“What you doing, boy?” Sid asks.
“I’m gonna play the song for him.” I pick up my phonograph and record off the floor. I walk back to the middle of the floor and I’m looking around for an outlet.
“Hey, friend,” the singer says, “why don’t you wait until I finish this set? I’ll listen to it then.”
“Well, I don’t see an outlet. I guess I’ll just have to play it on my horn.” I put the mouthpiece to my lips and start blowing. I’m making a lot of honking sounds.
“Somebody make that drunk sit down!” someone shouts.
“Take that weapon away from him,” says another.
The singer pulls on my arm. “You’re upsetting everybody.”
I stop playing and look into all the faces, annoyed and angry faces. I take my things and walk back to the bar.
Sid slaps my back. “That was pitiful.”
The bartender puts a beer in front of me. “Ain’t you Craig Suder?” he asks.
I look at him for a long second and then I get up and walk out of the place.
Sid follows me out. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
Sid slaps me on the shoulder with the back of his hand as two women thick with makeup walk past us into the bar. “You see the way she looked at me?”
“No.”
“She’s got eyes for me.”
“You’re imagining things. Let’s go.”
“No, no, I’ve got to check this out.” Sid starts back into the bar. “Come on.”
“You go on. I think I’ll head back to the boat.”
“Suit yourself.” He disappears into the tavern.
The whole house felt like it was shaking. I crawled over Martin and his bed to the window and saw a big truck parked out front.
“What is it?” Martin asked, sitting up in bed.
“A truck.” I slid into my slippers and ran downstairs.
Ma was standing at the open door in her coat, rubbing a dish towel over her hands.
“What is it?” I asked and I looked out into the yard and saw Daddy approaching the truck from his office. I ran out into the yard. “Daddy, what is it?”
Martin was out of the house now in pants and tee-shirt.
The men from the truck were pulling a great big piano out and down the ramp.
“What’s the piano for?” Martin asked.
“It’s Mr. Powell’s,” Daddy said. “He’s going to be staying with us for a while.”
“Why?” Martin asked.
Daddy watched the piano move past us toward the house. “He’s taking a little rest here.” Daddy turned and walked back to his office.
Martin and I watched as the movers removed the legs of the piano and slipped it into the house. The big grand piano took up most of the living room and we had to detour clean around it to get to the stairs.
Martin and I sat on the stairs, looking down at the piano. “Pretty neat, huh?” I said.
Martin didn’t say anything.
“You don’t like Mr. Powell, do you?”
“I like him okay.”
Ma came into the living room and started polishing the piano.
“Where are you going?” Daddy asked Ma.
Ma had her pocketbook and was by the door. “I’m going to a meeting.”
“What sort of meeting?”
“Dr. McCoy’s Bible group.”
Daddy’s palm flew up against the door and he leaned, holding the door tight. “Put your bag down. You’re not going.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not getting tied up with that lunatic McCoy.”
“Why not? I’m a lunatic.”
Daddy snatched Ma’s pocketbook away. “Go upstairs!”
Ma went running upstairs, crying. Daddy fell against the door and rubbed his forehead. He tossed Ma’s bag into the umbrella stand, walked into the living room, and sat on the piano bench.
I sat beside him. “When does Mr. Powell get here?” I asked after a few minutes of silence.
“In the morning,” Daddy said.
“Daddy, is Mr. Powell sick?”
“He’s tired. He’s coming here to rest.”
Just then, Martin came running into the house. “Daddy! Daddy! Come quick!” he shouted.
Daddy was up and following Martin through the front door and I was close behind. We ran out into the clear night to see Dr. McCoy standing next to our house, looking up into a tree. Ma was in the tree, trying to get down.
“Hey!” Daddy yelled.
McCoy didn’t even turn to look, he just ran to the street and climbed into his white Cadillac. Daddy picked up a stone and hurled it at McCoy and then he turned to Ma.
“Come down, Kathy,” Daddy said.
“I can’t. I’m stuck.”
“Then go back through the window.”
“I can’t.”
“Try!”
“I can’t.”
“Then jump!” Daddy shouted.
“Are you crazy?”
Daddy looked at Martin and me. “It’s only a few feet. Jump!”
Ma jumped and rolled across the ground. Daddy helped her up and took her inside. Martin was shaking his head. His eyes caught mine.
“She really oughta be put someplace,” Martin said.
“She’s our mother,” I said.
“So? Crazy is crazy and crazy people should be put away somewhere.”
I turned and walked into the house.
The next morning Martin and I left the house and went to the old school yard. We were just standing around with Bucky and Wendell and Fred. They were Martin’s age. Bucky was bouncing a basketball against the wall of the building.
“What was all that in your yard last night?” asked Wendell, who lived across the street from us.
“That was their mama,” said Fred, Wendell’s twin brother. “Their mama was in a tree.” They laughed.
Bucky caught the ball off the wall. “Your mama is touched, huh, Martin?”
“You take that back,” I said, stepping toward Bucky.
Martin pulled me back. “Calm down. He’s right.”
I stared angrily at Martin.
“Well, well, well,” said Fred, looking across the street. “That’s Naomi Watkins.” He pointed with his head.
“Word’s out that she does it,” Wendell said.
“Oh, yeah,” Martin said, staring.
Bucky stopped bouncing the ball and turned around. “Like that, do you?” he asked, tossing the ball to Martin.
“You don’t want any of that,” said Wendell. “They say she’s got VB.”
“That’s VD, stupid,” Martin said.
“Oh.”
“Maybe Craig wants to take her on,” Bucky said.
I was just looking at her. I thought she was real pretty.
“Go talk to her,” Bucky said to me.
“Yeah, go on,” said Fred, pushing me, “little man.”
“Leave me alone,” I said.
Martin laughed.
Chapter 11
Mr. Powell was sitting at the piano, staring at the keys, when I walked into the house. He didn’t notice me. He just kept staring at the keys. I slowly walked toward him. I was next to him.
“Hey there, Bird,” he said, turning his face to me.
“Hey, Mr. Powell,” I said. “What are you doing?”
“Looking at the keys.”
“How come?”
“Listen to this.” He started playing. “This is a song called ‘Ornithology.’ Charlie Parker wrote it.”
“That’s pretty.”
“I’m playing it slow, but it don’t matter. Long as I play it.”
“That’s real pretty.”
“That’s jazz,” he said, and tossed his eyes to the ceiling, “and jazz is life. Jazz is life.”
“What is it?”