“Yessum.”
He turned and walked slowly out of the back door.
The cat arched its back against his leg as he went off the porch, stepping gingerly over the sun-heated boards. The ground around the steps was still moist and white where Ma had poured the suds. A stream of water trickled rapidly from the hydrant, sparkling silver in the sunlight. Suddenly he remembered why he had gone into the house. He stopped and called:
“Maaa …”
“What you want?”
“Ma, what we gonna have for supper?”
“Lawd, all you think about is your gut. I don’t know. Come on back in here and fix you some eggs if you hongery. I’m too busy to stop—and for the Lawd’s sake leave me alone!”
Buster hesitated. He was hungry but he could not stay around Ma when she was like this. She was like this whenever something went wrong with her and the white folks. Her voice had been like a slap in the face. He started slowly around to the front of the house. The dust was thick and warm to his feet. Looking down, he broke a sprig of milk-weed between his bare toes and watched the green stem slowly bleeding white sap upon the brown earth. A tiny globe of milk glistened on his toe, and as he walked to the front of the house he dug his foot into the dry dust, leaving the sap a small spot of mud.
He dropped down beside Riley.
“You eat so quick?” asked Riley.
“Naw, Ma’s mad at me.”
“Don’t pay that no mind, man. My folks is always after me. They think all a man wants to do is what they want him to. You oughta be glad you ain’t go no ole man like I got.”
“Is he very mean?”
“My ole man’s so mean he hates hisself!”
“Ma’s bad enough. Let them white folks make her mad where she works and I catch hell.”
“My ole man’s the same way. Boy, and can he beat you! One night he come home from work and was gonna beat my ass with a piece of ’lectricity wire. But my ole lady stopped ’im. Told ’im he bet’ not.”
“Wonder why they so mean,” Buster said.
“Damn if I know. My ole man says we don’t git enough beatings these days. He said Gramma useta tie ’em up in a gunny sack and smoke ’em, like they do hams. He was gonna do that to me. But Ma stopped ’im. She said, ‘Don’t you come treating no chile of mine like no slave. Your Ma mighta raised you like a slave, but I ain’t raising him like that and you bet’ not harm a hair of his head!’ And he didn’t do it neither. Man, was I glad!”
“Damn! I’m glad I don’t have no ole man,” Buster said.
“You just wait till I get big. Boy, I’m gonna beat the hell outa my ole man. I’m gonna learn to box like Jack Johnson, just so I can beat his ass.”
“Jack Johnson, first colored heavyweight champion of the whole wide world!” Buster said. “Wonder where he is now?”
“I don’t know, up north in New York, I guess. But I bet wherever he is, ain’t nobody messing with him.”
“You mighty right! I heard my Uncle Luke say Jack Johnson was a better fighter than Joe Louis. Said he was fast as a cat on his feet. Fast as a cat! Gee, you can throw a cat off the top a house and he’ll land on his feet. Why by golly, I bet you could throw a cat down from heaven and the son-of-a-bitch would land right side up!”
“My ole man’s always singing:
‘If it hadn’t a been
for the referee
Jack Johnson woulda killed
Jim Jefferie,’ ”
Riley said.
The afternoon was growing old. The sun hung low in a cloudless sky and soon would be lost behind the fringe of trees across the street. A faint wind blew and the leaves on the trees trembled in the sun. They were silent now. A black-and-yellow wasp flew beneath the eaves, droning. Buster watched it disappear inside its gray honeycomblike nest, then rested back on his elbows and crossed his legs, thinking of Jack Johnson. A screen slammed loudly somewhere down the street. Riley lay beside him, whistling a tune between his teeth.
That I Had the Wings
From Common Ground, Summer 1943
Riley stared into the peach tree, his eyes wide with excitement. Right there, straight up where the pink blossoms had burst the sticky buds, a mama robin redbreast was teaching a little robin how to fly. First the mama bird would fly a piece and chirp to the young bird to follow her. But the little bird wouldn’t move. Then the mama bird would fly back and peck the young one and circle around and try to push it off the branch and the little bird held on, afraid.
Shoots, why don’t yuh go on an’ try it, thought Riley. Go on, li’l bird. Don’t be scaired. But the little robin just sat there fanning its wings and cheeping. Then Riley saw the old robin fly off into a nearby tree. See there, she done gone an’ got mad with yuh, he thought. Shoots, I bet I could make yuh fly. He started to lie back on the porch beside Buster, when suddenly he saw the young robin flutter its ragged wings and leap. His breath tensed. The bird struggled in the air, fluttering, falling, down; beating its wings wildly against the earth. He started up. But there it was, trying to rise and fly awkwardly, up to where the mama bird chattered in the tree.
Riley sat back. He felt good. “Yuh had me fooled,” he whispered to the young robin. “Yuh wuzn’t really scaired. Yuh jus didn’t want no ole folks messin’ with yuh.” He felt very good. Suddenly he tensed. I’m gon git me a bird an’ teach him how to fly, he decided. Then as he turned to wake Buster and tell him, Buster stirred and opened his eyes.
“Man, les do something,” said Buster in his husky voice. “How come yuh caint go nowhere?”
Riley’s spirits sagged. He had forgotten. “Aw, ’cause somebody tole about us gittin’ after them bad-luck church house squabs, and Ma tole Aunt Kate to keep me in the yard.”
“Hecks, them pigeons don’t belong to the church,” said Buster. “They jus lives there. Don’t nobody own ’em. I wish I had me some a that good ole flyin’ meat right now!”
Riley looked for the robin, seeing it flutter into a distant tree, and was filled with a strange loneliness. If I didn’t have to stay here, he thought, we could go find us a bird.
Buster stood. “I guess I be seein’ yuh, man. I feels like doin’ somethin’.”
“Aw, don’t go,” pleaded Riley. “We kin fin’ somethin’ to do.… Say!” he challenged with sudden inspiration. “I bet yuh don’t know this verse!”
“Which’un?”
“This’un:
“If I was the president
Of these United States
Said if I was the president
Of these United States
I’d eat good chocolate candy bars
An’ swing on the White House gates—
Great—God-a-mighty, man—
I’d swing on them White House gates!”
“Yuh Riiley!!!”
His mouth fell open. Aunt Kate stood in the shadow of the doorway, her wrinkled face quivering with rage.
“Ah heahed yuh, suh! Ah heahed yuh takin’ the Lawd’s name in vain!”
He scrambled to his feet, speechless.
“An’ yuh wuz talkin’ ’bout bein’ the president! Yuh know yo ma’s done taught yuh better’n that! Yuh better min’, suh, befo yuh git everybody into trouble. What yuh think would happen to yo po ma if the white folks wuz to hear she wuz raisin’ up a black chile whut’s got no better sense than to talk ’bout bein’ president?”
“It wuz jus a verse,” stammered Riley. “I didn’t mean no harm.”
“Yass, but it wuz a sinful verse! The Lawd don’t like it an’ the white folks wouldn’t neither.”
Catching a glimpse of the young robin flying into a farther tree, he made himself look meek. “I’m sorry, Aunt Kate.”
Her face softened. “Yuh chillun havta learn how to live right while yuh young, so’s yuh kin have some peace when yuh gits grown. Else yuh be buttin’ yo head ’ginst a col’ white wall all yo born days. Ahm ole as Ah is today jus ’cause Ah didn’t let them kinda sinful thoughts worry ma min’.” She pur
sed her lips in proud conviction.
Riley looked at her from under lowered lids. It was always God, or the white folks. She always made him feel guilty, as though he had done something wrong he could never remember, for which he would never be forgiven. Like when white folks stared at you on the street. Suddenly Aunt Kate’s face changed from dark anger to intense sweetness, making him wary and confused.
“Yuh chillun needs to learn some a the Lawd’s songs,” she beamed, singing:
“Sing aaa-ho that
Ah had the wings of-vah dove
Ah’d fly to mah Jesus an’
Be at res’ …”
“Thass the kinda song fo yuh chillun to sing. Yuh needs the wings of the spirit to help yuh through this worl’. Lemme heah yuh try it erlong with me.”
“Sing aaa-ho that—,”
Riley’s throat was dry. The little robin was winging itself out of sight now. He looked helplessly at Buster. Buster looked away. Aunt Kate paused, her face clouding.
“I-I-I guess I don’t feel … like … singin’ jus now, Aunt Kate,” he said fearfully.
“So now yuh don’t feel like it!” she exploded. “If I wuz teachin’ yuh some a that devil’s trash yuh wuz singin’, yuh’d feel like it though!”
“B-b-but it wuzn’t no bad song.”
“Hush that ’sputin’ mah word! Ah kin see that the devil’s gon git yuh, suh! Jus git on to the back an’ outa mah sight!”
He started slowly.
“Git, suh! Yuh nasty stinkin’ imp-a-satan! Yuh jus mark mah word. Befo the day’s gone, yuh gon git into some sorta trouble an Ahm gon have yo ma beat the fear a God into yuh!”
He went, stepping slowly off the porch, and entered the shadow between the two houses.
“I’d sho hate to have her put her mouth on me like that,” whispered Buster. “Man, they say ole folks like that kin put a terrible jinx on yuh!”
Riley leaned against the house. That wuzn’t no bad verse; it was a funny one. He’d put in the “great-God-a-mighty” part himself, to make it sound better. Shucks! Aunt Kate sho wuz a puzzle—maybe she wuz too ole to understand a man—born way back in slavery times. All she knows is go to church every night and read the Bible and mess with him while Ma was working for the white folks during the day. She’s crazy. That ole song: Sing a-ho if I had the wings of a dove … Ain’t no fun singin’ that ole song.
Suddenly a grin bloomed on his face.
“Hey, Buster,” he whispered.
“Whut?”
He sang huskily:
“If I had the wings of a dove, Aunt Kate,
I’d eat up all the candy, Lawd,
An’ tear down the White House gate.…”
Buster stuck out his lower lip and frowned. “Fool, yuh better stop that makin’ fun a that church song. Aunt Kate said it was a sin.”
Riley’s laughter wavered. Maybe God would punish him. He bit his lip. But the words kept dancing in his mind. Lots of verses. Amazin’ grace, how sweet the sound. A bullfrog slapped his granma down. He felt the suppressed laughter clicking and rolling within him, like big blue marbles. That “amazin’ grace” part was from a church song too. Maybe he would really be punished now. But he could suppress it no longer and leaned against the house and laughed.
“Yuh jus keep on laughin’ at that church song an’ I’m gonna go fin’ me some other guys to play with,” warned Buster.
“Aw, I wuzn’t laughin’ at that,” he lied.
“Then whut wuz yuh laughin’ at?”
“ ’Bout … ’bout yesterday when I fell off the church house …”
“When we wuz after that flyin’ meat?”
“Yeah.”
“Fool, that wuzn’t funny. Yuh wuz cryin’ up a breeze. Ain’t yo head still sore?”
He felt his head. “Just a little,” he said.
“I bet yuh was really scaired,” said Buster.
“The heck I wuz. I felt pretty good.”
“Boy, yuh quit that lyin’, yuh wuz cryin’ like a baby!”
“Shucks, I’m talkin’ ’bout when I wuz fallin’. I cried ’cause I hit my head.”
“Yuh jus tryin’ to fool me,” said Buster. “Yuh like to busted yo brains out.”
“Hones’, man. Thass how come them white guys like to jump outa them airplanes in them parachutes.”
“Yeah, but yuh didn’t have no parachute,” laughed Buster.
Riley walked toward where a shaft of sunlight broke the shadow at the back of the house. “Man, yuh don’t know nothin’,” he said. “Les go look at the new baby chicks.”
They came to the chicken fence and swayed gently against it, looking through. Bits of grain and droppings were scattered about, and the hard earth was marked with strange designs where the chickens had scratched. The chickens eyed them expectantly.
Riley pointed to a brood of downy baby chicks scurrying about an old white hen.
“There’s the li’l biddies,” he cried. “They cute, ain’t they, man?”
“They sho is!” Buster’s eyes gleamed with pleasure.
“An lissen to all that fuss them li’l guys is makin’.”
“Shucks, man, they cryin’. Most ever’thin whut’s little cries, like my baby brother, Bubber.”
“Ma cries when she’s in church,” said Riley, “an’ she ain’t little.”
“Aw, thass when she’s shoutin’, man.”
“I don’t like nothin’ like that,” said Riley. “How come they have to shout?”
“ ’Cause they feels the spirit. Thass why.”
“Well, what’s the spirit?”
“Fool, thass the Holy Ghost! Yuh been to Sunday school.”
Riley wiggled his toes through the wire.
“Well, all I know is the Holy Ghost sho mus hurt bad, ’cause eve’body gits to cryin’ and cuttin’ the fool,” he said finally.
“Ma says when they cries is when they feelin’ good,” said Buster.
“Well, feelin’ good or no feelin’ good, when I see Ma cryin’ an’ goin’ on like that I feel so shame I could hide my face,” he said tightly. “I don’t like nothin’ yuh have to cry over befo yuh kin feel good.”
He saw two young cockerels plunging headlong across the yard, flapping their stubby wings and squawking.
“Chickens is crazy!” cried Buster. “Jus look at them two fool roosters goin’ yonder!”
Riley dismissed them with a scornful wave of his palm. “Them ain’t no roosters, man. There’s a real rooster over yonder,” he said, pointing.
“Good-God-a-mighty! That mus be the boss rooster!”
“He is. Name’s Ole Bill.”
“Ole Bill!”
“Man, an’ he can whip anything whut wears feathers,” bragged Riley.
Buster whistled in admiration. The silky sheen of the rooster’s red and dark green plumage rippled in the sun. Ole Bill clucked to the hens and strutted, his red comb swaying in proud dignity.
“Jus look at that fool,” exclaimed Buster, “liftin’ his feet up and down like a big fat preacher.”
“An’ look at his spurs,” cried Riley. “Look at his spurs!”
“Doggone! Them hens better watch that fool!”
“He can fight with ’em too, man. When he gits them spurs into another chicken, he jus rides right on to the promise’ lan’.”
Ole Bill clucked softly and the hens scurried to where he scratched.
“Man, man! He’s the fightin’est, crowin’est rooster in the whole wide world!”
Suddenly the rooster flapped his wings and crowed, his chest swelling and his neck arching forward with the sound.
“Lissen to that son-of-a-gun!”
“Aaaaw, sing it, Bill!”
“Man, thass li’l Gabriel!”
“Shucks, he’s the Louie Armstrong of the chickens!”
“Blowin his golden trumpet, Lawd …”
“An’ tellin’ all the roosters they better be good …”
“ ’Cause he won’t stan for no fool
ishness …”
“Ole Bill says, Tell all the dogs, an’ tell all the cats, they better be good or go join the bats,” rhymed Riley, “ ’cause the mighty Ole Bill’s in town.”
“Naw, naw, man. He’s the Louie Armstrong of the chickens playing ‘Hold That Tiger …’ ”
“Yeah, tellin’ that tiger not to act no fool …”
“Thass it, hittin’ high p …”
“Boy, ain’t no p on no horn. It’s do re me,” sang Riley.
“Yeah, ’tis. When Louie plays it, ’tis. It’s do re me fa sol la ti an’ p too!”
They bent double with laughter. Ole Bill arched his neck and swallowed, his sharp bill parting like the curved blades of a pair of scissors.
Riley became sober. “My ole man is really proud of that there rooster,” he said. “If yuh want to make him mad, jus tell him Ole Bill got run over. Corse, I don’t blame him, ’cause if I wuz to die and come back a bird like Aunt Kate says folks do, I’d want to be just like Ole Bill.”
“Not me,” said Buster. “I wouldn’t want to come back no rooster.”
“How come? Ole Bill’s good-lookin’ an’ he can fight like Joe Louis!”
“Shucks, but he caint fly!”
“The heck he caint fly!”
“Caint no roosters fly!”
“I kin prove it!”
“Yuh crazy, Riley. How yuh gon prove a rooster kin fly?”
“Easy. I’ll git up on top of the chicken house and yuh han’ Ole Bill up to me—”
“Aw naw,” said Buster. “Aw naw. I ain’t goin’ in there with all them spurs.”
Riley spat in disgust. “Yuh make me sick.”
“Yeah? Well I still ain’t goin’ in there.”
“Awright, yuh go on top an’ I’ll han’ him up to yuh. Okay?”
“Okay. I don’t guess he kin spur me when he’s off the ground.”
Riley glanced furtively toward where Aunt Kate usually sat at the kitchen window, then entered the yard, fastening the gate behind him.
“Hurry up, man,” called Buster from the roof. “It’s hot up here.”
“Gimme time,” called Riley. “Jus gimme time.”
He moved stealthily toward Ole Bill, brushing along the fence. The hens squawked. Ole Bill stepped angrily about, his head jerking rapidly.
Flying Home and Other Stories Page 7