South Central Noir

Mae hadn’t seen Bernice arrive but was thankful for her presence and followed her into the bedroom, where she took Mae’s bloody dress then helped her into the shower. Bernice was the head cook at Mae’s Family Dining and she took charge here with the easy competence that she used to run the restaurant kitchen. While Mae showered, Bernice watched men from the funeral home carefully but quickly wrap and remove Samuel’s body, and then the lawyer’s cleaning crew got rid of every trace of blood. They’d brought pillowcases to collect everything that needed to be disposed of, including Mae’s .45. The cleaning crew even dug the bullets out of the staircase walls.

When Mae Hillaire returned to find Samuel gone, she screamed his name and fainted.

“I can’t hardly believe it, Mae! You’re really stepping away from the daily operation of this place?” Velma looked skeptical, impressed, and a little bit proud. She admired her friend as much as she liked her, and the feelings were mutual. Velma had endured a lot in the last few years and she’d not only survived but she seemed stronger.

First she had nursed Gus through what appeared to be every possible kind of sickness, which required him to move back into their home. When he’d finally had to go into the hospital, Velma was at his side until the end. Mae never saw her shed a tear until A.C. Jennings gave her the details of Gus’s will, which had come as a complete surprise: the house and car now belonged to her, as did the proceeds of two Golden State Life Insurance policies she never knew he had. Tears first leaked from her eyes, then flowed unchecked, accompanied by deep, racking sobs. Mae held her friend.

Jennings, who seemed to have an endless supply of neat, white handkerchiefs, produced them one after the other, until Velma was cried out. She drank the glass of water he gave her, then she apologized.

“You got nothing to apologize for, Velma,” Mae had said.

“Don’t y’all misunderstand me, I’m glad he’s gone. I just wish I could ask him why I had to wait till he was dead to learn that he gave a damn about me!” She pointed at the file on the lawyer’s desk. “I never knew about none of this! He always told me his business wasn’t none of my business, then, when he was dying, he kept wanting to talk about growing up in Texas. Not one kind word for me.”

“Maybe he didn’t know how to speak kind words, Mrs. Jackson,” Jennings had said, passing the file across the desk. “Here’s the deed to your house, the title to your car, the life insurance check — all in your name — and Mr. Jackson’s death certificate, and this is all your business.”

Mae looked across the table at Velma, remembering that day at the lawyer’s office. They hadn’t spoken of it until now.

“How do you know this is the right time to walk away, Mae? What makes this the right time? After all, you’ve been free for a long time, not like me.” With the death of her son in a prison yard fight a year ago, Velma now was completely free. She knew that Gus Jr. had been charged with murdering a man named Dave Hebert, but Mae doubted that she recalled him as the man Mae and Samuel had run away from all those years ago, if they’d even mentioned his name. In a confrontation described as “stupid as shit” by witnesses, a staggering-drunk Hebert had waved a knife at a high-as-a-kite Gus Jackson Jr. and threateded to kill him unless he told where the fried chicken lady was. He’d slashed Gus to show he was serious. The sight of his own gushing blood had killed Gus’s high and he tackled Hebert and stabbed the man with his own knife, killing him. Witnesses said it was self-defense, and Mae had hired A.C. Jennings to prove it, but what the DA saw was that a Black man had killed a white one. What was the white man doing there, Jennings had asked the jury, but the DA got the question dismissed so no one knew how close Dave Hebert had come to finding the fried chicken lady and Mae didn’t think Velma realized that Dave Hebert’s yelling was more than just the crazy talk of a drunk.

Mae sighed. Maybe it was time — not just to release her hold on Mae’s Family Dining but to release her closely held worries too. “It’s about the eights, Velma. The eighth month and years ending in eight: Samuel and I left Louisiana in August 1948. That cop murdered Samuel in August 1958. And it’s now August 1968—”

“Has something happened, Mae?” Velma looked frightened.

“No, no,” Mae said. “It’s just... I’m still not over Dr. King’s murder. It still upsets my stomach like it was yesterday. So... a four-month and an eight-year. Kind of a balance...”

“What will you do with your time?” Velma was surprised when Mae laughed.