Even in a photograph, there is only one way to describe my mother’s skin. Satin.
I lift the picture from the reverend’s Bible, resting it in my palm, scared as a hick at a queen’s tea party that I will somehow break it.
Mama’s smile is full of kindness, just like those penny eyes. I can’t help but stare.
Something inside me starts to hum with a strange joy. I’m trembling, and breathing so fast. My heart is a hammer. This must be what stage fright feels like.
My legs won’t even let me move. I lean against the pulpit, then back up toward the piano bench, where Mrs. Trask, our choir accompanist, sits every Sunday. I will not take my eyes off Mama. I would give up blinking if I could.
I’m sitting but still as wobbly as the bench legs beneath me. I trace Mama’s face with my fingers. My fingernails are raggedy patches against Mama’s skin.
Soon I hear heavy footsteps, and Mr. Straight-as-a-broomstick roaring.
“Bernie—Bernie Lee! Where are you?”
Now that hammer near my ribs is doing double time.
I swallow hard.
The reverend doesn’t see me right away. I’m blocked by the pulpit.
I wish I could eat Mama’s picture. That way, I could hold her inside me forever. Instead, I pick at the nails on each of my thumbs.
The reverend calls me again, louder this time. “Hibernia!”
I ease the picture underneath my thighs, then slide myself closer to the keyboard and do my best to play “Do, Lord, Deliver Me.” I am not even halfway through the first bar when the reverend comes up from behind. He’s holding the dust rag I’ve left on the pulpit.
I’m no Fats Waller on the piano, but I can plunk out a tune good enough. So I keep playing. This is the first time ever I am thankful for my chomped fingernails. They keep my fingers pressing the piano keys smooth and steady.
The reverend knows the song I’m playing. He says, “The Lord will deliver you when you deliver on your chores.”
I’m quick with an explanation. “I took a break from cleaning to practice my piano.”
The reverend lifts his spectacles to peer at me. “You can brush up on your piano tomorrow when Mrs. Trask comes to rehearse the youth choir for a Christmas concert at the Mercy Home for Negro Orphans.”
“What Christmas concert?” I want to know.
“Mrs. Weiss, our new parishioner since last summer, has asked that we oblige her by performing for the children at Mercy, where she works.”
Then I remember Baptism Sunday in August, when the lady with onion bunions asked about us singing at holiday time.
I look back over my shoulder at the reverend. “That was definite?”
“Yes, Bernie, and it would please her to hear our youth choir sing for the children at the orphanage.”
I work hard to keep from sucking my teeth. Mind you, I will never turn down a chance to sing, but wasting my voice on orphans is a true shame.
The reverend can tell by my arms folded tightly that I am not glad about having to sing for a bunch of orphans. “What kinds of kids live at Mercy, anyway?” I ask.
“Bernie, it’s time for you to show some mercy. Many of those children have no parents. Some of them have been left by parents who can’t take care of them. Others find their way to Mercy on their own when they cannot tolerate their troubled homes.”
I keep my arms folded. “So—some of the kids have parents?”
“Yes, Bernie.”
“Do they have an appreciation for good singing?”
The reverend answers by telling me that I have no choice in the matter. “You and the choir will bring those children some much-needed holiday spirit.”
It’s no use protesting the reverend, so from here on in I hold my tongue. But the whole time I’m wishing Smooth Teddy Wilson would come back to Elmira and take me away from this piano bench and the True Vine Baptist Youth Singers.
The reverend rests the dust rag on my shoulder. “Now get back to work,” he says before he’s gone.
On Sunday, I’m seated behind the pulpit with the rest of the choir, while the reverend starts up his sermon. I can see all the members of True Vine. Every face in the place is looking up at the Reverend C. Elias Tyson.
I watch the reverend from behind. His thick shoulders force the seams of his black suit. As soon as the reverend turns to Luke 2:1–20, his whole stance changes. All of him goes tense. His hand clamps the back of his neck. Here we are in this chilly church, and the reverend wipes his nape with his hankie.
He keeps on with his sermon, but his delivery isn’t as smooth as it is most times. He flips the crinkly Bible pages while he says, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests.”
The congregation doesn’t seem to notice anything strange about the reverend. Like always, they’re hanging on to his words like a child holds a rope swing. But I know the reverend isn’t his true self. His hand and his hankie have not left the back of his neck.
The reverend is looking for his picture of Pauline. Mr. Sweet Honey is trying to find his Praline.
Even more luscious than a praline is knowing that the reverend’s picture of Pauline is hidden under my bed pillow, bringing me honey-sweet dreams.
OTiS
THEY LINE UP IN THE DAYROOM, HOLDING a banner.
True Vine Baptist Youth Singers.
I spot her right away. She stands out from the rest. Her voice rises higher than the others’. Straight to heaven, that voice goes. Up, up, until it reaches a place only angels can touch. She doesn’t have to work at it, either. She just sings, is all, and it comes out sweet. Same as how I feel when I watch her.
Who is she? I wonder. This girl with a gap-toothed smile and skin the color of peanut butter.
With a voice like that, you’d think they’d put her out front. But she’s stuck in the back, behind a bunch of shorter kids who don’t sing half as good. From the second row, the girl’s notes fly forward and rest on me.
Her hair is a cottony bundle of plaits, woven close to her small round face.
Her hands keep easy time to the music, patting at her skirt with each beat.
I’m watching and listening, and remembering what joy is.
She knows joy, too. I can see it rising out of her when she sends up a high note.
She catches me staring. Her dark eyes drop to the floor but come back at me quick. She smiles then, and keeps her gaze on mine.
Now I’m stuck on looking at her, and I can’t stop. All my attention belongs to this girl.
I know what’s got me glued to her.
This girl looks like Ma, only younger.
When the choir is done, the lady at the piano says to her singers, “Please, children, introduce yourselves to your audience.”
I’m forward on my chair, waiting to hear who she is. Before her comes Carla, Robert, and Fay. Then, finally, it’s her turn. She tells us her name with so much pride. She makes sure we all hear it.
“Hibernia Lee Tyson,” she says, real clear.
Hibernia.
A name as pretty as the music she makes.
Hibernia Lee Tyson.
Unforgettable, is all there is to it.
Later I ask Lila, “Do you know anything about girls?”
Lila has to think on that one. “I’m an old girl,” she says. “What anything do you mean?”
“How do you make a girl smile? A young girl, near to my own age?”
“Smile first.”
I ask, “What do girls like?”
Hard thought is pinching Lila’s brow. She’s really trying to help me. “Thoughtfulness. Sincerity. Humor. Gifts.”
Good, I think. I’ve got at least some of that, but not all.
“What if you don’t have money to buy a gift?”
“Gifts are about giving what’s most dear to you, Otis. The best gifts don’t cost money.”
“What if the girl seems like somebody who wants fine stuff?”
Lila is clear on her ad
vice. “Follow the Three-S Plan,” she says. “First, make your gift sincere.”
I’m paying close attention. The second S is “When somebody makes your heart beat a little faster, act soon—before you lose your nerve.”
“Who said anything about my heart beating fast?”
“Otis,” says Lila, “I’m an old girl, not a blind one.”
I ask, “What’s S number three?”
“Sweet presents are always appreciated.”
Two days before Christmas, Lila takes us kids to Hibernia’s church, True Vine Baptist. Before we get there, I press those three S’s into my memory—sincere, soon, sweet.
We meet up with Hibernia at the door of the church. We’re going in at the same time. She’s noticing my big boat feet. I press the toe of my right boat over the toe of my left, trying to make them seem smaller somehow. Up close, Hibernia’s a chin taller than me, and just as pretty as I remember.
The organist is playing “O Come, All Ye Faithful.”
She says, “Hi,” is all.
“Hi,” I say.
She’s still got her eyes on my shoes. “I hope Santa brings you new feet for Christmas.”
I’m so busy looking at her face, as smooth as a pond, I don’t even have anything to say about my feet.
We’re blocking the door. People scoot around us, eager to get inside, where the music and the church are warm. Lila’s gone ahead with the others, who are all in the fourth-row pew.
I want to show this girl there’s more to me than boat toes. I blurt a riddle. “What did Mrs. Santa say to her husband when he asked her what the weather would be on Christmas Eve?”
Hibernia looks puzzled. “What kind of harebrained question is that?”
Then I remember the rule of telling a riddle. The rule of telling a riddle is that you have to first tell the person you’re telling them a riddle, or else the riddle comes out ridiculous.
“It’s a riddle,” I try to explain. “See, I like telling rid—”
But it’s too late. Hibernia doesn’t wait for me to prove that too-big feet are only part of what makes me special.
“Ask Santa for some smarts, too,” she says, then winks.
All’s I can do is follow Lila’s Three-S Plan, be sincere, and tell her the riddle’s answer.
“Rain, dear.”
Hibernia’s thinking on it. She’s putting it together. She folds her arms tight, but she’s giggling a little. “Rain, dear,” she repeats.
“Rain, dear,” I say, proud and happy with my sincere self.
Hibernia says, “You’re a goof-head.” She pushes one foot toward me. Gives me a little toe kick. “A goof-head with goofy shoes and harebrained questions,” she says.
Sincere—heck. The first S doesn’t work!
Another S comes quick—scared.
I worry I won’t get the chance to give Hibernia the gift I’ve brought in my pocket.
My heart is pounding faster than a jitterbug dance contest. I jump to the next S—soon. I got no time to waste. Hibernia’s friend is calling her over.
I reach past my pocket’s mending stitches and find the gum. I hold it out to her in my palm. “For Christmas” is all I can manage.
Hibernia considers my offering, first by lifting it, then by sniffing. She says, “It’s rude to turn down a present. Especially so close to Christmas. Thank you.”
Before I can thank her, her friend is calling out in a loud whisper, “Hibernia, come sit down.”
The service is about to start. I join Lila and the other kids from Mercy.
Hibernia slides into the first-row pew on the end. I can see her from a sideways view.
Her daddy, the Reverend C. Elias Tyson, is giving the longest sermon I’ve ever heard. Something about believing in miracles. I’m struggling to pay attention. I can’t let up from watching Hibernia, and praying for a miracle of my own.
That’s when I get my Christmas present from Hibernia Lee Tyson.
She’s secretly unwrapping my gum. She fakes a yawn to sneak the gum in, and starts chewing slowly. By the look of it, I can see the gum’s flavor spreading onto her tongue. For a quick blink of a moment, Hibernia closes her eyes to really taste the gum.
The final S in the Three-S Plan comes true right then. Watching this angel is so, so sweet.
She cuts her eyes in my direction.
She gives me the best S of all—a smile.
The whole walk home, I’m as warm as a radiator, even though it’s starting to snow.
Then I remember. I never once told Hibernia Lee Tyson my name.
WiLLiE
CHRISTMAS IS FOR FOOLS. WHO ELSE BUT a fool would believe in wishes that don’t come true?
I learned my lesson about Christmas a long time back. Don’t expect nothin’. Don’t be a chump. Not even tonight, Christmas Eve, when everybody else on the ward is sleeping tight, dreaming of sugarplums.
Even Otis thinks some kind of magic gonna happen. “There’s always a surprise on Christmas,” he say before he turns over on his pillow. Poor Otis. He’s one of them Christmas saps.
Tonight Otis falls asleep fast. Got his radio on low. “O Tannenbaum” is floating out from the speaker holes. No voice, just the music.
Sleep don’t come easy to me tonight. I’m on my back, watching up at the crossbeam over my head. The cotton sheet and blanket on my bed is scratchy from the lye they use to clean our linens. They too thin to keep me warm. Not big enough to tuck me in.
There’s water trickling through the radiator pipes, but ain’t none of its steam heating me.
It’s thoughts of Mama that won’t let me sleep. Thinkin’ on her keeps wakefulness knocking on my mind with a heavy fist. I wonder, Is Mama spending this night with Sampson? Or is she sitting alone by her radio, wondering if that sorry sack’s gonna be coming home?
Mama, is she missing me? Wishing I was there to keep her company, while she listening to “O Tannenbaum”? Is my mama alone with her own sugarplum wishes?
This being Christmas, I miss Mama especially hard. I’m glad for Saint Christopher. That medal, it keeps me focused, same way I concentrate on the peanut bag when I’m training for the Copper Gloves junior title. Saint Christopher, he’s a place to put my eyes. A way to keep sight of what’s right in front of me. A way to not look behind, or ahead, especially when I do like Mama once say, when I wish on Saint Christopher every day.
Tonight I send up a special plea. Uh-huh, an extra-special kind of prayer. I sure hope Mama’s Christmas is a good one.
The radiator hisses its steam, and soon I’m asleep.
Later, when it’s way deep in the night, a tinny plink wakes me up. A soft metal tapping sound comes from the rafter above my bed.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
With the light from the latrine, I see a shadow dancing on the beam. A glint from my Saint Christopher medal flashes and juts from under the light. The tinny sound stops. Saint Christopher swings on his chain. I’m watching real careful. The tinny sound, it comes back.
Plink. Plink.
Something’s hitting at Saint Christopher. Something’s making him jerk and bob. But all of a sudden the motion halts. I don’t look away from the chain, not once. And soon the chain is back to jumping. And with each plink, plink, plink, a white patch flings out from the dark place above the rafter.
I get to my knees to take a closer look. When the white flashes again, I see it’s a paw. A cat’s paw, striking a jab.
I stand up quick on my creaky cot. That cat and me, we come face-to-face.
The cat startles. His eyes is tiny lanterns in the shadows. They’s fierce, but scared, too.
“Hey,” I whisper, and I reach for him. But he ain’t havin’ it. He throws that paw at me fast. He lands a mean scratch right by my brow. Now I’m the one who’s startled. I ask the cat, “Where you get that jab?”
He answers by hurling his other paw, harder this time. “Just like Joe Louis,” I say. “A righty. Uh-huh, a mighty righty.”
I take the
medal down off its nail. I sit cross-legged on my cot, dangling Saint Christopher on his chain in front of me.
The cat wants to keep at the medal. He prowls along the beam. He searches me with them lighted eyes. He watches Saint Christopher. Then, in a single pounce, he’s on my lap, going for the medal.
He jabs twice more with the pads of his paw. His eyes, they dart with each swing of Saint Christopher. Every time his paw hits the medal, it makes the tinny plink, plink.
This cat, he smaller than most. Not a kitten, but not full-grown, neither. He’s a kid like me. Now that he’s close, I can see all of him. Both his front paws are snowballs of power. The rest of him is black as the night outside.
“I know fighters with all kinds of punches,” I tell him. “But you the first I seen who got white gloves.”
Even with his strong jab, this cat been beat up. His coat’s shabby. He’s missing patches of black where something’s snatched at his fur. The ugliest place is behind his ear, where a scab has stopped new fur from growing.
The cat’s hind leg is bent, like it’s healed wrong from being broke. “Who tore you up?” I ask.
The cat has a hard time sitting still. I try to settle him, but he gnaws and claws hard at my knuckles. “Sorry, cat,” I say. “I win this round. You can punch all you want. The skin on my hands is dead leather. I can’t feel nothin’.”
He studies me. He’s listening.
“Where’s your ma and daddy at?” I ask.
He steps in circles at the foot of my bed. He answers with a tired meow.
“That’s what I thought,” I say. “No folks. A stray. Well, stray, you in the right place. Most of us here ain’t got no real family. And we all been hurt.”
The cat comes to my lap. He noses my medal and chain, which is jumbled up in the well made by my folded knees. He can’t help fighting, though. His claws go for the chain, ripping at my cottons. Since the skin on my legs wasn’t burned, I can feel his scratches. But I let him go ahead. He needs to fight. It’s what comes natural to him, I know.
The cat drags my chain in his pointy teeth and goes back to his place at the end of my bed. He finds comfort on the thin blanket. When I put my finger to the fuzzy spot between his ears, he purrs and purrs. Uh-huh, he thrusts his head for more. Suddenly I remember the bird in a box who gets free by giving up the fight.
Bird in a Box Page 6
