Bird in a Box

by Andrea Davis Pinkney

  First thing I do is open two of the four windows in the bleach man’s room. January at night is colder than a special delivery from the iceman.

  Willie starts to understand. He slides open the other two windows, using the heels of his hands.

  Outside the privy, the bleach man has left his clothes rumpled and set out a robe and worn slippers. He’s even peeled the covers back on his bed. He’s looking forward to relaxing later.

  When I spot his bath towel hung over the knob on our side of the privy door, I know luck has smiled on us.

  The room is as still as a cellar. There’s splishy sounds coming from the privy. That’s the only noise. Willie and me have to work to be as quiet.

  Now, here’s the hardest part.

  The door to the privy is open a crack. I raise both palms to tell Willie, stay. On my belly, I slide to near the privy door, where first I get the towel from the knob.

  I gather up the rumpled clothes and bathrobe, and the slippers, too, and shimmy backward toward where Willie’s by a window.

  I’ve raised myself onto my haunches, then I’m standing. With one hurl, those clothes and robe and slippers and towel are out the window, into January-at-night.

  Even Willie can’t fully believe it. I have never seen his eyes go wide, but they’re sure open big now, and he’s nodding his head—Yes!

  I point to the bed.

  Willie shrugs—Huh?—and just watches me, is all.

  I’m gathering up the bedcovers and sheets into a bundle that fills both my arms.

  Then I chuck ’em.

  They’re flapping ghosts, taking off into the windy cold.

  January-at-night has never had so much fun.

  But I’m hardly done.

  Black skies look good with puff clouds floating around them.

  Bye-bye, bed pillows.

  Willie struggles to hold back hard laughing.

  Before we can go for more, we hear the gurgle of water being drained from the tub. The bleach man’s still whistling, and fumbling to his feet, sounds like.

  We are out of there quick and quiet. Like ghosts ourselves.

  Getting back at the bleach man isn’t funny without witnessing the getting-back.

  We’re on the other side of the room door, low down, and peeking where we’ve got the door partway open, just big enough for our four eyes to see in.

  When the bleach man comes out, his whistling turns sharp, then stops. January-at-night has snatched him up. The bleach man’s confused—and cold. He starts to dart, buck naked! Then he’s dancing like a chicken, his legs bending every which way.

  He can’t make sense of it. He hasn’t figured out there’s a joke on him. I have never seen bleach run so fast!

  This is getting back.

  So that we don’t creak the stairs with our feet, we scurry, facedown, bellies pressed to the steps.

  Once we’re on our cots in the ward, I give Willie a riddle.

  “What do you call a dance that makes you naked and keeps you stepping?”

  Willie doesn’t even try to answer. He’s too busy letting his laugh free.

  I tell him, “A high-knee!”

  WiLLiE

  IN BOXING YOU DON’T NEVER KNOW what’S coming till it’s in your face. You can block, strike, take the punch, or roll with the blow.

  When I see Lila on her way up the road, I don’t truly know what’s coming. She’s a round shape in the middle of this spring day. She greets me at the edge of the grass where Mercy meets the road. Lila, she holding a basket filled with apples and wearing a hat with a small brim to cover her face from the sun. It’s a man’s hat, for fishing, maybe. Ain’t nothin’ ladylike about it, that hat. Uh-uh, nothin’ pretty about Lila’s droopy hat. She lifts the brim back from her face to wipe her forehead, all dotty with freckles.

  Lila’s glad to see me. “Apple, Willie?”

  She takes quick notice of my hands. I swear, every time Lila looks at these stumps, she does it with eyes that know. “Who wronged you, Willie?” Her asking is sudden but soft.

  Something about Lila’s straight way of talking makes me just answer, “My pa.”

  Lila shakes her head. “Some children are better off orphaned,” she says.

  I lean closer to the basket. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear them apples was winking at me. They sure do look good. Lila makes one of her apples shine even brighter by buffing it on her sleeve. Then she hands the shining red ball over to me. “Sweetest fruit you’ll ever eat,” she say.

  That’s when I see, two of Lila’s fingers are bowed. I ain’t never looked at Lila’s hands close on. Those is some ugly knuckles.

  I don’t say nothing right off. I cup the apple. It’s warm from sitting out on such a bright day.

  Lila sees me looking. “Arthritis,” she say. “It’s a mean affliction when it clings to the joints.”

  I ask, “It hurt?”

  I’m snatching at the apple with my teeth. It’s so crunchy, so good.

  “What’s most painful about it is knowing that I will never be a Rosen’s Lotion hand model.” Lila say it serious, but this is how she being funny.

  Lila runs her bent fingers ’long her hat brim.

  “I had a no-good daddy,” she say real plain. “He was prone to consumption, and often came home tight from moonshine, mad as a hornet.”

  Anger’s putting heat into my cheeks. “My pa was hooked on whiskey, too.” I tell Lila about the night Sampson boiled my hands in hot hominy.

  She don’t look the least bit surprised at what an evil thing it is I’m sharing with her. There’s even more knowing in her eyes now. She say, “Liquor can turn a decent man into a monster.”

  I open and close my fingers to really show Lila what Sampson’s done.

  She do the same with her arthritis hands. Open, close.

  “You want to know how to help your hands, Willie? How to heal them?”

  Every word Lila say lands on me just right. “How?”

  “It’s in the dirt, Willie,” she says. “Go down to near the grass. That’s how you’ll make your hands strong again.”

  I let my apple core drop. Lila say things so certain, I don’t even question her. I stoop to my haunches. Look to Lila for what to do next.

  “You see all those weeds lining up along the road?”

  I shrug. “Uh-huh.”

  “Start pulling,” Lila say. “Stretch that tight skin that’s holding on to your fingers. Work it till it hurts.”

  I squint at the sun.

  “And when you get tired, when the skin on your hands feels like it’s about to rip open, turn one of those weeds into your no-good daddy’s hair, and pull it out by the roots.”

  She sees me stalling. This lady’s not playing, I think. It ain’t hard for me to imagine pulling Sampson’s hair. But I say to Lila, “Yanking weeds’ll help my hands?”

  “It’ll heal more than that.” Lila crunches on a apple.

  Do like she says is all I can think next. Roll with it.

  I start by tugging a single weed, pulling from the top, coming up with a fistful of green.

  “You call that pulling?” Lila’s got her hat cocked back off her face. “Use your hands—work them.” Now she showing me how by snatching a weed in one snap, with roots and even worms trailing from its bottom. “See what I mean?” She shakes dirt from the tangled mess.

  I don’t ask no more questions. Neither do Lila.

  I grab two weeds at a time. My fingers is right at the dirt that’s biting hard on their roots. Me and those weeds, we playing a mean tug-of-war, and I want to win.

  I give them weeds all I got—pull, pull, pull. My hands—uh—they throbbing as I jerk up them stubborn plants. The skin on my knuckles is a tight glove. Keeps my fingers from bending all the way. But I ain’t stopping. Uh-uh, won’t quit.

  What Lila’s got coming is now right in my face.

  “There are no rules,” Lila say. “Only that you go at it.”

  I throw each weed behind me
, working my way forward, along the road on my knees.

  Pull. Toss. Pull. Toss. Pull.

  I got a whole rhythm going. It’s the rhythm of the peanut bag, clanging from its iron link—1-1-2-2-1-1-2-2!

  It’s the beat of my fists slamming the body bag—Bam! Bam! Bam!—while my heart and nerves and muscles and breath fight to keep going.

  The scar from where Bird sunk his claw, it’s now a raw red line along my thumb. Boy, does it sting from being strained against itself.

  “Tired?” Lila asks.

  “Naw,” I say, swallowing the road dust that flies at my face.

  “How do your hands feel?” Lila asks.

  “Stronger,” I say.

  “How about the rest of you?”

  I blow a quick breath.

  “Stronger still.”

  Next morning, Lila, she surprises me again. Not with weeds, but with a tree. She gone and climbed to the top of Mercy’s tallest oak. I’m on the side porch, looking straight up.

  “Mrs. Weiss, come down from there! You’ll break your neck! What on earth are you doing?”

  “I’m not on earth, Mr. Sneed. I am in a tree.”

  “I can see you’re in a tree, Mrs. Weiss. Have you lost your mind?”

  “No, Mr. Sneed, I have not lost my mind. But I can’t seem to locate the twine I brought with me. Do you see a ball of string down there?”

  “Mrs. Weiss, I order you to come down this instant! I am responsible for your welfare while you are on the premises of this facility. What has led you to—to—climb a tree?”

  “I’m decorating.”

  “Decorating?”

  “Have you not heard of an egg tree, Mr. Sneed? It is the proper way to announce the coming of Easter.”

  “Have you gone mad, woman?”

  “Lack of joy is the first sign of madness, Mr. Sneed. As an Easter greeting to all who pass our property, I’m hanging eggs from the branches of Mercy’s biggest tree. Eggs that I’ve dyed with beet juice and carrot pulp. This brings me great joy. I am not a madwoman.”

  “Mrs. Weiss, the Mercy Home for Negro Orphans is not a popular passing spot. Not many people will see the eggs. Please, I urge you, come down.”

  Much as I don’t like the bleach man, I wish Lila’d come out of that tree. I wouldn’t climb that high up myself, even. I wonder if Lila’s touched in the head. She crazy? I wonder.

  “Mr. Sneed, look there, right by your foot! I see the twine! It must have fallen from my apron while I was climbing. Toss it up to me, will you?”

  “I will not!”

  I start for the twine. I’m eager to help Lila, till she say to the bleach man, “Then you leave me no choice but to make my way down, then climb back up to the top of this tree.”

  “Mrs. Weiss, this is dangerous. Stay where you are. I’ll—I’ll—bring the string to you.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Sneed. That would prevent my eggs from falling. I have taken great care to secure them in the folds of my skirt.”

  “Here I come, Mrs. Weiss.”

  More than anything, I wanna run. Uh-huh, I gotta find Otis. But uh-uh, I sure ain’t gonna miss this. I stay put. No way I’m moving.

  “Oh, my, be careful, Mr. Sneed!”

  “Mrs. Weiss, my foot is—it’s slipping!”

  “Here, grab on to my hem!”

  “Mrs. Weiss, your eggs are falling on my head!”

  “Goodness gracious, Mr. Sneed. I’m so glad the eggs are hard-boiled. But what a shame. I’m losing some of the brightest ones. Don’t let go, though. And put your left foot into the tree fork, where that branch is strongest. Easy… There you go… Now sit back a bit on the limb, right next to me.”

  I’m giving up worrying about Lila. She don’t need my help. It’s the bleach man who’s the most troubled, and he can forget getting anything from me.

  “Mrs. Weiss, so help me, if I become injured, I’ll—”

  “Mr. Sneed, two of my eggs have managed to land in your shirt pocket! That means I’ve lost only a few. Thank you, Mr. Sneed. There are plenty of eggs left in my skirt, quite enough to decorate our egg tree. Would you kindly hand me the twine?”

  “Mrs. Weiss, you have violated every rule of employment at this establishment. I have no choice but to—”

  “You have no choice but to sit on this limb and help me decorate this tree, Mr. Sneed. You are not a very competent climber. If you even try to get down on your own, you will no doubt fall. You’re stuck with me, Mr. Sneed. In a tree.”

  “Mrs. Weiss, here is the twine.”

  “Here is an egg, Mr. Sneed. It is the brightest one I have. Pink, from the beet juice. Now, loop the twine around the egg’s middle, and leave a tail long enough for hanging the egg from a branch. Once you have the right size string, I’ll cut the end from the ball of twine. I’ve brought my late husband’s army knife.”

  “Like—like this?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Mrs. Weiss, you have me under duress! Pass me an orange egg. I’ll hang that one next.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Sneed. Two eggs. On a limb. Side by side. Very festive.”

  I race inside. “Otis, come see!”

  HiBERNiA

  IT SEEMS MRS. TRASK, OUR CHURCH ACcompanist, has a beetle stuck under her wig. She is all full of agitation, and I’m sure not helping matters.

  We’re not even two bars into “I’m Gonna Sing” when Mrs. Trask pulls her fingers back from the piano keys and stops playing. She stands up sharply from the piano bench, both hands at her hips. “Who’s turning our hymn into a juke-joint rag?” she wants to know.

  One at a time, she gives each and every one of us in the True Vine Baptist Youth Singers a hard stare. “This is a rehearsal for a church choir, not an audition for a honky-tonk.”

  Nobody says anything. When Mrs. Trask’s stare lands on me, I take quick little bites from my thumbnail. I don’t let my eyes meet hers. I do a good job of inspecting the place where Daddy’s just fixed a leak in the ceiling.

  Most times I hate being in the choir’s back line, but that’s what you get when you’re all legs and tall as timber. A true star like me deserves front-row treatment. Today, though, I’m grateful to be tucked behind Fay Nims, the second soprano in the front row.

  Still, Mrs. Trask has a way of spotting me. She eyes me longer than the other kids.

  “Let’s begin again,” she says. There’s suspicion on her face.

  When Mrs. Trask hits a G chord to start us off, I keep my voice simple. I get through the whole first verse, singing like any good church soprano should.

  “I’m gonna sing when the Spirit says sing—

  I’m gonna sing when the Spirit says sing—

  I’m gonna sing when the Spirit says sing—

  And obey the Spirit of the Lord.”

  But then, fast on the heels of obey the Spirit of the Lord comes the second verse—I’m gonna shout when the Spirit says shout.

  Something winds up in me, ready to swing. When that D7 chord flies free from those piano keys, I can’t help myself.

  I’m gonna shout when the Spirit says shoooouuuut turns into a pink-fried tune. I let the Spirit of the Lord rise out of me like I’m a Praline Supreme.

  Mrs. Trask blows her gasket! She is off that piano bench in a snap. “This is not the home of dance music. This is a church! Which one of you is disrespecting our place of worship?”

  Now it isn’t just Mrs. Trask who’s got her eye on me. Near to half the choir is looking in my direction. Fay Nims is the first to speak. “That jazzifying is coming from Hibernia,” she says.

  Everybody agrees with Fay. “Yeah,” says Robert Pettiford, “Hibernia’s putting all kinds of feathers onto our song.”

  “And she’s making me want to do it,” admits Carla Wright, my church-gossip friend.

  My thumb is back at my teeth, getting its nail chewed to the quick. I waste no time explaining myself. “Mrs. Trask, I… I… was so moved by the… the… uh… Spirit of the Lord that I got all carried a
way. If you play the first verse again, I’ll show you how respectfully I can deliver the tune.”

  Mrs. Trask looks at me sideways, but she agrees. She tells the other kids to take a break. They slide into the first-row pew, where they watch me do a straight-as-rain version of “I’m Gonna Sing.”

  I don’t add a single flip. I use my very best diction and pitch. I make my voice go full on the vowels and land hard on the consonants to shape the song perfectly. The Gs and D7s fill every corner of our rickety church.

  The other kids, even Fay Nims, clap politely. Mrs. Trask turns around on her bench. “You do have a gift, child,” she admits. “That rendition is worthy of a solo.”

  I give a little smile, all humble.

  Mrs. Trask says, “Your father has arranged for us to perform another concert—an Easter chorus—for the children at the Mercy Home for Negro Orphans. Together we’ll sing a selection of songs fitting for the spring season. Hibernia, you alone can perform ‘I’m Gonna Sing.’ ”

  I try to look bashful about the whole thing. “Oh, Mrs. Trask,” I say, “thank you. I’ll sing properly. For the orphans.”

  Mrs. Trask ends our rehearsal by collecting her sheet music and asking us to make sure we take our belongings with us when we leave. As soon as Mrs. Trask is gone, I gather the other singers near the piano. I work on Carla Wright first. “You know what, Carla? If you feel like you want to do a little jazzifying, we could try it now. What can it hurt? We’re just messin’ around.”

  I take Mrs. Trask’s place at the piano bench. I strike a G chord and start off like thunder. Forget the first verse. I go right to the part about shouting.

  “I’m gonna shout when the Spirit says a-shoooouuuut!

  I’m gonna shout when the Spirit says a-shoooouuuut!

  I’m gonna shout when the Spirit says a-shoooouuuut!”

  Carla latches on to the tempo. She rides the rhythm all the way. She does something you’re never, ever supposed to do in the Lord’s house—she snaps her fingers.

  Fay Nims is jazzifying like True Vine Baptist is the Apollo Theater in Harlem. And Robert Pettiford, hoo-boy, he is bringing it all together with a gutbucket bass. Soon every kid in the choir has picked up on the jam. My fingers, sawed-off nails and all, have a mind of their own. They are doing a Lindy Hop all over the piano keyboard.