More laughs.
“But if she don’t go down with this one y’all can call me Dolly-Girl Peaches.”
He showed his teeth and reached his right hand back as far as he could. And threw another arm punch.
I heard, “Well, kiddo, here’s our chance.…”
I planted my feet and threw all my weight into a uppercut aimed at Dolly’s belly.
He ran right into it.
If his spine hadn’t gotten in the way, my fist would’ve poked a hole clean through his back! He grabbed his stomach and dropped. First his knees, then the rest of him fell like a mighty oak. He rolled onto his back.
Father also told us, “Press the advantage. One good punch doesn’t mean the fight is over. A wounded animal is more dangerous than any other kind.”
I sat on Dolly’s chest and grabbed his hair. “Dolly Peaches, I’ll stay here until you apologize for everything.” I looked at Clarice. “Keep track of how many times he has to apologize.”
I dug my fingers into Dolly’s hair. “First you will apologize for hurting my brother, then you’re going to apologize for talking about my father, who did actually eat some bugs but did it for a very selfless and noble reason, then for calling Mrs. Needham a cow, then for mispronouncing my name on purpose, then for that horrible poem, which wasn’t anything close to being a limerick.”
Clarice held up five fingers. “What about for calling you Number Two?”
I said, “That’s too immature to even think about. Five will do.”
Dolly’s eyes were rimmed with tears and his nose streamed a disgusting river. His mouth opened and shut, just like one of those out-of-luck, soon-to-be-fried catfish Father used to bring home from the river. He tried to say something over the mocking laughs from the crowd.
I raised my arm over my head. “Hush!”
And they listened! The crowd turned into a pack of librarians as the “Shhhs” started at the front row and washed back.
I leaned close so I could hear Dolly Peaches. He half-gasped, “Sorry … sorry … sorry … sorry … sorry.” Five times!
Then he whispered, “Oh, please, get me a am-bo-lamps, sweet baby Jesus, I’m dying here.”
Jimmie stood up. The blood of the Malones was pouring from a cut on his forehead. His face got tighter and tighter and he was just as angry as he’d been scared a second before. He looked right at me. “Why, Deza? Why?” He pushed his way through the crowd and disappeared.
Clarice said, “Deza! Let’s go! Looks like Dolly-Girl here has had enough.”
I love that girl!
She dragged me through the crowd to go pick up my books.
As soon as we were far enough away she whispered, “Oh, Deza! Did you see the look on Dolly’s face? He is close to dying. We’ll just have to go on the lam! I hear there’s a place just outside of town where we can hop a freight train and be in California in two weeks.”
She looked around to make sure no one was listening. “I have a cousin in San Diego who was tried for murder and got off, I’m sure he’ll help us to—”
“Clarice Anne Johnson! Would you be still for a minute, please! Dolly isn’t going to die, he’s just like all the other bullies, a big nothing. Besides, I can’t for the life of me understand how a boy would have the nerve to be a bully when he’s been forced to go through life with a name like Dolly Peaches! What on earth was his mother thinking? And Clarice, why have so many of your relatives been charged with murder?”
She ignored my question. “Oh, Deza, you were so brave! You must have been terrified! Look, your hands are still shaking. And you’re crying!”
She grabbed my right hand and I noticed how terribly it trembled.
The real reason I was shaking dawned on me like a cold, lonely sun coming up on a frozen February Gary morning. This wasn’t something new. This didn’t have a thing to do with being scared. This was the same way I felt when I’d get to the end of a really good book. I was shaking now because I really, really liked what had just happened!
I loved how I had raised my arm like I was carrying a magical sword and all the little thugs got quiet. They parted for me and Clarice like the Red Sea did for Moses! But most of all I loved knowing that when something was happening to someone, I could do more than wring my hands, I could strike back!
I loved those feelings at the same time I hated them.
Fighting is wrong and very unladylike, but worse than that, by gut-punching the biggest bully at Lincoln Woods School I had humiliated Jimmie. And even though I’d stopped him from being hurt and maybe even murdered, I now saw a very scary side of myself.
Brain number two was starting to take over.
All I could hope was that Jimmie would understand that I was trying to rescue him.
All I could hope was that the crown of being biggest bully wouldn’t automatically come to me, because, even though I had really enjoyed beating that million-tooth monster, that crown would rest uneasy on my head.
We stopped at the library, then left, too worried and excited to sit and read. I walked Clarice to her house, we did our motto, then I ran to see if Jimmie had made it home.
Jimmie was sitting on the couch with a pencil and piece of paper. He raised the paper to cover his face. This was something I wasn’t going to put up with.
“Look, I’m sorry if I did anything wrong, but I just couldn’t stand there and watch. Who knows what Dolly Peaches would have done to you? Besides, it was just a lucky punch, I’ll bet you anything the next time I see him he’s going to pulverize me.”
Jimmie sounded very serious and rough. “He’ll have to go through me first.”
I covered my mouth but a laugh slipped out anyway.
Jimmie said from behind the paper, “Yeah, by the time he finishes pounding me into the ground he’ll be too tired to fight and you can give him another ticket to Kicked-Your-Butt, U.S.A.”
We both laughed. Jimmie had forgiven me.
I pulled the paper away from his face. He had stuck a piece of tape on the place where Dolly Peaches had cut his forehead.
“Here, let me see that.” There was a one-inch gash on his forehead that ran down into his left eyebrow.
“Jimmie, you didn’t cover the whole cut, it’s not going to heal right, it’ll leave a big scar.”
“Really?”
Jimmie thinks scars make him look older and tougher. I went to the bathroom to get the tape, the gauze, and the five-hundred-year-old brownish-red bottle of Mercurochrome.
I gently pulled at one corner of the tape. He twisted his face. “Naw, sis, that’s too slow. When you’re ’bout to do something that hurts, do it fast. Get it over with. Give it a good snatch.”
I said, “I’m going to count to three, then pull it, OK? One, two …” I closed my eyes and yanked the piece of tape before I got to three. It held on way too long.
There was so much eyebrow on the tape that it looked like a furry white-and-red caterpillar with a million skinny black legs sticking out of it. I hid it behind me and looked at my poor brother.
The cut was zigging off in a new direction. Fresh blood was pooling up and trickling down around his eye.
“Well, Mr. James Edward Malone, you’re always praying for horrible scars, and now you’ve got one. That’s going to need stitches for sure.”
He forgot to deepen his voice and almost squeaked, “Nah, sis, just tape it up, I’ll be fine.”
“This is going to sting. Should I bring a washrag for you to bite on?”
“That’s only for white cowboys. I’m from Gary, I’m tougher than that.”
I dabbed a little of the Mercurochrome into a piece of gauze and pressed it onto Jimmie’s cut. He made a sound like a cat having its tail stepped on. I cut ten skinny strips of tape and pulled both sides of the cut together. By the time I finished, Jimmie was breathing like he’d run a mile. The cut looked a lot better.
He went into the bathroom to see what I’d done. A normal person would’ve been very mad at the new upside-down V t
hat ran into their eyebrow and up on their forehead.
He came back grinning. “Wow! This looks great, Deza! Thanks a million!” He hugged me.
“You’re welcome.”
Which is probably not the right thing to say to someone who you just scarred for life.
Chapter Nine
The Gary Iron-Head Dogs Meet the Chicky-Bar Giants
I was on the couch trying to read, sitting so I could keep my eye on the clock in the kitchen. So many good things were going to happen today. It was the first day of vacation and our baseball team, the Gary Iron-Head Dogs, was playing a team from Michigan for first place in the Negro American League! The knock I’d been waiting for came from the screen door.
She was right on time.
“Come in, Clarice!”
We hugged.
“Oh, Deza, have you been outside? It’s a beautiful day for the game!”
“I know, I can’t wait! Jimmie says Pedro Two-Toes’ arm is OK and he might pitch!”
“Then we really don’t need to go to the game, do we? That’s a guaranteed win!”
“Clarice, I wouldn’t miss this game for the world! Let’s go.”
We hooked arms and started toward the library. We would read until quarter to noon, then leave for the park. The game was at one and we’d have to be early if we wanted good seats.
Clarice said, “So, is Jimmie going to the game too?”
Thinking about poor Clarice’s crush on Jimmie made my skin twitch like a horse’s when a fly lands on it. I love my brother, but ick! “His face looks like he got run over by a train!”
She gasped. “Oh, no! That’s not going to stop him from coming, is it?”
I rolled my eyes. “No, Clarice, Jimmie said they asked him to sing before the game.”
She said, “Oh, I hope he’s OK, the poor dear.”
I thought the same thing about her. I know you’re supposed to love and accept your friends and family the way they are, and not give them a whole bunch of suggestions to make them better, even if they need a ton of help. But this summer I’d make Clarice see how crazy it is to look at Jimmie that way.
Yuck!
The wall at the entrance to the library had a huge new sign on it.
GOD BLESS THE PRIDE OF AMERICA,
THE BROWN BOMBER, JOE LOUIS!
One of the librarians had painted a big picture of the boxer. He was in his underpants saluting a American flag with a hundred white people waving and carrying signs around him.
A pair of boxing gloves hung from a hook on one side of the painting. On the other side was a American flag. Underneath was a gold crown and: OUR CHAMPION OF THE WORLD!
Clarice said, “Boxing gloves? In the library?”
I said, “I’m mortifried too.”
Mrs. Ashton, the friendliest white librarian, pushed a cart by us. “Good morning, Deza, Clarice. Isn’t it exciting?”
We said, “Hello, Mrs. Ashton, how are you?”
She said, “I’m about to explode! You two must be very proud.”
Clarice said, “Ma’am?”
“Oh, yes, you need to be very proud. Joe Louis is such a credit to your race.”
Clarice said, “Any new good books, Mrs. Ashton?”
“Stop by my desk, I have something for each of you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Mrs. Ashton said, “Woo-hoo! Go, Brown Bomber!”
Once Mrs. Ashton pushed her cart into the next room Clarice said, “Oh, Deza, I’ll die if she’s got books about boxing for us.”
There was no escaping that doggone fight.
Every single table in the library had a one-foot-tall cardboard cutout of Joe Louis standing in the middle of it. At his feet were the words WE LOVE YOU, JOE! A little pair of red boxing gloves was tied to each cutout.
“Ugh! Let’s go to the chairs in the stacks.”
Even there a banner read, GIVE HIM HECK, JOE!
I said, “Heck? In the library?”
Maybe it was because this was the fourth time I was reading Huckleberry Finn, but my eyes kept going up to the little cutout paper doll Joe Louis.
In every picture I’d seen he looked like such a unhappy man. He must be wishing this fight was over as much as me and Clarice. He must be very nervous. I looked at the tiny boxing gloves.
I whispered, “Clarice?”
She was settled into her book.
“Clarice?”
She looked up. “Huh?”
I whispered, “Why do they call these things boxing gloves? Every glove I’ve ever seen has five fingers, the only thing that has just a thumb is a mitten!”
Clarice giggled very quietly into her hand, but a woman two tables away said, “Shhh!”
She sounded like a steam radiator starting up.
I whispered, “Boxing is such a stupid sport that they don’t even give things the right name. Those things they call shorts look just like my brother’s underdrawers!”
Clarice covered my lips with her hand and I covered hers with mine, but our laughs squeezed out of the sides of our mouths.
The shushing woman slammed her book shut, got up and walked toward the front desk. I said, “We better go.”
When we walked by the front desk, the woman pointed.
“That’s them!”
Mrs. Ashton said, “Oh, those two! They’re just giddy with excitement about the fight!”
Outside, Clarice turned around and hollered back into the library, “Go, Brown Bomber!”
Someone inside hollered back, “Whip that Nazi good! We love you, Joe!”
A bunch of whoops and hollers came from the library. Even Mrs. Ashton yelled again.
We ran all the way to the park, laughing so hard that our one heart almost exploded!
We were at the park almost two hours early and half of the bleacher seats were already taken! People were even starting to line up along the outfield fences. It was like a carnival!
Clarice said, “My goodness, Deza, everyone looks so nice! We should’ve worn our church dresses.”
We climbed into the bleachers and found seats in the very top row, nice and high. I went back down to where people were getting scorecards. Some of the time they’re free and some of the time they charge for them.
I asked a man who was walking away from the line, “Excuse me, sir, are the scorecards free?”
“No, sweetheart, it’s a penny for a card and a pencil.”
I said, “Thank you,” and started back to Clarice.
He said, “Wait a minute, ain’t you Roscoe’s daughter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I didn’t recognize you at first ’cause you ain’t got a book tucked under your arm.”
I knew the man. Father used to play horseshoes with him.
I smiled. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, Mr. Dukes.”
“Here, I’ve got a spare card you can have, and a pencil too.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dukes!” He got back in the line.
The scorecard said that the other team was from Grand Rapids, Michigan, a city geologically located a hundred miles northeast from Gary. As I climbed back to the top of the bleachers both teams came out on the field.
I handed Clarice the card. “Pedro Two-Toes Torres is pitching. Grand Rapids has some southpaw named Lewis.”
Clarice said, “Mr. Two-Toes’s arm is really better?”
The man next to us said, “According to him it is, but you can’t believe a word he says.”
A woman in front of us said, “That’s the truth. I grew up with him back in Mississippi. Back when he was Peter Thompson, before he discovered he was a Cuban and changed his name.”
People all around us laughed.
The players from Grand Rapids and Gary too were leaning against the fence along the first-base line, looking out into the crowd.
People in the bleachers started standing up and looking back.
Clarice shouted, “It’s Jimmie!” She leaned into me. “Oh, Deza, he’s so good-
looking!”
I nearly choked.
Jimmie was standing on a picnic table in the center of a growing circle of people.
Clarice said to the man next to us, “Sir, could you watch our books and save our seats for us?”
“I sure will.”
She pulled me down the bleachers and we headed to where Jimmie stood above the crowd. His eyes were closed. There were so many people standing around the table we couldn’t get very close.
Clarice hopped up and down, waving and yelling, “Jimmie! Yoo-hoo! Over here!”
I knew Jimmie couldn’t hear her. He was settling into his song.
He cleared his throat, took three deep breaths, held the last one, then sang,
“Oh, say, can you see …”
I’m not sure what’s more surprising about the first notes of any song Jimmie sings—what it does to me, or the changes it brings in Jimmie.
I have to close my eyes, just like he does. I can’t tolerate anything that would interfere with hearing his voice.
Listening to Jimmie brings to mind how Father used to swing me around and around by my wrists until everything became a blur, and even though I knew he was holding me, I felt like if I didn’t hang on as tight as I could I’d fly off into the sky like a arrow.
And it seems like Jimmie makes himself larger and larger as he sings. If I opened my eyes I’d see he’d grown so much that he was filling every square inch of the park. No room would be able to hold him, chairs and rugs would get crowded up against the walls.
His voice always stayed light and high-pitched and soft, but it was strong in a way that let on that there were stories behind each word.
“By the dawn’s early light …”
It felt like those words were asking you something and telling you something and blaming you for something, all at the same time.
“What so proudly we hailed
At the twilight’s last gleaming …”
He finished the anthem,
“… And the home of the brave.”
There was no sound from the baseball diamond or the bleachers or the people bunched around the picnic table. Then a explosion of cheers and a huge throwing-up of hands.
The Mighty Miss Malone Page 6