Bird in a Box

by Andrea Davis Pinkney

  But when I hear this girl warming up, I get something Hibernia Lee Tyson never gets—nervous! This “Teen Dream” has some serious lung power. Even when she’s just practice singing, I can see by the way she breathes that she’s had some kind of formal training.

  This girl can project. And her hands know how to express the notes flying free from her. She’s not actually singing; she’s trilling, and even that sounds professional.

  “The Twelves” are starting to look better to me, whiny voices and all.

  “My name’s Carmen,” says the girl with the opal collar. “Carmen Bellamy.”

  I am so busy reconsidering “The Twelves” and picking at my thumbnail that it takes me a moment to see she’s trying to shake my hand with her slim fingers.

  Carmen. Even her name is high-hat.

  “What will you be singing?” she asks. She gestures toward the bandstand microphone.

  Only half my attention is working. I’m mostly wishing I had a corsage like hers. I answer by telling her my name. “I’m Hibernia.”

  The chance to shake Carmen’s hand has passed. She’s smoothing her hair, fixing her barrette.

  “I’m here with my daddy,” she says, and points to an eager man down front, a few rows back from the bandstand.

  I take this as a chance to look for my daddy. Even with so many people, I see him squished between a lady and a little boy in the same row as Carmen’s father.

  A trumpet blows the start of the contest.

  “The Twelves” begin. One by one, they’re as pitiful as can be. I watch them pass their Brown Bomber Boxes. Not much coin clinking for any of those whiners. Thank goodness I’m not one of them.

  Now it’s our turn, the “Teen Dreams.”

  Carmen goes first. She blows once on her pitch pipe, then collects a rhythm by tap-tapping her foot. This makes me notice her shoes. Real leather, with a heel, and a strap across the ankle. I flinch. Those are my shoes from the Sears, Roebuck catalog. Carmen hasn’t even started singing, and she’s already ahead. Even her toe-rhythm is jazzy.

  The beat of her shoe strikes me right away. I know that tempo. And here’s what else I know. Though I have only heard church folks talk about what a heart attack feels like, I am near to having one.

  The sky might as well open up and drop a piano on my head this minute. Carmen is singing “Harlem Congo”! She has stolen my shoes—and my song!

  She doesn’t even need Chick Webb’s drum. Her only music is the leather tap of her heel. Her singing rises higher and smoother than an air balloon with a passenger basket.

  Carmen’s “Congo” is belting off the bandstand, but she’s holding down the beat with her foot. The audience is applauding already. Carmen has passed her Brown Bomber Box. Folks are digging for their money.

  This is not happening.

  I am Not-Happy Hibernia.

  I try to listen politely, but Not-Happy Hibernia is getting more Not-Happy with each “Congo” beat.

  I wish there were another song I could sing. And the truth is, there are lots of them. But I’m not here to sing. I’m here to siiiing. “Harlem Congo” is the song to siiiing.

  I can’t take any more of Carmen. If the squeeze on me is any indication, I will have a heart attack if I don’t do something.

  My own foot starts a beat of its own, but my poopy, stupid shoes are no match for Carmen’s heels.

  I look to the photo of Joe Louis and can’t believe what I see.

  Is there a trick to that picture?

  When I fix my eyes on Joe, he winks at me from his place on the sign!

  I blink to be sure. I am not imagining this.

  Now I know it’s time for me to shine.

  If this were the ring, Mighty Joe Louis would not stay in his corner. He would go out there and take his prize.

  I know every inch of “Harlem Congo.” I can feel where it spreads, pumps, syncopates, sizzles.

  So I wait. It is so hard to keep still.

  I had let my fingernails grow past stubs for this occasion, but hooey to that. I’m chomping as much as I would on an ear of corn.

  When Carmen comes to the place where “Harlem Congo” slows its roar, my poopy shoe picks up speed. I double-time with my toe, getting ready to grab the song.

  Carmen starts back in, slow to the Congo, then heats up.

  I meet her right where she is, at Harlem Congo’s hottest place.

  I put pepper on that tune.

  Carmen glances behind to where I’m standing among the other “Teen Dreams.”

  Her face has one word written on it: What?!

  She doesn’t stop singing, though. This girl is a pro. Carmen throws down a jam, and takes the Congo up, up, up. She turns the song into locomotion.

  I’m at her quick, with slammin’ pitch.

  The people in the bleachers are calling for my Brown Bomber Box, so I pass it to the front row, and watch lots of pockets turn inside out.

  Carmen’s ready to put the pulse on this party, and so am I.

  She waves me up to where she is on the bandstand. I take my place next to her at the microphone.

  Carmen turns her voice into popcorn blips.

  I backflip the melody into flatted riffs.

  The fairgrounds crowd is on their feet, wanting more.

  Daddy’s putting two quarters into my Brown Bomber Box and two into Carmen’s. When both boxes reach Carmen’s daddy, he does the same thing. That’s two whole dollars!

  Like in church, people are beginning to catch the “giving fever.” They are happy to contribute. They’re feeling motivated to let go of their money, which is not easy in these times.

  Carmen and I keeping rolling with the Congo, and soon we’re sharing the song.

  She bounces me a bop.

  I shoot her back a scat.

  We are celebrating “Harlem Congo” with ping-pong rhythms.

  We are grits with gravy, each bringing out the best in each other.

  Happy Hibernia Lee Tyson and Carmen Bellamy are siiiinging together.

  Our Brown Bomber Boxes are still making their way through the fairgrounds. The contest marshals keep the boxes going and watch so that hobos don’t steal the money.

  When Carmen and I bring it home with the final Congo groove, the cheers don’t stop. I’ve actually sweat a sheen onto my forehead. I wipe it quick with Thankie Hankie.

  For the rest of the morning, kids from “Teen Dreams” sing for Joe. They pass out their Brown Bomber Boxes, but nobody comes close to Carmen and me.

  The boxes have all come to the front. The money is being counted.

  What happens next is a bigger surprise than a visit from Santa Claus himself. The lady at the registration station comes to the bandstand microphone. “We have a winner,” she announces. “And, we have a special guest to broadcast the news live on the radio.”

  The fairgrounds is as quiet as a library on the day before a spelling test.

  I’m back to tapping my poopy shoe, this time from the thing I’ve been cursed with several times today—rattled nerves.

  The registration lady looks to her left at a curtained spot on the bandstand. “Please welcome Skip Gibson from the CBS Radio Network!”

  The whole fairgrounds applauds. Some people shout, “Skip! Skip!” Others are truly gasping. I mean, holy cow, it’s Skip Gibson, right here in Elmira!

  A tall man with creased slacks comes onto the bandstand. The microphone gets louder somehow. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Skip Gibson, coming to you live at the Elmira, New York, fairgrounds, one of eight stops on the Mike Jacobs Brown Bomber Box Campaign, where the voices of tomorrow are raising money by singing for Joe Louis.”

  If it were not rude to interrupt people while they were talking, I would call for Daddy this minute. I would beg Daddy to please take me to a doctor. I know enough now about my heart stopping, and mine has lost its ticker. I am really, really about to have a heart attack.

  By this afternoon, Hibernia Lee Tyson will be headline news on the fron
t page of the Elmira Star-Gazette as the child who faked being a teen and died of a heart attack at the Elmira fairgrounds.

  Skip’s delivery is as polished as ever. “The Brown Bomber Box Campaign has raised a lot of cash to keep up Joe’s training fees, and to help him get to Comiskey Park next month in Chicago, where he will fight James Braddock for the world heavyweight title.”

  There are whoops and clapping from all corners of the fairgrounds. Daddy is on his feet, bringing his heavy hands together.

  “This was one of the fiercest of all campaign competitions, with two singers leading the pack. The only other times I’ve seen sparring like today’s is in the ring with two fit contenders holding up strong with each other.”

  More cheers rattle the bleachers.

  Skip says, “We saw quite a showing of talent today. Of fortitude, grace, skill, and work.”

  Carmen and I exchange eager glances.

  “There were many boxes stuffed for Joe, and confident voices that sang for Joe’s hope. That’s what counts most, the solid showing for Joe Louis.”

  Skip Gibson announces, “Nibrenia Lee Tyson, please come to the microphone.” My poopy shoes must be filled with stones. I cannot rise from my chair.

  People start to giggle. Skip says, “Carmen Bellamy, will you assist your friend and join her at the front of the bandstand?”

  Carmen needs no help. She’s got me by the elbow and is propping me next to Skip, who has begun to sing the Joe Louis fight song.

  “Let’s go, mighty Joe.

  Battle like the Alamo.

  Hey, hey, mighty Joe.

  Time to bomb ’em—there you go!

  Go, go, mighty Joe!

  Get ’em good—there you go.”

  The whole fairgrounds joins in, and soon the song becomes a chant:

  “Go, go, mighty Joe! Get ’em good—there you go.”

  Daddy and Carmen’s father are making the most noise.

  Carmen and I are bringing it out, too, turning “Go, go, mighty Joe!” into harmony.

  With everybody cheering for Joe Louis, with Carmen and me leading the way, I start to siiiing Joe’s name.

  I put a spin on the refrain.

  “Go, go, mighty Joe! Campaign bucks—here you go!”

  The registration lady hands Skip Gibson two Brown Bomber Boxes. Skip holds one up high over his head. The registration lady lifts the other. The box in her hand has Carmen’s name on the front. Skip’s box says “Nibrenia Lee Tyson.”

  Everyone settles down to hear Skip. “These two singers have brought in the most for Joe. One box is filled with only three dollars more than the other. The two are so close that we’ve decided to make it even. In the boxing ring we’d call that a draw—a tie.”

  Carmen hugs me.

  “You can sure spark a tune,” I say.

  “Girl, I need pot holders to handle you.”

  When Daddy comes to get me at the bandstand, he’s brought me a frankfurter.

  On the way home, I tell Daddy why I couldn’t stand to sing with “The Twelves.”

  He says, “Nibrenia, not even Goliath can stand up to you.”

  WiLLiE

  LILA SAY, “DON’T LAG NOW! AND MAKE sure Bird doesn’t get away!”

  Lila, she’s slowing her pace to let us walk ahead. Keeping her eye on us, though. It’ll be dark soon.

  Otis’s got Bird pressed down in the bib of his overalls. The cat’s head is poking up near to Otis’s chin. He asking, “Lila, where are we going?”

  I’m hurrying. Working to keep up.

  Otis’s got his Philco balanced under one arm. Lila made him bring it. Even though Otis loves his radio, he complaining, saying, “Lila, this isn’t fair. My legs can’t move so fast. Besides, I need to have my radio turned on at eight o’clock.”

  We just passed the Mercy gate. Lila, she’s stern tonight. “If Mr. Sneed catches us, I will be standing in the unemployment line soon after the sun rises. Hush until we get to Mills Road,” she says. “Just walk—don’t ask questions.”

  We follow. Bird’s peeking out through the buckle of Otis’s overalls.

  At the corner of Mills and Sackett, we run into all kinds of folks. They’s moving along the street with a purpose. Some’s hurrying in little groups. Some’s holding pies or cakes. Others is carrying smell-good packages. Fried oxtails, or coleslaw, for sharing with people. Lila’s got a jug of lemonade.

  All of us along the road wanna be settled before the start-bell rings, especially me.

  Otis say, “Lila, do you know what tonight is?”

  “If we don’t get someplace soon, we gonna miss Joe,” I say.

  “As sure as my name is Lila Weiss, I know what this night is. And you can rest assured we will not miss the fight between Joe Louis and James Braddock. But what fun is a good fight if you don’t share it with friends?”

  Otis’s whining like a hungry baby wanting milk. “Lila, we need an outlet for my radio. If we turn back now, we can still tune in on time.”

  Otis and me, we both slowing down. Lila’s moving so fast, we trailing her.

  Otis shifts his Philco to under his other arm, then hoists it to his shoulder to get it to balance.

  Lila walks backward. She facing us and talking at the same time.

  “Boys, you are looking at an old woman with bad joints and a rump that keeps me from moving with any speed. But I am going faster than the two of you put together. And while I suffer from several minor afflictions of the body, I am not senile. I would never ask you to join me as listeners to the biggest prizefight of all time and not think that we just might need a place to plug in your radio. A place that’s not near that scab of a man, who, right now, has no radio of his own.”

  I don’t talk back. Just pick up my pace to keep up with Lila.

  Otis’s nodding and smiling. He’s hoofing it, too, and looking at Lila with quiet respect.

  She say, “So stop moaning, and let’s keep hightailing it. Even the cat takes orders better than the two of you.”

  But Bird’s real restless. He’s got one paw stretched high out of the overalls bib.

  It’s getting dark. Nighttime’s putting on a cape and sweeping it across the sky. When we pass the fairgrounds and get to Hornby Street, I spot something ahead, flashing. It’s mixed with a parade of people, rushing to where they going.

  I know that white-white. Uh-huh, I know it. That flicker is the fight skirt sash!

  “Mama!”

  Mama hears me right off. But she’s struggling to find me in the jumble of people. “Willie?”

  I rush ahead of Lila. I hurry to the voice. I get to where the white-white sash slices at the shadows.

  Lila and Otis follow me when they hear me shout again. “Mama! Mama!”

  Lila, she back to being ahead of me somehow. She pulling at my wrist. Getting me closer to Mama’s calling. “Willie!”

  But my eye ain’t never left looking at the white-white. I been moving in that direction the whole time, till soon I see Mama stopped at a street lamp. She holding a square pan covered with muslin. I push to where Mama waits by a parked car on the corner. She sets the pan down gentle on the car’s hood and folds me hard-tight-good into skinny arms that remember how to hug.

  Uh-huh! Uh-huh! Uh-huh!

  Mama, she don’t let go. Same for me. I’m just holding on to Mama. Just holding on.

  Here come Lila, and Otis, and Bird to under our street lamp.

  I tell Mama, “These’s my friends from Mercy.”

  That’s when Mama explains, “I was on my way to Mercy tonight to hear the fight with you, Willie. To come get you, and to bring you home.”

  I look to Lila. She don’t even seem surprised from meeting my mama.

  Lila’s just smiling and smiling. A knowing kind of smile. A smile when you understand something you already knew, and now it’s true ’cause you see it in front of you.

  Otis, he the same way. Happy for me. Seeing what he knows already.

  I ask Mama, “Where’s S
ampson?”

  “He went to jail for hauling bootleg in the back of his truck.”

  I let go from hugging Mama. I need to look at her. I need to make sure I’m clear on what she telling me. “Sampson’s gone?”

  “Locked up tighter than melon rinds in a pickle jar.”

  Soon as Mama tells me Sampson’s locked up, something in me unlocks. Something swings open. Same way a door unlatches and lets in light. And right then, my oh, yeah is back.

  Even with so much happy-for-me, Otis can’t help but be eager to keep on.

  “The fight’ll be starting soon,” he say real gentle, careful to not ruin my time with Mama.

  Lila invites Mama to come with us.

  “I brought some of my corn hash,” Mama say. “It’s Willie’s favorite.”

  Now we all walk together. The street’s getting more quiet. People’s mostly settled to where they want to be.

  My heart and nerves are a bundle of good-good butterflies, fluttering so free. I carry the pan of hash. I’m smelling its thick sweetness. Feeling Mama in its warmth. I see the True Vine Baptist Church up ahead.

  While we walk, Mama say, “You’re looking closer to a man than a boy, Willie. Mercy’s taken good care of you.”

  I show Mama my hands. She shakes her head, like she’s sad. Kisses what’s left of my knuckles.

  “I can do good things with these hands,” I tell Mama. “I can pull weeds, and even fold gum wrappers to make a chain.”

  Mama’s rubbing on my hands now. I say, “Can hold a fork for eating corn hash with these hands, too.” Mama and me, we laugh together, and try to keep up with Lila, who’s back to moving fast.

  Lila steps to the door and knocks fast. The screen door rattles when her knuckles meet the jamb.

  Hibernia answers. I can hear her radio’s roar coming from inside. “Lila Weiss, Otis, Willie,” Hibernia says, swinging open the door.

  I tell Hibernia, “This my mama. She brought her corn hash.”

  Hibernia’s toothy smile say she glad to see us. She don’t even bother to ask about Mama. But I notice her taking a fancy to Mama’s fight skirt and the white-white sash. Hibernia says, “Get in here—quick. The fight’s about to start.”