The Mighty Miss Malone (10 page)

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.

It felt like those words were asking you something and telling you something and blaming you for something, all at the same time.

He finished the anthem,

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.

Clarice was back to hopping. “Yoo-hoo, Jimmie! It’s us! Over here!”

But so were a bunch of other bad-taste girls and he couldn’t hear her.

People started yelling, “Sing us one about how Joe’s gonna clean that Nazi’s clock, Little Jimmie!”

“Yeah, Little Jimmie, sing something about Joe!”

Jimmie laughed, raised his arms and started singing.

Everyone but me and Clarice knew the song and sang the chorus.

They sang that two more times before Jimmie stepped off of the table and disappeared in a forest of adults patting his back and shaking his hand.

On the way back to the bleachers, everyone was buzzing about Jimmie.

I was proud and embarrassed at the same time at the way Clarice was blurting out, “She’s his sister! For real!”

We got back to the top of the bleachers just as the umpire shouted, “Play ball!”

The man we were sitting next to had been right, you couldn’t believe a word that Two-Toes Peter Thompson said. His arm was shot.

The first two batters he faced sent the ball sailing out of the park and me and Clarice and the rest of the crowd booed Mr. Two-Toes with all our might.

The woman in front of us said, “Don’t worry, he settles down after while.”

By the time he did, the Chicky-Bar Giants had scored four runs and their lefty pitcher hadn’t allowed one.

Four to nothing. We’d been shut out.

As we walked down the bleachers men were handing out flyers and saying, “Small cover, food will be served. Bring the family, brand-new RCA Victor.”

Clarice took one of the flyers, then said, “Yuck!”

The fight!

A million places around Gary were having fight parties, where you could listen to the fight on the radio. Some were charging money.

Father’s friend Mr. Bobbin, the barber, had invited us to his shop to listen. We didn’t have to pay, just bring a dish. Jimmie’d already picked a ton of wild greens and Mother had got a perfectly good piece of meat that the Carsdales were throwing out to season those greens extra special. Clarice was going to come with us.

I have to admit I was a little excited about getting together with a bunch of people and talking and sharing food.

We got to my house and we held up two fingers, pointed at our cheeks, then held up one finger and put our hands on our hearts.

I opened the screen door. Mother called from the kitchen,

“Deza?”

“Yes, Mother?”

“So?”

“Oh, Mother! It was a disaster, the Iron-Head Dogs were shut out!”

That evening, during Chow Chat, Father said, “And you, my Dar Dawt, how was your day? Anything new?”

Where to begin? Jimmie singing in the park? No, that was his story. The Iron-Head Dogs getting shut out? No, I bet Father already knew. Besides, he hadn’t found work, so that was enough bad news for the night.

I remembered what I wanted to ask. “What does it mean when someone says you’re a credit to your race?”

Mother and Father shot each other a glance.

Jimmie said, “It means some white person’s grateful that you left them in peace, that you didn’t stab ’em or shoot ’em or rob ’em.”

Mother said, “Jimmie, please. Give us the context, Deza.”

I told about Mrs. Ashton and Joe Louis and the library.

Father said, “It has to do with intentions. Usually when people say that, they have good intentions, they think they’re giving you a compliment, but when you look at it …”

Jimmie said, “It’s a insult.”

“I can’t deny that, Jimmie,” Mother said, “but you learn you have to make allowances. You have to know which battles are worth fighting.”

Father said, “And ‘credit to your race’ and a lot of other sayings you’ll be running into are things that give you a warning about whoever it is who’s saying them.”

I said, “How’s that, Father?”

“Think about a strange dog, Deza. They let you know if they’re friendly or not, right?”

“Yes.”

“Unless they’re rabid they give you signals that if you get any closer you’ll end up hurt. Their ears will go back, their fur will stand up, they’ll show their teeth.”

Jimmie said, “They’ll growl.”

“Right, think of ‘credit to your race’ as that first growl. Just be aware that that person is letting you know you need to keep an even sharper-than-normal eye on them. But be grateful too, because they’re letting you know exactly who they are.”

Mother said, “What did you say when Mrs. Ashton told you that?”

“Clarice changed the subject.”

Mother smiled. “That girl has such a good head on her shoulders.”

I don’t like to be unhumble, but anyone could see I have great taste in picking my friends!

Most of the time I wake up in bits and pieces. First my legs wake up and stretch out as far as they can, then my toes wiggle to make sure they’re there. Next my arms and fingers do the same thing, then I yawn, stretch and open my eyes.

There was something different about the second day of summer vacation. I sat straight up in bed and felt like I’d been wide awake for hours.

I wasn’t scared, I just knew something was different. I couldn’t tell if it was late at night or early in the morning, but something about the way shadows were laying around my room let me know this wasn’t a time that I was usually awake.

I heard bumpity sounds coming from downstairs. I undid the straps on my new shoes and went to see who was up. Father was humming and boiling water.

“Deza! Was I being that loud?” He gave me a hug and a kiss.

“I don’t think so, Father, I was just awake for no reason. What time is it?”

Mother must’ve followed right behind me. She was squeezing her housecoat shut in front of her. “It’s a little before four o’clock, Deza, and you need to get back in bed. And so does your hardheaded daddy.”

Father hugged Mother. “Morning, Peg.”

I said, “Why are we all up so early?”

Father laughed. “Well, Dar Dawt, I have a taste for perch.”

“Perch?”

“Yup, I’m going fishing with a couple of the guys I used to work with. Tonight you’ll be eating the fruit of Lake Michigan.”

Mother said, “Lake Michigan! I thought you were going down to the river.”

Father said, “Uh-uh. Steel Lung’s treating me, Hank and Carlos to a fishing trip on the lake.”

Mother near shouted, “
What
! You didn’t say anything about going out on that lake!”

“Well, that’s where the perch are, Mrs. Malone.”

“There are perch in the river too.”

“True, but Steel Lung knows a spot where they’re practically jumping into the boat.”

“Roscoe Malone, I know you are not seriously thinking of going out on that lake in a boat.”

“Peg—”

“ ‘Peg,’ my foot! You never said anything about a boat. Coming from a landlocked place like Flint, you can’t even
dream what these Great Lakes are capable of. Storms on Lake Michigan have sunk ships that were six city blocks long.”

Father gasped, “
Really
?” He nudged me in the side and said, “It’s a good thing we’re not going out in anything that big. Steel Lung’s rowboat is only about twelve
feet
long.”

I had to laugh.

He nudged Mother too. She didn’t laugh or smile at all so I wiped mine off my face.

Father said, “Steel Lung promised we’re staying right in sight of shore. He’s even got life preservers.”

All the steam had gone out of Mother. “I don’t like this one bit.”

Father hugged her and Mother dodged out of the way of his kiss.

Mother gave him a look. “Let me put something together for your lunch.”

Before she could even get a loaf out of the bread box there was a soft tap at the front door.

Father kissed me and Mother on the cheek and said, “That’s Steel Lung. Gotta go.”

Mr. Steel Lung Henderson was the only black man in Gary who kept a job with the Company year-round. There were only two jobs that Negro or Mexican men could have in the steel mill. One was janitor and the other was worse.

Once a month the furnaces at the steel mill would have to be repaired on the inside, but the bosses couldn’t let the furnaces cool all the way down ’cause it took too much time for them to heat back up again. That was the only time people who weren’t white got to do regular work. They’d have to
go into the hot furnace and pull out the bricks that had been cracked and damaged by the heat. Then they’d put new ones in.

Father said the bosses put wood planks on the floor of the furnace so your shoes wouldn’t get burned, but lots of times the planks themselves would get so hot that they’d catch afire. The men would stay in the furnace pulling and replacing bricks as long as they could before the heat made them so woozy that they were about to pass out. Mr. Steel Lung got his name because he could stay in the furnace longer than anyone else.

Me and Mother followed Father into the living room to say hello to him. The smell of his work boots made me remember when Father used to do that furnace job. He did it for three months and I was so happy when they finally said he’d have to get laid off because his asthma meant he couldn’t stay in the furnace very long. That meant a lot less money coming in, but once Father got laid off, his breathing started getting better and better.

Mother and Father’s bedroom is right next to mine upstairs and the walls are so thin that I used to have to pull the pillow tight over my ears when he’d cough and try to get the phlegm out of his chest all night long. That stopped as soon as he quit going into that hot furnace.

Mr. Steel Lung promised to bring Father back in one piece.

We followed them out onto the porch. It was so cold that I huddled into Mother’s housecoat. It was so cold that smoke was coming out of their mouths when they talked.

Father and Mr. Steel Lung slammed the doors of the old pickup truck and it started with a cough and a roar. Father
waved and a big cloud of smoke came out of the rear of the truck.

Mother said, “Deza, run in and get your daddy his coat, quick!” She hollered at the truck, “Roscoe! Wait!”

I ran to the closet but by the time I got back all I could see were the two round red taillights of that truck getting smaller and smaller, going down Wilbur Place leaving a trail of smoke.