by Peter Golden
“A hundred on the math and science, and on social studies a ninety-four.”
Julian said, “I guess we’ll have to work on the social studies.”
Eddie hadn’t arrived at Alex Eng’s, so Bobby and Julian took a booth, drinking tea and eating crunchy noodles dipped in duck sauce.
“Why’d that lady think I’d flunk those tests?” Bobby asked. “Because I’m Negro? Mom told me about people like that. She said it can be an advantage, because anything you can do seems ten times better.”
“Sounds about right.”
“She told me you weren’t that way.”
Julian loved hearing Kendall’s voice again—if only through her son.
“What’re we eatin’, fellas?” Eddie asked, sliding in next to Bobby. Eddie’s red hair had gone gray, but the remnants of boyishness, his freckles and wise-guy grin, had survived. He extended his hand to Bobby. “Put it there.”
“Yes, sir,” Bobby said, shaking Eddie’s hand.
“Lose the ‘sir.’ You don’t call Julian ‘sir,’ do ya?”
“I call him Mr. Rose. That’s what my mom said his name was.”
“Okay, but I’m your uncle Eddie. Got it?”
“Yes, Uncle Eddie.”
“Thatta boy. Whatta ya want for Christmas?”
Julian had seen this routine before with his daughter: Holly once mentioned that she liked the TV show My Friend Flicka, and Eddie would’ve bought her a pony if Julian hadn’t stopped him. Eddie and Fiona had no children, and Julian knew that Eddie paid the tuition for some students who went to school at Our Lady of Sorrows and helped out their folks at Christmas. Maybe it was because Eddie’s father had died before he was born and he grew up with a flat-broke mother. Or penance for all the guys he’d put in the ground.
Bobby said, “My mom told me Mr. Rose is Jewish, and Jews don’t celebrate Christmas.”
“I’m bettin’ Mr. Rose’s gonna make an exception for you.”
When they left the restaurant, snow was falling, and the lights strung across South Orange Avenue shone like rainbows.
Eddie said, “Bobby, there’s a store across the street. Got model cars and train sets. Go see if you like anything.”
They watched Bobby cross. Eddie said, “He’s built like you. Thinner, but he’s gonna be tall. Otis was pocket-sized.”
“I wish I knew where Otis was. Bobby says Kendall told him his father died in Korea. That’s not true. Maybe Otis is alive.”
Eddie said, “Not with the dope fiends he ran with. But I wish he was. He was always looking forward to something. And he could play the piano.”
“His old man died not long after Derrick. It was in the papers.”
“His ma could still be in Harlem. I could ask around.”
“That poor woman’s been through enough.”
Eddie asked, “If Bobby’s yours, why’d you think Kendall didn’t give him your name?”
“She hated taking anything from me. And I told her that I wouldn’t want a son burdened with my name. This was right after the Kefauver Hearings, and the Senate had Abe and half the Mob on TV. My name came up and reporters called me about it for years. With Holly I figured she’d get married, and her name would change. But my son—he’d be marked forever.”
Tire chains clinked against the avenue, kicking up arcs of snow. “Does it matter? If Bobby’s not yours?”
“Not a bit. He’s a kid who needs help and—and he’s all I have left of Kendall.”
Chapter 58
Julian and Bobby celebrated Christmas Eve at Fiona and Eddie’s house. Fiona stuffed them with salmon, scalloped potatoes, and chocolate mint layer cake, and Eddie, who’d bought Bobby a Hot Wheels race-car set, raced Bobby for money and lost twenty bucks to him. Bobby was polite but acted as if he’d taken a vow of silence. At home, before bringing in the presents from the pool cabana, Julian checked to see if Bobby were sleeping. He wasn’t. His desk lamp was on, and music played on the clock radio.
Julian sat on the bed, and Bobby said, “In Paris, on Christmas Eve, my mom used to take me caroling in the Latin Quarter with her friends. Then we’d have hot red wine and spice bread.”
Julian remembered the fragrance of the pain d’épices that Kendall would bake in Greenwich Village, and he felt as sad as Bobby looked. After Bobby flopped over on his stomach, Julian rubbed his back before turning off the radio and the lamp.
In the morning, when Bobby came downstairs and saw his presents, he said, “Are they all for me?”
“All for you.”
His haul included an Etch A Sketch, Slinky, Legos, a Nok-Hockey set, every one of the Hardy Boys books, the board games Risk, Life, Stratego, Clue, checkers, and chess; a stereo and stacks of records—alphabetically from the Beatles through the Temptations; a mountain of clothes; a three-speed Dunelt English Racer, and a Flexible Flyer sled.
“You wanna break in the sled?” Julian asked.
“Yeah. I learned how at the Parc des Buttes Chaumont.”
Flood’s Hill was next to South Orange Junior High. Dozens of grown-ups and children in colorful parkas and hats were sledding. As Bobby started down the slope, Julian noticed a group of teenagers with Flying Saucers. The teenagers sat on the aluminum platters and spun in circles to the bottom of the hill. Bobby was halfway down when his Flexible Flyer was broadsided by two spinning saucers that sent him rolling through the snow. When Bobby got up, two teenagers in Columbia High School football jackets were towering over him, holding their Flying Saucers and laughing. The huskier one said, “You oughtta watch where you’re going.”
“I was,” Bobby said.
“Be careful, Hal,” the other kid said. “He’s a tough guy.”
Behind them, Julian said, “Pardon me, fellas,” and he pushed past them and snatched the Flying Saucer from Hal. “You oughtta ride this thing somewhere else.”
“It’s a free country,” Hal replied.
“Don’t believe it,” Julian said, and bent the aluminum platter in half.
Hal and his friend, gaping at Julian, backed up the hill, and after flinging the Flying Saucer at them, Julian picked up the Flexible Flyer and put his arm around Bobby. As they walked, Bobby reached for the hand on his shoulder and held it.
“I’m here,” Julian said.
“I know,” Bobby replied.
Chapter 59
By spring, after four months at South Orange Junior High, Bobby learned that it was no fun being the only Negro student in the most advanced section of the seventh grade. The school was ninety-five percent white, and Bobby didn’t give his placement a second thought until a colored student, a ninth grader who held the record for most consecutive days in detention, saw Bobby at his gym locker and said, “Boy, you think your shit don’t stink ’cause you be with those white brainiacs?”
Bobby didn’t answer, but he was surprised the kid had spoken to him. The only people who appeared to know Bobby existed were his teachers, who said, “Excellent job,” when they returned his homework and tests with As written across the paper.
In the cafeteria, nearly all the Negro students gathered at the same table, and no one of any color invited him to join their group. Bobby sat alone, trying—and failing—to soothe himself with memories of eating lunch with his mother at La Palette, where the waiters and the regulars knew them, and Bobby had a croque-monsieur—a grilled ham-and-cheese—and a cup of chocolat chaud, a perfect meal on those shining afternoons.
“You don’t have to eat by yourself,” Stevie Lerner said, sitting across from Bobby.
Stevie was in his homeroom. He was a chubby, chipmunk-cheeked boy with curly reddish-blond hair and braces, and owing to his habit of forgetting his homework and flunking tests, he was frequently summoned to the guidance office for conferences. Yet Stevie possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of sports statistics, and he was consulted by other boys to settle disputes about things like earned-run averages that Bobby had never heard of.
Stevie said, “You live near me. I saw you y
esterday driving with that man who drops you off in the morning.”
“Mr. Rose. He’s my guardian.”
Stevie nodded as if it were normal for kids in South Orange to have a guardian instead of a mom and dad. Bobby bit into the soggy bun and greasy patty that the cafeteria lady had claimed was a hamburger.
Stevie said, “You want to come over after school today? We can play stickball.”
“I don’t know how. I grew up in France.”
“I’ll teach you. And it’s Friday, so you can eat dinner over.”
“Okay,” Bobby said, and the hamburger didn’t taste so bad anymore.
It was a mile-and-a-half walk uphill to Newstead. They stopped at Julian’s first; Bobby wrote him a note and changed out of his school clothes into a hooded gray sweatshirt, blue jeans, and Converse high-tops. Stevie lived a few blocks away, next to a grammar school, in a ranch house with triangular glass walls. Mayella, a pear-shaped Negro woman in a white uniform, told them to sit in the kitchen, then stirred Nestlé Quik into glasses of milk and removed a tin sheet of oatmeal cookies from the oven.
As the boys ate and drank, Mayella squinted at Bobby. “Where you from?”
Stevie answered, “He’s from Newstead.”
Mayella said, “You is?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bobby said.
“Most the colored ’round heah, they be from Newark. Your people from Newark?”
“No, ma’am.” On weekends, Bobby sometimes went to the Weequahic Diner in Newark with Julian and Uncle Eddie. On the ride down Lyons Avenue he’d noticed that the city had crowds of Negroes on the streets, and he wished that he could walk around there because it would be fun to visit someplace where people didn’t gawk at him as if he were one of those weirdos on The Munsters.
Stevie and Bobby had been on the blacktop behind the grammar school for over an hour. Stevie was standing forty feet away pitching tennis balls toward a box chalked onto a brick wall. Bobby had been swinging away without success until Stevie said, “Move your hands up higher on the bat,” and after choking up another two inches, Bobby smacked the ball over Stevie’s head. Mighty pleased with himself, Bobby ran to Stevie, who held out his right hand, palm up. “Gimme five.”
Bobby contemplated Stevie’s palm, and Stevie lifted Bobby’s right hand and brought it down on his. As they left the schoolyard, Stevie said, “Somebody in homeroom told me you’re like one of the smartest kids in school.”
“I don’t know if I am.”
“Wish I was. Or at least my parents do. You’re lucky.”
Bobby shrugged. He’d felt a lot luckier when his mother was alive.
Mrs. Lerner had reddish-blond hair done up like dandelion fluff. She was thin and drank a can of Fresca at the dining room table while everyone else ate. Mayella brought in the mashed potatoes, lima beans, and roast beef, and Mrs. Lerner urged Bobby to take more, as if he’d never sampled such exotic dishes. Mr. Lerner, who bore a striking resemblance to Fred Flintsone, said, “Bobby, you’re in my son’s class?”
Stevie said, “Dad, he’s with the smart kids.”
“You could be with the smart kids. If you put your nose in the grindstone.”
Stevie stared at his plate. Mr. Lerner said, “Mayella tells me you’re not from Newark?”
“Dad, he’s from Paris.”
Wistfully, Mrs. Lerner said, “I’ve always wanted to see Paris.”
Mr. Lerner frowned at his wife and asked Bobby, “How’d you get to Newstead?”
Bobby answered that his parents had died, which produced a merciful gap of silence. Then he added, “My guardian’s here. Julian Rose.”
Bobby didn’t understand why, but this information brought the interrogation to a close.
Dessert was apple pie and vanilla ice cream, and Stevie and Bobby were permitted to take their bowls to the den, where they watched The Wild, Wild West. When the show ended, Bobby thanked Mr. and Mrs. Lerner for dinner and walked home. He was on Glenview Road when a blue-and-white police car stopped alongside him with the driver’s-side window down. The policeman behind the wheel said, “You lost, son?”
Bobby began to tremble. “No, sir.”
The policeman, ordering Bobby to step back, got out of the car. “What’s your name?”
“Bobby Wakefield.”
“Where you going?”
Bobby recited his address. The policeman, broad-shouldered, his belly hanging over his belt buckle, peered at him. Bobby could hardly see his face under the bill of his cap, just that he was white. He remembered the Lovewood policeman, the mean one with the sunglasses, and Bobby felt like he was going to piss his pants.
“Why you shaking?” the policeman asked.
“Cold,” Bobby replied. Then, recalling how Julian’s name had stopped Mr. Lerner from grilling him, Bobby said, “Julian Rose is my guardian.”
“No foolin’, Julian Rose? You tell Mr. Rose, Officer Nelligan says hi.”
Bobby sprinted home. Julian was reading a book in the great room. After telling him about the Lerners and Officer Nelligan, Bobby asked, “How come they act different when they hear your name?”
“I’ve been in town for thirty years.”
Bobby sensed that Julian wasn’t telling him the whole truth and that asking him another question wouldn’t help.
In the morning, Julian told Bobby that he had business in Orchard Hill and asked him if he wanted to come along. “I can’t,” Bobby said. “I’m learning to play stickball.”
“That’s swell. But be home by six. We’ll go out to dinner.”
Bobby waited until Julian was gone before putting on his jacket and walking to South Orange Village, where he caught a bus to the terminal in Irvington and read the schedule on the window of the information booth.
Nine minutes later, Bobby was on a bus to Newark.
Chapter 60
Eddie, paying the toll at the George Washington Bridge, said, “I shouldn’ta told ya.”
On Saturday night, Eddie and Fiona had gone to the Five Spot to hear Chet Baker. After his set, Eddie had asked Chet about Otis, who used to play piano for him. Chet said that in August he’d tried to visit Otis in a house on 137th Street, between Lenox and Seventh, where some nuns nursed people who didn’t have families to take them in. Otis wouldn’t see Chet. Julian didn’t care. He wanted to talk to Otis. Eddie had tried to talk him out of it.
“You say you don’t give a damn if you’re Bobby’s father,” Eddie said, “so what is it? If he’s yours, you can get mad at Kendall again for not getting in touch when he was born?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Then think of this. Even if Otis can give you an answer about Bobby’s birth certificate, all you’ll get is more questions.”
Two summers ago, after a Negro teenager was shot and killed by a white cop, a riot broke out in Harlem, but this street, with its run-down houses and river of trash in the gutters, couldn’t have gotten any worse. On the positive side, parking wasn’t a problem. At the end of the block, Julian saw a plaque above a door:
HE HEALS THE BROKENHEARTED AND BINDS UP THEIR WOUNDS.
A nun with a pasty oval face answered the bell.
Julian said, “We’re here to visit Otis Larkin.”
“Mr. Larkin isn’t accepting—”
Julian stepped past her. Eddie followed.
“Please, Sister. If Otis asks us to leave, we will.” That was true. So was the fact that Julian was prepared to look for Otis without her permission.
The nun, after peering at Julian, led him to the rear of the first floor. The house smelled of disinfectant and urine. Otis was sleeping under a sheet in a hot, windowless room. A wooden crucifix was above the metal-frame bed. The nun departed. Eddie stood on one side of Otis, Julian on the other.
Eddie whispered, “We got no right to disturb him.”
Seeing Otis’s jaundiced face slick with sweat, Julian was disgusted with himself for coming, and as he turned to leave, Otis opened one eye. “You boys got o
lder than dirt.”
Eddie said, “What’s shaking, Jitterbug?”
Otis opened the other eye. “Got every improvement, my man. Pneumonia, hepatitis, cirrhosis, and some other stuff they think’s too scary to tell me.” Otis gulped for air and winced. “How’d ya find me?”
Julian said, “Eddie bumped into Chet.”
“Chet came by, but I want to remember the what-was, not the what-is.”
Eddie said, “Chet knows that.”
Otis sighed, and phlegm crackled in his lungs. “How’s Kenni-Ann?”
Julian thought Otis was about to lose enough: he didn’t need to lose Kendall as well. “She’s fine.”
“That boy of hers must be big.”
“Bobby, he is.”
The pain was clear on Otis’s face. “Bobby, he’s . . . I told Kenni-Ann, she got to tell you.”
“Water under the bridge,” said Julian.
Otis’s breathing was shallow. “Kenni-Ann was in New York when Bobby was born. I’d just gotten in from L.A.—from recording Witch Doctor with Chet. My mama was after me to get married.” Otis blinked back tears. “I don’t know what you knew about me.”
Eddie said, “That you’re one of the sweetest piano players I ever heard.”
“Kenni-Ann put me on his birth certificate. Said I should show Mama, so she’d leave me alone. But Mama knew about me. Most of Harlem did. And Mama says, ‘Don’t you come here. I won’t have that sin under my roof.’ I went and got good and fucked up. Kenni-Ann jetted off to Paris with Bobby, and I didn’t—”
Eddie said, “It wasn’t on you to tell. Let it go.”
“I wrote Mama a letter when I got here, but she hasn’t . . .”
Tears began rolling from Otis’s eyes. Julian dabbed at them with his hankie.
“Mama never forgave me for getting my brother lynched. And Daddy, he died from it.”
Eddie said, “Derrick was murdered. And not by you.”
Otis gazed at Julian, the air whistling in and out of his lungs. “If I hadn’t gone swimmin’— Jesus . . . it hurts to breathe.”