by Andrew Kane
“We’re gonna live with white folk, Mama?”
“Yes we are. And if you’re smart, maybe you’ll learn something from them.”
“But Mama, how they gonna let coloreds like us live over there?”
“Don’t you worry. Mr. Sims has everything arranged. You just get your stuff together and cut this talking.”
“Was that who you were talking to last night, Mr. Sims?”
“If you need to be knowing, yes.”
“And he’s gonna do all this for us? Why he’s gonna do that?”
“Mr. Sims is a good man. And, I keep telling you, this ain’t none of your concern. The car’ll be here in ten minutes. There’s some cereal left on the counter and milk in the ice-box. You best be ready on time.”
Loretta went back into the living room to finish her own packing. Joshua was still sitting up and looked around the bedroom in which he had lived for the past nine years. It was about as modest as a room could be. The walls were bare and the only furniture aside from the bed was a rickety old wooden chair and table that Mrs. Sims had given Loretta when Paul’s room had been redecorated. Joshua’s clothing and belongings were kept in the closet, except for his shoes which were under the bed.
He would miss this place. Perhaps another child might still have harbored hopes of staying. Not him. His mother never wavered.
He removed the envelope from his pocket and stared at it. He had always honored Big Bob’s privacy, but it didn’t seem to matter much now. He would be a marked man anyway, so why not see what for. He stared at it a few more seconds until he heard Loretta yell, “Joshua, what you doing in there? I don’t hear you packing and the cab’s due to be here any minute.”
His heart began to pound as he tore open the flap, removed the contents, and counted five one hundred dollar bills. The pounding intensified. He had never imagined what so much money would even look like, and here he was, holding it in his hands. He heard Loretta coming towards the room again, shoved the money back into the envelope, and stuffed it in his pocket. At that moment, notwithstanding his fear of his mother and Big Bob, he felt a strange surge of power. He was rich; he had five hundred dollars. Little did he know, just how much that would one day cost him.
So they moved to their new home in Crown Heights, only about a mile away from where they had been living, yet worlds apart. Loretta would finally have her own bedroom with a genuine queen size bed provided by none other than Mr. Alfred Sims. No more sleeping on the convertible in the living room for her. And Joshua’s new room was much bigger than the old one, with a window to boot. There was even some furniture: a twin sized bed, a desk, a chair, and even a full mirror attached to the back side of the door. How convenient, Joshua thought, as he looked in the mirror and slid the envelope behind it.
Joshua also started at a new school, P.S. 167, on the corner of Eastern Parkway and Schenectedy Avenue, and was one of six black kids in a class of twenty-five. Jerome Williams, the super’s son, was one of the others. Within no time, the two boys were the best of friends.
Besides their color, however, they had little in common. Jerome had never known the likes of Lewis Avenue, and had grown up accustomed to being a black kid in a white man’s world. His family was from Alabama, and had come north eight years earlier. After staying with relatives in East New York for six months, Mr. Williams found the job as super and the family moved to Crown Heights.
Outwardly, Jerome was soft and refined, always deferential to white people, whether teachers, classmates, or just folks on the streets. Considering Jerome’s father’s position, Joshua understood why he acted that way toward residents of their building, but with strangers, it was another matter. Joshua was perplexed, and suspected that Jerome was more bitter than met the eye.
Jerome was short, fat, and clumsy. The Italian kids ridiculed and beat on him regularly. And he took it. When he came home with a swollen eye, fat lip, or whatever, his father would blame him and finish the job. Jerome took that too.
This was how it was, until one brisk fall afternoon. Joshua and Jerome were walking home from school along the east side of Rochester Avenue, and a group of Irish kids were hanging out at the entrance to Lincoln Terrace Park. Joshua counted five of them, and assumed they were probably looking for trouble. Jerome, obviously thinking the same thing, grabbed Joshua’s jacket sleeve to pull him across the street. Joshua resisted.
For almost two months, Joshua had watched Jerome cower time and time again. He hadn’t stepped in because he’d hoped Jerome would eventually rise to the occasion, which hadn’t yet happened. The kids at school knew better than to mess with Joshua. He was bigger and stronger than most of them, and they also knew that he wasn’t afraid. So he wasn’t going to act scared now. And neither was Jerome, if Joshua had any say in it.
Joshua pulled Jerome back onto the sidewalk. “Where you think you’re going?” he said.
“What you mean, man? Can’t you see what’s ahead over there?”
“I can see just fine, but what’re you so afraid of?”
“That there’s the meanest bunch of micks in the neighborhood, and the last time I ran into them I needed fifteen, count ’em, fifteen stitches,” Jerome said, flashing his fingers in Joshua’s face.
Joshua looked at the group and didn’t recognize any of the faces. “They from another school?” he asked.
“Yeah, they’re from that Catholic School down the block there. And they don’t like no Protestants like us. So I say we cross the street and stay out of their way!”
“Jerome, you got to stick up for yourself sometime!”
“It’s a bad time right now to start making changes, if you get my meaning. And anyway, you’re going to have to do some sticking up for yourself also if we get in a mess here. These ain’t like those micks and ginnies in school that’r scared of your size, these are animals, just looking to brag about having beaten up the likes of you.”
“So what!” Joshua said, “I ain’t afraid, and you ain’t gonna be neither!”
“Man, you crazy. I thought you told me they call you Peanut because of your eyes, but I’m starting to think it’s got more to do with your brain.”
“Listen then, you go ahead, cross the street. I’m walking on this sidewalk, and that’s how it’s gonna be.”
“Have it your way,” Jerome responded as he proceeded into the street. Joshua watched him cross and kept walking on the sidewalk. Seconds later, Joshua was ten feet away from the Irish kids.
“Hey guys,” a tall red-head with freckled skin said loudly to his friends. “What have we got here? Seems there’s a new nigger in town.” The others laughed. Joshua kept walking towards them.
“Hello nigger boy,” another one said bravely, stepping out and blocking Joshua’s way.
“Hello whitey,” Joshua responded.
“What’d you say?” the Irish kid asked. He was significantly shorter than the first kid. Jet black hair, very thin. Joshua was confident he could dispose of him with a single blow. Maybe that would scare the rest of them. After all, they were used to beating on the likes of Jerome, totally unprepared for a black kid who fought back. Might make them think twice.
“You hard of hearing?” Joshua asked.
“Oh, we got us a wise one here,” the Irish kid retorted, looking at his friends, smirking.
Joshua stepped forward and pushed the kid out of the way with his body. It was easy. The kid lost balance and almost fell over, but caught himself. He hesitated for a moment and looked at his friends again. They appeared shocked by Joshua’s boldness. Joshua kept moving, pretending not to notice their reaction, when the kid came back at him with a shove. “What d’ya think, you’re some tough nigger or something,” the kid said, pushing Joshua again.
Joshua didn’t move. Not an inch. He got in the kid’s face, stared into his eyes, and waited for the others to do something. But they didn’t.
Joshua could have left it at that, could have gone on his way and never had a problem with that group again.
But that just wasn’t his style. He pushed the kid back. Hard. Hard enough that the kid flew into the others and fell to the ground.
The first punch came from the tall red-head, a perfectly solid shot to Joshua’s left eye. The next thing Joshua knew he was tasting blood and holding his eye with both hands. Then the kid he pushed kicked him in the stomach. Joshua keeled over, only to receive another blow to the back of his head.
He was hurt, and for the first time, a little scared. He seemed almost as helpless as Jerome would have been. He took a deep breath, ignored his fear, and focused on his anger. He straightened himself, and went for the tall one first, the one his instincts told him was the leader.
Joshua lunged at the tall one and took him to the ground. Their bodies hit the concrete hard, but neither seemed to feel the pain. The others stood over them and took turns kicking Joshua. But Joshua stayed on top of the tall one, pounding incessantly on his face. One of the others even tried to pull him off, but it was to no avail; Joshua just kept punching. The tall one was hurt, and wasn’t even hitting back anymore.
The next thing Joshua knew, the kicking from the others ceased. Something had distracted them. He looked up and saw that Jerome had come to help, and was now fending off the others. Joshua got up, leaving the tall one lying listless on the ground, and watched his friend in action. Jerome wasn’t being very successful, but his efforts were impressive. The others hadn’t managed to get him down on the ground; they were just surrounding him, landing punches and kicks to his body. Jerome’s eyes were closed and his arms were flailing in all directions. He wasn’t able to see where his fists landed, but managed to get in a few licks.
Joshua stepped in, pulling two of the Irish kids away from Jerome. The other two saw this and hesitated. They looked over to their leader—still on the ground, his head in a pool of his own blood—and stopped.
“I’m gonna kill you both, you fucking nigger bastards!” the thin black haired kid yelled.
“Oh yeah!” Jerome reacted confidently, “come on, let’s do it right now!” he continued as he began to lunge forward.
Joshua held out his arm to block Jerome’s way, and said, “Let’s go.”
The black haired kid cringed, while his friends stood frozen, frightened, eyes fixed upon Joshua and Jerome
“Come on, we’re out of here now,” Joshua added, pulling Jerome away.
The Irish kids stepped aside to let them pass, murmuring to one another about revenge as their victors walked on. Half a block up, Joshua turned around. The tall red-head was still on the ground, curled up in a fetal position, his friends gathered around him. A voice screamed out, “Fucking niggers,” the echo of which could be heard for blocks. Joshua noticed Jerome’s triumphant expression and, despite his own wounds, was pleased with his friend’s bravado.
CHAPTER 4
The Hewlett-Woodmere public school district was reputed as one of the finest in the country, with unmatched acceptance rates to Ivy League colleges. In the sixties, the student population was mostly upper middle class and Jewish, with a handful of Italian and Irish kids from the lower income areas of Gibson and South Valley Stream. Despite all this, the only child of Alfred Sims was enrolled in the Hewlett Bay Academy, a posh private school for the wealthy and privileged.
“No son of mine is going to have a ‘public’ education!” Alfred insisted to Evelyn.
“But the public schools here are excellent,” she argued.
“Not excellent enough!” And that was the final word. His was always the final word. There was no reasoning with him once he made up his mind. Evelyn knew this, and had grown to hate it. Over the years, she had grown to hate many things.
They fought often, about almost everything. Sometimes it was just words, sometimes things were thrown, and sometimes Alfred disappeared for a night or two. All the while, young Paul watched and listened.
Over the years Evelyn grew miserable yet, among her litany of resentments was never even a suspicion of Alfred’s infidelity. She was far too vain to allow for that, so she convinced herself that his problem was impotence rather than disinterest. The outlet for her frustration found expression through compulsivity, incessantly cleaning, wiping, and straightening things. She did this early every morning before Loretta came to clean, and again late at night, after Loretta had gone. The house was never tidy enough.
When she wasn’t cleaning, Evelyn Sims was spending money. Clothes, jewelry, shoes, handbags, cosmetics. There was always plenty of money and it seemed to ease her pain.
Paul was also angry with his father, mostly for not being around. As for his mother, who was always around, there was plenty of antipathy left for her as well. In as much as Evelyn failed to control her husband, she would more than make up for it with her son.
“I’ve told you a thousand times to put your colored socks on the left side of the drawer and your white ones on the right!”
“Is this the way to make your bed? Don’t you ever listen? The sheet is too loose and there are lumps in the blanket. Now you won’t watch any TV for a week, and then we’ll see how well you’ll listen.”
“What’s the matter with you? You do things just to annoy me! You’re just like your father, always trying to find a way to upset me. I’m telling you for the last time, you better wipe the shower door dry when you’re done in there. If I see any soap scum, you’ll stay in the house for a month.”
Paul grew up understanding that he could never please his mother, no matter how he tried. With his father, however, things were different. Paul knew exactly what Alfred wanted of him—Alfred, who never took him to ball games, fishing, bowling, and never did any of the things that fathers usually do. All Alfred cared about was Paul’s school-work, so that became all Paul cared about.
“There will be plenty of time for other things,” Alfred often told him. “For now, you must concentrate on your studies.”
So that was it: school, making his bed perfectly, putting his socks on the proper side of the drawer, and washing the soap scum off the shower door. The life of Paul Sims.
Burying himself in books became his escape, his only hope for his father’s love and attention. And when it didn’t work, he tried harder, until he became ensnarled in a vicious cycle, growing more introverted and isolated with time.
For Alfred, everything seemed perfect. But Evelyn, as caught up as she was in her own misery, seemed to know better. As did Paul’s teachers, who eventually began calling and requesting conferences.
“Paul is a highly intelligent young man, but has difficulty getting along with other children,” the school psychologist told Alfred and Evelyn when Paul was in the sixth grade. “Is there something going on at home that’s bothering him?”
At home? What could possibly be going on in the perfect home? Alfred was distressed. A glitch in the master plan.
“This has been going on for years. As you know, his grades have been perfect, but otherwise he has a lot of difficulties. He has no friends here, and I would guess that he has no friends outside of school either.” The psychologist was being kind in using the term “difficulties.” Neither Alfred nor Evelyn argued, for they knew it was true. “I think some counseling is in order,” the psychologist suggested, “individual to begin with, and maybe the entire family at some point.”
Alfred responded with a bewildered look. My boy, seeing some shrink about problems at home? Never! “I’m sorry doctor… what did you say your name was?”
“Goldman,” the man replied calmly.
“Frankly, Doctor Goldman, I don’t see what the problem is. My son is a brilliant young man who chooses not to waste his time flipping baseball cards or playing knock-hockey with other kids. He enjoys his school work, he’s good at it, and that’s what he wants to do. In fact, I personally think it’s a good thing. I’ve always encouraged him to concentrate on his school-work. That’s why he does it. He’s not going to get into law or medical school by winning popularity contests.”
Though Evelyn sat silently,
Goldman wasn’t convinced that she agreed wholeheartedly with her husband. A heavy-set, balding man in his late forties, Goldman was a seasoned professional and had been on staff at Hewlett Bay for almost twenty years. Dealing with parents like Alfred Sims was second nature to him. He wasn’t going to push. He knew he wouldn’t win. And above all, he knew that sooner or later, one way or another, Paul would wind up in his office.
Weeks passed and nothing changed. Mrs. Robinson, Paul’s teacher, reported to Doctor Goldman that Paul was still keeping to himself, and still carrying a distressed expression that seemed to mar his otherwise pleasant features. Paul was often told he was a handsome young man, tall, dark, with masculine features much like his father’s, but with his mother’s blue eyes. He never saw himself as resembling his father in any way, but possessing his mother’s eyes was another matter. He could easily accept that, for her eyes were the saddest he’d ever seen unless, of course, he was looking in the mirror, which he didn’t often do.
Doctor Goldman looked at Mrs. Robinson with a knowing grin, and said, “Yes, it seems Paul Sims’ problems are far from solved.”
Mrs. Robinson called home and appealed to Evelyn to allow Paul to see Dr. Goldman. “I know he has a problem,” Evelyn admitted, feeling her guilt as the words escaped her mouth. True, she was unhappy; true, she frequently took it out on Paul. But she was also his mother, and she hated herself for the way she treated him. She struggled to be better, but she was so desperate, so out of control. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said, realizing that she had to do something.
The following week, Evelyn enrolled Paul in the Cub Scouts. She bought him one of those blue and yellow uniforms, and he began attending meetings. When Alfred heard about this, his response was surprisingly positive. He even praised Evelyn for her ingenuity—something he’d never done before. “What a clever idea,” he said. “It will definitely do the trick. They’ll teach him how to be a man, and when he gets older he can become a Boy Scout, maybe even a full fledged Eagle Scout.” The only problem was Paul. He didn’t enjoy being with the other kids, and didn’t care much for pledges and tying knots. After three meetings, he refused to return.
