Leaving Lymon

by Lesa Cline-Ransome

  “We did, and we’re just waiting for her to arrive. Gotta feeling she’s not gonna be pleased to see you here.”

  “Can I go home when she gets here?” I asked, trying to pretend I didn’t hear the comment ’bout my momma.

  “First you gotta see the judge. Officer Peterson will explain it all to you,” he told me, and then walked away quick.

  The judge?

  I sat back and closed my eyes. I should have been sleepy what with being up all night, but I turned in the bench so I could see the door good, and waited for my momma.

  “Lymon Caldwell,” a police officer called out.

  “Yessir.”

  “Come with me please,” he told me. I stood up, not sure if my legs were shaking ’cause I was scared or ’cause I’d been sitting so long. I made them move along behind him, past the front desk, and out of the room with all the other folks that were brought in.

  He took me to a quieter room to sit and wait on another bench. After a while, a police officer walked in with my momma behind him. She had on her work clothes, and it was the first time I seen her without her lipstick on.

  “You just have a few minutes. He’ll be going in to see the judge shortly,” he told her.

  I stood up when the police officer left the room.

  “What the hell you doing here?” my momma almost spit at me. “After all we done, you gonna steal from us?”

  “That was my money, from Aunt Vera,” I said, mad too.

  “And where’d you think you were going? To find your daddy?”

  “I was going back to Milwaukee. To Aunt Vera and Ma, so I don’t gotta have no one hitting on me all day long.”

  “I told you, if you just act right and give Robert a chan—”

  “How many times he gotta hit on me ’fore he run out of chances?” I asked her.

  She took a deep breath. “You know you can’t go back to the apartment, right? I told you before, Robert ain’t gonna allow this mess. Ain’t nothing more I can do.” She sat down on the bench.

  I looked down at her now. Looked like she was worn out just from talking to me.

  “If you ain’t here to help me, why you here?” I asked her.

  “Robert told me this morning some money was missing out of his pocket. I told him it must have fell out. But then I saw you were gone. Knew you’d be heading back to Milwaukee or trying to find your daddy. When the police showed up at my job, I nearly had a heart attack.”

  “You come looking for me when you saw I was missing?” I asked but already knew the answer.

  “Robert said to me, ‘If he want to go so bad, then let him go.’ So, I did.”

  “My ma was right—you ain’t no kind of momma,” I screamed.

  She raised her hand to slap me, but then sat back in her seat staring with water in her eyes.

  “Why’d you bring me to Chicago if you didn’t want me here?” I asked her.

  “Ain’t no one said I didn’t want you. You been sitting up under your grandma and grandaddy so long, you think I’m supposed to be your maid and not your momma. Time you learned how the real world works and learn some respect, Lymon.” She pulled a handkerchief from her purse to wipe her eyes.

  “This here’s the real world?” I yelled again. “Look where I am, Momma!” It felt like my whole body was on fire. A police officer looked in at us through the window. Thought he was gonna come and take me out, but he walked away, probably used to yelling. “Your husband beating on me all day long, and you pretending not to see?”

  She sat quiet shaking her head saying, “You don’t understand.”

  “You always done that?” I asked her then.

  “Done what?” she asked, looking down at her hands.

  “Walk out every time something gets hard? Like you did when I was a baby?”

  “Lymon, like it or not, I’m always gonna be your momma,” she said. “Not your grandma and not your aunt Vera, just me.”

  The officer came in. “Let’s go,” he said, and took me into the courtroom.

  THREE

  Chicago, Illinois 1946

  “LOOKS like you’ve gotten yourself into some trouble at home,” the judge said from up high behind a big wood desk in the front of the courtroom. Standing there alone with one police officer beside me, and another up near the judge, felt worse than being in the principal’s office. But I knew this was going to be a lot worse than getting in trouble for fighting. The judge coughed as he looked down at a stack of papers in front of him and the light shined off his bald head. With his little round eyeglasses, he looked as old as Grandpops.

  “No sir,” I said.

  His voice got louder. “There was some money stolen from the home of Robert Hassell? And you were found at Union Station, attempting to board a train, is this correct?”

  “No sir, that money was from my aunt Vera and—”

  “In addition to running away, you were suspended from school on October seventeenth of this year?” he asked, sounding tired.

  “Well, yeah, but…”

  “Says here you have a history of truancy.” He looked right at me, his little eyes looking over the tops of his glasses.

  Truancy was the word the man used when he came by the house to talk to Ma ’bout me missing so much school.

  “No sir, I go to school every day,” I told him, feeling the sweat running down my back.

  “Not according to these records,” he said, lifting up the stack of papers.

  I heard a door open in back, and I turned to look. Momma walked in. She sat in the back row.

  “My momma is here,” I told the judge.

  “Miss Caldwell,” the judge said to her, waving her forward.

  She stood up and walked to the front.

  “It’s Miss Pitts, but Mrs. Hassell is my married name,” she said, almost whispering. When she got close, I saw her face was wet with tears.

  “Where’s the boy’s father?”

  Momma shrugged her shoulders. “He’s here and there, Judge.”

  “Momma…” I said soft, hoping she’d tell the judge ’bout Robert and Daddy and Ma getting sick and me moving to Chicago, but she stared straight ahead at the judge, sniffing and wiping her eyes.

  The judge cut in. “It appears that there is very little parental control in the boy’s home. The court believes, that given the gravity of the charges, it is in the best interest of this minor to be remanded to the Arthur J. Audy Home for a period of four months. At that time, the court will make…” The judge kept talking, and I couldn’t make myself understand what he was saying. Only way I could tell it was bad was watching Momma’s head shaking from side to side. Could see her mouth saying, “No. No….”

  I tried again. “Momma…” Where was I going?

  The officer took my arm.

  My momma finally looked up at me. “I’m sorry, Lymon,” she said.

  I realized now, wasn’t no going back, with Momma or anywhere else I knew. Wasn’t no more “hangin’ on,” waiting for Daddy or God or Aunt Vera.

  “Tell my daddy,” I yelled at her. “Can you at least do that? Tell my daddy where I’m at!”

  I broke then. Seemed like tears I didn’t know I had came pouring out of me like a busted pipe.

  “C’mon, son.” The officer pulled me forward. I used my free hand to wipe my face and my nose as I watched my momma walk out the courtroom.

  * * *

  Police officers put me back in a car. They were talking and laughing up front like wasn’t nothing wrong with me riding to a home for boys. A prison, just like my daddy. Never saying goodbye to Errol, Theo, and Orvis. I laid my head against the cold of the window. Didn’t know how I was gonna start all over again. I closed my eyes tight as I could, hoping to hold back the tears I knew would start again if I thought about it long enough. But I think I just ’bout cried myself out back in the courtroom.

  We pulled up in front of another big brick building, ’bout the biggest I’ve seen in Chicago.

  They walked me up
the steps, through the tall front doors, and down a long hallway, past a roomful of boys. Most my age, but some older, just a few younger, all turned to stare as I walked past. I made sure to stare right back.

  FOUR

  Arthur J. Audy Home Chicago, Illinois 1946

  JUST like at school in Milwaukee, I kept to myself. After he gave me a talking to about “rules” and “behavior” and “expectations,” Mr. Pinker, the head of the Audy home, had one of the younger boys show me where I’d sleep.

  “Name’s Marshall,” he told me when we left the office.

  “Lymon,” I said. He looked about Orvis’s age and I couldn’t help but wonder what he could have done to end up here. I followed along behind him to the Colored Boys sleeping room lined with cots, one next to the other. Looking down that long row of beds made me think of visiting day with Daddy back at Parchman.

  “You gonna sleep on the end here.” He pointed.

  I nodded. Each cot had one pillow, and one thin blanket. He showed me my locker that had a towel and washcloth, soap, and a toothbrush.

  “They’ll give you your clothes later. Don’t expect much. They give us stuff don’t nobody want, but it’s clean.” He shrugged. Was like Calvary Baptist clothes all over again.

  “And you know we got to go to school every day ‘cept Sunday, right?” he said. “Classes are on the other side of the building.”

  I sat down on the edge of my cot.

  “Can’t sit here now. Time for lunch. Free time is later.” I stood up and followed him to the cafeteria. Wished now I hadn’t complained ’bout Momma’s cooking ’cause the food here made me wish I could have one of her dry pork chops now. I sat by myself, watching the other boys and making myself eat watery stew and a piece of dry bread. Seemed like all the older boys stayed in one group, and they were the loudest. After a while, I got so tired I could barely keep my eyes open.

  We scraped our plates and stacked our trays, then free time started, and I went back to my cot and laid down. Was so loud in there, I didn’t get much sleep, but I was glad to finally be alone again without someone yelling or fussin’ or lecturing on what I should or shouldn’t be doing. Looking up at the ceiling, stained brown from water and who knows what, I tried to think ’bout what was next for me, outside of the Audy Home. Couldn’t go back to my momma’s. Milwaukee seemed so far away, didn’t see how I could ever get there. I couldn’t let myself hope my daddy would come, ’cause it was the hoping that made the hurting worse. I remembered all those years I went without him while he was at Parchman. But with Grandpops with me every day and night, I didn’t feel so alone. Wondered if I’d ever feel that way again. The blanket was scratchy and hard, and I turned on my side and tried thinking of something else, anything to stop thinking ’bout all the sad, and that’s when I heard the music.

  Sounded like it was coming from the cafeteria and I sat up. One of the bigger boys was walking by.

  “What’s that?” I asked him. “That music?”

  “Band practice,” he told me, and kept walking.

  I made my way back to the cafeteria. The tables and chairs were moved against the wall now, but it still smelled like the nasty food we just ate. There were boys every age with instruments I never seen before. Everything shiny—horns, round plates. In back was a boy with a drum hanging from a belt ’round his neck. The man at the front was young with wild, curly hair looked like it hadn’t been combed in a month. Didn’t help he kept running his hands through it. He looked at me over his little eyeglasses when I came in.

  “You here to join us?” he asked.

  “Nah, just listening,” I told him. I had my eye on the boy with the drum, but he pointed to the other side.

  “We need some help here in the brass section,” he said. Those instruments looked big and heavy. I shook my head no.

  “Everybody wants the drum,” he said, smiling. “But we’ve only got one of those. Have you ever played a trumpet?” Everyone was looking at me.

  “No,” I said quiet.

  He waved to a boy in back. “Clarence, hand me yours.” Clarence was tall and skinnier than me and was about the whitest-looking colored boy I ever seen. He walked up and handed it to him. Looked like one of the horns from the nightclub. The teacher took a cloth from his back pocket and wiped the end you blow into. He played the start of the song Grandpops loved called “Ain’t Misbehavin’, ” and I laughed. “Louis Armstrong,” I said loud.

  Back home, Grandpops played his records every now and then. Ma didn’t much like him. Said she hated his ole scratchy voice, but Grandpops said he could play his you know what out of a horn.

  “You got it. That’s Satchmo’s instrument. You know your music. Here, give it a try.” He wiped it off again.

  This time I blew, but didn’t sound nothing like him or Satchmo. Everybody in the band laughed now, but not the mean laughing I heard in school.

  “Everybody sounds like that the first time. Takes some getting used to, but you’ll get it. Right, Clarence?” Clarence nodded, then came up and took back his instrument.

  “Why don’t you sit there and observe for today, and then we’ll talk about getting you your own.”

  Seemed like everywhere I go, music was following me. I sat down and listened, wondering what it’d feel like to have my own instrument again and be part of a band.

  FIVE

  Arthur J. Audy Home Chicago, Illinois 1946

  FOUND out Mr. Danforth was the name of the band teacher. He was young, someone said, just finished college. Guess he couldn’t get any other job teaching if he had to work at the Audy Home. But he loved music ’bout as much as I did. Maybe more. He’d get so worked up at practice, he’d sweat right through his shirt.

  I was hoping there’d be a guitar somewhere, but Mr. Danforth said we had to work with what the state gave us, and that was band instruments.

  “They want to make sure you boys understand discipline, not appreciate music.” Seemed like we were doing both, but Mr. Danforth seemed mad when he said it. When finally he handed me a trumpet, all shiny and pretty, it felt like Christmas morning and my birthday all rolled into one. Made me almost forget about my broken guitar. Almost.

  I been struggling to read words my whole life, but I never thought I’d have a hard time reading music. Thought music was something you played not read.

  “If you are ever going to be a serious musician, Lymon, you are going to have to know how to read notes,” he told me. He pulled out sheets of paper from his satchel and sat them on a stand.

  “How am I gonna read this?” I asked him. It looked like a page of lines and circles. Mr. Danforth was real patient. Not like the teachers in school who told me I wasn’t smart. He laughed and pointed out how each note on the sheet matched up with the note on my trumpet. “Open position, one and two, one and three, open position…”

  “Playing guitar ain’t this hard,” I told him. “My grandpops taught me and we didn’t look at any papers.”

  “Sure, that’s one way to play,” he said. “This is another. I understand you won’t be with us for very long, so let’s make your time here count for something.”

  ‘Fore I knew it, reading music was easier than reading a book. “I knew you’d get the hang of it,” Mr. Danforth said. He said I caught on faster than most. Mr. Danforth said what Grandpops did, that I had “an ear.”

  At the home, every breath I took was on the clock. From the time I opened my eyes till I laid down on my cot at night, the dorm father, the teachers, even Mr. Pinker, all kept watch, making sure we got up at one time, went to class at another, and ate that nasty food three times a day. We got to shower only two times a week. For some that meant washing up at the sinks in between, but for a lot of the boys, they just waited, and that meant we all had to smell their stink for the other five days.

  But every Tuesday and Sunday was when we had practice. Woodwinds, the drum, and my section, brass. Can’t say I cared for the songs, each one with that steady drum beat in the back. It was mu
sic for marching, not dancing. I laughed thinking about Mister Joe trying to sing to this music.

  Once I got the hang of my trumpet though, I started practicing even when there was no practice.

  When I had a hard time and hit wrong notes, Mr. Danforth reminded me, “I know it’s not the same as playing the songs your grandfather taught, but now, you can continue to learn new songs because you know all of the notes.” I thought my grandpops would like that, and I kept right on trying.

  Me and Clarence didn’t talk much outside of Mr. Danforth’s class, but together, side by side on our trumpets, it was like we had our own language. I may have been stuck up in this place, but playing music with a roomful of boys in a band made me feel ’bout as free as a bird.

  SIX

  Arthur J. Audy Home Chicago, Illinois 1946

  I was practicing on my cot, when Clarence came to get me.

  “You got a visitor,” he said.

  I kept right on playing. “I ain’t got no visitor.”

  “Mr. Pinker sent me to get you.” I saw he wasn’t joking, and I got up and headed to the visitor’s room. Hardly anybody gets visitors here, and I saw just ’bout everybody watching and whispering as I walked down the row of cots. I walked down the long hallway, to the office where Mr. Pinker was waiting. He took me into the visitor’s room. He pointed to the clock. “Thirty minutes, son.”

  I saw him from behind, hunched over in a jacket that looked too big.

  “Daddy?” He turned and looked at me. Not smiling. He stood and for the first time we stood eye-to-eye. I wrapped my arms around him. Took him a minute, but then he pulled me close. I rested my head on his shoulder.

  “I’m here,” is all he said. “I’m here.”

  He led me over to the corner and we found two chairs.

  “How you making it, son?” Daddy asked.

  “I’m making it,” I told him. Daddy tried to smile, but it wasn’t nothing like his big one.

  “Your momma got word to your aunt Vera. Wish I could have been here sooner.”