I said, “Go on, Jimmie! Mr. Zee, do you know ‘Motherless Child’?”
“You ain’t gonna be able to name no spiritual I don’t know. Young man, you up to giving these folks a little happiness?”
Jimmie slipped his feet into his brogans.
He said, “I ain’t never sung with no one playing a instrument, don’t we have to practice some first? How’m I gonna know when I’m suppose to come in and when I’m suppose to be quiet?”
“Don’t worry none ’bout that. It’s my job to know when to blow and when to shut up.”
I pulled on my shoes. Me and Jimmie were smiling like a couple of Cheshire cats on Christmas Day in Gary.
I said, “We’ve enjoyed your playing ever since you came, sir. I told Jimmie and Mother that right along with Miss Toland, our Sunday school piano player back in Gar— back in Lancaster, you were the best musician I’d ever heard.”
I slapped Jimmie’s head. “We told you you were great! And you just didn’t believe it!”
As we walked toward the fire Mr. Zee put his hand on Jimmie’s shoulder. “When you working with other musicians you got to know your part. If it all come together right it’s like that stew they made for supper. Everything blended just right. Waren’t too much of any one thing. When you and me play together, I’m suppose to make sure ain’t too much mouth organ and too little you. You the meat in the stew, I ain’t nothing but the salt.”
There were about seven people still at the fire. Some were leaned up against each other close to sleep.
Mr. Zee sat on a stump. “What key you sing in?”
Jimmie said, “Key?”
The man smiled. “Hum the first bit of ‘Shenandoah’ again.”
Jimmie did.
Mr. Zee blew some notes that blended in real nice with Jimmie.
He said, “It’s on you, young man, ‘Motherless Child.’ ”
Jimmie was staring into the fire, waiting until he was good and ready.
Some people started giving each other sideways looks, thinking he’d chickened out.
After the longest while Jimmie took a deep breath.
“Someti-i-i-i-imes I fe-e-el …”
The gooseflesh jumped through my palms as Jimmie sang:
“… like a … motherless chi-ild.
Sometimes I feel like a motherless chi-i-i-i-ild …”
A woman yelled, “Yes, Lord!”
Mr. Zee brought the harmonica in, and it was a perfect match for Jimmie’s whispery voice.
A man said, “Testify, brother!”
Mr. Zee’s playing danced around Jimmie’s words and reminded me of something. In Gary on Friday nights, after dinner, a lot of the Mexican people and the black people would go to the church hall for storytelling.
I was shy when I first met the people from Mexico. They didn’t look like us and they didn’t look like white people. They had skin like ours and hair like white people’s, only lots stronger and darker. They spoke a different language too.
Father was the best American storyteller, and a woman named Senior Rita Morales was the best one from Mexico. Miss Morales was a small-boned woman but when she spoke she was like Jimmie, she seemed to grow. She’d use her hands, and if she was talking about a star she’d reach up and gently pluck it. Then she’d look in her hand, like the star was resting there. If you followed her glance you could see it too, you could even see a shadow on the ground underneath.
Some superstitious Americans stopped coming because they said Senior Rita Morales was hypnotizing everybody, and who knew what she’d have folks doing once she got their minds?
Mother pooh-poohed them and said Senior Rita Morales was someone who could have words do magical things.
Miss Morales told the stories in her own language and in English both, and you could still understand everything! Even if you didn’t know the word, something about the way she’d unfold her hands, or the way she’d smile, or the way she’d look at you when she talked let you know what she meant. If you waited it would come.
Jimmie and Mr. Zee were doing the same thing with their music. They finished the song and Mr. Zee said, “Uh, uh, uh!” Jimmie grinned.
A white woman said in a dreamy voice, “My Gawd! Danny, go get your daddy’s gee-tar!”
The white man Danny was sitting with put his hands on the boy’s shoulder. “Rest easy, son. Thank you, Connie, but we’re gonna let that gee-tar be tonight. I ain’t got no intentions of being the alley cat at a gathering of lions.”
In the middle of the third song I jumped when a hand lighted on my shoulder.
“Boo!”
“Oh, Mother!” I pulled her to sit next to me. “Do you see how they’re watching Jimmie?”
Mother hugged her knees.
Jimmie would say a song and Mr. Zee would nod and play.
I poked her. “He isn’t being even a little bit shy!”
“Singing belongs to him as much as writing does to you, Deza. Plus talking, we can’t forget how comfortable you are with that.” Mother loved teasing me for my verboseness.
People clapped as Jimmie walked over to us. “Can I stay awhile and talk to Mr. Saw-Bone? Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
I answered for Mother. I know her well enough that talking to me is like talking to her. Least I thought so up to this time. “Oh, yes! Stay as long as you’d like.”
That wasn’t how Mother would’ve answered. Her eyes widened just the littlest bit. But she said, “Yes, Jimmie, have a good time.”
“Wow, sis, hasn’t this been the best night ever?”
I laughed. “Indeed it has, indeed it has!”
Mother said, “Let’s go down to the creek, Deza, the sound of the water is so soothing.” She wasn’t mad, but there was a sadness in her as we turned away from the dying fire.
“Mother, was I wrong?”
“No, Deza. It’s fine that he stays. He works like a grown man so it’s only right that he starts living like one too. Much as I may want to, I can’t hold him forever.”
I did what all good conversationalists do when they don’t like the direction a talk is going, I changed the subject. “Tell me what it was like when you and Father met.” That always made Mother light up.
She held my arm tighter and smiled. “Oh, Deza! We had that kind of happiness that can’t help but draw attention to itself. We weren’t trying to show off or anything, but there wasn’t a bushel basket big enough or thick enough for us to keep our happiness hidden under.”
I loved the times when Mother talked about Father courting her. The man she talked about who was serious and shy seemed different than the happy, jokey man I knew.
I dropped my head onto her shoulder and squeezed my arm around her waist. I knew all the answers but I asked anyway. “Were you two excited when me and Jimmie were born?”
“Your father told me, ‘If I ruled the world, Peg, I’d give every brown-skinned baby a note as soon as they were born. It would read, Hold tight, because the only thing guaranteed is, one way or the other, you’re going to have a very interesting, very busy life.’
“I said to him, ‘Roscoe, that could be said about any baby.’ He smiled and said, ‘Maybe, but not to the same extent.’ ”
Mother and I laughed and teased all the way down the trail.
At the creek I squatted down to toss a twig into the water. I watched the twig bob along. It spun twice like it was trying to decide which way it should go, then bobbed off downstream.
I could hear the smile in Mother’s voice. “You know one of the things I love most about my baby girl? You know one of the things I’m so thankful for?” I looked over my shoulder at her.
“I love the fact that you’re so much smarter than I am. Took him a while to catch on, but you’re smarter than your father too.”
I studied her face. How could I be smarter than the smartest two people I knew?
“Really. No use pretending, Deza. I’ll never forget the first time we realized how special you are. You never talked until you wer
e almost three years old. Other than a lot of laughing and some crazy noises that your father called squinking, you hadn’t said a peep.
“We told each other we weren’t worried, though, because you were such a watcher. We could see you were understanding and taking things in. So we had strong hope that you were fine.”
Mother smiled. “I admit I was a little worried, but your daddy said, ‘Uh-uh, I got the feeling this one will talk when she’s good and ready, and once she does, watch out!’ ”
“So what was my first word?”
“ ‘Why?’ ”
“Because I’m curious, Mother.”
She slapped my arm. “No, silly, I wasn’t asking ‘why?’ ‘Why?’ was your first word. Your grandmother Malone was visiting from Flint and she was moaning about the fact that we only had milk for her coffee and not cream. It went on forever. You were sitting in my lap and she said, ‘What’s a woman got to do to get some cream for her coffee around here? I’ve told Roscoe again and again that nonsense like this is why I stay in Flint.’ ” Mother laughed. “You piped up clear as day, ‘Why don’t you go to the store and buy some?’ We wouldn’t have been more shocked if the salt shaker told us it wanted to go for a walk.”
“That was the first thing I said?”
“No, not ‘that.’ It was ‘why?’ ”
I splashed her. I hadn’t seen her acting silly for the longest. “Mother!”
“Your grandmother was not amused. She wanted to skin you alive. You always frightened her. She said she never liked the way you watched everything like you were a spy and that if she was raising you she’d get that smart-mouthedness out of you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.
“Imagine that, instead of being amazed and thrilled that you were saying full, grammatically correct sentences, she was mad because you hadn’t called her ma’am! And your father was right, you talked nonstop the rest of the day. I couldn’t wait for him to get home to hear!
“When he got off work and came in the front door I told you not to say anything to him till he talked to you first so we could surprise him.
“He picked you up, said something ridiculous like, ‘How’s Daddy’s Darling Daughter Deza doing on this delightful dusky day?’ and child, he nearly dropped you like you were on fire when you said, ‘Fine, thank you, but Gram is mad at me, Daddy. She wants cream for her coffee, not milk.’
“He bawled like a baby, and you wiped his tears and told him, ‘Don’t cry, Daddy, she’s mad at Mommy and me, not you.’ He’d been scared to death that there was something wrong. That was when we first knew what a special child we had.”
Mother leaned down and splashed some of the creek water on her face. Seeing Mother like this was beautiful.
Jimmie was right, this had been the best night ever.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Losing Jimmie
I couldn’t tell what had been said but I went from deep asleep to wide awake. It was still dark outside. Mother was sitting up, looking at the closed gingham curtain with her mouth half open. Jimmie’s blanket was empty.
“Mother?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Someone shouted.”
We asked each other, “Where’s Jimmie?”
The shantytown was coming alive, not like it did most mornings, with gentle sounds, tonight it was feet hitting hard on the ground and quick broke-off conversations.
I jumped to the door and looked outside. The fire had burned itself into a dull orange glow.
People were snatching their things and tossing them into blankets and sacks. Mostly men.
One ran by our door.
I asked him, “What’s wrong?”
“Those dirty dogs are trying to sneak the train out early!”
I looked back. Mother had spread her blanket and was tossing everything we owned onto it.
“It’s not the police, Mother! They’re taking the train out early.”
More and more men and boys ran past our door. The little boy I’d done dishes with stumbled past, looking more lost than he had before, squeezing a ratty old suitcase to his chest.
I said, “Hey!”
But he didn’t hear me.
I stepped back into the shack. Mother reached out her hand. She was holding a folded page from my notebook.
“Not another drawing.”
“Worse.”
I took the paper and walked out of the shack where there was more light.
Dear Mother and Deza,
mr. Z thinks we can fine werk in chicargo or new yerk I no youd want to stop me but a mans got to do what a mans got to do I have to try plees understand I will rite and sen all I urn to genurel delivry in flint I promise I sware rite to me genurel delifery in chicargo or may be new yerk sis keep up the job in skool you make us all prowd and Ill make you prowd to I sware please don’t wory I love both of you Jimmie Malone.
Mother said, “I knew he wouldn’t stay much longer.”
“We have to stop him! Jimmie can’t be on his own, we don’t even know who Mr. Sawbuck Zee is.” I pulled my shoes on. Mother hadn’t moved.
“Deza, once one of these Malones decides it’s time to go nothing can stop him.”
I stood in the door. “Can’t I try? What harm would that do?”
“Go ahead, sweetheart, but be careful.”
“When I’m done with that Jimmie Malone he’ll be wishing he never thought of leaving us!” I stepped outside our shack. I couldn’t believe how many people were living in this shantytown. I’d never seen everyone at the same time.
I started in the direction the men were running. I began going faster and faster, it felt like something was coming off of the running men, pushing and pulling at me to keep up. Someone would bump into me, say, “ ’Scuse me,” then hurry on. Once I was running all-out the crowd got thicker and thicker and just before we crossed out of the woods a explosion of sparks and smoke came from the right. We all stopped and looked at the reddish fireball that danced over the tops of the trees.
A man yelled, “They’re firing it up!”
The stream of people began moving forward.
When I broke out of the trees it was like I’d walked into a battle from King Arthur’s times.
The freight train stretched out like a gigantic dragon. What looked like a black-and-orange smoky genie squatted down over the top of the engine’s smokestack.
People stood waiting, but it wasn’t a patient wait, it was more like the spring on a clock that was being wound tighter and tighter. Then I saw why.
About ten policemen stood with billy clubs all along the sides of the train cars.
The crouching genie exploded up and out of the smokestack, as tall and dangerous as a volcano erupting, dancing over the stack with a roar that made the hair on my neck tingle.
Everyone looked at the dark cloud and river of sparks that belched out of the smokestack, then turned their eyes back on the police. At that second the spring had been wound as tight as it could go and snapped.
A policeman threw down his club and stepped aside. Then two more did. Then the rest.
I hung on to a big tree as the men ran past me toward the train.
The train’s wheels groaned and the cars banged and clanked ahead. Those sounds made the men move faster. There was no way in the world I’d be able to find Jimmy amongst all of these people.
I promised myself to remember everything about the last time we’d talked and how happy he’d been. I grabbed hold of the last thing Jimmie had said to me. “Wow, sis! Hasn’t this been the best night ever?”
Whatever else happens, this is what I’ll always remember about Jimmie. Not the twitches and jerks he does when he’s trying to sleep, not the way his expression never changes when Mother shakes her head to let us know there’s been no word from Father, not the sadness in his eyes ever since we figured out he was going to stay the size of a twelve-year-old-boy his whole life.
No. I’m going to remember the way he looked so proud and lit-up and carefree a few h
ours ago when he ran back to talk to Mr. Sawbuck Zee. It was like he was driving his rocket ship.
When the train disappeared and I couldn’t hear the chugging of the engine, sounds came from the direction of the shantytown that had me running toward our shack faster than I’d run away.
I yelled, “Mother!” and had to dodge three children who were coming from the shantytown like they’d seen a ghost. A woman screamed over and over as gunshots bounced around in the woods.
“Mother!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Back on the Road
I ran toward the orange glow right in front of our shack. The fire had grown much larger. Something flew through the air and landed in the middle of the flames. The fire whooshed and sparks flew up like a swarm of fireflies and flickered in the dark sky. A big-boned white man was throwing the sides of people’s homes into the fire. Something that looked like a wildly flapping pack of pigeons flew straight into the sky, then landed in the fire. It was Miss Stew’s Reader’s Digests.
I looked over toward our place. The blue gingham curtain was still hanging down.
I started toward the shack to see if Mother was inside, then stopped as gunshots banged out twice more. I ducked. A white man on the other side of the fire was pointing down with a gun and shooting. He reached his gun down into the big stew kettle and fired. He was ruining it so no one could use it.
I pushed the curtain aside. For the second time Mother was putting everything back into the blanket. She’d already bundled and tied the one that I’d carry.
“Thank goodness you’re back! Move quickly, I might be able to get us back into Flint.”
“Might? Can’t we just take the road there?”
“The police said no one’s to go into Flint. They’ll block all the ways into the city.”
Mother tied the four corners of her blanket together and the bundle clanged as she threw it over her shoulder. She gave me a tired smile. “OK, Miss Malone, once more into the breach.”
I picked up my bundle and slung it over my shoulder. Mother had made mine half as heavy as hers. “We’ll take turns with the big one,” I said.
The Mighty Miss Malone Page 16