The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey

The bus driver hit the brakes and Ptolemy swayed into the young man’s shoulder. In that moment he was back in the little room that Coydog called home behind the colored barbershop. Coydog was talking and through Ptolemy the words came out. “Don’t worry, boy,” he said. “Man do sumpin’ wrong, man pays for it. There ain’t a surer truth on God’s green earth.”

“Niecie still live at the same place?” Beckford asked.

“Uh-huh,” Robyn said, and then she added, “We gettin’ out here.”

She helped Ptolemy to his feet and they went toward the exit.

“Nice to see you, Mr. Grey, Robyn,” Beckford called after them.

The old man waved. Robyn was holding his other hand and watching his feet while negotiating her three bags and so did not speak to Beckford.

That was a nice boy,” Ptolemy said as they walked toward his house.

“Yeah,” Robyn replied, “we’ll see.”

“Pete!” a familiar voice bellowed from across the street.

Melinda Hogarth came at the man and girl like a freight train that had jumped its track at full speed. She had a broad grin on her face and her mannish hands were balled into big hammer-like fists.

“Oh no,” Ptolemy whispered. His sphincter tightened and his chest ached. He didn’t run but he wanted to. He didn’t fall to his knees but his legs shivered.

“That her?” Robyn asked when Melinda was half the way to them, roaring in the middle of the street like a wild beast that just caught the scent of blood.

Ptolemy nodded and Robyn moved to stand between them. The teenager turned so that her left shoulder was pointed at the approaching juggernaut. Melinda was wearing blue jeans under a faded navy-blue dress that came down to her knees. She was two and a half times the size of Robyn, the color of a wild bull, and three sheets to the wind. Robyn could smell the alcohol when the woman got near.

“Move out my way, heifer,” Melinda Hogarth cried, and then Robyn swung, starting from her hip. The bag holding both of the electric fans moved in a small quick arc, slamming the drunken mugger in the center of her forehead. The first blow set Melinda back a step. The second put her right knee on the ground. The big woman was on both knees and an elbow, screaming, by the fourth swing. That was when the bag tore open and the broken fans went flying.

Robyn reached into her shoulder bag. Ptolemy put a hand on her forearm. He didn’t have the strength to stop her, but Robyn stopped anyway. She turned her face to the elder.

At first sight she looked like a demon to the old man. The slants of her eyes were reminiscent of horns, and her teeth showed without making a smile. And then she changed. She was the sweet girl again, a mild worry showing in her eyes and on her mouth.

“Don’t worry, Uncle,” she said. “I know what I’m doin’.”

Ptolemy took a step backward and Robyn pulled out her six-inch knife.

“Look up here at me, bitch!” Robyn commanded.

The pile of quivering womanhood made sounds that were like the snuffling cries of a wounded animal.

Robyn kicked Melinda Hogarth’s fat shoulder.

“Look at me or I’ma stab you up,” Robyn promised.

Melinda threw herself away from the threat, landing on her backside. Her eyes were wide with the fear and the possibility of death.

“What’s your name?” Robyn said, moving closer.

The prostrate woman was too frightened to speak.

“Tell me your name or I’ma cut yo’ th’oat right here.”

“M-m-m-melinda.”

“Linda,” Robyn said. “Linda, if I evah see you talkin’ to my uncle again, if he evah tell me you even said a word to him, I’ma come out heah wit’ my girls an’ we gonna cut yo’ titties right off. You hear me?”

Melinda Hogarth didn’t answer the question. She walked backward on her elbows and heels until somehow she was on her feet. Then she ran down the street, screaming high and loud like a woman miraculously transforming into a fire truck.

After a long minute Robyn put her knife away. She picked up the fans. Now they were just blue and silver plastic pieces.

“Damn,” she said. “Now we got to go back to that hardware sto’ an’ that yellah niggah gonna start slobberin’ on me again.”

“I got a fan on my back porch,” Ptolemy said.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me that in the first place?” she said angrily.

“You didn’t aks me, girl. I didn’t know what you was doin’.”

With some effort Robyn smiled again and reached for Ptolemy’s hands. He took a step backward.

“Don’t be scared’a me, Uncle,” Robyn said. “I just wanna make sure you can stand out on the street and not be beat down by that crazy woman.”

Ptolemy’s mind was scattered over nearly a hundred years. His mother and father, Coy’s lynching, the one brief battle he fought in during World War Two. He saw Melvin Torchman fall dead in a barbershop in Memphis, and he was waking up again to Sensia dead in the bed next to him. And then a million bugs swarmed over her . . .

“Uncle?”

Robyn was holding his hands. He looked into her eyes and she was a friendly child again.

“Don’t do that no mo’, okay, baby?” he said.

Robyn kissed his big knuckle and nodded.