When I hear the crackly radio static coming from the vestry, I know the reverend will not show himself again tonight.
He once told me that he uses his radio only to listen to President Roosevelt’s fireside chats. That the radio was “given in God’s name,” and that his only reason for even accepting the gift from his congregation was “as a means for keeping abreast of the nation.”
But honey, that is a bunch of hooey. The reverend is hooked on his Zenith. He insists on listening to Speaky every night, without fail. And it isn’t often that I hear the president chatting by the fire on that radio.
The truth is, the straight-and-stubborn Reverend C. Elias Tyson has a thing for swing music and the blues. Most nights he tunes in to Swing Time at the Savoy, coming live from Harlem.
I go back to my catalog, flipping, folding, dreaming. There are flannel shirts, aprons, long johns, and lingerie. The lingerie is my favorite. All that lace. All those flounces.
When I get to the section marked Sensible Dresses for Growing Girls, I flip past fast. I don’t waste time with any girl clothes. I need a woman’s wardrobe.
I get to page seventy-two, Ladies’ Evening Wear. The heading says, “For Nights on the Town, and for the Hours that Follow.”
There is silk all over this page. There is a pair of shoes made of good leather, with a dance heel and a pretty lattice ankle strap. There’s even a fur stole and a hat with feathers. Oh, how I wish the drawings were in color!
I tear out the page with the dance-heel shoes. I tuck it in the bib of my pinafore. These are my shoes. I save this page for later, when I will stare and stare at my dance heels, and not spend a dime doing it.
With Sears, Roebuck tucked under one arm, I make my way to bed. When I pass the vestry, I press my ear to the door.
As sure as my name is Hibernia Lee Tyson, I hear what I always hear—the reverend’s sermon room secret: Duke Ellington and His Orchestra performing live from Harlem.
I believe the reverend fancies Swing Time at the Savoy because he still has feelings for my mother. I would bet a bottle full of dimes that the reverend is drawn to the Savoy’s music because he’s listening hard for Pauline, trying to somehow catch a hint of her among Duke’s orchestra.
Tonight, though, the reverend gives Duke only a short listen. He soon turns his radio dial to a fight between Joe Louis, the Negro boxer, and Max Schmeling, the former heavyweight champ.
Everybody and their brother is talking about Joe. For gracious’ sakes, there are a trillion other things to speak on—like what happens to the fur on a stole when it gets wet from when it snows. But stoles and snow are not even part of the Joe conversation. The only thing folks are talking about is that this will be the fight to end all fights. And nobody seems to care about the tough times we’re in, either. People are putting down their last little bit of money, betting on Joe Louis. Boo to that! If I had any cash of my own, I’d be sending it to Sears.
With all the talk in town, I can’t help but wonder what the big deal is. So tonight I listen carefully as Speaky speaks.
All I can hear is the voice of Skip Gibson, the boxing commentator, filling up the reverend’s tiny room. “Joe Louis looks overconfident and underweight. Max is coming on strong against the Brown Bomber!… But wait—Joe throws a right! He lands one hard on Max!”
The strangest thing flings from the reverend’s room. It’s a whoop, coming out from under the crack of light that draws a line between the door of the vestry and me.
Then a second holler comes louder: “Slam him, Joe! Make us proud, boy!”
There is no mistaking that voice. It’s not Skip Gibson roaring out from the radio. Those shouts belong to the reverend. So does the thunder of his foot stomps.
Skip Gibson shouts, “Joe is still on his feet here in the twelfth round, but Max is all over the Brown Bomber!”
Another booming clap. Another slam with his foot. “Stay up, Joe!” calls the reverend. “Keep standing!”
Now Skip announces, “A dynamite right, and Joe Louis goes down! Max Schmeling puts a temporary halt to the meteoric rise of the Brown Bomber!”
Then Skip delivers more bad news: “Ladies and gentlemen, on this night, June nineteenth, nineteen thirty-six, history is being made right here. In exactly two minutes and twenty-nine seconds of the fatal twelfth, Joe Louis, hailed the king of fighters, has been counted out. The Brown Bomber has been stopped.”
Right then, Speaky goes quiet from the click of its knob being turned off in one fast snap.
OTiS
DADDY LOVES COCA-COLA. MA LOVES candy bars. But who has money for sweet brown treats? Not Daddy. Not Ma.
“Times are hard,” Daddy says.
“No jobs,” says Ma.
The president, Mr. Roosevelt, he says these are hard economic days. He says it in the papers. He says it on the radio.
Daddy says it to Ma. Ma tells it to me.
“Don’t go asking for things, Otis,” says Ma. “Your father’s hurting for work.”
Even though times are hard, Daddy can always find a good joke. Jokes that make Ma and me laugh. Riddle-jokes.
“What do you get when a cow is caught in an earthquake?”
“Which building has the most stories?”
“Why couldn’t the sailors play cards?”
Daddy laughs and laughs at his own riddle-jokes. He doubles over at the punch lines.
“A milk shake.”
“The library.”
“Because the captain was standing on the deck.”
Daddy’s laugh is between a hoot and a snort. It booms from way inside him. So full, he has to wipe his forehead.
Daddy gets me and Ma going, too. Ma laughs big enough to show those gaps in her teeth. I get all choked with laughing when Daddy starts in with his riddle-jokes. They make me run a hand across my own forehead, just like Daddy does.
But sometimes when there’s talk of no jobs, Daddy gets quiet, and the riddle-jokes seem far away.
During the day Daddy looks for work. At night he sinks into the Elmira Star-Gazette. He shakes his head when he reads about no jobs for people. “When’s it gonna end?” he asks Ma.
Ma tries to comfort Daddy. She tries to make him relax by telling him his own riddle-jokes. Mostly it’s no use, though. Nothing funny about no money.
There are days when Daddy goes as far as Philadelphia, more than a hundred whole miles away, looking for work. “Philly has promise,” he says. But Daddy never comes home with one of those promises.
For months it’s been the same. Stale bread is all. Government cheese. No work for Daddy. No promises.
Then, one day, Daddy goes to Philly and comes home whistling. And he’s back to wiping his forehead from happiness.
“Daddy!” And I’m happy, too. And wiping my forehead, too. And whistling, too. “Daddy looks good,” I tell Ma.
Daddy doesn’t even need to tell us riddle-jokes to make us smile. “I’ve got work!” is all he says. “Good, solid work, operating the elevator at the Claremont Hotel.”
When Daddy walks up to the house, he isn’t empty-handed. Hoisted on one shoulder is a radio. A proud-looking Philco in a leatherette case. In Daddy’s other hand, he’s holding some of those Philly promises in a paper sack. A Coca-Cola for himself. A candy bar for Ma. For me, a whole paper sack filled with packs and packs of Chew-sy Time gum!
“Thank you, Daddy! Thank you!”
After supper we huddle around the Philco. We listen to Joe Louis fight Max Schmeling, all the way from Yankee Stadium in New York City.
The man on the radio tells us what we wish we could see for ourselves, so we can know if it’s really true: “A ripping right by Max Schmeling! Louis is in trouble—he’s down!”
How can Joe be down? All during the fight, I chew my gum, the waxy pieces wrapped like little gifts in colored paper. I know I should make the gum last, but I’m too excited. The chewing helps, so I go for two pieces at a time. I chew till half the packs are gone. Promise gum, I call it, hoping t
hat somehow in the chewing I’ll help Joe Louis win. But Joe’s closer to losing. The man on the radio tells the story.
“Joe is up on his feet, but it’s all Max here in round four!”
And then: “Max keeps pouring it on! The Brown Bomber can’t keep it together!”
And finally: “Max Schmeling has stomped hard on Joe Louis’s near-perfect record!”
Daddy gets quiet when the fight is over. And even though the day has started all shiny and new, Daddy’s face is tight with being sad that Joe Louis has lost to Max Schmeling.
I’m as squashed as my chewed-up gum. I’m twisted up, too, same as the neck on the brown sack the gum came in.
Later Ma tells me, “When Joe Louis fights, it’s more than just throwing punches, Otis. That boy’s fighting for the pride of Negroes. When he loses, every colored man loses a little piece of his own pride.”
I save the chewed-up gum Daddy’s brought home for me. I’m holding on to those Philly promises.
At night, I stick the gum to the wall. In the day, I chew and chew that gum. Even when it’s dried up, I chew. Even when there’s no sweet taste left, I chew. Then I go on to new pieces of gum, adding their sweet to the old wads.
I save the gum wrappers. Different colors those wrappers are—green, yellow, even white. The little squares of waxed paper are a minty memory of Daddy’s surprise.
Soon Daddy goes to stay in Philly. To work where there is promise. Before he leaves, he sits me down across from him and Ma.
Daddy says, “Otis, son, I love you and your mother more than I love this life.” I can tell by the frown yanking at Daddy’s face that he’s about to say something important. Ma keeps her eyes on her lap. She already knows Daddy’s news.
Daddy says, “The best way to love you is to live where I can earn what it takes to feed you and to keep the four walls of this little cracker-box house around our family. We can’t afford to all live in Philadelphia, so I’ll go alone.”
I nod to show Daddy that I understand. But there’s still something sharp coming at me from inside. And my throat is tight with trying not to cry.
Daddy hugs Ma and me at the same time. He tells me to take care of Ma. He tells me that even though I’m just twelve, I’m the man when he’s gone.
That’s when more promises come. First Daddy gives a promise to me. Then he asks me to keep a promise for him.
He says, “The Philco is yours now, Otis. I promise you this radio will give you hope.” Daddy winds the Philco’s cord around its middle and is careful when he sets the radio on my lap. “Promise me you’ll take good care of it, that you’ll keep it close by listening, and that you’ll stay up on what’s happening with Joe Louis.”
I answer Daddy with a hard handshake, just like a man does to another man. Now it’s sealed. We have a deal. It’s as firm as his hand squeezing mine.
Daddy explains, “I’ll be working long days and night shifts. I won’t have time to listen as closely for Joe. I need you to tune in for me, Otis. No matter what happens with Joe, we can believe in him by listening.”
The next day, me and Ma watch Daddy go down the road. He walks away with his body bent forward, eager to get to where his work waits. Quickly Daddy glances behind him to see us waving good-bye. He waves fast, then walks. Daddy’s steps are slow. He looks back again. It’s more than a glance now. Daddy’s taking in the sight of us. He holds his hand up to wave once, long.
When Daddy goes, Ma fills the time with cleaning. It’s our turn to tidy the alley house we share with the Jenkins family next door. The alley house is hardly a house, though. It’s a cramped space in the alley, forced between our house and the Jenkins’. A creaky flap door offers only enough privacy to cover the toilet. Daddy’s hand-carved sign hangs from the flap-door hinge. The sign says GO AND BE GONE! The alley house isn’t the place for leisure. There are seven Jenkins children in all. One of them always has to go.
Today is no different. Ma has a tin of carbolic cleaning acid in one hand and a broom in the other. She hands me the broom. “Otis, you sweep. I’ll wipe.” The two of us can barely fit in the alley house. Before I can even make two swishes with the broom, Petey Jenkins is rattling the door.
“Somebody in there? I gots to go!”
“We’re cleaning,” I call.
Petey yells back, “I can’t wait!”
“Hold your horses, Petey,” Ma says. “We’ll be done soon.”
But Ma is taking great care with her cleaning rag. She even wipes the flush crank above her head by the pipe on the wall.
Petey rattles again. “I—I—gots to go!”
I tell Ma, “When I’m grown and have money, the first thing I’m gonna buy is my own bathroom inside my own house.”
Ma finishes with her rag. “And when you do, we’ll hang a sign that says COME ON IN AND STAY AWHILE.”
That night, Ma turns on the Philco. She’s quick to find the program she wants—the CBS Radio Network bringing in Swing Time at the Savoy all the way from Harlem.
Can my ma ever sing! If she wasn’t too busy being my mother, and if she had better dresses and hair not knotted away from her face, she could be one of those Savoy satin doll singers, or Ella Fitzgerald, even.
From this day of holding a wipe-rag, she’s still eager for getting dirt off things, and I’m up next. Ma is ready to clean me, too.
Her voice is on the same side of the street as whoever that lady singer is who’s coming through the Philco, taking listeners on a jazz ride.
Ma sings along:
“Slide back, honey, till I call you in
I want to dive for your love
Take a swim.”
Never letting up on the song, Ma sets our metal basin in the center of the kitchen and fills the tub with warm water from the teakettle. She throws in a hunk of the pinesap soap she’s made herself, all the time holding on to the tune, pretty and strong like that Savoy lady.
During the part where only the instruments play, Ma says, “Wash good, Otis.” She turns her back while I sink into the water, thick with the smell of trees. Now I’m singing, too. I can’t help it. That’s what happens when something sweet touches you. You want some of it. Ma and me sing together, “Slide back, honey.”
Later, when I’m supposed to be asleep, I curl back the curtain that separates my bed from the kitchen. I glimpse Ma washing her feet in the metal basin. She’s dressed in a sleep shirt, a scrub brush pressed to her heel. She works the soap over both feet while she sings along to “Missing Him to My Soles,” a song that eases out from the radio Daddy’s left behind.
WiLLiE
THERE AIN’T NO MISTAKING SAMPSON’S drill. Uh-huh, same warning every time.
“Rise above it, Willie-bo! Rise above it! Get to your feet, boy! I got money on this fight!”
Slick Ricky Tate hooks me good. Throws a left jab that makes me block with my right. Then, when I ain’t looking, he hooks hard to my chin, knocks me to the mat. The ref starts counting.
“One… two…”
“Hoo-hah,” somebody shouts, “he’s down hard!”
“Three… four… five…”
Them voices sound far away. I just wanna lay here and sleep.
But they ain’t havin’ it. Uh-uh, no. Ain’t havin’ it.
Men, wild as search hounds, hollering and dragging on cigarettes. Dogs acting crazy at ringside, hammering me with screams worse’n Slick Ricky’s punch.
Once I’m down, I’m seeing dizzy, and fighting to breathe, and begging my belly to hold on to its supper. No doubt Slick Ricky has busted my nose. I can’t smell the chalk on the mat. It’s hard to snort back the blood coming in a spurt from my nose. My ears is ringing loud as a noonday whistle. The ref keeps giving me the countdown.
“Six… seven…”
I lift my head. I swallow the hunk of snot choking my throat. I won’t never fight to win for Sampson. I fight for myself. I fight for how much I love boxing—for the burst of oh, yeah that builds in me when I’m in the ring.
&nbs
p; I slam both hands onto the ropes. Yank myself to my feet, quick as I can. But I’m knocked backward by my own swolled-up face, eyes beat up so bad they only let me see through slits. Pounding in my head so hard, all I can think on is pain.
The ref stops counting, but the hollers of them search hounds smoking half-burnt cigarettes keep comin’. The loudest, wildest dog of all is Sampson, my very own father.
“Beat him, Willie-bo! Beat him, so’s I don’t have to beat you!”
Even with Sampson’s shouting, my oh, yeah is still here. My oh, yeah is louder than Sampson’s bark. My oh, yeah means I’m feelin’ good.
Slick Ricky hangs back near his corner. He’s grunting and spitting and flinging his big arms over his head. He’s declaring himself to be the high-and-mighty kid who gonna be taking home the prize.
But, see, Slick Ricky, he sitting pretty too soon. He ain’t learned one of boxing’s most important rules: Nobody’s a winner till somebody’s a winner. I move toward him slow, still working hard to get my balance, struggling to see, wincing at every breath.
Sampson’s shouts come at me again. “Go for the rebound, Willie-bo! Show him who’s boss!”
When I get close to Slick Ricky’s corner, I can see enough of his eyes to look him in the face. But he don’t bother with me. He’s watching the referee, waiting for the ref to call him the winner.
Now I’m sure Slick Ricky Tate don’t stand a snowball’s chance in the sun of beating me. He’s turkey-trotting before the slaughter. I know I can land Slick Ricky. I can put myself one fight away from the Copper Gloves junior title. It’s easy from here. Uh-huh. Easy. A deep-down voice is telling me, You can do this.
Sampson plants hisself at the ropes and keeps adding to the wild mix of hollers. “Get me those copper gloves, Willie-bo! Bring ’em home for me, boy!”
Oh, yeah, uh-huh, it’s payday. Time to get Sampson back for the daddy he ain’t. Time to snatch the one thing Sampson wants so badly for hisself—a boxing title he can hold. Yeah. Oh, yeah.
Bird in a Box Page 2
