The Kid

by Sapphire

  “What, Mama?

  “Who dat singin’?

  “Ain’t you something! One minute you actin’ psycho and the next you actin’ like we listenin’ to the radio playin’ poker or something! All I care’bout right now is de voice singin’. I am dat voice. De other voice gone like it come. I let Mary go. She drop in de tub still sleep. Beymour hug me tighter breathe me in.

  “Singin’? he say. That’s an old one from Lady Day, I know that’s Prez behind her, soun’ like Buck on trumpet.

  “I’ll nevah be the same there is such an ache in my heart. Auntie swing de hammer knock ol’ Pink out, tell me pick up de butcher knife cut her throat, if I don’ I won’ eat. Blood run.

  “Yeah, Beymour say. That’s Billie Holiday, she rule. Can’t nobody touch her. Now, git out this fuckin’ tub and git back to work!”

  I grab my brown bomber jacket off the back of the chair, put it on, and walk back to “my” room. Slavery Days in the kitchen croaking. I guess she think she singing. OK, got my jacket on, my kaleidoscope, clown doll with china head, two pair of jeans, all these socks, no hat, no boots for winter. Last year I had those Timberland boots, too small by summer, still too big for Jaime. I end up giving them back to Mrs Lee to give to someone else. One pair of leather pants, black, backpack (recently borrowed). I hear her I look up from my suitcase—she’s at the bedroom door.

  “Give me some money. Give me some money,” I repeat. She ain’t crazy. She pay rent and shit, she got some kind of scam, hustle—something goin’ on here. Shit, she got me here in this loony bin, roach motel. “I want some motherfuckin’ money!”

  “Fo’ what?”

  Because you got it. “I want to get some gear to dance in, OK. I want to get my dick pierced, OK,” I sneer. What fucking difference does it make, you . . . you mummy!

  “Betsy de one fix up de screen, de crib ’n all fo’ Mary. Dis here”—she steps through the doorway—“useta be my room. Beymour let me have it, tell me thangs are gonna work out fine. He like me.”

  My mother died in a car accident, my father got killed in the war. I was an only child. My grandparents had died of cancer down in Virginia. Yeah, both of ’em. What kind? Of cancer, how would I know. I was just a little kid. I was put in an orphanage because I was Catholic. It was rough, but I worked very hard. My mother died in a car accident. My father got killed in the war.

  “How much, I said.”

  She talking to me? “Huh?”

  “How much you need to git yo’sef pierced up?”

  Shit, I don’t know I was just talking. “I . . . uh, around, a couple hundred at least—to get dance gear, then piercing, I don’t know, it got to be sanitary and all.”

  “Shit, I wanna see it. I done seed a lot. But I ain’ nevah seed dat. Beymour say he ain’ no pimp. He a bizness manager. Tell me a guy name Big Black run dis house, one in Little Italy, ’n one in New Jersey. I manage merchandise for Big Black. I don’t own nothin’ or nobody. My job is to keep shit copasetic. I gets paid off the top. I keep the hos happy, Big Black happy, johns happy, got me? Gotcha! I would say.

  “Something about Beymour you should know, Betsy say. Beymour done picked me out. As much as I like Betsy, she basically dress me in de beginnin’ show me how I could put money in de bank if I want to, help me hook it up so Mary could stay wit’ her auntie some weekends. But I’m a woman ’n I know enuff, even though I ain’ but sixteen years ol’, not to let another woman tell me nothin’ ’bout my man. Honey, later I’ll wish I hadda listened. Like you, mark my words, you’ll wish you hadda listened to what I’m sayin’!”

  She sits down on the bench in front of the vanity table where the mirror useta be. Shit, I been listening, and what is it? Scrambled eggs in my kaleidoscope. And she becomes a roach every time she opens her stupid mouth. I look at my jeans, two pairs in my suitcase, count my socks—twelve pairs, all them socks and no boots.

  “But you cain’t know now what you woulda known later or it wouldn’t be now. Ain’ dat right! So now Beymour is wit’ me, not Betsy! He’s lyin’ on my bed! How he eat my pussy, how he screw is way out! Sol, one of de regulars, a musician, say dat, Way out, man! Like jazz—oo—blah—dee—dah! You mine, Beymour say. I was comin’ out de bathroom, dat bathroom, down de hall. I’m comin’ from takin’ a bubbly bath wit’ some of Betsy’s bubbles.”

  I look at my kaleidoscope, my clown, lying neat on top of my jeans in my suitcase. Look like picture on Roman’s bedroom wall. Did Picasso really say that shit, that he had black blood from the Moors, or was Roman just bullshittin’ me? I look at the little chess set, I don’t think I would like chess, too long sitting in one place. She gets up and walks over to where I’m getting ready to close my suitcase and get out of here. Just grabs my arm!

  “DON’T!” she screams like I’m killing her. “Don’ leave now, Abdul. I ain’ finished—jus’ sit down, sit down, please.”

  I plop down on the bed. She goes back to the bench in front the vanity table looking at the old dry wood like it’s still a mirror. How long can I stand this?

  “So I’m comin’ out de bathroom—you know dis useta be my room. Did I tell you dat? You stay here you always have a home. I leave you everythin’ when I die. Dis apartment rent-controlled, only person payin’ less than me is Koch. Hee-hee.”

  Who the fuck is Koch?

  “Anyway, how it start out, Beymour who has always been like a bizness person to me come up grinnin’ stupid like one of de johns, talkin’’bout, Let’s take a bath. Beymour, I tells him, I done already took a bath. I mean together, he say. I start to ask what for, ’cause like a fool I’m talkin’ to him like he got sense ’n fool of course he don’! Beymour was jus’ tryin’ to get some! But I don’ know dat, you nevah know what’s on somebody’s mind—”

  If I touch the side of my face, the jagged scar, it would hurt me. If she knew what was on my mind.

  “So I’m tryin’ to figure out why he want me to, why he wanna take a bath, when he done took one dis mornin’. I wanna say, Fool, you crazy, but Beymour is like de boss man in a way. I mean, he run de house, de money we git, Betsy, Eloise, Irene, Betsy’s aunt, ’n me—come from him. But he don’ act like no boss man—mean ’n stupid, like. So when he say, Get yo’ fine self on back in the tub and run some water.”

  My mother’s mother’s mother? Synonym for crazy. Insane. No, that’s the same as crazy. That’s what a synonym is, same family same name? I ain’t the same as a schizophrenic simple stupid mental-deranged cracked, shit, what else? OFF her rocker, bugging, bugged-out, motherfucking maniac. Antonym, yeah! What’s the opposite of this motherfucking shit! Cool, good-sensed, rational. Intelligent. Normal.

  “You know how big dat tub is ’n de window right ovah it. Look out forevah at New York! Beymour push his suspenders off his shoulder, undo his pants. By now I done seed so many men undress, it ain’ nothin’ special to me. Beymour so skinny his knees like doorknobs. I smile. What you laughin’ at! I ain’ laughin’, I swear I ain’, Beymour! Beymour pull his shorts down—Laugh at this! Lawd I got to give it to him. Beymour got something’tween his legs. I look in de mirror—why you go ’n break dis here mirror, Abdul? Look at yo’ face, you gonna hafta wear dat fo’ life. But anyway my hair in paper-bag curlers, I got on ol’ dusty robe Betsy give me. I’m useta meetin’ mens in a nice way, all dressed up, silky dress, perfume, whiskey. Dis here—Beymour, knees all knobby, dick danglin’, no music, whiskey, me in my duster, paper curlers—it don’ seem natural! I wanna laugh at Beymour knobby knees, big dick, suspenders, ’n pants on his ankles.

  “’N it ain’ no fun in de bathtub! Stop! Jus’ stop! I tell Beymour. My head bangin’ against de tub, bubbles gettin’ all in my mouth. This ain’ gonna git it, Beymour. Well, what is? I push him off me, git his dick in my mouth, think of de closet empty dust a few months ago, all shine now wit’ hot dresses, pink ’n orange, patent leather shoes. Underwears, I got mo’ in one drawer den all de women on de plantation together. I likes this, I’m not Eloise, hate de men o
r like Betsy, I thinks likes de women. Mos’ of dese guys nice people actually.

  “He ’bout to come in my mouf, makin’ little baby-bitch noises wit’ his breath. You evah been in love? Den all of a sudden he push my head away’n say real mean, That’s what you want, ain’t it? Huh? I want, I says to myself. What’s wit’ this man? You just wanna get me off so you can get it over with!”

  Does anybody really love me? Brother John? Jaime?

  “I think, well ain’ dat de point? I don’ know what to say. What about you? he say. Me? Where your feel-good come in? I remember first time wit’ John how my body light up fo’ a minute or two dere, but dat don’ happen no mo’ again. I jus’ keep my mind on bein’ . . . bein’ fine, doin’ it good fo’ de mens. I ain’t paying no bitch, but I wanna give you somethin’ back. Oh Lawd, what he’s talkin’ ’bout I don’ know. Let’s go in my room, Beymour say. What’s dat ’cept de parlor whar we drinks wit’ de men? But when de tricks gone, de couch pull out to be Beymour’s bed ’n don’ nobody go in dere. Room his. Record player ’n radio too. OK, let’s go in yo’ room. What’s dat playin’? I ask. Oh that’s new Bird, baby, the latest! Sol’s friend give him that, Boris jus’ take the sets off the radio on his seventy-eight-RPM disc recorder. We git sounds ain’t even in the record store yet! Honey, I don’ know what Beymour talkin’ ’bout, but I know de Bird sound good.

  “Prez is playin’ when he enter me, ‘Lady Be Good’! Hah! That’s a old one, but I like it, Beymour grunt. I done stopped tryin’ to be good, or fine, or please him. I dig my orange-painted nails in his back not ’cause I’m hot but ’cause I want to hurt him, hurt him bad. Like I hurt standin’ up in dat station nowhere to go. It’s all black, dark, hate almost. But hate ain’ in Beymour, he move off me ’n start playin’ wit’ me, suckin’ my tittie, den it’s like dat thang you got. Colors shakin’, what you call dat?”

  Huh? What . . . is she? She’s looking at me like she want me to talk. I want her to talk now, finish the story. “Kaleidoscope,” I tell her. “From the Greek kalos for ‘beautiful.’”

  “Beymour touchin’ me jus’ break me up inside. A wave roll through my blood so happy-feelin’ I could cry. I do cry, it feel so fuckin’ good! Then he go down on me. Dis Miss Billie Holiday’s music in my body, a song I couldn’t sing mysef. You make me feel good, Beymour. You ain’t gotta say nothin’ to me you don’ mean. But I do mean it, I do. My body still goin’ like it not mine. I give it to Beymour in pieces, big pieces, little pieces—black ’n white—of hurt. He give de pieces back to me in colors!

  “Well, wit’ all dat—music, kallyscope, gardenia flowers, it shouldn’ta happened. I shouldn’ta needed nothin’ else. But when I opened I felt so good, but it would remind me I ain’ nevah known nothin’ but pain. I had hurt so bad, long, or maybe it wadn’t none of dat. I don’ know. I do know down de line when he ask me did I want some. I didn’t know—I ain’ even ask what ‘some’ was. I jus’ said yes.”

  She stops and it’s like she’s nodding out. Can’t be? All these . . . these fuckin’ hours I been trying to keep her out of my ears, and now I’m really listening, and she looks like she drifting off to la-la land.

  “Well?” I say.

  She raises her head. “Well.” Like she hadn’t missed a beat. “One mornin’ I waked up next to Beymour, we here in dis room, I tol’ you dis useta be my room. Shake, shake, shake, Beymour don’ wake up. Scare me. He breathin’ but don’ wake up. Scare me. What to do? Call Big Black, Betsy say. You got de number? I ask. She head to de parlor, ain’ like nowadays folks got a phone in dey pocket.”

  I look at my suitcase, think that’s next, a cell phone. I look at the windows, the one shade left dusty brown with age. Can I take this?

  “Out de window I see a black Lincoln Continental pull up. Thas him, Betsy say. Well, Big Black a midget, a albino, big lips like liver. He walk in de room, up to de bed—Everybody out! Who he talkin’ to? Ain’ nobody in dere ’cept me ’n Betsy. Eloise at de door, but she ain’ in de room. OUT! he scream. Betsy ’n Eloise walk down de hall. I stand dere a second outside de door, den sink down on my knees look in de keyhole. It’s de weirdest feelin’, like air down in Mississippi befo’ a storm, emptied out ’n dangerous. I look see Mary ’tween de partin’ in de panels of de Chinese screen. She standin’ up. Don’ move, don’ say nothin’, I wanna tell her. Keep yo’ mouf shut! I guess she feel my words, ’cause she don’ even breathe hard. Big Black pull de sheets off Beymour, turn him ovah so he face down in de pillow. Big Black take off his pants, I see why dey call him Big Black, his thang bigger den Beymour’s, ’n it’s hard. He climb on top of Beymour’n start fuckin’ him in de ass. One hand holdin’ Beymour’s head down in de pillow. Dis is crazy I think. How dis helpin’ Beymour? Beymour cain’t breathe, can he? How can Beymour breathe Big Black doin’ dat! Now Beymour’s whole body buck like a fish no water, den, I mean Lord Jesus how is dis helpin’ Beymour! Beymour still now. I look over at de Chinese screen, don’ see Mary standin’ up, maybe she done laid down in her crib. Den I don’ remember. Entirely. Jus’ rusty kinda sticky smell of blood. All over everywhere.

  “I’m already on my knees I stay down ’n start to crawl to Betsy’s room. Inchin’ hand knee hand knee hand knee. I’m soakin’ wet shakin’ as I crawl. Footsteps behind me. Get up! De floor so shiny I can see his shoes’n pants legs reflected. I rare back to come up off my hands ’n knees jus’ when his tan shoe is comin’ dead in my face again ’n again. Beymour! Beymour! I hollers, but don’ nothin’ come out ’cept blood ’n tooths.

  Betsy open her door ’n run up to me screamin’, Stop! Big Black, STOP! I push mysef against de wall away from him. Big Black pull a razor out his pocket ’n slice it cross Betsy’s throat. I nevah hear a scream like dat in all my life. I close my eyes, it’s Mississippi fo’ a second, sky blue. I open my eyes it’s Big Black’s hand comin’ down steady like a hoe choppin’ cotton, but it’s Betsy he choppin’—again ’n down again ’n down’n again ’n again.

  “Blood everywhere. Later people tell me de screams I heard was my own. Betsy’s throat cut past de bone die immediately. Guy say he heard me screamin’ on 145th Street. He nevah heard no screamin’ like dat befo’, not sirens on fire engines, elephants in movies, not nothin’ nobody.

  “Dat was . . . oh, I don’ know forty, fifty years, yeah forty, forty-five, fifty years ago. Super, he was startin’ to be one of my regulars, tell de owner Beymour my husband. Dey let me keep de apartment, put a lease in my name. Dat was Rodriguez, he dead now. Blood was everywhere. Still smell it sometime.”

  It’s like a movie only it ain’t. I close my eyes, pictures, the pictures is screaming. All around me blood, Beymour, the brothers, Richie Jackson. Fifty years. I start crying. Rocking. Sorry. So sorry. I get up off the bed. I feel so sorry love her so much. She’s noddin’, someplace else, her story over. Water is rolling down my face. I take the kaleidoscope out of the suitcase and lay it at her feet. Bye, Toosie. Bye, Great-Gran’ma. I close the suitcase. Where? I don’t know—I don’t want to live like her, I don’t want to be like her—I do know I’m outta here.

  BOOK THREE

  ASCENSION

  . . . making me dance

  Inside

  Your love is king

  —SADE ADU

  ONE

  Whenever I see anyone hauling one of those oversize cheap suitcases on the subway, I think about that day, me holding on to my shit for dear life, everything else gone. Slavery Days went off at 805 and never really came back. I had come from Roman’s class that night with his card in my pocket, “téléphone-moi” on one side, “CALL ME” on the other. She was still sitting in roaches talking to herself, and I’m rapping to myself: My mother died in a car accident, my father died in the war. I’ll work out the details later. I canNOT be related to somebody ate dirt—Slavery Days, Nigger Boy—No. Maybe in the movies or a book or some shit. Big Black? Albino midget? He climb on Beymour. NO.

  The first night I went home with him was maybe the en
d of the second or beginning of the third week of classes. I don’t remember. What I remember now is it was the end of his class at the Y, and I was leaning against the barre, and he walked over and said, “I have another class on the Upper West Side at Stride. If you serious about dance, you should be dancing every day. What other classes you is taking?” I told him about Imena on Thursday nights and Saturday afternoons. “That sounds good. If she’s who I think she is, she’s good. But whatever kind of dance you do, you need a strong foundation. Ballet is good for that. I like you, youze a hard worker.” I was looking down on his shiny pink scalp and his hair that looked like it had been planted in neat little rows.

  “What happened to the side of your face? You has such a pretty face.”

  My hand flew up like a girl’s to the side of my face. “It don’t mess you up, you know,” he says. “Roman just ask. After all, you is his pupil, isn’t you?”

  I didn’t answer. My shoulder still hurt when I did port de bras, and the stitches on the top of my head ITCHED! When the cold hit my cheek, the whole side of my face throbbed. Pain. I was still trying to figure out what was going on with his hair. I had never seen implants before. Stride, yeah right, I thought, how was I gonna pay them double digits for classes at Stride? Stan had said Bureau of Child Welfare was paying for me at the Y through the City Arts for Kids Project.

  “You was fighting with those boys uptown? Roman don’t want that. You become a dancer, you got to let them things go. You know what I mean?”

  I knew what he meant.

  “You could be my guest at Stride. Just use another name so City Kids don’t know. How old are you? Seventeen. Wait for me in front of Gourmet Fare.”

  “CRAZY HORSE! What kinda stupid shit is that!

  “Stop being silly, you know what I mean. I mean something like Jim Jones, or Robert Johnson, or something like that. You is no Indian. I don’t know where you get all that from. You boys need to come to France sometime and see. Abdul is no name for you either. You is no Arab. Where you get that name from—Hey! Hey! Where you going! Come back! OK, OK, no more. I’m just saying a nice name like John or Robert bring you luck. You is a beautiful black boy, like . . . like art, you is so beautiful.”