Exile Blues
Page 7
Mattie remained stone silent and unmoved by her mother-in-law’s opportunistic use of physical interaction. And besides, Mattie never made promises she wouldn’t keep.
“You know Cadgie, he was jes’ playin’ with Little Preston, he didn’t mean no harm tellin’ the boy that nobody messes with a Williams, ’cause they’d be killed, cut up, and cooked in the pot! Cadgie sure is a fool sometimes sayin’ stuff like ‘lots of people try to mess with the Williams family, that’s why every weekend, we be cookin’ somebody in the pot.’”
“My lord!” began Mattie. “Oh, my lord. Cadgie has lost his mind! Saying something like that to my child. No wonder Little Preston is so afraid of that pot. Where’s Preston? He must tell his brother to stop saying things like that to my boys!”
“They Preston’s boys, too,” cut in Denie. “I think you forget that sometimes. Don’t you be naggin’ Preston about this mess. You jes’ let Preston be a man and a father the way he sees fit, not the way you think he s’posed to be. Little Gussie’s a thumb-sucker because you’re always nagging at his father about this ’n that. Not because I cook up some chit’lins.”
“Denie, Preston is never going to be the man he can be as long as he’s living in your house. Preston! Preston!” screamed Mattie, as she walked out of the kitchen and down the hall.
But Preston had left the house as soon as his mother started cooking her chitterlings because he couldn’t stand the smell either. Oh, he loved eating them, smothered in hot sauce and liberally sprinkled with salt and pepper. He also knew that when chitterlings cooked there was going to be a fight between his mother and his wife. And he never knew how to handle those fights. They would always contain references to his wife’s complexion, and his family’s ignorance. He would therefore get blamed for having a wife too dark and a family too dumb, and for not having the backbone to do anything about either one.
Looking out her kitchen window, Denie saw Mattie rushing across the street to her friend Lois’s house. Gussie was in her arms, sucking his thumb and pulling at his ear with his other hand. Little Preston was being pulled along while screaming for his daddy. That was how he began his sixth year.
*
Soon Little Preston reveled in his first summer of running freely out of doors. Well, except for his mother’s line-of-sight rule. He was allowed to cross Girard Street by himself but if she stuck her head out the side window she needed to see him.
Almost immediately he was breaking the rules. He was running with James and Butch and his cousin Anthony. He wasn’t supposed to be off Girard Street, in the first place. He wasn’t supposed to be playing with Butch, who was practically twelve years old, in the second place. And he certainly wasn’t supposed to be standing on an upturned garbage can trying to peer into the bathroom window of sixteen-year-old Paula Pervis who, according to Butch, would appear naked in the bathroom to wash herself as she always did after her dance class. Little Preston was already very nervous. Perhaps scared would be the better word. He had never seen a naked girl before, and if his grandmother was right, a sin of such magnitude would surely bring the ultimate in God’s wrath in the shape of a lightning bolt from on high. And he really didn’t want to look. But Butch kept calling him a “sissy” and a “mama’s boy” if he didn’t look. Both his grandmother and mother had slapped him silly for asking what a dick was even though, as he knew now, it was something that he had and that rightfully belonged to him. He feared that if he were caught looking at a naked girl, and all the things he had heard a naked girl had, such as “titties,” “booty,” and “fuzzy muff,” there was no telling how bad the pain he would suffer would be. Not forgetting, of course, the lightning bolt from God.
He huddled beneath the open bathroom window with James, Anthony, and Butch, waiting to hear Paula come into the bathroom. James and Anthony developed a severe giggling fit that brought a sharp whispered reprimand from Butch: “Are you young punks stupid or somethin’? What’cha tryin’ ta do, blow it, suckers? Get us busted? Shut up!” At that, it took all Preston’s willpower to keep still, because his feet wanted to start running.
They heard someone come into the bathroom. First, Butch got up on top of the garbage can and peered over the window ledge. The big grin that bloomed on his face from ear to ear told them it was naked Paula Pervis. Anthony started pulling at Butch’s pants legs so hard, Butch almost toppled from the garbage can. Butch glared down at Anthony, biting at his lower lip and shaking a fist at Anthony. Butch got down so that Anthony could have his turn. Anthony’s eyes got so big, Little Preston thought they would pop out of their sockets. When he got down, his eyes were still big and Little Preston knew for sure that if his eyes stayed like that, Anthony’s mother and his mother would find out what they had been doing. “They big,” said a mesmerized Anthony. “They real big.”
James, the shortest of the four, had to stand on his tiptoes to see into Paula’s bathroom window. His little head kept bobbing up and down as he peered in, straining to remain high up enough to see.
“Your turn, Preston,” whispered James as he got down from the garbage can.
“No. I don’t want to look,” whispered Little Preston.
“What you mean you ain’t gonna look?” demanded Butch in a threatening whisper. “You better git your little squirrel-ass up dere before I kick it up dere!”
“Yeah,” whispered James excitedly, “we all looked. You hafta look!”
Anthony, his eyes still wide, whispered to his cousin, “Ya gotta see. They big.”
“They big” rolled around in Little Preston’s head and finally settled in the pit of his stomach, making him feel weak-kneed. What was big? Everything Paula Pervis had or just some of those things? Oh, how he didn’t want to know.
“Don’t be a sissy,” whispered Butch, this time with even more menace in his voice.
With much hesitation, and a bunch of regrets all lined up before the fact, Little Preston climbed atop the garbage can. He steadied himself, and began to rise from his crouched position, very slowly, very deliberately, and very, very quietly.
He could hear Paula Pervis humming as water ran. The toilet flushed, startling him, and he stooped back down into his crouched position.
He looked down at the three pairs of big brown eyes looking up at him, one pair still very big. Butch shook his fist.
Finally, he resolved to do it. He swallowed hard and began raising himself up from his crouched position. He was holding on so hard to the window ledge that his fingernails had dug into the wood. He could hear that Paula Pervis was still humming and moving around in the bathroom. Something dropped on the floor and she exclaimed, “Oh, darn it,” causing his knees to go weak. But nothing could stop him now. Then more water ran, louder than before, almost drowning out Paula Pervis’s humming. Perfect, he thought. He wouldn’t get caught with all that noise to protect him. Slowly he rose, first seeing the rose-colored ceiling and walls. Next, a tilted-open window above the bathroom door came into view. Then he could see that there was a huge mirror on the wall that reached as high as the ceiling, and he was beginning to see the top of Paula Pervis’ hair. His heart raced with anticipation as “They big” careened around in his head and churned around in his stomach. He could feel his own eyes getting bigger as Paula Pervis’s face and neck came into view. Then—
“Preston Junior! Preston Junior, where are you?”
Little Preston jerked his head around, expecting to see his mother standing right there under him. His entire body jerked with such force that the garbage can bobbled and began to topple over. Butch and James grabbed for the garbage can to keep it from falling but Little Preston’s feet were now kicking it as he clutched the windowsill.
First Butch, then James and Anthony took off running down the laneway, allowing the garbage can to crash over onto the ground and leaving Little Preston dangling from Paula Pervis’s bathroom windowsill. Inside, the water abruptly stopped.
Little Preston let go of the windowsill and hit the ground running. He caught up to James, then Anthony and Butch before they reached Girard Street. The laneway came out halfway up the block from Little Preston’s house but as soon as he looked down the street, he could see his mother’s head sticking out the window. He ran down the street as fast as his little legs could carry him.
“Here I am, Mama!”
“Is everything alright, Preston Junior? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“Oh, I was just having a race, Mama.”
Mattie looked back up the street and saw Butch.
“You know I told you I don’t want you playing with that boy. He’s much too old for you to be playing with, Preston Junior.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t you just yes-ma’am me. You mind me and don’t play with that boy anymore. Now get in here and eat your lunch.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As Little Preston walked around to the front of the house to come inside, Mattie looked up the street again and this time saw all three boys. They were all out of breath and clearly had been up to no good. She wondered what could they possibly have gotten into on a summer’s afternoon on the block where they lived. Probably nothing serious, she thought. And she really didn’t have anything against Butch. He was a good kid at heart, struggling to find his way in the world while being raised by his single parent, an alcoholic father. In her gut, though, she had a bad feeling about Butch. And even without her instincts screaming conflicting sentiments at her, she knew a twelve-year-old, who looked much older, shouldn’t be playing with six-year-olds. And that was that.
10
Washington, D.C., June 1953
Little Preston heard his parents talking about the monthly checks from the US Army that Butch’s father received. But he also knew that Butch had a job in the kitchen of a fancy Georgetown restaurant so he didn’t think things were that good in Butch’s house. He also took notice of an extremely glamorous lady who occasionally stayed there. He wondered who she was and why for those few fleeting days Butch’s father was stone sober, shaven, and handsome. And Butch seemed happy.
Then the lady would go away and Butch’s father would start drinking again. Like the night Prez was awakened by the sound of crashing glass. His parents were already at the window looking out. Butch’s father, clad only in undershorts, had heaved a garbage crate full of fruit peelings right through the big plate-glass window of Mr. Stein’s corner grocery store. Bedroom lights began switching on in the neighborhood.
“Goddammit, Stein! You bring yo’ fuckin’ ass over here from Poland and you won’t give us nuthin’. Not even r’speck. Where are you with your bad breath? The kids all say you got bad breath when you scream at ’em ta git outta yo’ sto’.” Hic. Hic. “Oh, sheeit!”
The cancer in his gut transformed each hiccup into a searing pain.
“Hic. Oh, that hurts. You better come on outta there, Stein, ’n talk to me. You got some explaining ta do. I know you’re in there hidin’ behind something all scared ’n shit like when we found yo’ asses in that concentration camp. Yeah, I was driving one of those tanks, I was in the 761st. I saved your ass! Fuckin’ Langston, where are you when I need you? Do you know From Beaumont to Detroit, Stein? ‘You Jim Crowed me/Before Hitler rose to power/and you are still Jim Crowing me/Right now this very hour’.”
Two more big hiccups and Butch’s father fell right on top of the pile of peelings. He rolled over and sat up, looking into the darkness of the empty store, while more bedroom lights were switched on around him and a siren could be heard in the distance, approaching rapidly.
By this time Butch was kneeling beside his father.
“Pops, c’mon, man, ya gotta get up and come inside before the cops come and take you away. Please, Pops. Please get up. Don’t ya hear the sirens? The cops are almost here. Please get up.”
“I’ll help you, son. You take one arm and I’ll take the other.” It was Little Preston’s dad.
“I’ll get his feet.” It was Mr. Davis from up the street.
“Just get one leg. I got the other.” It was Mr. Dixon from around the corner.
As they carried Butch’s father back to his apartment, bedroom lights began switching off. By the time the cops arrived, all the lights had been switched off. And when Lieutenant O’Brien stood before Mr. Stein’s damaged storefront and lighted his stogie, he could only hear the matchstick he dropped to the pavement.
*
Soon after, on another night when the neighborhood was trying to sleep, the howling of an ambulance broke the silence. It had come to take Butch’s father away. No one ever thought they’d ever see Butch cry, but there he stood, barefoot and in his pajamas, with tears rolling down his face, as his father was loaded into the back of the ambulance. Butch’s father was never seen again and Butch, rarely. He needed two jobs to take care of himself and his father’s medical bills, and he was nowhere near sixteen years old.
Then the mailman began delivering two mysterious envelopes to Butch’s mailbox every month. One was postmarked from Los Angeles, California. The other was local, from Washington, D.C. Soon after, the neighborhood’s first example of graffiti appeared on the wall in the empty lot where the kids played baseball, marbles, and tag. It was brushed onto the wall in lavender paint. It simply said, “THANK YOU ALL,” and was signed with a capital B that had wings.
The wings on the B became the subject of great conversation and debate amongst people in the neighborhood. Did the wings mean that Butch had big dreams and aspirations and would one day fly away from there? He was certainly smart enough. And if he could harness his energy productively, well, just maybe.
Others thought the wings meant Butch wanted to be a track athlete like his father had been, but not Little Preston who was already faster than Butch.
A small but vocal group of neighborhood mothers, including Mattie, put forward another interpretation of what the wings meant. Those wings, they said, were the wings of angels. Butch was not destined to be of this world much longer.
11
Washington, D.C., July 1953
The week leading up to the Fourth of July weekend was always rife with fireworks and firearms going off. But at the storied intersection of Fourteenth and U Streets, on a fateful Wednesday, one knew the difference.
Butch, heading home from work, had just gotten off a U Street streetcar and had run across Fourteenth Street on a red light trying to catch the northbound streetcar. A motorcycle cop had been riding southbound when he saw Butch jaywalk. He swung a U-turn, hastily jumped off his motorcycle, ran up behind Butch, and, without a word, jerked Butch around by the shoulder. Butch, reacting, let go a punch that clipped the cop on the chin. The cop backed up a step, drew his revolver, dropped to one knee, and boom! The cop was over six feet tall. Butch, barely five feet nine. This was as cold-blooded as it could get.
*
Butch’s funeral was held at Reverend Clark’s All Souls U Street Gospel Church on the following Monday, July 6, 1953. The collective rage of Washington’s Negro community had reached a level that was dangerously close to the boiling point. The funeral was an opportunity to cool things down and give people the perspective to heal.
“You all know how precious a life is. It is so precious that God gave the life of his only son that the rest of us could live in peace, love, and harmony. That one life was so precious to God that he gave it as the ultimate sacrifice so eternal life would be a reality for mankind. Yes, he did,” began Reverend Clark to an overflow audience of mourners who were steadily echoing “Amen” all around the church.
“Yes, one single life so precious that its sacrifice marked a turning point in the history of the world. This life that we mourn today, this precious young black life,
that’s right, people, don’t be afraid of your blackness, don’t be ashamed of your blackness!”
Fans stopped swishing. The Amens stopped. The restless rustling of butts in pews and feet on the church floor stopped. There was a hush in Reverend Josephus Clark’s All Souls U Street Gospel Church such as those divine walls and stained-glass windows had not witnessed before. Mouths were agape, and looks of disbelief were on many faces. But all eyes were now on the Reverend Josephus Clark. He had just crossed a bridge, and they all knew it. They all also knew there was to be no turning back.
“That baby was shot down in cold blood, like a dog, because of the color of his skin. Look at him lying there asleep for all eternity now. I ask you to look at his smooth brown skin, that head full of black bushy hair, those full lips, that little pug nose. You are looking at something you cannot escape, who you are and where you came from. There are only two choices you can make now. Either you continue to scorn yourselves and continue to be victimized by a system that despises you. Or you begin to love yourselves and stand up for your rights as black people and as human beings.”
From amongst the chorus of “Amens” there sprang a “Teach it, brother!”
Butch’s father was in a wheelchair in the front of the church beside his son’s coffin.
“I said, teach it, brother! You tell it like it is! You tell the truth! For once you all gotta hear the truth! Else your own boys be layin’ here like my Butch is right now. He was the best boy anybody could ask for.”
Butch’s father lifted himself from his wheelchair. Even full of morphine as he was, the pain in his stomach made him grimace as he stepped toward his son’s coffin.
“And you know what? I haven’t hugged my boy since he was six or seven. Don’t you all let another day pass without hugging yours.”
Butch’s father began to weep. He bent over and caressed Butch’s face as he wailed and wailed. Parents could be seen all over the church holding their children close to them. The whole place was filled with the sounds of sobbing, sniffling, and nose-blowing.