The Violent Child
Page 16
“‘I ain’t never seen no day’s work I couldn’t look straight in the eye, Mr. Leo,’ says Junior’s daddy. ‘Just around here, it’s the damn paycheck sticks in your craw. No offense, Mr. Bobby, but I got a boy ‘bout ready for school and growin’ out a ever’thing he owns. You understand.’
“Well, there was pure hell to pay the minute Leo brought Junior’s daddy in through the back gate. The crew, the other foremen, the union. But, Leo was still in his kiss-my-royal-red-butt mood from prison and had a hard-on for the world in general and the union in particular. When they said he was leapfroggin’ the waitin’ list on account of his ‘pet nigger’, Leo told ‘em to … well, figure it out for yourself.
“Some dumb s.o.b. from the union uppity-ups had the poor sense to come at him on the job. Man shows up at six in the morning when Leo’s coming off a nasty old graveyard shift. I bet I heard Leo tell the story three or four times, which wasn’t like him, but you could tell he got a big kick out of tellin’ it.
“‘Fat bastard,’ Leo says. ‘Come up to me in his fifty dollar suit and shiny new hardhat. Beady little eyes like a hog at the trough. Didn’t have no love for his kind from the git-go—eatin’ off my paycheck and never worked a day’s work in his life.’
“‘You run one by us on the paperwork, Woodard,” he tells me. “Puttin’ ‘Irish’ on the race line.’”
“‘I laughed right in his face,’ Leo says. ‘Black Irish, Corky, I says. One of your own. You got something against some black-ass potato eater? Thought all you potato eaters stuck together.’
“‘Corky being a Mick, and all,’ Leo says, ‘he sort of went nutso. I figured him for a sucker puncher, and, sure enough, I turn my back and he swings on me. A big ol’ roundhouse. Saw it comin’ a block away. I just stepped to the side and clipped him behind the ear as he goes by. Ol’ Corky lets go a squeak like a dog hit by a car, drops like a sack of spuds. Lays there on the grate starin’ up at the sky, twitchin’ like a bass flopped up on the sand. Not that I hold with fightin’ if there’s a way around, but, sweet Jesus, watchin’ that bastard hit the grate was one of the beautifullest things I ever seen in my life. Ol’ Corky went out like somebody switched off his light.’
“Leo said that was the last man they sent from the union, and as the weeks went by, he thought things was working out. Clovis was a hard worker. Kept to himself, didn’t rub nobody’s nose in nothing. They didn’t let him eat with the whites or drink from their hose, but people shootin’ off their mouths was slowing down to a trickle. Leo figured the worst was over.
“But about the time Junior come up on four years old, a crane boom swung around and caught Junior’s daddy in the head. Knocked him clean off the catwalk and down into the cooling pits where they set the ingots when they just come out of the furnace. Still white-hot and snappin’ sparks. Leo said it happened so quick the poor man never knew what hit him. Said it was prob’ly the boom got him and not the ingots. Hoped, anyways. Said the poor man dropped thirty feet straight down and never made a sound.
“‘They call me out to the slag yard on account of some chickenshit beef,’ Leo says, ‘and, when I get back, there’s fifteen men standin’ around the cooling pits and nobody’s seen nothing. What was left of Clovis Gilliam was burned down to bones, and I shoveled him out myself two days later when the ingots cooled down enough to load.’
“Junior’s mom went crazy over it. And, her none too steady anyhow. Drinkin’ problems. She left town right after the funeral, said she’d come back for Junior when she got settled. The way Marge tells it, Junior only seen his mom twice after that. Once when she come back to pick up her things and move away for good. The other when him and his Grandma Lilly went to see her in some kind of hospital where she was dyin’ of the booze.
“Marge says Leo took Junior’s dad harder’n anything she ever seen—includin’ prison. He figured the whole deal was his fault, and he should of had the sense to leave well enough alone.
“Leo figured Junior’s grandma could give the kid a roof over his head, food, and the necessaries. But when Junior started growin’ up, Leo wanted to make sure they had money for what he called ‘the God-given extras’. He come to the notion of it the Christmas just after the funeral. He stopped over at Grandma Lilly’s to drop off a union turkey. Leo meant just to hand over the turkey and a card with some cash and get down the road. Never been in a colored’s house in his life, didn’t particularly want to. But ol’ Grandma Lilly latches hold of him, pulls him into the kitchen, and sets him down in a chair.
“Myself, I only talked to the woman a couple of times in my life. Tall and bony. Hair fried with straightener and pulled tight back in a bun. Long in the face like a hundred miles a hard road. Ever’ time I seen her she had this same black linen skirt like they used to wear. Them black, square-heel old lady shoes, and she wasn’t that old then—hair still black as a ace of spades. She always had this white-as-snow blouse starched hard as a board, long sleeves, front buttoned all the way up to her neck. Ever’thing about the woman said clean, clean, clean. It was her voice that got you. Deep and rolly like Kate Smith. Nice, but somethin’ about it said you better not mess. Prob’ly took even ol’ Leo off guard.
“She thanks Leo for the turkey, but don’t say word one on the union. Then here comes Junior, little booger draggin’ in from the livin’ room, his face all lips and eyes, just like his daddy’s. Got him a pair of scissors and a chunk of cardboard.
“‘Thank Mr. Woodard for the turkey, Junior,’ Grandma Lilly says. Junior does, and Leo asks him what he’s doing. Junior holds up his cardboard and scissors.
“‘Fire truck,’ Junior says.
“‘Fire truck?’ Leo says.
“‘For baby Jesus,’ Junior says.
“Leo looks at Grandma Lilly, and she says, ‘Junior asked me if Christmas was Jesus’ birthday why Jesus didn’t get no presents. I told him ‘cause He likes it better if you give presents to ever’body you love—in His name. Junior wouldn’t have it. Says Jesus ought to have his own presents, it bein’ His birthday. Been cuttin’ Jesus toys out of Sears and Roebuck and pasting them on cardboard. We’re goin’ to set ‘em under the tree.’
“‘Fire truck,’ Junior says, and crawls up into Leo’s lap.
“Guess that got old Leo right where he lived. That nappy-headed kid cuttin’ Jesus a fire truck.
“Junior and Grandma Lilly was living only a couple of miles from Marge and Leo’s then, and when Junior was old enough to hold a rake or swing a hoe, Leo would pick him up and put him to work around the house. When the work was done for the day, Marge would fix Junior a big ol’ working-man’s dinner, and after, Leo would drive him home—left-overs sittin’ in a brown bag on Junior’s lap, five or ten dollars stuffed in his pocket. But except that one time at Christmas, I don’t think Leo ever set foot in Grandma Lilly’s house. I know for a fact that Junior’s the only colored that ever seen the inside of Leo’s house. You got to remember, Teddie, it was different times. Leo wasn’t no saint. He just did the best as he could for how it was.”
Years later, Junior and I became friends on these work visits. We fought frequently at first, but less as time went by. I was jealous of the attention both Marge and Leo gave to Junior, and I was like a yappy little dog, ever anxious to fight, to drive him off. But Junior was older, stronger, and when I would pick a fight or jump on his back from some lurking place, he would wrestle me to the ground and hold my flailing arms and legs. Careful to avoid my teeth, he would shout for Leo.
“The boy gone crazy, again, Mr. Woodar’! Didn’t do nothin’! Swear to God, I didn’t do nothin’!”
The Ranchero makes a wide turn at the entrance to the subdivision, rides up over the curb, chews through the shrubs overgrowing the “Welcome to Riverview” sign.
I laugh and shout out the window as pieces of shrubbery snap and drag beneath the undercarriage of the truck.
“Didn’t do nothin’, Mr. Woodar’! Swear to God, didn’t do nothin’!”
TWELVE
; Junior lives five miles north of the city in a working-class suburb built along the river. The houses are sixties pre-fabs massed so close along their homogeneous, tree-lined grids, the eaves of their flat-pitched roofs nearly touch at the property lines. The development is old and overgrown, and in the summer, it has the look of a suburban forest: there is a grateful smoothing of edges, a softening of corners which eases the crush of human density. But now, the grasses are burned tight to the ground by frost; hedges and branches have been blown bare, and in the pale shadowings of the street lights, all seems as lifeless and surreal as the abandoned mill yard.
Junior’s house is the last on a cul-de-sac which ends at the river. Behind it, behind a peeling rail fence and a scruff of wild rose, there is a small park where Junior and I picnicked with our wives and children when last we had them.
Halfway down the block, I shut off the engine and headlights, and allow the truck to coast into Junior’s driveway. The neighbors’ houses are dark, but at Junior’s, every light, inside and out, is burning brightly. As I crawl out of the truck and move toward the front door, I hear the muffled impact of a stereo booming against the picture window. I pull the withered ivy away from the window’s edge and peer into the living room.
I see that Junior has dismantled an engine, and that he has spread newspapers over the carpet and furniture where various parts sit stacked in greasy heaps throughout the room. The engine block is split and rests in halves next to the base of a lamp near the bottom of my window. The ballerina bookends on top of the television have been moved to one side, and six pistons sit in their place, stacked neatly in a blue-gleaming pyramid. A camshaft stands on end and leans against Junior’s favorite chair.
Junior is sitting on the floor facing me, his back propped against the couch, his trunk-like legs sticking out from under the coffee table. He is bent over a carburetor, his face a scowl of concentration, his huge hands cupping the thing as if he were peering into a crystal ball.
I rap against the glass with my truck keys, and without looking up, Junior waves me around to the kitchen door.
I crunch through the frozen flower beds along the side of the house and, reaching the back porch, find that the door is locked. I draw back my arm, about to pound with my fist, but Junior appears and jerks open the door. It creaks and rattles on its hinges, and bangs against the side of the stove. Junior waves me in and, with the rolling limp I am accustomed to seeing when he is tired, makes his way back through the kitchen.
Junior is a block of a man. Thick and meaty. Six feet three, three hundred pounds at the least, though he never admits to more than two sixty. His back is so broad, his shoulders fill his shirt so completely, I believe he would burst the seams were he to draw too hard on a cigarette. His skull is massive, even for his frame, and it seems even larger by the way he has cropped his receding grey hair half an inch from his scalp. His lips are large and full, and turn incredibly outward like great, soft petals. His quiet eyes are set deep beneath a jutting wedge of forehead; his skin is black in the bright kitchen light, black as a purply plum.
I suspect Junior has been home from work since midnight, but he has not changed out of his slacks, loafers, and white shirt. He has removed his sport coat and tie and thrown them over the back of a kitchen chair. He has opened the buttons on his shirt down to his belt line, pushed his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. His hands and arms are smudged with grease, his collar is black where he has been scratching at his neck.
“Maid’s day off!” he shouts, disappearing through the French doors at the far end of the kitchen. “Beer’s in the box!” he calls as the doors swing back in place.
I stop in the middle of the kitchen and survey, with utmost reverence, the magnitude of the disaster: dishes and silverware piled in the sink; coffee cups and cereal bowls, some with the remains of ancient meals, littering the counter-tops and breakfast bar. Styrofoam cups and fast-food boxes everywhere. TV dinner trays, paper plates, fire-blackened pots and pans.
I open the cupboard above the stove in search of the Canadian Club and a clean glass. The stereo is suddenly turned low.
“Out of the hard stuff,” Junior calls from the living room. “Beer in the box.”
I open the refrigerator, and there is a case of Heinekin occupying the bottom shelf. On the middle and top shelves, there are three brown shopping bags embossed with a Chinese restaurant logo. The bags are flanked by a number of milk and juice cartons; the door shelves are brimming with deli meats and jars of condiments.
“Buy out the store?” I say.
“Four-day weekend.”
“Must be nice.”
“Don’t give me that shit, Teddie. Who gets the whole damn summer? Make us an olive loaf and baloney while you’re out there.”
“Chinese looks good.”
“Football stash. You don’t want to mess with my Chinese.” I find a package of clean plastic knives on top of the refrigerator and saw my way through the wrapper on the bologna.
“Where you hiding the cheese?” I say.
“Cholesterol.”
“Since when?”
“My new lady.”
“New lady?”
“You don’t want to mess with that, neither.”
I make a stack of white bread sandwiches and take them, along with a six pack of beer, into the living room. Junior is at the coffee table, reading the instructions on the back of a carburetor rebuild kit.
“Whose carb?” I ask. I put the sandwiches on the coffee table and pull two beers from the six pack.
He sighs and looks up. “Jordine’s Falcon. That little girl’s death on moving parts. Like her mother. Zero sense of the machine. What do you know about carburetor rebuild?”
“Just what Leo always told me: have the good sense to take it to a shop so they can go nutso instead of you. Then, you lie to your friends and say you did the rebuild yourself—and don’t forget to grin like you know what you’re doing when you screw it down on the block.”
“The man was no fool.”
I twist the cap on a Heinekin. “Drink to that.”
“Been out to your mamma’s?”
I swig half the bottle, belch, and nod.
“How’s she doing?”
“No prisoners.”
Junior smiles and shakes his head. “Woman’s got some serious attitude, don’t she?”
“Says God won’t have her and devil’s scared to take her.”
Junior laughs. “Always did love that woman. Balls the size of my fist.”
“Bowling balls,” I say. “Minimum.”
“I was over her way last week. Stopped by after I got my hair buzzed. Didn’t stay, she was pretty well shot. Neighborhood digs her, though. The girl upstairs says some of them young punks even look out for her. Think she’s cool. But I don’t know about you messing around over there, Teddie. This late at night. Maybe some little nigger with a piece and an attitude bust a cap in your ass and feed you to his dog.”
I raise the bottle, saluting Junior, then drain the second half.
“Hell,” Junior smiles. “I could give a rat’s ass. Just worried about my truck, is all.”
“Whose truck?”
“I know for a fact Leo wanted me to have that Ranchero.”
“Shit.”
Junior laughs.
“Leo ever saw how you let her body go all to hell, man, he’d roll over in his grave. First thing I’d do is throw a jack under her, sand that little lady down. Paint her up—three coats of candy apple red. Cobalt racing stripes. Umm-mm. Pull her chrome, have it dipped. I’m telling you, man, I had that little cutie, some heads’d be snappin’ behind that Ranchero.”
“And then some gangster busboy two days up from Guadalajara would boost your ‘little cutie’ right out of your driveway. Jesus on the dash. Dingle balls in the back window. Ba-boom thudda boom. Bye-bye Ranchero.”
“Hey, man. Them’s our Latino brothers.”
“Kid told me tonight I don’t have any brothers.”
We smile, and I twist the cap on another Heinekin.
Over the years, Junior and I have maintained a durable symmetry, rare among our peers. We enjoy a sense of special kinship: we are no longer plagued by the need to compete or control. I recall the day, the single moment, when Junior and I moved from a state of combative rivalry to the beginnings of what we have now.
It was a Saturday, late fall, near Halloween. Everyone was in turmoil because Lorraine had filed on Ted, and there was a special custody hearing that afternoon. Lorraine had been working a deadly mix of swing and graveyard shifts the previous week, and, to preserve her sanity, had sent me to stay with Marge and Leo.
The day was sunny, the wind was sharp. The leaves were blowing from the oaks and maples, and the yard was furrowed by heaps of golds, browns, and electric reds; gusts of color swirled and drifted with each windy blast, rustling over the curbs, flattening against fences. High in the pure, sapphire sky, the wind was much stronger; it caught the black mill smokes as they rose from the brick stacks, and sent them flying in long, wispy clouds far above the neighborhoods. Each breath was clean and crisp, sweetened by the smell of pruning fires and crackling leaves.
I loved staying with Marge and Leo. The freedom of a house and yard, the open range of grass and trees and neighborhood. They were old and settled, and I felt a palpable sense of ease in their relationship that translated to me. I felt safe. But that particular week had been difficult. Marge had been nervous and withdrawn, Leo physically spent and distracted. They had engaged in the same argument for days.
Leo was worried because there had been a month of strike talk, and, to provide for us against that event, he had been working so much overtime he had been unable to ready the house and truck for winter. The house needed storm windows and fresh weather stripping for the doors, some flashing had lifted up from the chimney, and Leo had not even drained and wrapped the outside pipes. He had been trying for weeks to find time to tune his truck, flush the radiator, haul up the snow tires from the basement. He had set aside this single Saturday for these purposes, only to learn midweek that Marge had committed the entire afternoon to meeting with the judge presiding over my custody hearing. To make matters worse, Leo had already arranged with Grandma Lilly to take Junior for the whole day, but now, with the afternoon “shot to hell on Ted and Lorraine’s troubles,” he would have to return Junior at noon.