“Fight, Willie-bo!”
Uh-huh. That’s when I let Slick Ricky Tate take me out in one punch.
OTiS
AS SOON AS PROMISES COME, THEY GO.
Daddy shows up from Philadelphia one Sunday. He surprises me and Ma.
“Took a day to join you for church services,” he says, pulling both of us into his arms. “I can only stay the day, though. I need to get back to the Claremont Hotel. I’m a workingman now.” Daddy is proud.
It is a church day to beat all. We’re dressed so fine. I’ve put on a collared shirt. Daddy wears his best shoes. Ma even takes her Sunday hat down from the shelf. She has a hum rising out from her. She is ready to let the choir hear her joy on this day.
It doesn’t take long before Daddy is back to making us laugh. Back to telling us his riddle-jokes. Back to his old way.
“What sea animal can be adjusted to play music?” This is one of Daddy’s favorites.
We all say the answer together: “A tune-a-fish!”
We walk toward our truck, the three of us, arm in arm, step in step. Daddy says to Ma, “Betty, can you lift this boy?”
Ma knows what Daddy’s thinking. She says, “On the count of three.”
I know what’s coming. We link our arms even tighter. We count at the same time. “One… two—three.”
On three Daddy and Ma lift me at my elbows, just high enough to let my feet jiggle above the grass, and fast enough to scare away the pigeons. We all laugh at the whole silly thing. Daddy says, “In the time I’ve been gone, this boy has gotten taller. He’s still as straight as a clothespin but heavier.”
Daddy looks down. “Otis, it must be your clobber feet that are bringing on some extra weight.”
Ma giggles. “It’s the bricks I feed him.”
I say to Ma, “And I’m getting taller from when you hang me out to dry with the laundry after my bath.”
Another bunch of giggles springs from Daddy and Ma and me.
As we walk, we come upon a rabbit’s nest in the tall grasses of our yard. There’s a baby bunny nestled in a pile of brush. “Look,” I say. “He’s all alone. We could bring him to church. I could show him to people.”
I reach for the rabbit, but Daddy stops me. “Come away from there, Otis. You mustn’t ever remove a baby cottontail from its nest.”
“But he’s abandoned,” I say. “There’s no ma or daddy that I can see. The little bunny’s a loner.”
Daddy says, “We don’t know that for sure, Otis. Mother rabbits leave their babies alone in their nests during the day. They stay away in the waking hours so they won’t attract attention from roaming dogs and cats.”
Ma knows about bunnies, too. “The mother returns to her babies at night. Let’s leave the bunny where he is for now. If his mama’s not back after a few days, we’ll know he’s truly orphaned.”
The bunny’s fur is just-grown, a fluff-coat of brown velvet. I want to pet him, but I don’t.
When we get to the truck, Daddy and Ma ride up front in the cab. I ride in the back on the flatbed where I’d put our radio earlier on so that after services we can listen to music in the church basement and play the radio for the folks who only wish they had a Philco.
This day is so sunny. The breeze blows nice on my face. I have a smile inside, thinking about Daddy’s riddle-joke. I tell the riddle-joke to myself, just to make me laugh again.
“Otis,” I ask, like I’m saying it for the first time. “What sea animal can be adjusted to play music?”
But before I can say, “A tune-a-fish,” I hear a loud horn. When I lean out from the side of the flatbed, there’s a hay truck coming right at us!
Then I hear the screech. Daddy’s truck rattles and jerks and smacks me against the side of the flatbed.
I call out to Daddy and Ma. But they have no way to hear me from the truck’s cab.
Right quick comes the crash.
And flying glass.
And twisted metal.
And a hiss.
Then there’s hay flying off from the other truck, dropping on me like rain.
Next come the flames. Loud, high, hot fire, snatching at the hay. Burning up around Daddy and Ma. Sending smoke into the sky. Pouring an ugly odor all over the place. Choking off my breath. Making the happy day go suddenly black.
WiLLiE
THE BOOTLEG’S GOT HIM AGAIN. I SMELL whiskey soon as he stumbles in the door. Sampson’s drunk as a monkey, second night this week. Man, does he stink! It don’t take a genius to tell he’s peed all over hisself.
He comes in quiet, but the smell. Uh—it’s so foul, he might as well be shouting.
He passes by me like I ain’t even here and heads toward Mama, who’s at the stove, stirring a pot of hominy. She also made a heap of corn hash, just for me. Uh-huh, I love Mama’s corn hash. And since this is the night for a Joe Louis fight, Mama’s got something else special, too. She wearing her skirt with the white-white sash that trail down the back. This what Mama call her fight skirt.
Mama, she believe that white-white sash is some kind of powerful. She put on her fight skirt every time Joe Louis go into the ring. “To give Joe a bolt,” Mama like saying.
I sometimes think that sash was invented by Thomas Edison hisself. It seem to have light inside it. Tonight, it’s the most brightest thing in our dim little house. I can spot that sash anyplace Mama’s standing, even when she moves to a dark corner to pull a pan or spoon off a shelf. Uh-huh—with Mama’s white-white sash, and corn hash on the stove, this night sure is good.
Mama don’t hear Sampson. She too busy with the pots, stirring the hominy. Checking the lid on the hash. I try to warn her, but at the very same moment I say, “Mama, Sampson’s here, and he drun—” Sampson snatches Mama around her waist from behind. Tugs at the back of Mama’s skirt sash.
“How ’bout a little kiss, Melva?”
Mama flinches. “Sampson—for goodness’ sake, you scared the living wits out of me!”
But that don’t stop Sampson from pressing his slobbery lips to the back of Mama’s neck. “Come on, Melva, all’s I want is just a tiny taste of brown sugar,” he says, puckering up all over Mama.
I mess with the radio, trying to get the CBS Radio Network to come in clearer. Tonight the Brown Bomber is set to fight Jack Sharkey in New York, in Yankee Stadium, in front of more than ten thousand fans. I got all my hopes on this fight. When Joe lost to Max Schmeling, I doubled up on wishing only wins for Joe.
The radio sputters, but I can still hear the commentary. I can still listen to what’s happening with Joe. The fight has already started.
Rusty Donovan, the commentator for this fight, he’s saying, “Louis is intent on getting back to being a winner. But Sharkey looks tough here in round two.”
When Sampson backs away from Mama, he tries to speak to her again, but his own belch interrupts. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Then to Mama he says, “You got a-a-a thing—a soft s-p-p-p-ot—for that Brown Bomber, Melva?” His words are a bunch of jumbled-up slur.
Mama shake her head. She won’t even look at Sampson. “I got a thing for spending time with my son, enjoying the fights,” she say.
Sampson cuts his eyes at me.
“Just leave her ’lone,” I say.
Sampson’s flushed. He leans against the doorjamb. His breathing’s short.
“Who asked you, boy?” he wants to know. He burps again, louder this time.
The radio pulls my attention from Sampson. Rusty Donovan cuts through the radio static: “Louis delivers a barrage of punches! Sharkey goes down!”
Mama and me are clapping for Joe. “Our Bomber’s coming back,” Mama say.
Sampson’s got a faraway look on his face. For a moment, he’s left Mama and me.
That don’t hardly last, though. With some drunks, liquor makes ’em irritable. But Sampson, he always irritable. When he’s full of bootleg, he gets sloppy, too. Tonight, every time he talks, it sound like he got a mouth full of cotton.
I don’t say nothin’, but I’m hot mad. When Sampson’s tight from drinking, best to lay low till the drunk in him wears off. So I act like I don’t hear what Sampson’s saying. I keep messing with the dial on the radio. Even with the static, it’s clear Joe’s in good form tonight. Rusty Donovan sounds pleased. He say, “The Brown Bomber comes out in round three looking very confident.”
Sampson starts talking real loud so we can’t hear Rusty Donovan’s commentary. He won’t let up on putting me down. “Willie-bo, you ain’t nothin’ but a shame,” he say. “My boy—the kid who likes laying around in the ring.”
I stay quiet. I’m feeling like a bird in a box, wishing I could fly free of Sampson’s ugly ways. Wishing I could lift myself straight outta here.
It’s hard to keep myself together. Uh-huh, real hard. But then I think of Joe. Right now. In the ring. Solid. Giving his all to flatten Sharkey. And I remember what I know from boxing. Sometimes the best fight is no fight at all. Even a bird in a box can get free if he uses his wits, if he don’t ram at the walls around him.
So I don’t give Sampson the satisfaction of getting into it with him. It’s like they say, if you don’t wanna fight, don’t get in the ring.
But when Sampson starts back in with Mama, holding myself together ain’t so easy.
“What you cooking for me, Melva? Something I can dare to eat, I hope.” He looks in the pot of hash on the stove. That good-good corn smell is the only match for Sampson’s liquor stink. Then Sampson gets busy with the hominy, stirring it.
Mama knows the same thing I know. Don’t give Sampson the time a day when he’s drunk.
“You can eat it,” she says simply, her back still to Sampson.
Instead of wearing off, seems the liquor in Sampson’s blood is hitting its stride now. “Eat it—ha! Melva, I’d be better off eating my shoe.”
Sampson comes up behind Mama a second time. “Melva, since I can’t eat your cooking, why don’t you just give me some more sugar to sweeten my tongue, to pay me back for all the bad meals you’ve slapped on a plate and tried to pass off as food.”
Now Sampson’s got Mama locked up in both his arms, hugging her and trying to smooch more on her.
“Sampson!” Mama jerks away. But Sampson, he a big man. Even with her fight skirt, Mama ain’t no wider than a laundry post next to him. She can’t shake Sampson.
Rusty Donovan is shouting Joe’s success: “Blistering punches by Joe Louis! A right! Sharkey goes down!”
Up to now, I been using all I got to steer clear of Sampson.
But enough’s enough.
Two strange, strong things happen at the same time. I cheer for Joe by grunting his name. “Joe!”
Soon as I say it, I feel Joe’s power somehow helping me fight.
First I try to pull Sampson off Mama, but even with whiskey running through him, Sampson’s got the strength of two men, the grip like a bulldog’s.
But Joe’s still here. Holding off Sharkey.
I use what I know from the ring—jab, strike, block—but none of that works on Sampson. It’s like raindrops trying to knock out a grizzly bear.
I start fighting like a girl. I claw and claw at Sampson’s back. I scratch his face. I kick him in the shins. Oh, no, I’m starting to slip. Nooo… oh, noooo…
But soon I don’t care if this is a softy’s way of fighting. It’s this or let Sampson run us over like the freight train he is.
Sampson turns away from Mama long enough to consider me. I shove my knee into Sampson’s privates. He bends sharply at his middle. I’ve stunned him good.
“Don’t mess with Mama that way!”
Pain’s got a grip on Sampson. He licks his lips real quick. He’s slow to speak. “I’ll mess with you, then,” he say, all cocky.
Rusty Donovan’s still holding my attention.
“The Bomber has sent Sharkey down hard! The ref is counting! One… two… three…”
It’s looking like a victory for Joe, but I can’t celebrate it.
No, uh-uh, can’t celebrate.
Sampson pins both my hands, heel-to-heel, in just one of his steel fists. He pulls me toward the boiling pot of hominy. In his other hand he’s got me by the scruff of my neck, same way you do to a kitten. He sure ain’t treating me like no little pet, though. He pushes my head way down in the hominy pot till my nose ain’t no more than a hair away from the boiling white.
Rusty Donovan’s shouting, “Can Sharkey weather this storm? He’s up at the count of six!”
My face, it’s hot and wet from the steam. Rusty Donovan gives the blow-by-blow on Joe: “Louis goes back to work, measuring his man—hitting to the body and head!”
I’m trying to buck Sampson, but I’m afraid that even the tiniest move will put me closer to the hot grits. I can’t seem to call Joe to me now. Joe’s up, but I’m down for the count. Nooooo… oh, nooooo.
“You hungry, boy?” Sampson’s asking. Even from behind me, I can smell the liquor lighting up Sampson’s breath.
It’s a good thing Mama answers for me. I’m so scared, my voice won’t come.
“Sampson, don’t!” Mama cries.
The radio commentary follows up right after Mama speaks. Joe’s winning.
“A tremendous left hook! Sharkey goes down. A clean knockout by the great Joe Louis! The Brown Bomber is on the rebound!”
Then, in a single shove, Sampson presses my hands into the scalding white mix. He holds ’em down in the thick hominy.
My eyes do a wild dance under their lids. My skull twitches with pin sticks of pain. When my eyes dare to open for only a second, I’m looking up into the face of my father.
I’m crying… screaming… burning and begging, all at the same time.
“Nooooo, Sampson! Noooo!”
Sampson staggers out the back door.
Mama runs to me. She helps me to the water pump at the side of the house. Cranks that pump’s handle fast as ever. The water is cool on my hands.
It’s dusk. Fireflies are playing tag all near us. They’s tiny sparks on the air.
I can’t tell what’s spilling faster. Mama’s tears, mine, or the pump’s water.
It don’t matter whose is fastest. I let all the wet run.
Mama hugs me to her, holding on and letting go, too.
“Willie,” she say, “you’ve got to leave here. When Sampson comes back, you need to be gone.”
“But, Mama—”
“Mind me, now,” she say. “There’s a place called Mercy. Go tonight.”
“Come with me,” I plead. I’m whimpering like a little kid, all soft again. I work the back of my burnt hand over my eyes, trying to press down on so much little-kid cryin’.
“No, Willie,” Mama say. “I’ve been thinking about this, long before tonight. And now I know it’s right. This is about you, and your good.”
I don’t argue with Mama. Uh-uh. Can’t. She’s set on me leaving.
We go back inside, where Mama bandages my hands. Tells me how to get to Mercy. “If you walk at a clip, you’ll get there by morning.”
She packs me a tin of hard bread and corn hash.
Saint Christopher, he’s around my neck. Right then, I know all I got is me. Me and Saint Christopher.
Mama kisses the medal, then both my cheeks. Everything is all blurred up, from how I can’t stop cryin’. The only thing even a piece clear in this night is the white-white from Mama’s fight skirt sash.
Mama’s wiping the wet from my face with her sash. She’s working hard not to cry, too. She say, “Get on now, Willie.”
I back off slow, still seeing this all in a blur.
“Bye, Mama.”
I get to Mercy from hitching a ride on a hen truck. “Here’s where you get off, boy,” the driver say, and swerves away in a swell of his own dus
t.
It’s Lila who welcomes me at the intake table. “Come,” she say softly, and pulls out a chair for me. “Rest.”
She’s looking sadly at my hands. But she admits me without even a question. Takes me for an orphan, I guess. Truth of it is, I take myself for an orphan now.
Lila unwraps my bandages. “They’ve become dirtied,” she say. “You’ll heal better if air can get to your hands.”
I nod. Uh-huh, I know this from the ring. Bruises go down faster when they ain’t covered.
“I’ll bring some salve after you’re settled,” Lila say. I’m waiting for her to ask me where I come from, and who got me here, but she don’t. She works silently. Seems Lila don’t have to ask nothin’ about me. Seems she knows things already.
She gives me a pair of cottons, and shows me to the ward, where the other kids is asleep. My bed is under a low crossbeam. I hang my Saint Christopher medal right over my pillow so I can see it first thing when I open my eyes in the morning, last thing before I close ’em at night.
My first days at Mercy are hard, hard going. Slow, not thinkin’. Only feeling the skin on my hands sting as they heal.
I’m still rattled by Sampson’s ugly ways, still messed up from knowing that because of my hands, I can’t even get in the ring to lose a fight. Even with Lila’s kindness, I’m still sick with so much hate I can see just one thing—that my boxing’s gone.
The only thing hurting more than this is what’s left of my swolled-up fingers.
HiBERNiA
IT’S A SIN TO GOSSIP IN CHURCH. BUT sometimes you’re sinning before you even know it, and once you get started, it’s hard to stop. Today is one of those times.
I lean close to Carla Wright, the girl who stands in line next to me in the True Vine Baptist Youth Singers choir. Our choral group has just sung the opening hymn. I don’t turn my head to speak. Real gossip is done by talking out the side of your mouth.
I whisper to Carla without hardly moving my lips. “Her skin is the pretty color of bone china. But she is no kind of bony.”
Carla whispers back the same way. She says, “And china, well, I suppose that is better left to daintier types.”
Bird in a Box Page 3
