Blueschild Baby

by George Cain

  ROGER, A PREVIOUS WHITE LOVER OF NICHOLE’S, made it all so clear. He came by the pad often. Ingratiating himself and maintaining contact with her for the time I’d leave and he could return. I tolerated him for his lavish gifts and attention. He’d been bugging me to get him some smoke from uptown and desperate for money I agreed. Knowing enough of the game he insisted that he accompany me. Explained why he couldn’t, a white in Harlem is a tip. Police know what he’s up there for, pussy or dope and all they got to do is lay. It didn’t matter, was going to beat him anyway. He stood on the corner, I took the bread, turned the corner and kept on going. Partied the money and returned a week later, broke. Roger had already seen her and told what had happened.

  Shouldn’tve been no big thing, had been stealing and taking from her regular, though she said nothing and pretended it didn’t happen. Rather than force a confrontation, she’d leave more money for me to take. So guilty, she indulged and tried to understand my every weakness, making me weaker and more dependent. Hated her understanding and insistence on thinking she understood. That all we had to do was talk about it, communicate and somehow it’d all work out. She couldn’t understand how things and incidents unrelated to us in any way should have such profound effects on our relationship. She loved me and my attitude changed with the fortunes of my people in the pages of the Times.

  “Why can’t we go somewhere?”

  Couldn’t even then be seen with her outside the Vil.

  “Why don’t you bring your friends by? This is your home too.”

  It was her home. I only slept there because I had no place to go.

  “What’s wrong, tell me baby? Talk to me.”

  We were wrong. She knew but wouldn’t let go, trying to suck me of all strength. So weak and near drowned, hooked and in need of money, I couldn’t leave. Complying with my degradation I stayed and sunk deeper.

  “George why’d you do it? Why’d you steal that money from Roger? If you want money, you know all you have to do is ask. Why’d you steal?”

  “Steal what? Didn’t steal anything. What you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about. That money you got from Roger for the smoke.”

  “Didn’t steal it, I beat him. He gave it to me.”

  “You stole it, you admit stealing it.”

  “Didn’t steal anything, I beat that fool, can’t you understand that?”

  “All I know is you took that money. You stole, stole, stole!”

  Tried to explain, but there was no understanding in her eyes and I saw the futility, she could never understand.

  “Roger called and told me what happened, said to tell you if you didn’t give back the money he was calling the police and telling them you stole something from his house. Told him I’d take care of it soon as I saw you.”

  Hearing this, rage took me and I screamed, “He said he’d do what? Call that punk, what’s his number. I’ll kill him. You give him a penny and I’ll break your hands.

  “Hello Roger? This is George.”

  “Nichole tell you what I said? You got my money?”

  “She told me what you said. Now listen to what I say. You punk motherfucker, you call the police, cause you gonna need one. I’ll kill you! You hear me faggot! I’ll kill you, bust a cap in your ass!”

  Was screaming, heard him swallow and try to find his tongue.

  “You, you . . . You’re just like the rest of them. Thought you . . .”

  Couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to, not what he was saying. Thought I was like him. Why? Cause I went to school and M.F. wasn’t every other word. Forgot the nigger was just beneath the veneer of civilization.

  “That’s right, I’m just like them. What the fuck did you think I was? Like you faggot? And I carry a knife in my pocket just like all of them and I’m gonna take your head. You gonna call the police on somebody. Where do you think you’re at? Just what the fuck you call yourself doing?”

  “I’m sorry man, ain’t calling the police, just trying to scare you into giving my money back.”

  Fear in his voice, heard the bitch coming out of him cross the wire, “Really man, I’m not calling the police.”

  “You better not. And don’t be bothering her trying to get any money, she didn’t take it. I took it. I took it, you dig that. And if you want it, you got to see me.”

  “I’m sorry man.”

  The bitch in him disgusted me and I slammed the phone down surprised at how easy it was. All he’d done was whimper, no challenge, nothing. Still couldn’t believe he intended to call the police. Did he think they could protect him in my world? When he put that money in my hand, he willingly crossed over and became subject to the laws of another place. If he got a gun or knife and came to get his scratch I’d a upped it, but to call the police. . . . His arrogance in thinking he could remove an act from the context in which it occurred and put it in his world. Typical of those people. Was glad I’d beat him, he deserved it. He made himself a victim. Not everybody is, only those who let themselves be. Every mark gives himself away. Thugs lay hours in shadows till a victim makes himself available. They let others obviously more prosperous pass till that right one comes along. What gives him away? He knows in advance that it is to be him. His eyes show fear and fear betrays him. Roger knew he was going to be a victim in advance, whoever he dealt with would have known and done him the same.

  “Why did you steal George?”

  Knowing she was bothering me she persisted and more clearly I began to see how distant and incompatible we were.

  “Look, I told you I didn’t steal anything, but you don’t believe me or understand so why don’t we drop it?”

  “But I want to. Just explain to me.”

  “Look baby, if I got to explain it to you, you can’t understand it.”

  “But you took his money and you didn’t give him anything. You just took his money. What if he’d called the police. They’d have taken you to jail.”

  “What do they know about anything I do or why. You’re supposed to be my woman and you can’t understand a thing.”

  “Don’t say that George. I do, you know I try to but it’s hard sometimes.”

  From that moment I began to consolidate my dissipated strength to break away. My hate and loathing had finally overcome my need. Would simply leave one morning and never come back, no fanfare. Would not have to kill her, as I had thought, to escape from the devil, would just cut out.

  IT’S LATE AND BU FALLS ASLEEP over her plate. While Nichole readies her for bed, I get off again. Sit nodding on the toilet remembering how we met. Met her at a civil rights fund-raising party that turned into a drunken revel. She was like me, alone. Supposed to meet a friend, but the friend hadn’t come so we sat drinking and staring vacantly. She was tired, having spent the day ringing doorbells and handing out flyers for the organization. Would I take her home? In the street I hailed a cab.

  “It’s too far and much quicker by subway.”

  At first balked at the idea, not wanting to be seen with a white woman and prey to rude eyes. Waiting on the platform, she took my hand. I wanted to pull away and leave, but instead returned the pressure and enjoyed offending the onlookers. Leaving the subway began to dread the moment. Didn’t know how to be with her. Wanted to get away, was sick and needed a fix. We kissed quickly at her door and I ran fast as I could to shoot it away with stuff.

  Was prowling the streets and bumping through crowds, annoyed cause I hadn’t found something to steal. Had been days since I’d spoken a word. Wanted to talk, to anyone. A week had passed since we’d met and pushed each other from mind. Fumbling through my pockets for something, came across her number on a matchbook and called her.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Cain, George Cain. Met you at the party last week.”

  Silence as she tried to recall me. Then she began speaking as if we were intimates, telling me every detail of her miserable life. Was wary of this confidence, but soon enjoying it. We talked until
the operator interrupted, promising to meet later that evening.

  I prepared myself for the encounter by stopping at Sun’s for a fix and arrived late. Spotted her on 14th Street and Seventh Avenue. The severe cut of clothes and butch haircut gave her an air of ice-cold efficiency. She couldn’t love anything or anybody. Strangers, we greeted each other awkwardly and took a cab uptown. Feeling loose from dope, I told her about the streets and things I thought she understood. But to her it was all a surreal nightmare.

  The restaurant was in the Seventies. Took her there knowing we wouldn’t be bothered or see anyone I knew. She told me about herself, the protest movements she was involved in, civil rights, ban the bomb, abortion reform, and numerous magazines and articles she read. All of her time and energy was devoted to the gathering of information. During the day she was a writer for one of the press services. She lived in the dead yesterday of news reports or the tomorrow of reform. The pressing moment never intruded till I came and drove her into life.

  We finished dinner and walked by the river, my river. I led her through the park to its edge, remembered swimming in it.

  “Why so quiet?”

  “I use to swim here.”

  “It’s dirty isn’t it?”

  “I suppose so.”

  She looked out over the water. I kissed her. The mouth was dead.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Something must be, you acting so funny. You don’t dig niggers or something?”

  She grabbed my hand pushed it under her skirt and pressed it between her thighs. Sucked tongue in her mouth and squeezed. Felt myself grow big and bust.

  We rode the train in silence. It would happen that night, would finally get over. Unlike the first time, I’d prepped myself. Leaving the subway, she handed me the keys to her place.

  “GEORGE. You okay in there?”

  “Yeah baby, be out in a minute.” Clean up and stash the guns.

  “Your daughter wants you to kiss her good night.”

  Ending her prayers, Sabu jumps up and kisses me. “Night Daddy George. You’ll be here when I wake Daddy? You won’t go away?”

  “I’ll be here baby.”

  “See how she misses you? You should stay in touch George. She’s like that all the time. Asking about you, how come you don’t come see her.”

  In the dark I fumble with her clothes. She undresses us and the naked flesh releases torrents. Everything in me, all the poison, bursts in her. A quick hurtling down. What more could there be? It is drained of all pleasure by the countless times of dream and thought in prison. She snuggles to me like an animal content and grateful that I’ve scratched its belly and given it pleasure.

  “Oh baby I missed you. Missed you so bad. I love you, don’t leave me alone like that. I need you.”

  Cannot believe my ears, she acts like I’ve been gone a day, not four years and everything is the same. Sitting on the side of the bed, know I hate this woman. Loathe her, her whiteness, her love. Whenever I touched her, would wash and walk for hours in the air and still her scent clung. Her love is like that, a tenacious clinging thing, choking me to death. Could’ve killed her easily, with pleasure.

  Looking at the dumb face, see how it has changed. Before me, she had no life, that is why she’s grateful. She got no mail cept statements from the bank and magazines. Her phone was dusty and rang only wrong numbers. She had no friends and never went out. To work and home to the papers, books and magazines. Her involvement in groups was as an anonymous member. She was dead and I resurrected her, at great cost, and that is why I never felt guilty about nothing cause it was my due. Twenty-eight years and she’d not loved, crying and shamed at herself and pleasure the first time, thinking she was a nympho. Had no inkling what love was about. I was amazed that she could have opinions and attitudes about everything and still hadn’t fulfilled her primary function. I made her into a woman to meet my needs.

  Now there’s neither love nor hate. The whiteness no longer excites me, it’s nothing and she’s nothing. As whenever I make a great discovery, or change because I find some new truth about life, feel something heavy that constricted my mind leave and know I’m closer to freedom. Understanding of self and proper awareness and action in life is freedom for me. The Man can’t free me. I must free myself.

  Touch her and feel nothing, no revulsion. Wonder if I could ever love her or any of them and know I couldn’t. Not because of their whiteness, but because of what being white makes you. Lay back down and sleep.

  A RACKET IN THE KITCHEN wakes me. Hear Sabu, Nichole and another voice. My stirring around attracts their attention.

  “What do you want for breakfast?”

  “Eggs and cereal.”

  It is 10:00, too late to look for a pad, another day shot. In the bathroom take my wake up and wash, wondering who’s in the kitchen. A young blond thing greets me.

  “Hi Cain, remember me? Chris?”

  I rummage in memory. Chris the kid next door. Years ago.

  “Remember her George? She was just a baby last time you saw her.”

  “Yeah I remember. How you been? Look at you now, something else.”

  Smiles and blushes. “Didn’t think you’d remember. Glad you’re back. Everybody missed you.”

  While eating, Nichole bothers me with attention. So insecure, every female is a threat and Chris, sixteen years old, is no exception. Finish, get ready to leave. Hear Chris in the kitchen.

  “I told him if he couldn’t wait, screw off and get someone else. After that I went with Ray, he thought he was slick and went out with Grace on the sly. I don’t have to tell you why, you can imagine. She had his kid and they got married. Two months later he calls me and says, ‘Look Chris, I love you and I want to divorce Grace.’ Told him he was crazy and hung up. Barry, my new boyfriend, got married when he was young. They’re separated now. His wife’s a bitch, only lets him see the baby for a few hours on weekends.”

  Picture Nichole moving around the kitchen amused at this young girl’s problems that were never her own. Chris’s love life, free, careless, adolescent. Tales of fantasy touching nothing that I’m familiar with.

  “I’m going out for a while, be back tonight.”

  “Okay baby. Be careful.”

  “You going by subway?” Chris asks. “I’m going that way.”

  Nichole gives her a woman’s look and we leave. Watch Chris play woman with me and other males. Playing, not prepared to be one. Can’t imagine those cats she fucks over, how can they stand for something like that, serves them right if they go for it.

  “What you been doing with yourself Chris? Sure looking good.”

  “Nothing much, parties and things.”

  “Still take care of Bu for Nichole?”

  “Yeah, I dig her. She’s like my sister, spend so much time with her. Nichole’s always out somewhere.”

  Walk the rest in silence.

  “See you tomorrow George?”

  “Later baby.” Can smell virgins, they’re unnatural creatures. Suddenly I remember, this is the last day I can get off, got to be clean for that exam Friday. Take the train to 125th. Wander in and out of clothing stores trying on everything and buying nothing.

  Am habit bound, been so long since I spent money on things, am unable to part with it except for dope. Buy some socks and underclothes and ride downtown feeling like a native who’s just spent his first money. Cannot believe I got something in return for it. Something real, that will not vanish like a feeling. I can look at it a week from now and say so much money went there and have something to show for it.

  AT 59TH STREET get off and go around the way. Going to sit up in the bar, high side, buy a few drinks, be somebody for a while. Hit the projects from the downtown side where all the spics be. Know them all, grew up with em, went to the same schools, did the same things. Stand rapping with Lopez a while and this chick pushing a baby gives me a look. Catch her halfway down the block all set to say something slick a
nd she turns to me.

  “Don’t remember me, do you, Georgie Cain?”

  Look closely, take age from around the face, a little flesh from the body, put woman’s knowledge out of her eyes and pain from her smile.

  “Nandy, Nandy. Baby how’re you?” We dance joyously in the street, no longer strangers, sweet memories springing immediately in my head.

  “How’ve you been? Oh you look so good, let me hug you again.”

  “Girl, who made you so fine!”

  “Go on, you know you can’t run no games on me. Remember? This is little sister.”

  “I told you then I was going to wait for you. This you?” I pick the child up. Can tell by her tone, proud and defiant that she has no husband.

  “This my heart here. Tchaka.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Four months.”

  “Four months? Big, another warrior. Go head sister. I know he’s gonna be ready and know who he is.”

  “You know that.”

  “Which way you going? Home? Still there? I’ll walk you.”

  Walking through the project pass acquiantances from the underground. Recognizing she is not one of us, they either salute me with unusual courtesy or privately not wanting to pull me down through association with them. For many of them, unknowing they’re victims, believe the myth that they’re the lowest of low, and give it reality. That mad need to punish and destroy ourselves is past, our minds and bodies are needed. We are free if we want to be.

  “What you doing tonight? Feel like going out?”

  “Going where? Ain’t been out in so long.”

  “A flick, dancing, a club, anything.”

  “I got to work in the morning.”

  “We won’t be out late. Come on. I haven’t seen you all this time.”

  “Okay. What time?”

  “How long will it take you? I’m going like this.”

  “Well I’ve got to feed Tchaka and eat.”

  “No, we’ll eat out.”

  “Let me see if I can get my sister to keep him. Be ready in an hour.”