Uncle Raymond warned me about talking too much. When that kid on the bus from Kentucky blabbed at me most of the night, my uncle said ignore him. Don’t complain like a baby about leaving my friends and giving away my dog. Give that boy an inch and he’ll take a mile, so my uncle said. Same with Mamie.
“You coming inside to see my dress-ups?” Mamie hopscotches down the front sidewalk, singing more about the dog named B-I-N-G-O. I press her Popsicle stick into Miss Sister’s flowerpot and cover up my ears.
Before I keel over from the heat or boredom from talking to Mamie, Anabel finally shows up. “Where’s Miss Sister?” She lowers her voice. “Don’t want her to see me. I’m still working on my plan to skip out on the recital.”
“She’s shopping.” Next to the mailbox, Mamie’s still singing. When she starts the chorus, we slip away.
“We’re going back to Mr. Dawson’s. He’s gotta remember more,” Anabel says. She’s walking fast and talking faster, so we’re at the bait shop in no time flat.
“Anabel! Glad to see you,” he says. “You too, son.” He winks and I know he’s forgotten my name. He wipes fish blood from his fingers, reaches under the display case, and pulls out a cardboard folder. “Found this for you. If you’re still looking for baseball stuff.”
We paw through the dustiest, yellowest, oldest collection of newspapers, letters, and who knows what else. Anabel holds up a food-splattered menu from the Chat ’n’ Chew — hamburgers for twenty-five cents! — and a photograph falls out.
“Hey, Mr. D? Who are these people wearing baseball caps?” She stares at the faded black-and-white photo, dusts off the faces, and passes it across the counter.
Mr. Dawson holds the picture under his bright light. “Well, Chat ’n’ Chew’s been there forever, so they could be old baseball players, posed for this picture. Keep it. See what your teacher thinks.”
Anabel smiles. You can’t help smiling at Mr. Dawson, really. “We’ll take it all,” she says. “Any more ideas?”
“Let’s see.” He smoothes out his beard and I step back, thinking about crickets. “How ’bout Miss Sister? Rest Easy’s been there awhile, too.”
Anabel stops writing in her notebook and looks at me. “Did you hear that?”
“Yep.” I nod as she hands me the dusty folder.
Wow. What if a famous player, not a whole lot older than me, maybe even Henry Aaron himself, slept in my very bed? With his glove on the windowsill, same as me. Looking out at stars as big as baseballs, dreaming of homer number 715.
Before we can say “Baseball in Destiny” three times fast, we’re outside clutching our treasures and I’m bouncing off the sidewalk.
“Oh man, I knew it! Henry Aaron ate peanut butter at the same table as me.” A daydream flits across my brain. Me and Uncle Raymond finding something that proves famous players lived at the Rest Easy. Him helping me, like real parents help their kids. Us standing together at Destiny Day, showing off to the history people. My project preserved in perpetuity! Forever!
I whistle all the way back to the Rest Easy. No sign of Mamie or Miss Sister. Only Mr. Hernandez, outside pushing his lawn mower. Who’ll know if I poke around the attic? Mamie claims uniforms are up there. Could they be baseball uniforms? Stranger things have happened! Baseball at the Rest Easy, oh man. Anabel’s got her daddy and Mr. Dawson to interview. Her mom might come around and make something fancy for our display. I got nothing.
Hurrying upstairs, I grab my uncle’s flashlight. The second door I open leads to the attic steps. I dance light beams on the walls and inch up the dark stairs. Am I about to crunch down on one of those Florida roaches as big as raccoons? Brushing away a spiderweb caught in my hair, my hand bumps something hanging from the ceiling. I jump a mile straight up. Geez Louise, it’s just a swinging lightbulb. I pull on the string, and a little circle of brightness sways back and forth. Enough light to see the layer of dust and read labels on boxes stacked high on metal shelves: Dance Recital, 1959 — and every year after. Moving a stack of 45 records from one shelf to another, I spy a harmonica and blow a few notes, turning them into a soft melody. When I hear a radio start to play downstairs, I stash the harmonica in my pocket and freeze.
What am I doing? Why didn’t I ask Miss Sister before coming up here? What if she gets so mad I was messing around in her attic that she won’t let me near her piano? What if Uncle Raymond reams me out for sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong? Sure, this is my home now. But this feels like trespassing.
I’m about to hotfoot it downstairs with only the old harmonica when I see a gray metal tackle box. Blowing the dust off, I turn it over. Taped on the bottom is a yellowed note card: Henry left this here.
Henry?
But the box is locked tight, with a combination. I’ll get Uncle Raymond’s hammer!
Sure thing. Tools for breaking into something I snatched from the attic of my house. Oh man, gotta get out of here. I’ll ask Miss Sister and come back later.
What if she says no? Then it’s Miss Sister and Uncle Raymond mad at me.
But the thing is, if our baseball project turns out, maybe it’ll convince Uncle Raymond we need to stay in Destiny.
In no time flat, I’m down the attic stairs with the tackle box hidden under my T-shirt. My heart’s pounding! Did Mamie see me? I shut my door softly. I shake the box, banging it against the metal bed frame. Then fiddle with the lock again. No luck.
Stashing the box in our closet behind dirty socks and underwear, I will my heart to slow down. I wash the dust off my hands and hurry downstairs, smiling to beat the band. I totally can’t wait to show Anabel tomorrow in school.
Without even turning on the glaring studio lights, I sneak onto the smooth black piano bench and open the keyboard. When my fingers glide over the keys, my heart’s pounding out the beat in time to my thumping bass notes. I change the rhythm to play a tune that’s quick, jazzy, bright. Harmony! Music and baseball, Destiny Day with Uncle Raymond! That box from the attic could be the answer to my dreams.
When I come back to our room after supper, my uncle’s buttoning up his dress shirt, posing in front of our mirror.
“Where’re you going?” I ask.
“Meeting somebody from work. Not much of your business. You learned anything at that new school?” He’s good at changing the subject.
I have an idea! I’ll tell him about the tackle box in the closet. We’ll get his hammer, crack it open, and find baseball treasures!
Or I’ll get in big trouble for taking something that isn’t mine.
Instead of asking to borrow his hammer, I answer his question. “My friend Anabel and I are still working on our project for Destiny Day. Extra credit if we do a good job.”
He stares like I’ve just told him I’ll be flying to the moon and reporting back. “Anabel? You working with a girl? She’s not turning you into a sissy, is she?” Uncle Raymond turns back to his reflection and parts his hair just so, slicking it down with that smelly hair tonic.
“She’s my friend, Uncle Raymond.” I bite my lip and try again. “Think you’ll be around on Destiny Day?”
He reaches out to smooth down a peeling edge of the flag decal he’s stuck on the mirror, and only the sound of the air conditioner whirring answers my question. “I ain’t got time for any of this,” he barks.
“My project’s about baseball history.”
“Baseball, huh. You know a thing or two about baseball. Sure don’t need some girl helping you.”
Before I can explain the assignment, Uncle Raymond shuts the door in my face. But yeah, I do want some girl helping me. Even though I totally know about baseball.
To prove it, I reach into the drawer for my thick brown envelope. Two years ago on my birthday, July 20, 1972, my granddaddy took me to see the Braves play the Cardinals. On the long drive from our farm to Atlanta in the rain, he worried the whole way they might call the game. But by the time we got to the stadium, the stars were out.
I pull out my Hank Aaron autog
raphed baseball card, signed that night. Granddaddy always told me to hang on to it, no matter what.
No matter that my uncle sold every single thing to pay for my grandparents to go to someplace nice. He sold the piano. He sold our furniture. He gave away my dog and most everything else. I slip the card into my pocket. My uncle’s not getting this baseball card.
* * *
I leave early for school the next morning. On the way out the door, I pass the front hall radiator. Which holds Anabel’s mom’s basket, pretty much tucked out of sight. Nothing written about putting money in, but everybody who’s danced in Miss Sister’s classes forever must know the drill. The rest of us don’t matter.
Won’t hurt to peek inside, will it? Three tens, four ones, two quarters. I’m fastening the little hook, closing the basket up tight, when Mamie appears.
“What’re you doing?” she bellows out.
“Nothing.” I step away from the radiator.
“You bothering Miss Sister’s gift money?”
“No.”
Leaving Mamie standing with her hand on her hip and her tongue sticking out, I open the front door and head for Johnson Junior High.
First person I see? Down the sidewalk? Anabel, squashed up next to a giant gardenia bush like she’s trying to disappear. “Pssst! Theo! Over here.”
“Why’re you hiding?”
“I can’t go near that place.” She nods toward the dance studio. “Remember? I’m avoiding Miss Sister. She thinks I’ve hurt my foot. Ma’s sure I’m gonna be a flapper.”
“A flapper?”
“In the stupid dance recital.” She steps around the bush. “Those ladies who danced the Charleston a million years ago? Wearing high heels and fringe and feathers.” Anabel snorts out a pig-sounding laugh. “I am not letting my mother put feathers in this.” She points to her ponytail tied up with a thick band and the shaggy black bangs that cover her eyebrows.
“I may be helping out with the recital,” I say.
“Dancing?” Anabel stops and gives me a look. “You want to take my place?”
“Very funny. I’m playing the piano.”
She shakes her head, rolls her eyes, and mumbles something about why I’d want to be anywhere near the dance studio for any reason. “You like listening to all that music? Nonstop?”
“I like playing the piano. I can learn almost anything I hear. But you can’t let on to anybody,” I say.
“Why not? Who cares?”
Now we’re walking fast down the sidewalk, but I stop and say, “My uncle, for one. He’s not too crazy about pianos. Told me I couldn’t play.”
Since she hasn’t fallen on her face laughing, maybe she doesn’t mind having a friend who loves to play the piano. Or one whose uncle is just plain mean.
“Your uncle sounds like he’d get along real good with my mom,” she says. “Still haven’t told her this project doesn’t feature baseball players in tap shoes.” I laugh at that picture.
Once we’re safely away from the Rest Easy, I open my knapsack.
“Found this in the attic. Might be good for our project, but it’s locked.” I turn the metal box upside down. “See that note taped to the bottom?”
Anabel shakes it. She reads the note. “Henry? Get it open, Theo,” she says.
I grab a big rock by my foot. Should I do it? It is Miss Sister’s, officially. But she probably doesn’t even know what’s in that attic. Two hard blasts and the lock springs open. “Guess it’s pretty old.”
“Yeah! Old.” She lifts the top and peers inside. “Look! I told you! Proof!”
Two ticket stubs: Braves versus Phillies. 1954. Twenty years ago. A scribbled list of names. Scorecards somebody’s filled in.
“Mr. Wyatt’s gonna be excited when he sees our research,” Anabel says.
I reach into my pocket. “Not sure this is the kind of research we need, but my granddaddy and I got this at a game two years ago. Hank Aaron signed it.” I hold up my precious baseball card.
“Wow, Theo. Cool beans.” She holds the card next to the handwritten list of names from the box, turning it every which way. “See! On his signature, same Hs! Got to be Henry Aaron’s.” Anabel smiles and pushes the metal box my way. “Keep it safe,” she says. “We’ll work on our project in class. Not at the Rest Easy where you-know-who might see me.”
Yeah, I know who. Miss Sister. The one person who can save me from my uncle. Teach me more music. And I’m keeping a secret from her.
I tuck the box into my knapsack and take slow, mostly happy breaths all the way to school.
For the rest of the week, Anabel and I spend every afternoon trying to prove that baseball players really lived in Destiny. She asks her dad, the mayor, a million questions. We sift through Mr. Dawson’s stuff, piece by piece. Compare my baseball card signature to anything inside the old tackle box. Do we have enough to ace Mr. Wyatt’s social studies project? The way I figure, if I do well in school, I at least have a chance of convincing Uncle Raymond that Destiny is where we belong.
My uncle snoring, Mr. Hernandez singing in the shower, and the smell of hot biscuits and bacon wake me up early on Saturday. Sitting on the bench outside the studio, I toss my baseball in time to Miss Sister’s shuffle ball change, tap tap tap. By the time the cuckoo clock finally announces it’s eight in the morning, tap shoes echo down the front hall.
“That old air conditioner in my studio had better hold on. My dancers need plenty of kicking and tapping to get ready for their performance.” She sinks down next to me, spreading her long flowy skirt every which way and dabbing at her face with a lace handkerchief. “Haven’t worked this hard since I was performing on stage myself!”
“Where’d you learn to dance, Miss Sister?” I ask.
“Happy you asked!” She leads me to the wall filled with photographs. “You ever been to New York, Theo?”
“No, ma’am.” Then a thought pops into my head. Maybe I have! When I was just a baby. Maybe my mama and daddy took me there to hear that Thelonious Monk guy. Or somebody almost as famous.
Miss Sister straightens a silver frame with a dancer kicking her knees almost up to her nose and points to the dancer. “That’s me, a Rockette in New York,” she says.
“In that toy soldier costume?” I stare at the picture and yep, it’s Miss Sister, not much older than me. “What’s a Rockette?”
“Famous dancers at Radio City Music Hall. I was young and fantastic! Swept along at the end of the kick line. During the famous Christmas show, I’d do almost three hundred kicks at each performance.” She rubs at a smudge on the glass, then tucks a stray curl into something that looks like fishnet wrapped around her hair.
“I bet you were the best one,” I say.
“Well, I’ve always been on the short side. Some people thought that meant I couldn’t be a dancer, but I followed my dream. Oh my stars, all those high kicks. Up, down, up. Down, out, down. That’s the rhythm.” Her fingers skip across the silver frame. “Dancing in New York! My dream.”
I know something about dreams.
“Why didn’t you stay a Rockette?” I ask.
“Since I was a little bit of a girl, I’d been dancing in Destiny. Always planned to come back, marry my childhood sweetheart. Teach my own daughter pliés and jetés.” She stops to take a breath. “I started out a Rockette, ended up running this dance academy. Never had children, but I’ve taught most every little girl in town. A few boys, too.” She squeezes my hand so tight it hurts. “That’s what happens. You start off dreaming one thing about your life. But you have to be ready for what turns up.”
“In a million years, I wasn’t ready for Uncle Raymond turning up in my life.” Looking right at her, I say, “But I’m glad my uncle brought us to the Rest Easy. I hope we don’t ever have to leave.”
“Me too, honey.” This time when Miss Sister smiles, those might be tears squeezing out of her eyes. “Like my own sweet grandmother always said, Every river needs a bank. You know what I mean, Theo?”
Like her pillows on the porch glider! All those sayings! But no, I have no clue what that one means.
“Gotta get ready for my dancing queens.” She laughs and flounces off. I elbow past a bunch of giggling girls in leotards. Ducking into the kitchen, I grab a bacon biscuit and hurry to hide out in my room.
But upstairs, my uncle’s awake, sitting on his bed polishing his shoes so bright they hurt my eyes. “Today’s Saturday. Laundry day.”
“Yessir,” I answer.
He looks around the room, up at the ceiling fan turning slow, out the window. After a while, he puts away his polishing cloth, crosses his arms, and says, “You’ve done an okay job, keeping up with your chores.”
That may be the first halfway nice thing my uncle’s ever told me.
“Thanks.” I stuff our laundry into the bag and start to smile, but he’s already turned his back to me.
Uncle Raymond grabs his tool chest and opens the door. “When’s that school of yours over?” he asks, not looking back.
I bite my tongue. I won’t mouth off, asking if he’s planning to send chocolate cupcakes to celebrate the end of sixth grade. “A week from Monday,” I answer, hoping he’s not planning on leaving as soon as school’s out.
“See you stay out of trouble while I’m at work. Don’t forget that laundry.”
As he walks down the stairs, I think I hear humming. A song my granddaddy taught me. Right on key. A song about John Henry the Steel Drivin’ Man.
Nah. Couldn’t be Uncle Raymond.
* * *
I’m back at the Rest Easy, about to sneak up the stairs with the clean laundry when Miss Sister bursts out of her dance studio and grabs me by the arm.
“Theo. I could use some help! Right now! Please.” Her voice goes up and down, and the dozen bracelets covering her arms rattle and jingle.
I peek around her. Kids who don’t appear to be old enough to count, much less count dance beats, surround the piano. No way am I getting trapped in that fluffy cloud of pink cotton candy leotards. “Me? Help?”
The Way to Stay in Destiny Page 6