Tears of a Tiger

  He seemed like he was having a good time. He’s been really depressed lately—I guess because of the accident—but last night he was acting really silly. He had us cracking up! He did this striptease, where he took off his coat, and his shirt, and was about to unzip his pants. Mrs. Jawes was halfway down the aisle, but the song stopped. We was dying laughing.

  Then, for some reason that I’m not really sure of, Andy and Keisha started fighting backstage. She was supposed to sing that new song by Whitney Houston—I forget the name—and dedicate it to Andy. It was going to be a surprise for him, you know, to make him feel good about himself. She and I had planned the whole thing.

  But she never even went on. She stormed out of backstage and went home. Then Andy came out on stage and announced, almost in tears, that Keisha’s act was canceled. I got to give him credit—he did finish the show, but it was no fun after that. All he did was read the names of each group and then go backstage and sit down.

  I called Keisha as soon as I got home and asked her what had happened. She told me that she was tired of holding his hand and nursing him through his temper tantrums and crying spells. She said she was glad it was over finally. She didn’t have the nerve to break up with him before this. I don’t know what Andy is going to do now. She told him they could still be friends, but Andy needs more than that. I feel sorry for him, but I side with Keisha—she ain’t no shrink. That dude needs help.

  Me and Tyrone are still cool. I wish you could see the dress I got for the Prom. He will just die! when he sees me. Ooowee! That boy turns me on! Gotta run. I’ll write again when I can.

  Love,

  Rhonda

  Slipping Away

  Andy and the

  Coach at School

  APRIL 2

  —Hey, Andy. I haven’t seen you since basketball season ended. How’ve you been?

  —Oh, just great, Coach Ripley. My grades are up. Me and Keisha are really tight. I got my act together; I’m even lookin’ at colleges for next year.

  —That’s good to hear, Andy. I’m so glad you got over that bout of depression you had a couple of months back. That was a rough time for you. It will always be difficult to deal with, Andy, but taking one day at a time, with a positive attitude, is the only way to do it. Speaking of colleges, I do have a little bad news for you, however.

  —What’s that?

  —Well, a couple of days ago some basketball scouts were here from Ohio State and Michigan State—friends of mine from college—and they were looking for you.

  —Me?

  —Yes, you. I had told them about you and how much you had improved this year, and how well you were scoring and rebounding, and they wanted to talk to you, maybe even shoot a few with you at my house, but you weren’t at school that day.

  —Uh, I had a cold. I stayed home a day or two.

  —I called your house that evening too, trying to catch up with you, but all I got was your dad’s answering machine. Did you get my message to call me?

  —No, he never told me you called. Are the scouts comin’ back?

  —It’s possible, I guess, if you have a real good finish to the year, but you really blew your chance to meet them informally and let them have the next few weeks to be thinking about scholarship possibilities for you.

  —Well, uh, I know I’ll get another chance. You wait and see. Scouts from all over will be here to check me out.

  —I thought you’d be really upset, but you’re really taking this well. I know how much you want to play college ball. It’s good to see a smile on your face again.

  —You’re right, Coach. I got a smile on my face and a bounce in my step. I’m gonna make it.

  —Fantastic. Stop by my office any time you need to talk. See ya.

  —College scouts? And I missed ‘em? My dad makes me sick. It’s all his fault. I’ll never get a scholarship now. When they see my low grades, all my absences, and my police record, they’ll break their necks runnin’ away…. I don’t care. I don’t care. Who needs college anyway? I don’t need college. I don’t need basketball. I don’t need Keisha. I don’t need nothin’!

  A Father’s Dream

  Andy and His Dad at Home

  APRIL 2

  4:00 P.M.

  —Hi, Dad, you’re home early. What’s to eat? I’m starved!

  —Hello, Andrew. Is this the usual time you get home from school?

  —Yeah, I guess—give or take a few. Why?

  —Somehow I thought you got home after dark on most evenings.

  —Well, I did, during basketball season, but that’s been over for a couple of months now. So I just take the bus right after school and come on home.

  —I see. How have you been doing in school? Are your grades any better?

  —You want some of this ham sandwich? Sure is good. Where’s the mustard?

  —Andrew, I asked you a question.

  —Huh? Oh, grades? No problem, Dad. I’m steady pullin’ ‘em up. Is Monty home yet? The Teenage Warrior Space Soldier show is about to come on.

  —Monty is with your mother. They went to the grocery store, I believe. But it’s you I’m concerned about. Your report card came in today’s mail.

  —I’m dead meat.

  —How can you possibly say your grades are improving? You failed English and chemistry, and you just barely passed history and math! You even failed gym! How can you consider yourself an athlete if you can’t even pass gym?

  —I lost my gym shoes.

  —You what?

  —I lost my shoes, and the gym teacher takes off points if you’re not dressed in proper gym clothes. But I found ‘em. They were in Gerald’s locker.

  —Forget gym. What about English and chemistry? I talked to your English teacher a couple of months ago, and it seemed for a while there that you were improving. What happened?

  —I don’t know. She don’t like me.

  —That’s a weak excuse, Andrew. She seemed genuinely concerned when she called me. That doesn’t sound like someone who doesn’t like you. Have you done all your assignments in her class?

  —Yeah, most of ‘em…. Well, some of ‘em.

  —What about tests?

  —What about ‘em?

  —Don’t play with me, boy. I’m trying to figure out what’s going on here. How do you usually do on her tests?

  —I guess I fail most of ‘em.

  —Do you study for the tests?

  —Sometimes.

  —How can you say you want to go to college? What college is going to take you with grades like this?

  —I never said I wanted to go to college. You were the one who said I wanted to go to college.

  —What do you mean? We’ve been talking about college since you were a little boy! Getting a degree—maybe even in the field of business administration.

  —That’s your dream, Dad, not mine.

  —Well, what about basketball? Didn’t you want to go to college to play ball so you could get a chance at professional basketball? You’ve really improved your game this year.

  —How would you know? You didn’t ever come to even one of my games this year! Not one!

  —Well, you know how hectic my schedule is. Besides, I’ve seen you in the yard when you shoot hoops with your friends. I know you’re good.

  —Yeah, right.

  —But back to the subject at hand—this absolutely reprehensible report card!

  —Why you gotta always use such big words? I know my report card stinks. Why can’t you just say that?

  —If you had a better vocabulary, perhaps you wouldn’t be failing English!

  —Why don’t you just get off my case?

  —I’m not going to argue with you, Andrew. But I expect to see some major improvements in these last couple of months of school. Or I shall have to take some severe punitive measures.

  —There you go with them big words again. What else can you do to punish me? Take away my car? It’s in pieces at Joe’s Auto Graveyard. Take away my driver’s
license? Sorry, the cops beat you to that. Stop me from seein’ my best friend? He’s in pieces at Spring Grove People Graveyard. I took care of that myself—I killed him—remember? So, you can’t hurt me. I deal with big-time hurt every day.

  —Andrew, I know the accident was very traumatic for you. But you have to get beyond it and move on. You have to be strong and show that you are bigger than the problem.

  —Yeah, I know. You’ve told me that before. Be a man. Be strong. Put this “unfortunate incident” behind you. Well, maybe I can’t do that.

  —So you’re going to let it control your actions and ruin your life?

  —No, Dad. I’m gonna get it together. You’ll see. My grades for the last quarter of school will be much better—I promise.

  —That’s my Andrew. I know you can do it, son. I’m counting on you. Don’t let me down now, okay? Do it for me.

  —Okay, Dad. Whatever you say…. Hey, Dad…. Can I ask you a question?

  —Sure, Andrew.

  —How come you always call me “Andrew”? Mom, Monty, all my friends, even my teachers—they all call me “Andy.” But you never have. And I’ve never had the nerve to ask you why.

  —Well, son, let me tell you. My father named me Ezekiel Jeremiah Jackson—two strong Bible names—he had great ambitions for me. But that name turned out to be a detriment rather than an asset to me. When I was growing up, kids called me “Zeke” and even “Eazy,” and I hated it.

  —Hah! Eazy Jackson. I love it!

  —Well, I hated it. I wanted so much to be dignified and respectable and proper.

  —Well, you sure got that!

  —Quit interrupting. I’m trying to explain where I’m coming from. You see, I wanted to be—

  —White?

  —No, not white, but accepted by them. And it was almost impossible to be taken seriously in the business world with a name like “Ezekiel.” I’d be sitting in a meeting with a group of five or six of them, all of us in blue suits and serious ties. The meeting would go something like this:

  “Bob, what do you think the strategy should be?”

  “Well, Tom, let’s get a market sample.”

  “Bill, did you get the printouts of the data?”

  “Yes, and Ezekeil here did the sales analysis.”

  —Then there’d be this silence while they tried not to giggle. It just didn’t work. And “Zeke” was worse. They all had a black handyman at home named “Zeke.” So I started calling myself “E.J.” They seemed to respect and accept that. Besides, all the presidents of all the big companies refer to themselves as “T.W.” or “J.B.” They were used to the format, at least. So that’s why I’m known at work simply as E.J. Jackson. I don’t think there’s anyone there who knows my real name, except maybe the people in personnel.

  —Is that why you’re always so nice to B.J.?

  —Maybe. He seems like a nice falla, though. What’s his real name?

  —He said his mama won’t even tell him, and he don’t wanna know!

  —Well, I can understand where he’s coming from.

  —I wish you could understand where I’m comin’ from sometimes.

  —What was that you said? You were mumbling.

  —Nothin’. Thanks for tellin’ me that. I mean, I knew your name and all that, but you never told me why you never used it. But you still haven’t explained why you always call me Andrew.

  —When you were born, I wanted to give you something my father had tried, but failed, to give me—a name to be proud of. I didn’t want you to have to shorten it or lighten it in any way. So, from the time you were little, I called you Andrew. I guess it was partly from pride, and partly from this determination that I had to make you something really special.

  —I ain’t nothin’ special.

  —Well, your grades don’t show it, but you are! You should be in the top of your class, showing everybody, both black and white, that E.J. Jackson’s son is somebody to be respected and admired.

  —How come I gotta be E.J. Jackson’s son? How come I can’t be just plain old ordinary Andy Jackson?

  —Because ordinary isn’t good enough!

  —Why not?

  —Look, I went to college—night school for six years—while I worked at various jobs during the day to make ends meet. I studied all the time. I carried a dictionary with me wherever I went so that I could improve my vocabulary. I was always conscious of improving myself—making myself better—making myself good enough, bright enough, proper enough, respectable enough.

  —For what?

  —For my co-workers. For myself.

  —You think they care that you busted your butt to be acceptable to them?

  —It’s that desire to excel that I see lacking in you. Sometimes I think you just don’t care.

  —Sometimes you’re right.

  —How can you not care about your life, Andr…Andy?

  —You seem to be doin’ a fine job of dreamin’ my dreams and plannin’ my future. Maybe I don’t wanna be acceptable to white folks.

  —But you must! That’s the only way to make it in this world—to assimilate into the society in which we live. That’s why you must pull up your grades and improve your attitude. That is the key to success.

  —What if I can’t?

  —I’m not taking “no” for an answer. You will show substantial improvement. I will not accept anything less than maximum effort. No son of mine is going to be a failure! Do you hear me?

  —Okay, Dad. Whatever you say.

  —There’s your mother’s car in the driveway. Help her bring in the groceries.

  —I hope she didn’t get much. I’m not very hungry anymore.

  Nighttime Cries

  of Desperation

  Andy’s Final Phone Calls

  APRIL 2

  MIDNIGHT

  —Maybe I should call Keisha. Naw, I’ve had enough of her whinin’ and complainin’. And I thought she understood me! She ain’t nothin’ but a scar on my soul. I gotta move on.

  —I think I’ll call that Carrothers dude. He said to call him anytime—day or night. Let’s see—what’s that number? Here it is. Maybe if I talk to him, I can get my head clear. I feel like I got cotton in my brain.

  —Hello, this is Dr. Carrothers’s answering service. May I help you?

  —Uh, yeah. My name is Andy Jackson, and I need to talk to Dr. Carrothers—right away.

  —Are you a patient of his?

  —Yeah, I guess. I’ve been in to see him several times. He said it was okay for me to call him anytime of the day or night. So I’m callin’. Could you connect me please?

  —I’m sorry, sir, but Dr. Carrothers’s mother had a heart attack and he had to go out of town. Dr. Kelly is taking his calls tonight. He’d be very glad to talk to you.

  —Dr. Kelly? Who is that? I can’t talk to no stranger. It took me a long time to get used to talkin’ to that one long-head doctor. And he told me he’d be there for me anytime I needed him. This is the first time I feel like I really need to talk to him, and you tell me he ain’t there? What kinda mess is this?

  —Sir, Dr. Carrothers was the doctor on call tonight, but as I told you, he had a sudden emergency. I can get Dr. Kelly to—

  —Look, isn’t there some way you can call Dr. Carrothers long-distance? This is really important.

  —I’m really sorry,…you said your name was Andy?

  —Yeah, Andy.

  —I’m really very sorry, Andy. Dr. Carrothers left about two hours ago for the airport, headed for California. He’s on the plane now, so we can’t even page him. But Dr. Kelly is a really fine adviser, and I know you’ll like him. Let me connect you—he’s on the other line. He’ll be with you in thirty seconds, okay?

  —Yeah, okay…click…Forget this! I don’t need this. How come he be gone? Adults are always talkin’ ‘bout bein’ there when you need them, but then when you decide you do, they be disappeared like dust!

  —Okay. What do I do now? I feel like the world is closin?
?? in on me. Wait a minute! I know who’s home. Coach Ripley. Of course he’s home. Tomorrow is a school day. He’s gotta go to work. He’s gotta be home. He’ll cheer me up. He always makes sense. I wonder if he’s asleep.

  —Hello, you have reached the Ripley residence. We’re sorry we are unable to come to the phone now. If you leave a message at the sound of the tone, we’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Have a real nice day…. BEEP!

  —…Click….

  —Yeah, well you have a real nice day, or night, or life, or whatever! I hate talkin’ to machines. It’s like it takes a part of you, a part of your soul or something, when you talk on those things. You leave a little piece of yourself, all naked and unprotected, for anybody to see when they push the little button. Well, they ain’t gettin’ none of me. Coach is probably asleep anyway. I’ll talk to him tomorrow at school.

  —School…. When I think about school, I feel like I got a mouth full of dry bread and I can’t swallow…. When I think about school, I feel like I jumped off the deep end of the pool, then remembered that I couldn’t swim, and then realized that it didn’t matter anyway because the pool was empty…. When I think about school, I feel like I’m tryin’ to take deep breaths, but the air is made of sand…. When I think about school, I feel like I’m in a dark, closed room, with invisible hands pushin’ me from all directions, pushin’ me toward a light I can’t see. Some kids can see the light. Some walk around like they got lights screwed in their foreheads. Some just carry a glow, like Keisha. Yeah, Keisha shines. I’m gonna call her. She’ll talk to me. I know she will.

  —Hello, Mrs. Montgomery? May I speak to Keisha, please.

  —Who is this?

  —It’s me, Andy Jackson. Did I wake you up?

  —Andy? Of course you woke me up. Do you know what time it is?