Isaiah Dunn Is My Hero

by Kelly J. Baptist

  “Now what he say my password was?” she mutters, tapping away until she figures out the right combination. “Ha! Got it!”

  Man, I wish Sneaky was here right now. We’d be cracking up!

  If we were still friends.

  “Hello, Ida?” the old lady speaks loudly into her phone, and her friend is just as loud. “Ida! I got somebody comin’ to take your garbage, all right? His name is—what’s your name, baby?”

  “Isaiah.”

  “Oooh, Lawd, he got a good name, Ida. His name’s Isaiah, and he’s a handsome fella.” There’s a pause, and I hear her friend ask if I got my pants pulled up. The old lady studies me. “He got on shorts. Anyway, he comin’ now.”

  She ends her call abruptly and puts the phone back in her pocket.

  “Go on up to 806, baby,” she says, patting my arm. “You a nice boy.”

  I run up the stairs to the eighth floor and knock on 806. After a few seconds, the door opens with the chain still on.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Isaiah,” I say, seeing half of the lady’s face. I guess she’s Miz Ida.

  She closes the door, and I hear her taking the chain off. When she opens the door again, I see that she looks a lot like the first old lady.

  “Good morning, Isaiah,” she says. Her face ain’t as smiley as the first lady’s.

  “Good morning,” I say. “The lady said you needed me to take your trash down.”

  “Yes. My friend Annie is always meddlin’ in my business,” says Miz Ida, opening the door wider to show two garbage bags sitting there. “But she’s right; it’d take me all day to get these down to that garbage room and back. I ’preciate your help.”

  “You’re welcome,” I tell her, grabbing the two bags. Before she closes the door, though, I think about what Angel would do right now.

  “ ’Scuse me,” I say. “Do you want to buy a poem?”

  “A poem?” Miz Ida squints at me like I must be joking.

  “Yeah, I write poems,” I tell her. “My friend puts them on fancy paper and we sell them.”

  I recite my poem about how me and Sneaky aren’t friends anymore, and the one about summertime. Miz Ida looks shocked.

  “Well, if I ain’t seen everything,” she says, shaking her head. “Tell you what; you come back next week to get my garbage again, and I’ll buy a poem.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” I say. “What do you want the poem to be about?”

  “Broken elevators,” she says, shaking her head. “Write somethin’ about that!”

  “Okaaay,” I say, grabbing her garbage bags.

  “Hold on, now, baby,” Miz Ida says, holding out two crisp dollars. “For your time. I’ll see you next week, all right?”

  I nod and put the money in my pocket.

  “See you next week.”

  “I’ll be ready for my poem.”

  It might take me all week to come up with something good, but I’ll be ready, too.

  May 25

  MIZ RITA AND Mama don’t know I heard them talking.

  Charlie’s taking a bubble bath even though it’s mad early, and I’m supposed to be studying vocabulary words, but my stomach starts rumbling, so I get up to grab an apple or something from the kitchen. I also wanna see if they’ll let me go to the barbershop today, like I’m supposed to. I stop at the door when Miz Rita says, “It’ll be just fine, Lisa. With Shayna headin’ off to college, Charlie can have her room. Long as he don’t mind, Isaiah can stay in my sewing room.”

  Shayna’s Miz Rita’s daughter—well, granddaughter, really, but she calls Miz Rita “Ma.” Charlie sticks to Shayna like glue, so she’ll probably love to sleep in her room.

  Mama says something soft that I can’t hear all the way, and then Miz Rita says, “But you need to. For you.”

  That’s when Charlie pops up behind me and says “Hey, Isaiah!” mad loud. Things get quiet in the kitchen, and then I hear the chairs scrape against the floor, and the clanking of pots and pans. Ugh! I groan and push past Charlie down the hall to where I’ve been sleeping, in Miz Rita’s sewing room. There’s a sewing machine in the corner and this mannequin thing that freaked me out the first few nights, because it looks like a person in the dark, especially with the huge hat Miz Rita has on its head. She told me she could move it out or cover it up if it scared me, but I said I was okay.

  I take Daddy’s advice again, but this time, I don’t write my fear down. I give it a real name. Daddy said if we ever got a dog, he’d want to name it Ink, which makes sense now that I know he was a writer. So I’m thinking about naming the mannequin Ink. But it’s definitely a girl, with curves and boobies and everything, so I name it Inka instead. Inka, the statue lady.

  “ ’Sup, Inka?” I say, nodding at her. She really doesn’t have eyes, but it looks like she’s staring at me. “Yo, you’re pretty creepy.”

  Inka doesn’t say anything, of course, but she still gives me an idea. I take out my notebook and write, Inka, the Secret Keeper. In my mind, I imagine Inka being some statue princess that no one pays attention to, but what they don’t know is that she holds the secrets of all who talk around her. Not just secrets, but codes and clues and stuff, too. I wonder what it would be like to write a whole story like Daddy did. Maybe I’ll try it one day. For now, I stay busy coming up with new poems to sell. I write words until Charlie bounces in to tell me it’s time for dinner. So much for the barbershop.

  “How’s the homework comin’, Isaiah?” Miz Rita asks me.

  “Good,” I say. I look from her to Mama and remember what they were talking about before. Then it hits me. They were talking about rooms and everything, but nobody said where Mama’s gonna sleep.

  May 26

  “I GOTTA TELL you something.”

  Me and Angel are working on poem stuff at the playground by Miz Rita’s place. It’s the same playground me and Sneaky used to shoot baskets at, so I’m already feeling a little down by being here. The way Angel’s looking right now doesn’t make me feel any better.

  “You know that day at the library, when your mom came in?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “So?”

  “I think I know who stole your money,” Angel says. She looks at me, then down at her shoes, and I know she isn’t lying.

  I wanna ask so many questions, but my mouth isn’t saying a thing.

  “Alex is my cousin,” Angel says; then she corrects herself. “Well, like my third cousin, really. And he was runnin’ his mouth about how him and his dumb friends jacked somebody’s money at the library. When you told me what happened to your candy money, I kinda put it all together.”

  I don’t even know Alex; at least I don’t think I do. But I remember a group of kids being loud while Mr. Shephard and I looked at Langston Hughes books. And I remember that I left my backpack on the table. For only a second.

  “When he told me, I got mad,” Angel says. “I punched him and got in trouble.”

  “For real?” I ask. I can see her doing something like that. Makes me feel better. But not eighty-three dollars and sixty-two cents better.

  “Yeah,” Angel says. “That was messed up! Who steals at the library?”

  “I guess Alex does,” I say. I wonder if he still has my money.

  “He spent the money on some stupid video game,” Angel says, reading my mind. Crazy! “I should break it next time I’m over there!”

  “Yeah, you should,” I say. But I don’t want Angel to get in trouble. I need her handwriting.

  I let Angel read the poem I came up with for Miz Ida. I called it “Broke Up, Broke Down,” and I think it’s kinda funny. Angel does, too, cuz she’s laughing by the time she’s finished.

  “Okay, how ’bout @Dunn Poems?” Angel asks. “Get it? The @ is for Atkins; your last name is Dunn.” We’ve been trying to come up with an official name for our bus
iness, and I think this is the best one so far.

  “Get @ us for a poem that’s Dunn right!” I say.

  “See, perfect!” Angel gives me dap, and we start drawing logo ideas. The sound of a basketball bouncing makes us both look up.

  “Uh-oh,” Angel says. Sneaky’s coming into the playground area, and he’s not alone.

  Four guys saunter in with him, and from the angry look on Angel’s face, one of them is probably Alex. Why would Sneaky hang with dudes who stole from me? Does he know? Sneaky acts like nothing’s wrong at all; he’s laughing and joking with these guys the same way he used to with me. He freezes for a second when he sees me and Angel.

  “Hold up,” I hear him tell the guys, and he starts walking over to us.

  “Hey,” Sneaky says when he gets close enough.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “What’re y’all doing?” he asks, nodding toward the paper and my notebook.

  “A project,” I say at the same time Angel says, “Our business.”

  “Oh, for real?” Sneaky has a smirk on his face, but he also seems a little hurt.

  “Yeah.”

  “Aight, then,” Sneaky says, turning back toward his new friends. “Catch you later.”

  “Yeah,” I say again. Then I add, “We’re staying with Miz Rita for a little bit.”

  One of the dudes calls for Sneaky to come on, but he looks back at me.

  “For real?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sneaky doesn’t say anything else, but I can tell exactly what he wants to say.

  Wish you could come by sometime.

  I don’t say anything, either, but I’m sure he can tell what I want to say.

  Me too.

  May 27

  “COP A SQUAT, Isaiah.”

  “Huh?”

  It’s Saturday, but the barbershop was so busy, Rock asked me to come in.

  I’m sweeping up hair when Rock pats the chair where he just finished hooking somebody’s fade.

  “C’mon and sit down, li’l man,” Rock says. “Time for me to do some magic on that head.”

  Dang, is my hair that bad? It’s probably been over a month since my last cut, and the barber wasn’t that great. I’m glad the shop has cleared out from earlier; nobody here to clown me. I put the broom to the side and sheepishly walk over to Rock.

  “If you ain’t notice,” says Rock, “everybody here leaves on point. That goes for you, too, li’l man.”

  “So who cuts your hair?” I ask, cracking up cuz Rock is bald.

  “You got jokes, huh?” Rock says, clicking on his clippers. “My wife cuts my hair. What you got to say about that?”

  “Cool,” I say, shrugging.

  “Yeah, it’s cool,” he says. “So what kind of cut you want?”

  “Um, I don’t know,” I tell him. “Maybe like Sneaky’s?” Sneaky has a pretty nice high top with a few ziggy lines on the sides.

  “Like Sneaky’s?” Rock shakes his head. “Nah, man, we gonna give you something that’s all you, aight?”

  I nod, but I have no idea what kind of haircut to ask for. Rock starts picking out my hair, and I grit my teeth as he cuts through all the naps.

  “I know just what I’m gonna do,” Rock says, more to himself than me. My head’s on fire by the time he puts the pick down and buzzes on the clippers. Fluffy clumps of hair fall down like black snowflakes, and it gives me an idea of something to write about in Daddy’s poem notebook.

  “So what’s up with you, man? How’s your moms?” asks Rock.

  “She’s okay,” I say, even though I’m not so sure.

  “That’s good. You takin’ good care of her, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And I bet you’re excited for the summer, huh?” Rock switches clippers. “You and Sneaky gonna be in all kinds of trouble.”

  “Nah,” I say. “I’m doing things on my own.”

  “You my hero, Isaiah,” he laughs. “I wanna be just like you when I grow up!”

  “You already grown up, Mr. Rock,” I say.

  “Yeah, and if I had been puttin’ in work like you are when I was your age, I’d be grown up and a millionaire right now!”

  “I’m not no millionaire,” I say, thinking about the stolen sock.

  “Not yet, li’l man,” Rock says. “But you will be one day.”

  “I’ma buy a gigantic house,” I say right away.

  “You and me both,” Rock says. He tells me about how he used to watch his big brother cut hair and dreamed of doing it himself one day.

  “The very first cut I did was on my brother,” Rock tells me. “And I jacked him up pretty bad!”

  “Aww, man! Was he mad?” I ask. Antwan would probably destroy Sneaky if he ever messed up his hair.

  “If he was, he didn’t show it,” Rock says, turning the chair to the left. “He just showed me what I did wrong, and went bald for a few weeks.”

  Rock cuts my hair pretty fast, and when he hands me the mirror to check it out, my mouth drops open. He definitely doesn’t mess up anymore.

  “Yo, this is tight!” I say. Rock gave me a Mohawk that’s way better than Sneaky’s high top.

  “You like that?” Rock grins. “Everybody’s gonna be comin’ in here asking for a haircut like Isaiah’s now!”

  “Thanks,” I tell him, checking out every mirror.

  “You got it,” Rock says, grabbing the broom to sweep up my hair. “That right there is a ‘Isaiah Dunn, Superhero’ cut.”

  I freeze and stare at Rock, wondering if he knows about Daddy’s stories. His back’s to me as he’s sweeping, and I’m just about to ask him when the shop door opens and a few older guys come in.

  “ ’Ay, Rock, you got time for a quick edge-up?” asks one of them. The other guy looks at me, still standing in front of the mirror.

  “Rock, you just did this cut?” he asks. “I gotta bring my little man in to get a cut like this!”

  Rock winks at me, like, “Toldja,” before answering the guys. He hands me the broom, and me and my superhero haircut get back to work.

  May 28

  THE SUITCASE BY the couch stops me cold.

  I just woke up and wandered into the living room, and it’s sitting there, nice and neat and ready to go. I guess we’re leaving Miz Rita’s after all. But to go where? I pray to God it’s not back to Smoky Inn.

  “Mama?” I call. She answers from the room she and Charlie have been sleeping in, Shayna’s room. I go inside, stomach bouncing all over the place. Mama’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, and she’s holding Charlie’s hands. She smiles when I come in, but it’s a forced smile.

  “Isaiah, come sit with us,” she says. I walk closer but don’t sit down.

  “Are we leaving?” I ask. Mama grabs my hand. She tries to smile again, but her eyes are filling with tears.

  “No, baby, you’re not leaving,” she says, her gaze going from me to Charlie.

  “Goodie!” Charlie grins. “I like Miz Rita’s house.”

  I stare right at Mama. I’m not four, like Charlie, and I notice she didn’t say “We’re not leaving.” Mama’s eyes find mine.

  “But Mama is leaving.”

  “I knew it!” I explode. “I heard you guys!”

  “Isaiah, calm down. Let me finish,” Mama says. She grips my hand even though I try to pull away. I hate that I feel tears on my cheeks. They match the ones on Mama’s.

  “It will only be for a month or so,” Mama says in a shaky voice that gets stronger the more she talks. “I have to go away so I can get better. You want Mama to get better, don’t you?”

  “But you are better!” I say. “Miz Rita’s helping! You don’t have to go!”

  Because Mama’s crying, and I’m crying, Charlie starts crying.

  “
Mama, don’t go away!” Charlie wraps her arms around Mama, and I can tell she’s squeezing tight.

  “Oh, baby, I don’t want to leave you guys,” Mama says.

  “Then don’t!” I say.

  “I have to,” Mama whispers.

  “Why, Mama?” asks Charlie.

  But I already know why.

  “It’s cuz of those bottles, right?” I ask. “Does Miz Rita know?”

  Mama nods. “She knows. And you two are gonna stay here with her while I get…” Mama pauses and takes a deep breath. “While I get help.”

  Mama tells us about this place called Sunrise Recovery Center, where she’ll be for the first part of the summer. It’s a few hours away, in the middle of nowhere, and she says once she’s there, they’ll help her deal with a lot of things, more than just her drinking.

  “I miss Daddy so, so much,” she says, and wipes the extra tears that fall down. “This program will help me deal with missing him.”

  “I miss him, too, Mama,” Charlie says excitedly. “So I should go with you, right?”

  “No, baby.” Mama smiles. “This place is just for mamas. It’ll help me be a better mama to both of you. I want that more than anything right now.”

  “Oh,” Charlie says. “Can I have some popcorn? Miz Rita said I could have some after I got dressed.”

  Mama gives Charlie a big kiss and hug, and tells her she can go get popcorn. Then it’s just me and her. This time, when Mama tugs my arm, I sit down beside her. Her hand is warm when she touches my face, where all the stupid tears are.

  “Isaiah,” she says, “you’re my li’l soldier, you know that?”

  I don’t say anything. I’m not a very good soldier if she has to leave to get better. A good soldier would be able to make things better, be a hero. That’s what Daddy would want me to do.

  “I’m very proud of you,” Mama says. “You’re an amazing big brother and the best son I could ever want.”

  “I’m the only son, Mama,” I say.

  “Even better!”

  Mama tells me to do what Miz Rita says and not get in any trouble with Sneaky.