BAILEY'S CAFE

Here, Naylor's limbo, peopled by tortured beings ``at the hopeless crossroads of [their] lives,'' is a darkly lyrical, both sad and warming, psychic way-station—an American backstreet cafe with terrible food, no cheering camaraderie, and a door that empties into nowhere—or, even scarier, Somewhere. Bailey (not his real name), who runs the cafe with his tough, silent partner Nadine, offers a few autobiographical ``tidbits'' and knows he's at the grill for the same reason the cafe's customers come in from everywhere. These are people on the edge who need a space to ``take a breather.'' These are the hurt, the deeply wounded. Even the ``one-note players''—like a Bible-shouter and a pimp—``got a life underneath.'' Then there are the life-crippled victims: the lady Sadie, a decaying prostitute, scoured by cruelty; Sweet Esther, who tends perverts and white roses in the dark; Peaches the nympho; and Jessie the druggie, ``robbed'' of husband and son. The women live with Eve in her boardinghouse by a garden, where visiting men must buy flowers for entrance. Eve, born of Delta dust, expelled from her home with Godfather (Bible emanations bobble here and there), gives some women a place to stay, is severe, fair, and can create hell. Also at Eve's is ``Miss Maple,'' a brilliant young man—an American superachiever, rejected and humiliated because he's black. (Once, he—like some others—steps out the cafe's backdoor into the void, ``since the place sits right on the margin between the edge of the world and infinite possibility.'') And what could cause the souls in limbo to clap and sing? A richly melodic telling of sad tales—of innocence outraged and civilization smothered—and, again, as in Naylor's Mama Day (1988) and Linden Hills (1985), with a satiric glint and a generous dollop of the supernatural, plus the chill of apocalyptic voices.