Buddy (13 page)

25

I turn thirteen the day we bury Granpa T. People keep saying it was his time and Katrina broke him and thank the Lord we're in Mississippi with all his people. We put him in the ground in a cemetery that's got broke pine trees standing all around it. Daddy says he's sorry Granpa T has to look at those broke trees forever. He says it's going to remind him for all eternity about Katrina. Mama says don't be a fool. She says Granpa T's sitting at the right hand of Jesus now. He's not thinking about any broke pine trees down here where we are.

Mama says we can't have a cake because of the funeral and I say I don't want one anyway. I say thirteen is too old for all that mess. Mama says no it's not and puts her hand on my shoulder for one teeny second before she tells me to go mind Baby Terrell while she gets Tanya out of her Sunday clothes.

November goes creeping along. Mama says why am I not playing my Game Boy any more and I say I'm too old for that foolishness.

“Well, then,” she says, “I guess you're old enough to watch Baby Terrell while I make groceries.”

She walks out the door with Tanya tagging behind her and I'm sitting there looking at Baby Terrell squatting on the floor and banging a little plastic hammer on some plastic nails stuck in a plastic workbench.

“You think that's fun?” I say.

He looks up at me and grins. He's got slobber running down his chin and I can tell he already needs his diaper changed.

“What're you so happy about?” I say, and he laughs out loud.

I lay down on the sofa.

“You ain't nothing but a baby,” I say. “You ain't got a lick of sense.”

At Thanksgiving, Mrs. Watson says we're blessed to be here and says we need to bring in stuff to make give-away bags for the homeless. Mama searches around the apartment and gets some shirts they gave us at the shelter. Then she reaches up under the sofa and pulls out a suitcase. When she opens it up, I see it's Granpa T's clothes, all folded up neat and tidy.

“I ain't taking those,” I say.

“But somebody out there needs them,” she says.

“Well, I ain't taking them,” I say. “You can't make me.”

She sits back on her heels and looks at me. “What's wrong with you, son?” she says.

“Ain't nothing wrong with me. I just ain't taking those clothes, is all.”

She pushes the suitcase back under the sofa and buys a few extra cans of food at the store.

In our classroom, we pile all the stuff in one corner and we sing a song about something called “sheaves.” Jerome asks Mrs. Watson what that is and she says it's a bunch of wheat all held together with a string and I'm thinking why are we singing about that, but I don't say anything.

When we're done singing, Mrs. Watson says to draw a picture of what we are most thankful for.

Daddy says we've got a lot to be thankful for. We're healthy. We've got a roof over our heads. He even managed to buy an old car with some insurance money.

At first, I think maybe I ought to draw a picture of that car. Or maybe of that apartment. Or maybe I ought to draw one of those pictures with everybody all lined up holding hands and write on it, “My Family.”

Mrs. Watson would like that.

But a picture like that wouldn't be for true. I'd have to draw two holes in that picture, and I don't know how to draw an empty space. Besides, I ain't thankful for that empty space.

I look around and everybody's busy drawing. The boy sitting next to me is trying to draw a computer but it don't look too good. That girl Mattie is filling up her paper with flowers but I think that's just because that's what she likes to draw. Jerome is drawing a car, and I know he don't have one. I've seen him after school riding around with the high school brothers, and he ain't the one driving.

I sit there a long time. I can't think of nothing to draw.

Then my pencil starts to move and, sure enough, out comes a dog.

Mrs. Watson's walking around the desks. She stops and looks. “You got your dog back, Tyrone?” she says.

“No, ma'am,” I say, “but I'm thankful he's still alive.”

We're starting the run-up to Christmas. They got candy canes going up on the streetlights in town. When we're in the bus on the way to school, we pass by a mall with a great big old, fake Christmas tree wired onto the top. On the way home, I see the parking lot in that mall is jam-packed with cars and the lights on that tree are blinking on and off.

Mama and Daddy are starting their usual talk about who knows whether Santa Claus has got anything for us this year. They're mumbling about being good and times are hard and all the same stuff they always say. I say I want some new games for my Game Boy. Mama says why do I want that if I'm too old to play it, and I shrug up my shoulders. Tanya says she want some clothes for her dolls. Baby Terrell just jumps up and down when they sing “Jingle Bells” on the radio.

We get a tree from a lot and I think about the storm and how we hid up under that bed and how when we went outside the whole world smelled like a Christmas tree lot. We stand the tree up in the front window and all a sudden the whole apartment smells like the storm.

Then off we go to the Walmart to get decorations. We're standing there in that aisle and I'm thinking about the stuff we used to stick on the tree. One thing was a white ball I rolled in glitter back in Sunday school. Another was a big old blue star made out of shiny paper with Tanya's picture slap in the middle. And there was a thing I made out of Mardi Gras beads. Something where I glued them all together in a lump and then glued some more to hang down.

We ain't got any of that. We're starting over. Mama buys a pack of red shiny balls and a string of tiny white lights. She says it takes a while to get up a good supply of Christmas decorations. She says we'll get more next year. Then she buys us some stockings off an aisle that says
DISCOUNTED 75%
. They look like it, too.

We don't put anything on the bottom part of the tree because Baby Terrell's liable to yank it off. He's walking around now like he owns the place. He don't know there ain't enough stuff on the tree. He don't know there ain't enough presents stacked up underneath. He don't know those flimsy old stockings ought to be hanging off a fireplace instead of off the backs of the kitchen chairs.

We go to a great big church on Christmas Eve. They've got about a hundred people in the choir. They're wearing red robes and singing about Baby Jesus. We're rocking and clapping. Then one lady steps out front and the lights go off and she starts to sing “Silent Night” all by herself. Even Baby Terrell is still.

When we walk out, everybody's smiling and hugging and kissing, and I'm wondering why I ain't happy in the middle of all that love.

Before we go to bed, Daddy gathers us around and we pray. I'm watching him. He's got lines coming down the sides of his mouth. He's got lines between his eyes. He don't know I've seen him in the evening, sitting with his head in his hands, slipping into the kitchen for another beer. I'm watching him, and I bow my head and I pray, too.

In the morning, I sneak into the living room before it's light outside. I always do that. Usually I put a flashlight by my bed the night before but there ain't no flashlight in this apartment so I just go real careful.

I peep around the corner. The living room's empty, of course, without Granpa T sleeping on the sofa. But there those stockings are, hanging off the back of the chairs. They look full of candy. Under Baby Terrell's stocking is some kind of big old baby toy. It looks like a little car you sit in and push around with your feet. Under Tanya's stocking is another doll and a suitcase. I lift up the top real careful. That suitcase is chock-full of doll clothes. And sitting on top is a crown of diamonds just the right size for Tanya. Tanya is going to be one happy girl.

I ain't going to be happy. Under my stocking, there ain't a single thing. Ain't nothing there but floor.

I sit there and look at the empty spot. I'm cold. I'm thinking maybe thirteen is when Santa Claus stops coming. Or maybe I did something bad. I passed all my classes. I take out the garbage. I babysit Baby Terrell. I ain't fussed with Tanya hardly at all the whole time we've been in this apartment. Maybe it's bad to not be happy.

I put my head in my hands, and I'm thinking I look just like Daddy, sitting by myself in the dark with my head in my hands. That living room seems like it gets bigger and emptier the longer I sit there.

And then the light flips on. I turn around and there's Daddy, standing in the door. He ain't got on nothing but his undershorts and his T-shirt. He's rubbing his beard and yawning.

“I thought I heard you,” he says.

I don't say nothing.

“You're supposed to wait until morning. We all come in together. Did you forget that?”

“I ain't never waited.”

Daddy stops rubbing his face and looks at me. “Never?”

I shake my head.

“You like to get the jump?” he says.

I nod.

He looks at the empty place on the floor. “Didn't turn out so good this time, huh?”

I turn away. I look at the floor.

“Come on,” he says soft. “Santa couldn't leave yours out here with the rest. Yours is in our room.”

I turn around and look at him.

He's smiling. “Come on,” he says again. He flips off the light and heads down the hall.

I get up off the floor and I follow him in the dark.

We go in his room. I smell Baby Terrell's powder. Mama lifts up off her pillow.

“He's wandering around in the dark,” Daddy whispers. “He thinks Santa forgot all about him.”

Daddy squats down beside his bed. He drags something out from underneath. I can't see it in the dark.

“Hold out your arms,” Daddy says, and I do.

And then he puts it in my arms. It's warm. It's wiggly. It's all furry. It lifts up its nose and it licks my face. It starts making little noises and Daddy says, “Take it on out of here before it wakes up Baby Terrell.”

“Merry Christmas, son,” Mama says, and I can hear in her voice she's smiling.

26

I name that dog Rover.

Mama says, “Why did you name him that?”

I shrug. “It sounds like a dog name.”

“Why didn't you name him Li'l B,” Daddy says, “for Little Buddy?”

“He ain't Little Buddy,” I say. “He ain't even close.”

And he ain't. In the first place, he's white with brown spots and Buddy was black. In the second place, he's got short, stiff hair and Buddy's hair was longer and soft when I brushed it. In the third place, he's a yippy, little puppy and Buddy was full grown. In the fourth place, he's got four legs. In the fifth place—

Well, that dog just ain't Little Buddy.

So I call him Rover.

He's got to live in the little bitty apartment with us because we ain't got no yard. He's got a wire cage he sleeps in at night but during the day, he's hopping all over everything. I'm pulling him off Granpa T's sofa and out from under the Christmas tree and out of the laundry basket. And the whole time his tail is going
whap, whap, whap
, and he's looking up at me and grinning like he's proud of all his foolishness.

I sit down with him on the floor to tell him things but he won't stay still. He jumps up on my lap and puts his feet on my chest and tries to lick my face. I push him back on the floor and I say, “Sit still when I'm talking to you.” But he don't mind me. He just jumps up again, his tail wagging like he thinks we're playing.

Baby Terrell thinks it's so funny. He rocks over to the dog and goes bop on his back end and when the dog jumps up, Baby Terrell's mouth pops open and he laughs and laughs.

Tanya has to keep pushing him off her dolls. He gets hold of one that's cloth in the middle and pulls off the plastic bottom half of one leg. Tanya's crying like that doll's a real person. I say she has so many she ought to give one to Rover to play with. She's so mad she takes the broke doll and throws it across the room. Rover thinks it's a game. He runs after that doll and grabs it and won't never give it back. It's his now no matter what Tanya says. He sits there with it in his mouth and shakes it at us like he's saying, “Come on and try to take it. Come on and see what happens.”

Mama's mouth gets all pinched up and she says, “Li'l T, you're going to have to teach that dog some manners.”

I put him on a leash and I take him outside. But I don't know how to teach him manners. He won't listen to me.

Tell the truth, nobody listens to me.

It comes on January and I think to myself I ain't never seen a place look so gray. Of course, all the pine trees in Mississippi are broke. What other trees there are got knocked over or their branches got ripped off and besides they ain't got no leaves in the wintertime anyway.

Then it's raining. It ain't like rain in New Orleans. In New Orleans when it rains, it pours—just like it says on the salt box. It fills up the street sometimes, it rains so much. But it don't hardly ever rain all day long. Mostly it rains in the afternoon. It pours for a while, then it clears up, and before you know it, the sun comes out again. In Mississippi, it rains all day long just a little bit. I'm sitting there in that teeny tiny apartment, can't go outside but long enough to let Rover do his business, and I'm thinking how come it can't just come down all at once and get it over with.

Then it's cold. It gets cold in New Orleans, too, but it's only cold for, say, one day. Then it warms up again. Here it's cold for days and days. When school starts up again, Mama says we've got to have coats and gloves. She gets Tanya a coat with what looks like a fur collar. She gets her some gloves with three little balls like a flower stuck on the back of the hand part. Tanya wears that coat and those gloves every day like she's a princess. Mama says what kind of coat do I want and I say I don't want a coat. What am I doing living in a place where I need a coat? Mama says I'm acting like a fool. She says I better straighten up. I say make me, and she purses up her mouth like she's sucking a lemon.

I lay on the sofa and look at the rain and close my eyes. I try my flying trick again but there ain't nowhere to go. Everything I go looking for is gone. Our house. My bicycle. My friends. My dog. I can't pretend I'm sitting at the table drawing pictures with Jamilla or sitting in the shed feeding dog biscuits to Buddy. I can't pretend Buddy's slobbering over his biscuits and his whole body's jerking he's so excited and Granpa T is saying, “Why do you love that ugly, old dog so much?” and Mama's calling me into the house to bag pralines and it's warm outside and the sky is blue and down the street kids are playing and there's music.

I can't pretend because it ain't there no more. Ain't none of it there no more. When I try my flying trick, I can't even get off the ground.

Then it gets to be Valentine's Day. Tanya and Mama make pralines for everybody in Tanya's class. They spend all day Saturday. They ain't got the little bags anymore but Mama wraps each one in cellophane and ties it with a red ribbon. Tanya's cutting hearts out of paper and writing names on them with a red marker. She can't make her
S
's worth anything. They're mostly backward and that's bad because it looks like almost everybody in her class has an
S
in their name—Sally, Samantha, Sarah, Susan. Mama says do I want some for my class and I just say, “Hmph.”

“Well, then take that dog outside,” Mama says, “before he drives me crazy.”

I tell Rover to drop his doll and he must think I'm telling him to hide it. I finally catch him up under the bed and get a leash on him and out we go.

There ain't nowhere to walk except up and down that six-lane highway but Rover thinks that's the best place in the world. He's snuffling along with his nose glued to the ground and then all a sudden he's heading off toward somebody's patch of grass to dig a little hole. I yank him off that and then he starts trotting down the sidewalk pulling me one way and then the other, barking at birds and barking at cars. I'm thinking it's a good thing he ain't no bigger than a puppy because if he was any bigger, he'd drag me right into the street. When I've had all I can take, we head on back to the apartment and there's Mama with a whole extra box of pralines and a big old grin on her face saying, “We made you some anyway,” and I'm supposed to be happy about it.

The next day at school, Mrs. Watson gives everybody in the class a teensy little box of Valentine candy. Some of the girls give her a box back but I leave those pralines in my book bag. Mrs. Watson does a speech on who St. Valentine is and why we've got this day and how it's all about love. Then she leaves off teaching for a little while so we can eat the candy. The boys are all rolling their eyes. They're saying to each other that's the stupidest thing they've ever heard. One brother says, “If I'm going to give a girl something it ain't going to be candy,” and everybody laughs. Even me.

After our party Mrs. Watson says we're going to learn to write letters. She goes on and on about what to write where. Then she says we're going to practice. She says to think of somebody we ain't talked to in a long time. We can write a letter to that person and Mrs. Watson will put in the mail for us.

I know exactly who I'm going to write. I pick up my pencil and I get going. “Dear Jamilla,” I write, “Why haven't you answered my letters?” Then I tell her all about everything. It takes me three pages of writing front and back. I don't even stop to look up. At the end I do just like Mrs. Watson says and I write, “Sincerely, Li'l T.” That looks stupid, though, so I erase it and change it to “Love, Li'l T.” But that ain't right neither. So I erase it one more time and just write “Li'l T.” That seems like it ought to be enough. I write all the address I can remember on the envelope and hand it in to Mrs. Watson. Then I give Mrs. Watson the whole box of pralines to take home for herself.

Two weeks after that Mrs. Watson calls me up to her desk at lunch. She's holding that letter in her hand. She gives it back to me.

It has two words stamped on the front. “Insufficient Address.”

“Chicago is a big city,” she's saying. “You need more than just the street. You need the house number, too.”

“I don't know it,” I say.

“Do you have it written down at home?”

“All that stuff's gone.”

“Gone?”

I shrug. “Washed away.”

“Don't you know her phone number?”

I shake my head.

“Does she know yours?”

“She don't know where we're living now.”

Mrs. Watson and I just stare at the letter. It looks all dirty now, not clean and white like when I sent it off.

“I guess—” I stop talking and shrug. “I guess there ain't no way to send it then.”

She shakes her head. “But keep it,” she says.

“I don't want it,” I say, and start tearing it in half.

“Don't do that, Tyrone. It's a beautiful letter.”

“She's gone,” I say. “Granpa T says comes a time—”

I rip that letter into so many pieces it looks like a pile of confetti laying in the bottom of the trash can. Mrs. Watson's watching me the whole time. Then I walk outside and stand in the cold and rain all by myself. Right before the bell rings, that boy Jerome comes up to me and looks me over.

“What're you doing standing here all by yourself?” he says.

“Thinking.”

“About what?”

“Stuff.”

He hikes up his pants a little and looks me over again. “Some of us are getting together after school. There's a place behind the Winn-Dixie. We've got some weed. You want to come?”

I don't turn my head to look at him. I keep my eyes on the jungle gym. There's a girl hanging upside down and laughing.

“I can't,” I say.

“How come?”

“Got work.”

He nods. “Next time maybe.”

I nod back and he walks away.