She walked over to the sink and turned on the faucet and cupped her hands beneath the running water. Her sudden gasp of delight took her back a step. She had expected a sobering cold splash, not hot water!
Honoree could count on one hand the number of times the water was warmer than an iceberg. She grabbed the washcloth, some broken pieces of Ivory soap, and started scrubbing: her face, throat, armpits, and legs.
“Honoree!”
This voice on the other side of the door didn’t startle her; it belonged to her neighbor, Kenny.
“Honoree! You are in there. I can hear the water.”
She gripped the edge of the sink. “Stop banging on the door, Kenny. I’m not dressed. Come back later.”
“I got something for you.”
“And I have hot water for the first time in God knows when. I intend to wash up before the water goes back to ice.”
“You had a telephone call at Mr. Turner’s Grocery Store, and they left a message.”
No one in the building owned a telephone—no one in the building could afford the phone lines, anyway. She used Mr. Turner’s number in case someone had to reach her in a hurry.
“Honoree, come on now.”
“Slip the note under the door.”
“Come on. I ran all the way here to hand-deliver this message. Least you could do is let me in.”
“You’re such a brat.” She turned off the faucet. “Hold on, hold on. Let me find my sweater.”
“Hurry up. It’s cold out here.”
She put on the sweater and unbolted the door.
Long and lean, Kenny tripped into the kitchenette, his big boots covered with mud, his thin limbs swinging loose and free.
“Good morning, doll.” He shucked out of his peacoat and flung it over the back of a chair. “When did you start getting phone calls from the Dreamland Cafe?”
“Why wouldn’t I get a call from the Dreamland Cafe?” She kept her voice rough, but a hummingbird was flapping its wings inside her rib cage. “It is my new place of employment, after all.”
“Gosh almighty, Honoree. You got hired at the Dreamland Cafe. I didn’t believe it possible. Congratulations!”
She smiled. “I told you about climbing the ladder to success.”
“That was three years ago, and back then, doll, I took your proclamations with a grain of salt.” Kenny smoothed the whiskers on his chin. “Better be careful, though. Reaching too high too fast can cause a tumble.”
“Don’t you worry, Kenny. I’ll avoid your mistakes.”
His face crumbled, and Honoree could’ve kicked herself for bringing up his failures. A former student at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, Kenny was one of two coloreds to graduate in 1918.A talented Negro painter, his instructors had called him, but Kenny smoked reefer cigarettes and drank hooch by the gallon and ran around with handsome men who didn’t care about him. He got hurt, made mistakes, and in between lost sight of his dreams.
“I don’t appreciate you bringing up my past,” he said quietly. “I thought I was offering advice. I forgot you take care of yourself.”
“I do, and I’m sorry, but I believe life happens when you make it happen.” Despite Honoree’s bold talk, the wings inside her chest hadn’t stopped flapping. The message from the Dreamland Cafe wouldn’t be good news. “Don’t you have something to give me. A message?”
Kenny melted into the chair and stretched his long legs beneath the table. “There was a ruckus this morning at the Dreamland. Did you hear about it?”
“How could I when I just woke up?”
Kenny pulled out a slip of paper from his pocket. “A bartender was gunned down, killed right inside the joint.”
Sweet Jesus. News spread like wildfire in Bronzeville. Unless Kenny had overheard her and Ezekiel that morning, but Kenny would’ve mentioned that. “I told you I ain’t got nothing about what happened at the cafe.” She nodded at Kenny’s hand. “Give me my message.”
