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Authors: Grace F. Edwards
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the sound of his voice, two officers attached themselves to each of his arms, as if they expected him to fly off through the barred windows, and a second later he disappeared through the door at the left of the bench.
Elizabeth had left the table and was bending over Bertha now, rubbing her hands, patting her shoulder.
“Listen, Bertha: This is not the last word. I’m goingto keep trying for bail. After all, it isn’t as if he’s accused of shooting the president.”
Outside, on Canal Street, the sun beat down like the fist of a seasoned heavyweight. Bertha walked like an old woman. Her face was streaked with tears and she was unusually quiet.
Suddenly, she stopped and stared at me. “How did that fuckin’ judge know about that contract? I bet wasn’t nobody but that funkpot Laws tipped them. Well, he gonna get what’s comin’ to him, you hear? He gonna get what’s comin’. Mark my words.”
We threaded our way through the maze of electronics and seafood stalls cluttering the sidewalk, and I wondered why the vendors had been pushed from 125th Street while this street had been left untouched. The thought lasted only a second because Bertha’s voice was rising again, bubbling up like yeast in the dry afternoon heat.
“I bet it was Laws sent a letter. He was jealous of Kendrick, that’s what. He knew if Kendrick went to Italy, he wasn’t comin’ back to no damn small-time bar. His life woulda been changed. His career woulda taken off … his actin’ and everything …”
I nodded and glanced at her as we headed for the subway, wondering if those were Kendrick’s plans or the dreams that she herself had for him. I listened and thought again of Kendrick standing before the court, straight and silent, and the judge never looking up. I thought of Alvin. He was going to call this evening. My attention veered away and I no longer heard Bertha. I was busy fashioning a lie for Alvin.
chapter eight
I fixed Bertha a pot of Sleepy Time herbal tea, made sure she was comfortable, then I back-tracked downtown. Forty-second Street was more crowded than ever now that the Disney renaissance had replaced all the ratty peep shows, adult bookshops, and porn theaters.
Two blocks west, on Ninth Avenue, a high-rise apartment complex for performing artists stood surrounded by new soft-lit restaurants where regular hamburgers now masqueraded as minced New York sirloin on fresh sesame bun, coffee had names with accents, and menus were slid under your nose by wait staff who’d scored high on the Madison Avenue-boutique test for attitude.
I found the place I was looking for tucked away on the third floor in one of a string of small buildings known as Theater Row, across from the high-rise complex. In the small lobby, I picked up a flyer and historyof the company before climbing a narrow stairway to a door spray-painted with the company’s name, Star Manhattan.
It was a small space, no more than sixty seats, and a rehearsal was in progress, so I eased into a seat three rows from the last. According to the history, seven actors worked in repertory on the weekends—six since Kendrick was in jail, but his name was still on the flyer and his handsome face still smiled from the company’s roster.
Four of the six sat in the first row watching Teddi Lovette onstage, crouched in front of an older woman seated on a tattered brown velvet sofa. The woman looked straight ahead, staring into the space that the audience occupied on weekends.
Teddi bowed her head and held tightly to the woman’s arm. Then she broke off in midsentence and quickly got to her feet.
“This isn’t working, guys. Doesn’t feel right just yet. There’s a certain …”
Behind me, a sliver of light stabbed the darkness. Someone, a woman who had been sitting in the last row, got up and left. No one in the first row turned around, but concentrated on Teddi Lovette as she paced the stage, moving like a cat in her black leotard and print wrap skirt.
Elizabeth had left the table and was bending over Bertha now, rubbing her hands, patting her shoulder.
“Listen, Bertha: This is not the last word. I’m goingto keep trying for bail. After all, it isn’t as if he’s accused of shooting the president.”
Outside, on Canal Street, the sun beat down like the fist of a seasoned heavyweight. Bertha walked like an old woman. Her face was streaked with tears and she was unusually quiet.
Suddenly, she stopped and stared at me. “How did that fuckin’ judge know about that contract? I bet wasn’t nobody but that funkpot Laws tipped them. Well, he gonna get what’s comin’ to him, you hear? He gonna get what’s comin’. Mark my words.”
We threaded our way through the maze of electronics and seafood stalls cluttering the sidewalk, and I wondered why the vendors had been pushed from 125th Street while this street had been left untouched. The thought lasted only a second because Bertha’s voice was rising again, bubbling up like yeast in the dry afternoon heat.
“I bet it was Laws sent a letter. He was jealous of Kendrick, that’s what. He knew if Kendrick went to Italy, he wasn’t comin’ back to no damn small-time bar. His life woulda been changed. His career woulda taken off … his actin’ and everything …”
I nodded and glanced at her as we headed for the subway, wondering if those were Kendrick’s plans or the dreams that she herself had for him. I listened and thought again of Kendrick standing before the court, straight and silent, and the judge never looking up. I thought of Alvin. He was going to call this evening. My attention veered away and I no longer heard Bertha. I was busy fashioning a lie for Alvin.
chapter eight
I fixed Bertha a pot of Sleepy Time herbal tea, made sure she was comfortable, then I back-tracked downtown. Forty-second Street was more crowded than ever now that the Disney renaissance had replaced all the ratty peep shows, adult bookshops, and porn theaters.
Two blocks west, on Ninth Avenue, a high-rise apartment complex for performing artists stood surrounded by new soft-lit restaurants where regular hamburgers now masqueraded as minced New York sirloin on fresh sesame bun, coffee had names with accents, and menus were slid under your nose by wait staff who’d scored high on the Madison Avenue-boutique test for attitude.
I found the place I was looking for tucked away on the third floor in one of a string of small buildings known as Theater Row, across from the high-rise complex. In the small lobby, I picked up a flyer and historyof the company before climbing a narrow stairway to a door spray-painted with the company’s name, Star Manhattan.
It was a small space, no more than sixty seats, and a rehearsal was in progress, so I eased into a seat three rows from the last. According to the history, seven actors worked in repertory on the weekends—six since Kendrick was in jail, but his name was still on the flyer and his handsome face still smiled from the company’s roster.
Four of the six sat in the first row watching Teddi Lovette onstage, crouched in front of an older woman seated on a tattered brown velvet sofa. The woman looked straight ahead, staring into the space that the audience occupied on weekends.
Teddi bowed her head and held tightly to the woman’s arm. Then she broke off in midsentence and quickly got to her feet.
“This isn’t working, guys. Doesn’t feel right just yet. There’s a certain …”
Behind me, a sliver of light stabbed the darkness. Someone, a woman who had been sitting in the last row, got up and left. No one in the first row turned around, but concentrated on Teddi Lovette as she paced the stage, moving like a cat in her black leotard and print wrap skirt.
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