The door swings open and there’s a short, skinny Chinese man. “What can I do for you?” he asks.
“I’m here about the room,” I tell him.
“It’s a small room. Fifty dollars a week. I live here with three other men and there’s one bathroom.”
“I’ll take it.”
“Don’t you want to see it first?”
“No.”
He lets me in and leads me upstairs and down the hall to my room. It’s a small room, like he said, with a bed and a chest of drawers and a big, soft chair.
“I’m Quincy,” says the short man.
“Craig. Craig … Sutton,” I says. I reach out for his hand and he’s got long, cold fingers that wrap around my knuckles. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll catch up on some sleep.”
“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall.”
“Thanks.”
Quincy leaves me and goes back downstairs and I walk into the room and fall onto the bed. I get up and decide to wash out my clothes before I sleep.
My eyes open and I get up and plug in my phonograph. It’s dark outside and I can hear talking. I stop the music and get dressed and go downstairs. There are three men with Quincy watching television in the living room and when I walk in they all stand up. There’s a fat man in jeans and a flannel shirt and two men dressed all in gray and they’re all Chinese.
Only the fat man extends his hand and Quincy tells me his name is Thomas. I take his hand and he smiles and I smile. The other two men are named Mike and Larry and they don’t push their hands out and they don’t smile.
“Let me show you the rest of the house,” says Thomas and this big fella slaps a hand on my shoulder and turns me around. When we’re out of the room he says, “Don’t let Mike and Larry bother you. They are just upset that Quincy didn’t discuss your moving in with us.”
“I could leave.”
“Don’t be silly.” He slaps me on the back and we’re in the kitchen. “Quincy makes breakfast for everybody, if you’d care for it.”
“Thanks.”
“There’s a beer in the fridge. Feel free.”
I nod. “Why are Mike and Larry dressed like that?”
“They’re in a Mao study group.”
“Oh.”
“More social than anything.” He pushes his fat fingers through his thick black hair. “Where are you from?”
“Spokane,” I tell him.
“Oh, yeah? How long do you plan to stay around here?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Business?”
“Huh?”
“Business bring you down here?”
“No, uh … vacation.”
Thomas reaches into the refrigerator and pulls out a beer and offers it to me. I take it and he pulls out another one for himself. “You like baseball?” he asks.
“What?”
“Baseball?”
“It’s okay.”
“The Portland Beavers are playing tomorrow … if it doesn’t rain. Wanna go?”
“Sure.”
The following day I sleep until late morning and when I finally make it downstairs everybody is gone. So, I start digging through the icebox and I really have a taste for bacon, but there ain’t a scrap of meat to be found. There ain’t nothing in the refrigerator but yogurt and beer, so I have a beer. I go back to my room.
I’m upstairs in my room playing my saxophone and there’s a knock at my door and it’s Thomas.
“You still want to catch the Beavers?” he asks.
“What?”
“The baseball game.”
“Sure.”
We leave the house and walk about a mile to the stadium and pay a buck apiece to get in. It’s a real cloudy day, but it ain’t raining and that’s all that matters. Thomas and I head up the bleachers behind home plate and his leg goes through a gap between the boards. I reach down and catch him and his hand closes around my upper arm and he’s got his balance again.
“You’re very strong,” he says, slowly releasing my arm.
I don’t say anything. I just move up, grab a seat, and look out over the field. It’s funny; there’s a lot of folks out for the game, but we’re the only ones sitting behind home plate. I’m about to ask Thomas why we’re all alone where we are when I notice how low the screen is between the batter and the bleachers. I think that many a foul ball must have come whistling back into the crowd.
“Thomas,” I says, “you may not want to sit here.”
“Why?”
“We might get a few balls our way.”
His eyes grow large. “What?”
“Foul tips might come buzzing over that low screen and pop you in the face. I just figured you should know.”
“Oh.”
I’m not sure he understands just what I’m saying, but I drop the subject.
The game starts and there ain’t much to see; just a load of fellas dressed alike, embarrassing their loved ones. Then some fella’s up and the count is full and he keeps tipping the ball straight back over the screen and I keep catching them and Thomas is real excited. Thomas is giggling and telling me how marvelous it is that I can catch like that. Finally the guy at bat pounds a long ball to left and every body cheers. So does Thomas and he stands up and when he comes down his hand lands on my leg.
“Excuse me,” he says and pulls his hand away.
It starts to rain and the game is called and Thomas and I walk back down Burnside toward home. It’s a real busy street and the rain doesn’t keep people in these parts inside. I see, in the street ahead, a man leaning over, talking to somebody in a car and it’s Sid Willis. I duck into a doorway and pull Thomas with me.
“What is it, Craig?” Thomas asks, smiling.
I don’t say anything. I am peering around the corner and I see Sid climb into the car and ride off.
“What is it?” he asks again.
“Nothing.”
We walk home and Mike and Larry are sitting in the living room, reading. They look up at me but they don’t say anything, and so I just go up to my room and listen to the song.
It’s just starting to get dark outside when Thomas walks into my room and sits on the bed.
“You like jazz, huh?” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Dizzy Gillespie’s playing at the Opus Club.”
“Really?” I says, sitting erect. “Where’s that?”
“Right here in Old Town. Would you like to grab a bite and hear him?”
I pause. “Yeah.” I grab my phonograph and my record and my saxophone and I’m ready to go.
“Why’re you bringing those things?” Thomas asks.
“I haven’t played the song for you, have I?”
He shakes his head.
I plug in the record player and drop the needle down.
“Damn,” I says. “That’s something, ain’t it?”
He nods and he’s looking at me with a funny eye.
“This song just does something to me. I mean, it really gets me excitied.”
Thomas smiles. “Bring it along, bring it along.” Bud made his apologies to Ma about not attending the funeral. He said death didn’t sit well with him. I didn’t want to go either, but I had to.
The coffin was open. Grandmama was just laying there, peaceful as could be, even though there was enough crying and hollering going on to wake the dead. I looked out over the crowd in attendance. In the middle of all the dark faces dressed in dark clothes was McCoy. White as white could be. He stood out something fierce. It was difficult to look at: his pale skin, white hair, white clothes in a sea of darkness. Daddy looked back at him and frowned.
I turned to face the coffin and saw Ma summoning me with her index finger. I walked to her.
“You’re a good boy, Craigie,” she said. “Kiss your grandmother.”
I just looked at her. I wanted to back away, but I didn’t. I felt sick to my stomach.
“Kiss your grandmother,” she repeated and with that she grabbed me by the back of my head and pushed my face into the coffin. “Kiss her, Craigie.”