A Morning for Flamingos Read Online Free PDF Page B

camp. Tee Beau say, ‘I cain’t do that no more, Hipolyte.’ Hipolyte say, ‘You gonna do it, ‘cause you don’t, I gonna tell your P.O. you been stealing from me and you going back to jail.’ And it don’t matter Tee Beau do what he say or not. Hipolyte keep making him feel awful all the time, sticking his thumb in that little boy seat, in front of all them people, shame him till he come home and cry. If that man ain’t dead now, I go kill him myself, me.”
    “Tante Lemon, why didn’t you tell this to somebody?”
    “I tole you, they ain’t ax me. You think them people in that courtroom care what an old nigger woman say?”
    “You didn’t tell anybody because you thought it would hurt Tee Beau, that people would be sure he did it.”
    It started raining outside. The hinged flap on the side window was raised with a stick, and in the gray light her skin had the color of a dull penny. She mashed the iron up and down on the shirt she was ironing.
    “I can tell lots of things ‘bout that juke up the four-corner, ‘bout the traiteur woman run that place with Hipolyte, ‘bout them crib they got there. Ain’t nobody interested, Mr. Dave. Don’t be telling me they are, no. Just like when I up in Camp I in Angola. On the Red Hat gang they run them boys up and down the levee with they wheelbarrow, beat them every day with the Black Betty, shoot them and bury them right there in the Miss’sippi levee. Everybody knowed it, nobody care. Ain’t nobody care about Tee Beau or what I got to say now.”
    “You should have talked to somebody. They didn’t give Tee Beau the chair because he killed Hipolyte. It was the way he did it.”
    “Tee Beau in this house, shelling crawfish. Right here,” she said, and tapped her finger on the ironing board.
    “All right. But somebody drove the bus off the jack on top of Hipolyte. Tee Beau’s fingerprints were all over the steering wheel. His muddy shoe prints were all over the floor pedals. Nobody else’s. Then while Hipolyte was lying under the brake drum with his back broken, somebody stuffed an oil rag in his mouth so he could spend two hours strangling to death.”
    “It wasn’t long enough.”
    “Where is Tee Beau?”
    “I ain’t gonna tell you no more. Waste of time,” she said, took a cigarette from a pack on the ironing board, and lit it. She blew the smoke out in the humid air. “You a white man. Colored folk ain’t never gonna be your bidness. You come round now ‘cause you need Tee Beau catch that white trash shot you. You just see a little colored boy can he’p you now. But you cain’t be knowing what he really like, how he hurt inside, how much he love his gran’maman , how much he care for Dorothea and what he willing to do for that little girl. You don’t be knowing none of these things, Mr. Dave.”
    “Who’s Dorothea?”
    “Go up the juke, ax her who she is. Ax her about Hipolyte, about what Tee Beau do for her. You, that’s gonna take him up to the Red Hat.”
    I said good-bye to her, but she didn’t bother to answer. It was raining hard when I stepped off the gallery, and drops of mud danced in the dirt yard. Down the street at the four-corners, the clapboard facade of the juke joint glistened in the gray light, and the scroll of neon over the door, which read big mama goula’s, looked like purple smoke in the rain that blew back off the eaves.
     
    The inside was crowded with Negroes, the air thick with cigarette smoke, the smell of dried sweat, muscat, talcum powder, chitlins, gumbo, flat beer, and bathroom disinfectant. The jukebox was deafening, and the pool players rifled the balls into side pockets, shouting and slamming the rack down on the table’s slate surface. Beyond the dance floor a zydeco band with an accordion, washboard, thimbles, and an electric bass was setting up on a small stage surrounded by orange lights and chicken wire. Behind the musicians a huge window fan sucked the cigarette smoke out into the rain, and their