By Jabari Asim
(Only the Strong is set in the year 1970 in Gateway City, a fictionalized version of St. Louis. The novel begins with Lorenzo “Guts” Tolliver, a retired “leg breaker” who spent 20 years as the muscle for a local crime figure. This excerpt reveals how he got his nickname.)
That night, Lorenzo woke to the sound of weeping. His father was sitting on the side of his bed. It was still dark, and the dim glow of a streetlight outside his window made a shadowy mask of his father’s features.
“Papa?”
“It’s me, Lorenzo.”
“Papa, what’s wrong? What happened?”
Chauncey Tolliver said nothing.
Lorenzo climbed out of bed and turned on the light. His father’s bow tie was askew. Dirt and blood soiled his collar and the front of his suit. Lorenzo stared at the stains. “Where’s Mama?” he asked.
His father wrung his hands. He closed his eyes, clenched them tight. He opened them and, finding the world unchanged, he began to cry even more. In between wracking sobs, he gave his son the bad news.
“On the way back from the ball, we had a flat tire,” he began. “I pulled over to fix it. A couple of the lug nuts were stuck, so I was going slower than usual. Your mama needed to stretch her legs.”
This time Lorenzo closed his eyes. Unlike his father, he kept them shut.
“A car hit her. She’s gone, Lorenzo. Our beautiful Lucille is gone.”
The funeral was a Butlers and Chauffeurs Ball in reverse, all of white society’s servants again decked out in finery not to celebrate but to send one of their own to Glory. It was a dizzying experience for Lorenzo: sympathetic mourners clasped his hands, others squeezed his shoulders, and still others chanted “God bless” softly into his ear until the voices and faces of his parents’ friends and coworkers—the Logans, the Lennixes, the Morrises—all melted together into a confusing, heartbreaking mess.
In the weeks that followed, Chauncey became a child again. He forgot how to feed himself, couldn’t tie his shoes properly, or couldn’t roll his own cigarettes. Refusing to sleep in the bed he had shared with Lucille, every night he sat in his chair in the front parlor until he nodded off. When Lorenzo propped up his father and buttoned his shirt for him in the morning, Chauncey would drop his chin to his chest and mutter the same mournful refrain: “It should have been me, son. It should have been me.” At night, when Lorenzo spooned canned soup (one of the few things he could make) between his father’s lips, he said it again: “It should have been me.”
Once Lorenzo woke in the middle of the night to the smell of smoke. His father had fallen asleep in the chair with a cigarette lit, nearly setting himself and the apartment ablaze. How he made it to work every day was a mystery beyond Lorenzo’s wisdom—but it turned out the mystery was solved when Lorenzo came home from school and found an eviction notice pasted to their door.
He took down the note, resigned to discussing it with his father when he returned from wherever he went when he was pretending to be on the job. But there was no need to wait: Chauncey was already home. Lorenzo dis-
covered him slumped in his chair. It was only when he tried and failed to revive his father that he noticed the foam around his lips and the empty glass and container of roach powder on the table beside him. Lorenzo put his ear on his father’s pulseless chest and marveled that a body could get cold so fast.
Heavy-set in life, Chauncey Tolliver was even heavier in death. Still, Lorenzo resolved to lift him from his chair and wash him clean before surrendering him to the outside world. Pressing himself against his father’s back, he thrust his hands under Chauncey’s armpits and began to drag him slowly backward, toward the bathroom. About halfway down the hall, Chauncey’s bulk and Lorenzo’s grief became too much. The son collapsed, bringing his father’s stiffening body down on top of him. There, in the fading light of afternoon, he wrapped his arms around his father and wept. When he had cried himself out, he slid out from under Chauncey, went to the bathroom and filled a pail. He washed his father in the hall, put a blanket under him and dragged him back to the bed he’d shared with Lucille. He dressed the body in Chauncey’s best suit, made sure his bow tie was straight. He packed a bag with a few clothes, kissed his father’s clammy brow, and turned toward the exit. Suddenly remembering, he rushed back to his parents’ room and rummaged through his father’s drawers. Finally he wrapped his fingers around Chauncey’s treasured box of cufflinks. Then, after one last gaze back, he stepped out and closed the door.
*
In a tidy little cottage on Finney Ave., Alice Logan summoned her husband to dinner. Passing through the living room, she paused at the front window. “Phil,” she said, “there’s someone outside.”
Cephus Logan stepped out onto the porch. The figure on the lower steps was immense, with shoulder muscles visible beneath the fabric of his shirt. Though the stranger easily made two of him, Logan approached him without fear. “Hello,” he called, and the figure turned. Even in the dusk Logan recognized the facial structure, which perfectly blended the features of Chauncey and Lucille Tolliver, former king and queen of the Butlers and Chauffeurs Ball.
“Young Tolliver, is that you?”
“Lorenzo, sir …. My father’s dead.”
Where Lorenzo’s mother had been towering and stout, Mrs. Logan was runty and slight. Where Lorenzo’s father had been massive and powerful, Mr. Logan was short and thin. But he had his own kind of strength. Thick, corded veins ran up and down his forearms.
Where Chauncey and Lucille loved to laugh and dance, the Logans preferred to read and pray. But they were kind people, and Mr. Logan’s weird fondness for sweet potatoes aside, not the types to get under anybody’s skin. Lorenzo, who seemed as if he would never stop growing, often felt as if he was living in a doll’s house. He learned to duck while passing beneath their doorways. He was silent and awkward during his first year under their roof, but in time he grew accustomed to them, and they to him.
Then one night shortly after he turned sixteen, Lorenzo entered the house to the sound of something he had seldom heard: the Logans arguing.
“If you’re really still waiting on the police to do something, you’re going to be still waiting a long, long time,” Mr. Logan was saying. “They think the only good Negro is a dead one.”
“I always thought somebody should just do something,” Mrs. Logan said. “She was murdered and she was one of my best friends. Lucille didn’t deserve to die like that.”
“We don’t know exactly what happened.”
“What more do we need to know?”
Mr. Logan didn’t answer. Mrs. Logan looked up and saw her husband staring at bulky Lorenzo, silently filling the doorway.
“My mother died in an accident,” he said.
Mr. Logan motioned toward the table. “Sit down, son.”
Mrs. Logan dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. “Excuse me,” she said.
Lorenzo stepped aside to enable her to pass. Then he joined Mr. Logan at the table.
“You want some ice water?”
“No. I want to know what happened to my mother. Sir.”
Mr. Logan took out his handkerchief and held it under the faucet. He soaked it with cold water, wrung it out, and wiped his forehead. Then he joined Lorenzo at the table. “As you know, your parents worked for a rich white family. Word was, the lady of the house was stuck on your father. Wouldn’t leave him alone. Told him he’d better do what she wanted or she’d holler rape. What could your father do? We believe her husband found out. He didn’t say anything, just kept making your father sweat. But Chauncey wouldn’t break and your mother, well, she didn’t have any idea. The night of the ball, a car ran your folks off the road. Another car came by, fired shots. Your mother got hit. Some people leaving the ball say it was white folks in those cars. Some of them even say your daddy’s boss was in the second car.”
Guts thought of his parents dancing cheek-to-cheek before leaving for the ball. He thought of his father slipping away day by day, sick from guilt and loneliness. Then he stood up. He looked down at Mr. Logan. “May I be excused?”
Mr. Logan looked as if he wanted to say more. But he just nodded.
Lorenzo went to the little room he’d called home and opened the chest of drawers.
When he came out, Mr. Logan was gazing thoughtfully out the front window. He watched as Lorenzo walked to the front door and put his hand on the knob. Lorenzo turned to him. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me.
Someday I’ll pay you back.”
“Lorenzo, I planned to tell you the truth some day. Just not so soon.”
Three years is not soon, Lorenzo thought. He didn’t need to say it out loud because he knew Mr. Logan was as aware of that truth as he was. “Thank you kindly,” he said. He didn’t wait to say goodbye to Mrs. Logan. He just tipped his cap and went out the door. He walked down Finney Avenue toward the river, carrying a few changes of clothes in a battered satchel and his box of cufflinks in his hand.
Lorenzo had been an indifferent student, reserving what little enthusiasm he had for gym class. On Sumner High’s track, he astounded the skinny sprinters by thundering past them in the 100-yard dash. In the cramped gym, he could do chin-ups until the bar appeared to bend under his exertions. But school, like his life up to that point, was done. It was time for something new.
*
Lorenzo wound up half-asleep on a bench in the park outside the train station, his satchel and box beside him. He had a handful of dollars and he thought he might catch a train somewhere, anywhere his meager funds could take him. It was early morning, and the ducks in the pond in front of him were already awake.
Inside the station, Ananias Goode was fresh from a trip to Chicago. He had a small entourage with him: some muscle, a runner, his wife and infant son. He waited while his men collected his family’s bags. Once outside, Goode ushered his family into the backseat of a waiting car while his men loaded the trunk. He looked up and saw a husky youth sitting in the park across the street and was reminded of his young self. He guessed this man-child was newly arrived from the Deep South, friendless as he once was, looking—hoping—for a chance to get a leg up.
Lorenzo stared at the ducks in the pond, entranced. He was drawn to their stolid serenity, the unruffled but constant attention they paid to the ducklings paddling tentatively across the water’s surface.
“Hey!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Lorenzo noticed two swaggering young men approaching fast. They were black, not much older than him, early twenties maybe, and neither could match him in size. But they wore fearless expressions and moved with the knowing confidence of the street. Lorenzo ignored them, keeping his eyes on the ducks.
“Hey!”
The second holler was loud enough to land in the ears of Goode and his men. They all turned toward the sound.
Looking back, Guts often wondered what possessed the two thugs to mess with him in the first place. He looked formidable even sitting down. Perhaps he looked so distracted that they felt bold enough to take a chance.
“You heard me, nigger,” the first thug said. “What you got in that bag?”
“Fuck the bag. I want that nice little box right there,” the second one said.
Lorenzo looked up and took in his surroundings. There were only the ducks and a group of serious-looking men across the street, standing around a pair of expensive cars.
“Why you looking around?” the first thug asked. “You looking for help?”
For the first time, Lorenzo looked directly at his antagonist. “I’m looking to see who you got backing you up.”
“What?”
“Forget it,” Lorenzo replied.
The brief exchange provided Thug No. 2 an opportunity to go for the box. Lorenzo turned and slapped at him. The box slipped from the thug’s hand, hit the ground, and overturned. Cufflinks scattered in the gravel and
rolled into the grass.
Across the street, one of Goode’s men flicked his Zippo and leaned in to light his boss’s cigar. But Goode stayed his hand. The man followed Goode’s line of vision. “Damn,” he said.
In the park, Thug No. 2 knelt on the ground, bawling. His arm was bent crazily and he was spitting blood. Thug No. 1 was sprawled on his back, pinned to the ground by a large boot, not yet a size 14 EEE, planted on his chest. Satisfied that his tormentors could no longer bother him, Lorenzo turned his back on them and began to collect his cuff links, dust them off, and place them back in the box.
“Damn is right,” Goode said. “Bring that young man to me.”
Minutes later, Lorenzo found himself being interviewed by a very important-looking man. He had on a tailor-made pinstripe suit and leather boots spit-shined to a dazzling gleam. A half-chewed cigar dangled from his mouth.
“Where you from, young’un?”
“Right here.”
“That so? I had you pegged for a Southern boy.”
“Nope.”
“Where you live?”
Lorenzo shrugged. No use giving him too much information.
“You box?”
Lorenzo shook his head.
“Wrestle?”
“Nope.”
“That was an impressive demonstration you put on over there. Where you’d learn to do that?”
“Don’t know,” Lorenzo said. “Never had to do it before.”
“You need a job?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“What I’d have to do and how much it pays.”
Goode smiled and gestured to his man. The man leaned in and lit Goode’s cigar.
“What’s your name?”
“Lorenzo.”
“We could use someone like you, Lorenzo. You’ve got guts.”