Fringe

A Novel

By

Bernard W. Kyle

Contents

Dedication

Epigraph

Introduction

Chapter 1: Winfrey George Rowell

Chapter 2: Chicago, Summer of 1956

Chapter 3: Red Light, Green Light

Chapter 4: School Daze

Chapter 5: Tweening It

Chapter 6: Happenstance

Chapter 7: Finding Robby

Chapter 8: What to Do?

Chapter 9: Train to Kill

Chapter 10: Back to ‘The World’

Chapter 11: Higher Learning

Copyright © 2012 by Bernard Kyle. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission.

This is a work of fiction. It is not meant to depict, portray, or represent any person or group of people. All the characters, incidents, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

Library of Congress: 2011963330

ISBN: 978-0-615-46205-9

To purchase additional copies of this book, visit: http://www.mirasmartshop.com/Fringe_p_323.html

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Cover painting courtesy of artist Deborah Shedrick www.shedrickstudio.com

Smashwords Edition January 2013

I am deeply grateful for many people I have encountered during my journey who gave this story life.

– My beloved family and friends.

– My love Angela and my Sons

– Chicago West Siders from another era – yes, we were here!

We are not the makers of history. We are made by history.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Introduction

This novel offers a rare glimpse of life in America through the eyes of an African American boy maturing in a Black neighborhood on Chicago’s West Side. The character’s journey unfolds in the late 1950’s, passes through the turbulent 1960’s and enters the 1970’s.

Robert Rowell’s parents were among tens of thousands of Blacks in the margins of American society migrating north to Chicago. They moved along with millions of Blacks fleeing subsistence agricultural jobs in Southern states during the early 1900’s through the 1950’s. Robert’s parents were seeking living wages, dignity and relief from the oppressive clutches of the Jim Crow South.

Robert Rowell was the youngest of six children born to Winfrey Rowell and Hattie Simms in the fall of 1947. Robert’s father worked as a cook for the railroad. In 1937, after initially settling in Missouri, the family moved further North to Chicago, a bustling rail hub town.

Robert’s experiences were typical of any Black urban youth coming of age in America during this tumultuous period of social upheaval and transformation. Robert strived to reconcile the conflicting reality of his two worlds – a small segregated Black community versus the broader, dominate majority society. Robert’s unique interactions with his community and society provide the reader an unprecedented window into the mind of a human being attempting to maneuver into manhood and find his place, from the very edge of American society – the Fringe.

Chapter 1

Winfrey George Rowell

Winfrey George Rowell was born a little more than a decade after the beginning of the twentieth century in a rural Mississippi town to unmarried parents. His father, Winston, born in 1889, was the illegitimate son of a prominent White Mississippian and a Black domestic worker. Winston’s blood relatives on the ‘White side’ of his family were related to the Meltons, wealthy Northeastern bankers originally from Scotland.

Although Winston was of mixed race, he could easily pass for White outside of the small Mississippi community that knew his origin. Reared by his Black mother, he assumed her surname, Rowell. In his mid-twenties, Winston had a relationship with a domestic worker named Addie. They produced a son she named Winfrey. Winston never married Addie and their relationship evaporated when he moved first to Arkansas and later to Kansas City, Missouri seeking opportunities. Winfrey was raised by Addie and her new family after she married a hard-working man by the name of Milton Monroe and bore him five children. These children became Winfrey’s step siblings and his only real family.

Because of his mixed race, Winfrey took on the appearance of a high yellow Black man with straight wavy black hair. He was highly sought by young Negro women in a society where skin color made all the difference.

As a young teenager Winfrey obtained work through his father’s family connections at the local tennis club as a porter and was introduced to the sport of tennis by an instructor named Jack (Mr. Jack). Winfrey struck up a friendship with Jack by sneaking him excess food and sought-after alcohol from the many catered affairs held at the club. During hot summer afternoons, Jack would be bored waiting for club members who failed to show up for appointed lessons.

One day while Jack was sitting under an umbrella sheltering him from the brutal afternoon Mississippi sun, Winfrey appeared pushing a food cart toward the clubhouse ballroom. Hey Winfrey, what you got on that there cart today boy?, asked Jack. Oh, just some real cold beers and ham and turkey samishes, sir. I’m taking them back to the kitchen, replied Winfrey. That sounds mighty good, I’d be obliged to take one of those cold beers and a ham sandwich. Recon boss man won’t know, Jack pleaded, yet commanded. Recognizing he may be establishing a connection with Jack that may provide some leverage and afraid to create a stir, Winfrey responded, Boss man won’t miss a thing Mister Jack. I think that group of members from the bank done ate and drank everything they can. And so began the covert, symbiotic relationship between Winfrey and the tennis instructor, Jack. That relationship included ad hoc tennis lessons for an enthusiastic Winfrey whose athleticism helped him quickly adapt to the sport and garnered occasional free booze and food for Jack.

Winfrey’s powerful forehand and quick footwork on the court allowed him to rapidly master tennis skills. One afternoon while Winfrey was on the court fetching balls for Jack and a student, the instructor, having had a few too many drinks that warm afternoon, felt ill and asked Winfrey to hit with his student while he took a bathroom break. He assured the surprised middle aged male student he would return shortly. Winfrey reluctantly obliged and began powering balls across the net. The astounded student was amazed at Winfrey’s skills and technique and enjoyed hitting with him. Where’d you learn to hit a tennis ball like that boy? I know darn well you ain’t had no tennis lessons, the student barked at Winfrey across the net. Noo sir, I ain’t had no lessons, I just mostly watch ya’ll hit at balls while I do my work sir, Winfrey lied to protect the instructor and show deference. Well boy you sho do some good watching. I want you to hit with me again, hell, you better than that fool Jack.

Before long, word got around the club and members asked for Winfrey to hit with them. Could you sign me up to hit with that young Negro fellow? was a common request from club members. Generally, Winfrey hit balls with White men hoping to improve their game. In between lessons, those same members’ young White teen daughters who hung out around the club would ask Winfrey to hit with them, which he obliged. Several girls asked to hit with Winfrey, but they were primarily interested in flirting with the athletic, handsome young Negro man. As is true with most teens, they tend to be attracted to anything and everything their parents ask them to avoid. A Black man topped the list of things to be avoided. Naturally, Winfrey enjoyed the playfulness, attention and sexual innuendo associated with the pretty young women.

On a very warm and lazy Sunday evening in July, Winfrey’s mother Addie was sitting on the slightly sloping front porch of their home reading scripture when a visitor rode up on a horse. She immediately recognized the visitor, Mr. Booth, the White owner of the local general store and a trusted friend of her husband Milton. Evening Addie, said Mr. Booth. Evening Mr. Booth, said Addie. Is Milton around Addie? asked Mr. Booth. No sir Mr. Booth. Milton taken Winfrey and the other children over to Jackson this afternoon, explained Addie. Nice to see you, Mr. Booth. May I offer you some cold water? Why thank you, said Mr. Booth. Addie thought that Mr. Booth wouldn’t ride all the way out to their house on a hot Sunday evening unless he had something important to say, probably bad.

Her first thought was that their account at Mr. Booth’s store was way past due. Only last week she told Milton to stop by the store and pay down on the account. With their meager wages, it was impossible to pay off their bill. They would owe the Booths for the rest of their lives and their children would probably owe the Booth children for the rest of their lives, and so on. Addie purchased several yards of cloth recently to make quilts needed for the upcoming chilly winter. Perhaps she ran the account up too high this time. She never much kept track of the cost of things that she bought. It didn’t much matter because the Booth store was the only one they could buy from on credit. Milton always did as she asked, so why was Mr. Booth here? Did Milton forget to pay down on the account?

Addie handed Mr. Booth a cold glass of water from the nearby well. Addie, you know I’ve known you and Milton for nearly 20 years now, Mr. Booth said as he looked away. Well, he said, let me get right down to it. I come out here to tell you that that boy of yours Winfrey may be in for some trouble. Addie’s eyes widened, What kind of trouble Mr. Booth? Winfrey, he a good boy, he just go down to that club and work, he don’t bother nobody, said Addie in a rising squeaky voice. Well, you didn’t hear anything from me but I overheard men talking down at the Julep Bar last night about Winfrey getting too personal with young White girls at the tennis club and would need to be taught a lesson about maintaining his ‘place’. I don’t know the intention of these men talking but it didn’t sound good Addie. I thought I’d come up here and let you and Milton know, Mr. Booth said. Addie gulped, grabbing the porch railing to sturdy herself and gain her composure. Mr. Booth’s words dizzied her. Are you ok Addie? asked Mr. Booth. Yes.., yes sir, Mr. Booth, Addie said pretending to be strong yet showing her vulnerability. She turned, and thanked Mr. Booth for the information. Their eye contact conveyed the seriousness of the conversation without saying another word. No doubt something drastic had to be done immediately. Addie and Mr. Booth knew what had to happen but neither spoke of the necessary deed.

Early the next morning, fourteen year old Winfrey was put on a train leaving Jackson, Mississippi headed to Kansas City, Missouri to live with his biological father Winston. At fourteen, Winfrey could not understand what he did to be ripped away from his home and family and sent to live with his father, a man he barely knew. Sitting alone in the colored section of the train, while looking out the window at the endless green farmland, Winfrey kept running through his mind what he may have done to warrant being put on this train. His mother Addie only told him he had to leave Mississippi. Winfrey son, you know how things down here are for colored people. Milton and I done heard that some White people up at that tennis club may be mad with you, explained Addie carefully. But what did I do Mama? I ain’t done nothing to nobody, pleaded Winfrey. Baby it don’t matter, we just got to keep you safe. You will be fine with your father for a while son, said Addie without much conviction in her voice.

Winfrey thought of Jane, the young White girl he hit balls with last Friday. Did he say something to her that might have upset her? He could only remember her smiling and seemingly having fun throughout their hitting session. When the session ended, he immediately began picking up tennis balls and as he reached for one he focused on Jane’s white tennis shoes, she was still standing on the court. Looking up, Winfrey’s eyes made direct contact with hers. Did you want to hit some more today Miss Jane? asked Winfrey. No, you gave me a good work out Winfrey, said Jane smiling. I was thinking perhaps I could help you gather up the balls, she went on. Oh no Miss Jane, said Winfrey somewhat nervously. Thank you I can manage. Ignoring Winfrey’s protests, Jane just started picking up balls and depositing them in the basket. She went about helping him and didn’t seem mad when she turned to leave, thought Winfrey. In fact, he remembered her turning toward him and smiling as she walked off the court, a smile that cut right through pretensions, societal and cultural mores and straight to Winfrey’s heart. Winfrey continued to run through his mind his last encounter with Jane at the tennis club as the rhythmic clunking of the trains wheels weakened his worries and lulled him into a restful sleep.

Although it was difficult at first, over time Winfrey adjusted to living with his father Winston and step-mother Deatra in Kansas City. He went on to become one of the top tennis players for the local public high school. Where did you learn to play tennis like that?, demanded his high school coach. Oh, just around, Coach, Winfrey said, never divulging to anyone his experiences in Mississippi which he’d relegated to the recesses of his mind.

One unusually beautiful summer day Winfrey finished his chores early around the rooming house for Blacks that his father and stepmother ran. It was a business they found a market for since none of the downtown hotels accepted Blacks, especially railroad workers that often needed a place to stay when trains were excessively late or bogged down in Northern snow storms. He sat out on the stoop of the house wearing his favorite shirt, a white cotton shirt his mother Addie made and sent to him as a present for his seventeenth birthday. He had only worn the shirt a couple of times since receiving it. It was special.

Having finally adjusted to life in Kansas City, this day he felt especially happy and content and decided to wear the white shirt. He noticed a young girl with bronze skin walk out of the house directly across the street with a woman he recognized as his neighbor Miss Jamie. Calling out respectfully, Afternoon Miss Jamie, Winfrey was struck with near paralysis when the young girl with Miss Jamie turned her head gently, faced him directly and flashed the most beautiful smile he had ever seen in his entire life. From a distance, her coal black hair appeared almost wet in the light of the sun. Her cheek bones were high and defined, she stood erect, chin up slightly with the posture of a Nubian princess he’d read about during his infrequent excursions to the small local Black library near Swope Park.

Why good morning Winfrey, responded Miss Jamie, How’s your folks? Just fine Miss Jamie, just fine, said Winfrey never for a moment taking his eyes off the young girl standing alongside Miss Jamie. Miss Jamie was about to speak until she suddenly realized her niece Hattie, who was visiting from Texas, and the young Winfrey had momentarily locked eyes. Feeling slightly embarrassed, Miss Jamie broke the young couple’s locked glare by clearing her throat. Hmmm, ah Winfrey, this is my niece Hattie all the way from Greenhope, Texas. She will be visiting with me for a few weeks this summer, explained Miss Jamie. You may come by this evening and have some lemonade with us if you like Winfrey. Oh, yes maim, Miss Jamie, yes maim, I would like that very much, said an excited Winfrey never taking his eyes off Hattie. He thought, ‘She is most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen!’ After a summer courtship, filled with walks through Swope Park, picnics, and visits to the picture show, Hattie gave birth to a boy that following April - Winfrey Junior. Shortly thereafter, Winfrey and Hattie were married just after his eighteenth birthday, and her fifteenth.

Unskilled and having not completed high school, Winfrey worked odd jobs before landing a steady job as a cook’s assistant in the dining car for the luxury railroad company Pacific Northwest. His looks certainly helped as the railroad almost exclusively hired attractive (light-skinned), wavy hair Black men with near Caucasian features for positions closest to its passengers. Although the pay was above average for an unskilled laborer, the work was intense in the train’s tiny stainless steel kitchen where the heat regularly exceeded 110 degrees.

The Pacific’s Zephyr train was noted for providing luxury accommodations and gourmet meals for business executives traveling between Chicago and Los Angeles. As the shiny train coursed through Iowa and Nebraska, it stopped briefly for dinner provisions to be loaded, freshly slaughtered beef and just picked corn and vegetables. Everything was fresh and served on white linen tablecloths with polished silver flatware. The smiling patrons, men dressed in dark flannel business suits with crisp white shirts and understated ties and ladies wearing pearls and diamonds were White; the help, wearing heavily starched white jackets and dark trousers, were all Black. The train hummed through the mountainous regions of the Southwest pointed toward California. The dim light of the exquisite dining car cast a gold glow on the faces of patrons as the train swooshed through fertile valleys and mountains.

With dinner served, Winfrey and his crew completed preparations for the 6 a.m. breakfast call and scrubbed down the always shiny kitchen. By midnight, Winfrey and his crew were in the employee car playing cards and relaxing. Financially undisciplined, Winfrey often squandered his money on partying (alcohol and gambling), but always managed to bring just enough money home to keep one step ahead of his creditors. By the age of 32, he and Hattie, were in debt raising their six children in a three bedroom rented flat on Chicago’s West Side.

Chapter 2

Chicago, Summer of 1956

Robert, Robert, R-O-B-B-U-R-T, you hear me calling you boy. Mama want you. Before Robert could respond to his sister’s intrusion into the vacant-lot baseball game, his friends took the opportunity to poke fun at his plight. R-O-B-E-R-T, yo’ Mama want you, go home Robby – ha ha ha ha. Better get home Robert – more laughter. In an instant Robert thought of telling Beth that he wasn’t coming to protect his bruised ego and act tough in front of his buddies, but the sudden memory of the consequences of not heeding his mother’s summons came fresh to his mind. How miserably embarrassed he was one day last summer when his Mama came right out onto the vacant lot ball field and whacked him across the back with a wide brown leather belt. Didn’t you hear your sister call you boy? said his angry mother. Yo’ head is so hard, and you’re really mannish. The pain of the belt did not compare to the thought of all Robert’s friends watching this public thrashing. He was so embarrassed; he hid out from his friends for several days afterwards. Forget you Robert said to his taunting buddies. Turning to his sister, he said What does Mama want? She wants you to come home eat lunch and take a nap. Tears started to well up in his eyes, a nap! I don’t want to take no nap, shit. Ooh, I’m telling Mama you cursed, Robby, Beth blabbered. Get lost, were his last words to Beth as he entered the screened back porch door to their apartment home.

Robert’s family lived on the first floor of a gigantic, three-story tenement apartment building with four separate entrances. All of the tenants’ apartments could access the gray painted wooden back porches that overlooked a large dirt back yard surrounded by a six foot chain link fence. The yard used to be full of neatly cut green grass, flowers and shrubs when Robert’s family first moved in and a few White people were still living in the building. Now all of the building residents were Black. Most of the families were recent arrivals from the deep South, from states like Mississippi, Alabama, Missouri, Louisiana and Texas. Many of them had such strong Southern drawls and accents that it was hard to understand what they were saying when they spoke fast.

Robert’s Mama was standing in the kitchen near the stove cooking--it smelled like fried chicken. We having that for lunch Mama? Robert asked with anticipation. I fixed y’all baloney sandwiches for lunch. You know the chicken is for dinner boy. Want to finish cooking before it gets too awfully hot, said his Mama as she carefully placed a drum stick dripping with frying oil on the plate alongside the other golden brown pieces of chicken. Go wash yo’ dirty hands and face boy. Look at that shirt you just put on this morning - really filthy, his Mama said with a veiled threat. As Robert exited the kitchen, he could hear Beth, Mama, Robby saying bad words, I told him I was gone tell you----

Beth was eighteen months older than Robert and at 10 she was the ‘baby girl’ of the family. Robert was considered ‘the baby’ being the youngest of the clan. Beth was a true tomboy believing she could do just about anything a boy could do and was willing to slug it out with any male that crossed her the wrong way. Being of a ‘high yellow’ complexion, Beth apparently wanted to dispel the myth that light skin (as in White girl) was associated with being soft and a push-over physically. Her round face lightly sprinkled with freckles, a pug Rowell family nose, and the coarsest black hair of any one of the siblings did little to intimidate anyone. Her solid proportional frame exuded strength and a willingness to stand up for whatever she believed.

Earlier in the summer during an unusually hot and muggy Chicago afternoon Robert and his best friend at the time, Tommy Lee Earl, had a bicycle bumping altercation. Tommy Lee ran his hot rod style bicycle (no fenders) into the rear of Robert’s shiny chrome-fendered Schwinn. Robert’s bike was brand new, a gift from his oldest sister Helen. After graduating from high school she landed a good job with the gas company and was able to provide Robert’s family with additional, much needed resources. Hearing Robert constantly nag for a bicycle, Helen offered to buy him one and conspired with his Mama to make the bike a surprise gift. Robert became the envy of the neighborhood with his shiny new Schwinn.

Robert immediately took a poke at Tommy Lee for clipping his bike and putting a small dent in the chrome fender. Robert suspected Tommy Lee was a little envious of his new bike. He could remember the day he got the bike and how he was being admired by the neighborhood kids as he rode several times around the block. Tommy Lee seemed jealous, I bet my bike is faster than yours he said glaring at his fender-less wheels and back toward Robert’s shiny chrome fenders.

Tommy Lee responded immediately to Robert’s punch and landed a sound blast to his left eye which instantly produced a mouse. Tommy Lee easily stood a foot taller than Robert and had a more advanced physique with broad shoulders and hands that, when fisted, were like medium size cantaloupes. His voice had started to deepen earlier that year well ahead Robert’s other friends. In fact, Tommy Lee was developing facial hair.

Beth witnessed this swing-fest from their apartment complex porch and before Robert could recover from Tommy Lee’s blow to his eye, she was already approaching Tommy Lee with her classic fight face - tongue rolled between her teeth, fists balled tightly - moving toward him with an unusual determination. Robert’s siblings were typical of families in the neighborhood, instinctively reacting when a member of their clan was facing conflict with an ‘outsider’. Tommy Lee, noticing her rapid advancement, began to ride away on his bike, only sustaining one solid blow to the center of his back as he sped off. Robert was both embarrassed that his sister had come to his rescue and relieved that Tommy Lee opted to ride off rather than put up a