“I gotta keep my eye on you, pretty mama. Trying to get me drunk so you can have your way with me?” He eyed her until she blushed.
“Now, Ozzie.” She giggled. “I’ve enjoyed these last few weeks with you.” She pushed the black checkers across the table to him and started setting up the red ones.
“I’m sorry it has to end. I never get tired of spending time with you.” Ozzie pressed his ankles on hers, boxing her legs in from both sides. Fever spread through his torso. He knew the warmth was partially the effects of the liquor, but it was mostly Rita.
Ozzie and Rita had spent every weekend since Easter Sunday taking in bits of the city together. They had gone to the Lakes for a picnic, walked through the department stores in Center City, and even saw Pearl Bailey perform at the Pearl Theatre on Ridge Avenue. The only thing that they hadn’t done wasit. Whenever they came close, Rita reminded him in her sugary Georgian lilt, “Now, Ozzie, why buy the pig when the sausage is free.”
Ozzie, who had two older sisters, knew to respect her way of thinking, but man, he wanted her. Rita was fine. Thick legs, deep-set eyes, and smooth caramel-colored skin that always smelled sweetlike honeysuckle; when she slid her folding chair closer to him, her fragrance didn’t disappoint.
Rita had jumped two of his checker pieces when Ozzie spotted redbone Harold Lowery and two of his friends strolling down the block. He turned his chair so he could keep them in sight. Harold and his crew lived on Reed Street between Twenty-Third and Twenty-Fourth, where the homes had wide front porches, sturdy wicker chairs, and a view of Wharton Square Park. Harold was a preacher’s kid, and his father drove the only Cadillac Series 62 that Ozzie had ever seen up close.
Those boys had gone to Southern High School and Ozzie to Bok High, their rival. Ozzie and Harold had played basketball against each other for the past four years, and the tension between them never seemed to simmer down.
Harold wore double-pleated slacks and a windowpane shirt that looked like it came straight from the Sears, Roebuck catalog and was then taken to the tailor for the perfect fit. His hair was naturally soft, and he had a toothpick placed in the side of his mouth.
“Rockstar Rita.” Harold eyed her up and down. Also sharply dressed, his boys stopped just behind him.
“Harold,” she said dryly.
“I heard you comin’ to Lincoln in the fall. My stomping grounds. Happy to show you around.” His words slurred just enough to let Ozzie know that he had also had a few tastes.
“Won’t be no need.” Ozzie put his hands on the table, studying Harold. No man with liquid courage was gonna walk along his block and talk shit to his woman like he wasn’t sitting there.
“What you say to me?” Harold finally acknowledged Ozzie’s presence.
“I don’t stutter.”
“Mmmm. I also heard that you volunteered. You know you ain’t gonna be much more than the white man’s flunky. Don’t you?”Harold looked down his nose at Ozzie like he was scum staining the whitewalls on his father’s Cadillac.
Harold’s two cronies laughed in unison. It echoed menacingly in Ozzie’s head. Rita slid closer. She probably thought the gesture was the best way to diffuse the steam rising between them. But as she touched her elbow with Ozzie’s in solidarity, Harold took a bold step forward. Like a man used to getting what he wanted.
“Like I said, Rita—”
“Fall back, partner,” Ozzie warned, feeling thattick-tickpulsing through his veins. All day he had been fawned on and respected, and he wanted to keep it that way.
“Say, Rita.” Harold looked her over again. “What you with that black-ass coon nigga for, anyway?”
Suddenly the music stopped, and Ozzie was out of his seat. “Who you calling a black-ass coon?” They were now nose to nose.
“You the only one out here. So black I can barely see you this late at night. Need to go get my flashlight.” Harold laughed and turned to slap hands with the boy next to him, but before their palms touched, Ozzie had punched him in the jaw. Harold stumbled, and his friend put an arm out to keep him from falling.
“Oh my Lord,” Rita shouted.
“Whoa,” called Uncle Millard, moving quickly between the boys.
One of the women at a nearby table shouted, “Jesus, y’all acting like park apes.”
Uncle Millard grabbed Ozzie by the waist, pulling him back and pushing him toward the house. “Somebody get Harold some ice. Ozzie, inside, now.”
Ozzie stumbled up the front steps. His knuckles ached, so he pushed the front door open with his elbow. When he glanced back at Rita, she rolled her eyes and stalked away. The disappointment on herface made him feel like the biggest loser in the world. Then he saw his mother, Nettie, charging through the door behind him, and he felt worse.
“I guess it ain’t a South Philly party ’til somebody start fighting.” Nettie was barely five feet tall, but her voice boomed like she was a giant.
Ozzie trudged behind her through the living room, past the sofa and two armchairs, through the dining area where the table and buffet dominated most of the room, and then back into the flower-wallpapered kitchen.
“What’s gotten into you, son?” His mother reached into the icebox and pulled out an aluminum ice cube tray.
“Nothing.”
