The Kid (7 page)

Miss Lillie orders Chinese food for herself. We eat breakfast and lunch at school. It’s different every day. Here, we eat the same thing for dinner every day, hot dogs and pork and beans or leftover Chinese food, every day. Miss Lillie always talking, not
to
us, just talking.

“I useta cook. I don’t mind cookin’ but why should I? These damn kids don’t appreciate nothin’! Uh huh, I useta cook, broccoli, mashed potatoes, meat loaf, the whole shebang, you know what I mean. And these stupid niggers be passing the meat loaf to the dogs! Balling up they vegetables in they napkins, sticking toy soldiers in the mashed potatoes. Yeah, baby, the Battle of Bull Run at the dinner table; this one got the whole damn infantry stuck in the mashed potatoes, that one got his cornbread on top the toy tank delivering it to the wounded and shit. Honey, these niggers is crazy! So finally I said, ‘What do you niggers want to eat? ’Cause y’all wasting my time and money. This little bit of money they give me for y’all ain’t shit. Damn sure ain’t enuff to be throwing away. Well, tell me something!’ I said. So they said, ‘Hot dogs!’ And another one said, ‘Yeah! With pork ’n beans.’ So, honey, it’s been hot dogs ever since.”

Our plates have big red roses on them. It’s seventy-five of ’em in the cabinet. Snowball counted ’em once. Miss Lillie got ’em in the soap powder before we was born, in the olden days, those were the days.

“I done had these plates thirty years if I had ’em a day! Got ’em in Tide, you hear me. They useta give you something for your money when you went to the store, honey, but all that done changed. Ain’t like that no more! Bidnesses is in trouble nowadays, whole economy is in trouble! Too many people on welfare and this dope messing shit up. And Clinton, that calm freak we got for a president, boy, was that a goddamned mistake.”

Except she’s not talking to us, she’s talking to the TV or the wall or something. Something that don’t talk back, or like if she had a boyfriend or a sister that’s her own age, like a friend. We’re not her friends. She don’t like us or hate us, except Snowball. She likes Snowball. When we get home she takes out two packages of hot dogs and two packages of hot dog buns from the freezer and sets ’em in the red dish rack. Then she get two big cans of pork and beans out the cabinet and sets them on the kitchen table and goes back in her room to watch TV. Then Batty Boy is like our mother, puts the hot dogs in a pot of water to boil and warms the beans up. He gets the mustard and ketchup out the cabinet and puts them on the table and always remember that Richie likes mayonnaise and gets it out the refrigerator. He turns on the oven and puts the hot dog buns in the oven. Then he puts our beans on our plates, four hot dogs and two buns that are always hot on the outside and cold in the middle. Then he sits down, folds his hands, and bow his head and mumble:

Bless, oh Lord, and

dese die gifts

If my head don’t hurt too bad I eat my hot dogs, ’cause I want to grow big and strong and get out of here and go find my father. Tonight Batty leans over across the table toward me, puts his hand right into my plate, and grabs one of the hot dogs on my plate in his fist.

“You and me.” He laughs, shaking the wiener, orange sauce from the pork and beans is running down his arm. “No, you. Ha ha ha, you!”

I can’t figure out if Batty laughs like a grown-up or a maniac. Sometimes I look at him and see that first day, the black and white bedroom floor like a checkerboard or chessboard, blood all on it, then taste blood in my mouth. You and me? What’s he talking about, a book, a game? I have so much homework. I tell Miss Garnet at school my head hurts. “Your behind is what oughta be hurting! Don’t come in here with a bunch of excuses, we got kids in here who’ve been through more than you could dream possible and you know what,
they
do their homework.” Batty tells everyone at school that my mother died of AIDS. I say it’s a lie. It is, a
big
one. Number one, my mother ain’t dead. Number two, my mother didn’t die of AIDS.

in the dream he ties my hands

in the dream Batty is bad and

my head hurts more

HE IS A BAD BOY

the eyes of Richie and Bobby

is floating around without they heads or bodies

in thick clouds

i have never done this. i never kiss a girl

except my mother

but my mother don’t put her tongue

inside my mouth

in the dream i wake up and Snowball and Bobby is wrapping

wire around my wrist. i try to move my other hand but it’s tied to

the bedpost. i try to sit up but i’m laying on my stomach. it’s hard to

breathe i open my mouth breathe go back to sleep

 

 

“J.J.” SHE HOLDS UP
one of the dolls. “Tell me what happened to him.”

I look in her eyes. Go away, go away.

“I never saw that doll before. How’m I gonna know what happened to
it
?” She puts the puppet doll away and asks the guy who’s cleaning the floor if he could bring us a dinner tray. I’m not hungry. She takes some toy soldiers and toy Indians and line them up on the tray.

“Of course you don’t know the doll, but we’re
pretending
. So let’s play with these little guys here that we know aren’t real. What we can do, what everyone playing does, is give some of our own feelings and thoughts to the little toy soldiers. OK? OK, J.J.?”

The Native Americans are yellow plastic and the soldiers look like they got on Civil War uniforms or something like it, they got silver sabers, they’re blue.

She holds up a yellow man on a horse with a war bonnet. That bonnet is eagle feathers like One Who Is Not Afraid of Horses. “Who do we want this to be?” she asks.

“Curly.”

“Can you tell me a little about Curly?”

Hey! While she’s talking, the African doctor from when my mother was here puts his head through the door, but when he comes in the room he walks over to the baby in the crib way across from where I am. I sit up. He reminds me of my father. He loved me. He’s black.

“Hi, Doctor,” I say.

He doesn’t hear me.

“What’s up, little guy?” he says to the baby.

Stupid thinks I was talking to her stupid self.

“You can just call me Kate, J.J.”

I hold out my arms to the doctor, but he doesn’t see me and walks out the room.

“Are you O.K.? Do you know Dr Ngugi? No? Well, O.K., J.J., tell me a little about Curly. What’s he doing?”

“He’s high on a rock dancing and singing to God.”

“What does he feel?”

“He feels sad.”

“Why, J.J.?”

“Because he does.”

“What is he singing about on the rock?”

“He’s
dreaming,
not singing, he’s dreaming of the day he will kill all the white people, shoot arrows through their eyes and send them back to the sea. He’ll lead a army of warriors and kill the white people with rifles, knives, and arrows.”

“How long has he been dreaming like this?’

I put him down.

“What’s happening here?”

If my father wasn’t dead he would come get me from here for sure for sure my head hurts and I can’t go to the bathroom right so I can’t eat stuff like I like in the dream a boy that looks like me but isn’t me goes into the kitchen lightning in his brain he will fight he will drive the Europeans back to their ships he is different from the other boys of the tribe he lays naked on the mesa under the moon he puts sharp rocks between his toes he sees a vision the war cry shut up in his bones flies out his mouth he draws lightning bolts with mustard across his cheeks his nose is pierced like my mother’s. He opens the kitchen drawer and gets the big butcher knife. “Here, Fox, here, Fox.” He stabs the nastyeye old dog over and over and over again and again. That dog is really Custard and he is Crazy Horse. His head stops hurting and he laughs and laughs.

 

 

WHY AM I
in the hospital? What’s a concussion? How do I feel? No, I don’t know anything about the dog. I’m sorry for the dog if it’s dead. No, Batty never hit me. No, I didn’t know he hit other kids ’cause he know not to hit me. No, no one ever hit me. No, I told you, I wasn’t so upset I hurt the dog. I don’t even like the dog. No, that’s not why I did it. I never did it. How do I feel? No, I never thought of hurting anything! How do I feel? Stop asking me, please. I think of hot dog buns hot outside frozen together on the inside.

“We think you’re ready to go home now, J.J.”

I don’t like being in the hospital, but I don’t want to go home.

“Your injuries were very serious, but you’ve really done a fine job of getting well. Do you remember my name?”

“Dr Spencer.”

“Yup, that’s my name. You’ve seen a lot of different doctors and people since you’ve been in the hospital. Do you remember any of their names?”

“Yes, Dr Zachariah.”

“Right! He did the surgery that drained the fluid out of your head. You’re fine now, you know that, right?”

“Dr Zachariah also repaired the tear in your sphincter muscle from where you were hurt. That’s a lot better too and soon is going to be all better.”

“When?”

“Well, you’re such a good boy, pretty soon I would say. For the next couple of months you’re going to take stool softeners and drink lots of water so you don’t get constipated and strain and reinjure yourself and keep coming back here where I’ll be glad to see you and be checking up on you to make sure you get well. Who else do you remember?”

“Kate.”

“Right, Kate Cohen, the play therapist. Did you like her?”

“No, she’s dumb.”

“Why do you say that, J.J.?”

“In school we say Native American and she doesn’t. And then one time she came talking about what the doll did and stuff—‘What did this little doll do to that little doll?’” I mimic her dumb self how she talks. “Stupid stuff like that.”

“Well, I certainly won’t tell her who said it, but I sure will tell her someone thinks she needs to learn some things.”

“I don’t care.”

“Don’t care about what, J.J.?”

“If you tell her who said it.”

“What do you care about, J.J.?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not true. You care about the Native Americans being called by their right names. Who else do you care about?”

“The Africans, birds, and sea mammals dying from pollution.”

“See there, you care about a lot.”

My head doesn’t hurt anymore like it did. “How long I been here?”

“A few weeks. I know Kate told you you’d be going to live in a new place.”

“Uh huh.”

“You’re going to a new facility for boys in Harlem called St Ailanthus, run by Catholic brothers. It’s a home and a school for boys where they’ve already had tremendous success academically with the youngsters there. Well, look here! Right on cue, here’s Kate!”

Kate walks in the room with a big man dressed in a long black robe with a white collar like a preacher.

“Hi, J.J.” She smiles at me. I close my eyes. “This is Brother John from St Ailanthus School for Boys. Tomorrow, when you leave the hospital, you’ll leave with him, so I wanted you to meet him beforehand.”

“Hello, J.J., I’ve heard a lot about you. How are you?”

“Fine.”

“That’s cool.”

Brother John talks funny.

“So I’ll be back for you in the morning to take you to your new home.”

“St Ailanthus is a temporary placement,” Kate says. “We hope, of course, that we’ll be able to find another placement soon. A foster family or adoption situation. Do you understand?”

No, I’m not sure I understand.

I’m fourteen. I’m a wind from nowhere. I can break your heart.

—AI, “THE KID”

I rise slowly and start to glide toward him. My pajamas are too short for me, way above my ankles, but they’re the largest boy’s size. I need man size, I think. The room is dark and filled with the sound of breathing. I float past bed number five, Malik Edwards; four, Omar Washington; three, Angel Hernandez; two, Richard Stein. Bed number one, Bobby Jackson, is at the opposite end near the door. Across the aisle is the other row of beds; start with number fourteen, Amir Smith; number thirteen, Jaime Jose Colon. Number thirteen supposed to be unlucky, like black cats. Brother John say we lucky, all of us, to be here.

“Jaime,” I whisper, sit down on the edge of his bed, lean over place my lips on his neck. His silk hair brushing against my lips cause my balls to itch. I’m rubbing my dick slow think, scratch. I touch his shoulder. He stiff up. I rock his shoulder gentle like a memo, a note, that says wake up, I’m here, don’t go to la-la land on me, dude.
Please,
I say to myself, like the sound of steam hissing, please don’t make me mad-dog you. Jus’ be a good boy, Jaime. Just be good. I pull at the skinny blue blanket. He grab the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

“Jaime,” I whisper, “you not sleep.” I pull the blanket and sheets out from where they tucked in at the foot of the bed and throw ’em up in his face where he grabbing the sheet and blanket. He’s shivering with excitement. I’m hard. I grab him with both hands, raise his little booty to me. I jam him. Thrust, I like that word, in him. It’s so good, tight. He squeal, I slam his face in the pillow, kill that. OOOHHHH this shit feel good! Feel good to him too. In out, in-out, in-out, in in in. I’m someplace else same time as I’m thrusting in him. Bed creaking turn me on more. The in-out creak music. I hear that sound in the dark, turn me on, I know somebody getting it on. Fucking him I wanna sssscream but I don’t. I go in an ultra-sweet whisper aaaaahhhhhhhhh! It’s like ice cream and cake, blowing out all the candles at once! I pull out him, my seeds like a . . . a king! I feel like a king. I want him to suck me now, make me come again. I lean down whisper, “Show me some luv, Papi, show me some luv!” He don’t get it, what I’m saying. I grab his head, push it down, “Suck it,” I’m saying, “suck it!” Pleeeaaase, I made him feel good, do me, little Papi, do me. I try to push his head down. He start to cry. Stupid! Stupid motherfucker. I get up pull my pajamas up over my privates.