Chapter 4
OZZIE
The sun had gone down on the annual Memorial Day block party, but the smells of charcoal, barbecue sauce, and smoke still ruled the air.
The women of Ringgold Street were covering leftovers of chicken, chitterlings, pig feet, creamy potato salad, and collard greens with tinfoil while pushing children with pound-cake and oatmeal-cookie crumbs in the corners of their mouth into the two-story row houses.
First thing that morning, all the cars had been cleared off the narrow one-way street, and Mr. Raymond’s Teletalk speaker had been placed in the middle of the block.
The mothers had insisted that the day start with the gospel sounds of the Blind Boys of Alabama and the Dixie Hummingbirds; the young folks took over in the afternoon, swinging in a circle to Louis Jordan’s “Boogie Woogie Blue Plate”; and now the men were winding it down with homemade hooch and a game of tunk to Fats Waller’s “Ain’t Misbehavin’. ”
Ozzie, who had made the mistake of guzzling three cans of Schmidt’s, sucked on an ice cube, trying to sober up, while keeping an eye out for Rita.
His head felt heavy as he tried not to think about this being his last evening at home.
His final moment with Rita. In less than twenty-four hours, he would arrive for basic training as a volunteer for the United States Army.
Ella Fitzgerald’s “In a Sentimental Mood” crooned through the speakers as the screen door across the street finally slid open. Ozzie rocked forward, steadying his chair on all four legs as Rita’s red ankle-strapped sandal hit the top step of her limestone front steps.
She had gone inside to change her dress after some little kid had spilled cherry water ice all over her.
With her curls pooled on top of her head, her long neck was left bare.
The sky-blue shirtwaist dress she wore was cinched with a crimson patent belt, matching her sandals exactly.
When she saw Ozzie watching her, she dipped her chin at him and batted her lashes in the way that made his heart swoon.
Then she waved him over to an empty card table with a set of checkers.
“You doing all right?” she asked, fingering the chips.
Ozzie nodded, intoxicated by her smile. “How you feeling, pretty mama?”
“Can’t believe it’s your last night,” she said, pouting, and Ozzie longed to lean in and kiss her, but there were too many people out on the street.
The mothers had taken their seats with fruity drinks in Styrofoam cups and bowls of potato chips, tee-heeing over neighborhood gossip. His uncle Millard was teaching backgammon to a woman who had wandered over in a short skirt from Oakford Street.
“Got everything all packed?”
Ozzie told her that he did as Mr. Mel, the chubby man who owned the corner store, stopped at their table. He removed his hat and held it in his hand. Ozzie stood, pulling himself to his full five feet and eleven inches, his broad shoulders erect like two boulders.
“Son, I just wanted to let you know how proud we all are of you. Takes a strong man to volunteer. We’re countin’ on you to go over there and show them. Make sure they know that the Negro man is just as heroic and capable as the white man.”
“Yes, sir.” Ozzie’s chest swelled two sizes. People had been treating him with respect all day, but this was the first time it had happened directly in front of Rita.
“Brought you a little something from me and the missus.” Mr. Mel handed him a paper bag filled with Chick-O-Sticks, licorice Snaps, Red Hots, and Squirrel Nut Zippers, all of Ozzie’s favorites. “Just a little token of our appreciation for you serving, son.”
Ozzie shook Mr. Mel’s hand, and then the older man wandered over to the tunk table.
Rita beamed. “Aren’t you the celebrity?”
“It’s been like this all day. The block mothers made me a quilt, and a few women from Bucknell Street came ’round asking me to talk some sense into their knucklehead boys.”
“Well, I’m proud of you too.” Rita touched her foot to his shin under the table. Her stroke sent a tingle up through Ozzie’s thigh, settling in his midsection. Rita and Ozzie had been going steady for over a year.
“I could say the same about you, college girl.”
“Somebody’s got to change these laws and fight for our daggone rights.”
Her Southern drawl tickled him. “You’ll make a fine lawyer.”
“First in my family. Got to, after what they did to Uncle Maceo.” She stood gingerly and wandered over to the women’s table.
Two years ago, her uncle Maceo Snipes had been shot in the back by the Ku Klux Klan after he’d cast his vote in the Georgia Democratic Primary. He’d been the first Negro in Taylor County to vote.
“Once I’m a lawyer, no more Negroes will die because they don’t have colored blood at the hospital,” Rita said, having returned with two Styrofoam cups containing a tip of clear liquor.
“That’s the first law I’m going to work on.
” Her uncle had dragged himself three miles to the hospital only to be told that the hospital had no blood for coloreds.
“Hurts my heart still, to think that Uncle Maceo died from wounds that could have been easily treated.” Rita turned somber. After her uncle had passed, waiting on a blood transfusion, her parents had worried over her safety and sent her up to Philadelphia to stay with a great-aunt.
“I have no doubt in my mind that you’re gonna be amazing at whatever you set your sights on.”
“Glad you know it.”
Ozzie raised his cup, tapped it to Rita’s, then downed it. The clear liquor made him cough. “What was that?”
“Corn liquor.” She smirked.
“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 was it.
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 sweet like 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 that tick-tick pulsing 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.”