Red Hats (4 page)

“Nah. Alma has a good heart. I’ve seen this woman sacrifice for my family. When things got bad, she stepped up, went to work and helped take care of the bills, and still came home, made dinner, and put the kids to bed. She didn’t complain or try to make me feel bad. She just rolled up her sleeves and did what she had to do. I have to love that woman.”

“Well, she scares the bejesus out of me,” Bob said.

“Me too,” Seymour confessed. Seymour was a good-looking man. He had hazel eyes and wavy hair the young girls always wanted to braid and play with. Alcohol had bloated his once athletic body, and the constant squinting
from his cigarette smoke make his Smokey Robinson eyes leak. He kept a napkin in hand to dab at the moist corners of his eyes. “That’s why I’m never getting married,” he said while dabbing.

“You ain’t getting married because no one wants your infirm behind,” Harold kidded.

“Look who’s talking about infirm, Mr. Heart Problems. I’m gonna call you the Tin Man. You better go to the Wizard and ask him for a new ticker.”

“I’ll ask him for some eye drops for you while I’m there,” Harold fired back.

“Good one,” Bob stated. Playing the dozens was part of the joy of their friendship. Almost nothing was sacred with them.

Back in the day, Seymour, Bob, and Harold used to be a singing group, before the realities of life kicked in and they came to understand that doo-wop wasn’t going to pay their bills. They called themselves Sweet Love. Their height of fame came on the street corners, where young girls would scream their names. Today, they still got accolades and sexual advances from the more mature women who remembered the sweet sounds of Sweet Love.

Harold was the lead singer and choreographer of their moves. He loved to dance and could still cut a rug with the best. He had picked up tickets to the Renaissance Ballroom to celebrate Alma’s birthday in a few weeks. He was going to surprise her with dinner, dancing, and a beautiful bouquet of pink roses and bird-of-paradise—a little of
the traditional with something exotic—delivered to the house. These were Alma’s favorites. The day was designed to make her receptive to the rest of the niceties he had planned for the evening. He was hoping that if he did something as sweet and romantic as devoting an entire day to the celebration of his wife, perhaps she would let him have some peace for a couple of hours in return. Maybe.

Alma was so unpredictable, especially as she was getting older. Between the change of life and the various mood-altering medications, he never knew which Alma he was going to return home to or wake up next to. Sometimes she would be happy and so funny he couldn’t get enough of her. That particular woman had a laugh that lit up a room. It was infectious. When she laughed, he laughed. He guessed that was one of the things that kept him hanging in there with her. Her laugh! Too bad she was so stingy with it.

“Your move,” Bob said.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Woolgathering, I guess,” Harold replied absentmindedly. He maneuvered his pawn to take Bob’s bishop.

“What were you thinking about? The time Alma chased Seymour with that butcher knife?” Bob teased.

“Nah, I try to forget that,” Harold said.

“Me too,” Seymour added.

“That was funny. I’ve never seen a man run so fast. She was going to kill you.”

“She was going to kill you, too, as I remember,” Harold said.

“She sure was, told me to give this stab wound to you. I thought she was playing around until she swung that big ol’ butcher knife at my face,” Bob said. “I ran like hell.”

Harold took out a fifth of whiskey and three small plastic cups from a brown paper bag and placed them on the stone table.

“I was wondering when you was going to bring out that kryptonite,” Bob said as he helped himself to a generous shot of the warm, amber hooch.

“Mmmm, that’s good stuff right there. You want some, Seymour?” Bob asked.

“Yeah, pass it this way,” Seymour said. “Yep. That’s the joy of life right there. You want me to pour you some more, Harold?”

Harold was holding his head in his hands. He pushed the cup away as if it was the source of his pain.

“No. My head is hurting.”

“She hit you in the head, too?” Seymour joked.

“No. I’ve just been feeling funny the past few days. It’s like I don’t have all my energy. I just want to sleep, that’s all. Even when I’m sleeping, I don’t feel rested,” he tried to explain.

“Maybe you should see a doctor,” Bob suggested.

“See a doctor for what? The doctor is the one that got me on all these pills. Them people only think about one thing when you walk in the hospital, and it ain’t you. It’s how much insurance you got. They determine how much money they can get before they tell you what you got. If
your insurance is real good, they give you cancer. They make a killing if they give you cancer. Between the chemo and the blood transfusions, along with the needles and tests, plus the cost of the room, that’s over a hundred thousand dollars from one person. I don’t want to know what I got anymore. When the good Lord wants me, he will come and get me. No doctor is going to stop that!”

“Amen,” Bob said as he poured himself another shot.

“Y’all finish the rest of that. I’m going home to rest. I feel tired.” Harold got up to leave.

“OK, but I won by forfeit,” Bob said.

Harold nodded defeat.

From the living-room
window, Alma looked in the direction of the park, hoping to see Harold. She couldn’t for the life of her figure out why he spent so much time with Mutt and Jeff. Why couldn’t he devote some time to the so-called love of his life? From sunup until sundown, he was in that park. All they did was sit there, drink, and play chess. What was so much fun about that? Wasn’t she fun to him anymore?

Her mind drifted back to a hot summer’s day when they’d gone on an overnight getaway to Virginia Beach. She and Harold went swimming late at night in the hotel’s pool, which was supposed to be off limits after ten
P.M
. Adventure got the best of them, along with some Boone’s Farm, and they had found themselves in the pool. They
were wearing their street clothes when the notion struck, so they swam in their underwear.

The water was warm, and it had aroused Alma with the thrill of breaking the rules with this beautiful man and his lean, muscular frame, who kept kissing the tender spot at the nape of her neck. That was the first time she made love in a pool. She couldn’t tell which wetness was hers and which was the pool’s as Harold moved inside her. Once they had defiled the pool, they began to dry off, using the hotel towels stacked near the lounge chairs.

Harold had taken his underwear off and wrapped a towel around his waist. As they were walking toward their hotel room, Alma snatched the towel from Harold’s waist and ran. She knocked loudly on every door she passed while Harold gave chase. They barely made it inside the room without being seen by patrons who opened their doors to see what the commotion was all about. Laughs like that had been the norm for them then.
Where did the spontaneity go? I’d give anything for us to laugh like that again.

Now, at the window, Alma caught sight of Harold stumbling toward the building.
That’s why I don’t like him hanging around those good-for-nothings in the park.
Harold almost collided with a small group of women, each wearing a red hat. The shades varied from a ruby red to light pink, including everything in between. Each hat was styled differently. They looked like a group of churchgoers, only this was a Monday evening. The ladies gracefully avoided Harold’s wobbly walk.

“All that drinking is going to kill you, old man,” Alma scolded as Harold teetered into the apartment. “You look like one of the neighborhood bums, with your clothes all wrinkled and your eyes rolled back in your head like a crazy man. But don’t pay me no mind. You just keep on doing what you want to do. It’s your life you’re throwing away.”

Harold grumbled. Alma noticed he was sweating more than usual. Harold fumbled with his jacket, trying to hang it in the hallway closet. The jacket fell to the floor. He seemed too tired to bend over and pick it up and kicked a crumpled sleeve inside the closet and shut the door.

Alma was surprised that he didn’t make a fuss over the wonderful aroma of her peach cobbler. She had spent the day making fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, yams, and collard greens. Topping it off was her famous peach cobbler. Why didn’t he dance his way over to the stove and tell her how much he missed her cooking? Instead, Harold offered her a weak smile, then used the wall as a guide to the bedroom.

“I cooked for you,” Alma said, a little sweeter than she’d like to have sounded.

“Thank you, baby, but I just need to lie down right now. My head’s about to explode. I’ll have a plate when I wake up,” he said weakly. His steps were halting and uneven. Harold made it to the bed and allowed his body to fall face-forward into his feather pillow. Alma was pissed.

What an ungrateful man. I should throw all that good
food in the garbage just to teach him a lesson. He didn’t even notice how good I look. Bastard didn’t even look at me.

“I hope you die in your sleep, old man,” she whispered to herself.

An hour slid
by, and Alma got tired of waiting for Harold to wake up. After forty-five minutes, she gave up on the hope of sharing a candlelit dinner. Maybe something was wrong. Cooking had made her hungry, so she began taking little pinches of food. First a small piece of chicken breast and then just a tablespoon of macaroni and cheese followed by a tiny slice of yams. After sampling everything, she told herself Harold didn’t know what he was missing, and she went ahead and ate a big plate with plenty of everything. That would show him.

It’s not like him to sleep this long
, Alma worried. Taking naps was normal for Harold, but he power-napped, forty minutes maximum. Alma had given him a little extra time, but now enough was enough. She didn’t cook all that food for nothing. Alma marched into the bedroom.

“Harold Steven Washington, get your ass out of that bed and come eat this food before I throw it on you!” she yelled.

Harold was silent. She wondered why he was lying so still. She thought it must be hard to breathe with his face buried in the pillow like that. Alma moved to the bed and gave him a shake.

“Harold, wake up! Wake up, damn it!”

She turned him over. His face was blue. She touched his forehead, and his skin felt clammy.

“Harold? Oh, God! Harold! Wake up!” Alma cried.

Harold was dead, and she knew it. He wasn’t breathing. His eyes weren’t moving the way they did when she checked some nights.

“Harold, please wake up. I’m sorry! I won’t talk to you like that anymore. Please wake up, Harold. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me! I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll be a better wife!”

Alma climbed onto the bed, next to him, and cried.

The week leading up to
the funeral had been the longest of Alma’s life. Waiting for the autopsy results was almost as emotionally draining as finding Harold’s lifeless body. Coronary thrombosis was the verdict, due to arrhythmias. A heart attack, go figure!

Why did this have to fall on me? It’s hard enough to lose someone you love, then there’s the funeral arrangements, picking out a coffin, and, worst of all, calling family and friends to relate the bad news.
She felt most people were thinking,
Good for you, Alma, serves you right!
They wanted to see her suffer. That’s why they all showed up, to see her in misery.

In the pews behind her, she could hear whispering. She couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but the
snippets that did slip through stabbed her already broken heart.

“I’m surprised he lasted this long, all she put him through,” a woman whispered too loudly behind her.

Angel held her hand tightly enough to restrain Alma from turning around and spitting fire at her accuser. Alma was grateful to have her daughter by her side to get her through all the pain.

“Your daddy is gone,” she had sobbed into the phone. On the other end of the line, she could hear what sounded like a wounded animal caught in a steel trap.

Angel put Alma before her own feelings of loss, and Alma was thankful. She had jumped on the next plane to come be with her momma. She had always been a daddy’s girl, so helping her mother do all the things you have to do for the dead was a way of expressing devotion to the man who loved, chastised, and validated her. Through her tears, Angel had found time to cook an assorted spread for the reception that would follow the funeral. It reminded Alma of the last meal she had cooked for Harold. She hoped never to see another macaroni and cheese in her life!

Bob and Seymour had spread the news that Sweet Love was officially over—their best friend was gone. Alma had slept in the living room, not wanting to enter the bedroom again. Angel had taken her to the doctor for more antianxiety medication, fearing her mother was on the precipice of a nervous breakdown. Alma wished the drugs
the doctor gave her were stronger. She wanted to drown out the voice in her head that had wished Harold would die in his sleep.

She wanted to be numb like Jesse, who sat in the front row with a stupid look on his face from the reefers or whatever else he smoked. She had almost asked him to light her up a joint so she could justify exactly how surreal this situation was. Lord knew she didn’t have any more tears to cry. She wondered where this reserve of salt water had come from. Was it the slide show on her wall of memories, she and Harold playing against their favorite songs? Songs like “Call Me” by Aretha Franklin, Al Green’s “Let’s Stay Together,” and “When a Man Loves a Woman.” Gotta love Percy Sledge. This was the song Harold had dedicated to Alma after their first big fight twenty-something years ago.

The fight had happened right after Todd was born. Harold kept complaining the baby was stinking. They both smelled it, but the source of the funk couldn’t be found. After changing his diaper several times, wiping every crack and crevice in his wrinkled little behind, Alma became irritated at Harold’s accusations of her being an unfit mother. She snapped and slammed doors, broke lots of little things—the pink candy dish that had been a wedding gift, a saucer here and a bowl there from the family china set—bits and pieces to help soothe her frustration.