learned, but for the chance to whisper and giggle with my friends while the teacher conducted class. As I grew up, my mother instilled in me a reverence for God. Before going to bed every night I knelt on the side of the bed, closed my eyes and recited the Lord's Prayer, as she'd trained me to do. The ritual ended with a good-night kiss on her cheek. As I got older, I decided I was too big to be kissing her. One night I went straight to bed after praying. The next day, Momma wanted to know why I hadn't kissed her.

  “It's too baby-fied,” I said.

  “Have you stopped praying at night?” she asked. “Is some boy telling you you're baby-fied?”

  “No ma'am. I just think it's childish.”

  She looked hurt. “I see. So now you're too grown to kiss me good night.”

  I felt so guilty, I dutifully gave Momma her kiss after saying my prayers that night. And I did it every night afterward until I left home for college.

  My parents did their best to keep us out of harm's way. My mother outlined a code of conduct and strictly enforced it, to try and protect us. But her rules served an additional purpose. She was determined to put us on the path to a better life by teaching us to be disciplined, hardworking and responsible.

  The complete list of her rules would fill this book. But here's a sampling: No gifts from strangers. No playing too far from the front yard. No playing outside after dark. No playing outside until your household chores are done. No playing at all if your report card has Ds or Fs. No makeup. No long phone conversations. No boyfriends until age sixteen. No dates past 10:00 P.M.

  We didn't have closets full of clothes. Each of us had one or two outfits and a pair of shoes for church and special occasions. The few pieces composing our school wardrobes, along with a pair of shoes, which we received at the beginning of the term, had to last the entire year. And because we couldn't afford the luxury of going to the laundromat every day, our clothes had to stay as clean as possible between washings. My mother insisted that we change out of them immediately after school. And she made us wear the same outfits two days in a row, which I just hated. I was confident and outgoing at school. But down deep, I felt embarrassed and self-conscious. I was sure everyone noticed I'd worn the same clothes the day before. At the time, it seemed like the worst social offense in the world.

  I tried to negotiate. “Why can't I wear a dress on Monday and wear it again on Friday?”

  “Because I said you can't, that's why,” Momma said sternly. “And as long as you're the child and I'm the adult and you're living in this house, you'll follow my rules.”

  I loved getting clothes from my aunt Della and my cousins, all of whom also wore a size 8. Their clothes were hip and cute. But when Momma made me wear outfits she bought at the secondhand store, it was humiliating. They looked so old-fashioned. The dresses were all below the knee and dark-colored. The frills, puffs and long hemlines were a dead giveaway that they weren't new. After all, it was the 1970s and the other girls at school wore psychedelic prints, short dresses and tight skirts.

  “A girl at school today asked me if I wore long dresses because we were sanctified,” I told my parents one night during supper. “Sanctified,” was a term we used to describe people who were highly religious and wore very conservative clothes. “Nobody else dresses like me,” I complained. “Everyone else wears short skirts and bright colors, not ugly old-lady dresses like mine. Carmen Cannon had a really pretty sweater on today. I wish I had one like it—”

  “Stop right there,” my father said. “Don't tell me what other people are doing. We're not trying to keep up with the Joneses.”

  I know that all those years of not having nice clothes or any say about what I wore explains why I'm a clotheshorse and shopaholic now. When I visit a foreign country, I find myself shopping rather than sightseeing.

  We never received birthday presents or had parties. But at Christmas, my parents made up for the absence of luxuries by giving us everything on our Christmas gift lists, no matter what sacrifices had to be made. By the time the gift wrap was ripped and the boxes were open, the living room was awash in bicycles, musical instruments, walkie-talkies, train sets, electric football games, board games, Easy Bake ovens, stacks of new clothes and Barbie dolls.

  Those Barbie dolls were my prized presents. Over the years, I amassed the whole gang: Barbie, Ken, P.J., Skipper and Barbie's black friend, Chrissy. Actually, I'm still a Barbie fan. It's a way of linking with my childhood, I guess, but I've taken to collecting them the way others collect baseball cards and stamps.

  Despite the occasional whippings he got from my father, my brother, Al, got away with murder when we were growing up. With the generous gratuities he received, my brother made a small fortune from his shoe-shining job. But he never saved a dime of it, spending it all on wacky gadgets advertised in the back of comic books. Neither of my parents said a word about it. But when I took a summer job selling concessions at a movie theater in d
owntown St. Louis, Momma insisted that I fork over half of every check to her and that I deposit a big chunk of the other half in a savings account. She said I had to learn financial responsibility. When I complained about the double standard, she replied, “Boys can take care of themselves.”

  I pouted about it all summer. But I now realize that my mother was teaching me the value of money and the importance of managing it wisely.

  Her other priority was keeping me away from “those mannish boys.” Better than anyone, my parents knew what a pitfall teen pregnancy could be for young black people. They drilled it into my head that they didn't want me to repeat their mistake, and they did everything in their power to see that I didn't. As a result, I was never in serious danger of becoming pregnant in high school.

  My aunt Della was less strict than Momma. I spent a lot of time at her house on weekends and used her phone to talk as long as I liked. Della also let me invite boys over. Somehow my mother found out about it and chastised Della. “How am I supposed to maintain discipline if you let them do whatever they want?” she huffed. That was the end of good times at Della's.

  When I turned sixteen, I fell for a boy on the basketball team who was two years older than me and in the same homeroom as Al. My brother reassured my parents that he was a nice guy and a good athlete, which also helped my father warm to the idea, after the boy got off on the wrong foot with him.

  Without warning, the boy had appeared at my front door one night at 9:30. Al answered the knock and was shocked to see his classmate standing there. The boy asked if I was home. Daddy was sitting nearby, and Al, realizing what was about to happen to the poor guy, just chuckled.