Bud, Not Buddy

by Christopher Paul Curtis

  Mr. Jimmy took my two rocks from him. He looked at the writing and said, “Flint, Michigan, August eighth, 1911, and Gary, Indiana, July thirteenth, 1912? That’s more than twenty-five years ago.”

  He squatted down and looked right at me and said, “Son, where’d you find these? Just tell the truth.”

  I kept one eye on Mr. C., he still looked like he was getting ready to jump funny on me.

  I said, “Mr. Jimmy, I didn’t find them or steal them from nowhere, these’ve always been mine. I got them from my momma and that’s the swear-’fore-God truth. Now could I please have my rocks back, sir?” I stuck my hand out.

  Both Mr. Jimmy and Herman B. Calloway said, “Your momma?”

  “Yes, sir.” I kept my hand out.

  Mr. Jimmy said, “Bud, where did your mother get these?”

  I said, “I don’t know, sir. She always had them.” Mr. Jimmy and Herman B. Calloway were looking at me with that can’t-decide-which-hand-to-smack-you-with-look when Mr. Jimmy said, “Bud, what did you say your momma’s name was?”

  “No one ever asked me, sir.”

  Herman B. Calloway was still hot. “You throw a lot of ‘sirs’ around but you’ve still got a real strong, real smart-mouthed, disrespectful streak in you, boy. Now you answer the question or I’ll—”

  I screamed at him, “Angela, sir.” I was so mad that I hadn’t meant to say “sir” but it came out anyway. “Her name is Angela Janet Caldwell.”

  Mr. Jimmy said, “Lord have mercy. . . .”

  Herman B. Calloway’s pipe dropped out of his mouth and he stumbled and fumbled into Grand Calloway Station, feeling his way like he’d been struck blind.

  Then I knew! Herman E. Calloway was the best liar in the world, he’d been lying to me and everybody else all along! Now that there was some good proof against him he was all shook up.

  I said to Mr. Jimmy, “I knew it! I knew he was my father!”

  Mr. Jimmy was still crouched down right in front of me. He said, “Bud, he’s not your father.”

  “Yes, sir, he is. That’s why he run off like that, he got caught lying after all these years!”

  Mr. Jimmy said, “Bud, that’s enough. Herman is not your father. But Angela Janet is his daughter’s name. If what you’re saying is true, Lord help us all, it looks like Herman might be your grandfather.”

  This was real surprising, but the thing I felt most was glad that Herman B. Calloway wasn’t my dad. Shucks, who’d want a daddy that on top of being so old and so doggone mean had such a big belly? Not me.

  MAN! Ever since he heard me call my momma’s name Herman B. Calloway had locked hisself up in his room and wouldn’t come out.

  Mr. Jimmy and Miss Thomas made me sit at the kitchen table whilst they knocked on his door and tried to talk him into opening it up, but the way they kept saying “Herman” soft at first, then louder and louder, it sounded like he wasn’t talking back. After the longest while they decided to let the big baby have his own way and came back downstairs. They sat at the kitchen table with me.

  Miss Thomas looked at me and said, “My, my, my.”

  Mr. Jimmy said, “Now look here, Bud.” He wiped his hand over his face. “You’re sure your momma’s name was Angela Janet?”

  I said, “Yes, sir.”

  “And the two of you both had the same last name, her last name was Caldwell too, she never said nothing about being no Calloway?”

  I spelt it out for him. “No, sir, her name was Caldwell, C-A-L-D-W-E-L-L.”

  It seemed like he finally believed me, he said, “OK, OK, I hope you don’t mind me asking, Bud, but it’s pretty important that we know, how’d your momma pass? And how long ago was it?”

  Pass was just like gone, it was another one of those words grown folks use instead of dead.

  I said, “I was six years old when it happened, sir. I don’t know why, she was too sick to go to work for six days in a row, then one morning I went into her room and she was dead. But she didn’t suffer or nothing, it happened real quick, she didn’t even have time to close her eyes, she didn’t look like it hurt or nothing.”

  Miss Thomas reached across the table and touched my arm, she said, “I’m sure it didn’t, Bud, I’m sure it was very peaceful for her.”

  Mr. Jimmy said, “When she was living, Bud, God rest her soul, what’d your momma look like?”

  This was another strange question, but before I could answer, Miss Thomas said, “James, what are you insinuating? I knew there was something familiar about this boy, I don’t know how I missed it before but look at Bud’s eyes, you have to ask if this is Herman’s grandchild?”

  Mr. Jimmy said, “Now hold on, Grace, I’m just trying to ask the questions I know Herman’d ask if he could. Ain’t a thing wrong with being certain before we jump to any conclusions. Now what’d she look like, son?”

  I said, “She was real pretty, sir.”

  Mr. Jimmy said, “I bet she was, Bud, but that ain’t what I meant. Was she short or tall, was she slim or big-boneded?”

  I said, “I don’t know, sir, she was real pretty and real tall and kind of skinny like me, I guess.”

  Miss Thomas said, “James, Bud was six years old, everyone on earth was real tall to him. I don’t see the point in all this.”

  I said, “Pardon me, ma’am, I know how I can show you what she looks like, I still got her picture.”

  They just stared at me.

  I said, “Can I be excused?”

  Miss Thomas said, “Yes, son, hurry up and go get that picture.”

  I busted up the stairs but stopped like I hit a brick wall. I remembered how mad and crazy Herman B. Calloway looked when he yelled at me. I tippytoed up the rest of the steps.

  Uh-oh! Herman B. Calloway’s door was opened up a crack!

  I held my breath and tiptoed extra quiet and extra fast right into the little dead girl’s room and as soon as I did . . . woop, zoop, sloop . . . my heart jumped down into my stomach.

  Herman B. Calloway was sitting on the little chair in front of the little mirror on the dressing table. His elbows were on the table and his face was covered by his hands. It sounded like he was having trouble breathing ’cause every time he sucked in a bunch of air he made a sound like “Mu-u-u-u-h . . .” and every time he blew air out he made a sound like, “H-u-u-u-h . . .”

  I didn’t know what to do. I could tell Mr. C. didn’t know I was in the room with him so I could probably just backward tiptoe and get out of there without anything happening.

  I rose up on my toes, took two baby steps back and stopped. Shucks, I’d come up here to show Miss Thomas and Mr. Jimmy what my momma looked like, there wasn’t nothing wrong with that, I wasn’t doing nothing that meant I had to sneak out of this room on my tiptoes going backwards.

  I sucked in a mouthful of air and walked over to my bed. I picked up my sax case and set it on top of the bed. I pushed the two silver buttons to the side and the two silver tongues jumped open and made those loud click-click sounds. Herman B. Calloway still didn’t take his face out of his hands. He kept going, “Muh . . . huh . . . muh . . . huh . . . muh . . . huh . . .”

  I reached inside my sax case and took out the envelope with Momma’s picture in it. I closed the two silver tongues again and could tell that Mr. C. wasn’t paying me no mind at all, he kept his face in his hands, his head was rocking up and down real slow, sort of like he was checking to see how much it weighed.

  I put my sax case back next to the bed and was about to leave the room when I looked over at Herman B. Calloway’s back.

  He still didn’t know I was in the room with him. I looked in the little round mirror and still couldn’t see his face, but I could see his hands a lot better. I could see six little trails of water coming out from where his fingers joined up with his hands, the three trails from each hand joined up together on his wrists and ran down his arms puddling up on top of the dressing table.

  Shucks, Herman B. Calloway was bawling his eyes out. He was acting lik
e me being his grandson was the worst news anyone could ever give you in your life.

  This was Number 39 of Bud Caldwell’s Rules and Things to Have a Funner Life and Make a Better Liar Out of Yourself.

  RULES AND THINGS NUMBER 39

  The Older You Get, the Worse Something Has to Be to Make You Cry.

  With babies it’s easy not to pay them no mind ’cause crying’s just like talking for a baby. A baby’s tears might mean, “Hey! You just stuck a pin in my behind when you changed my diapers,” or their crying might be the way they picked out to say, “Good morning, Momma, what’re we gonna do today?” That makes it easy not to care too much about a baby’s tears.

  When you got a old person crying you got a whole ’nother story. When you got someone as old as Herman B. Calloway crying you better look around, ’cause you know you’re square in the middle of one of those boiling tragedies. You can’t help but feel sorry for him, even if he’s been mean to you from the minute he first laid eyes on you, even if he’s crying ’cause he found out the two of you were kin.

  I walked over to Herman B. Calloway and before I could think my hand moved out toward his back. I waited for one of those spaces between the muhs and the huhs, then I touched him. His skin under his shirt was very, very warm.

  It took a second for Herman B. Calloway to know someone was touching him. When he knew, I felt his skin jerk and twitch the same way a horse’s does when a fly lands on it. He whipped his head around.

  When he saw it was me he jerked away, took one more giant huh, then stared. His mouth started moving like he was talking in a secret language that only dogs could hear.

  At last real American words started coming out of his mouth.

  He said, “I . . . I . . . how’d . . . I’m, I’m so . . . look, Buddy . . . I . . . I just . . .”

  “It’s Bud, sir, not Buddy.”

  He put his face back in his hands and broke down all over again.

  Man, it’s a good thing the Thug wasn’t around, ’cause if he’d’ve heard the way Mr. C. was weeping, no one would’ve wondered who the real Waterworks Willie was.

  I put my hand back on Mr. C.’s shoulder and patted him and rubbed him a couple of times, then left the room. It felt a lot better going out frontwards instead of sneaking out backwards.

  I ran down the steps back into the kitchen. Miss Thomas’s and Mr. Jimmy’s eyes jumped right onto my envelope. I set it in the middle of the table.

  Both of them just looked at it before Miss Thomas reached out and picked it up. She went into the pocket of her dress and took some funny little glasses that only had a bottom half to them, then put them on her nose. She pulled Momma’s picture out and held it as far away from her eyes as her arms would stretch.

  She looked at the picture, looked over her glasses at me, then looked right at Mr. Jimmy and said, “Any more questions for this young man?” She slid the picture over to him.

  Mr. Jimmy picked it up and said, “Well, I’ll be, remember that old con man who used to drag that ruint horse through town, now what was his name? Help me out here, Grace, didn’t he call his act Joey Pegus and his Broke-Back Broncking Bucko?”

  Miss Thomas said, “It was Joey Pegus and his Broke-Back Bucking Bronco, James. What else do you see in the picture?”

  Mr. Jimmy said, “Uh, uh, uh, that definitely is Angela Janet Calloway!”

  He looked at me and said, “You sure this is your mother?”

  I said, “Yes, sir. But her name’s Caldwell, not Calloway.”

  He said, “Well, I’ll just be—”

  Miss Thomas butted in on him. “There’s little doubt about that, James, but what we’ve got to do . . .”

  She kept on talking but I quit listening ’cause something just came out of the blue and give me a good whop right on my forehead. Without even thinking about what I was doing, I butted in on Miss Thomas and said, “That means that’s not some little dead girl’s room I’m sleeping in, that’s my momma’s room!”

  She looked at me kind of surprised, like this was the first time she’d had that thought too, she said, “That’s right, Bud, you’re back in your momma’s room.”

  I said, “How come Herman B. Calloway never called on me and my mother? All he’d’ve had to do was call on us one time and I know she wouldn’t have been so sad.”

  Miss Thomas and Mr. Jimmy took turns shooting quick looks at each other, then she said, “Bud, give me your hand.”

  Uh-oh, pretty soon I’d have to come up with a Rules and Things about when Miss Thomas holds your hand.

  She stretched her arm across the table and I held on to her fingers.

  “Bud,” she said, “Mr. C.—excuse me, your granddad didn’t know anything about you. No one knew where your mother had gone.”

  Mr. Jimmy said, “That’s right, son, she just up and run off one day. I mean we all knew Herman was hard on her, but it wasn’t like it was nothing personal, he was hard on everybody. I used to tell him all the time to slack off some on the girl, to go easy, but I can remember his exact words, he said, ‘Easy-go don’t make the mare run. This is a hard world, especially for a Negro woman, there’s a hundred million folks out there of every shade and hue, both male and female, who are just dying to be harder on her than I ever could be. She’s got to be ready.’ Shoot, I could see that the girl wasn’t the type to—”

  Miss Thomas said, “James, why don’t you go up and check on Herman.” She said “why don’t you,” but it wasn’t a question.

  Mr. Jimmy said, “Oh. Oh, maybe I should,” and left the kitchen.

  Miss Thomas told me, “Bud, I know you can see your granddad has troubles getting along with most folks, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I think it’s because he expects so much out of everybody, himself included. And when you set your standards so high, you get let down a lot.”

  I shook my head up and down, acting like I understood.

  She said, “Now take your mother, for instance. He was so, so proud of that young woman, and he loved her very, very much. He was determined that she was going to be the first Calloway to get schooling all the way through college so he thought he had to be strict on her, but he went overboard, Bud, simple as that. He used to crow about how his mother and father had been born slaves and how now it was only two generations later and the Calloways had come so far and worked so hard that one of them was actually going to be a teacher.

  “It was his dream, not hers—not yet, anyway—and he never gave her time to pick it for herself. The more he pushed her, the more she fought him. Finally it got to be too much and she left. We think she ran off with one of Herman’s drummers.

  “We’ve been hoping for eleven years that she’d send word or come home, and she finally has. Looks to me like she sent us the best word we’ve had in years.”

  Miss Thomas smiled at me and I knew she was trying to say I was the word that my momma had sent to them.

  She said, “Wait here for one second, precious. I’ve got to go to my room for something.”

  Miss Thomas was probably saying that as a excuse so she could blow her nose and cry, but she came back in a flash. She was holding a iron picture frame and handed it to me.

  “This has been on my dressing table for thirteen years, Bud, ever since your mother was sixteen years old. Now it belongs to you.”

  I wanted to say thank you, but I just stared at the picture in the heavy iron frame. It was Momma.

  The picture only showed her head, all around the edges it was smoky or foggy so’s that it looked like Momma’d poked her head out of a cloud. And Momma was smiling. The same soft smile she’d give me when she got home from work. It’d been so long since I’d seen Momma smile that I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

  Miss Thomas said, “Let me show you something, Bud.”

  She took the frame out of my hands and said, “Watch this.”

  She moved the picture up and down, right and left, then around in circles.

 
“Do you see how her eyes are on you all the time? No matter which way you look at the picture, she’s watching.”

  It seemed like Momma was looking direct at me no matter where Miss Thomas put the picture.

  “I can keep this?”

  “I feel like I’ve been holding on to it until the rightful owner came along, and it looks to me like he’s finally shown up. What took you so long, child?”

  Miss Thomas patted me underneath my chin.

  She said, “But Bud, we’ve got a problem I’m going to need your help with.”

  Uh-oh.

  “You said you were six years old when your mother died?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “OK, so that was four years ago.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You can remember how bad you felt when you first knew she was gone, can’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” ’Cause it still feels the same.

  “Well, you’ve had four years to try to heal that scar, but it still hurts some of the time, doesn’t it?”

  “Sometimes a lot.”

  “I know, Bud. But remember, your grandfather and I just found out that she passed. The hurt is brand-new for us.” Miss Thomas started swallowing.

  “And even though he hasn’t seen her in eleven years, I know there isn’t a day that goes by that he doesn’t think about her. He’d never admit it, but there isn’t one show that we give that he doesn’t first look out into the audience, not to see how big the crowd is, but hoping that she’ll be out there. Hoping that she’d’ve seen a flyer tacked to a telephone pole somewhere and would stop by to see him. He loved her so much, Bud. Sorry, sweetheart.” She took the hand she wasn’t squeezing my fingers with and took out a handkerchief and blew her nose.

  “Those stones that he picks up everywhere he performs are for her. She must’ve been four or five years old, the band was getting ready to travel to Chicago for a week and before we left he asked her what she wanted him to bring back for her. He was thinking a doll or a dress or something, but she told him, ‘A wock, Daddy, bring me back a wock from Chicago.’ So everywhere we went after that he’d have to get her a ‘wock,’ he’d write the city and the day we were there on them for her. He’s got boxes of them upstairs, eleven years’ worth.