Leaving Lymon Page 5

  “I’m heading in for breakfast, could use a little company,” he said. “You hungry?” he asked me. My head said one thing, but my empty belly had a mind all its own. Said “yes” ’fore I could even think twice.

  “My name’s Eugene,” he said, and stuck out his hand for me to shake.

  “Lymon,” I told him, and shook his hand hard like Grandpops taught me.

  He opened the door and a bell banged against it as I walked in behind him. We sat in a booth with soft seats. Felt like sitting in the back of Aunt Vera’s car. Everybody at the counter sat on stools attached to the floor. The black and white floor made me think of Grandpops playing checkers with his friends. After a little bit, the waitress walked over holding a pad and a big book she handed to Mr. Eugene.

  “Morning, Eugene,” she said smiling big.

  “I’ll need a menu for my friend, Lymon,” he said while he was looking through the book. She smiled at me too, went back to the counter and brought me the menu Mr. Eugene asked for. I can count on one hand the number of times I been in a restaurant. Don’t remember ordering from a menu, so I just watched Mr. Eugene reading, and then I looked down at the menu too.

  Sometimes just looking at words makes my head hurt. Ma tells me I need to pay attention more. Teacher tells me to concentrate. But don’t none of that work when the words all run together on the page.

  When Mr. Eugene said, “Two eggs over easy, bacon, side of toast,” I said, “I’ll have that too.”

  “You barely looked at the menu,” Mr. Eugene said. I pretended to look at it for a minute then say, “No, that’s what I want.”

  The waitress took both our menus back. Mr. Eugene yelled behind her, “Tell Otis don’t burn that toast like last time.”

  “So, Lymon,” he said, leaning back in the booth. “No school today?”

  “No sir,” I told him.

  “Holiday, is it?” he asked.

  “Think so,” I said, wondering how long it’s gonna take for the food to come.

  We sat quiet for a bit. Even though Mr. Eugene’s hair was all white, you can tell he was a good-looking man when young. “A looker,” my grandpops used to say. I asked him once if I was a looker. “You’ll do just fine with ladies, Lymon, don’t you worry,” he told me. But I still don’t know if that meant yes or no.

  Mr. Eugene was wearing a white jacket over his clothes, so I asked him why.

  “Keeps the hair off me,” he said, smiling for the first time.

  That’s when I started wondering if this food was worth sitting with an old man who wasn’t right in the head.

  “The hair?” I asked. But then the food came, steaming hot and smelling so good, I needed to make my mouth stop from watering.

  “Eugene’s a barber,” the waitress said to me. “His shop is down the street.”

  “You couldn’t even let the boy guess,” Mr. Eugene said to her, pretending to be mad.

  I wouldn’t have guessed that in a million years.

  “Finish up, Lymon,” he said to me. “ ’Cause after you finish breakfast, you are gonna get that nappy head cut.”

  I was eating so fast, I barely heard him.

  ELEVEN

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin 1943

  MR. Eugene’s barbershop smelled a little bit like Ma’s medicine, and I told him so.

  “That’s just the aftershave,” he told me. “I use it to help keep your skin from getting razor bumps. Lot of the fellas think it smells pretty good.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  “You said you live with your grandma?” he asked. “Vera Williams is her daughter, right?”

  “Yessir, that’s my aunt Vera.”

  “She’s on the usher board at Calvary Baptist. I’m a deacon there,” he said.

  Looking at him again, he reminded me of the deacons back in Vicksburg who stood tall and straight in the front row during service and collected the money baskets from the ushers.

  “She said she moved her family up here. From Vicksburg, right?” he asked.

  “Yessir,” I told him, wondering when he was going to stop talking and start cutting my hair.

  “Good, fine people, Vera and Clark,” he said. “Me and Clark sing in the Men’s Choir every third Sunday. Speaking of Sundays…” he said slow, “when am I going to see you in service?”

  I was too ’shamed to tell him me and Ma stopped going to church soon as Grandpops passed. Ma said she couldn’t be bothered with “church folks, spending all their time on their knees. What did praying do for me?” I knew then she was talking ’bout Grandpops dying.

  But I didn’t say all that. I told him, “Soon as my ma gets better.”

  Mr. Eugene smiled and patted one of the chairs and told me to get on up.

  “When was the last time you had this head cut?” he asked.

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  Sometimes Ma wrapped a towel ’round my shoulders and took out her scissors and cut it herself if she was up to it. Most times I didn’t get it cut at all. Grandpops used to take me to his friend’s house for a trim and he would give me a piece of hard candy to suck on while the two of them talked and talked, seemed like all afternoon. He spent more time talking than cutting.

  Sometimes it hurt too much to comb my hair, so I’d just pat it down best I could.

  Mr. Eugene took out a towel, then one of those big capes, and tied it ’round back.

  “Mr. Eugene, I don’t have no money for a haircut,” I told him.

  “Did I ask you about money for a haircut?” he said.

  “No sir, but…”

  He spun me ’round so I faced the mirror. I looked so small sitting in the chair, I made myself laugh.

  “You see something funny?”

  “No sir,” I said, and put my head down.

  Mr. Eugene turned on a shiny radio to a song I’d never heard before. My head started bobbing up and down.

  “Now, how am I going to cut your head, with you boogie-woogieing out of the chair?” he asked, wiping down his scissors.

  “Sorry,” I said, trying to stay still. Aunt Vera bought Ma a radio when we moved to the house, but Ma only let me play it quiet, when she was resting in bed. Said it gave her a headache. I think the music reminded her too much of Grandpops.

  When Mr. Eugene started cutting my hair, he talked about how long he owned this barbershop, about his wife passing, his daughter in Chicago. I put my head up then.

  “Chicago?” I asked him.

  “Yup. You got people there?”

  “My momma lives in Chicago.”

  “Well, you can keep Chicago,” he said. “Too big, too loud, too dirty for me,” he said, laughing.

  “So, you been?” I asked, staring at him in the mirror.

  “Oh yeah. I visit about twice a year, but my daughter knows she got to come on back home to Milwaukee if she wants to see her old man any more than that.”

  “One day, I’m gonna go to Chicago. To visit my momma,” I said.

  “That so?” he said.

  Mr. Eugene took a long time cutting, his scissors seemed like they never stopped moving. Started getting dizzy with him moving me this way and that in the barber chair. Ma just cuts real quick and we’re done. But Mr. Eugene wasn’t in no kind of rush. He asked me questions like I was the most interesting person in the world. About school, and my daddy. I didn’t plan on it, but I told him all ’bout Grandpops. Sitting in that chair, with him cutting and the music playing, made me never want to leave.

  Finally, he said, “Looks like we’re all done here, Lymon.” He took out a brown bottle and dabbed something smelled like medicine on my neck and ’round my forehead. He untied the cape and shook off all the hair. Then he brushed my neck with a little broom. Tickled so bad, I had to laugh. When he turned me ’round to the mirror, I barely recognized myself. Looked like a handsomer me. A looker. This haircut wasn’t nothing like the ones Ma gave me. All ’round the edges was sharp. When Mr. Eugene held up a mirror in back, I could see even the hair ’round my
neck was cut.

  “Wooowee, that looks good,” I couldn’t stop myself from saying out loud. I looked like one of the boys from school who wore the nice shirts with ties every day. Probably who didn’t sleep in the same room as his grandma and put salve on her swolled legs every day.

  Mr. Eugene laughed.

  “How much you charge for a cut like this?” I asked, still looking in the mirror and patting my hair like a girl.

  “Told you already. This one’s on me.”

  “But s’pose I wanna come back again?” I asked.

  “I think we can work something out.”

  He lowered the chair and I shook his hand again, hard. “Thank you, Mr. Eugene. Nice meeting you.”

  “And nice meeting you, Lymon. Next time you have a holiday, you stop by and see me.” He winked at me.

  Mr. Eugene looked like he wasn’t nobody’s fool. I don’t think he really believed I was on a holiday from school, but he didn’t make me feel like my teachers at Fourth Street. Didn’t laugh and call me a liar like they did. I wasn’t ’bout to feel ’shamed ’bout leaving a place I never wanted to be in the first place. The less I went, the more I felt that way.

  * * *

  I walked out the barbershop feeling better than when I walked in. Wished we had a mirror at home so I could look at myself a little longer. I headed out again past the streetcars. Made my way down to Lake Park, where I sat and threw rocks for a while till school would let out. Then I headed on home, hoping Ma was in bed sleeping. I thought up a story to tell her about Mr. Eugene cutting my hair. Had a story all made up in my head to tell her. But by the time I reached the front porch I remembered, Ma probably wouldn’t notice.

  TWELVE

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin 1945

  I never wanted Ma to be sick, but the days when she had a hard time getting out of bed, was the days I didn’t have to go to school. Ma didn’t tell me I could stay home, but she didn’t tell me I had to go either. Long as I fixed her some toast and a cup of coffee, put the salve on her legs, she didn’t ask me ’bout nothing more. Ma stayed in bed longer and longer, and even though she was fussing more too, I could hear her voice sounded more scared than mad. Same reason she didn’t let me sleep on the couch at night, I think was why she didn’t want me going off to school on her bad days. She was ’fraid of being alone. On the days I stayed home, I’d turn on the radio soft and take out the guitar and play. My teacher told me once they would send someone over to my house if I missed any more days, but I never told Ma. Figured the teacher was trying to make me ’shamed like she did when she asked me to go to the board to do a problem or read a page out loud.

  But one night just as we were sitting down to supper, we heard knocking.

  “Go see who’s at that door,” Ma yelled. I nearly tripped over myself at first thinking Daddy was back so soon. Me and Ma never get company, so I knew it wasn’t no visitor. Could see in Ma’s eyes she was scared about the knocking. Me too. Never known Daddy to knock, but I kept hoping it was him all the way till I opened the door.

  “Good evening, young man,” a white man said. Tall with those blue eyes Ma says look like the devil and yellow hair. “Are your parents at home?”

  I shook my head no, hoping Ma couldn’t hear, and I could get him to leave.

  “Is there another I adult I could speak with?”

  “Who’s that, Lymon?” she yelled from the kitchen.

  “I don’t know, Ma.”

  “Maybe you should come back another time,” I said soft.

  I hoped the man didn’t hear her cursing as she got up from the chair and made her way faster than she moved in weeks to the door. She almost pushed me out the way when she saw who was standing there.

  “Are you this young man’s guardian?” he asked Ma.

  “I’m his grandmother if that’s what you mean.” One thing ’bout Ma, you can’t try any fancy talk ’round her. Don’t nothing scare her.

  “Well, I am Mr. Donnelley from the Milwaukee School District. We have a report of a young man, Lymon Caldwell, eleven years of age, who has been absent from Fourth Street Elementary, let me see here….” He looked down at some papers on his clipboard.

  “He’s been sick,” Ma said, not waiting for him to finish.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?” the man said, looking past Ma to me.

  “I said, he’s been sick.”

  “I see. Is he sick now, ma’am?” he asked.

  “He’s better now. Ain’t you, Lymon?” Ma asked. She didn’t even turn to look at me.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “You are aware, ma’am, that he is required by the state of Wisconsin to attend school? Truancy is a violation of compulsory law and if he does not meet a basic attendance requirement then it is within our right to impose a fine or—”

  “I said he’s been sick.”

  “I understand that, ma’am, but he will either need to see a physician and provide documentation or—”

  “He’ll be in school tomorrow,” Ma said, and shut the door.

  My heart was beating fast. Partly ’cause I wanted to hear more of what that man had to say, and partly ’cause I wanted to see how mad Ma could get. I didn’t have to wait long ’cause he knocked again.

  Ma swung open the door.

  “Ma’am. I wasn’t finished. May I have your name please. For my records.”

  “Lenore Caldwell.”

  “And you said you are the boy’s grandmother.”

  “Yes I did.” I was behind her but I could tell she was rolling her eyes.

  “And where are the boys parents?”

  “You need to put that on your paper too?” she asked with her hand on her hip, looking down at his pad.

  “Are you his legal guardian?”

  “You see anyone else here?”

  I could see the man’s face getting red, and I was listening close so I could remember to tell Daddy every word.

  “Ma’am…Mrs. Caldwell, I am sure you understand I have a job to do. And I need to ensure that every child in the district is receiving an adequate—”

  “And…I…said…he’ll…be…in…school…tomorrow,” Ma said slow like she was talking to someone too dumb to understand. Her voice was getting loud now.

  That man knew he got all he was gonna get out of Ma ’cause this time when she closed the door in his face, we didn’t hear no more knocking.

  Ma limped back into the kitchen. Her face was sweating now.

  “Get me my medicine.” I ran and got it.

  THIRTEEN

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin 1945

  WHEN I woke up this morning, Ma was already out of bed, and I know that means today I gotta go to school. Our beds are so close they are almost touching. All night I gotta hear Ma snoring and wheezing, sometimes passing gas. When we first moved here, I wanted to sleep close to her. With Grandpops gone, everything ’bout being in Milwaukee was new and scary at the same time. But I can’t ask Ma questions like I asked Grandpops. And he used to tell me stories and tuck the blanket right up under my neck at night, just the way I liked it. Ma don’t do that.

  “Get to bed” means time to turn out the lights and no more talking.

  I asked once if I could sleep in the front room, on the couch. Felt like I was getting too big to be sleeping with my ma like a baby. She near bit my head off.

  “S’pose I need something in the middle of night?” she yelled, coughing. “I gotta hope you hear me screaming for help?”

  “No, Ma.” I didn’t ask again.

  I got up this morning and pulled on my pants. I knew I was getting taller when my pants started creeping up around my ankles. I put on dark socks so no one would notice, but I’d need to ask Aunt Vera to take me shopping. I know her and Uncle Clark ain’t rich, but she always manages to find a little something to take me shopping when the weather turns cold or my pants can’t be let out any more. Over at her church there’s bags of clothes for people who need them, and if her money’s too tight, she’ll bring me something from
the church bag. Ma says her clothes are just fine, but they ain’t. Most of her dresses are worn and raggedy, and her winter coat is shiny ’round the elbows, but she don’t go out much anymore so all she wears around the house is her nightgown and stained housecoat. I found a shirt that looked halfway clean and pulled that on. I washed my hands and face in the bathroom, brushed my teeth with the baking soda Ma makes me use. Ma was sitting at the kitchen table when I walked in, head in her hand.

  “You okay, Ma?”

  “What you think?” she said, sounding tired.

  It’s the same answer every time, but I keep asking. “You need anything ’fore I go to school?”

  “Get my medicine from the bedside table.”

  I grabbed her bottle of coughing medicine and brought it back.

  “What am I gonna do with this without a spoon?” she yelled.

  “Sorry, Ma,” I said, and grabbed a spoon from the sink and rinsed it off.

  Ma poured two big spoonfuls into her mouth.

  “Put my salve on before you leave,” she said, and handed me the tin tub on the kitchen table. I opened it and tried to breathe through my mouth so I didn’t have to smell the nasty smell of boiled eggs and mint. I dipped in my fingers and then spread it over the sores on Ma’s legs.

  “Ma, you got a new one.” I pointed to another spot on her leg.

  She sucked her teeth and didn’t look. Her legs were big and dark and swolled. Last time doctor came, he said they had “fluid” and said she needed to stay off her feet. He said she needed to be in the hospital for treatments or she could lose her leg. Ma said doctors just try to take what little money she got. In Mississippi, Grandpops took her to the doctor every week. But in Milwaukee, she just don’t go.

  I wiped off the salve on my pants and headed to the door.

  “Bye, Ma.”

  “Don’t slam that—” I heard her say, just as I slammed the door extra hard and ran down the stairs. Only had to walk down two blocks to get to school, but I walked as slow as I could. I could already see the smoke from the factories past Cherry Street filling up the sky. I was almost at the school when I remembered I didn’t have my books, but that don’t matter much to me. School stopped mattering a long time ago.