Chapter 4 #2
Uncle Millard grabbed Ozzie by the waist, pulling him back and pushing him toward the house. “Somebody get Harold some ice. Ozzie, inside, now.”
Ozzie stumbled up the front steps. His knuckles ached, so he pushed the front door open with his elbow.
When he glanced back at Rita, she rolled her eyes and stalked away.
The disappointment on her face made him feel like the biggest loser in the world.
Then he saw his mother, Nettie, charging through the door behind him, and he felt worse.
“I guess it ain’t a South Philly party ’til somebody start fighting.” Nettie was barely five feet tall, but her voice boomed like she was a giant.
Ozzie trudged behind her through the living room, past the sofa and two armchairs, through the dining area where the table and buffet dominated most of the room, and then back into the flower-wallpapered kitchen.
“What’s gotten into you, son?” His mother reached into the icebox and pulled out an aluminum ice cube tray.
“Nothing.”
She removed several blocks, then dropped them into a dish towel. “Don’t tell me nothing when you out there scraping in the streets like you ain’t got good sense. I ain’t raise you to be like that.”
Ozzie leaned against the sink, wishing the plink-plink of the drippy faucet would drown out his mother’s tongue-lashing.
“You on your way outta here. What? You need to leave your mark?”
“He was being disrespectful.”
“Them white boys in the army gonna be real disrespectful. What you gon’ do then?” She grabbed his hand and rested the homemade ice pack on his inflamed knuckles.
“Ouch.” He winced.
“Just hold this here till the swelling go down some.” She smelled like a combination of sweat and sugar, and despite her ire, her hands were gentle.
“Look a here, son.” His mother grabbed his chin, forcing him to make eye contact.
“Leave that hooch alone. Ain’t no good ever come from the bottom of a bottle. ”
“I didn’t even have that much.” He wiggled his face away from her and stepped back, clutching the ice.
The kitchen was hot enough without her breathing down his neck.
It always came to this with his mother. Any bad decisions that he made, she blamed on the liquor.
His father had scarred her something good.
Big Otis hadn’t been home in months. If his father ambled through the front door at that moment, it wouldn’t be without his bottled best friend. Scotch was his poison, but he’d drink whatever he could wrap his fingers around, and Nettie was the one burdened with cleaning up Big Otis’s missteps.
Nettie folded her hands to her mouth as if in prayer.
“Let me say it like this. You gon’ have enough to contend with over in Germany.
Leave the booze alone, or that liquor gon’ be the death of you, son.
You mark my words.” She fixed her eyes on him until he sighed, dropping his shoulders in compliance.
“Promise me, Ozzie.” She looked him deep in the eyes.
Ozzie knew how hard his mother worked to keep food on the table.
He had volunteered for the army to make something out of his life but also to make her proud.
With Ozzie gone, she’d still have his two younger brothers to clothe and feed.
Both of his older sisters had jobs, but the earnings were barely enough to keep the lights on and the rent paid.
Ozzie had already planned to send her a portion of his pay, but he knew that him staying away from booze was what would really help her sleep at night, especially with him so far away.
“Okay, Mama. Promise.”
“Good.” She kissed his cheek. “Go on and get some rest now. Millard’s comin’ back for you first thing to take you to the train station.”
“I’ll be up in a minute, Mama.”
“Don’t forget to lock up,” she said, making her way through the narrow house toward the stairs.
By the time Ozzie heard Nettie’s bedroom door close, both his anger and his buzz were gone. All he could think about was patching things up with Rita. He was leaving town at first light, and he needed to see her one more time before he left.
When he opened the front door, he saw that in the time he had been inside, all of Ringgold Street had been restored.
Tables and chairs put away, cars parked, garbage collected.
Tomorrow morning, the women would be out with buckets filled with bleach, scrubbing their front steps, sweeping the sidewalks pristine clean.
Ozzie closed the door quietly behind him and started walking.
He had wanted to knock Harold down a size for as long as he could remember.
Ozzie was sure now that his message to Harold was crystal-clear: Leave my girl the hell alone.
Still, he didn’t like that Mr. Rich Boy would be up at Lincoln University, breathing the same air as Rita.
An orange-and-white cat darted past him as he ducked into the alley.
He stepped over thick patches of weeds, shattered glass, and old cardboard boxes, holding his nose against the smell of piss.
When he reached the back of Rita’s row house, her second-floor bedroom light was on. Ozzie threw a stone at her window.
A few seconds later, she pulled up the shade and stuck her head out. Her hair was down, and she twisted up her lips in disgust, then closed the window and turned off the light.
This was not how he had envisioned his last night at home.
He paced the alley, crunching sticks and debris beneath his feet.
Had she gone to sleep? At least ten minutes had passed.
He picked up another pebble, but then he heard a click unlocking the back door, followed by her footfalls toward the high wooden fence that stood between them.
She unlatched it. “What are you doing here so late?” She folded her arms across her waist.
“I needed to see you.”
She was still wearing her sky-blue dress, and it was unbuttoned at her throat. Ozzie yearned to press his lips against that spot right below her ear.
“Why you let your temper get the best of you like that?” she hissed. “You know Harold’s daddy is the type to be knocking on your front door with the police, trying to press charges.” Her sweet drawl was always more pronounced when she was angry.
“Stop stewing at me, baby, please.” He moved in closer and tugged her into his arms. To his surprise, she didn’t resist.
“Stop doing stupid things.”
“You calling me stupid?” He held her at arm’s length.
She widened her eyes. “I said you do stupid things. I’m worried about you.”
“I can take care of myself and you.”
They took the few steps to the iron patio love seat, and Ozzie tipped her chin and kissed her long and deep, the way he had been pining to all day.
Her breath was hot, and it pained him to know that this was the last time he would hold Rita for the nearly four years he’d be away.
He ran his hands from her shoulders down to the supple mounds of her breasts.
They caressed, necked, and petted, and even though Ozzie knew they had reached that point at which he needed to be a gentleman and pull away, he couldn’t make himself stop.
Rita put her hands on his chest and pushed him softly.
He knew what was coming next. It was time to say good night.
“Come inside,” she said, her eyes hooded.
Ozzie could barely control himself from panting out loud as he followed her through the dark kitchen.
Rita held his uninjured hand as she led him down the creaky steps to the basement.
He had been down here only once, to relight the pilot on the hot-water heater.
Tonight the cellar was cool and smelled like freshly laundered sheets and damp cement.
A sliver of moonlight pooled through the jalousie window.
Against the far wall was a green satiny sofa.
Rita sat him down but didn’t look at him as she spoke. “Listen, Ozzie. We haven’t talked much about what’s coming next.”
“What do you mean?” He reached for her hand, but she pushed his away.
“I mean, four years is a long time to be apart. It would be naive of me to expect you to be faithful.”
Caught off guard, he shook his head. “What do you mean? I don’t want no one else but you.”
“Men go away, and they don’t come back. Especially in the military.”
“Baby, I’m not going to war. My job is to help a country in ruins get back on its feet.”
Rita finally looked up at him. “You’re embarking on one of the greatest adventures of your life. Most of the dudes around here haven’t even been to Atlantic City. This means something, and I want you to be at liberty to live it to the fullest without worrying about me.”
The meaning of her words registered, and Ozzie’s jaw tightened. “Are you breaking up with me?”
“My mama always said if you love something, set it free. I’m just giving you permission to fly, Oz.”
But Ozzie didn’t want to live without Rita; she was his axis. When he opened his mouth to protest, she cut him off. “We’ll still be friends, and we can write.”
“I don’t want you to be with anyone else,” he hissed.
“Staying together across the globe is an unrealistic expectation on both our parts,” she said in a tone that conveyed finality. Rita had never been a woman who minced words, and for every way Ozzie tried to convince her that it could work, she had two counterpoints on why they would fail.
Defeated, he asked, “Why won’t you try with me?”
“If we are truly meant to be, we’ll find our way back to each other.” Her eyes looked sad but decisive. “It’s for the best. The last thing I want is to end up resenting you.” She leaned in to kiss him.
Ozzie wanted to resist her touch, but he could not. Even as she crushed his heart, she remained his weakness. Their time together was running out.
Rita placed her forehead against his and whispered, “Before you go, I want to give you a goodbye present.”
“What’s that?” He couldn’t think of anything that he wanted more than her.
She gazed into his eyes. “All of me.”
Ozzie’s stomach quaked. “You sure about this?” His voice came out husky and sounded so needy that he was almost embarrassed.
Rita took his face in her loving hands. “Come on here. Let’s have a night that neither one of us will forget.”
Ozzie gently lowered her against the sofa. Goose bumps prickled her skin as he peeled away her dress. Then he painstakingly savored every inch of her body, slow and deliberate.