Corky's Brother (2 page)

“No.”

“None?” he questioned, coming closer.

“All right,” I said. “Some—”

“That's all right,” he said, shrugging it off. He played with the binding of a book that was on my desk. Then he reached across and took my grade book. I snatched it away from him and he laughed again. “Oh, man,” he exclaimed. “I am just so restless!—You know what I mean?”

He didn't wait for an answer but started around the room again. The pockets of his pants were stuffed and bulging, the cuffs frayed. The corner of a red and white workman's handkerchief hung out of a back pocket. He stopped in the back of the room, gazed into the glass bookcase, and then turned to me and leaned back. “You said to stay—what you got to say?”

The question was in my mind, and impulsively I asked it: “Just curious—do you remember me from last year?”

“Sure,” he said, and turned his back to me again. He looked in the bookcase, whirled around, and walked to the side of the room, opening a window. He leaned out and just as I was about to say something to him about it, he closed it and came back to the front of the room. “Man,” he exclaimed, sitting on my desk again. “Were you ever scared that day! If I'd set off a cherry bomb, you'd have gone through the fan.” He put his face closer to mine. “Man, you were scared green!”

“Was I scared of you, Luther?” I asked, looking straight into his eyes.

“Me? Nah. Nothing to be scared of.” He hopped off the desk and wiped his name off the blackboard with the palm of his hand; then he started laughing to himself. He looked at me, over his shoulder. “Bet I know what you're thinking now,” he said.

“Go ahead—”

“You're thinking you'd like to
help
a boy like me. Right? You're getting this big speech ready in your head about—”

“No,” I interrupted. “I wasn't.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “You sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“Not even with compositions? Oh, man, if you'd help me with compositions, before we'd be through with me, I'd be typing like a whiz.” He banged on a desk with his palms, and then his fingers danced furiously on the wood as he made clicking noises inside his mouth. “Ding!” he said, swinging the carriage across. “Ain't it fun to type!”

“Okay,” I said. “Okay. Maybe I was thinking that I would like to help you.”

“I knew it, man,” he said to himself. “I just knew it.”

“You have a good mind, Luther—much better than you let on.”

“I do, I do,” he muttered, chuckling. I stood up and went to the closet to get my coat. “Okay. What do I get if I work for you?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Nothing, maybe. I can't promise anything.”

“I
like
that, man,” he said.

“Could you call me Mr. Carter?” I asked somewhat irritably. “I don't call you, ‘Hey, you'—”

“Okay, Mr. Carter,” he said. He took my coat sleeve. “Let me help you on with your coat, Mr. Carter.”

We walked out of the room and I locked the door. “You ain't a
real
social worker like the others,” he commented as we started down the stairs. He held the door open for me. “I do like that.”

I nodded.

“Playing it close to the vest again, huh? Tight-mouthed.”

“Just thinking,” I said.

When we were outside, he asked me what he had to do.

“For what?” I asked.

“To get you to help me to be somebody, to educate myself—all that stuff.”

“Do what you want to do,” I said. “Though you might start by doing your homework. Then we'll see—”

“I know,” he said, cocking his head to one side again. “If I play ball with you, you'll play ball with me. Right? Okay, okay. I know.”

Then he was gone, running down the street, his arms spread wide as if he were an airplane, a loud siren-like noise rising and falling from him as he disappeared from view.

The next few months were without doubt the most satisfying to me of any during the eight years I've been a teacher. Luther worked like a fiend. He was bright, learned quickly, and was not really that far behind. He did his homework, he paid attention in class, he studied for tests, and he read books. That was most important. On every book he read I asked him to write a book report: setting, plot, theme, characters, his opinion of the book—and once a week, on Thursday afternoons, we would get together in my room for a discussion. During the remainder of the term he must have gone through at least forty to fifty books. Most of them had to do with sports, airplanes, and insects. For some reason he loved books about insects. All the reports came to me typed, and on some he drew pictures—“illustrations” he called them, which, he claimed, would be a help to me in case I had not read the book.

When we would finish talking about books, I would help him with his other subjects, and his improvement was spectacular. I looked forward to my sessions with him, to his reports, to just seeing him—yet from day to day, from moment to moment, I always expected him to bolt from me, and this pleased me. Every time he came to me for a talk I was truly surprised.

When the term ended, he asked if I would continue to help him. I said I would. He was not programmed for any of my English classes during the spring term, but we kept up with our weekly discussions. As the weather improved, however, he read less and less; I didn't want him to feel that he
had
to come see me every Thursday, and so, about a week before the opening of the baseball season, I told him I thought he had reached the point where he could go it alone. “When you feel like talking, just come knocking,” I said. “We don't need a schedule.” He seemed relieved, I thought, and I was proud that I had had the sense to release him from any obligation he might have felt.

Then, suddenly, I didn't see him anywhere for three weeks. I asked his homeroom teacher about him and she said she hadn't seen him either; she had sent him a few postcards but had received no reply. That very night—it was almost as if he had been there listening, I thought—he telephoned me at home.

“Is this Mr. Carter? This is Luther here.”

“Hi, Luther,” I said.

“I looked you up in the telephone book. You mind me calling you at home?”

“No, no. I don't mind.”

“Okay,” he said, breathing hard. “I just wanted to let you know not to worry about me because I'm not in school. Okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “Sure.”

“I had some things to take care of—you know?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Man, you
know
you're itching to ask me
what?”
He laughed. “You are deep. I'll be back Monday.”

That was all. On Monday, as he'd promised, he returned to school and came to visit me in my room at three o'clock. We talked for a while about the way the pennant race was going, and then he said, “Okay, let's cut the jazz, man. I got something to say to you.” He seemed very intense about it and I told him that I was listening carefully. He pointed a finger at me. “Now, we stopped our sessions, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“And the day after we stopped, I began to play the hook for three straight weeks, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay. Now you can tell me it ain't so, but I'll bet you'll be thinking it was your fault. It ain't. If you want the truth, I ain't done a stick of work all term for
any
teacher—so don't go thinking that I stopped being a good student cause we stopped our meetings.” He let out a long breath.

“I'm glad you told me,” I said.

“Shit, man,” he said, getting up and going to the door. “Don't
say
anything, huh? Why you got to
say
something all the time?” He came toward me.
“Why?'
He was almost screaming and I slid my chair back from the desk. He shook his head frantically. “Why, man?” he said. He reached into his side pocket and I started to stand up. Abruptly, he broke into laughter. “Oh man, you are deep! You are just so deep!” He clapped his hands and laughed at me some more. “Ra-ta-tat-tatl” he said as he banged on a desk. “You're real sweet, man! Just so sweet! Ra-ta-tat-tat! Comin down the street!” He sat down in one of the seats. “But don't you worry none. I got seven liberry cards now and books growing out the ceiling. I got a liberry card for Luther King and one for Luther Queen and one for Luther Prince and one for Luther Jones and one for Luther Smith and one for Luther Mays and one for Luther B. Carter.” He banged on the top of the desk with his fist, then drummed with his fingers again. “But don't you worry none—ra-ta-tat-tat—just don't you worry—”

“I'm not,” I said.

“That's all,” he said, and dashed out of the room.

He attended classes regularly for about two weeks and then disappeared again for a week. He returned for a few days, stayed away, returned. The pattern continued. In the halls when we saw each other he would always smile and ask if I was worrying and I would tell him I wasn't. Once or twice, when he was absent, he telephoned me at home and asked me what was new at school. He got a big charge out of this. Then another time, I remember, he came riding through the schoolyard on a bicycle during sixth period, when I was on patrol. “Don't report me, man!” he yelled, and rode right back out, waving and shouting something in Spanish that made everybody laugh.

Near the end of May, the assistant principal in charge of the eighth grade called me into his office. He knew I was friendly with Luther, he said, and he thought that I might talk to the boy. For the past six or seven months, he told me, Luther had been in and out of juvenile court. “Petty thefts,” the assistant principal explained. I wasn't surprised; Luther had hinted at this many times. I'd never pressed him about it, however, not wanting to destroy our relationship by lecturing him. The assistant principal said he didn't care whether I said anything to Luther or not. In fact, he added, he would have been just as happy to get rid of him—but before he was shipped off to a 600 school or put away somewhere else, he wanted to give me an opportunity to do what I could. More for me, he said, than for Luther.

About a week after this, on a Friday, Luther telephoned me.

“How've you been?” I asked.

“Superb, man,” he said. “Hey, listen—we ain't been seeing much of each other lately, have we?”

“No—”

“No. Okay. Listen—I got two tickets to see the Giants play tomorrow. You want to come?” I didn't answer immediately. “Come on—yes or no—tickets are going fast—”

“I'd like to,” I said. “Yes. Only—only I was wondering where you got the money for the tickets.” I breathed out, glad I had said it.

Luther just laughed. “Oh man, you're not gonna be like that, are you? You been listening to too many stories again. That judge from the court must of been gassing with you. Tell you what—you come to the game and I'll tell you where I got the tickets. A deal?”

“A deal.”

“Meet you in front of the school at eleven o'clock—I like to get there early to see Willie go through batting practice. Batting practice—that's more fun than the game sometimes. You know?”

He was waiting for me when I got there a few minutes before eleven the following day. “Let's go,” he said, flourishing the tickets. “But don't ask me now, man—let's enjoy the game first. Okay?”

I did enjoy the game. The Giants were playing the Cardinals and to Luther's delight Willie Mays had one of his better days, going three-for-four at bat, and making several brilliant plays in the field. For most of the game I was truly relaxed. Along about the eighth inning, however, I began to think about the question again—to wonder when would be the best time to ask it. Luther, it seemed, had forgotten all about it. The Giants were winning 5-2.

“Oh man,” he said. “If only that Musial don't do something, we're home free. Look at Willie!” he exclaimed. “Ain't he the greatest that ever lived. He is just so graceful! You know? How you like to see a team of Willie Mayses out there? Wow!” Wes Westrum, the Giant catcher, grounded out, short to first, and the eighth inning was over. “One to go, one to go,” Luther said. Then he jabbed me in the arm with his finger. “Hey, listen—I been thinking. Instead of an All-Star game every year between the leagues, what they ought to do one year is have the white guys against our guys. What you think?”

I shrugged. “I don't know,” I said.

“Sure,” he said. “Listen—we got Willie in center. Then we put Aaron in right and Doby in left. He's got the raw power. Some outfield, huh? Then we got Campy catching and Newcombe pitching. You can't beat that. That Newcombe—he's a mean son-of-a-bitch, but he throws. Okay. I been thinking about this a long time—” He used his fingers to enumerate. He was excited, happy. “At first base we put Luke Easter, at second Junior Gilliam, at short Ernie Banks, and at third base we bring in old Jackie Robinson, just to give the team a little class—you know what I mean? Man, what a line-up! Who could you match it with?”

When I said I didn't know, Luther eyed me suspiciously. “C'mon—Musial, Mantle, Williams, Spahn—you name 'em and I'll match 'em, man for man, your guys against ours.” He stopped and cheered as a Cardinal popped out to Whitey Lockman at first. “What's the matter—don't you like the idea? Ha! Face it, man, we'd wipe up the field with you. Swish! Swish!” He laughed and slapped me on the knee. “Hey, I know what's bugging you, I bet—” He leaned toward me, cupping his hand over his mouth, and whispered in my ear. “Tell the truth now, would you have ever offered to help me if I wasn't colored?”

“Would I—?” I stopped. “Sure,” I said. “Of course I would. Of course—”

Luther smiled, triumphantly, dubiously.

“Look,” I said. “As long as we're asking questions, let me ask you something.”