One Crazy Summer

by Rita Williams-Garcia

  Mean Lady Ming

  We stood as one, looking up at her. Me in the front, Vonetta and Fern at my sides. She was tall and broad shouldered, where Pa was just tall. As hungry as I was, all I could think was that they made you dance with a boy in the sixth grade. That I would never look right dancing with a boy, and for that I had Cecile to thank.

  I spoke first: “We’re hungry.”

  As usual, my sisters’ voices followed on top of mine.

  Vonetta: “What’s for supper?”

  Then Fern: “Hungry. Hungry.” She rubbed her belly.

  We made a picture. Us looking up at her and her looking down at us. In the animal kingdom the mother bird brings back all she’s gathered for the day and drops it into the open mouths of each bird squawking to be fed. Cecile looked at us like it didn’t occur to her that we would be hungry and she’d have to do what mothers do: feed their young. I’m no Big Ma in the kitchen, but I would have opened a can of beans and fried up some franks. I can bake a chicken and boil potatoes. I would have never let my long-gone daughters travel nearly three thousand miles without turning on the stove.

  She said, “What you want from me?”

  “Supper,” I answered. “It’s past eight o’clock. We haven’t had real food since breakfast.”

  “With Big Ma.”

  “And Papa.”

  I kept going. “That was”—I glanced at my wrist—“nine hours and twelve minutes ago.”

  Vonetta next: “Airline food don’t count.”

  Fern last: “Surely don’t.”

  She was still looking down at us as if we’d thrown a monkey wrench into her quiet Tuesday evening. Then she spoke. “Where’s the money your father gave you?”

  I crossed my arms. There was no way she was getting our money. “That money’s for Disneyland,” I told her.

  “To go on all the rides.”

  “And meet Tinker Bell.”

  This was the first time we heard Cecile laugh, and she laughed like the crazy mother she was turning out to be. “Is Tinker Bell going to feed you?” She was still laughing.

  We didn’t think she was funny. We said nothing rather than talk back and get slapped.

  “Look,” she said, “if you want to eat, hand over the money.”

  I stared her down—something I’d never try with Big Ma. Cecile didn’t seem to care. She said, “Fine. I got plenty of air sandwiches here. Go on back to the room, open your mouths, and catch one.”

  The staredown ended right there. I unlaced my right tennis shoe, wriggled my foot out, and removed the mound of tens and twenties Pa had given me. Cecile didn’t care that the money had been baking under my foot since we’d left Brooklyn. She took the money, unfolded and counted the bills, then stuffed them in her pants pocket, except for a ten-dollar bill, which she held out to me.

  “Go ’round the corner to Ming’s. Order a large shrimp lo mein…”—she counted our heads as if she didn’t know how many of us she’d had—“four egg rolls, and a big bottle of Pepsi.”

  Vonetta and Fern squealed for the shrimp and Pepsi, forgetting that this was wrong. Our mother should have cooked real food for us—at the very least baked a chicken. Made franks and beans.

  “Fruit punch,” I said. “Big Ma don’t allow us to have strong drinks.”

  Cecile let out a single whoop of a laugh. Vonetta and Fern were too excited about having takeout to see that our mother was crazy.

  I said, “We have to call Pa. Let him know we arrived.”

  They chimed in.

  “Safe and sound.”

  “On the ground.”

  Cecile said, “Phone’s next to Ming’s.”

  “You mean you don’t have a phone?” Vonetta asked.

  Cecile said, “I don’t have no one to call, and I don’t want no one calling me.”

  Whether Cecile had a phone was not my main worry. “We have to go out after eight to call Pa and get the food? Aren’t you coming with us?”

  “Ming’s is a couple blocks down Magnolia, around the corner.” She pointed the direction. “Phone booth’s right there.”

  When we were barely out the door, she added, “And tell Ming to give you four plates, four forks, four napkins, and four paper cups. No sense dirtying dishes. And you’re not coming inside my kitchen!”

  We all looked at one another and thought the same thing: crazy.

  I led the way in the direction Cecile pointed. Down the walk, past the slumping palm tree, and made a right turn. Vonetta and Fern as usual nipped the heels of my tennis shoes.

  It wasn’t dark at all, but it wasn’t high daylight, either. Kids of all ages still ran around playing in yards and riding bikes on the street. I bet kids ran around and played out here all year long and not only in the summer. We usually went to the summer camp at the Y or drove down to Alabama in Papa’s Wildcat.

  We came upon some kids playing freeze tag. They jumped from lively wiggle worms to frozen statues just as we neared their yard. We felt the smirks of the gaping statues on us. Vonetta smiled, welcoming their interest in us. She was scouting out new friends to be with for the next twenty-eight days. I let her lag a step or two behind to wink and smile at them. You can’t stop Vonetta from chasing after friends.

  I kept walking, Fern sticking close to me. Vonetta skipped until she caught up.

  One thing was for sure. These blocks might have been long like the blocks on Herkimer Street, but we were far from Brooklyn. I didn’t know where any of these streets led, but I walked down Magnolia like I knew where I was going.

  I couldn’t help but notice that not one yard had a palm tree. Not one. Or stucco. Not one house was painted that crazy green color. I was thinking this when behind us crept a rumbling against concrete, like a barrel rolling, the rolling broken by the cracks in the sidewalk. I turned.

  A voice yelled, “Gangway!”

  We tried to jump aside, but the three of us jumping all together only got us so far.

  A boy on top of a wooden board—this flying T with tricycle wheels in the back—rumbled by and managed to clip me good.

  “Hey! Watch out!” I called after him, shaking my fist.

  He only stopped at the corner to pick up his flying T, carry it across the street, and lay it back down on the sidewalk. “Sorry!” he yelled without turning around. Then he gave it a running push and jumped on it, eventually lying stomach down, his arms outstretched as he held on to both ends of the T.

  “What was that?” Vonetta asked.

  “Some stupid boy,” I said. “Come on, y’all.”

  I had to pull Vonetta’s chin away from the direction of the boy on the flying T. She kept looking even after he was long gone.

  Ming’s was where Cecile said it was. Around the corner and a couple blocks down. There was a big sign, MING’S, and underneath it, red neon characters that looked like fighting men waving swords. The telephone booth was also where Cecile said it would be, right next to Ming’s. I planned on calling Pa before getting the food, but the booth was already occupied by a light-skinned guy with a big, floppy Afro. He was turned sideways, but I could see his profile, his beakish nose. The way he pushed his head this way and that, suspiciously, while he talked.

  We stood with our arms folded, waiting for him to finish. He looked like a fugitive from justice. I could spot one when I saw one. I love a good crime story, especially The F.B.I. Crime shows come on late, and I sneak to catch whatever Big Ma falls asleep watching. That’s how this guy looked. Like he was calling his ma to see if the coast was clear to come home without the mob or the coppers on his tail.

  He saw us standing with our arms folded and turned his back to us. I got it. He had a lot of dimes and planned to use each one.

  We went inside Ming’s. We were barely in the restaurant, which wasn’t a restaurant, just a counter with a kitchen on the far side and two small tables with benches on our side. The Chinese lady behind the counter said, “No free egg rolls. No more free egg rolls.” She waved her hands like “Sho
o, stray cat.”

  I didn’t know how to answer. I didn’t ask for any free egg rolls. But we were the only ones inside Ming’s, and she was staring straight at me.

  Vonetta said, “We don’t want free egg rolls.”

  Fern piped in, “We want shrimp lo mein and Pepsi.”

  Vonetta said, “And four plates, four forks, four napkins, and four cups.”

  Fern: “And four egg rolls.”

  Vonetta: “All for money. Not for free.”

  Finally I said, “It’s takeout. To go.”

  I uncurled the ten-dollar bill to show her. Usually I am Johnny-on-the-spot, speaking up for my sisters and me. But this time I went blank for no reason I could think of. It was nice to have Vonetta and Fern jump right in.

  The lady shouted in Chinese to the back of the kitchen. She sounded even meaner than when she’d said “No free egg rolls.” I decided that just like Cecile was crazy, the Chinese lady was mean. Mean Lady Ming.

  She nodded to us and said, “Okay. Sit.”

  We sat down and waited. Mean Lady Ming kept talking. “Everybody poor. Everybody hungry. I give free egg roll. Feel sorry. Then everyone come for free egg roll.”

  She muttered on like Cecile did and looked mean and tired like Big Ma looks on washboard days.

  While I was sitting with my sisters, I made up my mind about Oakland. There was nothing and no one in all of Oakland to like. I would get on a plane and fly back to New York if Big Ma showed up wanting her grandbabies. I wouldn’t even tell Cecile “Thanks for the visit.”

  Collect Call

  Mean Lady Ming laid a dollar bill and a few coins on the counter. She handed me the brown paper bag with the food, gave Vonetta the bottle of Pepsi and a small bottle of fruit punch, then gave Fern a paper bag with the plates, cups, forks, and napkins. I scooped up all of the change. There were at least two dimes in coins, which was enough to call home to Brooklyn collect.

  When we went outside, the beakish guy with the floppy Afro was gone. We all squeezed into the phone booth with our bags from Ming’s.

  I hooked my finger inside the hole for zero on the phone and dialed. The operator came on and I spoke up.

  “Operator, I want to make a collect call to Louis Gaither.” Papa’s proper name felt strange coming from my mouth. I said it again clearer although the operator didn’t ask me to. Instead, she asked for my name and I gave it to her. “Delphine.”

  There’s nothing mumbly about the way I talk. I don’t swallow my letters or run them together. The operator still asked, “Can I have that again?” as if she didn’t get it the first time. I broke it into syllables. “Del-FEEN.”

  She told me to stay on the line. While she was ringing Pa, I realized my Timex was still on Brooklyn time and that it was after eleven o’clock. Pa rose in the dark for work and was asleep by nine. I started to wind the stem when the operator came back. “Go ahead, Miss.”

  “Hello? Hello?” Big Ma sounded far away, but we heard her and were glad to have reached home.

  Already Vonetta and Fern began puppy yelping in the background and grabbing at the phone. I gave them a stern look to make them quit it. Before I could say “We’re here in Oakland with Cecile,” Big Ma said, “Delphine! Do you know how much this phone call is costing your father?”

  There was no time to be tongue-tied. I spoke up. “But Papa said call.”

  “Not collect, Delphine. Where’d you get a thought like that? I knew you girls should have never left Brooklyn. You fly out to Oakland and lose your last ounce of common sense. Let me speak to your mother.”

  “She’s not here,” I said. “She’s in her house.”

  Vonetta and Fern were still shouting to Big Ma and Papa, who had to be asleep.

  “And why are you out in the street in the middle of the night? I’m going to tell your pa about this.” Big Ma scolded and fussed, running up the phone bill even higher. When she was done telling me about myself and about that “no kind of mother, Cecile,” I told her we were safe and said good night, and Vonetta and Fern hollered out, “Good night, Big Ma! And Pa!” Then I hung up the phone.

  At least I had done what Pa had told me to do. I called.

  Cecile guarded the kitchen’s swinging door and pointed us to the living room, where she had laid out a waxy tablecloth on the floor. We spread out around the cloth. Cecile took over everything, dumping shrimp lo mein and an egg roll on each plate, tossing everyone a fork and a napkin.

  To me she said, “Pour the drinks,” which I did. This was the most mothering we got, if you don’t count her coming to claim us. Not that I wanted or needed any mothering. I was just thinking about Vonetta and Fern. They were expecting a mother. At least a hug. A “Look at how y’all have grown.” A look of sorrow and a plea for forgiveness. I knew better.

  At least that was one thing Cecile and Big Ma had in common. Big Ma had no forgiveness for Cecile, and Cecile had no need for it.

  Mean Lady Ming had thrown in a pair of chopsticks. Vonetta and Fern eyed the wooden sticks and formulated ideas about turning them into hairpins, play-fight swords, and pickup sticks. Cecile ended all of that when she broke the sticks joined at the top, rubbed them against each other like she was kindling twigs for a campfire, then wrapped noodles around them and shoved the noodles, shrimp, and sticks into her mouth.

  We were all staring. We’d never seen anyone eating with chopsticks other than on TV. We’d never seen colored people eating with them, and here was our mother eating with chopsticks like the Chinese men that I had read about who worked on the railroads. She ate hungrily, setting no type of table-manner examples for us, her daughters.

  Cecile knew our eyes were on her. With a mouthful of food she said, “Thought y’all were hungry.”

  We picked up our forks and ate.

  When we were done, Cecile grabbed everything that hadn’t been used—soy sauce, spicy mustard, her fork, an extra cup that Mean Lady Ming had thrown in. She told us to stay right there while she brought everything into the kitchen. So we stayed put.

  I thought she might want to talk to us. Find out how we were doing in school. What we liked and didn’t like. If we ever had chicken pox or our tonsils taken out. While I thought about what I’d tell her, we heard a knock on the door. Then another loud knock. We jumped up to look through the curtains, but Cecile came out of the kitchen.

  “Get back in the room. Get.”

  And we did. But I had caught a glimpse through the curtain. I had already seen three people in dark clothes with Afros.

  For the People

  We were trained spies back in Brooklyn. Scrunched together, pressing our ears to the door, wall, or air, we used hand signals and mouthed words instead of whispered. If necessary I could shush my sisters with a glare to bottle up their loose giggling. You can’t giggle and be a spy.

  It was by pressing our ears to the air that we had heard Pa say, “No, Ma. They need to know her, and she needs to know them. They’re flying to Oakland. That’s final.” It had been all we could do not to let on when Pa sat us down the next morning.

  The knock on the door, Cecile ordering us to hide in our room, and her clearing away all evidence of us were not actions of a mother. These were actions of a secret agent. Or a fugitive from justice. Someone who doesn’t open her door wide and welcoming like Big Ma does when the doorbell rings. Hers were the actions of someone who wears hats, scarves, and shades to keep from being recognized. Kind of like the guy in the phone booth. Someone obviously hiding out.

  Once again, we fell into our spying positions, angling ourselves at the cracked door to see, while pressing our ears against the air. From there we could see pieces of the three figures who entered Cecile’s house. All wore dark colors. One had on a black jacket and a black beret. The other two, black T-shirts and black berets over Afros. We steadied our heavy, excited breathing to hear what we could.

  It wasn’t long after greeting one another that their talking turned to arguing. It was their voices, all three of them agains
t hers. It sounded like:

  “Seize the time.”

  “For the people.”

  “The time is now.”

  Versus her:

  “Me…”

  “My…”

  “No…”

  “No…”

  Then each one of them firing off:

  “The people…”

  “The people…”

  “The people…”

  Against her:

  “My art.”

  “My work.”

  “My time. My materials. My printing press.”

  “Me. My. No. No.”

  I was sure they were Black Panthers. They were on the news a lot lately. The Panthers on TV said they were in communities to protect poor black people from the powerful; to provide things like food, clothing, and medical help; and to fight racism. Even so, most people were afraid of Black Panthers because they carried rifles and shouted “Black Power.” From what I could see, these three didn’t have rifles, and Cecile didn’t seem afraid. Just annoyed because they wanted her things but she didn’t want to give them. Big Ma said God could not have made a being more selfish than Cecile. At least she was like that with everyone, not just us.

  Cecile said, “Paper isn’t free. Ink isn’t free. My printing press isn’t free. I’m not free.”

  One of them answered, “None of us is free, Sister Inzilla. Eldridge Cleaver isn’t free. Huey Newton isn’t free. H. Rap Brown isn’t free. Muhammad Ali isn’t free.”

  I knew he meant her, Cecile, when he said Inzilla. I didn’t know some of those other names. Only Huey Newton, the Black Panther leader, and Muhammad Ali, who used to be Cassius Clay. I guessed the others were Black Panthers or black people who were in prison. I knew Ali had refused to go to Vietnam and fight like Uncle Darnell was doing. I still didn’t get what any of that had to do with Cecile.

  Another one said, “That’s why everyone must contribute to the cause.”

  The third voice added, “Like Huey said, ‘We should all carry the weight, and those who have extreme abilities will have to carry extremely heavy loads.’”