Yolonda's Genius (5 page)

Andrew had slid out of his chair and headed for the stairs. “Maybe you'd better go on and get into bed, Andrew,” Momma had called to him. “You don't look right. I'll be up in a minute.”

Now Yolonda scrambled out of bed, wiggled her nightgown down, and crept quietly to Andrew's room. She listened in the open doorway but didn't hear the sleep sigh of Andrew's breathing. She slipped quietly to his bed. It was strangely flat. Maybe he'd rolled out on the other side and would be sleeping tangled in his blanket on the floor. But he wasn't.

“Andrew.” She said his name quietly, then in a loud whisper — an order for him to show himself. “Andrew!” No response. The curtain blew gently at the window. He wasn't in his room.

She hurried downstairs and padded quietly through the living room. The house was shadowy and silent. Sometimes Andrew came downstairs
early in the morning and sat at Aunt Tiny's piano in the bay room off the dining room. He would sound a note or two with his fingers and just listen to it reverberate.

But now he wasn't there. Nor on the window seat in the dining room, another favorite spot.

The kitchen. He was coming in the kitchen door, a rustling shadow. He seemed so small, the light from the oven clock outlining his little-boy shape. Yolonda felt love and relief fill her, mingle together in an overwhelming surge.

“Where were you?” she demanded. “Where did you go?”

For what seemed like a long time, Andrew didn't say anything. He just stood there. An inexplicable sorrow washed through Yolonda. Something was wrong — bad — something was bad. She knelt down by his dark shape. His face was lost in shadow.

“Where'd you go, Drew-d-drew?” She used her baby name for him from long ago.

He leaned his head into her shoulder and she put her arms around him gently. His body was so slight.

“Outside,” he said. “Outside to the flowers.”

“What's wrong, Andrew? Don't you feel good?” She didn't ask him if anything had gone wrong yesterday afternoon after school. She didn't want to think about what might have happened to a for
gotten Andrew while she was having fun with Shirley.

She carried him upstairs and sat him on the bathroom rug while she drew a nice, warm bath. She left out the bubbles. He seemed too sad for bubbles. He went willingly into the tub. She knelt and soaped him gently, humming in time to the washcloth. Then she dried him, bundled him in a towel, and carried him back to his room, where she found clean pajamas. As she tucked the covers around him, he turned his head and sent his gaze out the window. He lay that way, staring, as she backed from the room. “Night, Drew-de-drew. Sleep tight.”

Back in her own bed she finally drifted to sleep, but shallow dreams pursued her. A devil danced. He lived, like the troll in “The Three Billy Goats Gruff,” underneath Asphalt Hill and under the sidewalk where Chicago girls jumped double Dutch. Tyrone watched from a shadow wearing Andrew's eyes. She and Shirley were turning the ropes and the devil jumped in, his feet tapping “Pepper,” his eyes rolling. Then someone cried out. Cried out. But not in her dream.

She woke up with the sound still in her ears. Then she heard her momma call Andrew. But their mother was never mad at Andrew. Maybe it was still a dream.

“Andrew. This minute — come down here!” Yolonda hurried out of bed.

“It's not a toy, Andrew,” his mother had said. But Andrew had never thought the harmonica was a toy. It was part of him like his hands and his mouth, like his ears. It let him tell things. It was his power like muscles, like Yolonda's stare and her great big body. The harmonica was dead now and those bad boys — the drug boys — had broken it, and all the things that spoke through the harmonica, all the shapes and sounds that moved and waited and beat around him and through him and out of the harmonica were broken.

“Andrew. This minute — come down here!” He knew she'd found the harmonica buried beneath her tulips. It would take so long to explain it all to his momma — about the sounds everywhere, about the skaters on Asphalt Hill, about the danger, about lonely Karl and the bad big boys. He didn't want to make his momma have to “get outa this town,” too. And Yolonda, who knew most everything about him, who always noticed if something might hurt him — she had gotten as busy as a grown-up. He had wanted to tell Yolonda about those boys — waited for her to help him say what was wrong. But she hadn't asked. Yolonda and his
momma both had said he didn't look right. But nobody had asked.

Andrew's mouth felt dry. Breathing shallowly, leaning into the wall of the stairwell, he descended to where his mother stood at the foot of the stairs. She was holding the broken harmonica, dirt smudging her hand. In his ears, replacing the usual dance of sounds, there was a hollow roar like some faraway water pouring down.

Shaking the fuzz of sleep from her head, Yolonda followed Andrew to the stairs. Her mother was standing at the bottom holding something in her hand. Yolonda watched her little brother descend, leaning into the wall. Her mother was never mad at Andrew, and she studied her mother's face. She saw the anger falter and dissolve, saw it replaced by a bewildered concern. Her mother opened her hand toward Andrew and Yolonda saw the Marine Band harmonica, broken and dirt-choked. Andrew seemed to shrink.

“Oh, Andrew,” said her momma, sighing. “Andrew, I don't know . . . what am I going to do with you? You didn't have to hide your harmonica. I'm not mad.”

“What'sa matter, Momma?” asked Yolonda, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Probably just as well,” said her momma, ignoring her question. “The school has been complaining about the harp. Now maybe you will concentrate on relevant things.”

“What's going on?” growled Yolonda, clearing the sleep away. “Is that Andrew's harmonica?”

“
Was
Andrew's harmonica,” said her momma. “
Was
your daddy's,
was
Andrew's — now nobody's.” She turned and headed for the kitchen. “Get dressed, Yolonda, Andrew. Breakfast.” Her shoulders looked weighted down, and Yolonda heard another long sigh.

Why would a musical genius break his harmonica? Yolonda puzzled about this over and over. One of Andrew's teachers had even stopped Yolonda in the hallway at school. “Wh-what's the d-deal with Andrew's harmonica? The b-boy won't say.”

Yolonda had just shrugged, her protective instincts flaring. Who was this guy anyway? “He has a flute at home,” she had said, not lying — not telling the truth. There had been no waking-up music in the morning for days — ever since the harmonica-in-the-tulip-bed incident. Not a sound came from Andrew's little pipe.

Aunt Tiny had given Andrew the pipe when she started Yolonda on piano lessons. At first Yolonda thought maybe Andrew had broken his pipe, too. Maybe wrecking his harmonica was some kind of creative fit geniuses went into. Van Gogh painted ordinary things so that you could see them in waves of rippling color; he cut off his own ear in a rage of frustration, then painted a self-portrait with a bandaged head. She'd also heard of writers ripping up manuscripts they were unhappy with. But Andrew didn't get frustrated. He never judged his music. He just played it. One thing Yolonda knew: Andrew needed his harmonica. He wasn't the same Andrew without it.

“I don't think that's wise, Yolonda,” her mother said one morning when Yolonda asked her for money to replace Andrew's harmonica. Yolonda was helping with breakfast partly because her momma had an early meeting to attend but mostly because Yolonda wanted money.

“If he's been that careless with a good instrument,” continued her momma, “then he's not responsible enough yet to have another one.” She whisked an egg into the buttermilk for pancakes. “Maybe it's a sign he's growing up. Miss Gilluly at the school has been disturbed by his hanging on to that old harp like it was a ‘blankie' to suck his thumb with.”

“Andrew never sucks his thumb,” protested Yolonda.

“That's not the issue, Yolonda Mae.” Her momma always stuck the
Mae
in there like a steel exclamation point when she wanted no argument. “The issue is that his harmonica has interfered with his concentration on schoolwork. Now turn on the griddle, please.”

“Yeah, but Momma . . .,” stalled Yolonda.

“Discussion ended,” said her mother, whipping off her apron.

Yolonda searched her brain for a way to tell her mother about Andrew being a genius, but her mother was in such a hurry. Yolonda couldn't get into the stuff about true genius rearranging old material. So she just got right to the point.

“Andrew's a genius, Mother.” She used her teacher voice, serious and deliberate. “He's a musical genius. He needs gifted teachers who know how to teach geniuses. He ought to be studying horn or some other wind instrument. Did you ever listen to the way — ”

“Have you turned on the griddle, miss?” Her mother was getting out plates. “Andrew is Andrew,” she said. “He's a
normal
child.” Yolonda thought she heard a flash of panic in her mother's voice. But maybe she imagined it. The panic flickered away as quickly as it had appeared. Her
momma's voice was soft now. “Andrew is Andrew. That means a little boy, a pretty little boy. Your daddy's face must have looked like that when he was little. Eyes the color of chestnuts. Andrew is going to grow up to look like his daddy. He'll probably be a police officer like his father.” Mrs. Blue paused, smiling. “Yolonda, remember your daddy — how fine he looked in his uniform? Tall, that broad chest? Remember? He always smelled so good.”

But Yolonda was shocked into silence. A police officer? Andrew a cop? She was aghast. Before she could even get a proper protest or a sarcastic laugh out of her mouth, her mother was jerking into her coat. “Set the table right, Yolonda.” Grabbing her briefcase. “Make sure Andrew eats.” The door slammed.

Yolonda did remember her father's size. Andrew's fine looks and small-boned body were more like her momma's.
She
was her daddy's child, large and strong.

“The only one in this family suited to police work,” she told her absent mother loudly, “is yours truly, Yolonda Mae!”

She tested the griddle with a sprinkle of cold water. It gave a satisfying hiss, a signal that usually made her mouth juice up. The weight of Andrew's genius forced her breath out in a huge sigh.
Today, she didn't even want her own breakfast, much less part of her brother's. She heard his soft step coming into the kitchen and she had a painful image of Andrew's extraordinary spirit sickening — all that new way of hearing ordinary old stuff growing dim. The guilt over neglecting Andrew while she baked a cake with Shirley surfaced in a rush and bit her. What could she do to take it back — to bring Andrew back?

First Yolonda had considered raiding Andrew's bank. After all, the harmonica was for him. Andrew got three dollars a week, which Yolonda changed into quarters for him. He dropped them, clink by lovely clink, into the slot of his giant panda bank. The bank had no other opening. Yolonda estimated Andrew had over a hundred and fifty dollars in quarters in that giant panda.

In the end Yolonda raided her own savings box and took eight dollars in bills and change. She thought she remembered her daddy saying you could get a top-grade mouth harp for about five dollars and Yolonda was allowing for inflation.

They probably don't even make the Marine Band harmonica anymore, she thought. But she'd look.

Her momma had said “no harmonica.” But the stone-dead look of Andrew's face had been haunt
ing Yolonda. She hadn't been able to get it through her momma's head about Andrew being a genius. Her momma wouldn't listen; served her right if her daughter didn't obey.

She waited for the bus to the big mall, her hand jammed against the money in her jeans pocket. They might just as well have stayed in Chicago where she knew how to take care of Andrew and herself, where she didn't need any friends. Where there was a bus every five minutes.

This bus took so long coming that she almost went home twice — walked halfway down the block. She almost never directly disobeyed her mother. She argued with her instead. She could hardly stand the feeling of being sneaky.

But the bus came and she climbed on, keeping Andrew's deadened face in her mind. Then it came to her in a flash who his stone-dead expression reminded her of. As she sat, her hands cramped and sweating around the crumpled dollar bills and quarters in her pocket, another face exchanged itself for Andrew's. Tyrone's!

She saw his eyes, their brightness gone. She saw the drooping mouth where once a sassy smile had caught her heart.

“Tyrone,” she gasped aloud. Dragging through her memory was the image of his shrunken figure led away between two police officers.
Tyrone
.

What kind of prison was Andrew in? Yolonda felt her resolve strengthen. She would bring Andrew back.

The big mall had a lot of stores, both indoors and outside. It was Saturday and the whole area was filled with real shoppers and window-shoppers and teenage kids in clusters.

The harmonica in Kresge's was small — only four holes. It cost $2.98 and appeared to be fragile. Besides, it wasn't covered with plastic or anything. Any yo-yo could pick it up and slobber all over it. Andrew didn't need anybody's germs, and this harmonica didn't look like it would withstand boiling water.

Next she checked Toy Paradise, marching down aisles and aisles of towering warehouse shelves filled with toys.

“Harmonicas?” Yolonda punched out the question at a dazed-looking salesclerk. The girl, who didn't look much older than Yolonda, suggested aisle 22. “Music stuff is on the right, I think.”

Yolonda found the harmonicas stacked between xylophones and an unserious mini set of drums. The harmonicas were boxed and wrapped in cellophane. They cost $4.98. “Two dollars for the box,” thought Yolonda. The instrument looked exactly the same as the Kresge one — only four holes. Across the cellophane was stamped in red: P
LAY
T
IME
H
ARMONICA FOR
L
ITTLE
M
USICIANS
. Might as well boil the Kresge one, thought Yolonda, but she knew that neither harmonica could replace Andrew's old one. She hadn't realized what a good instrument her daddy had given her baby brother. Andrew had been able to get a wide range of notes on it.

It was a real music instrument, thought Yolonda, and then she realized where she had to go to find the right one. Andrew always watched for the Stellar Musical Instruments display window whenever they drove on Beckmore Drive. But it was a good mile-and-a-half walk from the Plaza Mall. She bought a couple of candy bars to help her get there.

Only half the journey had sidewalks. The juice of chewed caramel sluiced sweet and thick around her tongue. And then was gone. What a burg. Most people drove cars in Michigan. Buses didn't run that often, and Yolonda didn't know the schedules or the routes except from her house to the mall. She thought she would die from bored exhaustion walking all the way to Beckmore Drive.

The window at Stellar's held a gleaming set of drums, a bass viol, a portable keyboard, and a saxophone on a stand, all arranged as if musicians had just put them down and gone on a break. Yolonda pushed open the door and went in, suddenly energized.

Guitars galore were hung on walls. She'd never realized there were so many sizes and shapes and colors. A maze of keyboards and drum sets, music stands, horns on stands, and a giant tuba were arranged to divide the space into aisles.

“I want to look at your blues harps,” said Yolonda, suddenly deciding that name had a more professional ring than
harmonica
.

“Any kind?” asked the salesclerk, an easy-faced guy with longish gray hair.

Yolonda waited. She didn't know what kind of harmonica, but she knew that waiting sometimes brought discomfort to other people and they would usually fill in the silence with some kind of helpful offering.

“How many reeds? You want twenty? You want a chromatic harp? What key?”

Well, she'd have to answer. “Ten holes,” she said. “Key of C. Marine Band.”

The man's face lit up. “One of the best basic mouth harps around,” he said. “Hohner makes it, of course. Makes most of the good harps.” He moved behind a counter in the middle of the store. “You said key of C, yes?”

Yolonda followed, smirking with success.

And there it was — the Marine Band harmonica, just like Andrew's old one, only shiny and unbattered. It came in a little black case with a velvet lining.

“How much?” asked Yolonda.

“This one's eighteen ninety-five.”

Yolonda stifled an outcry by holding her breath. “How much without the case?”

“Oh, the case comes with it for free,” said the man, smiling.

“Yeah, I bet,” said Yolonda sourly. Then she added, “It's for my little brother who's a genius — a musical genius. Anything off for a genius?”

The man had stopped smiling. He looked surprised and amused at the same time. “Not ordinarily,” he answered slowly, “but you bring him in sometime to blow me some sounds. I might take five bucks off.”

Now it was Yolonda's turn to be surprised. “Yeah? You own this place or something?”

“Something like that,” said the man. “Plus I like new sounds.”

Yolonda sighed. “I'm not sure I can get my brother here. He's been acting funny ever since he broke his old harmonica. It was a Marine Band one just like this.”

“Well, put some bread down on it,” said the man. “Bring him in when he's got his stuff together.”

“Hold it for eight,” said Yolonda, digging into her pocket. “I've got to go home and get the rest.” She dumped the money on the counter. “I'll need a receipt for this.”

The salesclerk stared at the pile of money.

“It's all there,” said Yolonda. “I counted it twice.”

“Okay,” said the man, and pulled a pen from his shirt pocket. He wrote, “Received on account: $8 toward Marine Band harmonica,” and handed the paper to Yolonda.

“Add that there is only six dollars due,” said Yolonda, pushing the paper back. She was nobody's fool. “You forgot that part.”

“I wouldn't have forgotten that part,” said the man. “But I want to hear the kid play. Don't
you
forget that part.” He began to add to the receipt. He spoke while writing. “Eight dollars received; six dollars plus tax due upon recital by genius.”

“Hurry up,” Yolonda told him. “I gotta catch a bus.”

After she left, she could feel the gray-haired man watching her through the wide window. She strode out into a power walk, strutting her stuff a little, showing off.

When Yolonda got home that Saturday afternoon, she found Andrew sitting at the piano alone in the house.

“Where's Momma?” asked Yolonda, sliding onto the seat next to him. Probably shopping, she thought.

“Shopping,” said Andrew.

Yolonda placed her hands gently on the smooth keys. The piano was a power over which she had a questionable control. Since they'd left Chicago, without her Aunt Tiny's interest to inspire her, Yolonda hadn't practiced more than a few times.