Blueschild Baby

by George Cain

  All this occurred simultaneously, crashing and overwhelming the senses. I’d arrive at the butcher shop, a distance of half a block from the bus stop, breathless and tired.

  It was cool inside and the closed door shut out the street noise. A barnlike place with rails running through the air on which rolled carcasses. Painted cold and white, floor covered with sawdust to catch the dripping blood that spotted everything, aprons, glass, cabinets. It was noisy with men moving about taking orders, slamming freezers, registers ringing and dull-thudding axes on the block.

  Louie was our butcher and while he filled our order I’d watch him through the glass seeing only a bloody apron moving back and forth. Finally he’d reach over the counter and hand me a hunk of salted bologna which I’d share with Nana, she’d remind me to thank him since I never seemed to remember and they’d smile at this private joke enacted so many times. I’d never really forget. It was only to enjoy their smiles and attention that I pretended to. He called me Junior, having known my father and as I grew he’d comment how he’d seen me grow from nothing and I’d think how I’d seen him grow old before my eyes.

  One section of the shop lured me, the icebox. Only caught glimpses of the interior when the butchers went in or out for cuts of meat. Red blood and raw meat against the white curling clouds of vapor sent the mind on grotesque fancies. Locked in there at night and being found frozen and hanging with the cows next morning.

  With our order filled and bill tallied we’d go to the cashier. A glass booth with a porthole through which you spoke and paid money. She was a pretty lady with gold hair, reminding me of fairy tales and captive maidens. Smiling she’d give me a piece of candy and ask about the family. I’d remember to thank her. Getting her change, Nana’d wrap a tip in the receipt and standing tiptoe I’d hand it to Louie.

  When it was almost noon, we’d leave our packages to go eat lunch and finish shopping. We ate what Nana called our running lunch, stopping at a hotdog stand or pizza place, maybe the dime store for hamburgers and malts, usually eating as we walked. Dessert came from the fruit purchases, pulling oranges, apples, pears or plums from a bag.

  There was a notions shop we visited every week. A small store stuck between vegetable stands. Dim-lit place crammed with articles, bundles of gay colored cloth, buttons, needles, spools of thread and catalogues of women’s dress patterns that Nana pored over with childish delight. While she was engrossed, I’d wait outside on the crowded street warming myself by the burning trashcan. Boys selling shopping bags hung around its warmth talking about money and ways of making it, each telling how much he’d made, jingling the coins in his pockets. Sometimes they’d be pitching pennies, and though I knew Nana wouldn’t approve I tossed once then quit. They got mad, told em they could have the money back but they refused it. When Nana came out and we walked away could feel their eyes burning my back. Finished shopping returned to Louie’s for the meat and made the long walk to the bus stop. She’d carry the meat since it was heavy and I the fruit and other things. How many times had the heavy packages almost slipped from my tired arms but drawing strength from somewhere I’d make it. The sun was down then, the crowds gone and trashcans extinguished. Tired and full, fell asleep, waking when Nana hunched me and we were home.

  A LUMP STICKS IN MY THROAT, can’t breathe or swallow. Gagging, run to the toilet and vomit. Live things, frogs and insects kick in the liquid coming out. The empty stomach dry heaves like it’s coming inside out, ups juices and yellow bile, knocks me to my knees with pain.

  “Nandy, water, get water!”

  Down it and bring it right up. The cramps subside and she helps me off the floor. In bed I burn and freeze. Have never kicked cold in the streets, always in jails where there wasn’t any dope. There mind and body protected me against the intense pain by rejecting pain. But out here, pockets full of money and dope in the streets, everything is intensified, screaming for relief. The walls close, inanimate objects turn on me and colors leap from objects to tell of themselves. My eyes are affected with magnification, see the most minute things in great detail. Pebbled texture of walls, great canyons and valleys in the nappy blanket, pores in Nandy’s skin. I’m gone mad in frenzy.

  The pain begins. Comes softly first, touching me lightly and increasing in intensity and frequency till I’m all pain. There is no pause. Each stroke prepares me for the next which is even harder till the screaming crescendo. It lasts three days. Sweat pops off me and freezes. I chatter, can’t talk. Nandy frightened feels my head and pulse.

  “Baby let me call a doctor. You can’t do it this way, you’ll kill yourself. There’s one in the hotel, I’ll call down.”

  “A doctor won’t help.”

  “Let me try George. Can’t see you hurt like this.”

  Tears run and I feel myself coming apart. She calls the desk and gets the doctor’s office. Stagger into the elevator barely able to stand, so weak and tired. Want a fix. Can’t kick this way. In the office the receptionist takes my name. Finally he calls us in.

  “And what’s your problem?”

  Seeing Nandy with me and our hesitancy—“What’s wrong with you young people? If you’re going to do these things, you should be prepared. There’s just no excuse for it in this day and age. You, young lady are just as responsible as he, they have all sorts of contraceptive devices, and you sir, you’re old enough to know better. Who recommended you to me? I don’t perform such operations, but I’ll give you a number to call. They’ll take care of you. . . .”

  I don’t understand, then realize. “No, that’s not our problem, doctor.”

  “What is your problem then?”

  “I’m a drug addict.”

  He backs up from the desk like I was coming across it and draws a pistol.

  “Well?”

  “I’m a drug addict and I need help.”

  “Can’t do anything for you.”

  “You can’t do anything for him? He’s sick, in pain. He’s a sick man, you’re a doctor. What do you mean you can’t do anything for him?”

  “Exactly what I said. I can’t do anything for him.”

  “Why? Why can’t you? He’s sick. Look at him. You can give him something for the pain. You’re a doctor. He’s got chills, a fever.”

  “Get out of my office before I call the police. There are other patients out front I have to see.”

  “Look doctor, I’m sick, in pain like anybody else that comes to you.”

  “Told you to get out of here.”

  “Come on Nandy.”

  “He wouldn’t help you. You’re sick, he’s a doctor and he wouldn’t help you. Why baby? Why? What’s wrong with these people? They’re crazy. When you get well, we’re getting out of here. Going to get away from this place. You’ll come home with me. It’s different down there baby. There’s no dope. No madness like up here. You can raise children, not always wondering what they’re doing, what’s happening to them. Oh baby couldn’t live here worrying about you, every time you stepped outdoors and weren’t right back. Wondering if the police got you, are you dead of an O.D. He wouldn’t help us baby. Why? They must want you this way. That’s it. They want you sick, stealing and robbing, acting like you crazy. They must cause otherwise they’d do something about it. Want something to eat?”

  “Can’t eat, water, that’s all.”

  Feel my body fighting, eliminating the poison, pissing and sweating. Smell the heroin, like metal. Pain in the back, muscles and nerves jumping. Roil around like in a fit. A demon jumps out my head. It is the only way to fight this thing, like it’s alive and two-legged. Lay hands on it and throw it off my back. Cannot sit still and let nature take its course. Must take positive action, confront this thing trying to steal my soul. Can’t believe in red blood cells, white blood cells, in any clinical analyses of detoxification. Must believe that I’m fighting for my life against a real life foe who’s standing over me, waiting to claim me. There is no sleep, but occasionally exhaustion steals me, and I dream and remember. />
  “NAME?”

  “George Cain.”

  “Since you’re so tall George, I’ll have to seat you in the rear. The other children couldn’t see over you.”

  Laughter. Derisive children’s laughter.

  “The only student to score a perfect exam was George Cain.”

  “George is a faggot, teacher’s pet.”

  Always fighting, coming home beaten, always running.

  “Look son you’ve got to stop letting these kids pick on you. You’re bigger than they are, why do you let them pick on you? What are you afraid of? You don’t like to fight? What kind of answer is that? You want a beating every day? Well every time you lose one and come running in here like you’re crazy, I’m going to give you one. Now take this pillow and practice. Left, right. Harder, harder, that’s it. Every day you’re going to practice and I don’t want you coming home whining about somebody chasing you, otherwise I’ll give it to you and good.”

  “George, not again! These children, why don’t they leave you alone? That’s okay son we love you. No, I won’t tell your father.”

  The fights were just as frequent but I began winning. They banded together then, jeering and taunting, to chase me home. One day they cornered me in the schoolyard, there was no place to run. Their leader, a redheaded kid, walked up. Saw their faces blur and merge to one waiting for me to plead, cry, anything. Fear took me and I hit him, again and again, afraid if I stopped he’d hit me. He fell and I kicked him until pulled off screaming and crying.

  “You’re probably wondering why I sent for you. No, it’s nothing too serious, not yet at least. Does your son talk to you? About what goes on in school? Then you do know he had a fight yesterday? And that he’s had many others? He’s told you about them? Well he had a fight with another student, the boy had to be taken to the hospital where he’s in serious condition. We’re running a school not a boxing arena. I know he’s an excellent student. One of our best as a matter of fact and his behavior in class is exemplary, but reports have reached me that he’s rebellious, difficult to approach, causes disharmony among the other students, on the whole quite unmanageable. No, no, he hasn’t said or done anything, it’s just his attitude. What’s wrong with him? No friends, doesn’t seem to want any, not at all normal and yet he’s one of our brightest students. I was wondering if you could shed any light on the problem, after all you are his parents. Nothing, no ideas? Well you see he’s so much bigger than the other children and this last incident only points out what I’ve said. It must stop before he really hurts someone. You’ll speak to him then. Very good. Was nice meeting and talking with you.”

  “What happened with that fight you had yesterday? What do you mean you just had a fight, don’t know. Didn’t raise you to be no boxer, do you know that boy’s in the hospital, you’re only a kid and already you’re maiming people, Lord help us when you get bigger. You’re too big to go around picking on people, you’re going to hurt someone bad one day. Don’t tell me they pick on you, no George, not as big as you are. Don’t tell me that and don’t tell me what I said before. I’m telling you now, if I ever hear tell of you fighting again, you’re going to get it. Stop telling me what I said before. Stop that crying. Said stop it, before I give you something to cry about.

  “Now what’s this they tell me about no friends? How do you expect to have any if you go around picking on people? You know what you are? A bully and nobody likes a bully. You don’t like them. Well you better learn to and fast. I don’t want to hear any more about it. Now get out of here. I’ve got work to do. Remember what I said and stop that sniveling.”

  “Go ahead, cry son, it’s going to be all right. Your father’s angry. When people are angry, they say things they don’t mean. Of course he loves you, whatever made you think he didn’t? He’s got so many things on his mind. He’s getting ready to graduate, someday you’ll go to college and see what it’s like. Feel better? Drink your tea. Do Mother a favor? All I want you to do is try. No more fighting and try to make friends. They don’t understand you, that’s why it’s so hard, but you’ll try, for me? I just got an idea, how would you like to join the Y? They’ve lots of things for boys to do. Swimming, trips, sports, all kinds of things, new people to meet. You could make friends there. How’s that sound? You like that? I’ll talk to your father and see what he says.”

  THE Y WAS UP THE STREET from the projects. We sat in the office dressed in Sunday waiting to see the director, a white-haired man, twinkle in eye and gold in his mouth. He shook my hand, asked a lot of questions, accepted the twelve dollar yearly fee and told me to return the next day. We met in his office for a tour of the building, me and five others who’d joined that week. He spoke with us briefly.

  “You’ll see some odd things and people, but we at the Y feel you’re grown enough to respect this. That’s one of our purposes here, to teach respect for all men. To instill in you the principles of our founder and organization, to make you whole in body, mind and spirit. In short, to make you men fit to rule the world of tomorrow.”

  Our first stop was the pool. Looking down on the green chlorined water and pretty tiles, couldn’t wait to swim till I saw the naked men splashing and floating around.

  “They’re naked. How come they ain’t got nothing on? Don’t wanna swim naked. I got a bathing suit.”

  “It’s our policy that swimming this way engenders in you a healthy respect for the grace and beauty of the human body. Look at those men, how healthy they are. Beautiful, beautiful.”

  The kid behind me whispered in my ear and pointed, “Look at that, will ya. Look at the balls on that guy.” The pool was like an echo chamber and everybody heard him just as clear. This guy had a hernia and his balls, like hairy coconuts, hung down around his knees. We stared agape and cracked up.

  In the gym an exercise class was in progress. Tired old men tried to keep pace with a young instructor who counted so fast he was killing them. They coughed, wheezed, spat up and seemed determined to die that way. Above the gym, a bank track with antique figures plodding methodically in circles till they could go no more. The place stank of old age and funky sneakers.

  Another room was full of gymnasts. Men swinging from loops, spinning through the air and flipping on trampolines. There was a weightlifting area. Here they were, those beautiful bodies, powerful and massive from lifting weights. Snatching, jerking, lifting. Pictured myself someday like them. There was something wrong, I didn’t know what it was. The way the perfect bodies sat in a trance before the mirrors struck dumb by their own image, staring at themselves staring back and flexing their muscles. Or was it the way they walked so delicately, with mincing steps like they’d fall and break.

  The tour over, he left us in a room while he went to find our group leader and I met my new friends. Jose, James and Bushy. Seemed every black mother with a misfit child had enrolled him in the Y that week. We were all too tall, too big, too smart or too something where we couldn’t work or play well with others in school. While we stood around laughing about the guy in the pool, this young guy came in.

  “Guess you know each other. My name’s Bill, plain Bill, no Mister. You got that? I’m your group leader. Want us to be friends. I’m going to get you guys in shape, make you the toughest outfit in this joint, not like these sissies and snot noses they got running round here.”

  Getting in shape began with rigorous daily exercises. He’d been a top kick during the war and we drilled and exercised like crazy—“to weld you into a formidable unit and instill discipline.”

  Hours on end, half-stepping, double time, rear marching, lefting, righting. Across the street in the park we practiced commando tactics. Sneaking up on trees, rocks and hidden lovers. Lord we were ready for war. The other kids in the Y hated us. We were so big and getting bigger, twelve years old and almost six feet tall, filled with pride and arrogance. We were strong, a unit, no longer lonely kids needing love. The magic this man worked on our young minds. We bought Army jackets and jump boots
and strutted boldly around in stern dignity like young S.S. Seeing this change, my people thought it newfound confidence.

  “I’m proud of you, you’re the best bunch of men I’ve ever seen.”

  To Bill, we were men and this was the key to his success. But it was in the clubroom where Bill practiced his most potent medicine. Long dissertations on sex, broads and the great war. Perpetuating his hates in our new minds. He showed us scenes of Army life and French flicks on a slide projector. His commentaries on women were brief, “Bitches, all they’re good for is fucking.”

  One day Jose and me were in the boxing room, there was this funny smell and this old guy said to us, “You kids wanna see something funny?” and pulling down his shorts showed an erection. Scared we ran and got Bill and the gang. We hunted the guy down, finally cornering him on the staircase. Bill knocked him down and like lion cubs we joined in the kill, kicking and beating him senseless.

  “One thing I can’t stand’s a cocksucker, kill every last one of the bastards.”

  This thought spoken so often and vehemently became part of us. Of all our diversions, witch hunting was the most noble, for here we had a right and were doing the world a service. What else had fags been born for? To beat on and steal from. The rowboat lake and fountain were the hunting grounds, cause there was where they made advances to us from the boats. Me and Jose’d stand by the water since we were the tallest and the others hid in the bushes or on the island.

  “Hey baby, you know how to row a boat?”

  Two gaily dressed men rowed over and invited us aboard. When close enough we’d all pile in, singing noisily and pulling hard on the oars, heading for the deserted island.

  Apprehensive, but unable to do anything, they waited joyfully for the rape they’d dreamed of so often, or the terrible beating. To them it didn’t make any difference, they’d tell envying friends of the horrible pain and how many stitches it took to repair the damage. “My dear, it still hurts some.”