Yolonda's Genius

by Carol Fenner

  The helpful lady nodded. Maybe she’d had a little brother once. But the other ladies looked at Yolonda none too warmly. One of them had narrow eyes that regarded her with mistrust.

  Yolonda lifted her head gracefully and said in her superior voice, “In the event that he strays — this evening — when the crowd becomes impermeable.” She let the last word hang in the air.

  The narrow-eyed woman tilted her head in surprise, and then her face sort of caved in. “Make sure he knows how to spell his last name, young lady,” she said. “And knows his address — including zip code.”

  Inside Yolonda grinned. Outside she kept her face closed and cool. “How can you tell when a child is really lost?” she asked. “I mean if he doesn’t say anything.”

  “Oh,” laughed one of the women, “you can most always spot them. They have desolate faces. They keep looking around.”

  “And they clutch whatever they’re carrying,” offered another woman.

  “Their eyes all huge. They look terrified”

  All the women were helping now, even one sitting at a table by the entrance.

  “Lots of times they don’t cry until you ask them if they’ve lost their mother. Then it’s Niagara Falls.”

  The talkative woman said, “There’s a temporary police post right across the street — right under the trees there.” She pointed past the beer tent at the end of the block. “Lost children are taken there.”

  Not onto the stage?

  “Wouldn’t they bring him out on the stage?” asked Yolonda, her plan teetering in her head.

  All the women stared at her.

  “He’s so little. It might scare him.”

  “No,” snapped the narrow-eyed woman. “No, that’s a last resort. If nobody comes in a couple of hours to claim the lost child, then they might bring it onstage.” The woman smiled a tight, satisfied smile at Yolonda.

  Yolonda used her polite, cool voice: “Thank you very much,” and turned to leave. “This is very helpful information.” She gave them all a short smile and a short wave.

  She headed up the street, shaking off the eyes of the hospitality ladies, which she was sure were fastened to her back. There were fourteen long blocks back to Tiny’s apartment house, but Yolonda resisted the urge to stop at Fanny Mae’s for an ice-cream bar to accompany her long walk. She wanted to get back in time to talk Aunt Tiny into doing a quick number on her hair.

  That afternoon, she took more care than usual with dressing, selecting a jumper and a lace-collared blouse instead of blue jeans and her favorite yellow T-shirt. She was glad now that her momma had made her bring the jumper. “It makes you look more your age, not like some teenager.”

  Tiny had given Yolonda a frame of springy curls around her face and pulled the rest of her hair back into a thick braid. The braid was good. Yolonda thought it helped make her appear even younger. Looking into the mirror, she made her eyes go big. She tried for innocence. She tried for terror. She tried looking helpless like a lost child would look. Helpless was impossible; she only looked gooey. Terror was pretty good, but Yolonda didn’t want to give the impression that someone was after her. She tried for a mixture of innocence and terror. The hair helped with the innocence.

  Usually Andrew left his pipe at home when he went out anywhere, but on this Sunday he was surprised when Yolonda tied it around his neck with a thin ribbon. “Why don’t you let me carry the Marine Band case?” she suggested. She was wearing a skirt, he noticed. It had big pockets. “That way your harp will fit in your pocket better.” Andrew agreed. It felt better not to have to walk with a great big bulge digging at his hip. But he kept his hand over the harmonica there in his back pocket.

  Aunt Tiny knew the taxi driver who was waiting outside her apartment.

  “Big crowd tonight,” he commented to Aunt Tiny.

  “We got B. B. King,” said Tiny proudly, as if she owned him. “And Koko Taylor. Going to be a heavy night tonight. Hope we don’t get trampled.”

  Everybody laughed at the thought of Aunt Tiny being trampled. Andrew stored the bursting sound of their laugh to play later.

  When they got to Grant Park, Aunt Tiny walked right up to the front of the big long line. She didn’t slide to the middle of the line the way Yolonda did. Aunt Tiny smiled her wide, sweet smile, at one of the big men guarding the entrance.

  “Hello, Eddie,” she said. She gave him one of her smothering hugs.

  “Hi, gorgeous!” The man liked the hug. He hugged back. He had huge arms and a big, warm smile, too. If you were big like this Eddie man, thought Andrew, or like Yolonda, you didn’t get your breath stuffed back in by Aunt Tiny’s hugs.

  Andrew was pushed through the gate first, ahead of Yolonda. Today, the stamp was purple. Bleeding purple ink across the back of his hand were those reading marks. Andrew noticed the big B for bongos — B for the Blue of Andrew — B for blues. With surprise he understood the runny purple stamp.

  “B for blues,” he said softly.

  “I know all these college boys” bragged Tiny. “Most of their mommas come to one of my shops. Good boys.”

  She smiled at another tall, strong-muscled guard wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up tight against his wide upper arms. Yolonda muttered to the top of Andrew’s head, “Hunk! Oh, what a hunk-o”

  Their momma carried her camera with the long lens. At their seats she sat and focused on the stage. “I bet I can pick up the hair on B. B. King’s upper lip with this thing,” she said. “Color film at one thousand speed. Won’t even need a flash.”

  Aunt Tiny began to offer around food from a big hamper. Yolonda took a piece of chicken and a napkin. Andrew wasn’t hungry, but he thought of the big arms on the guards and how the Eddie man had hugged Tiny back, so he chose a croissant.

  While he took bites, Andrew watched the crew on the great big stage, where they were setting up instruments. A grand piano was rolled in and uncovered. Drums were set in place.

  There were lots of noises. Andrew knew that soon the music people would come out onto the stage. They would look so little up there and there would be a hush-hush around them and then there would be a signal. And Andrew remembered that, like when insects stop singing all at once and the grass goes quiet, all of a sudden like that, the noises would pause.

  The music people would reach up with their instruments or reach down to them and pull sounds to them and out through their horns or their guitar’s or the piano. They would push sound into bright pictures or smooth it into long paths. The noise would become a special shape that was wonderful to follow.

  Andrew checked for his harmonica, safe in his back pocket. Yolonda looked at him and smiled, patting her pocket where he knew the case sat amid her supply of malt balls. Then his sister went back to looking at a creased paper filled with pictures and reading.

  Just then a music man came on the stage. Aunt Tiny said very loud, “Go on, Jimmy Rogers, go on.”

  The Jimmy man had a guitar. He sang, “Got my mojo wukin’.” The crowd clapped and laughed. “Got my mojo wukin’.” The crowd sang with him. “Got my mojo wukin’.” The crowd stood, hundreds of pointing fingers jabbed at the stage. “Got my mojo wukin’.” The crowd cried out, “Mojo wukin’!” Some people got up and danced in the aisles.

  Andrew was just about to pull out his harmonica and join the tumult of sound when Yolonda grabbed his hand. “Come on,” she said in an urgent voice. “Got your Marine Band?” Andrew nodded. She guided him carefully past Aunt Tiny.

  “What a time to leave,” said Tiny.

  “Yolonda. Where are you off to now?” snapped their momma. Andrew could play that short, tight sound.

  “Bathroom break,” said Yolonda. No arguments there.

  Andrew felt the waves of Yolonda’s energy propelling them up several aisles and out the security gate. He didn’t have to go to the bathroom. Through the crowded street they marched. Yolonda took big long steps. They weren’t going to the bathroom after all. A journey, thought Andrew with a mixt
ure of excitement and worry. Are we ever coming back?

  Yolonda was singing under her breath “Got my mojo wukin’.” At the end of the street, his big sister guided him to a bench near a row of tables under a yellow-and-white awning. She sat him down. “This is a lucky bench, Andrew. This is our lucky bench.”

  Andrew wiggled on the bench, trying to feel the luck. He listened for the sound of luck.

  His sister was talking, still in her urgent voice. She had so many voices, and Andrew had a place on his harmonica for most of them. This voice was like the sound of the wind that pushed against you on a roller coaster.

  “ . . . It’s like a game. We’re not really going to be lost. But we need to get backstage. Where the bigtime musicians are. Where all those instruments are — like the ones you ask about all the time. Would you like to go backstage?”

  She was asking him something he didn’t quite understand. He could only look at her, listening for a clue in her voice.

  “I don’t think we have to actually go onto the stage. Momma would faint dead away. I’ll think of a way to get us out of there before that comes. Although . . .” Yolonda’s face softened.

  Andrew watched expectantly. Yolonda had magic; she could make things happen. Got my mojo wukin’! Mojo was a magic charm. Some people, like Yolonda, were mojos — could work magic without any extra help.

  “Although . . . what would that be like? Sixty thousand people seeing you up on the stage? Calling out to you, clapping their hands, all crazy.”

  “Good?” asked Andrew.

  “First things first,” said Yolonda.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The temporary police post was housed in a big CHICAGO POLICE motor van, white with sky-blue trim. Yolonda didn’t want to start her plan there — too obvious. Half a block away, past a hot dog booth, were two cops talking together. One was a short, compact black woman whose uniform fit as if it had been sprayed on. Yolonda quelled the worry that she might not be able to fool a sister — that somehow this woman might be able to read her soul. The other cop was a young white guy with a pale mustache. He looked easy.

  Yolonda checked Andrew. “Don’t get worried,” she said to him. He looked at her curiously, but his eyes were trusting as always.

  Yolonda mustered her terrified-but-innocent look, grabbed Andrew’s hand more tightly. She tried to shrink down inside the lace-collared blouse. With wide eyes, she slowly crept by the chatting police. The effect was somewhat spoiled, she realized, by Andrew’s bright interest in everything around him. But she couldn’t risk worrying him into a frightened face. It might only screw up his playing mood.

  The chatting police never once glanced at them.

  Yolonda clutched Andrew more tightly, and he looked at her in alarm. “‘S’okay,” she growled at him. “Part of the game.” She slowed her pace to that of a worm. Clutching and staring, she crawled back past the two cops. Their conversation was animated.

  Some police officers, thought Yolonda angrily. Supposed to be alert to emergency. Supposed to smell disaster. What’s our tax money going for? Chatting police officers. Wait till I’m chief of police.

  Then, before she’d thought it through, she bought herself a hot dog. Andrew declined.

  “What am I doing?” she muttered aloud. “Lost children are too worried to buy hot dogs.” Well, she thought, maybe I bought it first, before we got lost. Maybe I’m so scared I don’t even eat the hot dog now. Maybe I just clutch it.

  Back they walked toward the two police officers, whose conversation showed no signs of slowing down. Yolonda clutched her hot dog, clutched her brother. She rounded out her eyes until she thought they might explode with innocence and terror. She looked right, left, all around — as if she were searching for someone. Her eyes were getting dry. She longed to take a bite of the hot dog, which was giving off a warm, spicy odor. But not eating the hot dog was helping her achieve a suffering expression. She managed a moan when she passed the two cops.

  This time the one with the pale mustache glanced up. Yolonda almost tripped in eagerness. Then he went back to listening to the lady cop. Yolonda ground her teeth. She wanted to shout at them. Yo-yos! What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you get any training? Can’t you spot lost children?

  She took a deep breath. “One more time,” she gritted at Andrew.

  This time, her moan was real anguish. She dragged her feet. She clutched her hot dog. Andrew cried in protest as her grip tightened hard on his little fingers.

  It was the lady cop who stopped talking and looked at them, who asked, “Have you lost your mother, kids?” And the most surprising thing happened.

  Yolonda burst into tears. A real Niagara Falls.

  They waited on comfy upholstered chairs in the back of the CHICAGO POLICE van. Despite the coolness outside, it was warm and stuffy in the van. After Yolonda recovered from the shock of actually crying, the time dragged minute by minute. The hot dog rumbled uncomfortably in her stomach. Andrew fell asleep leaning against the armrest. His perfect little mouth was open, drool collecting on the pink inside of his lower lip.

  This is not working right, thought Yolonda. Andrew’s body thinks it’s bedtime. We can’t wait two hours for them to take us onstage. The concert will be all over with.

  When she stood up, Andrew stirred and woke.

  “Gotta check something, Drew-de-drew,” she said, and went up front to the open door. Andrew followed.

  There were no police outside on this side of the van. Yolonda leaned out of the door. There were some of them around front talking with a mounted police officer who leaned from her fine big horse and pointed at something up the street.

  “We’re outa here,” announced Yolonda, holding out her hand to Andrew. No one saw them leave.

  Yolonda headed for the yellow-and-white awning across the street. She wasn’t sure what the next step in the big plan was, but she wanted to get closer to the goal.

  A new set of hospitality ladies sat sternly at their tables, checking the passes of a short line of people. Yolonda’s eyes zeroed in on a tall, straight-backed woman whose blond hairdo supported a beautiful straw hat. She appeared to be in a hurry even though she was standing still. Occasionally someone would aim a question her way and she would issue a command.

  A real boss lady, thought Yolonda. She paused to gather her forces. At that moment, the boss lady turned impatiently and headed out of the gate toward the CHICAGO POLICE van they had just escaped from.

  Yolonda took a breath — now or never — and stepped directly into the boss lady’s path.

  Boss lady halted. “Yes?” She was brimming with impatience.

  “We’re lost children,” said Yolonda, her innocence stretched across her face. “We’re supposed to go backstage.”

  “Oh!” blew out boss lady. She tossed her hands up, then dropped them, slapping against her sides. She turned and called out to one of the hospitality ladies under the awning.

  “Esther, sit these kids backstage. They’re lost. Let Henry take care of it when this set is over.”

  It was as simple as that. The big plan had moved into place.

  A thrill sent goose bumps up Yolonda’s legs. She thought, I can do anything. I can look out for my baby brother. I can dance and fight. I bet I can even turn double Dutch ropes with Shirley-whirley. Why not? One thing I have down is timing.

  I suppose I’ll have to apologize to Shirley-whirley, she thought. Before we can begin to train. The sync part is important — the rhythm. You have to practice a lot if you want your hearts to beat together in perfect harmony.

  The triumphant feeling followed Yolonda to the backstage entrance. And then deserted her.

  Backstage was a huge corridor filled with people. No dressing rooms, no couches, no champagne. Disappointment replaced Yolonda’s triumph. Where was the man with the foil-covered trays? People surged about them in a rush. Some wore earphones. Others lounged against a wall waiting or sat on folding chairs.

  One guy looked like a big-time
musician, but Yolonda didn’t know him from Adam. Besides, he was a white guy. He wore a white and glittery cowboy suit and a big white cowboy hat. He had a long earring in one ear that swayed and caught the light when he moved. He put one foot on a chair and leaned into his knee. He was listening to the group onstage and smiling, shaking his head.

  Where was Koko Taylor? Little Willie Littlefield? Where was B. B. King? Yolonda found herself irritated by the cowboy musician’s whiteness. Where was someone who would be turned on by Andrew’s specialness?

  Suddenly, into her mind slid a horrible doubt. Suppose she was wrong? Suppose everybody else was right? Suppose Andrew wasn’t a genius after all — just an undersized underachiever? Where’d she gotten the idea he was a genius anyway? Desperately Yolonda’s mind grabbed for the John Hersey definition — “rearranges old material . . .” She took a breath. Well, anyway, they were all about to find out.

  There was quietness but hurrying in the tall place that seemed, to Andrew, like a hallway for giants. Lots of people were moving quickly and softly. They never bumped into one another. At the end of the hallway there was an edge of bright, bright light, and music sounds twinkled and faded, twinkled and faded.

  One guy didn’t move. He was standing with one foot on a chair. He wore a white cowboy hat and a long, sparkly earring. Andrew was more fascinated by the guitar that leaned against the chair. He moved closer. The instrument was white and sparkly, too. Andrew looked it over very carefully. He wondered where the guitar’s case was. Wasn’t this sparkly cowboy worried about his guitar?

  Sounds seeped backstage from out front, where now a singer was sobbing, “. . . drivin’ me-ah craze-eah. . . .” A slow, soft piano played behind her voice.

  Without thinking, Andrew stepped closer to the stage entrance and pulled out his harmonica. He began to slide little notes in and out of the sounds around him.

  He played a sparkle sound — the dazzling cowboy. He played the announcer man standing in the wings with his straw hat and his handful of papers. He played a deep bellowing sound — Yolonda hovering near.