The Troubles of Johnny Cannon (16 page)

“See, this flower here can grow real good if you plant it in the right place, give it good sun and water, and even give it plant food. But, what do you think would happen if I took another of the exact same flower and planted it in the desert instead? Didn't give it no water or food or nothing?”

“It'd die, I reckon,” I said.

“Does that mean that flower wasn't no good? Got a bad seed or something?”

I shook my head.

“Exactly,” he said. “In science, we call that an environmental variable. And it's pretty easy to see when you got two of the exact same flower. But let's say the flower we planted here in Cullman was a yellow carnation and the one we planted in the desert was a red one. And the red one died. You know what some folks that didn't understand environmental variables would say? They'd say that red carnations was more prone to dying than yellow ones.”

Made sense to me.

“Okay, so what's the point?” I said.

“The point is it wasn't the color of the flower that turned it out the way it did. It's the place it was planted and the care it got that did it. Just like with people.”

I had to process that a bit.

“Eddie Gorman says Negroes got different biology than white folk,” I said.

“He's an idiot.” Willie grabbed my hunting knife and cut his hand. He squeezed it till some blood started dripping out. “Look at that blood. It ain't no different than yours. And I promise there ain't no separate medical books for doctors to operate on black folk.”

I took the knife and cut my hand. Dadgum, it sure looked like we bled the same.

He grabbed my hand and put his on it. He smeared our blood together.

“See, we're brothers now,” he said. “Don't matter the color. And together, we can change the dirt we're planted in.”

There was something real sacred about that moment, and I felt it in my gut. Then I farted and the moment passed into us both rolling in laughter.

We fought falling asleep for as long as we both could, but after a while our conversation got slower and slower and the spaces between sentences got farther and farther apart. He had been sitting on my bed, and before I knew it he was sprawled out, snoring. I laid on my rug and fell asleep myself.

A loud crash outside woke me up. I looked at my clock, it was two in the morning. There was some more noise from outside. The only thing louder was Willie's snoring. It was rafter-rattling. I went to look out my window. I accidentally kneed Willie in the gut on my way.

“Holy Jesus!” he said as he shot up in the air. I grabbed him and covered his mouth.

“Shhhh! Did you hear that?” I said.

“Hear what? You trying to kill me like some freak show?”

I heard the bang outside again, and he heard it too. It sounded like it was coming from the shed. We looked out the window, sure enough, there was some kind of shadowy figure moving around our shed.

“I'm going to see who that is,” I said.

He nodded and started to get up. “Okay, let's go.”

“No, you stay here,” I said. I grabbed my rifle and handed it to him. “Watch out the window and if it looks like I'm in trouble, shoot.”

He got wide-eyed.

“You want me to shoot you?”

“Not me,” I said, “whoever's out there. Though, based on how you did earlier, maybe aiming at me would be the safest.”

I went down and snuck out the front door, then walked around the house as quiet as I could be. I got all the way to where I could see the intruder, digging through our tools and such. Whoever he was, he was wearing black pants and a black shirt, with a black toboggan hat on. I aimed myself at his shoulders and took off running.

I tackled the intruder like a linebacker. He swung around and clipped me in the chin.

I grabbed his toboggan hat and yanked it off.

It was Short-Guy.

I let go of him 'cause I was surprised. He kicked me in the gut and jumped up to run away.

I jumped at his ankles and brought him down again. He rolled over and clocked me right in the forehead. Almost made me let go of him again. But that wasn't about to happen.

“Let go of me, boy,” he said. He grabbed a hammer that had come out of our toolbox and swung it at my head.

I let go of him and blocked it, then I punched him right in the chest. I caught him just right and he lost his breath and took a step back.

A shot rang out from my bedroom window and he dropped down to the ground.

“Dadgum it, Willie,” I yelled. I hurried to check to see if he'd killed Short-Guy. Short-Guy was holding on to his arm right above the elbow, and blood was all over him.

“You okay?” I said. He glared at me. I pulled his hand away from his arm, but there wasn't no bullet hole or nothing, looked like he'd just gotten grazed by it. I looked at the shed, and there was a bullet hole there. Right in the middle of the X.

“I knew he'd hit it eventually,” I muttered. I helped Short-Guy get up to his feet. “I'm sorry, I thought you was a burglar. We need to get you to a doctor.”

“I'm fine. Just let me go.”

“No way. You're bleeding 'cause of a bullet from my gun. That's probably arrest-worthy, especially if you die or something.”

He sighed. “Do you have a first aid kit? Needle, thread?”

“Yeah, inside.”

“Then take me inside.”

I helped him walk in through the back door and I fished out our first aid kit. He sat at the kitchen table and started doctoring himself up. Willie came downstairs, and he was about as white as a black kid ever could be.

“What's going on? Who is that?” he said.

“That's the CIA agent you just shot,” I said. His jaw dropped.

“Wow. Maybe preachers' kids
shouldn't
have guns.”

“He'll be fine,” I said.

He was running a needle with thread into his own arm to close the gash the bullet had left when it grazed him. He grimaced at me while he did it, so I reckoned I could wait till he was done to ask any more questions.

“I got a tip that your dad had a radio shack up here,” he said.

Willie gulped and I elbowed him something fierce.

“So what if he did?” I said. “I didn't know it was against the law to do amateur radio.”

He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a folded-up piece of paper. He unfolded it and put it on the table in front of us. It was the exact same map that Pa had dropped when he was emptying out the shed. The same map I had up in my sock drawer, with arrows and the boats, all headed for Cuba.

“I made this map based off what I overheard someone, WX5RJ, broadcasting over the airwaves. It's a map of the Bay of Pigs invasion, code-named ‘Operation Pluto,' and WX5RJ was selling it to the Cubans before the invasion took place. I analyzed his frequency and determined there was only one location that could be generating the signal strength at that time of night, and that's right here in Cullman County.” He tied off the knot on the string in his arm. “WX5RJ is here, I'm sure of it. And I'm going to find him.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

BLOOD MONEY

A
fter we convinced Short-Guy to leave and to forgive Willie for shooting him, I had a whole new task of convincing to do. I had to convince Willie that my pa wasn't a traitor.

“You told me he was doing radio, and that he was telling stuff to folks in Cuba,” he said. “And here I am assisting a criminal, a traitor. They hang traitors, you know that?”

“He didn't do that,” I said, and my mind was scrambling. I knew right then that it was either protecting Pa or myself, and I knew what I had to do. “I lied to you. Made it up to sound interesting.”

“Or you're lying now.”

“I ain't.” I tried real hard to get a sincere look on my face. “Come on, look at my pa. Does he look like the type to do that? I just wanted you to be as impressed with him as I am with
your
pa. And I got the idea when Short-Guy showed up at Mr. Thomassen's. I made it up on my way to the cemetery.”

“That's a real dumb thing to do,” he said.

“Maybe that's why I ain't so good at keeping friends.”

“Maybe,” he said. Then he grinned. “Good thing we're blood brothers now.”

That was close.

“Yeah, good thing.”

“Anyway, I don't reckon you'd have been willing to get your nose punched in if your pa was coming in to money.”

“Wait,” I said, “I thought you was sure I was going to win that fight.”

“Miracles happen,” he said.

I nodded. Now I just had to keep the check and the map hidden for the rest of my life. I sure hoped he didn't ever need to borrow no socks or nothing. I needed to think up a better hiding spot. Like my underwear drawer.

At any rate, there wasn't no going back to bed after that incident. We stayed up reading our comic books till Mrs. Parkins came to fetch Willie for church. After he left, I collapsed and slept until Monday.

I almost slept through Mrs. Parkins honking her car horn to pick me up so we could head down to the ballfield in Colony. I reckoned that meant I'd agreed to play.

When we got to the ballfield, or at least what they called a ballfield, I almost backed out. It was more like a dead patch of forest with tall weeds growing in the deep mud. There was a stump that nobody had pulled up which was supposed to function as third base. The other two bases was wherever the boys guarding them decided to stand for the play. And if the batter hit the ball into left field, it was an automatic home run 'cause there was two mean dogs sitting out there waiting for their dinner.

It was honestly pretty hard to take it seriously. But, man, did those kids ever take it seriously.

It helped that the mayor had decided to make the Cullman-­Colony game a big event, the first game of the season, with tickets being sold to finance the rebuilding of Cullman's downtown. He didn't make no big deal about the fact that it would be the white team against the black team. Didn't have to, the folks in both towns was doing that themselves.

And the story that was leading it all, apparently, was that the ­Colony team was going to have a Tigger-loving white kid as a pitcher.

“Well, if it isn't Whitey Ford,” Russ said as soon as I got out of the car. His hand was all bandaged up. “Come down to help the lowly Negro rise to the challenge.”

Some of his buddies laughed. One of them, who had a bucktooth, chimed in.

“Yeah, if it ain't the Great White Hope.”

Before I could say anything to that, Russ smacked him across the head.

“You birdbrain,” he said, “the Great White Hope was the boxer they picked to try and defeat Jack Johnson, back in 1912, because they didn't like having a Negro boxing champ. It doesn't make sense for this, 'cause Johnny's down here to help us win.”

Dadgum. Russ liked history.

“You know,” I said, “it's sort of funny about that story. Johnson used to beat them white fellas so bad, the government was afraid people watching the reels would haul off and start a riot.”

Russ nodded. “That's why they made it illegal to transport them reels across state lines,” he said.

We eyed each other for a second and, without saying nothing, both agreed that maybe there was a spot between us we could meet at peacefully. He went and sat to watch us all practice and I took my place at the pitcher's mound.

It was funny, I don't reckon I'd ever been as tied up and nervous about my life as I was that week. Worried about Pa and what he'd done. Worried about money and about losing our house. Worried about Short-Guy. Just everything. But, when I got on that pitcher's mound, it all sort of seemed to fade off behind me.

I told Willie about that, and he said it was 'cause I was sublimating my anxiety into a right good activity. He said it was something Dr. Freud would be happy with. I thought it sounded pretty promising until he explained that there wasn't no money in it. So I didn't give no more thought to sublimating and got focused on playing baseball.

Still, there was always the times I wasn't out there playing, and those times I was fearsome nervous. Nervous that Willie would find out the truth I'd been hiding, or worse that Short-Guy would get the last clues he needed to run my pa into jail. After a few days, something happened that I thought might spill the beans from both sides to the other. And, of course, it was Pa's fault.

Me and Willie was up in my room looking at some comic books. Just when we was all into arguing over whether it was really possible for Wonder Woman to block every single bullet with her bracelets without having super speed, Pa yelled up the stairs for me. And he sounded real mad.

I went downstairs and asked him what was wrong.

“Did you drop that check off at the bank I gave you?” he said.

“Which check was that?” I said.

“We got a notice from the bank that our home is getting auctioned in a few days,” he said. “That wouldn't have happened if that check was in our account.”

“Reckon they lost it?” I said.

“You lost it?”

“No, they did,” I said. “I mean, maybe they did.”

“Maybe you never dropped it off. Where is it?”

I couldn't keep lying to him no more.

“Okay, it's up in my underwear drawer.”

He didn't even have to tell me, I headed on up and got it. I grabbed the pair of tighty-whities that I'd stuck the check in and headed out my door.

“What happened, you have an accident?” Willie said.

I didn't say nothing back and ran downstairs. When I brought the check to Pa, he snatched it without saying nothing. I reckoned he knew he couldn't say nothing without killing me. He put it in his pocket and started to leave.

“We can't use that money,” I said, and he stopped. “It's blood money.”

He glared at me.

“What you mean?”

“You sold information about the invasion to the Cubans. Folks died 'cause of that. That puts their blood right on your hands.”

He thought about what I said, and I could tell it hit him right in the face. He put his hand on the table and leaned on it.

“You ain't got no idea what you're talking about.”

“I got more idea than you know.”

He stood there for a bit, staring at me like he wasn't sure if I was lying or telling the truth, and he wasn't sure which one he wanted. Then he went ahead and walked on out.

I watched him going for a second, and then I heard somebody breathing behind me. I spun around and caught Willie just before he got going back up the stairs.

“I was going to get a drink of water,” he said.

“How much of that did you hear?”

He swallowed. “Enough.”

I nodded. “I reckon we ain't brothers no more, are we?”

He stood still for a bit, then he headed toward our door.

“I got to go,” he said. I grabbed his arm.

“You can't tell nobody,” I said. “He didn't know anyone would get hurt, I'm sure of that.”

“No, but you knew. And you still lied to me.”

“Wouldn't you to protect your family?”

“I wouldn't have to,” he said, and then he left. He didn't even bother saying good-bye. I reckoned he was real mad at me.

I felt like I was drowning or getting buried alive. And the worst part was, it was in a hole that I was digging around me, deeper and deeper. I watched as many movies on TV as I could stand to get my brain back in order, but every dadgum one was either about two fellas that stopped being friends or about the CIA coming down on the Commies. Finally, just as it was starting to get dark outside, I decided to stop by Willie's house, to try and make things right with him.

“He said he's not feeling well,” Mrs. Parkins told me. “I'm sorry.”

I nodded. I didn't blame him.

“Could you just tell him I'm sorry for what I did?”

She told me she would, and I headed to leave. She came out on the porch and stopped me. “I've been wanting to talk to you for a while now, but it seems like now is the time. Come sit with me.” She patted the spot next to her on the porch swing. I came and sat down.

“I think you need to know a little more about Willie's story.”

“Ma'am, I appreciate it, but I got a lot going on right now.” I started to get up. She pulled me back down.

“I know you do.” Her eyes told me that she knew a lot more than I wanted her to. “And that's exactly why you need to listen.”

I nodded.

“Willie's brother was killed when we lived in Mobile, about four years ago. He was a strong, handsome boy. An athlete. Willie looked up to him like he was a superhero.” She took a deep breath.

“But then they got him. The Klan, they was the ones that did it. He'd been running around with a white girl he was convinced was in love with him. But then she got pregnant and claimed that he'd forced himself on her. So they lynched him outside of our church.” She stopped, and her eyes started crying. “It was in the news for a week.” She sobbed a little and wiped at her eyes. I didn't much know what to do when a woman cried, so I patted her back.

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” I said.

“So am I.” She took a deep breath. “Now, Willie had always loved the news. He listened to his radio every single day, almost all day long. There wasn't much else for a kid who couldn't run with his friends or play outside to do. And he wanted to be a newscaster. But, after his brother died, he listened for every single mention of the event. And every news story that spoke of death, Willie took it personally. It was like he thought all the problems of the world were his own.”

“I can understand that,” I said.

“At his brother's funeral, Willie told me that he wanted to change the world someday. He wanted to see it become a better place. And it scared me, because everyone knows what they do to a Tigger who dreams big.”

“You ain't supposed to say that word,” I said.

“No,
you
ain't,” she said. “So I told my husband we had to leave that town, had to go someplace where Willie could just be a kid, and not be surrounded with all these problems that he'd want to fix. I heard about Colony, and I could tell it was a place we could be safe. So we resigned the church and came to Cullman County.”

“I remember when y'all came, it was right before my grandma died.”

“She was a good woman,” Mrs. Parkins said with a nod. “And this was a good place for what we were looking for. A place that Willie could just be a kid. He made friends here, friends who were interested in baseball and sports, friends who he could play with after church. And he was happy. But then he met you.”

I didn't know quite what to make of that, so I apologized.

“He's started talking about changing the world again,” she said. “Because of you. Because you've become his new superhero. He got hope that he could do more than the average man, that he could actually save people's lives and futures.”

“I don't know where he came by that,” I said. “I ain't putting them thoughts in his head.”

“No, he's trying to put them in yours.”

I hated to admit that he'd been pretty successful.

“Oh well, so what if he's got hope. What's wrong with that?”

“He's a crippled Tigger from Alabama. He doesn't have any hope.”

“I'm sorry,” I said again.

“Sorry ain't enough. You've got him all tied up in your affairs, and in the affairs of folks that are bigger than you. And that kind of attention, that kind of mess isn't going to leave my boy in good shape. So you need to stay away from him. Leave him out of it all.”

What she was saying was sinking in right to the middle of my heart, and it was hurting. I'd spent my whole life without a friend and I hadn't cared none. But now the only friend outside my family I had was getting taken away, and it hurt worse than a broken nose. I was used to not belonging in Cullman, but I didn't know what to do now that I didn't have no place in Colony either.

She stood up.

“I'll still cook dinners for you and your pa. But you leave my boy out of your life, you hear me?”

I got up and I wanted to tell her what I thought, but it wouldn't have been any different from what she'd already said. She was right, I was bringing more trouble than I was worth into everybody's life around me. It was better for Willie if we stopped being friends.

Still, as I went up to my house, I couldn't help getting mad at her. And mad at Pa. And mad at the whole dadgum world that Willie felt needed changing. Why did everything and everyone have to be so unfair about everything? Why was I stuck holding everybody else's secrets? And why in tarnation was it such bad luck for me to get friendly with anyone?

When I got to my house, I was so mad I needed to tear something up. And it struck me that the best thing to tear up was sitting up in my sock drawer still, that dadgum map that had caused so much trouble. If it was a dog I'd shoot it dead.