“Even a stray needs a name,” I say. “And I got just the name for you—Bird.”
In the dim light, I can see the scratches he’s made on my hands. They’s puckered lines where he’s broken my skin. But them scratches, they’ll heal.
Finally, Bird settles himself. He rakes his belly with his tongue. I put my pillow at the base of my bed, and sleep with my feet against the bed’s iron bar that’s supposed to be at my head.
The radiator is back to hissing. I feel warmer now.
I sleep, holding Bird till the silver light of Christmas dawns.
OTiS
I SAY TO WILLIE, “YOU KNOW THAT GIRL who came here singing?”
“What girl?” he asks.
“The girl from the church choir, Hibernia. Hibernia Lee Tyson.”
“Who?”
How could Willie forget that singing? I remind him of the True Vine Baptist Youth Singers and their Christmas concert, and how Hibernia Lee stood in the back and had the best voice of all.
Willie nods. He remembers now. “That pretty-skinned girl with the singing that goes high up.”
“Her,” I say.
“I saw you talking to her at True Vine.”
I tell Willie about giving Hibernia the gum but forgetting to say my name to her. “Still, I’m sweet on that girl,” I blurt. I have never told a soul about this. I feel it even more when I say it.
The words fly out from me a second time. “I’m sweet on Hibernia Lee Tyson.”
Willie shakes his head. He’s got a smirk. “Sound like you announcing good news.”
“Love is good, especially when you show it.”
“How you gonna show that girl you love her? She don’t even know your name.”
From my pocket I pull a handful of gum wrappers. I’ve been saving those wrappers. When Ma and Daddy were here, those wrappers were full of shiny promises. Now the sweet is chewed away. But memories can be sweet, too. I think on Daddy and Ma every time I sniff the minty smell of those colored paper squares.
“I’ll show Hibernia I love her with these,” I say.
Willie says, “Most girls I know don’t get soft from a pile of paper.”
I don’t even answer Willie. I just line up the wrappers, is all.
White. Yellow. Green. Yellow. Yellow. White.
The order doesn’t matter one way or another. But already the crumpled bunch is a parade of color.
White. Yellow. Green. Yellow. Yellow. White.
I crease each paper strip, one at a time.
Willie looks like he’s seeing magic.
“Where you learn to do that?”
I pull the paper parade taut to build a gum-wrapper chain.
“From my ma,” I say. “Once, after my daddy left Ma and me to go back to his work, Ma told me we could pass the time until Daddy came back by making a wrapper chain. Ma showed me how.”
Willie says, “She sure did show you.”
“I can show you,” I say.
Willie shakes his head. “Can’t,” he says. “You need fingers that work for folding.”
I say, “Try.”
Willie gives the creased paper strips a hard look. There’s eagerness in his eyes. The little squint on his face gives it away. He’s wanting a challenge. He says, “I’ll watch while you do it,” but he’s leaning in, and focused. So I push.
I say right back, “I’ll watch while you do it.”
“Gum chains are for sissies.”
“Be a sissy, then.” I line up four wrappers in front of Willie.
White. White. Green. Yellow.
Willie’s ready to curse. “Give a green one.”
I put a green in his left hand, and another green in his right.
Willie holds them with his sewed-together fingers and his stumpy thumb. He licks his lips. “How I start?”
I put my hands over top of Willie’s. I guide him in the folding. Together we tuck the first two pieces. The link is lopsided. Willie’s jaw goes tight. “Let’s add the next one,” he says.
It takes our four hands to weave the paper squares. Two more links and Willie’s got the start of his own wrapper chain. “How I tuck it good like yours?” he asks.
“Keep at it,” I say.
Willie reaches for more wrappers. “I want to add some yellow.”
I cradle my hands around his again. But he nudges me off. “I’ll try myself.”
I go back to tucking the links on the chain I’m making for Hibernia. I try to keep my eyes on my own wrappers. I try not to tell Willie what to do.
His work is slow. His weaving takes time, one link to my four. He stops to give his hands a rest, then starts up again.
“Good, Willie. Real good.”
WiLLiE
BIRD, HE FOUND HISSELF A GOOD PLACE to sleep. Got his little black body curled up between two joists that support the rafter above my cot. Never knew cats could snore. But my cat, he got a motor sawing out from him. Uh-huh, sure do snore, that cat.
Lights-out is long gone. Otis and me, we both awake as the day, waiting for the fight to start between Joe Louis and Bob Pastor. The sound from Otis’s radio is low. The speaker holes is sending out faint crackles. I shove my cot closer to Otis’s. For Joe, I listen sharp. Uh-huh, my ears are all for hearing Joe Louis.
The man in the radio says to not turn the dial. Joe’s fight is coming soon.
Bird’s snore got a whimper mixed in. Wonder if he’s havin’ a bad cat dream.
“Otis,” I whisper, “how you on secrets?”
“Good as anybody, I suppose.”
I lift Bird off the rafter. I bring him down between Otis and me, right near my pillow. Bird don’t even wake up. His snore is keeping a quick rhythm.
Otis’s mouth falls open. He’s surprised. He smiling, too.
“Can I touch his head?”
“Try not to wake him,” I say.
Otis pets Bird’s ears with two fingers. Soon the cat’s whole body’s humming. He’s warm like Otis’s radio. Like the Philco, he sending a buzz into the dark room.
“I named him Bird,” I say, and I tell Otis about the bird in a box.
“Bird,” Otis say real soft, never letting up on petting with his fingers.
“What happened to make him so raggedy?”
“He a stray,” I say. “He been beat from alley living. He a fighter, too. Probably picked his share of fights. Got knocked back a few times.”
Soon as the man in the radio tells everybody he’s broadcasting live from Madison Square Garden, Bird starts to stir. When the radio man announces Joe Louis and the crowd hollers, Bird’s eyes open to slits.
“This is it,” whispers Otis, “the fight!”
Otis sets his Philco on his lap. I settle Bird onto mine.
A commentator I don’t know shouts out from them speaker holes. His voice, it’s a blade, slicing through the static:
“Live as a wire from Madison Square Garden, this fight is the talk of all talk. I don’t mean turkey talk, either. I mean talk about folding money. Tonight’s winner stands to earn thirty-six thousand smackers! Will that money go in Joe Louis’s pocket? Or will Bob Pastor be the richer man?”
Bird hears the fight. He juts one of his cotton-ball paws, then wakes with a start. He don’t stretch or yawn like most cats. He’s full awake. Up on all fours, footing around on my stretched-out legs, prickling the blanket with his claws.
Otis looks worried. “You woke Bird.”
“He woke up hisself,” I say. “This cat loves a fight. He don’t wanna miss Joe.”
I’m eager for the match to start, but tonight there’s all kinds of commentary ’fore they ring the bell to get going on round one.
“We have a Jimmy Johnston fight here, ladies and gents—a match arranged by the Boy Bandit himself, one of the craftiest promoters in the business, who tonight is representing Bob Pastor, Joe’s opponent. The rumor mill has been churning out a story that says Jimmy booked this fight to make the Brown Bomber look bad in the ring with his man.”
My fists are firm to my thighs, pressing and rubbing. I rock to keep from punching. If I start trying to fight alongside Joe, I might lose track of what’s coming through the radio.
“Hear that, Otis? Jimmy Johnston got Joe this fight with Pastor. Pastor, he that college fighter who went to New York University. He smart, but he ain’t—” Otis say it ’fore I do.
“He’s not tough like Joe. Besides, nobody can make Joe look bad,” Otis says.
Finally the start bell dings. The man in the radio tells us what everybody in Madison Square Garden can see:
“Joe comes out strong with his signature right! He lunges fast at Pastor! He goes for a solid strike. But Pastor’s good at ducking and weaving. He’s got Joe running after him.”
Now Bird’s prowling from my cot to Otis’s, back and forth. Bird goes from jabbing at the speaker holes of Otis’s radio to scratching at the patches on my blanket.
It’s harder than hard to keep from wanting to fight, too. Fever’s coming to my hands, making my thighs go warm as I press, rub, press.
The fight’s unfolding but staying the same for Joe:
“The Brown Bomber is getting a workout tonight. Not much punching here, just a lot of keeping up with Pastor’s fancy footwork. Joe Louis is not used to this kind of fight. Joe’s a boxer, not a runner. It’s only round three, but Joe looks winded.”
“Joe, keep Pastor from dancing!” I shout.
“Back him into a corner, Joe!” Otis say.
Otis and I know what Joe needs.
I say, “Don’t let Pastor run you around like that! Uh-uh—don’t follow him!”
I can’t help it no more. I’m up. On my feet, bobbing.
Otis calls out at the radio. “Make him come to you!”
When I pivot, I see light from the hall get dim at the doorway. Somebody’s standing there, watching. It ain’t Lila this time, coming to warn us to keep quiet.
It’s the bleach man!
I still myself quick. But now all of me’s got fight fever.
Otis don’t see him right off. He too busy telling Joe how to fight.
“Save your jab for when he comes at your face!” is Otis’s advice.
When Otis sees I’m stuck to looking at the door of our ward, he looks, too.
The bleach man, he holding a lantern in one hand. He ripping onto the ward. Measuring his steps.
He stops at our pushed-together cots. Lifts the lantern to near his own face. The blue light turns him to shadows, of chin and nostrils and brows.
The fight’s in full swing now. The man in the radio is asking the three of us, “Can the Brown Bomber keep from losing ground here in round five?”
The bleach man, he so fixed on me and Otis that he don’t see Bird slink past his shoes. He got his palm out in front of him like he’s waiting for somebody to drop him a dime. When he speaks, he stops each word before he say the next one. “Give. Me. That. Radio.”
Otis hugs his Philco tight. Buries hisself under his blanket. The fight is muffled. The commentary tries to push past the blocked speaker holes. We can only hear snatches of how Joe’s doing. It don’t sound good.
“Louis… wasn’t ready for this kind of fight… still standing, but catching his breath…”
My breath needs catching, too. It’s stuck somewhere in my gut. I make myself cough to push it out. The bleach man, he comes closer. He shoves our cots apart with his knee. He flings off Otis’s bedcovers. Otis is on his haunches, protecting his radio.
I’m seeing Sampson in my mind. I’m feeling hot hominy. I’m burning but pressed to my spot. Why can’t I help my friend? My voice is stuck. I’m pinned to my own cot from being afraid of a man who’s bringing on hurt.
Otis got his head down. He tucked in like a turtle. Stubborn like a turtle, too. His radio’s safe under his belly.
The bleach man reaches in at Otis’s side and somehow startles Otis enough to pry away the radio.
The fight blazes from the speaker holes.
“… the bell to end round seven…,” say the announcer ’fore the bleach man yanks the radio’s plug from the wall socket.
He leaves quick, with light from his lantern shining in front of him.
So much gone so fast.
I wonder, How will we know what happens to Joe?
I wonder, Where did Bird get to?
I wonder, Why didn’t I fight for Otis? Who snatched my voice from me when it was time to shout, No?
Otis stays curled. Even in the dark, I can see his body trembling. He sniffs into his pillow, flat as a pancake, then starts to whimper, “Daddy… Ma… Daddy… Ma…”
I let Otis be.
I’m fighting again, this time against the stone blocking my throat.
Otis say, “That radio was my promise to Daddy. My hope for Joe.”
Otis tells me about how he and his daddy made a deal. Shook on a promise. Put their believing in Joe Louis.
I push my cot back to near Otis’s and tell him about me. “I got a daddy and a ma,” I whisper. “Still living, not far from here.” Then I admit, “I ain’t even no real orphan.”
I tell Otis about Sampson and his whiskey, and his evil ways.
I tell Otis how my hands got to be twisted nubs of nothing, and how I come to Mercy on a hen truck, and by wishing on Saint Christopher.
I take my medal down from the rafter. I tell Otis about that, too. I tuck Saint Christopher, my protector, into the toe of my sock. Far from the bleach man’s reach.
I press my only good finger to my lips.
I say to Otis, “Don’t tell Lila none of this.”
I say, “Or the bleach man, neither.”
Otis lifts his face. His nod shows me he understands.
“Boys!”
Who’s rocking my cot? “Boys, breakfast.”
I lift my nose out from under the sheet. No sign of daylight.
I stir. “Ain’t hungry.”
I squint to find Otis, who’s folded hisself tight under his bedcovers. “Me, either,” he whines.
Two sure hands lift the foot of my cot and drag me to my right place on the ward. A feeble meow peels open the morning.
It’s Bird, but where he at?
Another cat cry comes from someplace above us.
Dawn stretches itself through the small window at the way-off end of the ward. More meows, fuller this time, are leaping out from a place I can’t see.
I prop onto my elbow. “Bird—where you at?”
“Meeeoooww.”
My cat is peering down from a crossbeam. I get to my knees, then bring Bird to my lap.
Otis’s settled at the foot of my cot. “Bird!”
While the rest of the kids are asleep, we pet our cat.
“You know this creature?” Lila asks.
Otis looks at me to answer. “He’s a stray,” I explain. “I named him Bird, ’cause he’s a fighter, like a bird in a box.”
Lila says, “He’s most definitely been in the ring. Look at those bald patches.”
Bird ain’t too pleased to see Lila. He’s shivering, too.
Lila, she reaches for him, and he throws her a claw. “Well,” she say, “this cold makes me irritable, too, though I have more meat on my bones than you do.”
Even with him tucked down between my knees, it’s easy to see how measly Bird is. “Goodness,” Lila say, “this creature is mostly ribs and fur.” She tries again to touch Bird, but he’s cowering.
“Look at those front paws—two hefty balls of snow.” She motions for Bird.
Bird, he slinks back. His gaze is sharp, his eyes stay on Lila. “Here,” she say, trying to coax him by putting out both her palms. But he don’t want no part of Lila. One paw jabs at her hands, followed real fast by his second ball of snow.
Lila eases away. “Suit yourself, then.”
Bird sends out a scrawny meow. Lila say, “Yes, it is time for breakfast, but I’m afraid I can’t serve it to you in bed. There’s no room service at Mercy. This is not the Waldorf-A
storia Hotel. And you must be an orphan to reside here.”
Otis’s eyes cut to mine.
“Are you an orphan?” Lila asks Bird.
The cat answers with a sure meow.
“No wonder you look so unkempt,” Lila say. “A decent mother would not let her child get so bedraggled.”
Lila leaves the ward but comes back quick with a pan of milk she sets between us.
That cat, he’s stymied. His tiny pink tongue licks at his chops. He’s scared, and eager, too.
“It’s okay,” Otis say.
“Come,” Lila say. “I made this special from a can of Mayflower condensed and water.”
This cat sure is stubborn. Won’t budge.
“We insist on nourishing the children here,” Lila tells Bird. “You must stick by the rules, or else Mercy is not the place for you,” she says.
“We can’t put him out,” Otis pleads. “It’s cold, and he has no place to go.”
I can tell by Lila’s smile that she’s kidding with the cat. I go along.
“He ain’t got no ma or a pa,” I say, backing up Otis.
Lila say, “All orphans are welcome here. Even furry ones who don’t follow rules, I suppose.” She slides closer to Bird. He’s getting to poke at the milk with his nose. He licks at it, but slow. “I hope you like Mayflower condensed,” Lila say.
“What about the bleach man?” asks Otis.
“The who?”
Otis tells Lila how he nicknamed Mr. Sneed.
“What about him?” Lila answers.
“What if he finds out we got a cat living here?” I ask.
Lila say, “Leave Sneed to me.” Then, “I’m more concerned about this cat’s sour temper. He’s a cuss of a creature.”
“Not when he knows you,” Otis explains.
I set one of my hands near the cat’s scruff. “Rub him here.”
Before Lila can rest down her palm at Bird’s nape, he’s going for the pan of Mayflower. Lila never even gets to pet Bird. He’s too busy lapping the milk. Too busy purring.
HiBERNiA
IF I WERE A SNOWFLAKE, I’D BE SMILING. But there is not a soul who will call me Happy Hibernia on what has to be the coldest morning ever. It is still black dawn, and even my bones are frozen.
Bird in a Box Page 7
