The Moves Make the Man (16 page)

You were out in the hall. You could have stopped her.

She took the knife and she stabbed herself in the wrist and the elbow, where the veins are. Then she tried to hold it in the hurt hand and cut the other one but it did not work. So she ran over to the window and stood there for a second, saying No? No? No? and then she put her fist through the window and jerked her arm back and forth over the glass.

No, Bix said, rocking a little, not yelling or upset, just like he was repeating what she had said. No no no.

So I came in and stopped her and Bix was just lying there in bed watching it. He had nothing to fear, see? because all he had done was tell the truth. So now you see why our boy Braxton cannot stand lies. Because all he DOES have now is truth, isn't it? Truth is his treasure. There is no judgment as long as you stick to the truth.

I looked at Bix. He had stopped shaking sometime during this last speech and he was balanced differently on his feet. His eyes in the lantern light looked like you took a charcoal stick and pushed them back in his head a little, very dark and all the life in them way back behind. But there was definitely life back there. He watched his stepfather closely as the dude put down the ball to go get his jacket and light. He watched him move away like a dog in a yard you cut across, and then he jumped at the ball, scooped it up and snapped a pass that hit his stepfather in the back. The man turned around, surprised.

Check it, said Bix in a tight little voice.

What? said the man.

Check it, said Bix. Play ball.

You're a sick kid, Braxton, the man said.

Then you'll have a good time overpowering me, Bix said. You like to overpower sick people.

The man stared for a second. I could see he was pooped, as much from all the talking he did as from warming up so hard and playing hard in the game. He sighed, and said, Listen Braxton. You are wrong. You think you can make up for everything by seeing her, telling her you love her now. It's too late, kid. Look, I told you, it wasn't all your fault, she was sick anyway, it was just the last straw. But you can't change anything by taking back what you said. You won't do any good. Believe me, you do not want to see her.

Don't tell me what I want, said Bix. PLAY!

The dude sighed and looked hard at Bix. Then he shook his head and took off his jacket slowly and put it down and picked up the ball and walked over. It's funny how when you are tired your clothes hang different and look even silly, for he looked silly now, creaking down into his defensive crouch but not waving his arms anymore, all the muscles stiff on him and his wind gone and his eyes dead. Even so, when Bix dribbled hard to the right all of a sudden the man snapped to and kept with him, scurrying along and watching, getting back into it a little. But then Bix sprang it, and the dude was done for.

The first sign was Bix's breathing. He was breathing very hard like it was him instead of his stepfather who was tired, but it was a different kind of panting, making little noises in his throat, Bix dribbled hard, picking up speed, looking more scared at every step for he knew what he was about to do and so did I and he wondered if it would break him in two and shatter everything to bits and I did too, for he
drove hard and the man was with him step for step and then, with a sick howl coming out of his mouth like it hurt so bad, Bix threw him the wickedest pump fake I had ever wished for and the man went flying up and Bix yowled and went up a second later, putting in the lay-up after the first fake of his life and drawing the foul on the way down. I called it. His stepfather nodded and looked at Bix like he was very surprised at the move but Bix was making those noises in his throat and looking more scared at every minute and took the ball for his foul possession. He did not want to slow it down.

Almost as soon as he held the ball in his hands Bix shot his left foot out and lunged on it and the man jumped back to cover his drive but Bix was not driving. Instead he juked right and hung the man standing there while he ran left and with a leap did a nice finger roll that swished.

Eight—four, I said.

His stepfather got the ball and faked right and Bix jumped back like he fell for it, and the man dribbled across in front to the left. Only Bix had not really fallen for it, he just pretended to by leaning back and now he was right there to step up and swipe the ball clean. He spun and drove right himself with the man a step behind, and he went up but hung there and let the dude catch him, pumping once and drawing the swat on the wrist and then scooping it up off the boards on the way down. Eight-five, but not for long, as he got the foul possession at the top of the key, dribbled once to the left, and went up, his stepfather right with him. But this time he hesitated and leaned his arms forward and made contact and put it in the air and it dropped after a couple of bounces, soft touch. I called the foul, the man nodded, and Bix got the ball back. This time he just blew by the man and laid it in. We all knew it was over from then on.

Eight—seven, I said. Play it.

The stepfather took the ball, but he did not want to play it. He was finished. He was drained out, and not just because he had to chase this new Bix on his feet either. There was something else he was chasing in Bix and I was chasing it too and it made you just as empty. For when I watched Bix out there, he was very beautiful with his moves in operation, now doing the only thing he lacked to be the prettiest hoops kid around, but also he was very sad out there, and it looked dark inside. The stepfather and I felt the same thing, I bet: We were both out of the picture and it would be almost impossible to get through enough to stop Bix's moves or to help them. He was playing by himself out on that court.

There was one other thing about Bix playing, and I had to watch and think hard before it came to me. Once he started making that first move, it was like the moves themselves took over and started making HIM. He looked like the move came along and jerked his body into it and he went along, move makes man. Still, he was pretty, and now he blocked a shot, stole the ball, spun a jumper, got fouled.

Eight-up. He blew in for another lay-up and then stole the ball off his stepfather's first dribble and stood there outside, dribbling, waiting until the biggest and best move came for the final bucket, but there was no suspense to the game, it had been all over since he threw that first pump fake. The only thing now was, waiting to see which way he would win, which shape it would take.

It happened, and it was fabulous. He drove straight at the man, backing him up, then climbed right up his face into the air in the lane, hanging until the dude could jump too, then spinning and lofting a soft hook almost looking over his shoulder at the basket. It swished, clean as rain. I whooped
despite all the sad stuff, for it was a beauty of a shot and the winner to boot, and now it was over. Bix would see his mother.

His stepfather just stood there panting, watching the ball bounce its way down. But Bix was already moving out of the light. He had only one thing to say and he said it without turning around.

This Friday we go, he said.

Nobody said anything. The man and I watched him go away into the dark and listened while his steps faded through the grass. The man just panted, hands on his hips slanted, the sweat pants sagging in the back and showing the top of his ass crack.

Do you need help finding your way out? I said.

He shook his head and looked over at me. Did you teach him all that?

No, I said. Not all of it, anyway.

All those black-cat moves, he said. Jesus.

He would not fake with me, I said. When we played, he would not do it. He said fakes were lies.

Then he is one hell of a liar now, isn't he?

I did not answer, just picked up Spin Light. Do you want to go out with me?

Go ahead, he said. I'm going to shoot around with my ball a little.

I shrugged, and moved off with the lantern. At the edge of the woods I turned and looked back. He was still standing with his hands on his hips, looking off the way Bix went. I said, I'm covering the light now, but he just nodded and lifted a hand. I slipped the shields down over the glass and the dark hit like relief. I headed into the woods and started on the path.

I was about twenty feet in when I heard the ball bounce a few times. I turned around and didn't see anything. I walked back to the last bend in the path and looked through the trees but there was no light. The ball bounced again and then silence until BONG and the rim shaking the chain net. Then it repeated, only this time the shot went in, CHING. Then again, another miss. And still no light.

Man, I thought, what is it with darkness and these white men? But I was in the dark too, and I stayed that way until I got home.

There was one more thing to be done in the Bix story, before he got to his mother and I did too. That was, my momma wanted to meet him before she let me go to Durham with him.

Actually she said I could go to Durham with Bix before I even asked her. I had told her about the game and the bet and all. Then, she said, You may go with him. What? I said, not having asked and not even being sure I wanted to go. You may go, she said, and something in the way she said it told me I probably SHOULD want to go. Okay, I said.

But Momma then said if I was going to be Bix's guest for such a trip, then she ought to meet him, and he should maybe be our guest for supper, maybe the night before we left. Did I think this was a good idea?

Well, part of me did, and part not. I still felt so strong and strange for Bix. He truly fascinated me, but it was not like watching the big cats always behind bars at the zoo. I kept thinking I was getting closer to him, like being inside the cage now but still not touching or not making any difference maybe in all of those huge peculiar things in his life.
Every time he shifted into one of his creepy ways I waited to get disgusted and click off, send me walking away, but the click never came. I still drew to him even at the same time I was set back and watched like he was a stranger or creature, full of a new surprise. Something there I felt like I knew even when I could not see it, something in him that maybe nobody but me recognized. I had never felt most of the things I watched Bix feel, so it was not that I understood everything, for I didn't. It was not that I knew what was coming for him, or what mysteries were in back of him, for I did not, and even when I saw the mysteries revealed I was still mystified. But I was not clicked off. It was looking more complicated all the time with Bix, but inside me I was trying to tell myself it was really feeling simpler.

Still, I could not hide that I did feel strange about his bad times, when he went peculiar and you never knew where to stand. I was not sure I wanted my brothers and Momma to get a look at this.

But when I thought about it though I saw all of a sudden why Momma's idea was really very good. Bix was in trouble now, bad family trouble, and headed for something in Durham that might be worse. He could probably use a little piece of family goods right now, right before his visit to his momma. Maybe it would buck him up a little, maybe he could keep some of the good feeling with him all the way to the Duke hospital loony room.

The more I thought about it this way, the better I got to feeling about having him come to supper, and I even got excited and wanting to put on a special good time for him. I jabbered to Momma and she said, even better, the two of us, her and me, we could both cook the supper together. This was the best. We would get Bix in for some peace and
mellow for an evening, and then we would fill him up with food we made together just for him.

I was jumping all around about it. The next day in school I jumped on over to Bix's Homeroom, to catch him and ask could he come. He did not act pleased or surprised to see me, nor act like anything especially unusual had happened the last time we saw each other, and at first I was surprised how cool he was but he does that and I knew it. I told him we wanted him for supper. He started to say he couldn't, but then he stopped and a smile, not a very nice one, came over his face and he said, Shit, let the sucker get a pizza for himself, meaning his stepfather I guess, and then he said Sure, why not. I told him when to come and how to get there. He said Okay and walked away into his room.

Momma and I planned out a menu. Thursday after school I did the shopping. We would have pear salad (Momma making it), cream hominy (me), snap beans and pot liquor (Momma), and barbecue chicken (me). For dessert, homemade ice cream, Henri cranking because he always looks to do anything around the house that will help make his arm muscles bulge up.

When I came in with the groceries Maurice saw me and followed me into the kitchen. What's all this for? he said, picking up the bottle of beer you got to have for the barbecue sauce, Momma having to write a note to Mr. Peters so he would sell it to me on account of I am just a kid.

We are having a guest for supper tonight, I said. A friend of mine.

His eyebrows went up and he looked interested. A friend of yours? Your age?

Yes.

Hm, he said, picking up the fatback for the beans and
hefting it. I wonder, does your friend—well, would you say his home situation is orthodox?

No, I said, before thinking about it, I guess it is really pretty bad.

Then I realized what Maurice was up to and I looked over just in time to see him smiling and rubbing his hands together.

Ah, he said, unorthodox, pretty bad, hmmmm. Perhaps he suffers from a few severe maladjustments, or overcompensatory aggression?

Listen Maurice, I said, you lay off him.

Maybe a touch of deprivation neurosis? What do you say?

I won't have it, I said.

Even a teeny little fear-arrogance complex due to prevailing uncertainty at the source of reinforcement? Come on, Jerome, I get those in kids all the time, I could fix him up with my eyes closed, just a few key questions—

No! You leave this kid alone.

He sighed. You'll regret it, Jerome. You'll be sorry you didn't take advantage of science, I promise. Poor kid, he said, shaking his head like a fifty-year-old doctor, and walking out.

I did not want Mo's jive science. I just wanted a nice home supper, and it looked like that was what we were going to have. I kept getting more excited. I liked the idea of everybody getting to meet Bix and him them, Mo and Henri remembering him from the Seven-Up game as the star, Bix seeing right off they were good dudes and liking them, everybody fine, and best of all Momma. I wanted Bix to love Momma. I wanted him to see how grand she was and be knocked out and just love her. I thought this would be good. I did not think anything about it might be cruel, flaunting
my together momma next to his electric-shock momma crazy in the hospital, I never thought that, and I still don't know if it made any difference, and I never will.

Momma and I worked all afternoon, side by side in the kitchen. We played around a lot but did the jobs too, even having a flour fight which I gave up on account of not wanting to get too whited up because that mess never comes all the way off. After we put the bird in to cook, we sang: In the oven, the mighty oven, the chicken bakes tonight…to the tune of The Lion Sleeps, my favorite song, all the way though with new words and very funny, Momma surprising me by knowing the whole tune and even when to stick in the Bawoomawetts. I asked her and she said she used to listen to a lot of radio when in bed while we were at school and once you have heard the Bawoomawetts you cannot forget them.

Henri came in dressed in his official football sweats and did a few push-ups to warm up for the ice cream cranking. I cut the peaches and measured the cream and barely got the sugar in he was in such a hurry to start. He counted at every crank, Hut one Hut two. He is one of those people thinks you got to count exercises or they do not take. Football makes people like that, they all talk in numbers. When he finished he told us it took 430 cranks. Momma thanked him for the crucial info and we laughed while he went up to shower. That is another thing, football players feel they have to shower after anything more sweaty than tying their shoe.

Maurice walked in, very lackadaisy and whistling and looking in the oven and pots, acting very casual indeed like he did not care a bit we were having an unorthodox kid over for supper, which made me a little suspicious. I was right too, for when Momma said I had best bathe also, unless I wanted Bix to think I had put on flour to make him feel at
home by pretending to be a white boy myself, Mo jumped and looked at us and said What? What? Is this kid a white boy?

Yes, I said. What about it?

Oh rats! he said, oh daggone rats. He moaned and pulled a note out from his sleeve and crumpled it up but I grabbed it and it had questions on it he probably planned on dropping into the table chat, such as And tell me (name), do you regard yourself as a victim in dealing with adults? and such crapola. I laughed.

What is wrong with him being white? Momma asked.

Mo sighed. Counseling across the color line is notoriously fruitless, due to preconditions of mistrust. There goes a great opportunity for some in-house observation, he said, and stomped out. We laughed and I went up to shower too.

When I finished and got dressed, wearing my blue cords and a snappy yellow shirt and my high whites for dress only with the blue laces, I went down just in time to hear the doorbell finish ringing. By the time I got to the door Henri had already opened it and looked out and said, Yeah?

Do not be so rude, Henri, I said, shoving him out of the way. There was Bix on the stoop wearing a tweed jacket too big for him really and a blue shirt and a dark blue tie. He was also holding a basket with a cloth over it. He looked pretty good.

Hello Bix, I said. Come on in.

He nodded and flashed a big smile at Henri and me. It was too big—I had never seen such a smile on him before.

This is Henri, I said.

Hey Bix, said Henri, sticking out his hand flat.

Dig it, said Bix, slapping Henri the five too hard.

Now, dig it is a very stupid thing to say when being intro
duced. Henri did not notice, but I did, and I thought it was queer. But then Maurice was there and I introduced him and he peered at Bix like to see if there was any chance of busting the color line with a little counseling anyway, and Bix grinned right into his stare and held out his hand and said, What be happening, Maurice my man?

Maurice, who does not know jive talk from bird song, just looked confused and said Fine thank you and shook hands, but I was nearabout flipped. What be happening, Maurice my man? Where did Bix get this jive talking junk? It was ridiculous. I hustled him into the dining room before he got worse, hoping to ask him what he thought he was doing in private but before I could, Momma came into the room. That put a stop to the jive, at least for a while, because when he saw her Bix dropped everything else from his face and just gaped.

She was beautiful. She wore this light blue dress that I like the best, having asked me which dress I wanted her to wear for my friend and I told her that one, and it looked better than I remembered. Also she had combed out her little fuzz of hair and it looked so fine and neat and tight around her head that I never wanted her to let it grow any longer again. Her skin was like it always is, such a nice coffee color with a little bit of milk, set off and made to glow by the light blue dress. Finally, on her ears she wore the silver earrings I gave her for her birthday two years ago, special order out of BIEDERMAN'S B-BALL EXTRAVAGANZA magazine, tiny silver hoops with little bitty chain nets that dangle down, very classy like any other good jewelry but with that little extra meaning.

She smiled at Bix and her eyes were shining bright and you could see she was opened all the way for him, giving
him the whole welcome, and you can hardly keep from wanting to kiss her when she looks like that even if you are a stranger I bet. Bix got the message. He just stood there looking blushed and jiveless, trying a little to mumble something cool or chuckle or such, but not being able to pull it off.

Hello Bix, Momma said, welcome to our home.

Heh heh, said Bix, trying to come up with a slick one, red as a strawberry. He tried to put the big smile back on but it would not stick. He would have stood forever probably if he had not remembered the basket on his arm and suddenly looked down at it and then looked relieved to have something to do. He held it out to Momma and said, This is for you, Mrs. Foxworthy. For everybody. For dessert. I made it myself.

Momma looked pleased and peeked under the cloth and said Oh, how lovely. It will go wonderfully with our ice cream. Thank you! I'll just go put it in the oven to keep warm. Why don't you all sit down and begin serving? Bix nodded, and we sat down.

When I showed him where to sit I whispered, Hey man, what the heck is eating you?

Nothing, he said, giving me the smile. Nothing, my man.

And what's all this My Man crap? You never called me that before. But he just laughed and clapped me on the back, which he never did before either. Maurice was watching us carefully so I did not push it and went to my seat. I was at one end of the table and Bix at the other in between Mo and Henri on one side, and Momma on his other.

She came back in and we started.

Now, I had planned the meal thing out in my head. I thought probably Bix would be in one of his quiet moods
and I would have to kind of work him out into the socializing thing, talking to him about the food, telling him stuff like the secrets of the barbecue sauce and had he eaten cream hominy before and did he like it? and such matters. Draw him out very gently, being very nice and jokey, Momma and Henri and Maurice going along just as nice and everybody treating him kindly and by the middle of the meal he would be smiling very shy once in a while and making little comments and straightening up his slink and getting to feel better. He would go very easy from the dumps to feeling pretty good, and we would have done it so nice and smooth.

But I never got the chance to even start. I never got to say ary word about the food or anything else. Because as soon as supper got underway, Bix snapped into the most amazing blaze of chatter I ever saw, not chatter really but very like, a kind of slick charming conversation you never would have believed from him or anybody else under thirty years old not born in France and London and New York. Bam, he just slipped into it like flipping the switch, and from the minute he touched the bowl of snap beans he was on, saying the perfect things to everybody, polite and witty and smart, asking very good questions about Henri's and Mo's interests and Momma's recovery and laughing at the right places and looking concerned at the right places, touching Henri or Momma on the arm at the right time to make points or show sympathy, chat chat chat, charm charm charm, full of style and grace and just blowing me away. I sat there and gaped at him down at the other end, everybody down there leaning together and chuckling and talking with him in the middle like a symphony conductor nodding to Henri for a comment and looking at Momma for her to laugh and winking at Mo like he and Mo knew the score on all counts, and
even Mo was charmed into thinking here at last was the perfectly adjusted kid of the world. I watched it and just said nothing. It was the most amazing thing Bix had done yet I believe, and the most peculiar. It might have been the most wonderful too if not for one little thing. That thing was, the whole show was one hundred percent total pure jive.