Memphis(42)

Barnes cut her off. “Twenty-five dollars, and you can take him home tonight. You ain’t going to cry on me, are you? Lord, join those gals over there if you are. I ain’t dealing with this today. You people just come up in here and cry and think that’s going to do a damned thing about your situation without the bond note—”

“No!” Hazel had had it. She felt her hand leave her belly and become a clenched fist. She banged it on the counter, shocking even herself.

Barnes gave Hazel a look. He folded up his newspaper and began to rise from his seat.

Hazel took a step back. Gripped the brown bag tighter. She chose her words carefully, spoke them slowly. “I’m here to see Myron. Myron North. Officer Myron North. If you don’t mind. Please.”

Barnes blinked. Awareness spread across his face. Then, a grimace. “I’ll be goddamned,” he said, taking a seat. “You’re North’s old lady? I didn’t know. I mean, he goes on and on about you. But I didn’t. I didn’t…” He concentrated on his hands. He fell silent for a moment, looking almost sheepish. Suddenly, he yelled, “Eugene!”

Hazel was startled and took another step back.

“Eugene! Goddamnit,” he said, louder this time.

A deep, distant voice responded. “What?” The twang. It wasn’t even a Memphis accent. Sounded deeper. More tonal.

Hazel stiffened. Her anger and anxiety had not quelled. And another policeman was coming into the room, one with an accent Hazel thought sounded exactly like one heard at a lynching. Or a rape.

“Goddamnit, Eugene, come on out here. Got somebody for you to meet.”

“Jesus Christ,” said the voice. “Give me a minute, will you? Got ink all over me from booking this nigger. Jesus Christ.”

A short, squat man with gorilla-like arms—hairy, thick, meaty—walked around the corner. Ink fingerprints covered his white collared shirt, and Hazel saw smudge marks where he’d attempted to wipe them off. There was an entire right palm print on his left breast.

“Well, what the hell is it?”

Barnes tilted his red crown at Hazel. “Guess who this is?”

“I don’t know, Casey,” he said, his vowels seemingly elongated with annoyance. He barely glanced at Hazel before him. Threw his ink-stained hands in the air. “Mary fucking Magdalene.”

“This here North’s wife,” Casey said.

Eugene paused. He took in the full form of Hazel then, her nine-month belly, her hair done up in a neat bun. “Well, I’ll be. What’s a girl like you doing with North? Dorothy Dandridge herself come to see us,” Eugene said.

“I came to bring my husband some lunch,” Hazel said. She held up the brown sack as evidence.

“I bet you cook as fine as you look, girl,” Eugene said.

Hazel tried to hide the repulsion on her face by biting her lip. “Why don’t you fetch him from the back, will you?” she asked as politely as she could manage.

Eugene did not move. He rested his stained forearm on the counter. “How on earth North get a pretty little girl like you?”

Hazel pursed her lips. Considered replying, but thought better of it.

“And got a pretty little girl inside you, likely,” Eugene continued.

“Oh hell, Eugene. Go fetch him. Let this lady be.”

“I’m just being friendly, is all,” Eugene said, turning toward the redheaded Casey. “Ain’t we supposed to be friendly to them now? Ain’t that what the new captain say?” He swiveled back to Hazel. Then, hand outstretched, started walking toward her.

Hazel realized, the horror almost overtaking her, that this white man wanted to touch her belly. Was walking toward her to do just that.

At that moment, Myron appeared in his black-and-white Memphis Police uniform, and Eugene pulled his hand away, inches from Hazel. He backed up, though not without letting an ugly smirk twist his face.

Hazel let out a deep breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The sight of Myron in any uniform—his Pullman porter’s, his Marine Corps dress blues on their wedding day, and now his police officer’s uniform—had always made Hazel feel safe, calm, and proud.

Myron was a tall willow compared to Eugene. His thick-rimmed glasses reflected the indigo of his skin. Alarm was etched on his face. He walked quickly to Hazel and pulled her to him and asked quietly but firmly what in the entire hell she was doing there. She held up the paper bag.

“Lunch,” she said.

Myron lowered his head and kissed Hazel softly on the cheek.

“Y’all know this is the jailhouse and not the courthouse, right?” Eugene said to them.

Hazel heard Barnes flap his newspaper, burying his head in it. Still, Hazel could feel his eyes sear through the paper.

Eugene watched them with his arms folded across his chest.

Hazel thought of her mother. What would Della have done here in this police station? Two white men harassing her daughter. She figured her mother would’ve set fire to the damn place. With the white men inside it. It was all Hazel could do not to spit on the floor as Myron steered her out of the station, his grip on her tight.

“You can’t come here anymore,” Myron said sharply once they were outside. It was sweltering on Beale. There was no breeze off the Mississippi, and the sound of cicadas, even at midday, was overwhelming. Myron led Hazel to a storefront with a wide awning, so she could rest in the shade. “Here,” he motioned. Then added, “Never again.”