“What do you guys want to paint?” Peter was sitting again, and looked around the table. The boys were surprised. The director had told Peter that most of the time boys like these were told exactly what to do. Their choice was to obey or rebel. Obedience brought little reward or admiration; rebellion brought harsh punishment. “You can paint anything you want. But if you can’t think of anything, paint a picture of your family.” He suggested that purposely, knowing the settlement house psychologist might learn something from the paintings.
Automatically, the boys painted their families. Peter walked around behind them. As he approached, they would usually tighten their bony shoulders. He encouraged them all and from time to time received smiles.
Mance Bedlow’s picture was entirely in brown. There were three figures, the two biggest on one side of the page, the smallest on the other side. Peter asked Mance to name them. The two big ones were his father and brother. He was the small one.
“Where’s your mother?”
“She in the kitchen cooking their dinner.” He looked up at Peter. “Mister Dunford, what color should I paint the sun?”
“Any color you want; it’s your picture.” Peter smiled and went on to George, who smiled at him timidly.
Behind him, Peter heard scuffling. “Cut that shit out, boy.”
Peter turned around to find Mance glaring at the boy on the other side of him. Then he picked up his own picture and began ripping it into tiny pieces. Peter decided not to stop him.
When he was through destroying his picture, Mance turned to Peter. “This place is shit!”
Peter smiled.
“And you’re a cock-sucker!”
Still Peter smiled, although now it was an effort.
“I’m going home!” Standing up, he knocked over his chair, then raced around the table away from Peter, and scrambled out the door. Peter stood his ground. The boy would come back.
Five minutes later, Mance had not re-appeared. Peter, who had started the boys painting again, told them he would return in a few moments and went down to the front door and looked out.
The settlement house was in one of twenty buildings in the red-brick project. Black asphalt paths connected the buildings, which were separated by chained-off plots of grass. Wooden benches lined the paths. Mance sat watching the door of the settlement house. When he saw Peter at the door window, he stood up.
Peter opened the door. “Why don’t you come back inside?”
“I’m going home!”
Peter stepped through the door. “What do you want to do that for?”
“I’m going home!” His fists were clenched; he was yelling.
Peter came partway down the front stairs, speaking softly. “Come on, Mance, don’t…”
He had gotten too close and the boy was running. Peter trotted after him, closing the space between them. He did not want to catch and drag him back, knowing it would be better to convince the boy to return of his own free will. They ran past a brown woman wheeling a baby carriage, shouting at a toddler clinging to her skirts, past a seated old man leaning his white-whiskered chin on his cane, past a group of young girls chanting and skipping rope. Finally, Mance neared the curb, the outer boundary of the project, and without looking, darted out into the street, avoiding cars, the drivers startled behind their windshields, stopping only when he had reached the other side.
Peter waited until the cars passed, then started across. “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
Mance watched Peter drawing closer to him until they were only five steps apart, then began to run again, along the sidewalks now, in front of the brownstone houses’ high stairs, occupied by Negro men and women sitting in undershirts and housecoats. They ran around groups of conversing brown people, through mobs of playing children. Peter could see Mance was tiring now, his thin legs growing heavy and wobbly.
Peter slowed to a walk. Mance looked over his shoulder, and began to walk himself. “Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Peter was shouting; several people turned around. He felt foolish.
“I don’t like painting pictures!” They were still walking, a distance now of two cars between them.
“We aren’t going to paint pictures all day.”
Mance stopped. “What was we going to do?”
They stood shouting at each other. “I don’t know—we were going to the park and play some ball.”
“Who wants to do that?”
Peter wondered if Mance would sit down if he did, and moved back to some empty steps behind him. “We’re taking trips downtown and on the Staten Island ferry, and to the car show.” He saw Mance Bedlow’s face flicker with interest, but did not know exactly what had interested him. He guessed. “You like cars?”
“When you got a car nobody can mess with you.” Mance inched closer. He was standing in the gutter directly in front of Peter. “One of these days I’ll hit the number and buy me a Cadillac and won’t nobody mess with me.” He was staring at the middle of the sidewalk.
Peter wanted to keep this conversation going and grabbed at a question. “What color car will you get?”
“I’m getting me a black one, with air conditioning and a radio.” He was in the middle of the sidewalk now. “Some niggers run out and get white Cadillacs; they get dirty and look jive. But I’m getting me a black one, and even when it dirty it’ll still look good.” He paused for an instant. “I’ll get in that car and nobody’ll mess with me and I’ll go away.”
Peter was tempted to ask why Mance wanted to go away, but he suspected the boy would balk. “Why did you want to go home?”
“I told you—I don’t want to paint no pictures.”
“Well, you don’t have to. You can do something else when the other guys are painting.”
“What?” His chin was lifted high.
“I don’t know. You decide.” Peter got up, planning something new. Mance backed up. “Look, I’d like you to come back. You don’t have to, of course, but I do, because I’m taking the other guys to the park.” Peter descended the steps. Mance had retreated to the gutter. “Why don’t you come along? We’ll have a good time.” Peter knew he was overacting but he did not think Mance would see it. “Well, so long. I hope you come back.” He started up the street.
He walked slowly, not turning around and came to a store, the window of which was slanted so he could see behind himself. At a distance of three cars, Mance was following him. Peter smiled to himself, a little proud. Perhaps, he had broken through.
* * *
—
PETER SOON FOUND it was not that easy. Mance ran out two times that afternoon, racing in a different direction each time. Contrary to the declaration—“I’m going home!”—he never seemed to be heading toward any particular place. He simply ran until he got tired, or until Peter could engage him in conversation. Between flights he talked to no one. He would seem as engrossed as the other boys, then suddenly, he would bolt.
At the end of the day, alone now, Peter had a chance to read Mance Bedlow’s report. Two things particularly interested him. The first was that Mance had a recurring nightmare: He would be standing with his parents on a grassy mound. He would be quite happy. A wolf would appear then, and, snapping at his legs, would drive him off the mound, away from his parents. He would try to outsmart the wolf by running around to the other side of the mound to sneak to the top again. But the wolf would always get there before him and keep him away.
The second thing was that Mance lived in the Bronx. Yet, though the settlement house was in Manhattan, when he ran away, he never went anywhere near the subway.
Next day, Peter had the boys paint animals. Predictably, Mance painted a wolf standing on top of a mound of grass. Peter stood watching. “What’s that?” He tried to give the question no weight.
“That’s my wolf.” Mance seemed indignant. �
�Didn’t they tell you about my wolf? They all know about it—all the people here.”
Peter was startled by the answer, but went on as he had planned. “They didn’t tell me about him.”
“Hell, they should-a. He’s important. I got this wolf, see? I dream about him most every night and…” He stopped short. “You’re jiving me. You know all about my wolf.”
Peter shook his head. “No. No, I don’t know a thing about it.”
Mance tilted his head, studying Peter. “Then,” he started slowly, “you are one stupid bastard and I ain’t wasting my time telling you.” He stood up, rather slowly this time. “I’m going home.” He did not even bother to run; he ambled.
Peter stood fighting anger, waited until he had calmed himself before he followed, catching up to the boy in a small playground at the other end of the project. He was still a bit angry, but remembered all the director had told him, and all he had learned from the report. He told himself again that a counselor was supposed to be a good example for boys like Mance. He fixed a gentle look on his face, but before he could say anything, Mance was coming toward him. “You go to college?”
“Yes, I do.” Peter sat down and was surprised when the boy sat beside him, quite close.
“What they teach you there?” The boy was genuinely interested. Peter wished he knew what turn his mind had taken.
“I guess the same things you learn, only harder.” Mance Bedlow’s interest in his personal affairs was a good sign.
“You ever get into any fights there?” Mance was inspecting Peter’s hands.
“No, I don’t.” Peter had the unsettling feeling his answers were all wrong.
“What happens when somebody robs your stuff?”
“Nobody does.” In front of them, two small boys were pretending to be airplanes.
Mance scowled. “Don’t nobody hate you at college?”
“I hope not.” Peter chuckled. “I don’t think so.”
“Must be a jive place.” He stood up. “I guess you want me to go back, huh?”
“Yes, I do.” Peter did not know what to make of all this.
“Okay. I’ll save you a speech. Come on.” Mance started toward the settlement house, Peter following obediently.
* * *
—
MANCE DID NOT run away again. But as the weeks went by, Peter realized this was not a sign of progress. Mance got along no better with the rest of the boys. He got into his share of fights. But despite these brief signs of involvement, Peter knew Mance was lonely and unhappy. It seemed that he knew he had to attend the day camp, and had decided to endure it, but no more. Even Peter’s success with the other boys did not balance the disappointment of having failed with Mance Bedlow.
Peter did not know if it was this failure, or simply the demands the entire group made on him, but he began to get more tense, more tired, and more frustrated. When he arrived home at night, he would skip dinner with his parents, go to his room, and sleep. He could not rid himself of his tight feelings and could not show them to the boys, and so after six weeks of hiding them, each day was harder to get through. He was fighting anger all the time.
In the afternoons, if they had not gone on a trip, Peter would take his boys to the project’s large playground, which was used not only by the settlement house, but by all of the children, boys, and young men in the neighborhood. One hot, humid day, the air conditioner had burned out and the room had steamed, forcing sweat down the dark faces of his boys, staining their shirts. Peter took them to the playground an hour early; Mance as usual tagged behind.
Peter organized seven of the boys into a game of basketball, leaving Mance to wander the playground alone. Then he sat down to watch, mopping himself with an already damp and wilted handkerchief.
The game would have been laughable if Peter had felt like laughing. The boys’ shots either did not reach the backboard or went over it. Instead of dribbling, they ran, and when one had the ball, the others, no matter what team, descended on him like a mob. Even so, they seemed to be having a good time.
Peter did not see the older boys until it was too late. They were standing at the far end of the court, watching and laughing. They wore tight dark pants, button-down shirts in browns and wine-red, and thin brimmed hats.
George, his bald head glistening with sweat, threw the wild pass. It bounced down the court and was caught by one of the older boys, who began to dribble it, neatly, between his legs. George ran down the court after it, yelling: “Hey, man! Hey! Give me that ball!”
The older boy, thin and dark, ignored him, continued to bounce the ball, low and hard, behind his back.
“Hey, man, give me the ball!” George stood ten feet away, watching, and after asking for the ball once more, charged the boy, who, laughing, passed the ball to one of his friends.
George did not change direction. He was swinging his fists wildly, his blows falling on the boy’s thighs and stomach. Peter was up now, running down the court, telling George to stop. Just as Peter reached them, the older boy stopped laughing, stepped back, and punched George square in the face, knocking him to the ground, where he burst into fuming tears.
Peter, whose only aim until then had been to retrieve the ball and to stop George, found himself flying at the boy, a loud rushing, like heavy rain, filling his ears, his fists clenched. He caught the boy by surprise with a punch on the ear, and when the boy turned, shocked, followed through with two punches to the stomach and one to the eye. The boy stumbled, and backed up, holding his eye. “Hey, man, what you do that for?”
Peter was screaming. “What did you hit that kid for?”
“Awh, man, I was only playing.” The boy was still backing up. His friends stood behind him, timidly, not looking at him.
“Well, you play someplace else or I’ll break your ass for you!” Peter marched forward and took the ball from the boy who was holding it. Then suddenly he realized what he had done. He spun around and found his boys in a group, staring at him, their mouths open. To one side of them, his hands in his pockets, a scowl on his face, stood Mance Bedlow.
Avoiding their gaze, Peter helped George up and hurried his boys back to the settlement house, where he let them go home immediately though it was a half hour early. He sat alone in the room, smoking, thinking how he would repair the damage he had done. All summer, he had tried to build an image they could see and perhaps copy; he had tried to show them there were people in the world who were completely different from their aggressive, brutal fathers and brothers. In ten seconds, he had destroyed six weeks’ work, and now he could not discover a way to salvage himself in their eyes.
As he was just about to push open the front door, he saw Mance sitting on one of the benches in front of the settlement house. He was still scowling.
Peter did not want to speak to him; he pushed open the door quickly and waved: “Good night, Mance.” He walked as fast as he could.
Behind him, he heard running footsteps. “You learn to fight like that in college?”
“No!” He stopped now, and spun on his heels, expecting to find the boy taunting him. The boy’s face was blank. Peter changed his tone. “No, I didn’t. Look, Mance, it’s not good to settle things by—”
Mance cut him off. “Where’d you learn to fight?”
Peter sighed. “I don’t know—I guess my father taught me.” He started to walk again.
Mance tagged along at his elbow. “What do he do?”
“My father? He’s a doctor.”
“And he really taught you how to fight?” Mance did not seem to believe him.
“That’s right.” They were out of the project now, almost to the corner where Peter waited for his bus. He hoped one would come soon.
“You mean, doctors really get in fights?”
He looked up the block for the bus. “Sometimes. I guess sometimes everybody ge
ts into a fight.”
“Just like me.”
Something in the boy’s tone forced Peter to look at him. Mance was staring at him. “When I was a kid I wanted to be a doctor.”
Peter was about to speak, when behind him, he heard the gasping of a bus door. He turned around uncertain whether to get on. This was too good to let slip.
“He leaving without you. You better get on.”
Peter did as the boy directed. After he had paid his fare and found a seat, and the bus had begun to move, he looked out of the window, back to the bus stop and saw Mance Bedlow, standing on tiptoes, his hand just at ear level, waving him a timid, tentative good-by.
A Good Long Sidewalk
THE BARBERSHOP WAS warm enough to make Carlyle Bedlow sleepy, and smelled of fragrant shaving soap. A fat man sat in the great chair, his stomach swelling beneath the striped cloth. Standing behind him in a white, hair-linted tunic which buttoned along one shoulder, Garland, the barber, clacked his scissors. Garland’s hair was well kept, his sideburns cut off just where his wire eye-glasses passed back to his ears. “Hello, Carlyle. How you doing?” He looked over the tops of his glasses. “So you decided to let me make a living, huh?”
“Yes, sir.” Carlyle smiled. He liked Garland.
“Taking advantage of Bronx misery?”
“Sir?”
“I mean when folks is having trouble getting their cars dug out, you making money shoveling Bronx snow.”
“Oh. Yes, sir.” Garland was always teasing him because Carlyle’s family had moved recently from Harlem to this neighborhood in the Bronx. He maintained Carlyle thought the Bronx was full of hicks.
“Okay. You’re next. I’ll take some of that snow money from you.” He returned to the fat man’s head.
Carlyle leaned his shovel in the corner, stamped his feet, took off his jacket, sat down in a wire-backed chair, and picked up a comic book. He had already read it, and put it down to watch the barber shave the fat man’s neck with the electric clippers.
Dancers on the Shore Page 14
