Bailey's Cafe by Gloria Naylor

Author:Gloria Naylor [Naylor Gloria]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504043168
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2016-12-05T00:00:00+00:00

It’s time for me and Jesse to put the cards away; the sun is gonna be up soon. She’s waiting to spin out her last few nickels in the juke. She’d better get back to the boardinghouse before she’s missed, although I’ve got a feeling that Eve knows about her slipping out to visit with me. Little really escapes her.

Looking at Jesse with the blue-and-yellow lights of the jukebox playing across the healthy tones of her skin, it’s hard to believe it’s the same woman who came in here with Eve’s card a year ago. The business card was creased and smudged, curled and ragged on the ends. It looked like it’d been through fifty wars—one less than the woman carrying it.

—There’s no fucking address like this on the block.

She was standing there defiant in a pair of run-down Italian pumps. But none of the customers were going to disagree with her, because there was no house number like that on the block. To them she was a woman stating the obvious, so they kept on eating and ignored her.

—What are you looking for? I asked.

—The address on this card, goddammit.

She was sweating heavily in a wrinkled silk chemise and the weather wasn’t hot. Her nose was runny, her eyes weak and teary. A well-dressed junkie.

—What are you looking for? I asked again.

—This address, goddammit.

With short, jerky motions she pushed the card across the countertop, her fingernails broken and filthy. I didn’t have to read it. You’ll never find it, was all I said before I turned back to scraping the grill.

Eve had given that card to Jesse in the women’s house of detention. A revolving door for petty offenses: vagrancy, shoplifting, prostitution, third-degree assault. She goes there once a month under a program set up by the commissioner of correction. It’s your typical charity work for bored society women. The haves trip in and mingle for a while with the have-nots. They bring ’em lipstick, combs, toothpaste, cigarettes, and they listen to their troubles. Friendly Visitors, or something like that. Eve joined the group because it’s the only way she can get down to the isolation cells. But she usually finds herself making that part of the friendly visit alone. The stench is something awful. Alcoholics. Junkies. Hysterics. The problem population. The women crouch in wire-mesh cages among the watery stools from overflowing toilets. If they’re not too sick to care, they push their floor mattresses away from the corners where they have to vomit. Because if they’re not too sick to care, they’ve tried to keep the one sink clean enough to allow them to drink from the faucet.

The only thing Eve brings to the prison is her calling cards. She walks slowly down the dark hall between the isolation cells, looking at each woman. And many times she’ll walk back up that hall without having spoken to one of them or handed out a single card. These visits are very practical. And there’s no need to waste directions on someone who’s just going to spend her life staying lost.

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