Blueschild Baby

by George Cain

  “Wow it’s a good thing we called.”

  “Anyway I can use the supervision in the beginning. Not that I need it mind you baby, but it’s another good reason for not fucken up.”

  “We’ll make it baby and when you get off this thing we’ll get up.”

  “Let’s take a walk.”

  “You feel up to it?”

  “Not far, just to Mount Morris.”

  We get down into the streets and the jungle roars, can feel it in my stomach. Am weak, but the streets give me energy and I feel better. Walk over to the park, passing so many of the dead on our way. Feel nothing for them and disgust for the profiteers. Police cruisers roll by and instead of cringing, throw head high. Am clean, free from my fear. There’s nothing they can do or take from me. Before, intimidated by their presence and subject to arbitrary shakedown and arrest, my manner gave me away. But now they’re servants in blue livery with gold buttons. In twenty-four hours have shed my past like snakeskin and walked away from it, emerging new and whole. We climb to the top of the park and view Harlem below us. Can see the boundaries on all sides, dark rivers and parks, natural boundaries cutting it off from the rest of the city. The climb has exhausted me and intensified the illness. Conga drums, deep and bass, sound all over, talking and answering. Feel them in my chest. Beyond the boundaries see the lights of the city like a red flame, all fire eating closer to the soft blackness, Harlem.

  The drums get louder and more urgent, the flames closer. Looking out, see Harlem’s in a valley. A pit, some great glowing hole. The drums pound in my head and we leave the park. Back in the room the monkey’s still in his corner, twenty-four hours have come and gone without a fix and he’s beginning to pale. In bed can still hear the drums. Try to sleep but my body will not function and the terrible craving begins. It has nothing to do with the pain or anything else. Total desire, need, every part of me screams for dope, want a fix so bad I’m going to step outside myself to get it. Fight and will with all my being, commanding my body to be still, knowing the slightest movement will send me running into the street.

  My mind tires quickly, but the body besieged by cramps and denied its medicine allows no rest. How can it, missing a vital substance which I fed it daily for years to keep it functioning smoothly. Without it, nothing works, not even sleep, not with nerves jangling and jumping, quaking at center of self. Nandy, nothing she can do but watch helplessly as I fight. The demon leers from the corner, sure, unconcerned. He’s been this way before and always emerged victorious, believes I have no strength or energy to fight him. Close my eyes, but pain clouds memory. Walk to the bathroom, loosing a strange colored liquid full of poison. Everything is falling apart, tearing down, trying to right itself. Struggling for normalcy without the poison, tragic magic. Felt so good once, thought it was God’s medicine, cured all ills, unlike medicine, or anything else, it touched your soul, turning you strange, giving you eyes and awareness you’d not asked for. Turned black white and white black, oppressed you without an oppressor, jailed you without jail or jailer, locked you and your every fear inside you. The guile it worked on the mind, an unbelievable game it ran, making me believe that somehow I was together, hip. Hip is only a new way of dying. See the folly now and can’t understand how I let myself fall this way. Junk attacks the body but is more than a physical ailment. It’s the manifestation of a deeper ill. A decay in spirit. There is no God, but there’s dope. A social, human, economic, physical, philosophical illness attacking every part of the man, brought on by every minute he’s in this world. That’s why I’ve retreated to this room and my mind into the past, for only in me, my history, can I find how to kill the monkey. That’s where he came from, out of my head and past, full-grown and fingers locked on my throat.

  THE DISORIENTATION AND CONFUSION BEGAN when I stopped going to church in Harlem. It was too long a ride. Instead going to the local white Presbyterian Church, it was more civilized and they recruited actively among the newly arrived project blacks. We’d been going about a year when Reverend White, the white minister, arranged for me to take the exam for Brey Academy, a very private school. Was four or five years after the ’54 desegregation thing and niggers were fashionable. Everybody was wearing them to show how liberal they were. Studied all winter for the exam and that summer, was told I’d been accepted. The church and other organizations sponsored me. After a visit with the headmaster, my parents were convinced of the benefits of the school and determined that I go.

  To the entire neighborhood I became the chosen one and was watched and prayed over. From then on, there would always be some white person behind me, going out of the way to help me, directing and controlling my destiny. I was a new toy, a novelty they couldn’t believe, a nigger that could read and write, that was smart, maybe even brilliant. Something to be isolated and studied.

  Started school that fall with leaves turning colors in the park across the street. Wore the school blazer proudly and loved the library with its endless volumes, furnished darkly, mahogany, musty and dim. Giant windows looking on the street and park. Matronly librarians moving on padded feet, dusting and arranging. The upper school and lower forms, steeped in tradition. Wanted to become a part of this.

  Here was a strange world with different ways, accustomed to wealth, unused to hassling and scuffling. Life wasn’t measured in days to payday or biweekly pay checks. To me, their ways were affected. To them, I was coarse and rude. They always appeared casually neat and I stiff and formal. When I imitated them by loosening a tie or button, was quickly called for being sloppy.

  Mr. Twiceler at his raised desk recited the lesson in an English accent, impeccably attired, hounddog face, sagging jowls. Looking like he drank and never slept. High priest of the student intelligentsia. Leading them in culture. A fag draining come on the sly from his effeminate charges.

  Dr. Queen looked down on me with the knowledge of histories long dead. Flaring red to the top of his bald head, shouted at me for laziness or poor posture.

  Mr. Davis taught me German, pleased by my interest. He was a disgrace they said, filling the close winter room with sweet-smelling alcoholic breath, face lined by dissipation and bad living.

  There was one other Negro at Brey Academy. Ralph Cotton was a pretty nigger, straight hair, light skin and Anglo features. A member of the Black Four Hundred, couldn’t understand how his people didn’t know mine and I was at Brey. All the black families that were into something knew of each other. They went to the same schools, belonged to the same fraternities, clubs and lodges. Went to Sag in summer, attended the same dances and social functions reported faithfully in Jet, Ebony and the Amsterdam. Where else were their sons and daughters going to find respectable friends and mates, equals among their own color, except in this parody of white society with debs, balls and tuxedoed escorts? And just as far removed and despising of the black mass as the white scene they slavishly aped.

  Cotton would’ve preferred not to know me, but since we were the only two there, that was impossible. Our actions reflected on one another and the entire black race. To avoid embarrassment and sensing I was new to this world, he took me under his wing and made it his business to teach me their ways.

  Cotton hated niggers like the Lord sin. They embarrassed and shamed him, reminding him of his color. We’d eat lunch in the park and he’d try to civilize me.

  “Cain, you’ve got some ways about you that you’re just going to have to change to get ahead in the world. The way you speak for instance. You should be more careful in your use and selection of words. Words such as dig, cat, man, they’re inappropriate and reflect poorly on your background. You sound like a jazz bebopper, somebody off the streets, and anyway most of us don’t use those words. You’ve got to remember George, other than their maids and servants, we’re the only Negroes these people know and we must present a correct and favorable impression. You just can’t act like a nigger, you’ve got to be better than them.

  “Your accent, the way you talk, is due to nothin
g but laziness. Open your mouth when you speak and enunciate clearly. Slow down and take your time, think about what you’re going to say.”

  It worked, in a few weeks everyone around the way commented on how properly I spoke. J.B. said I sounded like a faggot.

  “Look George, why do you walk like that? You frighten people, stomping around like an ape. Relax, take it easy, what are you so tense about? Nobody’s going to jump on you.”

  It took a greater effort to break the jitter walk that had protected me so long. Around the way, they said I’d gotten saditty. J.B. wanted to know when I’d started switching. But around the way and J.B. were no longer important or part of the life I wanted. Cotton and I succeeded as well as we could in overhauling my person, but there was nothing to be done about the hair, nose and lips, all of which I would’ve traded to complete the job.

  After weeks of his tutelage, Cotton felt I was ready to debut and invited me to a dance his club was giving. The Jack and Jill Club of America, an arm of the NAACP, where young good niggers went to meet and be with other young good niggers.

  Most of them lived in Queens and the dance was out there. Cotton met me at the subway in his father’s car and we drove to his home to meet my date. Had wanted to bring Nandy, but Cotton needed a favor, someone to escort a family friend coming from New Orleans just for the deb ball. He was escorting the queen of the ball so couldn’t do it. Had rented a tux that didn’t fit too tough and the rain had knocked the creases out. His mother on seeing me insisted on pressing the wrinkles out while Sylvia, daughter of her best friend in college, was upstairs getting ready. Mr. Cotton was a little bald-headed man who jumped at her beck and call. While waiting for Sylvia, they questioned me about my family, background and plans. Who were my people, what schools did they attend, what did they do, what college did I plan going to? In the process, letting me know all these things about themselves. Since they couldn’t list arrival on the Mayflower in their pedigree, they substituted learning and degrees. Education was the only thing they had to separate them in any way from the group and give them prestige. We’ve always esteemed learning, thinking it the key.

  Mrs. Cotton left us men in the room and Mr. Cotton bragged on himself. He owned all the property and buildings for blocks around. But the niggers were destroying his property, thought they were down South or something. So used to outhouses, didn’t know how to take care of a toilet, always dropping things into em and stopping em up. They’d been to Africa recently and he displayed souvenirs from the trip. All the while Ralph sat smugly knowing I was properly impressed. Had never seen or heard of legitimate niggers with what I thought then was money or living like they lived. Had thought the society columns in the black press were jive. Had never seen all those doctors and lawyers they’d be talking about.

  Then Sylvia came down. Since Cotton wasn’t taking her, didn’t expect any prize and was struck dumb by this queen. She was physically the most perfect thing, couldn’t believe she was going anywhere with me. Mrs. Cotton introduced us and then rehearsed me for our grand entrance. They’d had formal rehearsals for the march of the debs and escorts but neither of us had attended. Sylvia was familiar with the procedure and protocol down to the bow and curtsy but I had to stumble through it a couple of times till I got it together.

  Was in the bathroom tidying up before we left and heard them talking outside. “Ralphie, where did you ever find him? Harlem? He’s ugly as a nigger, big lips, wide nose, nappy hair and his hands sweat. He’s not even one of us, he’s a nigger.”

  “He goes to school with me. I didn’t want to bring him. Mother made me. Told Mother what he was like, but she insisted.”

  “Now you children stop that talk, he might hear.”

  “Oh Auntie I’ll be embarrassed to death with him. Nobody there knows him. They’ll laugh at me in my new gown and his cheap rented tuxedo. You can tell, it doesn’t even fit him. I’ll just die being seen with him.”

  “I’m sure he’s a nice boy and you’ll have a good time. After all he’s only an escort. You can have your picture taken with Ralph or any of your other friends. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  Stood studying my face in the mirror, trying to rearrange the big lips and wide nose. Felt ugly and knew I couldn’t go to that dance cause I’d be the ugliest thing there. A hall full of beautiful people and one ugly nigger. Hated all people in that instant and forever more. Blacks, whites, rich and poor. Met rejection everywhere, there was no place for me and nobody like me.

  Came out the bathroom and asked how to get to the subway. They understood, knew I’d heard and didn’t try to stop me.

  It was our private mystery. All the whites in school wondered why the only two blacks among them never spoke.

  BASKETBALL WAS MY GAME and in October reported for tryouts. Balls slapping on hardwood, swishing through nets, cold gym, sneakers and body odors, a man holding a whistle.

  “Say fellow what’s your name?”

  “Cain sir. George Cain sir.”

  “Go out and loosen up, let’s see what you know.”

  They stood in little groups, watching and waiting their turn. Stood on the sidelines by myself.

  “Hi, I’m Hannibal Ren the manager, was watching you, you’re the best out there, a real natural.”

  In the weeks spent practicing we became friends. Two outcasts, he a Jew, banding against the others. We disliked them for their arrogance and indifference. His home on Riverside Drive was my first encounter with real money. A red and yellow uniformed doorman named Fritz let us in. “Master Hannibal and young friend.”

  Never saw such a place. Something from a magazine, paintings on the walls, carpets and beautiful furniture, nothing threadbare or shabby. His mother was hardly ever home, remember how he ran through the empty house calling for her. Then standing there ready to cry cause she wasn’t in. Couldn’t believe he had no brothers or sisters, everybody had brothers and sisters. Went by his house after school to study, was too noisy and crowded at mine, with Keith and the twins always around. He kept hinting, he wanted to come by my home and I kept putting him off with lame excuses.

  My people were pleased at my progress and took great interest in everything. Wanted to know what I did and more important whom I associated with. I told them about Hannibal and the afternoons spent at his place. They were impressed by the address and never tired of my descriptions of the apartment.

  “Son you’ve been to Hannibal’s home and met his mother. You should invite him by here.”

  “What’s the matter with you? Ashamed of us or something? Getting too good for us with your fancy friends. After all we’ve done for you. I’ll pull you right out of that school. People filling your head with crazy ideas, turning you against your family and friends. We are hard working and honest, don’t let anybody fool you into thinking they’re better.”

  To restore peace I invited him for dinner. He accepted and the time was spent in anxious preparations.

  “I’m glad you asked me George. Beginning to think you were like the others, because I’m a Jew . . .”

  My mother cleaned and Pop wondered what he’d talk about and I hoped they wouldn’t embarrass me. He arrived early and we sat in the living room. All I could see was the shabby furniture and cracked linoleum.

  “Hannibal Ren, like you to meet my parents.”

  Stiff and awkward they met him formally like greeting royalty. Waiting for dinner, my father charmed us and filled the place with warmth, casting all my fears and shame away. They got on well together, had never seen this side of my father. His warmth and intelligence banished all formality and Hannibal never saw the naked walls or shabby furniture. The twins made Han read to them and tell about himself. My mother called dinner and we bowed to grace. Finished we sat around and they embarrassed me with their enthusiasm, asking him all kinds of personal things. Hated him then for causing me these feelings. Angry at everybody I tore him away.

  “Dad, told Nandy I’d bring Hannibal by for a moment.”


  “Okay, but don’t stay too long, it’s getting late.”

  Was glad it was over, boiling inside with things I didn’t understand. Her mother answered the door, shocked by my white friend and excused herself a moment while she ran to straighten the living room. Nandy came out and occupied us in the kitchen till her mother signaled. Don’t remember what we talked about, only that they played a duet on the piano while I sat seething and wanting to run away. She kissed me and said something pleasant to him. Going down, he lagged behind looking back, saw him crying in the window. In that instant my heart softened. Ashamed of myself and loving everybody so intensely I cried too. Nandy waved from the window and we back, brushing tears from our eyes. Saw his face as the cab pulled away, tear-streaked and happy.

  When the season began and my abilities became known, people sought me out, inviting me to their homes and parties. Was drifting slowly but surely from myself and began acquiring the traits which I’d thought most ugly in them. Their callousness, inability to feel, love. These things were weakness, I had to suppress and hide them to be like them. Till I was them. Young, urbane and sophisticated, white. Did not think of myself as black or white, but marginal man, existing somewhere in time and space on the edge of both. Rarely visited Nana any more, saw less of Nandy and around the way. Soon I knew no blacks and there was nowhere to see my oppression.

  Everybody saw me changing and losing my way but said nothing. My people, Nandy. They felt it important that I know and be this way, giving me my head.

  CHRISTMAS WAS COMING and the season in full tilt. We were undefeated and my name was in the papers. People who’d never noticed me began to. Was at a rally before the Fieldstone game that I accepted my fate. They were the traditional rivals in all sports.

  Drums beating, stands full of lusty young voices chanting. “Beat Fieldstone! Beat Fieldstone!”