Mr. Le Rois glances from Armstrong to me.
“What number we up to, Charlie?”
“Twenty, sir,” I say.
I count out loud the rest of the way to twenty-five.
· 18 ·
Different and the Same
Armstrong
AFTER WE FINISH—and by “we,” I mean Ross and me—cleaning the kitchen floor, I take him and Patches for a walk along Fifty-third Street, past the corner store where I bought my Ho Hos, and over to Morgan Avenue. We go by a garden wall that’s been painted sky blue and filled with colorful birds.
Ross stops to look. “That’s a nice mural,” he says.
“You’ll have to tell my sister Cecily,” I say, “when you meet her.”
We walk on some more. Past houses that aren’t being looked after and some that are. This one belongs to Mr. and Mrs. Wong. The yard’s got daisies and grass and not a single weed.
“Nika and Ebony did the weeding on that one,” I say. “And me and Lenai put in those beans across the street.” I point to where some beanstalks are coming up.
“You work for those people?”
“I work for myself. The people are my clients, Ross. Here’s my card.”
I hand him one of the cards Cecily helped me design. My logo is a wheelbarrow full of flowers and tools. Across the top it says ARMSTRONG’S ODDS & ENDS.
“Come on,” I say, “I’ll show you the best house of all.”
Near the end of the block we come to a house with a painted wood fence and a bright garden in front. Good curb appeal. There’s an indestructible porch wrapped around that home, and the windows all have fresh caulking so they won’t leak. On the south side, where the most sun shines, is a small vegetable garden with young tomato plants, green beans, and kale growing.
“Know whose house this is?” I say.
Ross just shakes his head.
“Mine.”
“Yours?”
“Mr. Khalil left it to me. That’s why he was training me so hard in maintenance and repairs. My daddy and I are fixing it up so we can rent it out.”
Ross is looking at the house like he doubts I’m for real.
“For real?” he says.
I hold up my key.
Charlie
Armstrong unlocks the door and pushes it open. I just stand there, a little awkward because I never met his old friend Mr. Khalil. He might not want a stranger in his house.
But Armstrong says, “Really, Ross, he would want you to come in.”
So I follow him inside.
In the living room Armstrong shows me some old black-and-white pictures of Mr. Khalil when he was young. In one he’s on a stage and holding up a skull.
“He never had that out when he was alive, but my mama and I found it in this old box he kept. The box had one word on it: THEATER. Inside we saw programs and reviews of the plays he acted in. And he was good, too.”
Armstrong opens the drawer of an old wooden table, moves some papers around, then says, “Look at this!”
He holds up a scrap of yellow newspaper with a headline: “Solomon Khalil Is This Season’s Best Hamlet, Uptown or Down.”
“After his acting days, Mr. Khalil went on to be a teacher. That’s how come you see so many books on the wall.”
More like walls. I stand there looking at the three walls of books in the room. There must be more than a thousand.
“You’re welcome to borrow one,” Armstrong says, “as long as you fill out the card.”
He shows me a small wooden box like a librarian would have. Inside it’s got a few index cards filled out. I look at the names on them: Cecily, Nika, Ebony, Lenai, Charmaine.
“My sisters are my only patrons so far. So feel free if something grabs your eye. That’s the shelf of kids’ books over there.”
He points to one shelf, and I glance through the titles. There are classics like The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Kidnapped, and Treasure Island. Fantasy books like A Wrinkle in Time and The Hobbit. A book called Tales from Shakespeare and one called The Iliad. So many titles, I can’t choose.
“Try this one,” Armstrong says, handing me The Outsiders.
“What’s it about?”
“Well, there’s these three boys living on their own because their parents died in a crash. They’re part of a gang called the Greasers, and they go against the rich kids in town. There’s some violence in it, and some poetry, and a nice friendship between two boys. I think you’ll like it, Ross. But I got to warn you it’s sad.”
“Does somebody die?”
“I’ll just say it’s a book that tells the truth.”
He makes me fill out a card with my name and the title.
We go outside into Armstrong’s garden. “The lemon tree and avocado tree, those were Mr. Khalil’s idea. He always said it’s nice if you can eat from your own yard. I might try artichokes in the fall. It’s the right climate zone, you know.”
“Where’d you learn so much about gardening?”
“My library. And my friend.”
“There’s something different about you,” I say.
“Since when?”
“Since he died. You seem … I don’t know … older.”
Armstrong taps his cheek a few times. “He told me not to grieve him when he’s gone. When somebody you feel close to passes, he said, a little piece of them stays behind in you.”
We walk around to the porch and sit in two chairs. Patches chases a bird, then gets distracted by his ball. He brings it to Armstrong, who throws it for him. “Your daddy,” Armstrong says, “he okay?”
“He’s been sleeping in Andy’s room. He has nightmares sometimes.”
“Like The Flashbacks. My daddy gets them all the time. Try not to leave him alone when they come.”
The sun goes down behind a tall tree in front. We just sit there watching it like we own the place. And the funny thing is, one of us does.
Armstrong
At home the kitchen has been invaded by females finally back from school. Cecily is going on about how she hates algebra. Charmaine is telling Daddy to fix her a snack and being told to fix her own, but when he looks at the twigs she’s got for arms, it’s not long before he’s spreading peanut butter on bread. Nika and Ebony work a pair of click-clacks. Lenai is putting an upside-down fudge cake into the oven. That used to be my favorite kind of cake. Now it’s tied with the Neverfail.
Lenai notices Ross right away. “You must be Armstrong’s friend from Wonderland,” she says, all polite like a firstborn ought to be.
Then she looks at me like I’m doing something wrong.
“Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
“Ross,” I say, “these are my sisters. Sisters, this is Ross.”
“Charlie, actually,” he says. “Ross is my last name.”
Charmaine looks at him.
“Charlie’s a nice name for a boy. I’m Charmaine.”
Pretty soon Charlie Ross is surrounded by girls.
“I’m Ebony.”
“Nika.”
“Cecily.”
“Lenai.”
He shakes hands with all five. Then I hear Nika and Ebony giggling and whispering together like they’re up to no good.
“How come you’re so cute, Charlie Ross?” Ebony says.
“I didn’t know I was,” Ross says.
“That’s even cuter.”
Ebony lays her dreamy eyes on him. “He spending the night?”
“I doubt it,” I say. “He sneaked onto the bus. In for a huge whipping when his daddy finds out.”
“Your father doesn’t know where you are?” Daddy says.
Ross shakes his head. Daddy hands him the wall phone.
Charlie
I dial Ross Rents. Gwynne answers and puts me right through to my dad. He asks “where in God’s name” I am. “Your mother is out of her mind with worry.”
All of a sudden I feel terrible. I should have at least called Mom.
I tell
him I’m fine. I tell him I’m safe. With Armstrong.
“WHAT?! YOU’RE WHERE?!”
“Armstrong’s house.”
There’s a long silence on the other end.
“Dad?”
He asks for the address. I relay it to him from Mr. Le Rois. Dad says he’ll pick me up after work. That’s all he says before hanging up.
“Everything okay?” Mr. Le Rois asks.
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “No problem. He’ll come get me after six.”
In the living room, Armstrong shows me this wooden box he made. It’s got a slit in the top and a corked hole on the side.
On the front, in his small boxy printing, is a rhyme:
Cussing ain’t the nicest thing,
And friends for you it sure don’t bring.
But if you really gotta say ’em,
Here’s the way you hafta pay ’em:
A mild cuss is just a dime.
A barroom cuss costs a quarter.
For awful cusses you really oughter
Put in the box at least a dollar.
“You raised the prices!” I say.
“Like a good entrepreneur. And the way my sisters talk, Cuss Box is getting rich.”
We sit on the floor and open a big bin of wooden toys. We make a little city together, with couch cushions, books, and train tracks winding through. Mr. Le Rois, who apparently can build anything with his hands, has made his kids a world of wood. Locomotives, boxcars, miniature benches, tables, and trees that hold our interest longer than Hot Wheels ever could.
But I’m having a hard time living in our fantasy town. Around every corner, in every saloon, I keep thinking I’ll run into an angry sheriff—my dad. What’s he going to do to punish me this time? I went against his will. He’ll say I wasn’t thinking yet again.
But I was thinking this time. Because when we get home tonight, he’ll have to tell Mom what happened. He’ll have to tell her what he made me promise not to. I don’t care what the punishment is. It’s worth it if he’ll finally tell.
At 5:30 Patches leaps onto the couch. Armstrong’s dad steps into the living room smelling like Windex and wearing his artificial leg. One by one the sisters come in too. Nika—her headband is blue and Ebony’s is green—announces, “Mama’s home,” and now Lenai comes in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, and Ebony looks up from her schoolbooks, and Cecily turns off her calculator, and Charmaine stands up as the front door opens, and in steps Gracie Le Rois.
She wears a white nurse’s uniform, wrinkly at the end of a long day. She sets down a shopping bag and hugs her family one at a time.
Mr. Le Rois gets the last hug. The longest, too.
“We’ve got ourselves a guest for dinner,” he says.
She sees me over his shoulder. “Armstrong,” she teases, “did you pick up another stray dog?”
“No, Mama. It’s Ross. He followed me home from school.”
She smiles at me. “Hello, Charlie.”
I tell her that my father is on his way to pick me up.
“There’s room at our table if he wants to join us,” she says.
She goes down the hall and soon I hear running water through the walls. A few minutes later, Lenai and the twins put the dinner on the table. Armstrong’s oldest sister made corn-flake chicken using crushed cereal instead of bread crumbs. And she made green beans from Armstrong’s garden, mashed potatoes, and a salad.
Mrs. Le Rois comes to dinner wearing a bright green dress with yellow flowers on it. There is one empty spot at the table, just like she said, and I’m hoping that when my dad shows up, he’ll come inside and sit there.
We’ve just sat down when I hear hah honk honk, hah honk honk honk, hah hah honk honk hah hah.
“It’s my dad,” I say. I get up and walk over to the window.
“Invite him in,” Teddy Le Rois says.
At the window, I pull back the curtain and see my father sitting in the Buick. I wave to get his attention. He looks through the windshield at me. I motion for him to come inside.
He grabs a larger piece of air and throws it at the seat next to him.
“Is he coming in?” Armstrong’s mom asks.
I stand there seeing my dad through two panes of glass. They’re like a telescope turned the wrong way around. He seems farther away than he really is.
Over by the table, everyone is still.
In the car, my father hooks more air, a double grab this time. His finger points to the passenger seat.
I stand at the window. I’m made of stone.
Armstrong
This is what Mr. Khalil would call an “impasse.” That’s two opinions that don’t agree, and neither one’s about to budge.
Charlie
He honks again, two angry blasts. I can feel that sound inside my chest. I can feel it in my feet. But they don’t move.
Armstrong
I hope he’s not planning to die inside that car. Then Charlie Ross will grow up to be a man inside my house—and we don’t have a rollaway for him to sleep on. Nika reaches for a piece of chicken. Daddy swats her hand away.
Charlie
Please, Dad.
Armstrong
The trouble with these white people is they’re stubborn. A daddy tree stump and his son.
“Armstrong, where are you going?”
“Outside to talk to Papa Ross. Before we die of hunger, or he dies of old age.”
I don’t know what happens past page forty-five of that book Otis was reading, but if I could receive a visit from ghosts right now, there’s two I’d like by my side. One is Mr. Khalil, who would help me find the right words to say.
The other is Andy Ross, who would help Papa Ross to hear.
I tap on the passenger-side window of the Buick. It rolls partway down.
“Hello, Armstrong,” Papa Ross says. “Would you tell Charlie to come on out, please? We have to get home. There’s a lot of traffic on the freeway.”
“It usually quiets down after seven, Mr. Ross. Besides, we have plenty of food and my parents would really like it if you would join us for dinner.”
“Charlie’s mom will already have dinner going. Thank your mother for the invitation. Just tell Charlie to come on out.”
Now I reach my hand inside the window and lift up the lock. I open the door, get in, and pull the door shut.
I hear a click. I glance down and see that the door just locked from the driver’s side. The window goes up again.
“The thing is, Mr. Ross, his feet are pretty much stuck to the floor.”
I don’t know if it’s right or wrong what I’m about to say. But the words just come.
“Charlie told me what happened to you. He needed to tell.”
Papa Ross’s hands hold tight to the steering wheel. Eyes hold tight to the street.
“And I am so sorry for it.”
His head doesn’t turn.
“You know,” I say, “the night before my first bus ride to your neighborhood, my mama told me we’re different and the same. I didn’t believe that. But now I know she’s right. You and Mrs. Ross lost a son. Charlie lost a brother. I lost my old friend. That’s different and the same. Plus, we both got fear. I’m scared someone will pull a gun on me too. Probably it’ll be a boy in a gang or a man with a badge. But the fear we carry, that’s the same.”
His hands drop from the steering wheel to his lap.
“Papa Ross, won’t you please come inside our home and eat with my family? It would mean a lot to Charlie. A lot to me, too.”
There’s a long stretch of quiet, and then a click as the door locks jump back up.
Charlie
After what feels like forever, Armstrong walks in. He walks in with my dad.
“Have you ever tried upside-down fudge cake, Papa Ross?”
“No, Armstrong, I never have.”
“Well, get your quarter ready. It’s that good.”
Dad wipes his feet on the welcome mat. He looks at me.<
br />
“We’re staying for dinner, Charlie, if that’s okay with you.”
“Yes, Dad. I’d like that.”
He steps into the house and says hello to Armstrong’s parents and his sisters. Then he asks to use the phone. He dials Mom to tell her where we are. I hear him say, “Armstrong’s house” twice, adding, “I’ll explain later. I’ll tell you everything later.”
He says it to my mom, but he’s looking straight at me.
We join the family at the table. Me between Nika and Ebony, my dad between Teddy and Gracie Le Rois.
The food gets passed around, and everyone helps themselves. But I don’t have to. Nika scoops mashed potatoes onto my plate from one side, and Ebony adds green beans from the other. I try to tell them I’ve got enough, but they just keep piling it on.
Across the table, Armstrong is waiting for the mashed potatoes and green beans to be passed to him. His eyes bounce between his sisters and me. I just shrug.
Then I hear Teddy Le Rois say to my dad, “That was Morse code your horn blew, wasn’t it?”
“You recognized it?”
“A call for soldiers back to base. Dah dit dit, dah dah dit dit, dah dah dit dit dah dah. I was a field commander in Korea. With the Seventy-seventh Engineering Corps.”
“I was a radioman, third class, in Japan.”
Armstrong
Different. And the same.
· 19 ·
Ten Pictures
Charlie
MY PARENTS STAY UP LATE TALKING. I listen to the sound of their voices through the wall. Mom’s goes up and down, fast and slow, soft and loud. Dad’s stays steady through all the sharp turns.
At one point she yells, “I’M HIS MOTHER! YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME!”
Then I hear his voice, then hers. His, then hers.
No more yelling. Just vibrations through the wall.
After that it’s quiet.
After that I fall asleep.
In the morning, I wake up to Mom sitting on the edge of my bed.
“Charlie,” she says. “I’m so sorry I didn’t know.”
I yawn and rub the sleep from my eyes. “He said you had enough to deal with,” I tell her. “He said we shouldn’t add one more thing.”
“That was wrong. I should have known. You needed me to know.”
Armstrong and Charlie Page 18
