145th Street

by Walter Dean Myers

  Everybody was busting to tell Mack about Kitty sitting in Duke’s place every day waiting for him to come down. The first thing that happened was that his mother came by and told Kitty that she was wasting her time.

  “You’re such a sweet girl,” Mrs. McCormick said. “But he’s so despondent he doesn’t want to do anything.”

  “That’s his problem,” Kitty said. “My problem is staying here waiting for him.”

  A guidance counselor came by and gave Kitty her sternest voice and shook several of her fingers at her. But Kitty wouldn’t budge and, as far as the school was concerned, it was a matter of were they going to suspend Kitty or let her finish and go on to college.

  Time went by and it was the third of March when Mack showed up at Duke’s place. It was a bitterly cold day, worsened by the wind that lifted the papers along the block and sent them flying across Malcolm X Boulevard. By this time Duke had gotten used to having Kitty there and they were sitting and chatting when the door opened and Mack came in. He was on crutches.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Duke said.

  “Do you want tea?” Kitty asked.

  Mack nodded and Kitty filled the kettle that Duke kept under the counter. Duke said he was going down the street to get some breakfast.

  “I’ll be back in an hour or so,” he said, glancing at Mack

  “So what is this all about?” Mack asked when they were alone.

  “I love you and I’m going to take care of you,” Kitty said. “And I don’t mind waiting until you let me.”

  “I don’t need you to take care of me,” Mack came back.

  “Honey, you look pitiful.” Kitty centered the pot on the burner.

  “That’s my problem,” Mack said. “Not yours.”

  “Then how come I’m the one that’s hurting so much inside?” Kitty asked him. “How come I spend so much time crying myself to sleep if it’s just your problem?”

  Mack was cool. He had his head to one side the way he did sometimes and narrowed his eyes. “You need to go back to school.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do,” Kitty said. “When I first told you, and everybody else in school, that I was loving you I didn’t need anyone to tell me how to do it. Or didn’t you notice?”

  Mack sat down on one of the chairs against the wall for the customers. Kitty brought him the tea and sat next to him. He did look pitiful. His face was thin and his skin was ashy. Kitty asked him how he was doing.

  “I’m getting by,” he said.

  “You want to go out sometime?”

  “No, let me tell you what I want to do.” Mack’s voice rose. “I want to lead my life the way I want to lead it without you or anybody else telling me what I need to do. That’s pretty clear, isn’t it?”

  “I guess that’s supposed to chump me off, right?”

  “Something like that,” Mack said.

  “Well, I guess it does in a way,” Kitty said. “But guess what, I’m going to be here tomorrow. And I’ll be waiting for you.”

  Kitty’s eyes watered over for a minute and she wiped them quickly and then lifted her face to Mack’s.

  Her face, as young and brown and pretty as any Mack had ever seen, that face looking into his touched him again with its soft boldness and the eyes that searched his so intently.

  Mack had a hard answer for her, but it choked him as he tried to get it out. He made a noise, something between a grunt and a croak, then stood quickly. He grabbed the crutches, knocking the teacup over.

  “I’ll get it,” Kitty said.

  Mack swung around and in a moment he was back on the block, heading for his own pad.

  When Duke came back Kitty had picked up the teacup. Duke looked at her and tried to read what happened without asking. Finally his curiosity got the better of him and he did ask.

  “Not much,” she said softly. “Not much.”

  Staying out of school for a week, even two weeks, was still within the sanity range. But when a month passed and Kitty still hadn’t gone to class the school began to threaten her parents. Duke knew some people on the school board and smoothed things over a bit, but he told Kitty that something had to break soon. Mack hadn’t been back to the shop but a funny thing happened, people were calling him and telling him he had to do something to help Kitty. It was on the ninth of March, a Monday, when Duke and Kitty found Mack sitting on the steps of the barbershop when they arrived.

  Mack was wearing an old army overcoat, and Duke noticed that he didn’t have his crutches with him.

  “You okay, boy?” Duke asked.

  “No.”

  Kitty pushed in front of Duke and knelt next to Mack. “It’s cold out here,” she said. “Let’s go inside.”

  Duke watched them go inside the barbershop and shook his head. He loved his granddaughter and respected her, but he was worried, more than worried, even afraid.

  Inside the barbershop Kitty helped Mack to one of the barber chairs.

  “Peewee called last night and said you were getting messed around over this thing and needed my help,” Mack said.

  “And you came down to help me.” Kitty put her fingertips against Mack’s cheek.

  “I came down full of big things to say.” Mack looked away. “I got this little temporary foot they give me. It’s strapped onto my leg under my pants. I was going to walk in here and be the man and talk a lot of good-doing stuff to you.”

  “Run it, Mack,” Kitty took his hand. “You talk all that good-doing stuff and I’ll listen to you.”

  “Kitty, I fell three times on the way over here.” The tears flooded from Mack’s eyes onto his cheeks. “I’m being a big man trying to help you and I can’t walk two lousy blocks. I can’t be a man to you. I just can’t. . . .”

  His sobs filled the barbershop. Outside, the cross-town bus hissed past on the wet street. Earl was backing his van into a narrow parking spot, and brothers and sisters, already late for work, rushed toward the subway station on the boulevard.

  “But you got here,” Kitty said. “Down two lousy blocks, even though you feel like you want to give up, and even though your pride doesn’t want you to give in even a little to being somebody that needs something or someone. You made it anyway. How much man does a girl need?”

  “Kitty, I don’t know what to do with myself.”

  “Me neither,” Kitty said. She slipped her arm under Mack’s. “I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, but I know if we’re together we’re going to make something good happen. ’Cause we are two stubborn people. Now, you have to admit that, right?”

  “Baby, you need a man that’s . . .” Mack shook his head.

  Kitty climbed up on the barber chair and put her head on his chest. “Tell me what kind of a man I need.”

  Mack struggled with the words and they didn’t come right no matter how he turned them. Kitty curled up against him.

  “Kitty, you’re not even listening,” Mack said.

  “Yeah,” Kitty answered. “Something like that.”

  It was rumored that Mother Fletcher was well over ninety years old. She had become a legend on 145th Street. If anybody wanted to know what the neighborhood looked like in the twenties, where Jack Johnson had lived, perhaps, or where James Baldwin’s father had preached, Mother Fletcher could tell you. Patrolman William Michael O’Brien had heard about her shortly after his assignment to the precinct, but it wasn’t until nearly three months later that he actually met the old woman.

  He was on foot patrol and had stopped to pass a few words with one of the local shopkeepers when a young black girl came running up to him and told him that Mother Fletcher was sick and needed an ambulance. O’Brien knew that in this neighborhood it was nearly impossible to get a doctor who would make house calls. But he had also been told that sometimes the people used ambulances just to go downtown.

  He followed the girl into one of the buildings and into a first-floor apartment. The place was small but spotless. The floor was covered with a linoleum rug tha
t was worn through in several spots. The porcelain in the kitchen sink was discolored but the brass fixtures were shining brightly.

  “She’s in here,” the girl said, and went into the adjoining room.

  Mother Fletcher sat upright in the white-sheeted bed, her pale green housecoat pinned at the neck. O’Brien had never seen as black a person in his entire life. Her skin was a dull ebony that seemed almost purple in the light of the lamp by her bed.

  Her gray hair, still streaked with wisps of black and thinner on the sides than on the top, framed her face and, catching the light, made her look like a black version of a painted medieval saint. She was a small person, in the delicate way that a child is small, but with the quiet grace of her years. But what stood out most on the old woman were her eyes.

  They were, if it was possible, even darker than her skin. Black shiny eyes that darted brightly about, checking the room for anything that might have been out of place.

  “Didn’t my great-great-grandchild there tell you I was sick?” Mother Fletcher shot a glance in the direction of the girl. “I gave her a dime to tell you.”

  “I mean,” O’Brien said, “what exactly is the matter?”

  “How do I know? I’m not a doctor.” Mother Fletcher pulled the housecoat tighter around her thin shoulders.

  “What’s your name, please?”

  “Mother Fletcher.”

  “What’s your first name?”

  “I’m Mother Fletcher, that’s all. Now, are you going to get me an ambulance or do I have to send that child out for another officer?”

  “We can’t just call an ambulance any time someone says to call one,” O’Brien said.

  “Boy, I am not someone,” the old woman said. “I am Mother Fletcher and you can call for an ambulance. You know how to use that radio you got.”

  “What is your age?” O’Brien flipped out his radio and called the emergency network.

  “Full-grown,” came the flat reply.

  O’Brien stepped into the next room and told the operator what he had. The ambulance arrived some fifteen minutes later. Two slim attendants carried the old woman out. O’Brien wrote up the incident in his book and promptly put it out of his mind. A week later he was called into one of the precinct offices, where a lieutenant and two patrolmen were waiting for him.

  “O’Brien.” Lt. Stanton rolled a cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “What’s this I hear about you taking graft?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” O’Brien answered.

  “Well, this package just came in from someone on your beat and it’s addressed to your shield number.” The lieutenant was enjoying this. “Looks like graft to me, O’Brien. Open it up.”

  O’Brien looked at the childish scrawl on the top of the box. To Officer 4566. There was no return address. He flipped open the flimsy box and took out the contents. It was a knitted green cardigan. Instead of a brand name on the label it simply repeated his badge number, 4566. O’Brien tried it on and was surprised to discover that it fit even his long arms.

  “I wonder who it’s from?”

  “Mother Fletcher,” the lieutenant said. “You do anything for her?”

  “Mother Fletcher? Oh, yes, the old black lady. I called an ambulance for her. No big thing.”

  “She probably started making that sweater for you on the way to the hospital,” Lt. Stanton said. “We had another guy here about two years ago that straightened out a hassle she had with her landlord. She made him a sweater, too. Then she decided that the landlord was right after all and she made him a sweater. I guess it makes her feel good. You can put a couple of bucks in the precinct fund to make up for the sweater. And don’t forget to go around and thank Mother Fletcher. It’s good for community P.R.”

  O’Brien got around to thanking the old woman a few days later, telling her how his wife had been jealous of such a fine sweater. Three weeks later another package arrived at the station house. It was a sweater for his wife. When he went over to thank Mother Fletcher for the second sweater he was careful not to mention that he had a six-year-old daughter.

  Over the next months O’Brien learned more about Mother Fletcher from people on his beat. Some stories were a bit far-fetched, but they were all told in a way that said that people loved the old woman. She did her own shopping, always carrying the same blue cloth shopping bag, and always walking on the sunny side of the street “to keep the bones warm.” Once O’Brien met her on the corner of 147th Street and asked her how she was feeling.

  “I’m feeling just fine. I’m not cutting the rug,” she said, “but I’m not lying on it, either.”

  O’Brien talked to her now and again when he saw her on the street, and started writing down everything she said, trying to piece together enough information to determine her true age. In truth, Mother Fletcher was the only one in his precinct that he thought of during his off-duty hours. The struggle and hassles of Harlem were not what he wanted to bring home with him. It didn’t take O’Brien long to subscribe to the precinct motto—Eight and Straight. Eight hours on the job and straight out of the neighborhood.

  To O’Brien, “out of the neighborhood” meant home to a ranch-style house in suburban Staten Island. He looked forward to the day when his wife, Kathy, could quit her job with the utility company and stay home with their daughter, Meaghan. He had told Kathy about Mother Fletcher and they had gone over his notes in the evenings trying to figure her age. Beyond this O’Brien was careful to keep his job apart from his family. At least he was until just before Christmas.

  “Hi, honey,” Bill called out as he ducked in from the light snow.

  “Dinner’s almost ready,” Kathy answered as she came from the kitchen. “Did you ask Mother Fletcher if she remembered when Woodrow Wilson was elected President?”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, what did she say?” Kathy wiped her hands on her apron.

  “She said she remembered it.”

  “Did she remember how old she was then?”

  “Nope, unless you can figure out how old ‘ ’bout half grown’ is,” Bill said. He tousled his daughter’s hair and sat on the couch.

  “What else did she say?” Kathy folded one leg under herself and sat on it.

  “Not much. I think she knows that I’m trying to figure out her age and she’s playing with me.” Bill glanced toward the kitchen and sniffed the air. “Is that roast beef?”

  “Chicken,” Kathy answered. “So that’s all she said today?”

  “No, she complained about how loud the teenagers play their radios and, oh, yes, she invited us to Christmas dinner.”

  “Who invited us to dinner?” Meaghan looked up from her book

  “A lady Daddy knows in Harlem, sweetheart.”

  “Can we take presents over?”

  “We won’t be going over,” Bill said.

  “Why, Daddy?”

  “We have other plans. We’re going to . . . what are we doing for Christmas, Kathy?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then we can go!” Meaghan said.

  “Kathy, will you deal with your daughter?” Bill smiled as he reached for the paper. “She’s too much for me.”

  “No, I won’t.” Kathy got up. “I’m going to start serving dinner. And Meaghan has a right to ask a question.”

  “Hey, let’s not make an issue of this,” Bill said.

  “She just asked for a simple explanation, Bill.” Kathy was annoyed.

  “The lady is a little different, that’s all.” Bill spoke to his daughter. “The place she lives in isn’t very nice and Daddy would rather not spend his Christmas in that kind of a neighborhood.”

  “Is she a poor lady?”

  “Yes, she’s a poor lady.”

  “Then we can take her a present because poor people like presents.”

  “We’ll send her a present if you want, Meaghan.” Bill rose from the couch and went into the living room, snapping on the television before sitting down. Kathy foll
owed him in.

  “I don’t like the idea of being made out to be a bad guy, Kathy,” Bill said without looking away from the six o’clock news. “One word from you could have helped that little situation in there.”

  “Why didn’t you just give her the same answer you gave Mother Fletcher? What did you tell her?”

  “There are times, Kathy, when you don’t give direct answers to questions. It’s a way of dealing with people. You don’t reject them and you don’t get yourself involved in a whole scene. Like this one, I might add.”

  “Would you mind giving me a direct answer? What did you tell her?”

  “I told her yes, we’d come. But they know we don’t come into that neighborhood when we’re off duty,” Bill answered. “And they’re not that anxious to have us come, either.”

  “You said yes? That you’d come?” Kathy pulled her glasses from the top of her head and put them on. “That’s your way of not answering a question directly?”

  “I’ll send her a present.”

  “That’s awfully sweet of you, Mr. O’Brien.” Kathy went back to the kitchen.

  Bill turned up the television and watched as some senator complained about the military budget. If his wife had chosen this occasion to have one of her special “I simply don’t understand” periods he wasn’t going to fight her.

  He also heard snatches of the conversation drifting from the kitchen. Meaghan was talking about getting a kitten and was trying to decide between a calico and a tabby. At any rate she seemed to have forgotten Mother Fletcher. He only hoped that Kathy would, too.

  And apparently she had. For that was the last O’Brien heard about visiting the old woman. That is, it was the last thing until just after eleven on Christmas morning. He was sitting in his favorite armchair, feeling especially regal in the smoking jacket that Kathy had given him, watching a college football game, when Kathy and Meaghan came into the room with their coats on.

  “Going for a walk?” Bill asked, hoping he wouldn’t be expected to leave his comfortable spot.