The Kid (29 page)

Then she hits the table with her fist, gets up and points at me. “You is de first boy born alive to us! I been waitin’ on you since 1949!”

Since 1949? My mother wasn’t even born then, I don’t even know nobody that old. How I’m gonna make it? How I’m gonna live? Who can I tell this shit to?

“It feel so good! His hands on my nipples make my body feel like flowers growin’ all ovah me. I start to breathe harder. His lickin’ is pickin’ me up! Yes sirree! Den he jump up like a snake bit him, unzip his pants, pull his dick out ’n start jackin’ off. Oooh! Oooh! Oooh! he goin’. You fine black bitch! OOOH! You fine black bitch! Den SPURT! Right in my face. Drip down. Jesus, girl, you are something else! I’m wipin’ all dat shit off my face. I ain’ seed too many since shoot like dat! It done got in my eyes ’n all. Maybe I see you next week, Tootie, he say. ’N wipe his hands on a towel, fix his collar, ’n walk out de room. I feel like a flower dat someone is pullin’ de petals off one by one. Thas de first time I hear de voice tell me to do things.
Git her.
Tell me to git Mary from behind de red ’n black Chinese screen whar she sleepin’. Betsy give her laudanum so she don’ wake up durin’ bizness.
Git her,
voice says. So I gits her.
De bathroom,
it say. De bathroom? Whar I tooked my first bath in a tub, two days ago. A lot can happen in one day, I tell ya! I know den when I hear de voice I had God’s eye ’n could see, see life wadn’t nevah gonna git no better period.
Dis is it,
voice say. ’N it wadn’t wrong!
Window,
it say,
window
. I hear banjo, Nigger Boy playin’ sho nuff! I walkin’ down de hall wit’ Mary knocked out in my arms. I looked forward to comin’ up north. Up north! Up north! Whar everybody said Mama was. Back of Mama’s legs black shiny wit’ grease ’n sweat. Why I have to name my baby after Auntie? ’N what was my mama’s name, I cain’t even remember it now! De voice soft like it care ’bout me. Window open.
Drop her ’n jump! Drop her ’n den jump!
Voice, banjo all stirred together. I gotta put Mary down to git in de tub. Smell of reefers, cigarettes ’n another voice comin’ in from de parlor. I’ll jump wit’ her in my arms, dat’s what I’ll do. Music from de parlor louder, voice comin’ out de parlor, someone like me singin’, someone flower petals done got pulled off too, I think. I hurt so bad, I’ve got Mary in my arms, ready to jump, but voice from de parlor freezin’ me I cain’t move, more hurtin’ den I can bear, but de voice is bearin’ for me. I can feel de night air comin’ in de window, smell like pickin’ strawberries clean ’n cold on my face. De voice from de parlor now fightin’ in a way wit’ de voice inside sayin’ jump. De smell of reefers is strong.

“Whooaa! Little Mama, whatchu doin’! Beymour’s arms is all around me grab me tight. That ain’ no door, you go out that, Little Mama, you ain’t comin’ back!

“His arms, de voice on de records comin’ from de parlor holdin’ me mo’ den anythin’ I evah ’sperienced. Out de windows is a black sky full of stars.

“Who dat? I ask.

“What, Mama?

“Who dat singin’?

“Ain’t you something! One minute you actin’ psycho and the next you actin’ like we listenin’ to the radio playin’ poker or something! All I care’bout right now is de voice singin’. I am dat voice. De other voice gone like it come. I let Mary go. She drop in de tub still sleep. Beymour hug me tighter breathe me in.

“Singin’? he say. That’s an old one from Lady Day, I know that’s Prez behind her, soun’ like Buck on trumpet.

“
I’ll nevah be the same there is such an ache in my heart
. Auntie swing de hammer knock ol’ Pink out, tell me pick up de butcher knife cut her throat, if I don’ I won’ eat. Blood run.

“Yeah, Beymour say. That’s Billie Holiday, she rule. Can’t nobody touch her. Now, git out this fuckin’ tub and git back to work!”

I grab my brown bomber jacket off the back of the chair, put it on, and walk back to “my” room. Slavery Days in the kitchen croaking. I guess she think she singing. OK, got my jacket on, my kaleidoscope, clown doll with china head, two pair of jeans, all these socks, no hat, no boots for winter. Last year I had those Timberland boots, too small by summer, still too big for Jaime. I end up giving them back to Mrs Lee to give to someone else. One pair of leather pants, black, backpack (recently borrowed). I hear her I look up from my suitcase—she’s at the bedroom door.

“Give me some money. Give me some money,” I repeat. She ain’t crazy. She pay rent and shit, she got some kind of scam, hustle—something goin’ on here. Shit, she got me here in this loony bin, roach motel. “I want some motherfuckin’ money!”

“Fo’ what?”

Because you got it. “I want to get some gear to dance in, OK. I want to get my dick pierced, OK,” I sneer. What fucking difference does it make, you . . . you mummy!

“Betsy de one fix up de screen, de crib ’n all fo’ Mary. Dis here”—she steps through the doorway—“useta be my room. Beymour let me have it, tell me thangs are gonna work out fine. He like me.”

My mother died in a car accident, my father got killed in the war. I was an only child. My grandparents had died of cancer down in Virginia. Yeah, both of ’em. What kind? Of cancer, how would I know. I was just a little kid. I was put in an orphanage because I was Catholic. It was rough, but I worked very hard. My mother died in a car accident. My father got killed in the war.

“How much, I said.”

She talking to me? “Huh?”

“How much you need to git yo’sef pierced up?”

Shit, I don’t know I was just talking. “I . . . uh, around, a couple hundred at least—to get dance gear, then piercing, I don’t know, it got to be sanitary and all.”

“Shit, I wanna see it. I done seed a lot. But I ain’ nevah seed dat. Beymour say he ain’ no pimp. He a bizness manager. Tell me a guy name Big Black run dis house, one in Little Italy, ’n one in New Jersey. I manage merchandise for Big Black. I don’t own nothin’ or nobody. My job is to keep shit copasetic. I gets paid off the top. I keep the hos happy, Big Black happy, johns happy, got me? Gotcha! I would say.

“Something about Beymour you should know, Betsy say. Beymour done picked me out. As much as I like Betsy, she basically dress me in de beginnin’ show me how I could put money in de bank if I want to, help me hook it up so Mary could stay wit’ her auntie some weekends. But I’m a woman ’n I know enuff, even though I ain’ but sixteen years ol’, not to let another woman tell me nothin’ ’bout my man. Honey, later I’ll wish I hadda listened. Like you, mark my words, you’ll wish you hadda listened to what I’m sayin’!”

She sits down on the bench in front of the vanity table where the mirror useta be. Shit, I been listening, and what is it? Scrambled eggs in my kaleidoscope. And she becomes a roach every time she opens her stupid mouth. I look at my jeans, two pairs in my suitcase, count my socks—twelve pairs, all them socks and no boots.

“But you cain’t know now what you woulda known later or it wouldn’t be now. Ain’ dat right! So now Beymour is wit’ me, not Betsy! He’s lyin’ on my bed! How he eat my pussy, how he screw is way out! Sol, one of de regulars, a musician, say dat, Way out, man! Like jazz—oo—blah—dee—dah! You mine, Beymour say. I was comin’ out de bathroom, dat bathroom, down de hall. I’m comin’ from takin’ a bubbly bath wit’ some of Betsy’s bubbles.”

I look at my kaleidoscope, my clown, lying neat on top of my jeans in my suitcase. Look like picture on Roman’s bedroom wall. Did Picasso really say that shit, that he had black blood from the Moors, or was Roman just bullshittin’ me? I look at the little chess set, I don’t think I would like chess, too long sitting in one place. She gets up and walks over to where I’m getting ready to close my suitcase and get out of here. Just grabs my arm!

“DON’T!” she screams like I’m killing her. “Don’ leave now, Abdul. I ain’ finished—jus’ sit down, sit down, please.”

I plop down on the bed. She goes back to the bench in front the vanity table looking at the old dry wood like it’s still a mirror. How long can I stand this?

“So I’m comin’ out de bathroom—you know dis useta be my room. Did I tell you dat? You stay here you always have a home. I leave you everythin’ when I die. Dis apartment rent-controlled, only person payin’ less than me is Koch. Hee-hee.”

Who the fuck is Koch?

“Anyway, how it start out, Beymour who has always been like a bizness person to me come up grinnin’ stupid like one of de johns, talkin’’bout, Let’s take a bath. Beymour, I tells him, I done already took a bath. I mean together, he say. I start to ask what for, ’cause like a fool I’m talkin’ to him like he got sense ’n fool of course he don’! Beymour was jus’ tryin’ to get some! But I don’ know dat, you nevah know what’s on somebody’s mind—”

If I touch the side of my face, the jagged scar, it would hurt me. If she knew what was on my mind.

“So I’m tryin’ to figure out why he want me to, why he wanna take a bath, when he done took one dis mornin’. I wanna say, Fool, you crazy, but Beymour is like de boss man in a way. I mean, he run de house, de money we git, Betsy, Eloise, Irene, Betsy’s aunt, ’n me—come from him. But he don’ act like no boss man—mean ’n stupid, like. So when he say, Get yo’ fine self on back in the tub and run some water.”

My mother’s mother’s mother? Synonym for crazy. Insane. No, that’s the same as crazy. That’s what a synonym is, same family same name? I ain’t the same as a schizophrenic simple stupid mental-deranged cracked, shit, what else? OFF her rocker, bugging, bugged-out, motherfucking maniac. Antonym, yeah! What’s the opposite of this motherfucking shit! Cool, good-sensed, rational. Intelligent. Normal.

“You know how big dat tub is ’n de window right ovah it. Look out forevah at New York! Beymour push his suspenders off his shoulder, undo his pants. By now I done seed so many men undress, it ain’ nothin’ special to me. Beymour so skinny his knees like doorknobs. I smile. What you laughin’ at! I ain’ laughin’, I swear I ain’, Beymour! Beymour pull his shorts down—Laugh at this! Lawd I got to give it to him. Beymour got something’tween his legs. I look in de mirror—why you go ’n break dis here mirror, Abdul? Look at yo’ face, you gonna hafta wear dat fo’ life. But anyway my hair in paper-bag curlers, I got on ol’ dusty robe Betsy give me. I’m useta meetin’ mens in a nice way, all dressed up, silky dress, perfume, whiskey. Dis here—Beymour, knees all knobby, dick danglin’, no music, whiskey, me in my duster, paper curlers—it don’ seem natural! I wanna laugh at Beymour knobby knees, big dick, suspenders, ’n pants on his ankles.

“’N it ain’ no fun in de bathtub! Stop! Jus’ stop! I tell Beymour. My head bangin’ against de tub, bubbles gettin’ all in my mouth. This ain’ gonna git it, Beymour. Well, what is? I push him off me, git his dick in my mouth, think of de closet empty dust a few months ago, all shine now wit’ hot dresses, pink ’n orange, patent leather shoes. Underwears, I got mo’ in one drawer den all de women on de plantation together. I likes this, I’m not Eloise, hate de men or like Betsy, I thinks likes de women. Mos’ of dese guys nice people actually.

“He ’bout to come in my mouf, makin’ little baby-bitch noises wit’ his breath. You evah been in love? Den all of a sudden he push my head away’n say real mean, That’s what you want, ain’t it? Huh?
I
want, I says to myself. What’s wit’ this man? You just wanna get me off so you can get it over with!”

Does anybody really love me? Brother John? Jaime?

“I think, well ain’ dat de point? I don’ know what to say. What about you? he say. Me? Where your feel-good come in? I remember first time wit’ John how my body light up fo’ a minute or two dere, but dat don’ happen no mo’ again. I jus’ keep my mind on bein’ . . . bein’ fine, doin’ it good fo’ de mens. I ain’t paying no bitch, but I wanna give you somethin’ back. Oh Lawd, what he’s talkin’ ’bout I don’ know. Let’s go in my room, Beymour say. What’s dat ’cept de parlor whar we drinks wit’ de men? But when de tricks gone, de couch pull out to be Beymour’s bed ’n don’ nobody go in dere. Room his. Record player ’n radio too. OK, let’s go in yo’ room. What’s dat playin’? I ask. Oh that’s new Bird, baby, the latest! Sol’s friend give him that, Boris jus’ take the sets off the radio on his seventy-eight-RPM disc recorder. We git sounds ain’t even in the record store yet! Honey, I don’ know what Beymour talkin’ ’bout, but I know de Bird sound good.

“Prez is playin’ when he enter me, ‘Lady Be Good’! Hah! That’s a old one, but I like it, Beymour grunt. I done stopped tryin’ to be good, or fine, or please him. I dig my orange-painted nails in his back not ’cause I’m hot but ’cause I want to hurt him, hurt him bad. Like I hurt standin’ up in dat station nowhere to go. It’s all black, dark, hate almost. But hate ain’ in Beymour, he move off me ’n start playin’ wit’ me, suckin’ my tittie, den it’s like dat thang you got. Colors shakin’, what you call dat?”

Huh? What . . . is she? She’s looking at me like she want me to talk. I want her to talk now, finish the story. “Kaleidoscope,” I tell her. “From the Greek
kalos
for ‘beautiful.’”

“Beymour touchin’ me jus’ break me up inside. A wave roll through my blood so happy-feelin’ I could cry. I do cry, it feel so fuckin’ good! Then he go down on me. Dis Miss Billie Holiday’s music in my body, a song I couldn’t sing mysef. You make me feel good, Beymour. You ain’t gotta say nothin’ to me you don’ mean. But I do mean it, I do. My body still goin’ like it not mine. I give it to Beymour in pieces, big pieces, little pieces—black ’n white—of hurt. He give de pieces back to me in colors!

“Well, wit’ all dat—music, kallyscope, gardenia flowers, it shouldn’ta happened. I shouldn’ta needed nothin’ else. But when I opened I felt so good, but it would remind me I ain’ nevah known nothin’ but pain. I had hurt so bad, long, or maybe it wadn’t none of dat. I don’ know. I do know down de line when he ask me did I want some. I didn’t know—I ain’ even ask what ‘some’ was. I jus’ said yes.”

She stops and it’s like she’s nodding out. Can’t be? All these . . . these fuckin’ hours I been trying to keep her out of my ears, and now I’m really listening, and she looks like she drifting off to la-la land.