The Way to Stay in Destiny

by Augusta Scattergood

  I slump down on my bed to open my math homework. Finally, Uncle Raymond stands up and says, “Remember, I got to work late tonight. If you go out, be home before the streetlights come on.” He grabs his tool chest, and he’s gone.

  But he doesn’t get far. Miss Sister’s at the foot of the stairs. When I hear my uncle’s voice drifting quietly from the front hall, I move to the open bedroom door.

  “Not your business, ma’am,” he’s saying. “That’s Theo’s problem.”

  Problem? Which problem’s that? That I’m never allowed to play the piano as long as I live? That I’m the new kid at school for the first time in my life? That an uncle who hardly knows me wishes I’d never been born?

  I creep down the top steps, holding tight to the banister, holding tighter to my breath.

  “You listen here, Mr. Raymond,” Miss Sister says. “Theo has a special gift. He’s learning to express himself through music.”

  I take two more quick steps down and push my hand into my pocket to touch my good-luck coin.

  “That’s just your highfalutin way of saying he’s been sneaking down to play that piano. I told him to stay away.” My uncle’s meanness cuts through the upstairs heat and makes me gasp.

  Miss Sister’s voice changes to a lullaby. “Might as well tell a sparrow not to fly.”

  “Piano can’t lead to nothing good. Messed up his mama for sure.”

  My knees buckle, but I grab hold of the banister again and stand straight as a stick, still listening.

  “Your boy’s got a magnificent talent,” Miss Sister answers.

  “He ain’t my boy. And this place never was meant to be permanent. I need to get him away from you and that durn music.” Uncle Raymond’s voice drops, but I hear every word. “Keeping my options open. Job here ain’t good enough. Might have me something new already.”

  “A new job?” Miss Sister says. “You can’t take Theo away from Destiny.”

  Take me away? Already? I want to run downstairs and holler at Uncle Raymond. I’m not going anywhere! But he’s liable to haul off and pop me. For sure, he’ll make a new rule about eavesdropping. I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans, then jam them back in my pockets.

  “I can do what I right well please. I’m in charge,” my uncle says. “He belongs to me.”

  “Nobody belongs to somebody else. Theo’s his own person. He’s settling in here. He needs friends and people who love him.”

  Now my heart’s beating so fast, my head’s spinning.

  “Does your nephew know about this?” Miss Sister speaks louder. “What exactly did you tell Theo?”

  “Nothing yet. Not your business. If I get me the new job in Mount Flora, there’s a duplex waiting, too. Nice old lady next door offered to watch after him.”

  “Mount Flora? My stars! Even on the bus, that’s over an hour away,” Miss Sister says.

  “Don’t know what difference it makes to anybody ’cept me.” Uncle Raymond keeps muttering even while he’s shutting the front door, making it hard to hear, harder to believe.

  But I know Miss Sister heard every single word. Even the ones he didn’t say out loud.

  The next day goes by in a big blur of worry. Anabel and I aren’t much closer to figuring out our Destiny Day project. Miss Sister’s flitting around singing, dancing, and playing the piano by herself. I miss my grandparents and every single thing that happened before Uncle Raymond took me in. And soon we may be moving to someplace called Mount Flora.

  By Saturday morning, I’m feeling really sorry for myself. What’s worse, it’s laundry day.

  When I turn back up the street lugging carefully concealed clean clothes from the Magic Coin, Anabel’s waiting on the Rest Easy’s front porch glider.

  I drop the laundry behind a chair and point to her softball cleats. “You plan to dance in those?” I’m trying not to laugh.

  “I’m working out a way to skip this dance thing,” she says, popping a Peppermint Pattie in her mouth. “Forever. Really, Theo, do I look like a dancer to you?” She pushes the metal glider so hard all those little pillows with sayings sewed on them topple over. Her cleats hit the porch floor, bang bang bang, with each push. “My mom’s showing up today, so I couldn’t exactly cut out and go to a movie. I tried to tell her I have ball practice. But she thinks tap dancing and this recital are way more important than softball drills.”

  “Maybe you’d like dancing if you tried harder?”

  “The only good thing about Miss Sister’s class is the jumping part. Might help me with softball.” Anabel glares at the dancers prancing up the steps. “Try to convince my mother of that,” she says.

  Before Anabel punches her Grandersole Dance Academy tote bag to smithereens, her mom’s big convertible screeches up. Opening the door, Mrs. Johnson plants her high-heeled shoes firmly on the sidewalk. I shoo a lizard, black as the railing paint he’s hiding on, and make myself invisible behind the porch column.

  “Hello, Anabel dear. Good morning, dancers. I have notes for you all!” Mrs. Johnson opens her fat briefcase and passes envelopes to girls dressed in pink leotards or wearing black tap shoes. Her eyes pass me once, but I’m a blip on her radar. Gone before it registers.

  Anabel glances back and rolls her eyes. “My mom. Beatrice Munez Johnson. Mayor’s wife. Former ballet star. Town organizer. She’d like to run this place. Along with everything and everybody else in Destiny,” she says under her breath just as Mamie appears.

  “Hey, Mrs. Johnson. I’m the star of the ‘Glow Worm’ song. Mama and me have been saving up nickels in my piggy bank, all for Miss Sister.” She puts out her hand, an envelope magically appears, and Mamie bounces into the dance studio.

  “What’s with the notes?” I ask, moving closer. Mrs. Johnson sure didn’t hand me a small white sealed envelope with Theo Thomas carefully composed in perfect script on the front.

  “Money for a gift and flowers for Miss Sister. Everybody gives a few bucks. No big deal,” Anabel says.

  I sink into the big chair at the end of the porch and tuck my knees up under my chin. “Can you snitch me one?”

  Anabel passes me her envelope. “Here. I don’t want it.”

  Calling All Dancers!

  We will again be collecting monies for our beloved Miss Sister Grandersole. This year marks her 15th year teaching the children of Destiny. We’re asking for $5 from each family. Please sign the card and leave your contribution inside the small basket on the front hall radiator.

  Mayor Johnson and I have started the ball rolling with our $20 contribution.

  Thank you.

  Mrs. Beatrice M. Johnson

  Sure. Collecting money is as simple as plucking it off the trees and hiding it in a closed-up basket in the Rest Easy’s front hall. No big deal.

  I crumple the paper and cram the fancy note in my pocket. “That’s a lot of money. People really love Miss Sister,” I say.

  “Every recital, she dances out onto the stage and somebody hands her flowers.” Anabel’s voice is as cold as a block of ice from the back porch Deepfreeze. “Yep. Everybody loves Miss Sister. I’d love her, too, if she coached softball.”

  “You still planning to skip out on the recital?” I ask.

  “Shhh! My mom doesn’t know.” She looks toward Mrs. Johnson whispering, smiling at each dancer. “You can’t let on to Miss Sister, either.”

  I swallow hard, worrying about lying to cover for my new friend when she dreams up a fake broken arm or some other excuse to ditch the recital.

  “Guess I have to go pretend I’m having fun.” Anabel kicks off her cleats and buckles on black tap shoes. “Man, this stinks,” she says, tugging at her shorts while clomping off to the studio.

  I wait till the kids in their dancing clothes disappear inside and Mrs. Johnson’s car speeds off before creeping up the stairs dragging my bag of clean laundry. As my feet hit the carpet, I count each step. One, two, three, four — all the way to twenty. Twenty dollars. More money than I have. Soon to be collecting in a b
asket on the front hall radiator. My fingers touch Mrs. Johnson’s note again, and a big lump settles in my stomach.

  I wish I could get something nice for Miss Sister. Too bad I don’t have a full piggy bank. Or an uncle willing to fork over money for flowers.

  For the rest of the afternoon, I forget Mrs. Johnson’s money and flowers and white envelopes by memorizing the music drifting up the stairs. After I’ve tossed a baseball up and down for three hundred repeats of the “Glow Worm” song, the last kid finally packs up her tap shoes. The coast is clear enough. I sneak into the dance studio.

  Miss Sister’s waiting. “Theo! Your turn now. Come sit with me.” She scoots down the piano bench, smiles, and pokes at a curl that’s popped out of her rhinestone barrette. The second she taps out a soft tune on the keys, my uncle and his No Piano Playing Ever rule flies out of my head.

  “You play the lower chords, Theo. Jazz ’em up!”

  “Like that?” I ask, echoing and complicating her notes.

  “Like that Thelonious Monk piano man I do believe you’re named after,” she says over the music.

  I stop playing and stare. “Thelonious who?”

  “Your namesake. I noticed your official records when you headed off to school on Monday. Just the greatest jazz musician you could imagine.” Miss Sister beams. “Your parents knew what they were doing when they gave you that fine name.”

  “I was pretty little when they died. Nobody talked about my name.”

  “You should be proud of it, honey.”

  “Once, back in Kentucky, a teacher tried to tell me I was named after somebody famous. My granddaddy said that was a figment of her imagination. Whatever that means. I couldn’t hardly pronounce Thelonious then. I pretty nearly forgot what that teacher said.”

  No matter what’s printed on my birth certificate, I’m plain Theo to my grandparents, to everybody now.

  “Well, it seems somebody suspected you’d be a musician. You have a natural-born talent. You’re living up to your famous name — Thelonious Monk Thomas, pianist.” Miss Sister plays a chord, then a few more, swaying to the tune.

  When she stops, she turns to a shelf of record albums, flipping aside one after another. “Dance, opera, show tunes. Here it is — jazz!” She pulls out a black vinyl record, holds up the cover. “My favorite! Monk’s Dream.” She marches right over to her phonograph player and slips it onto the turntable.

  Music like I’ve never heard before drifts across the dance studio. A piano melody sinks all the way to my toes and won’t let go. Holding the record cover close, I drum my fingers across his face. Maybe my daddy knew this dude. That’s why they named me Thelonious!

  Granddaddy always said my mama could have been real famous if she hadn’t up and left to marry my daddy. ’Course, he meant famous singing church weddings in Boone County, Kentucky. Not this Thelonious Monk guy that Miss Sister’s playing. His music makes my feet jump and my palms pound the piano bench.

  When Miss Sister stops swaying to the notes, she lifts the needle off Mr. Monk’s record and sits close to me.

  “Did my parents want me to play the piano like that?” I ask. “Is that why they named me Thelonious?”

  “I suspect that was exactly what they wished for, Theo honey. It’s a beautiful name. A gift. You hang on to it.”

  Before I hand her the album cover, I look one last time at the picture of Thelonious Monk wearing his cool hat, eyes shut, drinking in the music.

  * * *

  All the next day, Thelonious Monk’s name and his music and what my uncle said about moving to Mount Flora bounce around my head, fighting for room. When Uncle Raymond finally gets back from his Sunday work shift and tosses his lunch pail down hard on the dresser, I’m still worried. But I’m ready.

  He looks at the little clock next to the bed, then back at me. “You awake?”

  I’m sitting here in my T-shirt, jeans, and laced-up high-tops. Yeah, I’m awake. But I answer nicely, so as not to make him mad, “It’s only eight thirty.”

  He unbuttons his long shirtsleeves and frowns. “You got school tomorrow. Get to bed,” he says.

  Still trying my Be Nice thing, I answer, “I’ve been thinking about baseball. I was a pretty good shortstop back home. I might try to play in Destiny this summer. My friend Anabel thinks maybe they’ll let me on her team.”

  “Ain’t smart to make long-term plans.” Uncle Raymond turns his back to me and mumbles, “Something might come up.”

  “What might come up?” When he doesn’t answer, I start over. “I heard you and Miss Sister talking. The other night, in the front hall. About leaving.”

  “You ask too many questions,” he answers. “Not your business. Just considering my options.”

  I slam my math book closed; the Be Nice thing just flew out the window. “If it’s me you’re just considering, I’m not moving.” Standing up fast, I look my uncle straight in the eye. “Especially next door to somebody who’s older than dirt.”

  “You don’t know nothing, boy.”

  “We just got here!” I take a deep, worrying breath and change the subject before I start hollering again. “You ever heard of a piano player named Thelonious Monk? Miss Sister played me one of his records.”

  He takes a step toward me, chewing on his inside lip, frowning. “That lady needs to mind her own business,” he says, his voice a growl.

  “He and I got the same name. Maybe Mama and Daddy really liked his music? Maybe even knew him?” The more questions I ask, the tighter my uncle’s mouth closes up.

  “Never heard of him. Don’t know who your mama took up with after she left the farm,” he finally says. “Once she went off to that fancy college, met your daddy, she didn’t care a thing about me. I was far off, fighting for my country. She was carrying signs, spitting on soldiers. Didn’t matter about what our family always stood for. Your daddy and my baby sister, they hated me for doing what’s right. The feeling was mutual.”

  It feels like one of Uncle Raymond’s wrenches has jumped out of his tool chest and twisted my heart right out.

  “You hated your own sister? For carrying what signs? Why?” My voice is so quiet I don’t know whether he’s heard me.

  My uncle slaps his hand hard on the closet door. Whap! Whap! “Don’t matter. Shut up about it.” He grabs a towel and heads to the bathroom down the hall. “That light better be out before I get back,” he hollers over his shoulder.

  I’m shaking when I fold my jeans over the straight-backed chair. But I turn out the light just as Uncle Raymond comes back in the room and sits on his bed. “We still here when school’s out, you need to figure out something more useful than baseball to do,” he says. “And I don’t mean playing any durn piano.”

  I don’t bother answering. It wouldn’t help. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut and count to ten, real slow.

  Uncle Raymond’s boots drop on the floor with a heavy thud. “Whatever happens next, you don’t get a say. I gave up a lot to take you in. Good job, more money, all those years working in Alaska.”

  Like I didn’t mind leaving my grandparents, my friends, my life. But I’m working to make a song swirl in my head and take over the sound of Uncle Raymond saying, You don’t get a say. I let my breath out all at once and whisper across the dark room, “We can’t leave Destiny. Please.”

  The only answer is creaking bedsprings, then snoring. Before long, my uncle’s yelling about jungles and guns and spit. Under the sheet, I cover my ears and listen for musical beats inside my head. Drumming out the sound of another of his scary nightmares.

  After school the next day, I sit on the Rest Easy’s front porch glider waiting for Anabel. Pushing away what my uncle said about moving, about my name, and about my parents, I stare at the heat rippling off the street. It’s hard not to turn into a sweat ball in Florida.

  When Mamie appears and I hustle off down the sidewalk, she follows me. “Hey, Theo,” she says between screeched verses of a song about a dog named B-I-N-G-O. “Mama’s insi
de resting. I’m out here being good. Whatcha doing?”

  “Nothing.” I hear a noise and jump. Fifty green birds are up on the telephone line, squawking so loud they about drown out Mamie’s voice.

  “Why’re you running?” Mamie looks up, then takes another slurp of her red Popsicle. “You scared of parrots?”

  “How’d they get here? Parrots live in cages.” I shield my eyes from the sun and possible bird droppings.

  Mamie puts one hand on her hip and stares like I’m from another world. Which technically I am. “Man, you don’t know nothing. Somebody let loose a pet. It kept laying more and more babies. Now they live here. No more cages.”

  “Birds lay eggs,” I say, surveying upward. “Not babies.”

  She picks at a chigger bite on her knee. “I know that. Everybody knows birds lay eggs. Fish lay eggs, too.”

  “I wish your parrots would fly off to somebody else’s front yard.” I look again at those green birds exploding with noise and who knows what else.

  Mamie’s not shutting up. “Hey, you want to hear a joke? What do sharks love to eat?” She waits for half a second before shouting out, “Peanut butter and jellyfish sandwiches!”

  Where is Anabel? I glance down the street.

  “You looking for Miss Sister? She went to the Winn-Dixie for milk for her coffee and Band-Aids for her bunions.” Mamie does a little dance step onto the porch steps and hands me her Popsicle stick with two fingers. Great. Now I’m a human trash can.

  “You ever been in her attic? I can try on the costumes from her attic anytime. Pink and lacy is my favorite,” she says. “You can wear the uniforms.”

  “Uniforms?”

  Mamie narrows her eyes. “You wanna play dress-up?”

  “Not really.”

  “Lots of things in Miss Sister’s attic.” Mamie smiles, sticking a tongue in the empty place where a tooth was, begging to be asked how many she’s lost. I don’t.