In class, I worked on my letters, nice and slow, like Miss Arthur told me, but they didn’t look nothing like the other boys’ letters. Most times, when we finished lessons, I turned over my paper, hoping no one would see I was still writing like a baby. Seemed like I was playing a game of Mother May I? where I took one baby step while everybody else in class took five.
SIX
Milwaukee, Wisconsin 1942
WHEN we first got to Milwaukee and I walked with Aunt Vera into town for groceries, I thought there was so many colored folks up North you wouldn’t hardly know you weren’t in Mississippi. Running straight through the center of town is a street colored folks call Chocolate Avenue. And that’s not ’cause there’s a sweet shop selling candy. It’s ’cause there’s colored folks all up and down Walnut Street. Colored folks here ain’t got to go ask the white folks to buy nothing from their stores ’cause they got their own stores for everything you need, and even things you don’t. There were stores selling fruit and vegetables in stands out front, two restaurants, funeral parlors, a pool hall, three churches, the Columbia Savings and Loan bank, and a place that sold ice. We passed by a building with a picture of a big white tooth, and Aunt Vera told me that was Dr. Roberts’ office.
“Why do you need a doctor for your teeth?” I asked her.
“Sometimes they get to aching and they need to be pulled. That’s what the dentist does.”
Just like Vicksburg, Milwaukee’s like two towns in one. North Side for colored folks and South side for whites. Aunt Vera told me it wasn’t safe for a colored boy to step foot out of the North Side, but with all that was going on here, I didn’t know why I would. A lot of the streets here had numbers for names and the town was laid out like one big puzzle.
Aunt Vera let me take my time staring at the traffic lights flashing red and green, and ’specially the streetcar.
“I looked just like you when I first saw those streetcars.” She laughed. “I wrote Ma and Daddy that in the North they have trains riding through the middle of town, and they must have thought I had lost my natural mind.”
That summer, I had every day to myself. If Aunt Vera worked third shift, she’d come by in her big car and take me over to Lapham pool in the morning. She’d beep the horn twice but never came in. Ma would suck her teeth when she heard the beep, but she didn’t say nothing more when I ran out the house.
I couldn’t swim, but I liked splashing in the end where I could stand. Aunt Vera, and sometimes my cousin Dee and her baby, would come with their bathing suits and sunglasses, and let their legs hang in the water while I was in the pool. Those were the days I’d miss the boys back home. We never had a pool in Vicksburg, but I know we would have had some fun riding piggyback and dunking our heads in the ice-cold water. When Aunt Vera took me to her church picnic, I met a boy my age named Calvin and in between eating potato salad and hot dogs and the cold chicken Aunt Vera brought, we played like I did in Vicksburg. But he was just in Milwaukee visiting his grandma, so I didn’t see him again. Now I go to town every chance I get. First, I went just to Apex Cab to give Mr. Kirby the numbers Ma writes on a piece of paper. Ma’s never won any money with the numbers, but she puts together a little money each week to play. Sometimes I wonder what she’d do with all the money if she hits, but I didn’t think on it too hard, ’cause so far, she never even came close. Sometimes, I’d find reasons to go into town. Tell Ma I was heading over to Aunt Vera’s, when all I wanted was to watch the streetcar and walk down streets looking in the stores. Milwaukee sounded like a record, playing all kinds of sounds at once. When I walked along the street, I could hear the sewing machines from Ideal’s Tailor Shop, the clicking of the hot combs in the beauty shops, and the bell from Tankar’s filling station when gas was pumping. But if I was in town after supper, sometimes I heard real music too coming from The Flame club. The door was closed, but through the window, cracked open in front, I could hear bands warming up their instruments. I’d just lean up against the side of the building and try to remember Grandpops and his Friday-night friends. If Mr. Bunky came out though, I had to keep walking.
“You ain’t got nothing better to do than hang around my place of business?” Sounded like he was asking but he was really telling. I didn’t wait to give him an answer.
Milwaukee was a whole lot different than Vicksburg, but what made me want to stay, what made me love that city, were the days, standing outside The Flame, when I could hear the musicians playing. Even if Mr. Bunky chased me away, I’d go on home, take out Grandpops’ guitar, and play everything I’d heard. And no matter what day of the week it was, I’d pretend it was Friday night.
SEVEN
Milwaukee, Wisconsin 1943
WHEN I next saw my daddy, the rain had finally stopped and the warm was making its way back into most days. This time Daddy wasn’t wearing striped pajamas, but a clean white shirt, black pants, and black shoes. He walked all the way from the bus depot in town, carrying his clothes in a brown-paper sack, and stepped into the house smiling. He hugged Ma and me, but when he looked around and Grandpops wasn’t there to shake his hand, he stopped smiling.
“Sorry I couldn’t be here, Ma,” he said, with a catch in his throat.
I thought Ma would have held him then, seeing how bad he felt ’bout missing Grandpops’ funeral while he was at Parchman Farm, but she didn’t. She just let him stand there feeling bad about himself. I hugged him ’round his waist though. Felt good to have a daddy again that I could see every day.
He stayed a long time then. He helped Ma ’round the house cleaning, fixing every broken-down thing he could get his hands on till Ma told him, “You got to get on outta my way!”
But when Daddy wasn’t getting in Ma’s way, he took me out back and taught me new songs on Grandpops’ guitar, and in between we talked.
“I made a lot of mistakes, Lymon, but you about the one thing I did right,” he said one day, looking down at me.
“What kind of mistakes?” I asked, trying to figure out my fingering on the strings.
“Kind of mistakes lands a man in a place like Parchman Farm kind of mistakes,” he said.
Ma already told me not to talk about that place in her house. But my daddy was home now. And he looked like he was in the mood for talking, and I was in the mood for asking. I looked back through the screen door to make sure Ma wasn’t in the kitchen listening.
“You a farmer?” I whispered. I was sitting on a piece of grass out in the yard, digging for worms, while Daddy was on the front porch trying to fix one of the steps that rotted in the middle. Ma told me to leave Daddy be, but I followed him everywhere he went, afraid if he left, I’d never see him again.
I knew all about farming from the folks in Vicksburg who picked cotton and tobacco. Back there, Ma had a plot out back for vegetables, one in front for flowers.
“You know I ain’t no farmer,” Daddy told me.
“Then why’d you live on a farm in Parchman?” I asked.
Daddy took a good, long breath and sat down. I came over and sat down next to him.
“You ever do something Ma and Grandpops tell you you not supposed to do?” he asked.
“Sometimes,” I said, feeling ’shamed.
“What happens then? When you do something you shouldn’t be doing?”
“Grandpops used to yell, but Ma gives me a whipping,” I told him.
Daddy laughed. “They used to do the same thing to me when I was your age. Truth is, Lymon, I went and did something bad, and the law gave me a whipping by sending me to Parchman.”
“Why’d they send you to a farm ’cause you did something bad?”
We could hear Ma moving ’round in the kitchen getting supper started, and Daddy quieted his voice.
“Parchman ain’t no farm, Lymon. It’s a prison. But mainly just free labor for rich white folks. They had us picking cotton from morning till night. They say old Abe Lincoln freed the slaves, but they alive and well at Parchman.” Daddy shook his head.
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sp; “Did you steal something?” I asked him.
“No son. Worse than that. I hurt someone.”
“Hurt him bad?” I asked.
“Bad enough to land me in Parchman for assault.”
“Is the man dead?”
Daddy put his head down, poking at the nails popped loose in the step. “No, he’s not dead.”
I put my hand on his back. “Did you say you was sorry?”
“Said I was sorry to the police, the lawyer, the judge, and anybody else who’d listen. But sometimes when you do something bad, you just got to pay the price.”
Daddy was quiet then. Then I heard him sniffling. When he looked at me his eyes were full of water.
Now I couldn’t stop asking questions. “Was he your friend?”
“I knew him from ’round the way. Can’t say we were friends, but friendly. All that changes when folks get to drinking and such. Can’t even remember now what we were fighting about,” Daddy said. “I’m sorry for leaving you behind like I did. You must think I’m a sad excuse for a daddy.”
I didn’t know how to answer. Sitting next to Daddy made me forget all those years of waiting, not knowing when he was gonna be home.
“You’re here now,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, smiling again. “I’m here now.”
I checked again to make sure Ma couldn’t hear us talking. “What was it like in there?” I whispered.
“Bad. Real bad, son. Not fit for an animal. Let alone a man.”
“But it looked real nice when we came to visit,” I said, remembering how we spread out my blanket and ate Ma’s good food, and how folks laughed and danced.
“That ain’t the real Parchman. That’s the visiting-day Parchman!” Daddy ain’t never talked to me mean like Ma does, but he did then.
I stopped my asking then ’cause if Ma heard all that fussing and Parchman talk, I’d be sure to get a whipping. The day was going so good with Daddy, I was hoping it’d stay that way.
Daddy smiled again. “Looks like you had to be the man around here when I couldn’t,” he said to me.
“Yessir,” I said, though I don’t know what was being a man ’bout going to school and doing the chores Ma yelled at me to do.
“I know you only, what seven or eight years old now? But Ma was counting on you, son, with me and Pops gone.”
“I’m eight years old,” I told Daddy, feeling like seven was just a baby. “Aunt Vera brought me a cake.”
“That’s right, eight,” Daddy said smiling. Now that he was smiling again, I had to ask one more question.
“But you’re back now, right?”
Daddy didn’t say nothing.
“Daddy?” I looked up.
“Thinking about getting on, son. Got a gig with a friend of mine for a bit then I’ll need to see what else I can find. It’ll give me a couple of dollars in my pocket. Been a while since I was paid for an honest day’s work.”
“You gonna leave me with Ma?”
“Just till I get on my feet, son. Then it’s gonna be me and you, I promise you that.”
“How long is that gonna be? You getting your feet?”
“Getting on my feet.” He laughed. “Be a little bit. But soon.”
“Can I come with you now?” I asked.
“Nah, Lymon. This ain’t no kind of job for you to be on.”
All of sudden, I could feel myself getting mad and sad at the same time.
“Does Ma know you’re leaving?”
“Getting ready to tell her now.”
I’ve never been ’shamed of my daddy, but back when Daddy went away, ’fore I even knew what Parchman was, Ma and Grandpops told me my daddy was gonna be gone for a while. Never said why and never said where. Then after we visited, Ma told me, “You just keep quiet about visiting your daddy, you hear me? We don’t need folks in our business.”
“What business?” I asked her.
“Our dirty laundry,” Ma said mad. That night, when Grandpops put me to bed, he said to me, “Now, Lymon, folks ask you questions about your daddy, you just tell them they can ask me or your ma anything they want to know.”
“You mean ’bout the dirty laundry?” I asked him.
Grandpops tucked up my blanket. “Yeah, the dirty laundry. Your daddy’s gonna be home before you know it,” he said. But in the dark, Grandpops sounded like I did when I was trying not to cry.
“You okay, Grandpops?”
“I’ll be just fine,” he told me. “And so will you.”
But soon enough, he wasn’t fine. And he never was again.
“Last time I saw Pops was in that place.” My daddy started up again, looking off into the road. “I promised Pops I’d make things right soon as I got home. Be a son he could be proud of. He said to me, ‘’Course you will, son.’ And here I am, no better off than when I left.”
I couldn’t look at my daddy so sad. “I’ll go help Ma with supper,” I told him.
I stood up but he didn’t move. Just kept staring out ahead. I closed the screen door behind me. And when supper was ready and I came to get him, my daddy hadn’t even moved.
* * *
A few days later, Daddy rubbed my head goodbye and left promising he’d be back soon. Days passed, then weeks, and as it was getting good and hot outside, I went back to almost forgetting what it felt like to have my daddy home with me.
EIGHT
Milwaukee, Wisconsin 1943
MA says Daddy comes when the winds change and that seems ’bout right. When the leaves turn red and yellow, or flowers start growing, or when the radiator starts spitting out steam is when I know I’ll see him.
Most times I hear him ’fore I see him. Car door slams and I can hear his loud laugh in the night with folks he met ’long the way, who gave him a ride. Sometimes I hear the gravelly sound of his singing coming from down the street, but it’s always me hears him first.
Tonight, from the bed in the room I share with Ma, I hear him whistling the song he taught me on the guitar last time he was in town. I pull on my pants and run to the door.
“Stop running in the house, boy!” Ma yells, sleep in her voice. I can hear the wheeze in the back of her throat. She yells some more, she’s gonna need me to get her medicine. I got good at pretending I don’t hear nothing she says. I got one ear listening for her in the back room, making sure she don’t get up, and one ear waiting to hear how close Daddy is. Can tell by her hard breathing she’s sitting up now in bed, trying to see what I’m up to. When I hear his boots on the porch and his whistling is right outside the door, I open it ’fore he can even knock.
He stops his whistling short and smiles with all his teeth. He looks even tireder than the last time I seen him. Got a beard growing scraggly.
“Come here, boy,” he says, pulling me in.
My daddy ain’t a tall man, but last time I seen him, my head was just at his chest. Now it’s just a little bit higher.
“You steady growing! Ma must be feeding you good!” He laughs, stepping inside, rubbing my head as he comes in out of the chill.
“Who’s that you talking to?” Ma yells from the bedroom.
“It’s the boogeyman, Ma! Who you think it is?”
Ma don’t say nothing. All we hear is her wheezing.
“Lemme go on back a minute,” Daddy says. I follow ’long behind, but he puts his hand out to stop me. I go into the kitchen instead, walking through the front room. When we moved here, going on three years now, Aunt Vera gave us some of her hand-me-down furniture. Calvary Baptist down the street gave us the rest. But the house is still mostly empty except for the old flowered couch, beat-up rug, and two tables on either end, one brown, one black. Grandpops’ guitar is sitting in the corner. I grab that and bring it in the kitchen. I see if I can get something together for Daddy to eat. The pot of greens and ham hocks from dinner is still sitting on the stove along with the last of the cornbread. I go looking for a plate in the sink full of dirty dishes. Wash that off good and set it on the table.<
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Daddy closes the door to Ma’s bedroom, and I can hear Daddy talking, Ma yelling. Daddy talking some more. Ma yells louder. Seems like her wheezing would make her quiet down some, but it don’t. The door opens to Ma shouting “…ain’t no hotel…” and Daddy closes it quick, comes straight into the kitchen. He sits down heavy.
“See Ma’s mouth ain’t slowing down none.” He laughs. “What y’all got in here to eat?” he asks, lighting a cigarette.
“Ma don’t like no one smoking in the house,” I remind him, opening the back door to let the smoke out.
He puts a finger to his lips. “Then let’s make it our secret.” Daddy tilts his head all the way back and takes a long puff.
I sit down across from him. Together we stay quiet as can be, him puffing and looking at the ceiling like he’s looking in a mirror. Me watching him puff. When he stubs his cigarette on the bottom of his boot, I hand him the plate of greens and cornbread and a spoon.
Daddy talks with his mouth full of food, barely stopping to swallow.
“Last town, we barely played one set when some crackers pulled up in a truck.” Daddy whistled through his teeth. “We took out of there so fast, almost left my shadow behind.”
“You like being on the road all the time?” I asked him.
“We spend more time trying to avoid the po-lice and the sundown towns than we do on stage.” Daddy smiled, tired. “But ain’t nothing quite like making music. You know something about that, right?” Daddy rubbed my head.
“What happens if the police catch you?” I asked him.
“First off, police ain’t gonna catch up to me. Second, long as we’re passing through those white towns ‘fore sundown like the law wants, we’re good. And third”—Daddy held up three fingers—“Parchman ain’t never gonna see me again.”
Leaving Lymon Page 3
