Juba!

by Walter Dean Myers

  “That’s not true,” I said.

  “So what do you want?” she asked.

  “You said you could get some Irish dancers, and I just wondered . . .”

  “If you tell them what they’re going to do, it’s easier than just saying come and dance for some black fellow,” Margaret said. “And they want to know who they’re dancing for. You’re black, Peter Williams is black, and other dancers on the program are going to be black. Don’t forget that.”

  “So why is race important?” I asked. “Dancing is dancing!”

  “If it goes good, then everybody’s happy,” Margaret said. “You want some tea? And if it goes bad, then they’re dancing for niggers. Don’t act with me like you were born yesterday, Juba.”

  “How can I tell somebody how long they’re going to perform if I don’t know who’s going to show up?” I asked.

  “Well, you can have a show where everybody steps up and does their things for a few minutes, or you can have a story,” Margaret said. “If you have a story, then it’s easy to get people to play a part.”

  “What kind of story?”

  “Can you read?” Margaret got out a notebook and opened it up. On the top it read Little Red Riding Hood. The next lines read Scenes, and they were numbered.

  “I can read, but this is a children’s story, right?” I said.

  “Everybody’s going to know it, including the dancers, and it’ll start somewhere and end somewhere,” Margaret said. “There’s an Irish version of it that all the young dancers will know. And you can make as much out of it as you want to if you know what you’re doing. Take it with you and look it over. And don’t forget to bring my notebook back.”

  Margaret’s Notes

  Little Red Riding Hood

  Scene 1—There is a great FOREST (Irish dancers), 3 minutes

  Scene 2—Enter LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD Irish dancer through the FOREST, 3 minutes

  Scene 3—Enter the BIG BAD WOLF, 1 minute

  Scene 4—BIG BAD WOLF and LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD dance, but she is protected by the FOREST, 2 minutes

  Scene 5—LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD starts to Grandmother’s house, 30 seconds

  Scene 6—BIG BAD WOLF starts to Grandmother’s house, 30 seconds

  Scene 7—LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD stops to play, 1 minute

  Scene 8—BIG BAD WOLF sneaking through the FOREST, 30 seconds

  Scene 9—Enter the WOODSMAN, 5 minutes

  Scene 10— LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD at Grandmother’s house, 2½ minutes

  Scene 11—BIG BAD WOLF pounces on LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD, 1 minute

  Scene 12—A CHIPMUNK (deer?) tells the WOODSMAN, 1½ minutes

  Scene 13—The FOREST opens and leads the WOODSMAN to Grandmother’s house, 1 minute

  Scene 14—Battle between WOODSMAN and BIG BAD WOLF, 3 minutes

  Scene 15—LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD is saved, 2 minutes

  Scene 16—LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD dances with WOODSMAN and then goes home, 3 minutes

  Scene 17—WOODSMAN dances with FOREST, 6 minutes

  Scene 18—FOREST celebrates, 1 minute

  THE END

  LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD—15-year-old Irish girl

  BIG BAD WOLF—black dancer

  WOODSMAN—Juba

  FOREST—Irish troupe

  CHIPMUNK—black dancer

  NARRATOR—anybody

  At first it looked a little silly to me, but then it started to make sense. I would be the Woodsman and have the longest role. I could put in Fred Flamer as the Big Bad Wolf and maybe Simmy Long as the Chipmunk. It looked good. I especially liked the battle between the Woodsman and the Big Bad Wolf. My spirits got really high. Margaret had made the day ready, and I was going to save it.

  John Diamond and a couple of toughs stopped me on the street.

  “Heard about the show you’re doing up at Almack’s,” John said, standing close to me. I could smell liquor on his breath. “You trying to get fancy with yourself, are you?”

  “Is that what I’m trying to do?”

  “What’s Pete paying you?”

  “What’s it to you?” I asked.

  One of the toughs, a beefy, dark-haired fellow with a broad face, grabbed me by the collar. Two black dustmen who were passing stopped to see what was going on. John’s friend took a look at them, saw they were as big as he was, and let my collar go.

  “Why don’t you hire me to bring some class to your show?” John spoke with a half sneer on his face. “I saw what you did at the auditions for Mr. Reeves, and it wasn’t that much. You still don’t know what the people want to see.”

  “If you know so much, why don’t you go and dance for Reeves?” I asked. “I thought by now you’d be the top star at his theater.”

  “He’ll get it open soon enough,” Diamond said. “I can start the show at Almack’s for you, you can perform somewhere in between, and I’ll finish the program for you. I heard you’re going to have some Irish kid dancers. How many acts you going to have, three or four?”

  “I don’t need your help, Diamond,” I said. “But I’m glad you’re hearing good things about the show. Maybe you ought to come and learn something.”

  He turned and spit on the ground and then started off. The two fellows with him waited a few seconds and then followed.

  It was good that John Diamond had heard about the show. And if he had also heard about the Irish dancers Margaret was getting together, he had probably figured out I had something going. The next news I got about the show was from Stubby. He told me one of the men who hung around Almack’s had let him know that Pete wanted to see him. When he went to Almack’s, he was told to set up five more tables than we had planned.

  “Why didn’t he come to me?” I asked. “I’m supposed to be paying you for the food.”

  “I don’t believe he wants to pay any more money,” Stubby said. “He just wants more food.”

  I asked Jack what he thought about it, because I was beginning to worry that Pete was going to mess the program up and then try to blame me for it. Jack said he didn’t think five extra tables would mean that much.

  “They’re only sitting two people at those little tables,” Jack said. “So that’s fifty meals instead of forty. Stubby’s pulling it together, and he’s not looking to make a profit on it, so a few extra meals won’t be a problem.”

  He was wrong.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  The dance program was supposed to start at seven in the evening, and the dinner was going to be at six. But by five thirty the place was already filling up. Miss Lilly said all the Irish dancers had invited their friends and family, and some other people from the nearby Roman Catholic churches had come as well. Most of them had never been to Almack’s before, and they were looking around the large room with the dance floor and at the black help who were setting up tables. Pete had borrowed four tables from a nearby café to add to the five he had stored away. I could see Stubby beginning to sweat.

  “He said he was going to make the girls who dance here do the serving,” Stubby said.

  “Can you handle that many women?” I asked him.

  Stubby smiled and said he would do his best.

  I felt myself getting nervous as six o’clock arrived. When I saw Stubby coming out with a tray of bowls, followed by four girls with the same kind of bowls, I was as curious as the other spectators.

  “Onion soup,” Jack Bishop said to me. “Always a good start.”

  He handed me a handwritten paper that said Menu on top.

  Onion Soup

  Creamed Smoked Oysters

  Veal Tenderloin

  Filet of Striped Bass

  Potato and Spinach Casserole

  String Beans

  Peach Pudding

  Sweet Buttermilk or Tea

  Margaret and her dancers got there halfway through the meal, and many of the Irish people started applauding as soon as they saw them arrive. Margaret called me into the back room that Pete had given us to g
et ready in and told me how excited all the young dancers were.

  “Do you think there’s going to be any food left over for them?” she asked.

  I told her I’d find out and went looking for Stubby. He was in the kitchen with Miss Lilly, stirring a big pot. I asked him if there was enough food for the dancers, and he shook his head. His eyes were getting bigger every minute, and I thought there was something wrong.

  “Juba, they’re eating everything!” Stubby said.

  “You shouldn’t have cooked it so good,” Miss Lilly said. “You know most of the people out there aren’t used to a menu this fancy.”

  “I need to grow another pair of hands just to get it all ready to be served,” Stubby said.

  “And there’s two reporters from the Evening Post and one from that new paper, the New-York Daily Tribune,” Miss Lilly said. “If they mention your food in their papers, you going to have to grow another set of legs to go with those hands.”

  My stomach was jumping, and I could feel my heart beating faster. We were bringing this show together just fine. We were making the whole night a celebration instead of just dancing and singing for the people. The food was loosening the people up, and all the talk about local dancers being part of the program had helped build the excitement.

  Pete came into the kitchen grinning, his eyes shiny with anticipation.

  “The police just brought in some gentlemen and a lady from the mayor’s office,” he said. “I might have to hire Juba for the rest of the year!”

  Pete was getting to see what we could do, but I had been working like a dog, along with Stubby and Margaret and Jack Bishop, and we weren’t going to be working all year for Peter Williams, I thought.

  By the time Stubby was down to serving the peach pudding, I was exhausted, and I hadn’t been on the floor yet. The crowd was still growing. I looked around to see how many whites and how many blacks were there, and I saw there were more whites than blacks. At the tables I saw some gentlemen who looked overstuffed in their suits and cravats, and I thought they must be from the mayor’s office. There was one white man who looked young enough to be not yet twenty, and I was pretty sure he was a man despite the fact that he had long hair. He was writing at his table. I figured him to be a reporter from the Evening Post.

  Then it was seven o’clock, time for the show to start.

  “Wish us luck, Jack,” I said.

  “With all the work you put into this, you won’t be needing luck,” Jack answered.

  It was different for me. Usually I would be going out on the floor by myself, with maybe a drummer or a fiddler. Now I had to wait until I fit in with Margaret’s fairy tale. The little Jewish woman Margaret had got to play the piano went out and sat on the stool. Then she got up and turned the seat so she would be higher. A cold trickle of sweat ran down under my arm. In my mind, I was calling for the woman to get it going, but she just sat in front of the upright piano for a long time. Then she lifted her hands to the keyboard and started playing.

  The audience quieted down, and I was holding my breath.

  “Little Red Riding Hood!” Margaret called out. “There was once a great forest . . .”

  The moment the Irish dancers got onto the floor, straight as arrows with their hands behind their backs, some of the spectators began to applaud. The dancers made a half circle, always facing the tables, where Stubby and some of the girls were just clearing away the last dishes. Then the dancers brought their hands from behind their backs, and they were carrying small paper trees.

  More applause. I felt myself relaxing.

  They danced their little number, making lines of five and five that were weaving in and out, so that a line would be four strong and another would be six, and then they would reverse to five and five and sometimes three and seven. They danced precisely and in rhythm. I glanced at the older Irish people, and as Margaret had said, they were looking at the dancers’ feet.

  “Into the wood, on the way to Granny’s house, came Little Red Riding Hood!”

  The dancer was fifteen, but she looked older and moved smoothly. There was applause that welcomed her onstage as she moved through the other dancers representing the forest. She wasn’t that good, and none of her steps were spectacular, but she moved almost as if she were suspended from a string, as if she had no weight. She brought everybody into the story.

  When Fred Flamer came on as the Big Bad Wolf, a few people snickered, and I hoped he wasn’t going to mess it up. He lost his way through the forest a couple of times, and tried to smooth it out by double-stepping. He wasn’t adding anything to the show, but he didn’t take away too much, either.

  The story of Little Red Riding Hood was simple, and I didn’t think it was going to be that effective, but the audience was respectful and quiet. It was high class, just what Peter had wanted.

  It seemed forever before I would go on, and I stood in the shadows doing a couple of toe touches to stretch my legs. I watched for a moment as Fred Flamer went sneaking through the forest to Grandma’s house, and then I came out just before he went off.

  What I started with was the same jig the forest dancers had used, with my arms straight down, my head up. I did it in the same rhythm for ten seconds, then moved faster, increasing the rhythm to double time. Someone started applauding, and then the applause increased.

  The kids were moving well, and they were responding to me. They kept the slower rhythm and moved in perfect unison. The crowd loved the way we were dancing together, and I was loving it, too.

  When I left the floor, there was more applause.

  I was against the wall when the Big Bad Wolf came out again and was actually booed. Fred smiled. I didn’t know if he felt embarrassed or if he was pleased, but with his long face he looked sinister.

  Maybe Margaret had said something to the forest dancers. When I was going through them again, I saw that the boys were dancing in the same rhythm as the first time I had danced with them, but the girls had picked up the pace. They hadn’t done that in rehearsal.

  I danced the rhythm the girls used, then took a chance and danced with one leg doing all the work and the other marking time. I heard applause.

  A young girl danced near me and increased the pace again. I looked at her and could tell she was having fun. I danced at her pace as I made my way through the forest again.

  I slowed down my dance battle with the Big Bad Wolf. There was no use in making Fred Flamer look bad, and I didn’t want him doing anything to mess up the story. I just danced with him, cutting him off from going near Little Red Riding Hood, until he slunk off into the shadows.

  More applause.

  My last dance was with the forest dancers again, and I knew I wanted to make them look good. I could sense that they were pleased with their performance, and so was I. We danced for three minutes, then they moved offstage. I increased the pace of my steps for a frantic thirty seconds and then, turning, beckoned the forest dancers back. They were surprised, but they got themselves together and we danced faster and faster until the pace was too fast for almost all of us, and then I raised my arms, turned to them, and bowed.

  I was supposed to finish by myself onstage, but I gave it over to the forest dancers, and they finished with a flourish.

  I thought we had been great.

  The applause felt good, and when all the dancers and Margaret had gathered in the dressing room, we were all still excited and chatting away.

  “You could be Irish if you worked at it!” Little Red Riding Hood said to me.

  “Thanks.”

  Peter Williams came in as the dancers left. He was looking like a crocodile that had just finished its supper, with more teeth showing than I thought could fit into a regular mouth. He shook my hand and Freddy’s and everybody else’s he could find.

  A huge police officer came in and said that if I wasn’t too tired, someone wanted to speak to me. I was tired, but I followed him out to one of the tables. It was the white man with long hair who I had thought was a
reporter.

  “I’m delighted to meet you, sir,” the man said. He had a soft face and very small hands.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said.

  “Please join us.” The man, who had stood, gestured toward an empty chair. “I was sitting here, watching you dance, being amazed at how well you danced, really, and wondered who you were.”

  “William Henry Lane,” I said. “When I’m dancing, I’m called Master Juba. Some of my friends just call me Juba. A lot of entertainers take on stage names.”

  “And writers, too” was the quick reply. “My name is Charles Dickens, but I often write under the name of Boz. I’m touring your country, writing about how remarkable it is in so many ways. We are similar people, the English and you Americans, but so different in so many ways. Have you always lived in New York?”

  “I lived in Rhode Island for a while, but most of my life in New York,” I said.

  “New York, to me, is like London’s wilder cousin,” Mr. Dickens said. “It has all the better places, and some of the wilder places as well. Americans are so full of life—I think more so than the English, although we like to portray ourselves as being always on the top crust of the pie, so to speak.”

  “I’ve never been to England.”

  “They’d love to see you dance in England,” Mr. Dickens said. “I can’t imagine that we have anyone who quite fits what you do. When you’re dancing, do you—do you mind me asking you questions about your dancing?”

  “No, I like talking about what I do.”

  “Good—so do I,” Mr. Dickens said. “Get me talking about writing or about my stories and you’ve got yourself a problem. But you have a way about you when you dance. Your body seems so free, your movements so absolutely crammed with life, that you make everyone around you want to dance as well.”

  “Do you dance?”

  “Good gracious, no.” Mr. Dickens looked away. “But there’s a freedom about the way you move that makes me wish I could dance. Have you ever had a difficult time in your life?”

  “At times, everything seems hard,” I said. “I’m not sure what tomorrow is going to be like. I’m just hoping it’s something good.”