Scotch and curry - short story - Black South Fiction, Art, Culture

African American Review, Summer, 1993 by Lolis Eric Elie

It wasn't long then. The door opened slightly. The whole room stared to see who was coming back in. Mack, his hat still on, didn't even come in all the way. With one foot in the door he beckoned to Wandalyn.

Coolly, she put out her cigarette and finished her drink. Opening her purse, she took out a minor and some lipstick, and watched herself put it on. Then one by one she put the lipstick, the mirror, the cigarettes, and the lighter back into her purse and walked toward the door obediently. Not even looking at us.

After she left, we walked out to find Curry. Me and Skeet and the piano player. The air was wet and thick. I was suprised by the sounds of cars' passing by and the feeling of being out of the air conditioning and onto the street.

There is an empty lot on the corner near The Lion's Den. In the darkness of that lot, one of us saw a mound. We walked over to it. Moving closer, we heard crying. Still closer, we saw Curry on his side, queitly sobbing. I bent down to help him. The fingers of both his hands were spread over his face. Between them there was blood. I pried the fingers away. The piano player gave me the silk handkerchief from the pocket of his band jacket and I wiped the blood from Curry's face.

On each cheek there were two gashes. Had they been shorter and vertical, they might have passed for Mandinka tribal markings. But they were too long for that. To Mack's credit, though, he could have done more harm. There were no cuts anywhere else. We kept wiping Curry's face and his hands, but the blood kept flowing. Skeet said we should take him to the hospital that he would probably need stitches or surgery. But the piano player disagreed, saying they were only minor cuts.

I kept expecting Curry to say something, to ask to be taken to a hospital or to go home or something. He looked up at us, saying nothing. Then, quietly, he spoke. He just kept repeating as if it were really all that mattered, "Wandalyn. Where's Wandalyn? Where's..."