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“They’re running so hard for cover, they might pass the ghost of Jesse Owens on the way,” I replied.
We both laughed and then I went back to rejoin my mother.
For the next two hours we watched the beleaguered singer struggle to be free of the wily, relentless detective.
It wasn’t until after Lieutenant Columbo discovered the crucial piece of evidence that would hang his prey, Johnny Cash accepted his impending doom with remarkable grace, and the credits started to roll that I started telling Mama about the afternoon I’d spent with the Murrays.
She made a “humph” noise and got up. “Sounds like the husband’s got a real nice hustle goin’ for hisself. He plays aroun’ with pens and pencils while she brings in the butter. What kinda sorry-ass man is that?”
Mama’s kitchen was large. There was enough room for two people to move around in comfortably. I sat down at the round kitchen table that had been there since I was a child.
I chuckled at her dead-on portrait of Craig. “He is a man who doesn’t see any reason why he should work when his wife’s family owns a company that nets at least twenty million dollars a year. Even if he did go and get a nine-to-five, whatever he brought in would look like nothing. I guess he figures, why bother?”
“Do she boss him aroun’?”
“She didn’t used to, but it looks like that is changing. Is there anything in this house to drink, Mama?”
She was cutting up the chicken. I could see the strain on her face as she pulled and tugged.
“You mean liquor?”
“Yeah.”
“Nope. Me and Elvira drank the last li’l bit of rum night before las’.”
“I thought y’all were supposed to be dieting,” I teased.
“Dieting, baby, not dying.”
I kicked off my shoes and shuffled to the refrigerator in my sweat socks. There wasn’t much in the liquid department: a pitcher of water, a pitcher of red Kool-Aid, and one lone can of beer.
“Annabelle was sure wearing the pants in that house yesterday.” I told her about the scene with Dora.
“So he can’t even know what’s wrong wit his own chile?”
“Looks that way,” I agreed, and chugged half the beer before sitting back down.
“Well, it ain’t your problem. Did your work go all right?”
“Let’s just say that Moms Mabley is about to die all over again. Craig is . . . oh, never mind. I really don’t want to rehash the whole thing. It’s just too sad for Black folk.”
She pulled at the breast of the
chicken. “Did you keep your tongue at the bottom of your mouth?”
“Yeah, and I don’t feel good about selling out like that.”
“Someday we won’t have to, baby.”
“If you say so, Mama. By the way, it looks to me like you need a new set of sharp knives.”
“I can make do with these for a while longer.”
“No way. You’re going to give yourself a nasty cut real soon. I’ll make a note in my Filofax to drop by Bloomingdale’s tomorrow evening.”
“What’s that?”
“What?”
