This lady is ready to burst open, the same as the stitching on her shoes is about to give way to her onion bunions. She’s Happy Lila Weiss.
Now she’s the one speaking to Speaky. “How do you like that? They’re treating Joe like royalty!”
I start in with my question: “Do you know anything about Mike Jacobs’s Brown Bomber Box Cam—”
But Happy Lila Weiss is getting even happier.
She’s slowed down some, and is picking her words carefully. “Hibernia, I’m a firm believer in the power of prayer,” she begins. “I trust that being the daughter of such a prodigious preacher, and the deliverer of such inspired singing, you share my sentiment.”
I shrug. “I guess so.”
Happy Lila Weiss says, “I don’t like to waste precious time entertaining hearsay, but I am finding it difficult to keep my mind off this fight. You see, my late husband was an avid follower of boxing—and a huge Joe Louis fan—and more than anything, it would have brought him no greater joy than to see Joe Louis become the heavyweight champ of the world.”
Lila’s sincere, but she sure can ramble. Finally, she gets to her point. “Hibernia, we need a prayer. A prayer for Joe Louis.”
“You want me to pray for the Brown Bomber?”
Like Daddy, Lila Weiss must be making prayer calls today.
“Yes, for Joe.”
Lila hikes her skirt, and kneels, right in front of Speaky! Her knees are two hams pressed to the floorboards. “Supplication is always best for prayer,” she says. She motions for me to kneel with her.
I have been asked to say a lot of prayers in my life, but none like this. “I’ll kneel, but my skirt stays where it is,” I say.
Lila Weiss bows her head. She shuts both her eyes. Her hands are folded tight.
I’ve rested the daffodils and brown bag on the small table where Speaky sits. The daffodils’ yellow faces watch up at me and this lady with the pork knees.
Happy Lila Weiss lowers her voice. “Hibernia, why don’t you start us off.”
I’m lost. I know the Lord’s Prayer, a Thanksgiving prayer, and even a prayer for sick dogs. But a Joe Louis prayer?
Lila Weiss opens her eyes to look at me sideways. “Just pray what comes to you. Prayer is a petition. All you have to do is petition on Joe’s behalf.”
She goes back to a lowered head and closed eyes. She is concentrating on whatever it is I’m about to say.
My head is bent, but I’ve only got one eye shut. My other eye roams the room. Maybe by looking around I’ll get some idea about what kind of petition I can make for Joe.
Lila Weiss is expecting something special from me, but I’m as empty as an overdrawn bank account. But okay, sometimes performers have to improvise. So I try.
“Lord,” my lone eye is still searching for even a speck of inspiration. “Please help Joe Louis to fight with might, and to be all right. And to—”
This is the one time I’m glad that Skip is back with his commentary. Speaky has saved me!
“America is waiting and wondering on the Brown Bomber. Every radio in our nation will be tuned in to the Louis-Braddock fight. All ears will be listening for boxing’s future.”
Lila Weiss cuts in. She can’t help herself. She’s the one with the petition. This is the easiest prayer I’ve ever said. Happy Lila Weiss is doing all the work.
“Heavenly Father, in all your goodness, bless Joe Louis with your powerful hand. Make him strong. Lead him in the ways of prizefighting.”
I’m back to both eyes open. Even as the reverend’s daughter, I have never seen so much true feeling behind a prayer.
Lila sighs. “And, dear Lord, let Joe Louis take James Braddock out quickly and with a steady fist. If James Braddock falls in the ring, please give the referee the fitness he needs to count down swiftly. Amen.”
“Amen, times ten,” I say.
After Lila leaves, I remember the gifts she’s brought. I put the daffodils in a jar with water, and set the flowers on our kitchen table, where they greet Daddy when he comes home for supper. I tell Daddy about Lila’s visit. He looks pleased.
“Daddy,” I ask, “what is supplication?”
Daddy’s answer is simple. “Humbling yourself.”
“What’s a petition?” I want to know.
“A request from the most sincere heart.”
Later, I open the crumpled bag from Lila, reach down in, and pull out something so special that not even Sears, Roebuck sells it.
WiLLiE
Let’s go, mighty Joe.
Battle like the Alamo.
Hey, hey, mighty Joe.
Time to bomb ’em—there you go!
Go, go, mighty Joe!
Get ’em good—there you go.
WHERE’S THAT MUSIC COMING FROM? Muffled and low, singing about Joe Louis. Am I dreaming about Joe? Is Joe creeping up to me in the late nighttime?
I listen hard. Here come the refrain.
Hey, hey, mighty Joe.
Time to bomb ’em—there you go!
Go, go, mighty Joe!
Get ’em good—there you go.
This song ain’t working up from my dreams. It’s from out back. There’s static behind the music. The song about Joe is spilling from a radio. Pulling me awake. Gets me humming.
Let’s go, mighty Joe.
Battle like the Alamo.
I don’t know a thing about no Alamo, but if it has to do with Joe Louis, it must be mighty.
I follow the trail of yellow light being sent into the ward by the bulb hanging from the latrine’s ceiling. But it’s the music I’m after, not the latrine. It’s that refrain—Hey, hey, mighty Joe. Time to bomb ’em—there you go!—leading me past the intake table to out back. To Mercy’s one plot of grass. To our dumb little yard with a shed for storing food rations.
As I go, the radio’s rattly music gets louder. But it’s still stifled. Still pressed back from coming in clear. The moon’s looking like a fingernail hooked around a bundle of clouds. And them crickets is making their own music. Uh-huh, them crickets is singing along for Joe.
Morning must be coming. The skin on my feet is getting a dew bath from the wetness dawn has spread on the grass. I move slow, closer and closer to where I hear the music.
It’s the bleach man, leaning against a sack, snoring loud as a roadster. He’s got a box of canned peas nearby, only half emptied. I figure he must have been stacking the cans, took a rest, and fell asleep. And there’s Otis’s radio, cradled like a baby in the crook of the bleach man’s arm. He’s propped by the corner, where the radio’s plugged in. The speaker holes, they’re turned in to the bleach man’s belly. Joe’s song is pressed against the handle of skin where the bleach man’s belt is meeting up with his pants.
My mouth makes out what I wish I could say. My words is more quiet than a whisper. “Come on, bleach man, try messing with me now.”
I watch the radio rise and fall against the bleach man’s body when he breathes. I’m by him enough to see his bottom lip dropped low, catching his drool.
I make-believe I’m Joe Louis. I pretend the bleach man is some sorry sack, ready to fall. From where I stand in the shadow of the moon, I jab, jab, jab, at the air in front of the bleach man’s face. He ain’t nowhere near to waking up. He don’t even know he’s my fake fight, getting beat to pine pulp.
Get up, you louse! The words is still just my lips shaping ’em. No sound to what I’m saying. Come to your feet so’s I can knock you back down!
I’m full of power each time I jab into the blue dawn. Uh-huh. My fists fly at the twilight around me, and I’m so, so strong. My whole body’s churned up. Gets both my punches going.
Jab! Jab! Jab!
I stutter-step, in toward the bleach man, then back. Think you can take that radio from my friend? Well, take this!
Now I’m full out fighting. Shoulders heavy into the punches. Elbows and wrists snapping hard when I land one near his face. And my hands—they’s fully bent. No more tight skin holding �
�em open. No more halfway trying to fold ’em closed. Both hands is all the way rolled tight for punching hard!
Battle like the Alamo…
… Get ’em good—there you go.
Morning drops down like a blanket of butter. I shake my fists free for the final blow. The last of the fight ain’t a punch, though.
It’s a quiet win.
I move in closer to the bleach man. I’m now back to what Lila showed me about using my hands. What she explained about fighting in a different way.
I carefully lift the radio from the bend in the bleach man’s arm. I get the radio more easy than plucking a dandelion.
Now I am a champ. Uh-huh, this fight’s all mine.
When I get to the ward, I start to wake Otis but then think better on it. Instead, I slide the radio onto the edge of Otis’s pillow.
“Dream good now,” I whisper. “Your Philco’s back.”
OTiS
THE TRUE VINE BAPTIST YOUTH SINGERS are here again, bringing us Easter songs. They start with “Oh, He Has A-Risen,” then go on to “Believe in the New Day.”
This time I have set my dayroom chair right close to where they are. Hibernia’s behind the other kids, like before. And she’s singing just as beautifully. But today she’s holding something back, not letting her voice fly as high.
Then the lady at the piano says, “We will now have a solo selection sung by Hibernia Lee Tyson.”
Willie bumps his shoulder to mine. “Ain’t that ya girl?”
“Shhh,” I whisper. “She’s coming to the front.”
Hibernia steps out from the back row. She goes to where the lady at the piano is seated. That’s when I see it around her neck. Hibernia Lee Tyson is wearing the gum-wrapper chain woven by me and Willie! She’s fastened each end to make a necklace! The wrapper necklace is a pretty strand of colors against her blue collar.
“See that?” Willie says.
I can’t even talk. All’s I can do is nod.
The lady at the piano strikes a chord. Hibernia takes a breath. She is looking straight at me. She is running her fingers along the gum-wrapper-chain necklace. Then she lets her voice free:
“I’m gonna sing when the Spirit says siiiing!
I’m gonna sing when the Spirit says siiiing!
I’m gonna sing when the Spirit says siiiing!
And obey the Spirit of the Lord.”
The first verse is soft and full.
At the next verse, the choir behind Hibernia joins in. Hibernia’s singing goes from sweet to sassy. She’s put a raspy twist on the song.
“I’m gonna preach when the Spirit says a-preeeaaach!
I’m gonna preach when the Spirit says a-preeeaaach!
I’m gonna preach when the Spirit says a-preeeaaach!”
There is brass and brown sugar in Hibernia’s way of delivering this tune. If a Packard could sing, it would sound like this, all shiny and bold and rolling.
Everybody is swaying to the beat of this celebration. But the piano lady doesn’t look too pleased.
Now comes the third verse, more sassy than the other two.
“I’m gonna shout when the Spirit says a-shooouuut!
I’m gonna shout when the Spirit says a-shooouuut!
I’m gonna shout when the Spirit says a-shooouuut!”
The kids in the choir get to clapping. Hibernia curls her shoulders with a sure rhythm. She presents both her palms, inviting all of us to clap along. Hibernia Lee Tyson owns this song.
Lila’s feet are keeping up with the music, and she’s singing full out. Lila’s nod tells me to join in.
I clap so hard, it hurts. There is a happy, steady stomp dancing its way all over my insides. Everything feels so good from having gladness big in my heart.
Willie’s clapping just as much as me. His hands don’t even stop him from slipping into the music. The clapping comes so natural. All that puckered skin and his melted-together fingers don’t hold Willie back. When I take a good look at Willie’s hands, they’re freer somehow, ready to rejoice.
Willie says, “Ya girl is fine.”
Now Hibernia’s voice is ten times higher than cloud nine. She is swinging us to joy’s fullest place.
When I look behind me to see who else is taking in our celebration, there is the bleach man, leaning hard in the door to the dayroom. His arms are folded tight. He refuses to clap. But his foot won’t obey. It pumps on the floor, following the rhythm of this Easter gift.
After the concert, Willie pulls me over to where Hibernia is standing. He nudges me toward her. “My name’s Willie, and this’s Otis.”
I say a soft hello. Then, “I’m glad you sang a solo.”
Hibernia plays with the button on her sleeve. “I liked being in the front. I could see you clapping,” she says.
My tongue is knotted up tighter than my shoelaces. Hibernia puts her hand to the necklace she’s made from her gum-wrapper chain. “This is so pretty,” she says.
Willie is quick to say, “Otis made it, and I helped!”
Before I can even say anything, Hibernia is just as quick to speak. “Thank you, Otis. You, too, Willie.”
The piano lady comes after Hibernia. I watch her go off with her friends. A brown-skinned girl in a blue dress, her necklace woven from my gum-wrapper chain.
HiBERNiA
I’M AWAKE AND DRESSED EARLY.
When I get to the parlor, Daddy is holding open the screen door.
“Ready?”
I startle.
“You’re coming?”
“What rule says I can’t?”
Trying to talk Daddy out of anything is impossible. “No rule,” I say.
He gives me an up-nod. “Then, come on.”
My daddy is a barrel of a man, but that doesn’t slow him. His hand swallows mine as he holds on, walking with deliberate steps. Night crawlers can’t escape Daddy’s stomp. Neither can the beetles asleep in the grass.
I want to prepare Daddy by telling him I’ll be performing Chick Webb’s “Harlem Congo” for Joe’s Brown Bomber Box Campaign, but he’s moving too fast, head forward, with a sure grip on me.
The fairgrounds is a crowded quilt of church hats, suspenders, and babies bundled tight. Morning’s sun is just starting its reach. I smell frankfurters. At the central pavilion, where Mr. Haskell usually parks his rations truck, there’s a bandstand, with a microphone.
Daddy stops quick, to get his bearings, to figure out where to go.
It’s the red-painted sign that shows me the way. “Daddy, over there!”
BROWN BOMBER BOX CAMPAIGN REGISTRATION
Next to the sign there’s a man-size photograph of Joe Louis standing firm, with long, smooth muscles and legs as solid as tree trunks. Joe’s dukes are raised to his chin. He’s prepared to win.
I like to think that as the reverend’s daughter I know most people in Elmira, or at least most people know me. But these are folks from all over, and more kids than I’ve ever seen in one place.
There’s a line to get to the front of the registration table, and bleacher benches for everyone else who’s here to watch.
“Go on, register,” Daddy says. “I’ll be in the stands.”
I’m glad to be rid of Daddy. He’s messing up my stroll. With him gone, I can weave into the fairgrounds. A long line means nothing to Hibernia Lee. I shoulder-slide through the ribbon of waiting people. Being skinny helps. So does looking at clouds, while you ease your way up. Daydreamers don’t get accused of cutting. If anybody notices, I say a simple “Excuse me,” mumble an apology for stepping on some toes, and keep sliding.
This morning it works as good as ever. I’m fourth to the front right away, where I see placards for each age category. My eye goes right to “The Twelves.” I pick up the registration paper, and scribble my name. As I write, I’m listening and glancing at the other “Twelves” who are warming up. Those kids look like babies, and they stink at singing. Even though I’m here to win, I sure don’t want to compete with a bunch of
off-key whiners.
The next category up is called the “Teen Dreams.” It doesn’t take an A-plus student to figure out that the “Teen Dreams” are a whole lot better than “The Twelves.”
I fold into the “Teen Dreams” registration line, where I fill out a new paper. I leave the age column blank. Anyone with manners or sense knows it’s rude to ask a lady her age, even if she is a teen. Or dreaming of being a teen. Age is a very private thing. So I am holding on to my privacy, and helping the organizers of the Brown Bomber Box Campaign keep some class in their event.
I’m poker-faced Hibernia when I hand the registration lady my sign-up sheet. She eyes it quickly, studies me, sees that I’m almost as tall as she is, and points me toward the “Teen Dreams.”
At the end of the registration table, I pick up my Brown Bomber Box, the cardboard cube that each of us gets for collecting money. My name, like everyone else’s, is in big letters on the front. Hibernia is misspelled. The lady has written it from what I scrawled on my registration paper. It says Nibrenia. I’m too excited to care. When I do get my name on a real marquee, I’ll make sure it’s spelled right then.
The contest rules are taped to the box’s side. It’s simple. We each sing in turn. The audience shows us how much they like our singing by applauding. Then we pass our Brown Bomber Boxes. The true indication of how good we are—and who wins—comes when people put their money in our boxes. Or when they don’t. The singer who brings in the most dough for Joe is the winner.
When a kid’s Brown Bomber Box goes around and hands stay in pockets, it means the kid’s singing is not worth a nickel.
Just like in church. When Daddy gives a good sermon, folks feel inspired, and more coins end up in the collection plate.
This is where I like being the child of a reverend. I understand what it takes to help people part with their cash. Yours Truly is good at enthusing.
I find my place among the other “Dreams.” As soon as I’m standing next to a girl in a turquoise dress with opals on the collar, and a corsage at her wrist, honey, I know I’m in the right group. Happy Hibernia is ready to enthuse.
Bird in a Box Page 11
