Crow

by Barbara Wright

  I stood perfectly still and didn’t say a word, praying she wouldn’t get up. She didn’t.

  “That Mrs. Felton don’t get herself exercised none over the brutality our womens endure at the hand of the white man. This mixing done humiliated us, tore our families apart, and some society lady has the nerve to suggest that their precious womanhood be at risk. That woman be a hypocrite!” Boo Nanny said.

  “Where did you learn that word?” Daddy asked, impressed.

  “My grandboy. And come next year, I be spelling it as well.”

  The hubbub over the editorial forced the Record to move its office from above the saloon by the wharf. That Saturday, I helped Daddy move the newspaper to its new home on Seventh Street, above the Love and Charity Benevolent Society, a Negro organization that raised money for hospitals and sick people.

  We arrived early at the Water Street office and woke up the crumpled white sailor who had spent the night underneath the outdoor stairs that led to the Record.

  Reporters, compositors, and pressmen all turned out to help so the paper would not have to suspend publication for more than one day. Everyone wore work clothes except for Mr. Manly, who wore a coat, tie, starched shirt, and hat.

  It took several wagonloads to move the typewriters, desks, and office supplies. The last thing to go was the monster press. Now silent, it required six men to hoist it onto the stairs, slide it along the railings, and lift it onto the wagon. I thought of the press as a big, burly black brute.

  Around eleven, I took a break and sat on the edge of the porch of the saloon. A stocky man with a sandy-colored handlebar mustache was sweeping before the saloon opened at noon. He wore a white shirt with garters above the elbow to keep his cuffs from getting dirty. He smiled at me, and I moved to the corner so he could sweep under the spot where I’d been sitting.

  A white businessman approached him and asked where he could find Mr. Manly.

  The saloon keeper pointed out the man in a suit and hat by the wagon.

  “No, I’m looking for a colored man,” the businessman said.

  “That is Mr. Manly. He just looks white,” he said, and then called the editor over to the porch.

  The man—evidently the building owner—had come to collect September’s rent.

  “We won’t be here in September,” Mr. Manly said.

  “The lease runs through the end of the year, and I expect for you to do the honorable thing,” the owner said.

  “I would have gladly stayed in place and paid rent for the rest of the year, but because of the outcry over the editorial, you requested that I leave immediately, and I have honored that request. You can’t ask me to break the lease and then hold me to it at the same time.”

  “Well, I never …,” the owner sputtered.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a paper to move. Good day.”

  “Did you hear that? Did you hear the way that colored spoke to me?” the owner said after Mr. Manly left.

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean. Mr. Manly has never been anything if not polite,” the saloon keeper said.

  “Give them a little power and that’s what you get. Insolence like that deserves a good thrashing.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m not following. You asked him to vacate the building, and he complied with your request. What is your complaint?”

  “That uppity attitude.”

  “I’ve collected rent for you for the past year, and Mr. Manly has never once been late. He’s as trustworthy as any man I know.”

  “As trustworthy as any colored man you know,” the owner corrected him.

  “That’s not what I said,” the saloon keeper insisted. He picked up his broom and continued sweeping, and I slunk away, unnoticed.

  SIX

  More than anything in the world, I wanted a bike. With my own wheels, I could go to the ocean anytime I wanted. I could also visit Daddy at the newspaper, come home at second recess, or ride to the forest and collect plants for Boo Nanny’s potions. With a bike, I might be Lewis’s best friend again. He went riding with Johnny, and since I didn’t have wheels, I was left out. Christmas was only four months away, but I knew there wasn’t a chance I’d get wheels.

  When I was younger, I thought Santy Claw was a cheapskate man in a red suit who didn’t care for the likes of me but favored rich folks like Lewis, who got a bike when he asked for one. When I found out that old Santy Claw was none other than my daddy, I was relieved, because I knew with certainty that no matter what I asked for, I would get socks and a flannel shirt and maybe an orange.

  The last week of August, I went to the hardware store to check out their wheels. The hardware store sold screws and nails, paint, fishing tackle, ropes, fishing nets, sails, and anchors. But I was only interested in the bikes.

  I went inside the store without stopping at the counter to gaze at the big glass jars of red licorice sticks, peppermint candies, and lemon drops. In the back corner stood four shiny new Eagle bicycles on sale. The most expensive model was $30. It had a lantern, a leather seat, and baskets on the back. The cheapest model was $18. Even at the sale price, I could never afford it.

  As I ran my hand over the cold shiny handlebars, the burly owner approached. He had curly muttonchops in the shape of New Jersey. (Lewis had a map in his room, and I had memorized all forty-five states.)

  Mr. New Jersey wore red sleeve garters above the elbow. His chin rolled over his stiff collar like the top of a muffin. He wore wireless glasses like Daddy, but his did not make him look smart.

  “Stand back. Don’t touch the merchandise,” the man said in a gruff voice, and I stepped away, backing into a barrel of nails and causing a few to jump over the sides. I swept them into my hand and returned them to the barrel. Mr. New Jersey watched me closely to make sure I didn’t pocket any. He took the cake for pure low-down meanness.

  At that moment, a father and son approached the bikes. I stood in the corner by the crab traps and watched the little blond boy. He wore the kind of sailor outfit that was the style among the better classes. With all that fair skin and light hair, he could have been a ghost. He was maybe a couple of years younger than me—I’m not good at guessing the age of white boys. But I recognized the spark in his eyes as he gazed in awe and wonder at the bikes.

  “May I help you?” the owner asked. He could be polite when he wanted to.

  “We’re just looking, thanks,” the father said.

  Mr. New Jersey frowned in my direction and said, “Is he bothering you? I can ask him to leave.”

  “No, he’s fine,” the father said.

  I listened as the owner described the features of the newest models, which were even more beautiful than the bikes Lewis and Johnny owned.

  The little sailor mounted the most expensive bike. It was too big for him, and his feet barely touched the ground.

  “Would you like to take the bike for a spin?” the owner asked.

  “No, we’re just seeing what’s available for now,” the father said, and winked. I knew in my heart that the boy would wake up on Christmas Day and find a bike under the tree. He was still too young to know the true identity of Santy Claw.

  The boy ran his chubby hands along the handlebars, leaving fingerprints all over the shiny metal.

  When they left the store, I knew I had to move on before the owner yelled at me. On the way out, I saw, taped on the glass of the door, a poster advertising a contest. A free bicycle would be given to the person under eighteen who came up with the best advertisement for an Eagle bicycle.

  I felt my heart quicken. I had a chance to win a bike! I wouldn’t have to be left out when Lewis and Johnny rode their bikes. The deadline was in three weeks.

  The contest would be judged on the idea and the slogan, not drawing ability, which was a good thing, since I couldn’t draw worth a lick. But I loved words. I liked to play with them, learn new ones, and put them together in different ways. I felt confident that I could come up with a good advertisement.

 
School started in September, but the first month, I didn’t have much homework and had plenty of time to work on the project. Over the next few weeks, I tried and discarded many ideas. The best ones I tried out on both Boo Nanny and Daddy. Their opinions were always so far apart that I figured if I came up with something that pleased both of them, I’d have a winner for sure. I read my favorite slogan aloud to Boo Nanny: “Eagle bikes. The best mechanics, the best material, the best model, the best adjustment.”

  “Too many words,” she said. “Folks ain’t gone trust you if you carry on till you ain’t got a breath left. A man tells me how honest he is, I keep an eagle eye on my valuables.”

  “Eagle eye,” I mused. “I wonder if there’s something there.”

  She shook her head. “Too common.”

  Though we were making progress in our lessons, Boo Nanny could barely read. I figured that was why she preferred a slogan with fewer words. But Daddy said, “She’s right. The shorter the better. Every word has to count.”

  They never agreed on anything, but they were both in perfect harmony that my slogan was not up to snuff.

  Over the next few weeks, I tried out many more ideas, and nothing seemed to catch their fancy. Finally, two days before the deadline, I came up with an idea that everyone liked. I sketched it out and took it to the hardware store that same afternoon.

  I was relieved to find behind the counter a nice-looking woman with light brown hair in a bun. She had a small waist and big shoulders that made her head look small.

  I tried to keep my hand from shaking as I held out my entry. It had taken me three weeks to come up with five words. That was a word and two-thirds per week. At that rate—eighty-seven words per year—it would take me four years to finish a single newspaper article. Daddy wrote them in one day. Writing was definitely not the profession for me.

  “This is for the contest,” I said in a weak voice.

  “Pardon?” the woman said, ignoring the folded piece of paper I clutched in my hand.

  I repeated myself, a little louder.

  She moved her eyebrows together, still not understanding.

  “For the bicycle,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said in sudden recognition. Then she paused and looked concerned. “Well, I’m … Let me check on the rules. I’m not sure what kinds of people are eligible.”

  “You have to be under eighteen,” I said, pointing to the poster taped on the front door. I was six years away from the cutoff. Surely she could see that I qualified.

  “Yes, I know, but … there may be … well, there could be other restrictions. Let me see what you’ve got.”

  With shaking hands, I gave her the folded paper. She opened it and stared for what seemed like minutes. What was taking her so long? It was only five words. The picture showed a boy on a bike with wings on the back wheels. The neat block letters read: RIDE AN EAGLE AND SOAR.

  She clucked her tongue and raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Mmm. Not bad.” She peered down at me. “This is actually very clever. Did you think of this?”

  “My Boo … my grandmother helped me,” I said.

  “Your grandmother?”

  I nodded. “She only said if she liked it or not. I came up with the phrase myself.”

  “I see.”

  “So you’ll accept it?” I said.

  “This breaks my heart, but …”

  I felt bad news coming, but I held her gaze. Then she softened.

  “Just a minute. Let me check with my husband and see if we can make an exception.”

  She turned her head and raised her voice. “Fred, there’s a young man here with an entry for the bicycle contest.”

  From the stockroom came a deep voice: “The deadline’s not for another two days. Results will be posted Saturday.”

  “Yes, but … could you come out here and take a look? We have a special situation.”

  The man came out. As I feared, it was the man with sideburns shaped like New Jersey. He must have remembered me, because he took one look at me and said, “I’m sorry, but we already have too many entries.”

  “The deadline isn’t until day after tomorrow,” I said boldly.

  “There’s nothing in the rules that says …,” the woman said.

  “Judith, let me handle this.”

  He hated me because I had touched his bicycles.

  “But he’s a nice, clean young man.”

  With Sadie as a mother, I had the corner on cleanliness, for sure. Neighbors called her Shine-’em-up Sadie because her pots were so clean. But I wondered what that had to do with anything.

  “Take a look. This is quite good,” the woman said.

  “You know as well as I do that we can’t …”

  “It’s not going to hurt you to take a look,” the kind woman said.

  He took the piece of paper from her. I relaxed a little. Despite the bad drawing, I could tell that he liked it.

  “Eagles … soar. Hmmm.” He looked at me suspiciously. “Did you copy this from somewhere?”

  My mouth had totally dried out and words lodged in my throat, as if I had swallowed a handful of butterfly shells. I wanted to explain to him that I had been with Boo Nanny that very morning and had seen a hawk soaring in the sky. The slogan came to me in a flash. After trying and discarding so many ideas, I knew in an instant that I had come up with the winning slogan. But Mr. New Jersey seemed so hostile that I couldn’t get the words out. All I could do was shake my head no.

  “Are you sure?”

  I shook my head again.

  “Fred, there’s no harm in …”

  “Okay, boy. Leave the entry here. The winner will be posted on Saturday.”

  I left feeling happy. I could tell that both the husband and wife had liked my entry, and that made four adults, counting Boo Nanny and Daddy. I didn’t know who the judges were or how many other people had entered the contest, but I felt hopeful.

  I didn’t tell Lewis about the contest. My family were the only people who knew, and they warned me not to get my hopes up, but it was hard. My slogan was good. I knew it.

  The next few days passed slowly. Finally Saturday arrived, and I willed myself to stay away from the hardware store until noon. Then I walked the long way, going by the docks before swinging back around to the store. The air was filled with the unpleasant smell of pogie meal from the fertilizer factory.

  Luckily, no one was in front of the window where the winners were posted. I approached slowly. Before I even got close enough to read, I felt my body react in the same place as when I saw the hawk. Only this time, it was dark behind my rib cage, where before it was light. I didn’t win. I didn’t even get honorable mention, though a bicycle lamp wouldn’t have done me much good without a bicycle.

  The winner was a seventeen-year-old boy. His slogan was “Eagle Bicycles. Tried and True. Superior Quality. Distinctive Features.”

  I’d never buy a bicycle from an ad like that. But then again, I’d never buy a bicycle at all. Not even on sale.

  In my effort to contain the sobs, my stomach lurched as if I had the hiccups.

  I wanted to leave before anyone caught me being a bad sport, which was the worse thing you could be, in Daddy’s book. But before I could get away, the owner’s wife saw me through the window and came outside.

  “Don’t be discouraged,” she said. “You had very tough competition.”

  I wanted to reply to the kind woman, but I couldn’t speak without sobbing. So I turned my back to her and ran away as fast as I could.

  The following week, I awoke to sheets of rain slapping against the windowpanes so hard the frames shook. As I was getting dressed, Boo Nanny came to my room and told me that I had to stay home.

  “I can’t miss school,” I said. Mama and Daddy had already left for work.

  “Lord a mercy, honey, you ain’t gone out in this mess. It’s a hurricane for true.” Wind whipped the tops of the trees, and the rain fell so fast that water gushed along the road, making trenches in the s
and and shooshing brown leaves and pine needles in its flow.

  “How do you know? It could just be a hard rain.”

  “I knows a hurricane when I sees one. When the trees gets to leaning over same way like my back, I don’t need to wait for your daddy to come home with stories about roofs blown off, windows broken, flooding.”

  “It’s even more important that I go to school when it rains,” I said. The roof leaked at our school, and my new teacher, Mr. Barker, depended on me to put buckets under the drips on the second floor.

  “People gets theyself killed in hurricanes,” she said.

  “But this isn’t a hurricane,” I insisted.

  “Something be wrong with you, Cocoa Baby, if you wants to get out in this blow.”

  “I can’t miss school, I just can’t,” I pleaded. I was going for perfect attendance for the sixth year in a row.

  “Ain’t nobody but a fool goes out in a toad floater like this.”

  “A little water isn’t going to hurt me.”

  “I been out in a hurricane. It ain’t just plain ol’ wind and rain. It be a monster, like the plat-eye. It gone hop on your neck and ride you like you an ol’ mule.”

  “I’m going to school. I don’t care what you say,” I said.

  “Don’t you be talking back at me like you got no upbringing. I said you ain’t going and you ain’t going.” She stamped her foot on the floor.

  I had no choice but to stay home. It turned out not to be a hurricane, just a bad storm. I spent the day bored and sulking.

  When Daddy got home from work, I complained to him. He said he’d have a few words with Boo Nanny.

  After supper, while Mama was washing the dishes, Daddy caught Boo Nanny as she was headed out the door to church.

  “School’s important to him,” Daddy explained. “I don’t want anything to stand between him and learning. In the future, I don’t want you to keep him home from school.”

  Boo Nanny looked hurt. I was sorry I had complained to Daddy. “If you think an unlettered old crow like me can’t see the use in a good education, you be wrong. But this morning, it was blowing something awful.”