by Nikki Grimes
YARDBIRD SUITE
I heard Daddy last night
wailing on his sax.
The notes were so blue and sweet
I shook myself awake
and danced into the living room
for a better listen.
But it was only CeCe,
playing Charlie Parker
on the stereo.
Daddy loved him some
Charlie Parker.
NOVEMBER 7
I could ask CeCe’s friend Crew where he got his name, but judging from his bulk, I’m betting it comes from “crew,” as in wrecking. Now there’s a name to inspire fear, and fear’s something I know about. It finds me in the dark.
Last Saturday CeCe ran out of cigarettes late at night and sent me down to The Garden of Eden to get a pack from their machine. She was in her nightgown, and I was still dressed, so it made sense that I should be the one to go. CeCe doesn’t want me smoking, yet there she was sending me out to buy her a pack of menthols. Talk about a hypocrite!
Anyway, CeCe warned me not to dawdle, then called the bartender to say I was on the way, and to ask him to keep an eye out for me.
“Watch out for ghouls,” said CeCe, walking me to the door.
“Check the calendar,” I shot back. “Halloween was five days ago.” I slipped my jacket on and headed downstairs.
I was in and out of The Garden in maybe five minutes. The Avenue, silent as a Sunday morning, felt downright creepy at 10:30 P.M. The broken street lamp didn’t help. Is there such a thing as double darkness? I don’t know, but I felt as though I was slogging my way through shadow thick as three feet of snow in December. I walked as fast as I could, eyes darting left and right. CeCe says, in this town it pays to be paranoid, and I happen to agree.
“Hey, sugar,” said a deep voice, startling me. The man who owned it oozed from a dark doorway, all oily skin, and slick hair, and snakeskin shoes. I never felt him there, never heard a sound. He was nice looking and well dressed, which must be why he thought he’d get somewhere with me. Whoever he was.
He tried to block my path, but I sidestepped him and sucked my teeth as if to say, Man, you are wasting your time. Meanwhile, I made sure to pick up my pace.
“Whatcha doin’ out here, all by yo’ sweet self? Come here,” he said, staggering close enough for his 40-proof breath to ferment the air around me.
Leave me alone, my brain was screaming. I stuffed my hands into my pockets, acting tough to disguise how badly I was shaking, and felt around for my keys, in case I suddenly needed something sharp. The man grabbed a handful of my jacket from behind, and pulled. My legs turned to blocks of ice.
“Chase! You got a problem I can help you with?” said a voice. I looked around, but didn’t see anyone. The voice belonged to a man, though, and it sounded near. Chase looked around too, suddenly jumpy. He didn’t seem to know where the voice came from either, but it was clear the sound of it made him agitated.
“Uh, no problem, man,” he said. “I was just—”
“You were just going on about your business.”
“Uh, right,” said Chase. And he moved on down the street.
Me, I’m still frozen in place, because all I see ahead of me is darkness, and I’m wondering who and where this other man is, because maybe he wants me for himself, I swallow hard and tell my feet to pretend they’ve got good sense, and to get going, which they finally do. I’m nearly home free, six steps shy of the stoop. Thank God I say to no one. Then a beefy hand settles on my shouder.
“You okay, Jaz?” I turn, clearly able to make out the face from the light in the Laundromat. It was Crew, a menacing sight in black shirt, black slacks, black jacket, black hat, and wire-rim shades. Lord, was I glad to see him!
“That was you?” I asked. “Where were you?”
Crew flashed a mouthful of gold at me, but did not answer. “Go on inside,” he said. “I’ll watch you from here.”
I thanked him and bounded up the stairs, shaking my head, thinking, Crew to the rescue. Imagine.
Now that’s what I call a guardian angel out of uniform.
NOVEMBER 9
CeCe and I have never shopped for a pet, but that doesn’t mean we’re minus furry visitors, even if they are unwanted.
Last night an oily black one, tail long as a leather whip curled at the tip, ambled through my room. The scratch of his jagged claws woke me in time to return his beady-eyed stare. I shivered during his sharp appraisal, and wondered if other members of his clan waited nearby. I was not particularly keen on having my fingers and toes serve as his family’s late-night snack.
The main thing, I told myself, is to lie still and pretend to be fearless.
Eventually Mr. Rat continued his rounds, swaggering on into the living room where, thankfully, the hair-raising scratch of his claws was muffled by the carpeting. Once it was safe, I slipped my bare feet over the side of the sofa bed, and ran into CeCe’s room to rouse her. If I was spending the night wide-eyed and sleepless, worrying about Mr. Rat’s return, then CeCe was keeping me company.
Share and share alike, I say.
CeCe hates rats less fiercely than I, but when I mentioned our furry visitor, she leapt out of bed, sprinted to the kitchen, and—went straight to the fridge. She filled a jelly jar with Coke, and offered me a drink. I shrugged, took several sips, and waited for her to explain what rats and cola have to do with one another. She winked at me, wrapped the empty soda bottle in a brown grocery bag, and smashed it against the kitchen sink. Then she marched to the living room, bent down by the radiator, and lifted the flap of carpet in front of it.
“There!” she said, pointing to a gash in the floor. “I thought that’s where that devil was sneaking in. But I bet I know how to put an end to that!”
Immediately CeCe began plugging the ugly cavity with bits of broken glass. When I saw what she was up to, I gave her a hand.
“I saw a rat the other day,” said CeCe, stuffing the last Coke-bottle shard into the hole. “It was probably the same one you saw. Lord, it was big! About the size of a kitten, similar to the ones we had over on Lenox. You were too young to remember, but at night Mama used to put you in the top dresser drawer so the rats couldn’t reach you, ’cause they never could resist the sweet smell of milk on a baby’s breath.”
“Oh, thanks, CeCe!” I groaned. “That was a big help!”
Now I’m really shivering, and wondering why CeCe chose that particular moment to share that particular story. Between her remembered rats and my real one, sleep couldn’t have found me with a searchlight.
I went back to bed and laid there, stiff enough to fool an undertaker, my eyes pried open by fear, for who knows how long. I tried willing my muscles to relax, but every time they started to, the image of that disease-ridden rodent crept across the screen of my mind, and I tensed up all over again.
Take your mind off of it, I told myself. So I imagined myself packing up boxes of books, and clothes, and dishes, and then stacking them inside a moving van. I’m driving downtown. Next thing I know, I’m unloading those cartons in front of a brownstone, or maybe a condo, across from Central Park. A man in a brass-buttoned uniform with gold braid at the shoulders, props the door open for me. I pause in the entryway and smile, because this place is new, and clean, with no smells of wine or urine in the halls. This place is distinctly devoid of rats and roaches. But especially rats.
And then I see myself waltzing in and out of fancy galleries on Madison, turning a discriminating eye on the high-priced paintings and sculptures—money is no object, which is why this is called a dream—and I’m slinky in purple silk, with silver bracelets running up and down my arms, and my purse is bulging with hundred-dollar bills.
Then I figure, Wait a minute. I’ve got a better idea.
I see myself strolling along the Champs Élysées in Paris, and pausing at one of those sidewalk cafes, where I join
James Baldwin, my favorite author, for a short chat, and then I’m tossing coins in Rome’s Fontana di Trevi to make a wish, and suddenly I realize that, by being there, my wish has already been granted.
Then the scene changes. I’m lying on the beach of Saint Croix, or stretched out on a blanket somewhere along the coast of the Red Sea, in East Africa. I’m brown and beautiful in white shorts and shirt, and sunglasses, not eyeglasses, because, miraculously, I’ve got 20-20 vision. I have a notebook in hand, white sand is tickling my toes, and I’m jotting down notes for the Great American Novel.
I squint up at the midday sun, decide to take a breather, and grab a mango from my picnic basket. I sink my teeth into its tart sweetness, then lick the juice that gathers in the corners of my mouth, certain that I’ve never tasted anything so delicious! I’m about to take a second bite when, wouldn’t you know it, a sand crab, hoping for scraps, scuttles by. Something about that beady-eyed crab seems familiar, and why does it have a tail? I don’t know, because my mind is swirling, and I can’t get a fix on much of anything now, so I finally drift off to sleep.
The next morning CeCe told me I have a wonderful imagination. “Well,” I said, “it comes in handy. But, you know, we really should think about getting a cat.”
NOVEMBER 11
Brenda got on my last nerve at school today. She elbowed me on the stairs, made me lose my balance, then dared me to do something about it. She’s been pushing me around for weeks, and I’ve tried to ignore it. Brenda doesn’t know this, but nasty tempers run in my family, and I really don’t want to explode all over her. I thought I’d stuff my anger until she finally got bored trying to rile me, and found someone else to pick on to get her kicks. But who was I kidding? Holding things in is what made my mom crazy, and even if my plan had worked, I’d still have all that mad bubbling up in me, and that’s no good. I decided to let it out instead.
I ran down the hall after Brenda, spun her around, and shoved her against a wall, blocking her body with my own. She’s got 20 pounds on me, but anger multiplied my muscle. “Look,” I said in a dead whisper, for her ears alone, “I am not someone you want to mess with. Trust me. I could punch your lights out, but that’s not my style. It’s too cliche!
“This city is full of bullies, you know. You need to go find yourself a new act, Brenda. Something original. And while you’re at it, try to pick up a personality along the way.”
I eyeballed her for another second or two, then backed off and left her standing there, mouth wide-open, cheeks red as ripe tomatoes.
I headed for the girls’ room, fear oozing from my pores like sweat, since I was fairly certain Brenda could beat me silly if she had a mind to. And what if she’d surprised me with the jagged edge of a blade? For all I knew she could’ve been carrying one. I’ve seen kids around here who do.
CeCe’s talent for bluffing has definitely rubbed off on me.
The main thing is, I wanted Brenda to know that I’m easygoing, not gutless, and she understands that now.
I was still boiling mad, though. When I got to the girls’ room, I locked myself into an empty stall, and sat there awhile to cool off in privacy.
I wrestled my loose-leaf from my book bag and ripped out a blank sheet. My notebook was in the bag somewhere, but I found the loose-leaf first. I jerked a pen from the bag’s side pocket and wrote, in huge letters:
BRENDA MAKES ME SICK.
WHAT IS THIS CHICK’S PROBLEM?
SHE MAKES ME SO ANGRY!
How angry? I asked myself. The writing on the bathroom door gave me a couple of ideas, but using profanity seems lazy to me, as if you can’t come up with something better. I closed my eyes and thought of other ways to describe what I was feeling:
I’M SO ANGRY, YOU COULD FRY AN EGG
ON MY HEAD.
Oh, that’s original, I thought.
I’M SO ANGRY, YOU COULD
BROIL FISH ON MY HEAD,
OR STEAM CLAMS.
I hate clams, I thought. This is silly. I flung my pen down on the tile floor and screamed. That felt good. Then I retrieved my pen, and sat back down on the toilet.
Why does she have to pick on me? I thought. Pick, pick, pick. Like a stubborn little bird, pecking away at a tree, in the same, stupid spot, over and over again, as if it’s desperate for attention. Or maybe it’s determined to leave its mark, no matter how tiny. Then it came to me:
Brenda is a pesky bird
her sharp beak
peck, peck, pecks away at me
but I’m a tree
a tall and sturdy thing
that she can mark
but never topple
When I started writing, my head felt tight as a brown balloon, but once I finished, I sighed and heard the hiss of hot air escaping. The worst of my anger was gone. I stuck the poem in my loose-leaf book, and went to my English class.
At dinner I told CeCe what had happened with Brenda, and it got her thinking that maybe the next time she gets mad, she ought to give poetry a try.
“Fine,” I said. “But make sure you give me credit for the idea.”
LAUGHING IN THE DARK
Some days
are dim
as alleyways
where the streetlights’ glow
can’t reach
and laughter
is the one and only spark
luminous enough
to pierce
the dark
NOVEMBER 21
I was starved when I got home from school today. Unfortunately all that’s left in the cupboard is oatmeal, which I hate, and when I saw that lonely box, unwanted and unopened on the shelf, I threw my hands up, and laughed. My friend Sophie, who was doing homework with me in the kitchen at the time, thought my reaction was a tad strange, but in this house it’s considered normal. Besides, the cupboards won’t be empty for long. CeCe’s out shopping for food right now. Thanksgiving is around the corner, and she plans on fixing a feast. She’ll put in a few hours in the kitchen at The Garden this week to make sure she can pay for it. CeCe says it’s good to splurge every now and then, since most of the time we’re just making do.
Once, when the welfare check I’m embarrassed to admit we need was stolen from our mailbox, CeCe laughed until water filled her eyes, and so did I. When the radiator pipes froze last winter, and we got a cutoff notice from the gas company, we doubled over. Crying was an option, but our tears would have turned into icicles the minute they slid off our lashes, so why bother?
Scarlett O’Hara had the right idea. When Tara burned to the ground, she said, “I’ll think about it tomorrow.” But before she dropped that famous line, she laughed her head off. At least that’s the way I remember it.
Mom doesn’t laugh often enough. She’s too addicted to drama. She takes everything too seriously. Important things—her job, the men who loved her less than she needed, the failures she can’t admit to herself—those I can understand, I guess. But she worries over silly things too. I mean, since when is burnt toast a tragedy? And why sweat it when you accidently over-salt a recipe? Who cares? She does. Too much. Me? I’d laugh, toss the mess in the toilet, wash my hands, and head back to the kitchen for a second try.
Mom used to laugh. A long, long time ago. But somewhere down the road she forgot how. And look where that’s gotten her: in a hospital, broken in places nobody but God can fix. I’ve got no plans on ending up there myself, so I keep laughter and food in the same category, and make sure I get at least three square meals a day.
There are days when laughter hides in the shadows, days when food is low, or Ma Bell disconnects the telephone, or we have no heat and have to layer ourselves in extra socks and sweaters, and sleep cocooned together in every blanket we own. Those are the times when my sense of humor needs a nudge. That’s when I fall back on Cosby.
When I was little, I hated thunderstorms. Usuall
y I’d climb in bed with Mom and Dad for comfort, unless they’d had a fight. That was before the divorce, of course, otherwise known as “B.D.” If it stormed on a night when they were on the outs, I’d slip into bed with CeCe to keep from being alone. CeCe wasn’t wild about having a toddler in her bed, but she felt sorry for me because, with each thunderclap, I’d shiver like a wet puppy. To get my mind off the storm, she’d do whatever it took to get me to giggle—and she still does.
CeCe has a collection of Bill Cosby albums. There’s a semi-scary story about a monster called Chicken Heart, and one about Noah that I really like. At one point Noah’s talking to God, and trying to weasel out of building the ark, and God says, “N-o-a-h,” the way parents say your name when you’ve done something wrong. You know you’re in deep, because they enunciate every single, solitary letter. So Noah says hesitantly, “Yes, Lord?” And after a long pause God asks, “How long can you tread water?” That cracks me up whenever I hear it. But my favorite Bill Cosby story is about him and his brother sharing a bed one night, and how each stakes out his territory. It’s CeCe’s favorite too. Why else would she use it whenever I need a laugh?
Even now during storms, CeCe’s voice will suddenly rise out of the darkness, saying, “This is my side of the bed. Don’t be touching my side of the bed.” And I smile and answer, “Don’t you be touching my side!” And we launch into our version of the Cosby skit we’ve listened to a hundred times sitting in our living room.
The thunder may continue to rattle the windows, and the lightning may dance across the sky a while longer, but laughter robs them of their power to make me afraid.
Man! If there was one thing I could give my mother I’d help her find her smile again. I’d give her laughter.