Now I’m tempted to keep up the gossip with Carla. Or else I could pray to be delivered from this temptation. After all, I am in church. But, oh, is it ever fun to talk from the side of your mouth. I promise myself to go on with Carla only a little bit more. Then I’ll pray.
This is the third Sunday in a row that plump lady’s been here. I spotted her last week, and the week before, but didn’t take a good look those times. Now that she’s back again, I’m all eagle eyes.
Carla’s eyes are as sharp as mine. She’s not praying, either. “Have you noticed that she pays close attention to every word coming from the pulpit?” Carla whispers. “Have you seen how she sings every hymn? And when the reverend asks for an amen, she doesn’t miss a single one.”
All right, Carla’s leading me down the gossip trail. It’s too hard to turn back now. So I pray. Forgive me, Lord, this is too good to stop.
I press toward Carla. “She’s the only white person ever to set foot in our church. That lady stands out like a lump of sugar in a pepper patch.”
Yes, Lord, forgive me. I curl my bottom lip under my top one to halt myself. But I’m still watching. And I’m gossiping in my mind, which, to my way of thinking, is only half a sin.
Aside from bone-china skin, the lady’s clothes on her last two visits to True Vine gave her away as a stranger. A moss-colored dress and flat-as-mud-pie shoes are not Sunday best. And to make it worse, when she first came to our church, she wore brown woolen socks—the same brown as the mud pies—rolled at her ankles like somebody plopped a doughnut on top of the mud pie.
Every churchgoing Baptist knows that when you arrive at the Lord’s house, you come dressed in your finest. Even in these down-and-out times, folks can always manage to shine at True Vine.
My eyes turn to Roberta Wilkins, who gives the term Sunday best its full meaning. When I see Roberta in town any weekday selling her little bitter apples, she’s dressed in the same brown shift and half-cracked shoes. But come Sunday, the woman shows off a peach-colored dress with a ruffled collar and pumps with a dance heel. And before you see the powder rising off Roberta, you can smell its gardenia fragrance bouncing on the breeze.
Being the reverend’s girl and a member of the True Vine Baptist Youth Singers choir, I also wear my very best to church. My Sunday dress is periwinkle gingham. I would not be caught dead in ruffles or the smell of gardenias.
My church shoes are the same shoes I wear every day of my drab life—poop-colored tie-ups. I try to spiff up my shoes by shining them with castor oil. Grease somehow helps them look more dressy.
There’s nothing shiny about the white lady, though. Everything she wears is dark and sensible.
The reverend’s taken notice of her, too. It’s a clergyman’s job to know his congregation. And you can best believe the reverend doesn’t miss a thing. I see him watching her as she slides into the pew. When he gives his sermons, his eyes rise over the top of his spectacles to get a good look.
For the past two weeks, that lady has shown up, doughnut socks and all.
But today something is different about our visitor. This being the third Sunday of the month, it’s Baptism Sunday. Carla’s back to gossiping. “That lady’s dress is as yellow as the morning,” she observes.
“It’s got flower-petal cap sleeves, too,” I say. “They show off her copper-colored hair, and those freckles.”
The reverend is all full of enthusiasm on Baptism Sunday. He addresses the congregation with so much glory. “If you are moved to be baptized today, please stand to show your conviction.”
Wanda Clark is the first one out of her seat.
“Praise God,” says the reverend. “Our first follower has taken her stand for the Lord.”
“Amen,” says Wanda, who is smiling with all her teeth.
Lester Williams stands up next. But he isn’t smiling. His head is down. His shoulders are up by his ears.
Lester’s wife, Kit, has been on him to get baptized ever since she found a shelf of John Barleycorn whiskey stashed in their woodshed.
“Brother Williams is ready!” exclaims the reverend. Now the reverend points his sausage finger right at poor Lester.
“He’s been ready,” says Kit, who’s outgrinning Wanda Clark.
“Who will join these brave souls?” asks the reverend.
A short silence drops down on all of True Vine. The reverend surveys his congregation. “Great occurrences come in threes,” he says. “Which one of you will move toward greatness today? Who will be brave enough to stand?” The reverend is back to pointing. This time he’s using his whole hand, sweeping it over the air in front of him.
Suddenly a voice comes from the third-row pew. “I believe it was Joshua who said, ‘Be strong and of good courage.’ ”
It’s the white lady! Carla nudges me. “Hibernia, look. She’s raising her hand like a volunteer for a bake sale.” This time when Carla speaks, she doesn’t even talk sideways.
“I will be your third candidate,” says the lady proudly.
Now the silence that settles on the congregation is as long as a mile. Everyone’s got their eyes on this stranger. Even Lester Williams picks up his head to see better. I’m watching and waiting and wondering.
The reverend looks pleased. As he does each Baptism Sunday, he invites all parishioners to be baptized to join him at the pulpit, where they will lead the procession to the muddy cradle of water at the edge of the land where True Vine stands.
In most churches, folks get baptized by dipping in the river. At True Vine, we baptize by standing at the bank of a gulch. We in the youth choir sing “Wade in the Water.” All those getting baptized dip their feet in the little bit of wet that rests in that ditch.
The white lady goes first. She takes off her shoes and doughnut socks. At least the socks are white today. But, oh, her wide feet. I whisper to Carla, “Onion bunions.”
The lady lets her callused toes soak a whole long time, while everybody sings. And when we get to the part of the hymn that says, “See that band all dressed in red / It looks like the band that Moses led,” she presses both palms toward the cloudless sky.
Soon after services end, Onion Bunions approaches the reverend as he is greeting parishioners who flow from the church’s narrow front door.
“Reverend Tyson, good morning.”
The reverend takes her hand. He shakes it enthusiastically.
“My name is Lila Weiss.”
“Mrs. Weiss, hello.”
Others are in line behind her. They eagerly await the reverend. He is a popular man.
“Reverend Tyson, seeing your youth choir sing this morning has touched me so.”
The reverend chuckles from far down in his throat. “That is the whole point of worship, Mrs. Weiss—to be moved in some way.”
“Reverend, I work at the Mercy Home for Negro Orphans. The children at the orphanage are in so much need. It would bring them such cheer to hear your youth choir sing. I know it’s a ways off, but perhaps this holiday season your choir could perform a Christmas concert. A few selections from your holiday canon would go a long way in spreading goodwill. It would make the children so happy.”
Right away the reverend answers. “Yes,” he says. “Certainly. A Christmas concert for the children at Mercy.”
The reverend gives a slight nod. While bowing his head, he glimpses the lady’s doughnut socks. His eyes return quickly to meet her gaze. They are still shaking hands.
That night I ask the reverend about a word the lady used when stepping forward for baptism. “What is a candidate?”
The reverend says, “One who is worthy.”
OTiS
I HAVE THREE THINGS LEFT FROM DADDY and Ma—gum wrappers from the time Daddy brought me a treat, Daddy’s Philco radio, and an embroidered hankie stitched by Ma. I keep the gum wrappers in one pocket, Ma’s hankie in the other.
I take the radio with me wherever I go. Somehow that small box keeps me remembering Daddy. The brown leatherette case is the same c
olor as Daddy’s skin.
Tonight I have the radio quiet as a whisper.
Maybe that kid likes radios, too, because the first time I see him, he’s got his eye on my Philco. His cot is near mine, and he’s watching me. Lila has just come on to her shift. The sky is still black, even though morning will be here soon. That kid is wearing white cottons, the sleep shirt and pants they give us children.
Lila and the bleach man are at his cot. When he talks, they listen close, and pay even more attention when he shows them his hands.
His hands are solid flesh. Heavy, but they can dance. They push the air when he speaks. They bob and fly in front of him. He uses his fists to show what he’s saying.
I shift on my cot to see more for myself. I get a closer look at his hands, puckered with cracked black skin.
One hand isn’t a hand. It’s still got most of its fingers, but it’s a stump, is all. No fingernails. No thumb.
The other hand, it isn’t much better. The pinkie and the ring finger look sewed together. The other finger, his pointer, is only half there, forming a claw.
I don’t want to gawk, but my eyes keep stealing, once, twice, then daring to go back a third time. I make my way to his cot and sit gently on its edge.
The kid offers the bleach man one of his hands. The bleach man’s own hands hurry to hide in the pockets of his pants. So the kid turns to Lila, who doesn’t shy away. She gives his curled hand a shake. Just like that. Like she’s meeting the mayor. Turns out, she knows this boy already. “This is Willie,” she introduces.
All’s I can think to do is cup my hand over his. It’s knitted skin stretched across crooked knuckles.
I tell him, “I’m Otis.”
With my palm on top, he pumps his stump fist once to give a shake.
Later, in the dayroom, Willie’s sitting in one of the chairs made of paint-chipped metal. He’s perched at the window, looking out on the back lawn of patchy grass and dandelions.
All he does is stare. But he’s watching something, too. Something only he can see. Something that makes his eyes shift. Seems he’s watching a memory pass in front of him.
A smile plays on his lips. Then a wince tugs at his face, and he shakes his head. Something’s gone all wrong.
He mumbles a bunch of gibberish, talking to the lawn. I can barely hear, so I move closer. He says, “The peanut bag got to cryin’ when it saw me coming. Used to be, I could hook that bag dizzy. Uh-huh, I could hook it. Same way I could hook in the ring.”
While he talks, he rocks in his chair. His shoulders sway forward and back, close to the window glass.
I pull one of my own chairs next to him. My radio is in my lap, with the cord pulled to its fullest to reach the wall outlet. The Lone Ranger is on. Silver, Lone’s horse, is galloping Lone away from danger. I set the radio down on the floor.
This Willie kid doesn’t even notice me sitting by him. At least he doesn’t let on if he does. But when Silver gallops back, the kid’s eyes turn to see the radio.
He keeps talking words that don’t make sense. This doesn’t bother me, though. I guess whatever he’s saying makes sense to him. The same way my riddles make sense to me.
His hands are talking right along with him. The hand with the sewed-up fingers stays close to his face. The stump hand has a mind of its own. It punches the air with a sure rhythm.
Willie sees me then, smiles a little. He looks glad to have another kid nearby. I move closer. I don’t have a clue what Willie’s saying, but I nod once to show him I’m listening. Go ’head.
He says, “Soon as I stepped between the ropes, folks was calling my name. They was wanting to see my hook. They was hollering, ‘Hook him, Willie! Hook him good!’ Folks was betting their last dime on Willie Martel’s hook.”
Now both his hands go wild in front of him. They are two quick-witted crows, working together. One hand helps the other.
“Hooks and crosses could’ve taken me all the way,” he says. “Hooks and crosses, they was my ticket. I could snap out the lights of any kid who dared fight me. I was gonna be a champ. I could’ve had the Copper Gloves junior title in my back pocket. Uh-huh, could’ve had it tucked tight. Down in my pocket.”
The chair legs make tiny screeches on the floor tiles. Those dayroom chairs aren’t meant for rocking.
Willie’s breath paints gray steam on the window glass. Then something in his voice changes. His talking drops to a whisper. His words get tight. “Sampson hated my hooks and crosses. He hated that I was on my way to the top, while he was falling fast. I was a contender in line to be a champ, but he was a sorry sack, standing in the bread line.”
Willie’s rocking fast. I’m not scared he’ll tip the chair. He needs to rock, I think.
His hands have fallen to his lap. Something’s shot down those fast birds. Now they’re heavy hooves, slow to move, quiet as he speaks.
A little tin medal hangs from a chain around his neck. There’s a holy man on the medal. He’s holding a little kid, helping that child get to where he’s going.
When he speaks again, he touches the medal. “Them copper gloves was mine,” he says. “But Sampson wanted ’em for hisself. That’s why I threw the fight. That’s why I gave the title to Slick Ricky Tate. To make Sampson pay for being so greedy.”
I still don’t understand what Willie’s saying, but I’m listening close, anyhow.
He presses his forehead to the window. He squeezes his eyes shut. “But Sampson, he won in the end. He took my hands. Stole ’em from me,” Willie says softly.
When his eyes open, he turns them from the patchy grass to me. His eyes are set in a wide, dark face. It’s by looking back at him that I see. He’s about my same age, just bigger.
Willie sets his messed-up hands on both my shoulders. He says, “Otis, I’m a boxer gone bad.”
OTiS
I’M SWEEPING THE FRONT HALL WHEN Lila comes in. The bleach man doesn’t speak to me. He frowns, is all. Guess he can’t even say good morning.
Lila’s hugging a pumpkin in both her arms. The bleach man squints. The steam that puffs out from your lips in cold weather escapes the bleach man’s face.
“Mrs. Weiss?”
“It’s the perfect day for carving a jack-o’-lantern that all the children can enjoy,” she says.
“Mrs. Weiss,” he says, “decorating for Halloween is not your job. You are here to facilitate the children in their daily routines, to make sure they are clean, fed, and free of afflictions such as head lice and ringworm.”
The bleach man always finds something to pick at for no real reason. He’s good with criticism. This never bothers Lila. It seems she can always see it coming and knows how to meet it. Today is no different. She’s looking like there’s something to be happy about.
“Mrs. Weiss, you’ve been employed here as an intake and maintenance worker for just a few months. I knew well enough when I hired you that you had never worked with children in an official capacity. But you seemed very efficient and strong-willed. These are good qualities for keeping children in line, and the reason I thought you’d make a good employee here.” He’s got his eye on Lila’s pumpkin.
“Mr. Sneed, as efficient and strong-willed as I am, the truth is, I love children.”
“But do you have the ability to monitor children?”
“As you have seen, I have a special way with young people.”
The bleach man’s thumbs are tucked at his belt. “Other than your so-called way with young people, can you keep them out of trouble? Do you have any children of your own?”
“I’m not lucky enough to have had children.”
“Then how do you profess to know what it takes to fully supervise young people in an orphanage?”
“Mr. Sneed, when we first met about this job, I never professed to know anything. But I’m very attentive. And children like me.” Lila nods in my direction. She’s right. I like her.
“Mrs. Weiss, this job is not about having kids like you by doing things such as c
arving pumpkins. Some of the children who come here arrive with emotional problems. Others can be unmanageable.”
“Mr. Sneed, they’re orphans. It would seem to me that they’re in need of someone to—”
“Mrs. Weiss, if you don’t mind me saying so, you’re a rather, well, portly woman. Do you really think you can continue to handle the demands of this job? Walking two flights of stairs to get from the entrance hall to the dayroom to the central sleeping ward, changing bedsheets, cleaning the latrine, preparing food…”
“Mr. Sneed, I’m handling things just fine. Even the portliest people can climb stairs and cook. And if you don’t mind me saying so, Mr. Sneed, you could stand to become a bit more portly yourself. There isn’t much meat on your bones.”
I slow my broom to listen better.
“Mrs. Weiss, I find your humor unfavorable.”
“Despite what people say, Mr. Sneed, we portly people aren’t very jolly.”
“Mrs. Weiss, have you taken a close look at the shingle outside? This is the Mercy Home for Negro Orphans. There is little appreciation for wisecracking in an orphanage.”
Lila shifts the pumpkin to rest it on her hip.
“Mr. Sneed, have you taken a look past your shortsightedness? The children here might become more amenable if they’re allowed to have more fun.”
Her eyes are square on me now. So are the bleach man’s. My broom is as still as the air in the room. I have stopped pushing the floor crumbs back and forth. All’s I can do is blink. “You—back to work!” the bleach man snaps.
“What about books and games? Do the children ever read? Does anyone ever read to them? Do they play, Mr. Sneed?”
“Read, Mrs. Weiss? Play?”
“Books, Mr. Sneed. Oliver Twist, The Secret Garden, Alice in Wonderland. And games, such as hopscotch, Simon Says, Chase Your Shadow?”
“Mrs. Weiss, you speak as if this is the Social Club of Elmira.”
“Good grief, Mr. Sneed, you talk like this is a detention home for misbehaved kids. What about interacting with others? Do the kids here ever come into contact with children who aren’t orphans?”
Bird in a Box Page 4
