Hollywood and Maine

by Allison Whittenberg

  Thinking it was Raymond or Millicent or Cissy, I jumped three feet off the floor.

  “Charmaine Upshaw, this is a reminder call from the Thomas Sharpe Talent Agency. Classes will be starting soon. Register now to avoid disappointment.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m so looking forward—” I rushed to say, but then realized I wasn’t talking to anyone. It was a recorded message. I’d been called by a robot. What would they think of next?

  twenty-two

  Wouldn’t you know it? Almost to the second that I started liking Uncle E, I came to find out his days of freedom were numbered. No wonder Daddy had said he only needed a few weeks to stay in our house. I guess it was as good an idea as any: to stockpile some honest money before you go into the slammer so when you finally do get out, you have some change rattling in your pocket and you are less likely to be tempted back into street life. Plus, there was the added bonus of hanging out with your kin-folk for a spell. I could understand keeping all this from little Tracy John, but I should have been in the adult loop. Everything happened so quickly. On the day he was to turn himself in for the original charge that he’d skipped out on back in October of last year, I saw Uncle E, surrounded and all suited up. I couldn’t pretend that I understood all the intricacies of law enforcement, but I thought of how much life is like a movie that you walk in on in the middle of. You never quite figure out what exactly has gone on before.

  A breeze sent a shiver down my spine. Don’t send him away now, I thought. I used to think he was a jerk but now I see he’s all right.

  Of course, Tracy John threw a fit, asking why couldn’t he go with Uncle E to court.

  Ma kept telling him, “That’s strictly for grown-ups, Tracy John.”

  A lot of people would be there: Daddy, of course, Gammy, Uncle O. Along with a host of character witnesses from the furniture store.

  And a lot of people from church.

  “Even the rev?” Tracy John asked.

  Ma nodded. “Reverend Clee cares about his flock.”

  Suddenly, Tracy John became more relaxed. He even took on an assured air. “Oh, then we got this one.”

  “The Scriptures say ‘Thy will be done,’ ” I said, not so much to cool his confidence as to keep him realistic.

  “Nope,” Tracy John said.

  I looked at him skeptically and asked, “They don’t say that?”

  He shook his head.

  “What do they say, then?”

  He pointed to himself with his thumb. “My will be done.”

  I shook my head and told him to quit messing around with statements like that, before he incurred the wrath. Everyone would say, “He was such a cute kid before he got struck by lightning.”

  Mid-evening, we heard Daddy try the back door. We all went to greet what we thought would be them, but he was alone. His eyes swept the room, then lowered a little, and he shook his head to signify that the news was not good.

  Ma’s lips parted in shock. Leo and Tracy John said things like “How?” and “Why?”

  My lips pursed—I was annoyed. God, I thought. You really are a comedian. You really know how to keep your jokes coming.

  “Listen, we live in this country, and we have to follow its rules. We’re all gonna miss him, but he didn’t get life. He’ll be out in ninety days.”

  “That’s three months,” Leo said.

  Tracy John counted on his fingers. “March, April, May. That means he won’t be back until June.”

  Daddy nodded.

  “We’re supposed to go fishing next weekend.”

  “I know, Tracy John, I know,” Daddy said. “We can all go when he gets out.”

  “June is too long to wait, Unc.”

  Tracy John’s words seemed to bounce about the room. He stamped his foot. “Three months is a long time.”

  “Now, this is not the outcome we wanted,” Daddy began, and in that moment he was the master of understatement. “But we will make it through this. And so will Escalus.”

  “I bet that judge wouldn’t like it if someone put him in jail,” Tracy John said.

  Daddy’s eyes bored into him. “Uppercase E couldn’t have stayed out of trouble the best he could. The judge has to follow the law, Tracy John. That is his job. We’ll make the best of things.”

  “Doesn’t the judge know that was a long time ago? Uncle E isn’t like that anymore. He was working at the furniture store. He was playing the guitar. He wasn’t hurting anyone,” Tracy John said.

  “We can’t solve every problem in the universe tonight, Tracy John,” Daddy finally said.

  “Uncle E never hurt anyone,” Tracy John repeated.

  Daddy went back to giving him no answer. Then my cousin made the statement: “I bet he wouldn’t have to go to jail if he was white.”

  Where did that come from? Just a few months ago, Tracy John was in this very same room asking, “What’s racism?” How much of the world could he have absorbed since then, to put together things like this? If Escalus Upshaw was white with steel gray, no, pastel blue eyes, a granite chin, and an aquiline nose, would his fate have been the same?

  “What color is your uncle E?”

  Tracy John looked stunned, as if Daddy was asking him a trick question.

  He looked to his right, where I was standing. I was just as paralyzed by the inquiry.

  “What color is Uncle E?” Daddy repeated.

  Tracy John looked around again. “My uncle E?”

  “Yes. Yes,” Daddy said. “Your uncle E.”

  Tracy John swallowed and finally offered a tentative “Black?”

  “Exactly.” Daddy paused to let that set in. Then he said in his big, round voice, “It is a waste of time to suppose what would happen if he wasn’t. We have to live in reality. Let’s not give white people too much credit. Even if the judge was a racist, two wrongs don’t make a right. But two Wrights did make an airplane.”

  He had used that pun before, usually to more positive response. This time there was not even a chuckle. Tough crowd.

  Daddy told Tracy John, “Now, you, to bed.”

  “But it’s not even seven o’clock.”

  Daddy didn’t speak, just pointed upstairs with his thumb, and Ma quickly ushered him away.

  Up until that moment, Daddy had been one cool customer, but the look on his face now that Tracy John was out of the room was that of a totally broken man. He pulled out a chair and crumpled into it like a worn-out paper bag. He said one word. “Damn.”

  The next morning, Ma fixed oatmeal, the blandest food ever created. Despite this sedating food, everything erupted again when Tracy John asked how soon we would be going to go see Uncle E.

  Daddy blew in his bowl and informed him that Uncle E would not be receiving us as visitors.

  Tracy John let out a flurry of “Why not?”s and “How come?”s, then finally a “Please.”

  Daddy’s voice boomed over Tracy John’s. “We can write him a letter.”

  There are people who hold things in and let them fester and fester and then develop an ulcer. I was convinced that Tracy John would never have to worry about that. He sprang to his feet in protest. “A letter!”

  Daddy shot him a look. “You got a problem with letters?”

  Tracy John retreated, sinking back into the chair. I felt a light sweat break out on my neck.

  “No, I don’t have a problem with letters.”

  “Now, we all have to get ahold of ourselves. This is not the end of anything. This is just a slight detour. We will do him like we do Horace,” Daddy said—what amounted in sports movies to the pep talk. When your team is behind, that’s the time to talk about apple pie and the flag.

  The team was not inspired.

  Daddy pointed to Tracy John. “And you?”

  “Yes?” Reluctantly and mournfully, Tracy John looked Daddy’s way.

  Daddy held his chin in his hand and gave him two words of instruction: “Cheer up.”

  twenty-three

  “Struggle is a part of
life. Struggle is life,” Reverend Clee told his congregation.

  “Yes, Lord,” Mrs. Langley said.

  “We struggle to come into being. That is called birth.”

  Mr. Brown raised one hand. “All right now.”

  “Then after we’re born, we struggle to make the most of our lives.”

  Someone gave a stray “Hallelujah.”

  “We struggle to get along with friends and find someone special to share our lives with.”

  “Amen,” I said, since that one hit a soft spot with me.

  “We struggle to make the most of our lives with that special someone.”

  Like a lab rat on a spinning wheel, round and round we go, that was the gist of Reverend Clee’s sermon that Sunday.

  “Never expect not to struggle,” the rev told us.

  I glanced over at Tracy John. He gave our rev a glacial stare.

  I nudged him. “What’s the matter?”

  He shot me a dirty look.

  As we exited and threaded through the crowd, the rev held his customary spot by the door. He shook hands with the members.

  Tracy John tried to ease by without the rev’s notice, but he was halted.

  “What is the rush, Tracy John, and why the long face?”

  “I didn’t like your sermon,” Tracy John said.

  “You didn’t?” the rev asked.

  “No, I didn’t,” Tracy John said. “I don’t like struggle.”

  I fell back in a swoon. By the time I regained my bearings, Tracy John had vanished. I had to hand it to him, he knew where to disappear to, right into a nest of women. When I found him, he was getting his right cheek pinched by one of them. When he saw me, he quickly gave me his fang face.

  Later at home, when I attempted to confront Tracy John on his behavior, he pointed his finger at me. “You have always been against Uncle E.”

  “How do you know what I’ve always been?” I asked.

  He humphed. “I know you want your room back. You’re glad Uncle E’s in jail.”

  “That is a horrible thing to say, Tracy John. Do you think that little of me?”

  Tracy John looked away, frowning.

  I shook my head. “You carrying on like this will not make things better. Uncle E will be all right.”

  He turned to me with his brows raised. “You don’t know that for sure.”

  “There’s no need worrying now if nothing has happened.”

  “Something has happened.” His voice rose too. “He’s in jail!”

  “You know what I mean, Tracy John.”

  “You know what I mean, Maine.”

  And he characteristically stormed from the room. Forget about Hollywood, Tracy John had the temperament of a male diva. He belonged in the Metropolitan Opera. This is something no one ever brings up: How the family of a jailed person suffers. The toll that it took in legal costs was nothing compared to this emotional burden. The limbo state that everyone was suddenly in. The mystery, the uncertainty. Tracy John had cause to be worried. Anything could happen in the big house.

  Before Tracy John turned in for the night, I gave it one more try. I hung by his door with paper and a pencil and asked him the straightforward question, “Want to write a letter?”

  “No,” Tracy John said flatly.

  “How is he going to hear from you, then?”

  “He should have never turned himself in, Maine. At least then he’d be free.”

  “What kind of freedom is that, Tracy John? Constantly moving. Nobody wants that. Remember what a wise man once told you: Everybody needs a home.”

  That made him look even sadder, so I told him, “I think you’ve got this thing all wrong. Uncle E’s one lucky man.”

  “Say what!”

  “He’s lucky to have a nephew who cares about him so much. Back in January when Daddy first told us he needed our help, you were the first one to volunteer. You have such a good heart, Tracy John. I know you are not going to let all these months go by without so much as a word.”

  Soon we were sitting at his desk, composing words for our uncle. When we were done, Tracy John held the stamp out to me. “Lick this.”

  “What’s wrong with your tongue?” I asked him.

  He said he didn’t like the taste. I didn’t know why that was. Stamps were, to me, sweet. Still, there was room for postal improvement. If you moistened the postage too much or not enough, it would come off. Couldn’t somebody someday invent self-adhesive stamps?

  I was just about to seal the envelope when he said, “Not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  He told me he wanted to include a sentence tomorrow about how the practice went.

  _____

  De-liver De-letter De-sooner De-better. I timed it just right. I arrived at the end of practice.

  “Did you forget to bring it?” Tracy John asked, seeing nothing in my hands.

  I played dumb. “Bring what?”

  Then I pulled the letter out of my bag and handed it to him so he could write the coda. I looked over his shoulder. He would have been an excellent cub reporter, determined to get every last detail.

  “Come on, come on, hurry.” He took off like lightning, dragging me by the hand behind him.

  Of course, we couldn’t simply put it in the mailbox. We had to take it to that redbrick building on Church Lane. (I couldn’t convince him that since Dardon was so small, it really didn’t matter, the post office wouldn’t get it out any sooner.)

  Dardon’s P.O. was, as far as I could tell, a one-man operation. Maybe there were tons of people in the back, milling about, but front and center it was always this one fellow with sandy, close-cut hair and a thin face.

  “Can you put this letter on the top of your pile, so it will get there faster?” Tracy John asked.

  The man took one look at my cousin, then at the letter (obviously noting its penal colony address), then back at Tracy John. He smiled and said, “Sure thing.”

  Just as we were leaving, we passed the America’s Most Wanted posting. I wondered why the FBI chose to hang their faces here. But then I thought, Even fugitives from justice have to buy stamps eventually. For the first time, I peered at their mugs and felt a twinge of sympathy. They could be somebody’s uncle.

  “Wait a minute, I forgot to do something,” Tracy John said, and ran back to the window. He pointed at the pile and the postman fished the letter out for him.

  Tracy John put the letter to his chest and then held it up to the ceiling. After he said a silent chant, he gave it back to the mailman.

  “You can’t tell or else it won’t come true,” the postman told him.

  “I know that,” Tracy John replied.

  I imagined Uncle E in the yard during mail call, a smile creeping onto his face.

  Next Sunday service, Tracy John was much better behaved.

  He even had an apology for Reverend Clee. “I’m sorry I said I didn’t like your sermon.”

  The rev reeled Tracy John in for a good hug.

  “That’s all right, young man. I know how we get at times like this. We are an emotional people.”

  “That’s for sure,” I said, patting my cousin’s head.

  Just then Ma and Daddy came and stood behind Tracy John.

  The rev told him, “Don’t you fret about your uncle E. God will look out for him. He rescued Daniel from the lions’ den. He parted the Red Sea for Moses. He helped Samson beat all those Philistines—”

  Tracy John smiled broadly and interrupted, “With the jawbone of an ass.”

  Ma’s “Say ‘donkey,’ sweetheart” collided with Daddy’s “Our boy sure knows the Bible.”

  twenty-four

  At the start of chemistry class, Mr. Mirabelle asked someone to pull down the shades and someone else to turn the lights off. Were we going to watch a movie in science class? Now, that was a first. Not that I was complaining. Anything would be a lot more intriguing than those molecular configurations he usually drew on the board.

  Mr. Mirabelle m
anned the projector, and we proceeded to watch the show.

  It was one of those old Duck and Cover movies from way back in the 1950s, when the girls wore crinolines and floppy ponytails. It featured lamebrain survival tactics about how to deal with a catastrophic explosion, such as: “Have a good flashlight on hand—the electricity might go out.” This crapola was produced by the Federal Civil Defense Administration, an organization that by the seventies, I hoped, would have been laughed out of operation.

  The film only lasted fifteen minutes, and when it was over Mr. Mirabelle flipped on the lights. He wanted us to recite the terms we had heard in the movie.

  I was all set to say “gamma rays” when someone blurted out, “How come no blacks were in that movie?”

  Mr. Mirabelle’s droopy eyes lifted in surprise.

  I admit that question threw me, for I hadn’t noticed that that black-and-white movie had an all-white cast. But unlike the underrepresentation of us in that modeling slide show I’d attended, I didn’t get up in arms over this. Studies have shown that civilization began in Africa. Maybe it’s enough of a claim to fame to be the first people on earth. I guess we don’t have to be the last.

  “Didn’t they want us to survive the blast?” someone else asked.

  Even Demetrius chimed in “Yeah,” but I had the feeling that on his part it wasn’t righteous indignation, it was the fear that Mr. Mirabelle would actually get back to teaching chemistry.

  You would think we’d been watching Birth of a Nation, the way the class was so worked up. I’d never seen Mr. Mirabelle wearing the proverbial deer-in-the-headlights look. He was a man of science, and the absence of black faces in these movies was something that had never even occurred to him—much the way “blackness” hadn’t been thought of by the inventor of “flesh”-colored bandages, or by the genius at Crayola who decided to call one of the sixty-four colors “flesh.” It was so weird to see this epiphany wash over his face, as if to say You know, I never looked at it that way.

  As I walked home, I wished Raymond had shared that class with me. He’d have been a great person to offer insight. I thought of phoning him to ask if there was ever a bomb shelter movie from a brother’s perspective—perhaps Oscar Micheaux had been commissioned or something. But deep down I knew I couldn’t contact my ex-boyfriend. It would be too awkward. No one calls out of the clear blue sky to talk about nuclear war.