Dave at Night

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, but I am.”

  She got up on her knees and collected the jacks and the ball. “This is how you do the twos.”

  “What would your wish be?” I asked.

  “To go to school and jump rope and play tag and have girlfriends.”

  I stared. “You don’t go to school?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you know how to read?” I could teach her.

  She jumped up and pulled a book out of the bookcase against the wall. “This was written by a friend of Mama’s.” She shifted her feet so she was standing straighter. Then she coughed and began. “‘The Weary Blues’ by Langston Hughes.

  “Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,

  Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,

  I heard a Negro play.

  Down on Lenox Avenue the other night

  By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light

  He did a lazy sway . . .

  He did a lazy sway . . .

  To the tune o’ those Weary Blues.”

  She read it slowly. When she said sway, she dragged it out, so I felt the musician sway. And when she said weary, she sounded weary. I clapped.

  She looked embarrassed. “Miss Mulready teaches me to declaim, and all my other subjects. She comes every day.”

  “Why don’t you go to school?” I wished I didn’t have to.

  “Mama likes to keep me nearby, and she—”

  The door opened again. Irma Lee swung around. “Darn it! Ma—”

  But it was Solly. “So, boychik, here you are.” He sat on Irma Lee’s bed.

  I stood, picking up the drawing pad and holding it behind me.

  “Mr. Gruber,” Irma Lee said, “would you tell my fortune?”

  “Tell for you your fortune?” the parrot squawked.

  If he tried to trick her, I’d tell her he was a phony.

  “Irmaleh, my fortunes aren’t the gontzeh megillah, the whole story.”

  Good. He knew better with me watching.

  “I don’t care.”

  Solly took the cards out of his pocket and shuffled them. Behind my back, I tore the drawing off the pad. Then I turned away from Solly and Irma Lee, folded it up, and stuffed it into the waist of my knickers.

  “The boychik can help me.”

  While Solly shuffled the cards, I rocked, moaning softly with my eyes almost closed. Irma Lee giggled.

  Solly turned a card over on the bed. A nine of hearts. “When you’re nine years old you will get married.”

  Irma Lee giggled harder. “I’m ten and a half.”

  “So I made a mistake.”

  I groaned loudly.

  Solly turned over another card and placed it to the left of the nine. It was a five. “The cards tell all. When you are fifty-nine you will get married.”

  “For the first time?”

  Solly turned over another card. “For the sixth time. Or you will have six children. The cards are not clear.”

  “Or I’ll have five hundred and ninety-six children.”

  “Not possible,” Solly said. “I would never prophesy such a thing.” He turned over a joker.

  “Is that my husband?”

  “You’re planning on marrying a playing card, Irmaleh?” He gathered up the cards. “I came in to see if my grandson wants to get something to eat.”

  Irma Lee whirled on me. “You didn’t eat before you came, did you?”

  I shrugged. “Irma Lee knows you’re not my grandpa.” He could tell his own lies.

  “That’s right. You shouldn’t lie to your friends.” He stood up. “So, let’s go eat.”

  Irma Lee led us to the front staircase, which was much grander than the back one. The three of us could walk down it side by side, and the carpet was so deep it practically tickled my ankles.

  Halfway down, Solly grabbed my arm. “Look, boychik.” I could barely hear him. The crowd was even thicker than before. And the noise was a roar, louder than a subway train.

  Solly talked right into my ear. “See the bald-headed colored man with the goatee?” He pointed.

  Hurry up, I thought. I’m hungry. “Uh-huh.” I did see him. There was a little space around him.

  “That’s W. E. B. Du Bois. A scholar and a writer for the Negroes. A genius.”

  Someone at the bottom of the stairs called to Irma Lee, and she went down without us. I was afraid of losing her, but Solly was still clutching my arm.

  “And look.” He pointed at a colored man coming through the door. “That’s Caspar Holstein, a big crook.”

  “Like you?”

  “A gonif is a big crook like a mouse is a mountain lion. That no-goodnik runs the numbers game in Harlem. I, on the other hand, only . . . Ahhh . . . Ahhh. And do you see, Dave, that bunch, the ones laughing with Dora?”

  I nodded.

  “They’re all poets and writers, colored poets and writers. Tell your grandchildren you saw Countee Cullen, Wallace Thurman, Arna Bontemps, Langston Hughes—they won’t believe you. You’ll see.”

  Langston Hughes wrote the poem Irma Lee had read to me. It was interesting to see him. I’d never been in the same place before with someone whose words were in a book. But I didn’t want to stand still, staring at him. I wanted to get back to Irma Lee.

  She was only a little way into the crowd, talking to a hat. Not really, but that’s what it looked like from up here. The lady was wearing a purple hat—another fishbowl-shaped one. I couldn’t see her face at all. Solly finally let go of me, and I ran down the stairs.

  “Irma Lee . . .” I said.

  She excused herself from the lady. “There’s foie gras and oysters,” she shouted to me. “Come on.”

  Solly caught up with me and put his hands on my shoulders. “Make way for the crown prince and princess of Sheba.”

  Irma Lee was about to disappear ahead of us. I lunged forward and put my hands on her shoulders. Her dress felt smooth and soft, and I could feel her bones underneath.

  “Make way for the crown prince and princess of Sheba.”

  The crowd parted.

  Chapter 24

  THE DINING ROOM was crowded and noisy, but not as bad as the hall. I could hear the pianist and the harpist playing two rooms away.

  I didn’t know what a lot of the food was. I’d never seen an oyster before or a snail or the tiny slippery things Irma Lee said were fish eggs. I’d gladly have shared any of them with Moe. They were slimy.

  But I liked the foie gras, which tasted like chopped liver. And I liked the roast beef and the turkey and the stuffing and the leg of lamb and the creamed potatoes and the sweet-as-sugar baked carrots. I even liked the strange salad—banana slices and popcorn mixed together on a big lettuce leaf with dabs of goo on top that Irma Lee said was mayonnaise.

  Some people in the corner called to Irma Lee to join them. She made a face, but she went. I didn’t mind. I wanted to concentrate on eating. After I finished big helpings of everything, I went back for more. Solly had said nobody would care. He’d said they’d throw the leftovers away, but I didn’t believe him.

  As I ate, I walked over to the painting that hung over the sideboard. I swallowed hard and stared. The painting was of Noah’s ark! But a completely different version from Papa’s. In this version the storm had already begun. Looking at it, you knew you were watching an emergency. There were lightning flashes, even though a hazy sun still shone. From the deck of the ark, a Negro Noah raised his arm and gave orders. The two animals climbing into the ark were marching in double time. The only colors were pale purples and pale greens, and the drawing was simple, but there was nothing wrong with that. The painting felt powerful. I ate slowly, following the direction of the shapes with my eyes and trying to figure out how the artist had done everything.

  The signature was A. Douglas. Aaron Douglas. Mrs. Packer had said he might be here tonight. I turned around, looking for Irma Lee. If Mr. Douglas was here I wanted to ask him why he used such pale colors.
But she wasn’t in the room anymore, and neither was Mrs. Packer and the people they had been talking to.

  I put my plate down on the buffet table, meaning to look for Irma Lee. But then I thought this was a good time to stock up on food for my buddies.

  It wasn’t stealing, not if they were going to throw the leftovers away. Well, maybe it was, but it was gonif stealing, not big-crook stealing.

  If only I had more pockets. There were none in my jacket or my shirt, and the two in my knickers wouldn’t hold much. I unbuttoned two buttons on my shirt near the waistband of my knickers. You could hardly tell my shirt was open, because of the folded drawing, which was white too. I took a roll and glanced around. Nobody was watching. Through the doorway I saw Solly two rooms away, looking at the books.

  I slipped the roll inside my shirt and pushed it toward the back, where the jacket would cover the bulge. But one roll would be a crumb for each eleven. What else could I take?

  There was a plate with chunks of carrot and celery on it. It wouldn’t be their favorite food, but it wouldn’t squoosh. I took a handful. The vegetables would fit in my pockets.

  “It’s so unusual to see a child who likes his vegetables.”

  I turned. A light-skinned colored lady with gray hair smiled at me.

  I bit into a carrot and smiled back. “Mmm. Yum.” The music in the next room stopped just then, and my voice was too loud. I lowered it and added, “Delicious and good for me.”

  “I love carrots too.” She took one and chomped on it. “Who’s your daddy, son?”

  “Abraham Caros. But I’m here with my grandpa, Solly Gruber.”

  “He must be proud of you.”

  For eating vegetables? “I guess he is.”

  We stood there, smiling at each other. Then she gave a little laugh. “Well. Excuse me. I have to find my husband.” She took another carrot and headed into the crowd.

  I stuffed the vegetables into my pockets. Then I saw a platter of fruit and a bowl of nuts on the sideboard with the cakes and pies and cookies. I grabbed an apple and looked around. Nobody was paying attention. I shoved it into the back of my shirt.

  That man, across the table—was he watching me? His head was tilted, listening to another man. But his eyes were on me. I smiled at him and waved, but his expression didn’t change. I stuck my fingers in the corners of my mouth, pulled back, and stuck my tongue out. His expression still didn’t change. He wasn’t really seeing me. I took another apple, and then another. They settled around my waist. It was a good thing my shirt was too big. I looked around again, took a handful of nuts, and added them to my collection.

  Above the sideboard was a mirror. I turned sideways and looked to see if the fruit and vegetables made my jacket stick out. They didn’t.

  Enough. I buttoned my shirt and cut myself a slice of chocolate cake. Irma Lee came back in with a tall Negro man. I walked toward them, carrying my plate and eating. The food in my shirt jiggled. “Is Mr. Doug—”

  At the exact same moment she said, “Can you—”

  We laughed, and the man said, “Let the boy talk, Irma Lee.”

  So I asked if Mr. Aaron Douglas was at the party, and she said he hadn’t come. Then she said, “Can you Charleston, Dave Caros?”

  “I’ll dance with you,” the man said.

  “You’re too big, Mr. Johnson. I want to dance with Dave.”

  The man laughed. “I’m too old, you mean.”

  “There’s no mu—”

  At that moment, the piano in the next room started playing again, but it wasn’t light and tinkly anymore. It was like the music at the rent party, what Solly called jazz. A drum joined the piano. Irma Lee grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the music.

  “I don’t know how to dance.” And I couldn’t dance with fruit and nuts in my shirt.

  A trumpet started singing. It zigged and zagged above the piano and the drums.

  “Come on.”

  The room with the musicians was mobbed, and everybody was dancing.

  “It’s the Charleston,” Irma Lee shouted and started doing it too, arms and legs flying, grinning and laughing.

  I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there. Irma Lee stopped dancing and stopped grinning. I couldn’t spoil things for her. I put my left hand behind my back to hold the food, threw my right arm around wildly, and started jumping up and down. It made Irma Lee laugh, and she started going again.

  The apples kept bumping into my back, and the roll was probably squashed, and the nuts were scratchy—but they all stayed where they were supposed to.

  The music got inside me. It felt like my bones were humming and bouncing along. I tried to imitate Irma Lee. She pointed her right toe and both her arms went to the right, her right arm went way up in the air. When she brought her foot in, her arms went the other way, but not as far. Then she stuck her left foot out behind her, arched her back, and sent her arms way off to the right again. And she did it all while jumping and skipping.

  I couldn’t do it. Sure, I could point my toe and hop and bring my free hand up. But I couldn’t do them all at once in time to the music.

  Never mind. I’d just go on making it up. I kicked up my feet. Irma Lee laughed harder. I swung my arm around and around like a propeller and kicked my feet out behind me like I was trying to keep from falling. It seemed right with what the drums were doing. I kicked my feet out side to side and waved my arms over my head.

  And the man dancing next to me crashed into me, and I went down, and my shirt came out of my knickers and the vegetables came out of my pockets. The apples rolled around on the floor, and people started slipping on nuts and carrots and celery. And the song ended and the music stopped.

  Chapter 25

  A WOMAN ALMOST fell on top of me, but her partner caught her. Irma Lee said, “What happened? Where . . .” And then she looked at me, and she knew.

  I wanted to evaporate. I wanted to turn myself into somebody else. Somebody like Gideon, who would never get into this kind of trouble. I wanted to turn time back an hour, before this started, and do it over. I wanted most of all not to cry.

  A maid came from someplace and started sweeping up. I reached into my shirt and pulled out a few nuts and the crushed roll. I held them out to her. There was no point in trying to hide anything now.

  Irma Lee started laughing. “You look . . . so . . . funny!” she gasped.

  She was laughing at me. She knew I was a thief and thought I was an idiot.

  She was right.

  “The squashed . . . roll . . . the—”

  A man interrupted. “It’s not funny. Whites always steal from us, although they usually do it sneakier.”

  Irma Lee tried to stop laughing. “He didn’t steal.” A giggle got out. “It was for our picnic in the backyard.” Then she was off laughing again. “Celery . . . in . . . your hair . . . Your shirt . . .”

  A few other people joined the laughter. Then the music started up, and everybody went back to dancing.

  She’d stuck up for me! She thought it was funny. She was crazy—good crazy—the best crazy!

  I was still on the floor. The maid picked up the last celery stick. All around me people were dancing. I guess it was funny. I thought of Papa, what he’d think of this mess. He’d laugh. He’d roar.

  I stood up and jumped around again in time to the music. Before I left tonight, I was going to make sure she knew I had stolen for my buddies, not for myself.

  She started dancing too. She danced next to me and tried to get me to learn the Charleston. By the end of the song I’d caught on a little, even though my arms kept going the wrong way.

  In the quiet after the song ended, Irma Lee asked, “You want to see the backyard where we were going to have a picnic?”

  “Okay.”

  She took my hand again. It was so friendly and trusting when she did that. I followed her through the dining room and into the kitchen, where a woman was taking another roast out of the oven, and a man was washing dishes. Beyond th
e kitchen was a small room lined with shelves full of cans and jars. Facing us was the door to the backyard.

  We went out. The cold air felt good. Irma Lee flicked a switch on the door frame, and a light came on. The yard was only as wide as the house and not very deep. But it was crammed with things, mostly statues of men and women, some of them naked. There was a statue of a horse, as big as a horse. And there were statues of heads, just heads, with their necks and a bit of their shoulders. They looked like they were growing out of the ground, like somebody had planted head seeds. There were also two benches and some dried-up plants left over from the summer.

  “The food was for my buddies at the orphanage.”

  “Why did you put it all in your shirt?”

  “Because my pockets weren’t big enough.” I started laughing again. It sounded so silly.

  Irma Lee laughed too. “I can give you better food to take back.”

  I couldn’t walk in with a platter. “It has to be something I can sneak in.”

  “All right. I’ll give you a loaf of potato bread.”

  It was eerie out here. The light was dim, and the statues by the back fence were just shadowy shapes.

  “We could play hide-and-seek,” I said. “There are lots of good hiding places.”

  Irma Lee looked so happy it was like I had given her a million dollars and she needed a million dollars—which she didn’t. “Should I hide, or do you want to?” she asked.

  “I’ll hide.” If she hid I’d never find her. She’d know all the best places.

  She leaned against the house and started counting. I stood next to a statue of a man shooting an arrow and imitated him. Irma Lee might not notice me.

  “Fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one . . .”

  Nothing was big enough to hide me completely. I ended up crawling under a bench.

  “Ninety-nine, a hundred.” She turned and started searching for me with her eyes, not moving. But she didn’t look low enough. She moved away from home base. When she was farther away from it than I was, I began to inch out. She didn’t see me. I scrambled the rest of the way out. But before I could even stand up, she was tagging me and laughing.