Corky's Brother

by Jay Neugeboren

  “Sure,” I said. “Sure.”

  “I had some things to take care of—you know?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Man, you know you’re itching to ask me what?” He laughed. “You are deep. I’ll be back Monday.”

  That was all. On Monday, as he’d promised, he returned to school and came to visit me in my room at three o’clock. We talked for a while about the way the pennant race was going, and then he said, “Okay, let’s cut the jazz, man. I got something to say to you.” He seemed very intense about it and I told him that I was listening carefully. He pointed a finger at me. “Now, we stopped our sessions, right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  “And the day after we stopped, I began to play the hook for three straight weeks, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. Now you can tell me it ain’t so, but I’ll bet you’ll be thinking it was your fault. It ain’t. If you want the truth, I ain’t done a stick of work all term for any teacher—so don’t go thinking that I stopped being a good student cause we stopped our meetings.” He let out a long breath.

  “I’m glad you told me,” I said.

  “Shit, man,” he said, getting up and going to the door. “Don’t say anything, huh? Why you got to say something all the time?” He came toward me. “Why?’ He was almost screaming and I slid my chair back from the desk. He shook his head frantically. “Why, man?” he said. He reached into his side pocket and I started to stand up. Abruptly, he broke into laughter. “Oh man, you are deep! You are just so deep!” He clapped his hands and laughed at me some more. “Ra-ta-tat-tatl” he said as he banged on a desk. “You’re real sweet, man! Just so sweet! Ra-ta-tat-tat! Comin down the street!” He sat down in one of the seats. “But don’t you worry none. I got seven liberry cards now and books growing out the ceiling. I got a liberry card for Luther King and one for Luther Queen and one for Luther Prince and one for Luther Jones and one for Luther Smith and one for Luther Mays and one for Luther B. Carter.” He banged on the top of the desk with his fist, then drummed with his fingers again. “But don’t you worry none—ra-ta-tat-tat—just don’t you worry—”

  “I’m not,” I said.

  “That’s all,” he said, and dashed out of the room.

  He attended classes regularly for about two weeks and then disappeared again for a week. He returned for a few days, stayed away, returned. The pattern continued. In the halls when we saw each other he would always smile and ask if I was worrying and I would tell him I wasn’t. Once or twice, when he was absent, he telephoned me at home and asked me what was new at school. He got a big charge out of this. Then another time, I remember, he came riding through the schoolyard on a bicycle during sixth period, when I was on patrol. “Don’t report me, man!” he yelled, and rode right back out, waving and shouting something in Spanish that made everybody laugh.

  Near the end of May, the assistant principal in charge of the eighth grade called me into his office. He knew I was friendly with Luther, he said, and he thought that I might talk to the boy. For the past six or seven months, he told me, Luther had been in and out of juvenile court. “Petty thefts,” the assistant principal explained. I wasn’t surprised; Luther had hinted at this many times. I’d never pressed him about it, however, not wanting to destroy our relationship by lecturing him. The assistant principal said he didn’t care whether I said anything to Luther or not. In fact, he added, he would have been just as happy to get rid of him—but before he was shipped off to a 600 school or put away somewhere else, he wanted to give me an opportunity to do what I could. More for me, he said, than for Luther.

  About a week after this, on a Friday, Luther telephoned me.

  “How’ve you been?” I asked.

  “Superb, man,” he said. “Hey, listen—we ain’t been seeing much of each other lately, have we?”

  “No—”

  “No. Okay. Listen—I got two tickets to see the Giants play tomorrow. You want to come?” I didn’t answer immediately. “Come on—yes or no—tickets are going fast—”

  “I’d like to,” I said. “Yes. Only—only I was wondering where you got the money for the tickets.” I breathed out, glad I had said it.

  Luther just laughed. “Oh man, you’re not gonna be like that, are you? You been listening to too many stories again. That judge from the court must of been gassing with you. Tell you what—you come to the game and I’ll tell you where I got the tickets. A deal?”

  “A deal.”

  “Meet you in front of the school at eleven o’clock—I like to get there early to see Willie go through batting practice. Batting practice—that’s more fun than the game sometimes. You know?”

  He was waiting for me when I got there a few minutes before eleven the following day. “Let’s go,” he said, flourishing the tickets. “But don’t ask me now, man—let’s enjoy the game first. Okay?”

  I did enjoy the game. The Giants were playing the Cardinals and to Luther’s delight Willie Mays had one of his better days, going three-for-four at bat, and making several brilliant plays in the field. For most of the game I was truly relaxed. Along about the eighth inning, however, I began to think about the question again—to wonder when would be the best time to ask it. Luther, it seemed, had forgotten all about it. The Giants were winning 5-2.

  “Oh man,” he said. “If only that Musial don’t do something, we’re home free. Look at Willie!” he exclaimed. “Ain’t he the greatest that ever lived. He is just so graceful! You know? How you like to see a team of Willie Mayses out there? Wow!” Wes Westrum, the Giant catcher, grounded out, short to first, and the eighth inning was over. “One to go, one to go,” Luther said. Then he jabbed me in the arm with his finger. “Hey, listen—I been thinking. Instead of an All-Star game every year between the leagues, what they ought to do one year is have the white guys against our guys. What you think?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Sure,” he said. “Listen—we got Willie in center. Then we put Aaron in right and Doby in left. He’s got the raw power. Some outfield, huh? Then we got Campy catching and Newcombe pitching. You can’t beat that. That Newcombe—he’s a mean son-of-a-bitch, but he throws. Okay. I been thinking about this a long time—” He used his fingers to enumerate. He was excited, happy. “At first base we put Luke Easter, at second Junior Gilliam, at short Ernie Banks, and at third base we bring in old Jackie Robinson, just to give the team a little class—you know what I mean? Man, what a line-up! Who could you match it with?”

  When I said I didn’t know, Luther eyed me suspiciously. “C’mon—Musial, Mantle, Williams, Spahn—you name ’em and I’ll match ’em, man for man, your guys against ours.” He stopped and cheered as a Cardinal popped out to Whitey Lockman at first. “What’s the matter—don’t you like the idea? Ha! Face it, man, we’d wipe up the field with you. Swish! Swish!” He laughed and slapped me on the knee. “Hey, I know what’s bugging you, I bet—” He leaned toward me, cupping his hand over his mouth, and whispered in my ear. “Tell the truth now, would you have ever offered to help me if I wasn’t colored?”

  “Would I—?” I stopped. “Sure,” I said. “Of course I would. Of course—”

  Luther smiled, triumphantly, dubiously.

  “Look,” I said. “As long as we’re asking questions, let me ask you something.”

  “About the tickets, right?”

  “No,” I said. “Forget the tickets. No long lectures, either. Just a question. Just one: how come you steal?”

  “Oh man,” he said, laughing. “That’s an easy one! Because I’m not getting what I want and when you don’t get what you want, man, you got to take. Don’t you know that?”

  I stared at him, not sure I had heard right. He winked at me. “Enjoy the ball game, man! Say hey, Willie!” he shouted as Mays caught a fly ball, bread-basket style, for the second out. “Ain’t he the sweetest!”

  A minute later the game was over and the players were racing across the field towa
rd the clubhouse in center field, trying to escape the fans who scrambled after them. “They won’t get Willie,” Luther said. “He’s too swift, too swift.”

  When we were outside, I thanked Luther and told him how much I’d enjoyed the game. “How about a Coke or something?” I offered.

  “Nah,” he said. “I got things to do.” He extended his hand quickly and I shook it, the first time we had ever done that. “Okay. You go get spiffed up and get a wife. Time you were married.” He tossed his head back and laughed. “Ain’t you married yet? No, no. Smile, man—how you gonna get a wife, never smiling.” He started away, through the crowd. “Stay loose,” he called back. “Don’t steal no fruits.”

  I never questioned him again about stealing, but even if I’d wanted to, I wouldn’t have had much opportunity. He didn’t come to see me very often the rest of that year. When he returned to school in September of 1958 for his last year of junior high school, he had grown again. But not up. He never did go higher than the five-five or five-six he had reached by that time. He had taken up weightlifting over the summer, however, and his chest, his neck, his arms—they had all broadened incredibly. Instead of the dirty cotton and flannel shirts he had worn the two previous years, he now walked through the halls in laundry-white T-shirts, the sleeves rolled up to the shoulder, his powerful muscles exposed. There were always a half-dozen Negro boys following him around and they all dressed the way he did—white T-shirts, black chino pants, leather wrist straps, and—hanging from their necks on pieces of string—miniature black skulls.

  The guidance counselor for the ninth grade came to me one day early in the term and asked me if I could give him any evidence against Luther. He claimed that Luther and his gang were going around the school, beating and torturing those students who refused to “loan” them money. All of the students, he said, were afraid to name Luther. “The kid’s a born sadist,” he added. I told him I didn’t know anything.

  The term progressed and the stories and rumors increased. I was told that the police in Luther’s neighborhood were convinced that he and his gang were responsible for a series of muggings. I tried not to believe it, but Luther all but gave me conclusive proof one afternoon right before Christmas. He came into my room at three o’clock, alone, and said he had something for me. He said he trusted me not to tell anybody about it or show it to anyone. I said I wouldn’t.

  “Okay, man—here it is—” His eyes leapt around the room, frenzied, delirious. He took a little card from his wallet. “You might need this sometime—but don’t ask me no questions. Ha! And don’t you worry none. I’m doing okay. Expanding all the time. Don’t you worry.” I took the card from him. “See you now, Mr. Carter. See you, see you.”

  He left and I looked at the card. Across the top was printed THE BLACK AVENGERS, and below it was written: “Don’t touch this white man. He’s okay.” It was signed by Luther and under his name he had drawn a skull and crossbones. I put the card in my wallet.

  In January, to no one’s great surprise, Luther was sent away to reform school in upstate New York. I was never exactly clear about the precise event that had led to it—the policeman assigned to our school said it had to do with brutally beating an old man; Luther’s friends said it had to do with getting caught in a gang war. They claimed the fight was clean but that the cops had framed Luther. There was nothing in the papers, Luther had not contacted me, and I did not find out about it all until he’d already been shipped off.

  I received a postcard from him that summer. It was brief.

  I hate it here. I can’t say anymore or they’ll beat shit out of me. I hate it. I’m reading some. I’ll visit you when I get out and we’ll have a session.

  I answered the card with a letter. I told him I was sorry about where he was and that I’d be glad to talk to him when-aver he wanted. I gave him some news of the school and included some current baseball clippings. I asked him if there was anything he needed and if there was anybody in his family fie wanted me to get in touch with. I told him that in return for the time he’d taken me to the baseball game I had ordered a subscription to Sport magazine for him.

  He replied with another postcard.

  Visiting day this summer is August 21. I’d like for you to come.

  When I arrived, he seemed glad to see me, but I remember that he was more polite than he had ever been before—and more subdued. I wondered, at the time, if they were giving him tranquillizers. I was only allowed an hour with him and we spent most of that time just walking around the grounds—the school was a work-farm reformatory—not saying anything.

  The visit, I could tell, was a disappointment to him. I don’t know what he expected of me, but whatever it was, I didn’t provide it. I wrote him a letter when I got home, telling him I had enjoyed seeing him and that I’d be glad to come again if he wanted me to. He didn’t answer it, and I heard no more from him for a year and a half.

  Then one day in the spring of 1961—just about the time of the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba, I remember—he popped into my room at school. He looked horrible. His face was unshaven, his clothes were filthy and ragged, his eyes were glazed. Underneath his clothes, his body had become flabby and he bent over noticeably when he walked. At first I didn’t recognize him.

  When I did, I was so glad to see him I didn’t know what to do. “Luther—for crying out loud!” I said, standing up and shaking his hand. “How the hell are you?”

  He smiled at me. “I’m superb, man—can’t you tell from looking at me?” He laughed then, and I laughed with him.

  “You’ve gotten older,” I said.

  “Past sixteen,” he said. “That means I don’t got to go to school no more—”

  He waited, but I didn’t offer an opinion. “How about going down with me and having a cup of coffee? I’m finished here for the day—just getting through with midterms.”

  “Nah,” he said, looking down and playing with his hands. “I gotta meet somebody. I’m late already. But I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d come let you know I was still alive.” He came to my desk and looked down. He shook his head as if something were wrong.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Don’t see no wedding ring on your finger yet.” He looked straight into my face. “Hey, man—you ain’t a fag, are you?”

  “No,” I said, laughing. “Not that I know of—”

  He laughed, his mouth opening wide. “Okay. That’s all the gas for today. I’ll see you, man.”

  During the next few months he visited me several times. Sometimes he looked good, sometimes bad—but I never could find out what he was doing with his days. He never gave a straight answer to my questions. More and more, I felt that he was asking me for some kind of help, but when I would touch on anything personal or even hint that I wanted to do something for him, with him, he would become defensive.

  I didn’t see him over the summer, but the following fall he came by periodically. He seemed to be getting a hold on himself and sometimes he would talk about going to night school. Nothing came of the talk, though. In November he was arrested and sent to Riker’s Island—to P.S. 616, the combination prison-school for boys between the ages of sixteen and twenty. His sentence was for eighteen months and during the first three months I visited him twice. Both times all he wanted to do was talk about the English class we had had and the stories and compositions he had made up. He said he was trying to remember some of them for the English teacher he had there, but couldn’t do it all the time. He seemed to be in terrible shape, and I didn’t have much hope for him.

  So I was surprised when I began getting postcards from him again. “I am studying hard,” the first one said. “There is a Negro who comes here to help me. I like him. I will be a new man when I come out. Yours sincerely, Luther.” It was neatly and carefully written. The ones that followed were the same and they came at regular intervals of about five weeks. He told me about books he was reading, most of them having to do with Negro history, and a
bout how he was changing. “Improving” was the word he used most.

  I answered his cards as best I could and offered to come see him again, but he never took up any of my offers. When his eighteen months were up, I expected a visit from him. He never came. Sometimes I wondered what had become of him, but after the first few months passed and I didn’t hear from him, I thought about him less and less. A year passed—two since we had last seen each other at Biker’s Island—and then we met again.

  I spotted him first. It was a beautiful summer night and I had gone up to Lewisohn Stadium for a concert. It had been good, I was relaxed and happy as I walked out of the stadium. Luther was standing at the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 138th Street. He was wearing a dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a tie. He was clean-shaven, his hair was cut short, and he looked healthy and bright. He was stopping people and trying to sell them newspapers.

  “How are you, Mr. Carter?” he asked when I walked up to him. His eyes were clear and he seemed very happy to see me. “Interested in buying a newspaper to help the colored people? Only a dime—”

  “No, thanks,” I said. The paper he was selling, as I’d expected, was Muhammad Speaks, the newspaper of the Black Muslims. “You look fine,” I added.

  “Thanks. Excuse me a second.” He turned and sold a copy to somebody. People snubbed him but this didn’t stop him from smiling or trying. I waited. When the crowd had gone, he asked me where I was going. “Home,” I said. “Cup of coffee first?”

  “No, thanks,” he said. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “When did all this start?” I asked, motioning to the newspapers.

  “At Riker’s Island,” he said. He put up a hand, as if to stop my thoughts from becoming words. “I know what you’re thinking, what you hear on TV and read in the newspapers about us—but don’t believe everything. We’re essentially a religious organization, as you may or may not know.”