Leaving Lymon Read online

  When school started up again, and nearly everyone was going into seventh grade at Haines Junior High, I heard Curtis was going to some other school all the way cross town.

  SEVEN

  Chicago, Illinois 1946

  THE weather was just getting cold enough we didn’t even want to be outside at recess. Me, Clem, and Errol stood close to the door, rubbing our hands together, hoping we could go in soon. Wasn’t much I missed or even remembered ’bout Vicksburg, but I did miss the warm, sunny days most the year. And never having to worry ’bout wearing warm clothes.

  “Someone’s calling you,” Clem said, pointing to the fence near the sidewalk.

  “What are you talking about?” Clem spends most of his time joking so I never know when he’s playing games.

  “Over there.” He pointed again. “That man over there just called your name.”

  I turned and looked. And there, on the other side of the school-yard fence, was my daddy.

  I took off running.

  I was out of breath by the time I reached him. I touched his fingers through the chain. My daddy looked like he just walked from Milwaukee to Chicago.

  “Daddy! Where you been?” I just about screamed through the fence.

  “Been looking for you.” He smiled big like always. He pointed down to the fence opening and we walked down to where we could see each other face-to-face without the fence between. I hugged him tight not caring who saw me.

  Felt like I never wanted to let him go. My head was now just about at his nose.

  “You trying to outgrow me, boy?” My daddy laughed.

  “Is Ma okay?”

  “Ma is Ma,” he said. “Gonna take a lot more than some sugar disease to knock her out. She was in the hospital for a while, and she’s staying with Vera and Clark now.” He looked at me serious. “They had to take her leg, Lymon, part of it at least. But she’s still getting around.”

  “She ask about me?”

  “All the doggone time! You know she ain’t none too pleased you up here with your momma, but there just wasn’t no other way. Couldn’t put no more on Vera and Clark right now.”

  “You come to get me?”

  “How’d I know you were gonna ask that? How’s it here living in Chicago with your momma?”

  “You know she’s married, right?” I told him.

  “Yeah, I heard that.”

  “Well, he don’t want me here. I don’t think Momma does either.”

  Daddy was still smiling, but I could see his forehead crinkling in the middle like it does when he’s worrying.

  “Me and Robert ain’t getting along.”

  “Your momma know?”

  “Yep. But she’s always on his side.”

  He thought on that for a bit. I heard the bell ring.

  “Daddy, I got to get back to school. You gonna be here when I get out?”

  “No, I just stopped by to say hello and bring you this.” First time I noticed he was holding a case. A guitar case.

  “You brought my guitar?” I hugged him again.

  He handed it to me. “Didn’t want you forgetting all the songs your grandpops taught you.” He smiled big again.

  “Lymon, c’mon,” I heard Errol yell.

  “Daddy, when am I gonna see you again?” Feel like I been asking this question my whole life and never getting the answer I want. But I keep asking hoping for the answer I want to hear.

  “I’ll be back real soon, Lymon. I can promise you that. Just taking care of some loose ends, and I’ll be back for you.”

  “For good?”

  “For good. You hang on, you hear me?”

  I tried hard not to let Daddy see how hard it was to say goodbye, not knowing when I’d see him again. Didn’t know if I could hang on till the wind changed again. Maybe the guitar could take some of the hurt away, but every day with Robert felt like when Daddy talked ’bout doing his hard time at Parchman.

  “I will,” I told him. And I almost believed it. I caught up to Errol and Clem, the guitar case banging against my leg.

  “That’s your daddy?” Clem asked.

  I could see Daddy making his way down the street, looking old and tired.

  “Yup. He brought me my guitar. Really my grandpops’, but I got it after he passed. My daddy’s a musician.” Don’t know why I couldn’t stop the words from coming about Grandpops and Daddy. “He just dropped this off till he comes back to get me.”

  “Never knew you played guitar,” Errol said soft, like he didn’t know who I was anymore.

  Clem pretended he was an emcee, making his voice deep and loud, “Presenting our entertainment for the evening: the one, the only, Lymon Caldwell. What will you be performing tonight young man?” he said, holding out his pretend microphone to me.

  “Get away from me, Clem,” I said, smacking down his hand. The three of us laughed then and went on inside.

  I know Clem was playing outside when he held up the microphone, but all day long, I kept seeing myself up on stage, hearing Clem’s words: The one, the only, Lymon Caldwell.

  EIGHT

  Chicago, Illinois 1946

  I thought having Grandpops’ guitar would make things better, but it just made everything worse. After my daddy came, I thanked God for hearing me. But he must have forgot all about me again.

  First thing, Momma wasn’t none too pleased when I came home toting a big ole guitar case.

  “What do you think you’re bringing in my house?” she asked.

  “Daddy brought it! He brought my guitar,” I started to take it out and show her.

  “Uh-uh.” She put out her hand to stop me. “We don’t have no room in here for that. ‘Sides, what’s Robert going to say?”

  The case Daddy bought me was real pretty. Black with red velvet inside. Two big buckles and one handle to carry it.

  I stopped short. “Robert?”

  “Your daddy happen to give you any money while he was handing out guitars? Does he know that feeding you ain’t free?” I wondered how much my momma gave my ma and grandpops to feed me all these years, but ’course I didn’t ask that.

  I shook my head no.

  “I didn’t think so. But he wants to give out guitars…. Put it over there in the corner and let me talk to Robert when he gets home.”

  “You wanna hear me play?” I asked.

  “I got a headache, Lymon.”

  First time since I been there I think she saw something in me wasn’t right, ’cause then she said, “Maybe later. You want to play, go on down to the stoop.”

  * * *

  When Robert got home from his double shift that night, I was just about asleep. Heard him in the kitchen smacking on the plate of food Momma left out on the stove for him. When he went in the bedroom, I heard her whispering soft, and heard her say “guitar.” Heard Robert’s voice louder, but my momma started talking sweet, and his voice got quiet again. Soon I heard him snoring.

  * * *

  At breakfast, Robert came in and sat down, sleep still in his eyes.

  “Heard we got our very own Muddy Waters in the house?” Robert said to me.

  Theo asked, “Who’s Muddy Waters?”

  “A guitar-playing negro, just like our Lymon here.”

  “You play guitar, Lymon?” Theo asked.

  “Yup, my grandpops and daddy taught me.” Wasn’t no way Robert was going to make me feel ’shamed ’bout that.

  “Wish I had time to hear one of them tunes, but some of us got to work. Your daddy know anything ’bout working or just strumming guitars?” He laughed. “ ’Cause it’s my working putting food in his son’s belly.”

  “My momma’s working too,” I said, taking the last bite of my eggs.

  His hand hit the side of my head so hard, I felt dizzy.

  “What’d you say?” he screamed.

  I looked him dead in his eyes. I stood up holding the spot on my face he hit. He stood over me. “Ain’t my momma working to feed me too?” I asked.

  “Did I ask
you about your momma working? Your daddy so high and mighty he gotta leave you here under my roof? You just make sure I don’t hear none of that guitar playing when I’m around, you hear me?”

  I nodded.

  “Now get your Muddy Waters behind to school!” Me, Orvis, and Theo scraped our plates and made our way to the door.

  The streets were so loud with the el train above us and the music from the pool hall at the end of the block, but the three of us walked to school quiet that morning. I got to my seat just as the bell rang. Errol whispered something from the seat behind me.

  “What’d you say?” I asked, and turned around.

  “Your lip is bleeding,” he said.

  I wiped it off with the corner of my shirt and laid my head on the desk.

  NINE

  Chicago, Illinois 1946

  FIRST thing I do when I get home, is take out my guitar. Got to make sure Robert’s working a double and make sure Momma ain’t taking a nap. But if it’s just me, Theo, and Orvis, I can play all I want. They sit right up under me, watching my fingers on the strings. I show them, just like Grandpops showed me. I let Orvis try a bit, not Theo though. Ain’t no telling what he’d do. Momma is right ’bout bad and badder, but they love listening to me play. One day when I played “Sweet Home Chicago,” Theo snatched up Momma’s hairbrush to use as a microphone, and started singing, “C’mon, baby, don’t you want to go…”

  I thought I’d pee my pants laughing. Orvis danced in back of him, stepping side to side, and we pretended we were a group.

  “Well, well…” Momma said from the doorway.

  We were laughing so loud, we didn’t hear her come in. But she was laughing too. “Look at my band of boys.”

  We played music until supper, and without Robert, I could eat and talk in peace, just the way I liked. After supper, Momma gave me a bill from her purse and told me to run to the corner store to get some pops, while Theo and Orvis did their schoolwork. She never asked much ’bout mine. If she did, I told her I did it at school. She was lying down by the time I got back, so I put the pops in the icebox and washed up and got ready for bed.

  * * *

  Any day is a good day I don’t have to see much of Robert, so when I pulled the blanket up under my neck, I didn’t even mind the springs tonight. Robert got in late and didn’t say two words to me, just went straight into bed, dead tired. Between the moon and streetlights, the room was lit up like the Fourth of July, shining in my eyes. I got up to close the curtains and nearly fell over my guitar case lying in front of the window. Momma told me, I don’t keep it in the corner, Robert’s likely to throw it with the trash, so that’s just where its been at.

  * * *

  When I went to stand it back up in the corner, I saw one of the buckles was undone. Something told me to look inside. My guitar was lying there, just the same as always, looking better than ever in that pretty red velvet. When I went to pluck one of the strings though, I saw one was loose. Just hanging there. Robert? The house was quiet, and I could hear the start of his heavy breathing. I was so mad, I wanted to shake him awake. I took a couple of steps to their room and stopped. Theo and Orvis. I walked fast across the room and opened their door. They were awake and looked like they were waiting for me. Orvis looked at Theo and I could see he was already crying.

  “Theo did it!” Orvis said, pointing. “When you went to the store—”

  “You don’t touch my guitar, you hear me!” I said in his face.

  “I just wanted to see if I could play it!” He was crying loud now.

  “Ssshhh, shhh…” Me and Orvis tried to keep him quiet.

  “But you busted a string and now I—”

  I went to the bed and put my hand over his mouth. Snot was running down his face onto my hand. I never seen babies cry as big as Theo cried.

  “Hush up, Theo,” Orvis said in his ear.

  I felt a hand around the back of my neck.

  “Who you think you talking to?” Robert said real low into my ear. “You putting your hands on my boy?”

  Theo and Orvis sat scared, looking from me to Robert. And finally, Theo stopped crying.

  “This is my house. And that means, anything in here belongs to me and mine. You pay rent here?” He turned me around to face him.

  I felt my fists getting tight.

  “You deaf?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Didn’t think so.”

  “I broke his guitar,” Theo cried again loud.

  “Go on to sleep!” Robert yelled and pulled me out of the room, closing their door behind him.

  In the front room, he stood in front of me. “Seems like this guitar is causing more problems than it’s worth. That what’s happening?”

  “No,” I answered.

  “See, that ain’t what it seems like to me. ’Cause I’m up in the middle of the night talking about some foolishness when I should be sleeping. So I’ma tell you what. I have any more problems with you and this damn guitar, it’s gone. You got that, Muddy?”

  He didn’t wait for my answer ’fore he turned and went back to bed.

  * * *

  Even though Robert was working doubles, I didn’t touch my guitar for seemed like weeks after that. Even when Orvis begged me to play a song or Theo promised he would never touch the guitar again, I still said no. But sitting at my desk in school, or lying on the couch at night, I’d play the strings in my head, seeing Grandpops’ hand over mine or hearing Daddy playing right along with me. I could see me and Daddy, maybe Ma too, in a little place in Chicago.

  “This is my daddy.” I’d introduce him to Errol and Clem. I could just hear Daddy making them laugh.

  At night, I could play my guitar all I wanted.

  One night when Robert’s snoring sounded like the el train coming through the apartment, I got up, opened the case and took out my guitar. Grandpops kept the guitar polished with a little white rag. He told me once he saved ’bout a year to buy that guitar ’cause there wasn’t nothing he loved more than music. Said first time he heard a record on his uncle’s phonograph, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven. He scraped and scratched till he finally ordered it from a catalog, and after he taught himself to play decent, realized he liked playing for himself ’bout as much as he liked playing for a crowd. Ma said he paid more attention to that guitar than he did to her.

  “Spent half the day polishing it,” she said. But I don’t think she was mad, ’cause when Grandpops was playing music, he’d make everybody happy. Daddy’s the same. “We three are all music men,” Grandpops told me.

  His voice wasn’t much, but it was good enough to carry a tune. He said my daddy took to music right away, knew I would too. He said as a baby I’d smile big just listening to him play. “This one here is gonna be playing the Cotton Club one day, you’ll see,” he told my ma.

  “Hope not,” she said back. “An honest day’s work is what he needs to be doing, not running around to every little juke joint, trying to hustle up coins,” she told my grandpops.

  “Now you know the Cotton Club ain’t hardly no little juke joint, Lenore. And me and you gonna be sitting right in the front row, looking clean as can be.” He kissed Ma’s neck and made her laugh. He was ’bout the only one who could.

  I sat back on the couch and let my fingers strum over a few strings real soft. It didn’t sound the same with one string missing. I stopped and listened to make sure Robert was still snoring. He was. I strummed again. I tried to remember the last song Grandpops taught me, but I couldn’t get my fingers to line up quite right. Finally, the song came back slow at first and then picked up. Made me smile just thinking how Grandpops loved to hear me play. And then the door to my momma’s bedroom opened.

  Robert was on me ‘fore I could even move. He snatched up the guitar and threw it against the wall so hard I could hear the wood crack and break into pieces. I jumped up to get it and he stepped in front of me.

  “Sit down! When I tell you I want quiet, you listen. And tha
t means I don’t wanna hear no country-ass guitar strumming in my house in the middle of the night when I’m trying to sleep!”

  My fists was balled so tight, I wondered if I could just hit him hard, as hard as I hit Curtis, and knock him out cold.

  Momma came rushing out the room, tying up her silk robe. “What’s going on?”

  “He broke my guitar,” I answered, even though she was asking Robert and not me.

  She looked where I was pointing. Then looked at Robert.

  “I can’t sleep with all his guitar playing. Now you want me to get some sleep after working all day or you want me to listen to this boy playing all night long?”

  “Lymon, I told you you got to play that outside.”

  “It’s late,” I said to her. I knew nothing I said was going to make any difference. Already she was standing close to Robert, trying to make sure he wasn’t mad at her.

  “Go on to bed Robert, I’ll take care of this.”

  This?

  Robert turned and went back to bed. I went to the guitar, holding the strings going every which way in my hands.

  “Why you always making it so hard on yourself?” Momma asked pulling her robe tighter. Her lipstick was smudged, and she had dark circles under her eyes.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” I told her. But all at once, I felt so tired, I didn’t feel like I could keep my eyes open.

  “Well, I told you, and you didn’t want to listen.”

  Kneeling on the floor, in front of Grandpops’ broken guitar, I looked at her then. Stared her right in the eyes that looked just like mine. Wondered what she saw when she looked at me. “You ever gonna take my side?”

  “I ain’t got time for this. I told you to play that thing outside,” she said whispering.

  “Robert’s always right? You let him hit on me, break my guitar, and you ain’t never gonna say nothing? I ain’t got my daddy or my ma. I’m here in Chicago, and I ain’t even got you?”