Lovely War(45)

Oh lordy. In her bed. In that silky nightgown. Purple. It was purple.

Nothing stood between them but a thin partition wall. What he’d give . . .

Nothing but a thin partition wall, and the United States Army.

What if he tiptoed in there, and put his arms around her, and kissed her?

Aubrey Edwards—he heard his mother’s voice—she never said she wanted to kiss you. She just likes your music.

“Give me time, Mama, and I’ll play my way into her heart,” he whispered.

Never mind girls, I told him. Play your way into the life you dream of. Play your way into legend.

But he had other things on his mind.

When Aubrey couldn’t take the waiting anymore, he pulled off his boots and tiptoed across the stage, feeling his way to the stairs. He climbed down and went out the door.

He stuffed his feet back into his boots and struck out for his own barracks.

Then he heard it. A click. He froze.

The unmistakable cocking click of a pistol.

Military police. He should’ve known. But whoever it was said nothing.

Finally he couldn’t bear waiting. “Who’s there?”

A footstep. Aubrey turned to face it.

“Who’s there?” he repeated. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness. But he felt someone there. More than one? He crouched, coiling his muscles, ready.

“I saw you go in there,” said a soft Southern voice.

Not the military police. They’d be direct.

“I was just playing some music,” Aubrey said. “Lady in there says I can.” It made him sick, needing to invoke some white person’s permission.

“We say you can’t.”

“Who’s we?” He strained his ear to hear if anyone else was there. He tried to think. It was dark. If he couldn’t see them, maybe they couldn’t see him. He got ready to spring.

Aubrey knew his mom’s stories. She knew, growing up in Mississippi, what could happen to black folks who put a foot outside of the line. Her brother, Audrey’s uncle Ames, had never been the same after the night a gang of white drunks beat him up. He’d played Dixieland at a Biloxi club, and he smiled, they said, at some white ladies.

Right now, far as Aubrey could tell, it was just one soldier. A kid, looking for a fight. If it was a fight he wanted, Aubrey’d give him one. He just had to get that gun out of the mix.

“You Negroes”—Negras on his tongue—“you got a hut of your own. If you want to fool around with your own black girls, that’s between you and Uncle Sam.”

Carefully, Aubrey lifted one foot.

“Where you going, Negro?”

“Nowhere.”

“That’s right.”

Aubrey’s head spun. This could not be happening. This stupid kid was going to kill him.

“What are you planning to do?” Keep him talking. It was Aubrey’s only plan.

“Tell you what we ain’t gonna do.” He came closer. “We ain’t gonna let you Negroes get a taste for white women. That’s why you was all in such a hurry to get to France.”

Aubrey wanted to retch. A taste. As if they’d risk their lives, leave home, and put up with all this redneck prejudiced shit in the army, just to lay hands on white girls.

Dignity and pride. They can’t take that away from you.

They could come pretty close.

“Can’t have y’all getting spoiled, now, can we? You’ll want our white girls, and think that uniform give you the right.”

Never mind guns. Rage would kill Aubrey Edwards. Explode his veins. Send fire shooting from his hands. The vicious insult to every black man, woman, and girl! His feisty mother, his classy sister. He’d go for the throat, and with his own bare hands, he’d . . .

. . . do the last thing he ever did in this world.

Aubrey had a few other things he’d like to do with his hands before his life was over.

“Ever been with a black girl?” Aubrey asked.

A low laugh was his reply. Aubrey owed that boy a thrashing for that poor girl’s sake. He had no illusions about her being a willing participant.

“Why would you stoop so low,” Aubrey asked, “if white girls are so much better? Or can’t you get one of your own?”

A snort of anger. “Shut your mouth.”

Aubrey swayed on his feet. Was there a loaded gun? How badly did he want to find out?

He’d been in fights before. Upper Manhattan was no Sunday picnic.

He crouched down. The white guy made no move. Aubrey picked up a chunk of ice.

He waited. His fingers became icicles. He just needed to break the other guy’s focus.

Far away, down the path, one of the barracks switched on a light. The shadow puppet of the Southern soldier turned. Aubrey heaved the chunk of snow to land near his feet. The soldier jumped toward the sound. Aubrey tackled him, knocking him hard into the ice.

The Southern boy fought back, but was unprepared for Aubrey’s rage and momentum, and his skill in a fight. Aubrey soon had his pistol, with the guy pinned underneath him, facedown in the snow. He pressed the cold nuzzle of the revolver against his victim’s temple.

“Let me tell you something,” he hissed. “You don’t know what you’re wandering into, messing with the Harlem boys of New York 15th.” He felt the guy’s panicked breath underneath his knees. “We bite back.”