nine
the cape
Houston, Texas, c. 1981
“She said no.”
“Why?” Booger asked, his little feelings stepped on like dog shit in deep grass. He didn’t see it coming.
Raymond Earl continued popping wheelies on his stolen BMX, ignoring the whole conversation. His little feelings may have been hurt too, but he wasn’t going to cry about it. Not Raymond Earl. He didn’t need permission for anything, so he offered:
“What time?”
“What time what?” I asked.
“What time that preacher start flyin’?” he answered.
“Right before Communion. Right after the bell rings,” I lied.
“We’ll be there,” he said with authority.
Booger lit up.
“But my momma said you can’t come with us.”
“I know where it is. We’ll be there.”
I was excited. My new friends would get to see me on the altar in the robe.
“That nigga better fly or I’ma tell Pork Chop you was talkin’ about his momma,” Raymond Earl added as he jumped off the curb.
Awh, shit, I thought. He wasn’t smiling. He meant it. I’d promised him the miracle of flight and he was willing to walk about a mile to witness it. What would happen when Father Jerome didn’t fly, but, hold up, I didn’t know if Father Jerome could fly. I worried. I finally got some friends in my neighborhood and now they were gonna kick my ass for lying.
That night as I listened to that hardworking mouse gnawing away on the wall, I hoped that Father Jerome could fly. The black verb guy on Schoolhouse Rock! could fly. Surely the pope had taught Father Jerome how to fly. Why else would he wear a cape? Dracula had a cape and he could fly. Superman. Underdog. Mighty Mouse. All of them blessed with the miracle of flight. But then there was Batman and goofy-ass Hong Kong Phooey. They mustn’t have been Catholic. I realized that I needed a plan B in case Father Jerome wasn’t so endowed.
The fire department showed up first, then an ambulance, and finally a cop car. Nobody rang the doorbell, and half of Clearway Drive was collected in the street watching me. I figured if Father Jerome couldn’t fly, then I should fly so that Raymond Earl and Booger wouldn’t get mad at me, but I needed practice. And, of course, a miracle.
So there I stood with a bedspread tied around my neck, hands stretched out like Superman, on the roof of my house saying an Our Father. I had been doing this for about twenty minutes, waiting for the sign from God that I could take flight. I didn’t know what the sign would be. Locusts. Eclipse. Talking snake. Burning bush. So I waited and listened for instructions. A voice saying take flight or something. I heard the train on Mykawa Road, but that wasn’t new. A gunshot rang in the distance. Nothing new. Somebody was yelling nearby. Metro bus brakes squeeled to a stop on MLK. All the same recognizable things, but I stayed there and waited. Father was at work and Mother was vacuuming the floor, probably why she didn’t hear all the hoopla.
The fireman told me to come down, but he wasn’t God. I knew that God was going to give me a sign, so I stared straight ahead, ignoring everybody until—
“Ti’ John! Git yo’ ass off that roof, now!” Mother yelled.
But I ignored her too. The ladder was still leaning against the house, but somehow the fireman deemed this a suicide attempt from a one-story roof about ten feet from the soft Gulf Coast ground. So they cautioned Mother against sudden moves, fearing I might make an attempt. It was a standoff, and now Mother was pissed and embarrassed. Hell, I had to fly now because I’d need that miracle later when she’d pull out that extension cord. So I just stood there with my arms extended. Waiting on God.
“Nigga, you crazy. What you doin’ up here?” said Raymond Earl as he and Booger walked over to me from the other side of the roof. They must’ve snuck in the backyard, climbed a tree, and jumped on the roof.
“I’m tryin’ to fly,” I answered honestly.
“Man, you ain’t no preacher,” Booger said.
“Shiiited, look at all them people. Your momma mad,” said Raymond Earl. “You better get down before your daddy show up.”
I put my arms down and sat on my hinds, a bit defeated. They sat down too. I was in no hurry to get off that roof.
“I thought God was gonna show me how to fly in case Father Jerome didn’t tomorrow,” I explained.
“We know he can’t fly, fool,” Raymond Earl chided.
“You wasn’t gonna be mad?”
“Nawh,” Raymond Earl responded.
“Shit, here comes the ice cream man,” Booger exclaimed.
I followed them quickly off the roof to applause by the curious crowd in the street. Mother asked me what the hell I was doing on the roof.
“Waiting on God.”
Later that evening when Father returned home, Mother gave him a full report while he watched the news.
“Sonny!” he barked.
“Huh?”
“Come here!”
I ran to the den. I could smell his feet, conveniently propped up in his reclining chair.
“You had the firemen out here today?”
“I didn’t call ’em, Daddy.”
“Tha hell you was doin’ on the roof?”
“I was trying to fly. I had a cape and everything.”
Then something clicked with him. He jumped up quickly and took off his belt.
“Who told you to get on that roof?”
“Nobody, Daddy. I justed wanted to fly.”
“Don’t lie to me. Who told you to get on that roof?”
“Probably them lil’ badass boys he’s been hanging around with on Ricky Street,” Mother added.
“One of them boys told you to get on that roof?”
“No, Daddy.”
He grabbed my arm tightly and raised his belt.
“Don’t lie to me! Who told you to get on that roof!” he yelled, but something was different than when he normally scolded me. I looked at the hand with the belt, poised behind his body for the maximum swing—his hand was trembling.
“Nobody, Daddy. I promise,” I pleaded as tears fell because of his increasing grip. He dropped the belt and stormed out the front door. Mother sent me to my room.
Later in bed, I listened to the train on Mykawa Road, then I heard something outside. Father never returned inside after he walked out, but he didn’t leave. I snuck out of my bedroom and felt my way through the dark house to the front living room and peeked through the curtains. Father sat on the back of his truck talking to himself. He wasn’t speaking English, and he was pointing to the sky, moving his finger in different directions real quickly. Then he stopped and turned to me. I fled to my room.
The next morning in the car headed to church, Mother didn’t say one word. I had embarrassed her in front of the entire block. I didn’t mean to but that’s just how it worked out. But what bothered me most was Father’s stolen moment alone outside. He was really talking and pointing at the sky. The only people that did that were—Oh no, Father is crazy. And the more I thought about it, the more little incidents started rushing into my head—Father alone and yapping. I wondered if Mother knew he was crazy. And if she did, then what a saint, taking care of the mentally ill, even having his baby. But if she had his baby and that baby is me, then, oh no. I don’t feel crazy. I looked at my hands. Did I have crazy people’s hands? I placed my right hand over my face but remembered that was for cancer. Maybe Mother knew that both of us, Father and I, were crazy and she got money from the church to feed and clothe us. What a saint. Saint Patrice, Holy Mother of Lunatics.
She looked pretty that morning in baby blue double knit and white heels, hair falling off her shoulders. Isaac Hayes played on the eight-track telling his love to walk on by. I stared at MLK Boulevard, looking at faces, wondering if they saw me on the roof, wondering if they admired my foolish courage.
In the sacristy while slipping on the robe, I asked him a question—
“Can you fly, Father Jerome?”
&
nbsp; Father Jerome turned away from the mirror and squatted at eye level with me, eyes warm, heart pure.
“I’m flyin’ right now, lil’ brother,” he said.
“No ya not. You right here on the ground,” I answered, more innocently than sarcastic.
He smiled and took my small hands into his.
“My mind can fly as high as my imagination. My heart can fly as far as my love for God is willing to go, which is infinite. My soul can take my heart and mind wherever they want to go with the grace of God,” he offered.
“So can you fly today? Before Communion?” I asked, not fully appreciating his poetry.
He laughed.
“Quit bein’ stupid,” Albert Thibodeaux chimed in.
“Oh, he’s not being stupid. Brother Boudreaux is asking the practical question. Will my feet leave the ground? That’s his question. I’ve given him a philosophical answer. Yawl know what philosophical means?” he asked his altar boys.
We shrugged. Philosophical? Sounded like medicine, I thought.
“Ti’ John, it has to do with your thinking. It’s like your imagination, when you’re playing with your toys. Some of your toys can fly, right?” he asked.
“If I let ’em, but I gotta hold ’em up or they’ll fall,” I answered.
“But in your mind, in your imagination, they’re flying by themselves, right?” he continued.
This I understood and got a little excited.
“Yeah. They always flyin’, even when I put ’em up, and when I go to sleep, sometimes, they fly around my room without me, like they wanna play by themselves, then my momma gives me a spankin’ ’cause my toys are all over the floor. And I told her I didn’t put them toys on the floor, they did it by theyself. And she spanked me for lyin’,” I blurted.
“Well, God doesn’t want you to lie,” he said.
I leaned in closer to whisper—
“But I wasn’t lyin’. One time, I opened my eyes just a little bit and I saw all of them flyin’ all over the room by theyself. I got scared and hid under the covers till Momma came to wake me up,” I confided.
I was telling the truth. Maybe I am crazy.
“I just thought you could do the same thing ’cause you got a cape. That’s why I got on the roof yesterday with my cape, ’cause I wanted to see if God would let me fly. And Momma gave me a spankin’ and God didn’t stop her. And it hurt. Did I do something wrong?” I asked.
His cape hung on a clothes hanger against the closet. It was long, green velour with gold brocade and embroidery. An elegant garment fit for a king or knight or superhero.
A small, secret tear fell from Father Jerome’s eye as he turned to look at the magnificent green cape against the closet while the organ began, signaling the opening processional. The cape was only for the priest, head priest, the boss. Neither Brother Al nor Brother Barry got to wear one. Must’ve been one of those pope rules.
Minutes later—
All heads turned to the center aisle as we slowly trudged toward the altar. I noticed the nuns first—some were covering their mouths in shock. Mother squinted, confused and shaking her head in disbelief. Surely I was going to get a spanking for this. Some in the choir chuckled, pissing off the choir director for missing cues. Sister Benedict smiled wide and proud, as did Father Jerome while I led the processional holding the wooden crucifix and wearing the magnificent green cape.
Father Jerome opted not to wear the cape, encouraging me to fly, encouraging my crazy. Even though my ass still burned from the spanking the day before, I felt strong and powerful. At that moment I turned on the imagination button, shifted the crazy gear, and took flight right there in the church. The first place I flew to was the candy store and filled my pockets with red Now and Laters, telling the cashier that God was going to pay for them. I’d need some energy because I had places to go and I’d have to be quick because Mass was only an hour.
An hour later, I had made it through Mass and, in that time, I had traveled to AstroWorld, ridden to the Americas with Columbus, fought dragons with King Arthur, destroyed the Death Star twice without Obi-Wan Kenobi or Luke Skywalker, eaten a giant pizza, jumped a dump truck over the Grand Canyon, and played quarterback for the Oilers in the Super Bowl. I was busy. And just as Father Jerome was announcing the fall bazaar, the back door swung open—
“Ti’ John! He fly yet?” Booger yelled as he and Raymond Earl entered, dirty, sweaty, and wearing play clothes. Booger was barefoot.
Father Jerome stopped abruptly as I waved to my friends.
“Nawh, but I did! You missed it!” I yelled back.
Mother’s jaw dropped.
“Can I hold on to the cape till tomorrow? I ain’t gonna get it dirty,” I whispered to Father Jerome.
Nothing like lying in church. But Father Jerome was a jewel. He needed to show the congregation what he was made of—
“I want these young brothers right here. Come on. Right up here with me and Jesus,” said Father Jerome.
Booger and Raymond Earl sat on the floor next to me on the altar. They were ecstatic.
Church is for everybody, Margaret Malveaux would say if she was sitting in the car with us, which is why Mother didn’t say a thing on the way home. And I didn’t get a spanking either. Margaret Malveaux, my grandmother, wouldn’t have had a problem with Raymond Earl and Booger showing up for Mass. And Mother knew that she shouldn’t either.
When I returned home, Father was in the backyard with his calf rope, lassoing a plastic bucket.
“They ropin’ in McBeth. Wanna go?” he asked.
I shrugged. Anything to get out of the house in case Mother changed her mind.
I sat on a dirty ice chest and studied Father. He twirled the lasso over his head with ease, flicks of the wrist, then let it go. In the bat of an eye the lasso was snug around the plastic bucket. Effortless. I ran over to the bucket and loosened the rope. He snapped it back, quickly recoiling the rope for another throw.
“Daddy? Who was you talkin’ to the other night?” I asked.
He knew what I was talking about, but he ignored the question and threw the lasso again. I unloosened it, then went around the side of the house to Ms. Johnson’s bathroom window and took a piss.
ten
them your people
Part One: Black Gal, 1981
“He ain’t ready yet, Patrice,” Father said.
“He seem to be ready on Saturday mornings with you,” Mother answered.
I heard them in the kitchen while I was supposed to be asleep. All I knew was Mother took a phone call in the bedroom an hour earlier. She talked for a while, then returned to the den, where Father and I were watching The Jeffersons. Mother had a strange, sickly look on her face as though she’d found out someone had died. Father inquired, and Mother immediately put me to bed. And no sooner had I fallen asleep than she was waking me again with a packed bag and Father’s Chevy idling in the driveway.
“Wake up, Ti’ John. We gotta go to Louisiana,” she said soft but urgent.
“Why?” I asked.
“We need you to do something,” she answered.
It had to be four in the morning. I went back to sleep and barely remembered Father carrying me to the truck.
Three hours later I smelled Benson & Hedges. Mother stared out the window, lips moving quietly as she made a Rosary with worn beads. Father looked straight ahead, hand on the wheel. I looked out the window and saw nothing but sugarcane.
“Daddy, where we at?” I asked.
“We home. Basile,” he answered.
What the hell were we doing in Basile? There wasn’t a family reunion scheduled. Maybe somebody had died.
“Somebody died?” I asked.
They didn’t answer, but something was afoot.
We cruised along U.S. 190, then turned onto a dirt road that cut directly through a young cane field.
“Why are we turning here?” Mother asked, breaking a decade.
“Gotta make a stop if you want him to do this,”
he replied.
“Do what?” I asked.
“Your father is gonna tell you,” she said.
“Why don’t you tell him? Them your people,” Father remarked.
Mother quieted and returned to the Hail Mary.
At the end of the road, the cane fields abruptly turned to forest. Father pulled the truck over and opened the door.
“Come on, Sonny. Let’s get out. And bring that thermos. Patrice, stay here. We won’t be long,” Father ordered.
I grabbed my Star Wars thermos that was filled with Kool-Aid—red Kool-Aid. Father scanned the great forest before us, then started walking directly into it. I followed.
“This used to be a rice field when I was a little younger than you,” he said.
“Is this where you grew up, Daddy?” I asked.
“Nawh. We was on the other side of the cane, but I used to play back here when I was little. This is where I’d used to hide when they was looking for me,” he said.
He stopped.
“All of this used to be ours,” he said proudly.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Them white folks took most of it. Your uncle Pa-June gambled away the rest. But it’s still ours. You’ll see,” he said, then continued walking.
We stopped at a large cypress tree with a huge trunk. The bottom of the tree looked like several small tree trunks were bound together then merged into one sturdy trunk that stretched endlessly to the sky.
Father took a knee at the tree, one hand leaning against the trunk, then he spoke to the tree—
“Eh, Couzain. This my boy, John Paul Boudreaux the Second. We call him Ti’ John. He’s a good boy. And he’s one of us. Ti’ John, put your hand on the trunk and say hello,” Father asked.
It seemed fun. Make-believe, I guess.
“Hello, Mister Tree,” I said.
“Tell him your name and how old you is.”
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