When the young waiter asked what he could get us, we selected the toppings we wanted in our chili. I followed Mrs. Claxton’s lead, and the man behind the counter filled my bowl with a generous portion of spaghetti, a steamy, fat tamale, and a ladle of chili juice, all of it topped with a big heaping of shredded cheese. “Michael, I’ll be needing you to pack up a container of chili for the reverend, and some of that sliced cow tongue he loves so much. Put an extra courting apple in there, chile.”
Michael said, “Sure thing, Mrs. Claxton. Nice article about you today. I’ll bring it over to you shortly.”
We sat at a red-checkered-cloth table, the conversations rising cheerfully around us, Mrs. Claxton’s one of the most lively. It seemed she know’d every person coming in. Many congratulated her on the article. More than once, she’d whisper to a friend, giggle, and open her pocketbook and offer them a sneak peek of the treasures from Cab.
I stared down at the big bowl of chili and scooped up a tiny spoonful and tasted it with the tip of my tongue. I tempted a bigger bite. How odd looking, but it was delicious.
“I see you like our citified chili,” Mrs. Claxton noted, pleased.
“These cooks sure know’d how to make different victuals than back home.” I wiped my oily mouth with the napkin. “It’s ugly but tastes mighty pleasing, ma’am. Thank you for dinner.” And I gobbled down the rest of it.
***
“We’ll just head down Sixth Street to the Mammoth Life & Accident Insurance Company, where the tailor’s shop is. Come on, chile,” she said.
After a few blocks, the librarian stopped. “There it is.” She pointed to a brown six-story building rising among the smaller storefronts. “Next to the Lyric Theatre. See it, Cussy?”
Squinting, I stared up at the large sign.
Outside the shop, Mrs. Claxton greeted a small boy sitting on the sidewalk with a cut-up cardboard box and crayons, drawing. A tin of buttons rested at his feet.
“It’s a right pretty drawing, young man.” I stooped over and studied the child’s art, marveling that it was so detailed for his age.
“It’s a statue, ma’am!” Grinning, he jumped up and held open the door.
“And a fine one.” I smiled.
“This is the Hamilton boy, Ed, but we all call him Lil Biff,” Mrs. Claxton said. “Thank you, Lil Biff. Won’t be long now.” Mrs. Claxton patted his shoulder. “Two months and you’ll start first grade. You come visit me at the library for reading hour and homework help.”
We stepped inside the Mammoth Life building to a sign that read YOUR VALET SHOP and were greeted by another standing advertisement that touted thirty-five-cent hair cuts and twenty-five-cent shaves.
Scents of shampoo, menthol, woodsy soaps, and musky potions greeted us. Catchy music floated around as a radio announcer broke in after a song: “Yes, sir, the weather’s been a scorcher here in the city. That was Perry Como letting us know it’s ‘Watermelon Weather,’ so get out and enjoy thesweetheart-kissing season,” he teased. “Next up is—”
I was surprised to see a barbershop and, more so, a female Negro hovering over a man in a barber’s chair. The attractivewoman turned and raised her scissors.
“A woman barber,” I whispered.
“Effie!” the barber screamed. “I read the newspaper, and we’re all so proud of you getting our people ready to sign up to vote.” She slipped off the man’s neck duster and hurried over to us.
“A fine thing you done, Mrs. Claxton.” The customer in the chair stood and turned to the mirror behind him, fingers combing through his cut, lifting a forest of stylish black curls.
I could see beyond the room where young’uns bent over stoops of throned chairs shining the shoes of men in suits, sneaking glances at us. One businessman with a newspaper looked up and waved. “Reading it right now, Mrs. Claxton,” he commented. “Good piece.”
She murmured her thanks. “Amy,” she said to the woman barber, “this is Mrs. Lovett, my borrowed librarian. It was her idea.”
“Where you from, honey?” Amy asked, lifting a lock of my hair, peering closely and up and down, but not a whisper of revulsion in her brown-jeweled eyes.
My skin flushed, a warm blue hue lifting to my ears.
“We’re practically neighbors. Not far from Fishtrap. Troublesome Creek,” Mrs. Claxton piped.
“Amy Hamilton. A pleasure to meet you.” She tipped her head slightly, her hair perfectly coiffed like in a beauty advertisement. “I hope you’re going to be with us awhile, Mrs. Lovett.”
“Yes, ma’am. I hope to stay longer.”
“We’re going to do everything we can to keep her, Amy.”
Amy called out to a customer waiting for a cut and escorted him to her chair. A woman from the back appeared, a tape measure hanging from her neck, her apron pockets full of scissors and pieces of fabric. “Hello, Effie. Fine article.”
