Walter Mosley - The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey

“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.

After dragging the huge gray tarp out to the curb, Robyn cleared two places in each room and placed an insect bomb candle in each space. She only put one bomb in the bathroom.

“You go wait in the hall, Uncle,” she told Ptolemy, “while I set these bad boys off.”

He stood outside in the dilapidated marble-and-oak hallway. It was once a nice building that people kept up. That was in the old days, when black people came to Los Angeles to make a life away from the Jim Crow South. He hadn’t stood in that dark hall for many years. He’d walked down it ten thousand times; between two and a dozen times a day when he was younger. But he hardly ever just stood there.

Once there was a young man stabbed and killed at the front door of the building. He’d pressed Ptolemy and Sensia’s bell, but when nobody responded to the intercom they went back to bed. He was already old and she was fragile by then. They’d been burglarized and had put up the chain gate on the back window and door.

Hey, Mr. Grey,” Robyn said.

She’d come into the hallway, dragging one of his pine chairs with a small suitcase lying in its seat. The slight scent of sulfur and smoke came with her. She also had a sheet of paper and the roll of masking tape they got from the hardware store. Using the chair to stand on, she put tape all along the cracks of the door. She put many layers of tape, one on top of the other, to make an airtight seal against leaking poisons. Then she taped the paper to the door.

“Insect bomb,” Ptolemy read. “Stay away.”

“You can read, Mr. Grey?” the child asked.

“Sure I can read. Anybody can read an’ write they name.”

“Can you read a book?”

“Hunnert pages, two hunnert pages, two fifty.”

Robyn smiled and put her hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s go to the motel,” she said.

The thought of a new house tickled Ptolemy. He walked briskly toward the front door of the building, happy, unafraid of Melinda Hogarth for the first time in years, and looking forward to the day outside, and a new man in the bathroom mirror.

Are you lookin’ at my legs, Uncle?” Robyn asked coyly.

She took one of the single beds and the old man lay down on the other. He’d gone into the bathroom to change into his sleeping clothes. Robyn had brought his navy-blue sweatpants and a gray T-shirt. When she changed, all the teenager did was tie up her hair and put on a T-shirt over her panties.

The TV was on a show about three young black women who lived together in an apartment and argued all the time. Now and then Ptolemy would swivel his head to catch a glance at Robyn’s strong brown legs.

“I guess so,” he said.

“Are you a dirty old man, Uncle?”

“No, but . . . you sure do remind me of somethin’.”

“What’s that?” Robyn shifted on the bed but she didn’t hide her legs. She was smiling at Ptolemy as if she was telling him something.

“Cover up them things, girl,” he said. “You know I’m a old man but I still remember how much a girl can hurt you. I’m past ninety but that don’t mean you could play wit’ me like that.”

Robyn slipped under the blankets and buried her head in the pillow.

The women on the TV program were screaming and running around a couch where a man sat with a perplexed look on his face. Ptolemy didn’t understand what they were saying.

He got up from the bed and pushed buttons on the side of the box. The first button made the volume go up and then down. The second one changed the channel and suddenly there was a naked couple having loud sex with everything showing.

“Fuck it harder!” the woman cried out, and Ptolemy, his heart thumping in fear, pressed another button, which shut the TV off.

The TV was the only light on and so the room went dark.

He made his way gingerly to the bed and climbed in. The blankets were tangled but he finally got himself mostly covered.

In the dark he lay awake. From time to time he’d forget where he was and fear would thrum in his ears. He’d wanted to jump up but the angry face of Robyn beating Melinda Hogarth would come to him and he’d grab on to his blankets, determined to wait for sunup to go home.

“Uncle?”

“Yeah?” he said, relieved that she sounded like the nice girl he’d met.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“’Bout what?”

“Dancin’ around half naked in front’a you. I know I shouldn’t’a done that.”

“No. I mean. Baby girl, you are my angel. I, uh, I love you, you ...”

“What?”

“God done send you down here to me. He send you to help me save them chirren.”

“Letisha and Artie?”

“Yep.”

“How you gonna do that, Uncle?”

“With your help, baby. With your help.”

“What can I do?”

“You got to, got to . . . help me remembah what it is I’m thinkin’.”

For a while after that they lay in silence.

“Is that true, Uncle?”

“What?”

“Do you love me?”

“When I think about you my heart hurts and laughs.”

“That’s why you din’t wanna see my legs?”

“That’s why I don’t even wanna think about your legs.”

The next day they had breakfast at a diner and went to the La Brea Tar Pits park, where Reggie used to take Ptolemy sometimes.

“When Reggie was a boy he loved the dinosaur bones,” Ptolemy told Robyn. “The museum was on’y one buildin’ then and they had dinosaur bones in a buildin’ like a hole. When Reggie grew up he didn’t like this place no mo’ but I wanted to come so’s I could remembah ...” Ptolemy drifted off, staring at the large clouds passing overhead.

“What you remembah, Uncle?”

“What it used to be like in my head before things got confused.”

“What’s that like?”

“It’s like they’s a jailhouse in my mind,” he said, “an’ I’m in the prison an’ they’s all these people I know outside yellin’ to me but I cain’t make out what they sayin’.”

“Hey, girl,” a male voice sang.

Ptolemy swiveled his head to see a young black man in a red jumpsuit.

“What you doin’?” he asked. He had a sneer on his lips that had more anger than friendliness to it.

“Niggah, get away from me,” the other, angry, Robyn said. “Cain’t you see I’m takin’ care’a my grandfather?”

“Let me help you guys,” the young man offered, smiling and touching her shoulder.

Robyn jerked away from him and clutched her purse close to her breast.

“You gonna treat me like that?” he said as if he were truly insulted.

“Fuck you, niggah.”

Ptolemy could see that Robyn was ready to grab her long knife. He had known women like this before: wild and violent, sweet and loving. He’d never had a girlfriend like Robyn, but Coy had had more than one.

“A woman like that could turn on a dime,” Coydog McCann used to say.

The young man in the red exercise uniform sneered and took a step forward. Robyn shoved her hand into her purse and he stopped.

“Bitch,” he said, and then he spat on the ground.

Robyn stared death at him and he walked away across the lawn of the park.

“Come on, Uncle,” she said. “We should get back.”

They ate at the small diner again.

Ptolemy was exhausted from his day in the city. He lay down on top of the covers, falling asleep without even undressing. He felt Robyn take off his shoes and socks and fold the blankets over him.

There was no TV announcer, no classical music. He was in a coffin again and the earth was cold. He was dead and couldn’t move. He couldn’t even shiver against the chill.

“What you gonna do wit’ my treasure?” Coydog asked him suddenly, shockingly—out of nowhere.

“I’m cold.”

“I give up my life and my dignity for you,” Coy said.

“I’m dead.”

“You don’t even know what dead is. Dead is havin’ a noose around your neck an’ yo’ feet afire. You just restin’ while my treasure go to waste.”

“I cain’t, Coydog! I cain’t even see. If they catch me they gonna lynch me too. They gonna kill me too.”

The cold settled into Ptolemy’s bones like it must have in the old pharaoh after whom he’d been named. The chill hurt his joints and his marrow. He wasn’t breathing and instead of a heart there was a drum being played by a dimwitted monkey who couldn’t keep the beat any better than a drunkard.

Suddenly warmth enveloped him. It was as if he were lowered into a hot tub of salted, scented water. The heat went through him and Coydog walked away in disgust. Now only his hands and feet and nose were cold. He was floating in the Tickle River in late August.

“When the water runs as hot as the blood of a woman in love,” Coydog said as he walked from the tomb.

Ptolemy woke up held from behind by Robyn. He realized that he must have been shivering in the night and she held him to warm him as his mother had done in the winter months when he was a boy.

Ptolemy sat up and Robyn rolled on her back.

“Mornin’, Uncle.”

“What you doin’ in my bed, girl?”

“You were so cold that you was cryin’ in your sleep,” she said. “I hope it was all right.”

“What we doin’ today?” he asked, unable to condemn or condone her gift of warmth.