“Really?”
Mr. Mitchell reached under the counter and opened up a little brown box. He pulled out a bunch of yellow cards and I could see “Watson” was written on the top one of them. He wrote “$1.23” on the first line and said, “Sign here,” then pointed to a spot next to the “$1.23.” I wrote “Kenneth Watson” and gave him back the pen.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” He put the groceries in a brown paper bag and handed them to me.
“See you, Mr. Mitchell.”
The second I walked out of the store Byron was next to me and he was in a lot better mood.
“Man, I can’t believe it! We just had a chance to get a bagful of free food and all we took was some stupid milk, a loaf of bread and a can of tomato sauce!”
Byron’s good mood started getting to me too. He was smiling and even put his arm around my shoulder as we walked. I couldn’t help myself, it felt so grown-up to have By walking with me like that, I started laughing right along with him.
His mood was so much better that he even took the bag of groceries from me. Most of the time when Momma made us go to Mitchell’s, Byron would make me carry the bags from the store right up to the front porch. Then he’d take them from me so Momma would think he’d carried them the whole way. But now he started carrying them four blocks away from home!
“This is just too much, all you gotta do is sign that stupid card and that old fool Mitchell’ll give you what you want! Too, too much!”
Now that By was happy, I had two questions I wanted to ask him. First, he’d said a word that I’d never heard before and since he said it in front of Momma I knew it wasn’t cussing. As we walked home with his arm around my shoulder I thought I might get a real answer from him.
“Byron, what’s a peon?”
“A peon? Didn’t you see The Magnificent Seven? Peons was them folks what was so poor that the rich folks would just as soon pee on them as anything else.”
I knew this had to be a lie. You could get yourself in a lot of trouble if you listened to half the stuff Byron said. But I asked my next question anyway. “What do you think the welfare food was that Momma said she gave us?” I wished I hadn’t asked ’cause this brought back his bad mood.
He took his arm from around my shoulder and said, “I know what it was.” He handed me back the groceries too.
“Don’t you remember how some of the time Dad sneaks up in the morning and goes in the kitchen and when he come out there’s a big jug of milk? Ain’t you ever wondered where that milk come from? You ever seen any udders on Dad? That milk come out of one of them big brown boxes they keep up on them high shelves, pure-D welfare food!
“And don’t you remember that cheese? Who ever heard of cheese coming in a box as big as a loaf of bread? You ever try to pick one of them things up? Real cheese come in hunks or slices, not no blanged loaf that weigh forty pounds. I always thought there was something strange about that mess and now I know, she been sneaking us welfare food! Pure-D welfare food!”
The cheese tasted O.K. to me and, except for a big powdery lump every once in a while, Dad’s milk was all right too. But to try to get Byron back into his good mood, I acted real disgusted and said, “Awww, man …”
A week later I was walking in the alley behind Mitchell’s when a big cookie with pink frosting just about hit me in the head. It went by like a little flying saucer, then crashed in the dirt. I looked all around and didn’t see anybody so I put my hands over my face and stood still because I knew if something weird like this happened once it usually happened again. Sure enough, another cookie hit me right in the back and a big laugh came out of the green-apple tree. Byron.
He dropped out of the tree like a superhero. He had a great big bag of cookies in one hand and a green apple with a giant bite out of it in the other.
“Want some?” By tipped the bag of Swedish Creme cookies at me. I knew this was a trick, the bag must have been empty, but I looked inside anyway. There was still a half a bag of cookies!
“Thanks!” I grabbed two of the cookies and looked at them real good in case By had put bugs or something on them. They were clean, but I still kept waiting for the trick. Why would Byron waste four good cookies on me?
Man! Swedish Cremes have got to be the best cookies in the world. I gulped them down and wiped my hands on my pants. I couldn’t believe it, By tipped the bag at me again!
He jumped up and snatched a green apple off the tree, checked it for wormholes, then handed it to me. “You best eat some of this, them Swedish Cremes is good at first but they get kinda thick in your throat after while.”
Byron was being too nice, so I knew something bad was about to happen. Then I noticed a crumpled-up Swedish Cremes bag on the ground next to the tree and I could figure out why he was being so generous. He’d already eaten a bag and a half.
A bell went off in my head. I knew now why he’d been so excited and happy when he found out about getting “free food” at Mitchell’s. By was signing up for stuff that Momma and Dad didn’t even know about!
It was like he read my mind, ’cause I was just about to say “Oooh, By …” when he stopped being friendly and crossed his eyes at me and said, “Don’t even think about it, Poindexter, you ate two of ’em yourself so quit wastin’ my cookies and just shut up and enjoy what’s left.” He tipped the bag at me again.
He had me. I couldn’t tell on him, or else I’d be in just as much trouble as he would. I took another one.
By went over to the green-apple tree and slid his back against it until he was sitting down. I did the same thing right next to him and we sat together munching. I wasn’t used to being this friendly with Byron so I guess I was kind of nervous and didn’t really know what we should talk about. By just sat there chomping down apples, so I tried to think what him and Buphead would talk about when they sat around like this. Finally I said, “So By, how about you and me doing a little cussing?”
He twisted up his face and said, “I thought I told your jive little ass to shut the hell up and enjoy the damn cookies. Now do it!”
I got a huge smile! This was a perfect day! But like always, By ruined it.
“Look!” He pointed up at a telephone wire where a big bird sat. The bird was about the size of a pigeon and was grayish brown with a long pointy tail hanging underneath it.
By jumped up and said, “That’s a mourning dove, they’re the coolest birds in the world, don’t nothing shake them up!” By threw a Swedish Creme at it. The cookie zipped right by the bird’s head and all the bird did was raise its wings once and look behind it.
He threw three more cookies at the bird and it still didn’t move.
When Byron’s fourth Swedish Creme left his hand I knew that if the bird didn’t move he was going to get whacked. The cookie popped the bird smack-jab in the chest! The bird’s wings both stuck out to the side and for a hot second with its tail hanging down and its wings sticking out like that it looked like a perfect small letter t stuck up on the telephone wire. Then, in slow motion, the bird leaned back and crashed to the dirt of the alley behind Mitchell’s.
I’d been throwing rocks and things at birds since I was born and had never even come close to hitting one, I’d seen a million people throw a million things at birds and no one had ever really hit one, not even a pigeon! But now By had knocked a bird right out of the sky with a Swedish Creme cookie!
When I got to Byron he’d picked up the bird and was holding it in his hands. The bird’s head drooped backward and was rolling from side to side. Dead as a donut.
“You got him! You got a bird!”
Byron held the bird in one hand and with his other one gently brushed pink frosting off of the dove’s chest.
“You got him! I’ve never seen a bird get …”
I looked right at By and his face was all twisted up and his eyes were kind of shut. He dropped the bird, walked over to the green-apple tree and started throwing up.
I stood there with my mou
th open, I couldn’t believe Byron was starting to cry. And I couldn’t believe how much vomit a bag and a half of Swedish Cremes and some green apples could make.
When it looked like he was done I walked over and put my hand on his back. As soon as I touched him, he popped me in the arm, hard!
“By, what—”
He picked up a rotten apple and threw it at me. “Get the hell out of here, what you starin’ at? Them apples got me sick, you little cross-eyed punk! Get out of here.”
Rotten apples started coming at me real hard and fast so I left.
It was hard to understand what was going on with Byron. Some of the time if a genie came and gave you three wishes you wouldn’t mind using all three of them to wish some real bad stuff on him. Not stupid things like that woman in the fairy tale when she wished her husband had a sausage on his nose either, I mean stuff that would make Byron hurt so much that he’d have to think every day about how mean he is.
If he just had a sausage growing off of his nose people might laugh at him behind his back but no one would have nerve enough to tease him to his face and call him Weenie-Nose or something. He wouldn’t know how it feels to always have someone jumping on you, how sad that can make you get. Sometimes I hated him that much and thought he was the meanest person in the world.
After my arm quit hurting from his punch I went back to the alley behind Mitchell’s to take another look at the dead bird but it was gone. Right in the spot where the bird had crashed By had dug a little grave, and on top of the grave there were two Popsicle sticks tied together in a cross.
Leave it to Daddy Cool to kill a bird, then give it a funeral. Leave it to Daddy Cool to torture human kids at school all day long and never have his conscience bother him but to feel sorry for a stupid little grayish brown bird.
I don’t know, I really wished I was as smart as some people thought I was, ’cause some of the time it was real hard to understand what was going on with Byron.
7. Every Chihuahua in America Lines Up to Take a Bite out of Byron
I was sitting at the kitchen table doing homework and watching Momma make dinner when Byron came in through the back door. He was surprised we were there ’cause as soon as he saw us he turned around and tried to walk right back out.
Both me and Momma smelled a rat.
“Byron,” Momma said, “what have I told you about wearing that hat in the house?”
“Oh yeah, I was just going right back …” He pushed the screen door open again.
“Wait a minute.”
Byron was trapped in the doorway, with his right foot in and his left foot out.
“Come here.”
Momma put down the knife she’d been peeling potatoes with and wiped her hands on a dish towel.
Byron’s inside foot joined his outside one in trying to get away. “Uh, I’ll be back in a minute, they’re waiting for me down at—”
“Byron Watson, you take off that hat and get over here right this minute!” It was “he-uh” instead of “here.” Uh-oh.
Byron started walking toward Momma in slow motion, sliding his feet on the linoleum. He pulled off his hat and stood there looking down, like his shoes were all of a sudden real interesting.
Byron’s head was covered with a blue-and-white handkerchief.
Momma sucked in a ton of air. “What have you done?” We all knew, though. She took a step back and leaned against the counter like if it wasn’t there she’d have fallen down. “Oh my God, your father will kill you!”
“He don’t have no cause to.”
“You’ve gone and done it, haven’t you.”
Byron kept his head down.
“Haven’t you!” Momma yelled.
“Yes!” Byron yelled back.
Momma reached out and snatched the handkerchief off of By’s head.
Me and Momma both went, “Huhhh!”
Byron had gotten a conk! A process! A do! A butter! A ton of trouble!
His hair was reddish brown, straight, stiff and slick-looking. Parts of it stuck straight up like porcupine stickers because Momma hadn’t been too gentle when she snatched the handkerchief off.
He smoothed his hair back in place.
“Well,” Momma said, “that’s it, you are now at your daddy’s mercy. You’ve known all along how we feel about putting those chemicals in your hair to straighten it, but you decided you are a grown man and went and did it anyway.” Momma was real hot, but she surprised me, she just shook her head and went back to peeling potatoes.
Byron stood there looking at his feet and I kept pretending I was doing homework.
Finally Momma slammed the knife down and turned around to look at By again. Byron stood perfectly still while Momma walked around him a couple of times taking a better look at his hair. This looked like the Indians circling the wagons again, but this time it was Byron who had to be the white people!
Finally Momma stopped and said, “But before your father gets to you, let me ask you something. What do you think? What do you think now that you’ve gone and done it? Does it make you look any better? Is this straight”—Momma flicked some more of Byron’s hair back up porcupine-style—“is this straight mess more attractive than your own hair? Did those chemicals give you better-looking hair than me and your daddy and God gave you?”
It was strange, a little laugh was starting to get into Momma’s voice. “Huh, what do you think?
“Well, Bozo,” she said, flicking a piece of By’s hair out over his left ear and then another piece out over his right one, “maybe you were planning on joining the circus, ’cause you sure do look like an honest-to-God clown now.”
Momma was right. With big clumps of his hair sticking out to the side over his ears like that he really did look like Bozo. I broke out laughing, but Byron shot me a real dirty look and I stopped and looked back down at my math book. I hated it when things like that happened and my head automatically went down by itself!
“Why on earth would you do this, Byron?”
“I wanted Mexican-style hair. I don’t see nothing wrong with it.”
When he saw Momma just looking sad and me looking like I wanted to crack up again, Byron got kind of mad and said, “I think it’s cool!”
“Well, Daddy Cool, you enjoy your Mexican-style hair while you can, ’cause I’m sure when your daddy gets through with you you won’t be enjoying too much of anything, and cool is the one thing you won’t be feeling.
“You just slide your cool self right on up those stairs to your bedroom and wait for him, Daddy-o.”
Byron clomped up the stairs.
I told Joey about what happened as soon as our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Davidson, brought her home from Sunday school. Me and Joey went up to see Byron.
Byron was on the top bunk with his feet dangling over the side and his hands covering his face.
I loved times like this when Byron was about to really get it and couldn’t pay me back for teasing him.
I started in on him as soon as me and Joey got into the room.
“Death row prisoner number five forty-one, you have a visitor.
“Please make this a short visit, ma’am, the priest will be here any minute to give the prisoner his last meal and his last cigarette. Oops! I forgot, no cigarettes for you, Five Forty-one, you’ve been banned from ever looking at matches, remember?”
Byron was feeling very sad. He didn’t say anything to me, he didn’t even give me a dirty look. That made me a lot braver.
When she saw his hair, Joetta’s eyes got real big and her voice got all choky. “Byron Watson, what were you thinking about? Look at your head, Daddy’s gonna kill you! Come down from there, let’s go to the bathroom and wash that stuff out of your hair before Daddy gets here!”
Byron raised his slicked-down head from his hands. “Go away, Joey.”
“Come on, Byron, we gotta wash your hair till that junk comes out, hurry!” Joetta pulled on Byron’s dangling legs.
“Stop, Joey,” he finally sai
d. “This don’t wash out, it’s gotta grow out.”
“You mean you have to keep it like that until it comes back normal?”
“Yeah,” Byron said, kind of smiling. “They can’t do nothin’ to it till it grows back.”
“Oh no! Daddy’s gonna tear you up!”
I said, “That’s right, ma’am, Five Forty-one is just waiting for the executioner to get home. Would you like to stick around and write down his last words?”
Joey turned and snapped, “Why is this so funny to you, Kenny?” Her eyes looked real mean. “Who knows what Daddy is gonna do to him?”
Byron’s hands came back up to cover his face.
I said to Joey, “Why are you yelling at me, it wasn’t me who went and got a butter, and no one forced him to do it either.” It makes me sick the way she’s always protecting Byron.
She turned back to him. “Who did this to you, By?”
She didn’t have to ask. There was only one other fourteen-year-old in the neighborhood who had a conk.
I answered for him. “It was Buphead.”
“Why’d you let him, By?”
“I told you to go away, Joey.”
“No, Byron, why’d you let him do this?”
“ ’Cause I wanted to, that’s why.”
“But didn’t you know Mommy and Daddy would find out?”
“Shoot, you think I care what them squares say?”
I said, “And there you have it, ma’am, the reason Five Forty-one must die. He won’t confess his guilt.”
Byron looked at me for the first time and I started easing toward the door. He said, “You think I don’t know what you’re doing, punk? You think I don’t know you’re loving all this mess?
“But I been expecting this. This is just like that show I seen about wolves. They said that the top-dog wolf is always getting challenged by jive little wolves. They said the top-dog wolf can’t show no weakness at all, that if he do, if he gets hurt or something, if he steps on a broke bottle and starts limping or something, all the little jive wolves in the pack start trying to overthrow him. That’s what’s happening right now, you think I’m hurt and you and every other punk Chihuahua in America is climbing out of the woodwork to try and get a bite out of me.
The Watsons Go to Birmingham--1963 Page 7