Blueschild Baby

by George Cain

  “A salaam aleikum, brother.”

  “Aleikum salaam.”

  “Peace brothers.”

  “Say James, let’s go to the Playhouse want to dig some sounds.”

  I walk without the tension of downtown and recall how I once feared this place. Harlem was some hell escaped, into which I never wanted to fall again. And like some dark beast or fear, it lay waiting for the slightest weakness to devour and draw me home.

  We walk up ’17th Street to Seventh. I lived here for a while as a child. The laundry, Democratic Club, West Indian grocery and funeral parlor. Try to recall names, Ray Ray is the only one and no image appears, it was too long ago. Looking up the block, there is a gap in the wall. I wonder has that property been vacant all these years?

  This is where the fire came and took my great-grandmother. It started in the basement and came roaring up the air shaft. Clouds of smoke and you could hear flames eating closer. My Nana led us over the roof and downstairs through 1361, another building and we stood in the street hypnotized by the flames devouring our place. It was then we remembered Granny.

  Her room full of things old and dead, the heavy armchair where Reverend Banks sat when he came to visit, calling her Sister and telling her, like you tell a child, of heaven with golden streets and beautiful people. Their talk of people and incidents long done. My child’s mind re-created them, giving a beauty they did not possess, but couldn’t be refuted since they were dead and done with. They would pray The Lord’s Prayer, “Our Father Who art in heaven . . . ,” his voice coming strong and clear through the curtain, hers unheard by the ear, but felt more strongly by some part of self. There was the bureau fronting the window, so high I’d never seen its top, blocking the little light coming in, dark, made of mahogany with brass handles, containing her nightgowns and toilet things, the bottom drawers were filled with my father’s old playthings, a massive ball of aluminum saved during the depression, foil darkened from dust and being kept in dark, a broken spade and child’s pail, locks of hair—my father’s, aunt’s, their old report cards, and papers recording transactions, all with Nana’s clumsy signature. Remember her pulling them out and showing them to me. There was a cedar chest full of picture albums by the wall, sometimes I’d sit on it and watch Granny, the gentle rise and fall of her body caused by passing breath.

  A hall ran the length of the apartment, the only rooms having doors, the bathroom to the side of the foyer and the front room facing the street. The rest were separated only by curtains or screens, and going from one to the other was like passing through different worlds, each having the scent and personality of its owner. Pushing aside the curtain, I’d walk quickly, trying to be quiet and avoid the creaking boards. A dark room softened by light through a curtain. She lay under the comforter, head propped on a pillow, features hidden by dark, but indelibly impressed upon my mind, gray hair spread over white pillow, the millions of wrinkles hiding her mouth and nose, two blind eyes, one nothing but eyelids wrinkled on themselves and sunken, the other opening on yellow iris. In the dark could swear something of vision remained to this one eye for it captured the little light in the room and shone. Under a heavy quilt, her frail body outlined, one leg ending abruptly like some mountain chain running into ocean, diabetes had cut it off.

  “That you Georgie?”

  “Yes Granny.”

  “Come closer.”

  Words uttered so feebly, almost unspoken, yet I’d obey as if she had shouted. She’d raise her bony hand and I’d hold it, so thin I could feel the blood running sluggishly in her veins, the touch dry and pleasant. Telling me with a touch that she loved me, that we were blood, then replacing the warm hand in its position and resuming her corpselike posture.

  The only objects in the room, archaic and cumbersome, distorted by the dark and the child’s mind, were friendly familiar personages. They were situated in a circle about the bed and the most amiable dialogue was always in progress. The armchair was Reverend Banks, the bureau, Brother Lofus, the cedar chest, Sister Cunningham.

  The room was a vault, mingling past and present, containing the memorabilia of the family and Granny the living past, corpselike but loved and loving its keeper. When the bureau or cedar chest was opened, the past seeped out along with musty air, strange and inexplicable, requiring interpretation, Nana’s mother’s, father’s, relatives, colored and distorted by time. I rarely entered her room during the day or light, usually in evenings when Nana called and met me at the front. Other times I came and left through the back and this lone meeting with Granny had become sacred ritual, compelling me to be frozen and pay homage to a timeless world, with time in either direction beyond her room, till some distraction, a breeze or door slamming, more often Nana urging me to hurry, “Your father will be home in a minute,” broke the spell and moved me.

  Coming to the gap in the wall, I see it’s not my old home that is gone, but the building next door. People sit on my old stoop and eye us as we cross over to stare at the place, none are familiar or call a memory and I wonder do any of them remember my family.

  “I use to live here.”

  They stare but none speaks.

  “Lived here years ago. Was born here. There was a fire, my great-grandmother died in it and we had to move.”

  Sympathy shows in their eyes.

  “Do any of you remember the fire or the Cain family?”

  They nod no.

  CAN HEAR THE NOISE of the bar a block away. Out front big shiny cars caught in neon sparkle like jewels. Inside the heat of bodies, alcohol and music warms you. J.B. orders two juices and we sip soaking in the life around us, like two batteries recharging to give us strength to go out in the other world again.

  “Use to hang here when I was doing wrong. Know Mack behind the bar and most everybody else here. Be back in a minute.”

  He walks over to talk with a woman who was once beautiful, now she is ravaged by the junk life. The place is called Gunsmoke by its patrons but some Irish name, legacy of another time and people is on its front. It’s one of those places frequented by the bottom of the world. Outcasts and renegades driven to similar palaces, this night and every other, barring its closure or their arrest. Banded together for company, comfort and protection.

  Bad doing pimps sit in a corner, they’ve divided man into two classes, players and tricks. I despise them, their weakness, processed heads, long nails and femininity. Calling themselves strong, supermen. How strong you got to be to take money from a woman? The first woman they played was momma. They glorify themselves and their game, giving it a romance and glamour it doesn’t possess. All sparkle and shine, but base and defiling to touch.

  Here are petty crooks, victims thinking they’re victors. Driven body and soul, they talk furtively. Searching eyes and ears, untrusting those near them as they plan the grandest larceny of their careers. They’re all hip and cool, but it’s just another way of dying. Some youngsters move around, protégés of the others, hanging on to every word, being schooled in the arts of vice. They’re kings for a day, pockets full of pawn tickets, begging a smoke while they tell you of the big money they’ve had in their time. Kings for a day who live in a car and sport fashionable wardrobes the day after a success, then return them to the pawnshops the day after and hope for another sting before the expiration date falls due.

  Drunkards, junkies, heads hung in their crotch, wait for a drink or fix to send them hurtling into themselves. Whores and prostitutes stand about, posing and waiting for daddy to put foot in her ass and chase her into the night to make that money. Hidden in shadows revealed for a moment by the moving colored lights of the juke. Moving in time with the music, black music, love music of youth. They look at me with their too-much-seeing eyes and call in that language peculiar to them, silence, a silence surer than voice. That silence inviting men to share them, forbidden things.

  “Joanie, this is Cain. Cain, Joanie.”

  “Hello baby.”

  Her voice is cracked, tired-toned and weep
ing, full with the pain of life. Immediately we recognize each other as kindred and feel guilty in the presence of the pure J.B. This is why he is here. There is nothing he can tell us, cause he knows there was nothing anyone could tell him, but by the example of his life he can show us.

  “Dig Cain, Joanie, got to cut out. Catch you later.”

  And he is gone, vanished. With him gone there is no need for pretense, not that he doesn’t know the minute he is out of sight we shall do what we shall. But his purity gives one strength to resist.

  “You want to get down baby? I got works and a place to get off right around the corner.”

  We leave the bar and hurry down the crowded street.

  “Where you know J.B. from Cain?”

  “Downtown.”

  It’s an old dilapidated luxury apartment building suffering neglect. The cluster of drunks, junkies and children crowding the stoop and halls make way to let us through.

  “You’ll have to excuse the place, it’s a mess. You know how it is.”

  She leads through the door which was originally the entrance to an apartment. It’s a small green room with cracked and peeling walls. The only furniture, a bed, table and chair. Newspapers and clothes are strewn about and it smells of junk and cigarettes.

  “Sit down. Let me go get the things.”

  We cook up, fix and nod awhile.

  “Excuse me while I try and get this place together. I’m not like this. Really, this ain’t me but you know how tired you get when you ain’t got your medicine. Just so tired, ain’t got energy to do nothing.”

  While she cleans, I look out the window.

  “Say Cain I’m going down for a minute, you mind waiting here for me? Be right back.”

  From the window watch her head upstreet and turn out of sight, wondering where she is going. A ceiling light throws my shadow on the ground and people noticing look up at me. Turn it off banishing the room and shadow and look out unnoticed.

  Night people, revelers, cars, innocent children. Activity of the street. There goes a hurried furtive dope fiend, running sick somewhere to cop. Two drunks carousing, joyously embrace, bracing one another stagger from sight. Boy and girl flirting in hall shadowkiss and finger fuck. Someone upstairs loud playing a radio. Sam Cooke sings “A Change Gonna Come.” Young wino, unhearing the music, walks in its rhythm. Hurrying yellow cabs. Junky smiling fixed now returns. Air brakes on big truck. Neon signs merge in the distance. Little kids. Why are they still out? A hungry hole, hungry trick, hunting each other walk past in opposite directions. Policeman’s blue coat walks past. Thinking of wife and kids, unseeing all going on about him. Pandering pimp accosts a john trick, inquiring, “Wanna buy some pussy? Any kind of woman, white, black.” Murphy men and con-men hunting marks, running games on the whole world. The hole has found the trick heading for the hotel. Police and fire sirens sound frequently. Blue coat picks up plodding feet and walks away. The city’s finest. That one’s a detective, plain-clothes. Something tells him off, acts like a faggot. Not flat feet, it’s the hunting demeanor. Trying to make a score, catch a thief. Must be the girl’s mother yelling at the boy, hits her, curses her and he runs downstreet. Detective’s shakedown. Legs and arms apart, against the wall, frisk him, look through wallet. He’s clean, let go. Must meet his quota, make a bust before the night is over.

  Where is she? Impatient, I decide to leave. Check the stairs, they’re full of people, nodding and sleeping like at Nana’s or Sun’s. It’s a frozen timeless world. They’re dust covered like old statues. The place is a graveyard filled with ghosts and wrecks of dead black people.

  A racket in the lobby grabs my ear. It’s one of the women. Legs splayed, hands on hips, she telling this police, “Motherfucker get your shit hooks off me.”

  “Sorry lady, I’m sorry. We got a complaint.”

  “Complaint my ass. Who’re you? Putting your hands on me.”

  Drawn by the noise, the dead come alive and crowd the lobby.

  “What he do to you baby?”

  “Low-lifed motherfucker felt my ass.”

  “Think you can do anything you want to cause you got a badge and gun.”

  The dead make angry noises and become ugly. One cop raises his eyes heavenward as if calling on his God. I see the fear and confusion in his face. The place is alien and hostile, dead creatures surround him like horrible beggars with runny sores and deformities, crowding about and putting their filthy hands out to touch him. He runs from the building to the radio car. In minutes van and police arrive. A sergeant walks in, helmeted and wearing bulletproof vest, followed by fifty like him. He sniffs the foul air, then seeing the people—“It’s rotten. Fucken place smells like shit.” Stands like a conquistador confronting the Indian. A new world with strange people. Pointing to someone he asks, “You live here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where at?”

  “Upstairs.”

  “Let’s see your welfare card.”

  “I ain’t got it.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Pointing to another—“You live here?”

  “No.”

  “Well what the fuck you doing here then?”

  “Visiting.”

  “Visiting my ass. Get the fuck on out of here.”

  The lucky one hurries through the mass of blue, blocking the door, glad to escape.

  Walking to the stairwell, the cop looks up. His blue eyes blink at fifty odd pair of brown looking down. “God damn there’s more of them, call another van. Okay men, I want you to bring down every swinging dick in the place that ain’t behind a door.” They come up the stairs like hunters stalking cat, preceded by beaters, the commotion of scuttling feet and slamming doors. I return to the room and lock myself in and there’s an urgent banging at the door. Opening, it’s Joanie, wet and breathless from running. We stand at the door listening to them go by.

  “Good thing you didn’t get locked out, saw you standing there. We’d be in a jam out there in the hall, I forgot my keys. People are a bitch, they come in and go through the place whenever they get ready, scooping up everybody they can. Some they catch dirty, those they don’t they put something on. Last week Caroline, this chick that lives upstairs, her son come by to visit. Only sixteen years old, don’t know nothing bout no dope. They flagged him in the hall and put some stuff in his pocket. Breeze her old man got busted too and he took the weight.”

  Walking back to the window I watch them bring the victims out. Those caught sleeping in the halls and bathrooms, too high to hear or care.

  “Get away from the window, someone will see you.”

  “Turn the light out.”

  She hits the light and falls into a chair. The police pull off with their cargo and the empty streets quickly fill again. Standing about, the people discuss the latest injustice committed against them, glad it wasn’t their time, but knowing they’re due. Arrest and jail are common experiences. Everyone, no matter how well placed, has someone close in the jailhouse and the influence of the penal colony is manifested everywhere in the street. The revolution shall begin in the penitentiaries and spread over the country for this is where the most aware minds are. They say you’re arrested for crime, narcotics, prostitution, robbery, murder, but these are not the reasons for locking you away. Awareness is your crime, for once you become aware, you cannot help reacting in a manner contrary to the system that oppresses you. Very few commit crime because they enjoy doing so. They do what they have to. So many leaders are convicts. Awareness is a crime and sanity the only insanity, they are such rare qualities these days, they go unrecognized for what they are and are seen only as deviate from the madness that is normalcy.

  From the jails shall come the revolution, where the oppressed, those who were hungry and stole, dared transgress the oppressor, sit in cells doing what they never had time to do in the big world, read, think, and most important, exchange ideas with their brothers. Everyone should go to prison for there certain ideas crystallize. You know you’re a ma
n unjustly punished and nothing can ever mollify that but some blood. One goes there expecting some great change, but there is nothing till one day the realization that you been in prison all your life and there is nothing they can take from you cause they took it all already. We are revolutionaries with nothing to lose and they have made so many of us. We have no voice or power, but those ideas formed behind bars, walls and gun towers.

  She sleeps, hear her even breathing. The prison comes before me. It is quiet, lovers have ceased their activity as they steal to the supposedly quiet world of sleep. It begins somewhere down tier with half heard animal whines after a while rising to an inhuman chorus, crying as they’re pursued through their minds by those fears they kept at bay during waking. Would be there counting the rivets in the ceiling listening to them try and articulate pain. I listened and urged them, but they never spoke.

  Feel the creeping fingers moving slowly up my leg like an insect and break sleep.

  “What you doing?”

  “Just me baby.”

  Her presence, the dark and pain of her voice thrill the body. I stroke her hair and she curls against me like a cat purring softly. I haven’t touched women in two years. Feeling her flesh I fill and burst into fragments. Terrible pain tears me and I struggle protest down her throat with tongue and tumble to the floor. Fumbling with unfamiliar garments my body gone mad seeks to satisfy its need, while my mind made mad in prison manufactures a dream.