Corky's Brother (3 page)

“About the tickets, right?”

“No,” I said. “Forget the tickets. No long lectures, either. Just a question. Just one: how come you steal?”

“Oh man,” he said, laughing. “That's an easy one! Because I'm not getting what I want and when you don't get what you want, man, you got to take. Don't you know that?”

I stared at him, not sure I had heard right. He winked at me. “Enjoy the ball game, man! Say hey, Willie!” he shouted as Mays caught a fly ball, bread-basket style, for the second out. “Ain't he the sweetest!”

A minute later the game was over and the players were racing across the field toward the clubhouse in center field, trying to escape the fans who scrambled after them. “They won't get Willie,” Luther said. “He's too swift, too swift.”

When we were outside, I thanked Luther and told him how much I'd enjoyed the game. “How about a Coke or something?” I offered.

“Nah,” he said. “I got things to do.” He extended his hand quickly and I shook it, the first time we had ever done that. “Okay. You go get spiffed up and get a wife. Time you were married.” He tossed his head back and laughed. “Ain't you married yet? No, no.
Smile
, man—how you gonna get a wife, never smiling.” He started away, through the crowd. “Stay loose,” he called back. “Don't steal no fruits.”

I never questioned him again about stealing, but even if I'd wanted to, I wouldn't have had much opportunity. He didn't come to see me very often the rest of that year. When he returned to school in September of 1958 for his last year of junior high school, he had grown again. But not up. He never did go higher than the five-five or five-six he had reached by that time. He had taken up weightlifting over the summer, however, and his chest, his neck, his arms—they had all broadened incredibly. Instead of the dirty cotton and flannel shirts he had worn the two previous years, he now walked through the halls in laundry-white T-shirts, the sleeves rolled up to the shoulder, his powerful muscles exposed. There were always a half-dozen Negro boys following him around and they all dressed the way he did—white T-shirts, black chino pants, leather wrist straps, and—hanging from their necks on pieces of string—miniature black skulls.

The guidance counselor for the ninth grade came to me one day early in the term and asked me if I could give him any evidence against Luther. He claimed that Luther and his gang were going around the school, beating and torturing those students who refused to “loan” them money. All of the students, he said, were afraid to name Luther. “The kid's a born sadist,” he added. I told him I didn't know anything.

The term progressed and the stories and rumors increased. I was told that the police in Luther's neighborhood were convinced that he and his gang were responsible for a series of muggings. I tried not to believe it, but Luther all but gave me conclusive proof one afternoon right before Christmas. He came into my room at three o'clock, alone, and said he had something for me. He said he trusted me not to tell anybody about it or show it to anyone. I said I wouldn't.

“Okay, man—here it is—” His eyes leapt around the room, frenzied, delirious. He took a little card from his wallet. “You might need this sometime—but don't ask me no questions. Ha! And don't you worry none. I'm doing okay. Expanding all the time. Don't you worry.” I took the card from him. “See you now, Mr. Carter. See you, see you.”

He left and I looked at the card. Across the top was printed
THE
BLACK
AVENGERS
, and below it was written: “Don't touch this white man. He's okay.” It was signed by Luther and under his name he had drawn a skull and crossbones. I put the card in my wallet.

In January, to no one's great surprise, Luther was sent away to reform school in upstate New York. I was never exactly clear about the precise event that had led to it—the policeman assigned to our school said it had to do with brutally beating an old man; Luther's friends said it had to do with getting caught in a gang war. They claimed the fight was clean but that the cops had framed Luther. There was nothing in the papers, Luther had not contacted me, and I did not find out about it all until he'd already been shipped off.

I received a postcard from him that summer. It was brief.

I answered the card with a letter. I told him I was sorry about where he was and that I'd be glad to talk to him when-aver he wanted. I gave him some news of the school and included some current baseball clippings. I asked him if there was anything he needed and if there was anybody in his family fie wanted me to get in touch with. I told him that in return for the time he'd taken me to the baseball game I had ordered a subscription to
Sport
magazine for him.

He replied with another postcard.

When I arrived, he seemed glad to see me, but I remember that he was more polite than he had ever been before—and more subdued. I wondered, at the time, if they were giving him tranquillizers. I was only allowed an hour with him and we spent most of that time just walking around the grounds—the school was a work-farm reformatory—not saying anything.

The visit, I could tell, was a disappointment to him. I don't know what he expected of me, but whatever it was, I didn't provide it. I wrote him a letter when I got home, telling him I had enjoyed seeing him and that I'd be glad to come again if he wanted me to. He didn't answer it, and I heard no more from him for a year and a half.

Then one day in the spring of 1961—just about the time of the Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba, I remember—he popped into my room at school. He looked horrible. His face was unshaven, his clothes were filthy and ragged, his eyes were glazed. Underneath his clothes, his body had become flabby and he bent over noticeably when he walked. At first I didn't recognize him.

When I did, I was so glad to see him I didn't know what to do. “Luther—for crying out loud!” I said, standing up and shaking his hand. “How the hell are you?”

He smiled at me. “I'm superb, man—can't you tell from looking at me?” He laughed then, and I laughed with him.

“You've gotten older,” I said.

“Past sixteen,” he said. “That means I don't got to go to school no more—”

He waited, but I didn't offer an opinion. “How about going down with me and having a cup of coffee? I'm finished here for the day—just getting through with midterms.”

“Nah,” he said, looking down and playing with his hands. “I gotta meet somebody. I'm late already. But I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I'd come let you know I was still alive.” He came to my desk and looked down. He shook his head as if something were wrong.

“What's the matter?” I asked.

“Don't see no wedding ring on your finger yet.” He looked straight into my face. “Hey, man—you ain't a fag, are you?”

“No,” I said, laughing. “Not that I know of—”

He laughed, his mouth opening wide. “Okay. That's all the gas for today. I'll see you, man.”

During the next few months he visited me several times. Sometimes he looked good, sometimes bad—but I never could find out what he was doing with his days. He never gave a straight answer to my questions. More and more, I felt that he was asking me for some kind of help, but when I would touch on anything personal or even hint that I wanted to do something for him, with him, he would become defensive.

I didn't see him over the summer, but the following fall he came by periodically. He seemed to be getting a hold on himself and sometimes he would talk about going to night school. Nothing came of the talk, though. In November he was arrested and sent to Riker's Island—to P.S. 616, the combination prison-school for boys between the ages of sixteen and twenty. His sentence was for eighteen months and during the first three months I visited him twice. Both times all he wanted to do was talk about the English class we had had and the stories and compositions he had made up. He said he was trying to remember some of them for the English teacher he had there, but couldn't do it all the time. He seemed to be in terrible shape, and I didn't have much hope for him.

So I was surprised when I began getting postcards from him again. “I am studying hard,” the first one said. “There is a Negro who comes here to help me. I like him. I will be a new man when I come out. Yours sincerely, Luther.” It was neatly and carefully written. The ones that followed were the same and they came at regular intervals of about five weeks. He told me about books he was reading, most of them having to do with Negro history, and about how he was changing. “Improving” was the word he used most.

I answered his cards as best I could and offered to come see him again, but he never took up any of my offers. When his eighteen months were up, I expected a visit from him. He never came. Sometimes I wondered what had become of him, but after the first few months passed and I didn't hear from him, I thought about him less and less. A year passed—two since we had last seen each other at Biker's Island—and then we met again.

I spotted him first. It was a beautiful summer night and I had gone up to Lewisohn Stadium for a concert. It had been good, I was relaxed and happy as I walked out of the stadium. Luther was standing at the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and 138th Street. He was wearing a dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a tie. He was clean-shaven, his hair was cut short, and he looked healthy and bright. He was stopping people and trying to sell them newspapers.

“How are you, Mr. Carter?” he asked when I walked up to him. His eyes were clear and he seemed very happy to see me. “Interested in buying a newspaper to help the colored people? Only a dime—”

“No, thanks,” I said. The paper he was selling, as I'd expected, was
Muhammad Speaks
, the newspaper of the Black Muslims. “You look fine,” I added.

“Thanks. Excuse me a second.” He turned and sold a copy to somebody. People snubbed him but this didn't stop him from smiling or trying. I waited. When the crowd had gone, he asked me where I was going. “Home,” I said. “Cup of coffee first?”

“No, thanks,” he said. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“When did all this start?” I asked, motioning to the newspapers.

“At Riker's Island,” he said. He put up a hand, as if to stop my thoughts from becoming words. “I know what you're thinking, what you hear on TV and read in the newspapers about us—but don't believe everything. We're essentially a religious organization, as you may or may not know.”

“I know,” I said.

“And it's meant a lot to me—I couldn't have made it without their help. They—they taught me to
believe
in myself.” His eyes glowed as he twisted his body toward me. “Can you understand that?” It seemed very important to him that I believe him. “Can you?” He relaxed momentarily and shrugged. “I don't believe everything they teach, of course, but I follow their precepts: I don't smoke, I don't drink, I don't curse, I don't go out with women who aren't Muslims—I feel good
inside
, Mr. Carter. Things are straightening themselves out.” He paused. “It hasn't been easy.”

“I know,” I said, and smiled.

He nodded, embarrassed, I thought. “I'm going back to school also—”

“I'm glad.”

“Even my body feels good! I'm lifting weights again,” he said. Then he laughed and the sound tore through the warm night. His eyes were flashing with delight. “Oh man—some day I'll be the head of a whole damned army! Me and my old hunchback.” He laughed again, pleased with himself. His laughter subsided and he patted me on the shoulder. “Oh man, you are still so deep, so deep. Don't worry none, Mr. Carter. I don't go around advocating no violence.” He chuckled. “I've got to go,” he said, extending a hand. “It's been good seeing you again. Sure you don't want to buy a copy?”

“I'm sure,” I said, shaking his hand. “Good luck to you, Luther. I'm glad to see you the way you are now—”

“Thanks.” We looked at each other for a minute and he smiled warmly at me. Then I started toward the subway station. When I'd crossed the street, he called to me.

“Hey—Mr. Carter—”

I turned.

“Let me ask you something—do you still have that card I gave you?” He howled at this remark. “Oh man, I'd save that card if I were you! I'd do that. You never know when you might need it. You never know—”

I started back across the street, toward him. He tossed his head back and roared with laughter. “You never know, you never know,” he repeated, and hurried away from me, laughing wildly. I stared at him until he disappeared in the darkness. Then I just stood there, dazed, unable to move—I don't know for how long. Finally I made myself turn around, and as I walked slowly toward the lights of Broadway all I could feel was the presence of his muscular body, powerful, gleaming, waiting under his white shirt, his clean suit.

Joe

I
N
SEPTEMBER
OF
1955, when President Eisenhower had his heart attack, Joe draped his delivery cart with black streamers and pedaled around our neighborhood in Brooklyn telling everybody that the Nazis were going to take over as soon as Ike died. Every time he delivered a carton of groceries to our house, he would give my mother details of how the takeover would be carried out. My mother never tried to interrupt him. She would listen quietly and patiently until he finished. Then she would give him a tip and he would take off his baseball cap and thank her. “But don't you worry,” he'd say then, slipping the coins into his apron pocket. “I'll protect Howie and all the other little kids. The Nazis won't get them if I can help it.”