Promises to the Dead by D. M. Pirrone

Author:D. M. Pirrone
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION/ Mystery & Detective/Historical
ISBN: 978-0-9996982-6-6
Publisher: Allium Press of Chicago
Published: 2020-08-18T00:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-FOUR

Ezra’s fury drove him on an aimless walk away from the school through Chicago’s streets. The hot, stinking air choked his lungs, and the noise of people and traffic grated on his ears. Always before, when anger gripped him like a fever, a long walk had simmered him down. Not this time.

He took a swig from the bottle he held, bought from the first ten-cent saloon he’d stumbled across. Cheap whiskey burned his throat. Near a third gone by now. He’d meant to buy himself and Nat a meal while they talked things over someplace quiet and decent. So much for that. He coughed, wiped his lips on his sleeve, and kept moving.

A white man. Holy God, a white man. Raising his boy. Taking his place. Papa Aaron… Another gulp of liquor couldn’t wash away the thought. It clawed at him, sharp with anger and guilt. He’d ruined everything. Nat had gone inside the school with his stepfather, left Ezra standing like a fool in the street. He hadn’t even glanced back when Ezra called his name. What chance, what hope, was there now for building any kind of life with his son—here in Chicago, out West, anywhere?

A choking sob rose in his throat. He jammed a fist against his teeth to keep it back. The pain of bitten knuckles cleared his head long enough for him to notice the averted gazes and hurrying footsteps of passersby. White, all of them. Where in hell had he gotten himself to? Despite the muggy heat, a chill rippled through him. He wasn’t safe here. What if some white went to the police, reported the lunatic Negro wandering around? He halted in the middle of the boardwalk, stomach churning with rotgut and nerves. What if Aaron had reported him for assault?

Thunder rumbled, close. He looked around. Gray clouds covered the sky. His gaze took in weathered frame buildings, rundown brick ones, worn cobblestones dotted with horse manure. A swirl of wind brought odors of mud and dead fish. Must be close to the river, though he couldn’t see it. Dust devils and a torn handbill scudded down the street. He’d no notion where he was, except he was far from home. The word stuck in his craw. Chicago wasn’t home. No place was. Or would be, now.

Noise erupted a few yards behind him—a shout, the shriek of hinges, a heavy thud on the wooden boardwalk. “And don’t be comin’ back!” someone yelled in a thick Irish brogue.

Brief silence followed, broken by a muttered oath. Then two words cut through the air and Ezra’s brain like lightning through deadwood. “Hey! Darky!”

Ezra turned around. A white man, burly and bearded, glared at him from several feet away. Above the man’s head, a wooden sign sticking out over the walk read Jacky O’Toole’s, with a crude drawing of a liquor bottle—the saloon the fellow had just been thrown out of. Ezra’s heart pounded against his ribs. A drunk, angry white man spoiling for a fight. And here Ezra was, a perfect target.

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