Honoree figured on that for a moment. “Like letting a man beat you?”
“I don’t let him beat me anymore. I listened to you and told him to keep his hands off me.”
“I’m glad something I said made a difference.”
They had reached the bottom of the stairwell.
“’Course, he put me out after I told him,” Bessie said. “But I don’t care.”
“He did what?”
“Kicked me out, which is why I’ve been sleeping in the dressing room.”
“You can’t stay down here forever. What if Archie or Dewey find out, or heaven forbid, Miss Dolly? I told you the first night—she don’t tolerate squatters.”
“Don’t worry—already found someplace to stay. Or, I should say, Virginia found me a room at the brothel around the corner.”
Honoree stopped and stared at Bessie wide-eyed. “I swear to God. Virginia has a mean streak as wide as Miss Dolly’s behind. You can’t stay there.”
“She said I’d be fine. Nobody gonna beat me up or nothin’.”
“The men who visit those establishments will surely grab your ass and won’t be polite about giving you more than a pat on the backside.”
Reaching the dressing room door, Honoree shoved it open. “You need someplace to stay, but it ain’t in no whorehouse.”
“What took you two so long?” Miss Dolly had her skirt hiked up, hiding her flask in a pocket sewn on the underside of her garment.
“Why you always putting your foot in my beeswax?” Honoree stomped down the steps, still fuming about Virginia’s vile idea for Bessie. “Not every conversation has to do with you, Miss Dolly.”
“Shut up and get dressed,” Miss Dolly snapped. “Trudy and Edna Mae need your help. They can’t keep those railroad boys entertained by themselves all night long.”
Virginia was in her sights now, and Honoree went after her with venom in her veins. “And you? Lord have mercy. You got nothing but nerve. A room in a whorehouse? Shame on you.”
The chorus girl threw her cigarette butt on the sawdust. “What’s your beef? Where else is she gonna stay? She’s dumb as dirt and dances like a broke-legged duck. She would be lucky to survive on a street corner. I got her a good room.”
The desire to smack Virginia in the mouth overwhelmed Honoree. It took all of her strength to tame her temper. “Bessie will stay with me. I’ll make room for her—until she finds someplace to live that’s not a whorehouse.”
* * *
Bessie moved into Honoree’s kitchenette that night, with a satchel full of old clothes, knit jerseys, cardigans, and a serge skirt. It appeared her things had not been washed or mended since she arrived in Chicago.
“I can’t believe you are doing this for me, Miss Honoree. You sincerely don’t mind me moving in with you?” Bessie stood in the doorway, wide-eyed like a doe in the moonlight. The rest of her glowed like Honoree had handed her the keys to the Taj Mahal.
“I have rules,” Honoree said. “You can stay until you get a place of your own or find someone else to live with.”
Bessie looked down at the floor. “I’ll behave. I promise. You won’t have no trouble from me.”
Honoree sighed. There was no turning back. “My kitchenette is small, but I sleep on the cot. You sleep on the floor. There are blankets over next to the Singer sewing machine,” she said.
A wide grin stretched from one side of Bessie’s plain face to the other. “I’ll sleep anywhere you say.”
CHAPTER 22
SAWYER
Monday, June 22, 2015
Despite the nightmare and my text-athon with Dad, I finally get my ass in gear. I make it to the Bronzeville Senior Care Facility midafternoon, coffee in hand, but my thoughts are out of order. My mind is still in the car—then on the side of the road, and later in the hospital, accepting, questioning, knowing: I had survived. Azizi was the one who was dead.
