The Motown Chronicles: Sing The White Note Black (Novel Excerpt) (2) I stood up with my hand still around his throat. I was prepared to squeeze the life out of him. I was thinking though that I would go back to jail and since the crime was being committed in New York, I would go back to jail here in New York and then I thought about the idea, the prospect of dying here in New York and I didn't want that. But before I could react, I felt a great pain in my body. It began at the balls of my feet, almost like I was being chained down and traveled up through my legs that jolted like I had been hit by thunder and lightning. The pain was so sharp that I came on myself and I turned to face the stage, less anyone were to see the huge stain seeping through my light brown pants. I roared as a lion being defeated might do so, only I was no animal but something beastly inside of me was being tamed in an uncouth manner. Who had done me wrong? I turned around. My father had brought down a heavy, metal object on my head. It was in his hand. Everyone began to spin in tilting circles in front of me. I remembered then when my body was spinning in that nightclub how as a small child she used to take me out to Belle Isle Park, an island surrounded by the Detroit River with flowers, a bean-bag giant slide and picnic tables. The pigeons liked to be fed but we didn't have any bird seed to feed them, we couldn't afford it so instead we always stopped at the store and bought a cheap loaf of bread. As I lay there on the floor, my mouth watered as that was what I had a taste for: bread. But not the cheap kind we got from the store but the fresh, sourdough kind we got from the bakery or egg bread that an older, Jewish man named Mr. Katz used to sell out of his store and sometimes gave to us for free. I coughed up blood that spewed everywhere. My jaw felt light and I wondered if all of my teeth were there except for one on the side. I had not lost this particular fight. I just stayed down on the ground and pretended that he had gotten the best of me. I remembered then how years ago, I had lost a fight and pretended to be a dead dog in the lion's den, only now I was the lion, trapped inside a cage with this man, who was an animal trainer and trying to beat or scare me half to death. I felt my hands around looking an object, something I could use to protect myself. I saw a piece of broken glass on the floor. It was covered in blood and my hands were already cut but it would do. I reached for it and a heavy boot clamped down on my hand, crushing it on top of more tiny glass crystals. I yelled out in pain. The man's heavy boot moved away; my father stooped down on his knees to speak to me. "You are foolish; don't know you that, boy? Why are you bothering me after all of these years? Why can't you leave me, alone? Huh?" he said, throwing chairs every which way. A young woman in a white blouse and short black mini-skirt walked up to him, handing a drink that he must have ordered awhile ago. He took one sip, the liquid slightly oozing down his dry, brown lips and shook his head no. He turned around again. Bent down next to me. He whispered to me again, "Why are you bothering me? Why can't an old man just die alone? And in peace?" The other man pulled my limp body off the ground. My father punched me in the stomach. And now, with myself barely hanging on, I realized with my father and this man standing over me, that I was no longer a young man. I could feel the lines of worry growing on my forehead. I wanted to fight back but I couldn't. I didn't have my trusty knife on me. Prison had taught me to use my hands and not use weapons to defend myself. But I didn't know how I could beat the two of them, when there was just one of me? My head was throbbing by now; I actually longed to go back to a familiar and safe place: prison. It was not the first time that someone had fought dirty and it was not the first time that someone not looked out for me. I saw a vision then of my mother. She was standing in a doorway. I was either a small child or I could not reach her. My hands wanted to grab onto her, something to pull myself up. She said something to me but I couldn't hear her. She closed the door then on me. I had not seen her in years and wondered then why she was appearing before now, only to close the door on my face. I stood there trying to open that empty door but there wasn't a doorknob that I could reach and hold and grab onto. Of course, that vision of her then was a reminder of the very first time that I had been taken away from her as a small child. I did not remember my mother. But I had a picture, though. The woman that took care of me, Miss Cecil yanked my arm and pulled me over to where the picture was. She pointed at the picture and said, "Mama. This is your mother, child." She eventually gave that picture to me and for a long time, it was the only possession I had. That picture of my mother told me nothing about her life. I could see her standing on a stage, holding a microphone with the same care that I hoped she had cared for me when I was first born. I used to talk to the picture, especially on the days when Miss Cecil was mean to me and I wanted to cry. I asked her when she was coming but there was never a response. I was found on Miss Cecil's doorstep when I was five years old. A note attached to my Sunday coat. The note said that she would return for me in a few years. I found this out when I was fourteen years old. On that birthday, instead of asking for new clothes or candy like the other boys, I asked for a calendar to mark the days off. As the days narrowed down, the excitement in me led to a behavior that I recall now as arrogance. I just knew that when my mother came, she would not tolerate Miss Cecil's meanness toward me and how she had even made me cry many times over the years but from my first recollection of life, I had always felt different. I was fed, clothed and cared for but I felt different. The house that we lived in was a two-family flat near Allendale Street. We lived on the bottom half and the other family lived on the top half. I used to stare at them, especially the mother. I used to wonder about their life, that other family. They had two boys themselves and they took their mother for granted. Those boys would push her away when she tried to hug and kiss them. Miss Cecil did not believe in hugging, kissing or even bedtime stories. I often waited until after the other boys were asleep and then I made up stories, while staring out the window. Sometimes, I pretended that the woman upstairs with the unruly boys was my own mother but that she just didn't know it. That someone had perhaps switched us at birth and that one of their unruly boys really belonged here with Miss Cecil and I belonged there. Miss Cecil's home was not big enough for all of us. She wouldn't let us go into the living room, dining room or the kitchen unless we were eating. We were forced then to stay in our rooms. Even outside, the backyard belonged to the other family because they owned the home and if we wanted to go outside, we had to go to the park over at the elementary school a few blocks away. We were to go to the park as a group but the other boys often went without me, not even inviting me along. I was so traumatized when I was taken from my mother that I did not speak for the first three years that I lived with Miss Cecil and even afterwards, only 'yes' and 'no' answers. Miss Cecil put her hands on me to give me baths and I refused to allow myself to enjoy her touches, particularly her hugging me as a small child. I fell asleep, crying my eyes out and woke up, saddened that the room was still dark and I was in a place where I didn't belong. I often awoke to find the three boys gone to the park, with just myself and Miss Cecil at the house. I started on my chores but I never did their chores for them, no matter how much they promised me that if I did, they'd be my friend. I shared bunk beds with one of the boys. He, like the others, ignored me as much as possible. I was the outcast in the house. Even Miss Cecil was harder on me than the other boys were. She gave them extra playtime outside, especially during the summer, while she made me come inside. As I got older, I realize now that she was growing more fearful of me with each day passing. Nonetheless, living with Miss Cecil had actually had some pleasant moments. The other boys took turns hiding in her bedroom closet in order to watch her undress. They did it less for excitement and more for curiosity because she said she did not want any of us disturbing her while she changed. The other boys called me names because of this but I enjoyed being close to Miss Cecil. What I really wanted was to hear her speak my mother's name. I wanted the moment to be accidental but have my mother's name linger long enough in the air to formulate sounds and then letters and then a complete name in my mind. I wanted to look her face and know that I came from somewhere. I wanted her to wipe the spit I would hurl into her face away with a handkerchief. When I looked in the mirror, I saw a ghost that I could not escape from. I branded myself then with a knife. I thought if something were to happen to me, at least she would be able to identify myself but the blood trickled too fast and the knife went too deep and was too sharp to form the nice, neat image I had in my mind. I saw the way Miss Cecil responded to the other boys and to me. I could not understand what I had done wrong. It would not be until years later during a conversation with my own mother that I would come to understand the truth. Despite her harsh feelings to me, though, I thought she was beautiful with her rosy cheeks, soft skin and amble warmth. Every once in a while, she even let me climb into her lap and comb her hair with a brush. I loved the feel of her gray, silky hair in between my yellow fingers. It seemed like when she was sitting in a chair, allowing me to comb her hair, the world stopped for a moment. After that, I began to look forward to those hair-brushing sessions. She usually had the radio on, and even the singer on the radio held his note a little bit longer. Miss Cecil seemed relaxed and I thought she almost liked me. She had a beautiful singing voice and I couldn't understand why she never pursued a professional career and I still wondered why every time I heard her sing. Miss Cecil hummed along with the music. She knew the words so well that sometimes she would continue to hum long after the song ended and I was finished brushing her hair and the radio was silent. One night, I even began to hum along with the singer on the radio. I could feel something inside of me growing each time I opened my mouth. A natural instinct took over me and I began to sing. My voice rose softly and Miss Cecil's eyes closed. I had heard the song on the radio before and I didn't know all of the words. But I continued singing because I could think of nothing else. With Miss Cecil listening, I gave my first performance. I longed for her to applaud, for some encouragement, something to convince me to continue. I needed her to guide me towards a point where I could call out to my mother, even though I knew my mother would never answer. My voice was shaky with those first few bars but I hoped that I had touched a nerve in Miss Cecil and we would finally connect to one another. I sang to the best of my ability and found that the entire house stopped to hear me. I didn't know where my voice came from but it was there. Towards the end, I tried to hit the high note like the singer on the radio but then something in the back of my throat tickled me and I felt my voice crack. I couldn't reach that high but I did see the other boys standing behind the stairwell, quiet and listening. They were looking toward Miss Cecil to see what her reaction would be. I saw a look of amazement on her face. She looked down at me and smiled. It was the one and only time that she would have anything positive to say about me. "You've been holding out on me, boy, haven't you?" I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't know quite what to say. I looked down toward my feet where an ant was trying to make its way up my pant leg. I shook it off and continued to look down at the floor. She lifted my face and said, "Well, we are just going to have to get you ready for the upcoming talent show." I didn't say anything but I felt a growing uneasiness. That was the first time I recognized that I had a voice. I didn't know where it came from or how to control it. I didn't know how long it was going to last. I realized, in that moment, that I was afraid of the future. I didn't know quite what to expect and the expectation that Miss Cecil was going to expect from me numbed me until I could not move in that chair. I was petrified. At that age, I was the child that sat in the back of the classroom, who ate lunch by himself under the shade tree and mostly played alone. I didn't know what was wrong with me. At first, I thought it was because of my skin but it was more than that. I was an orphan but then again, so were the other boys. It was something else but what I didn't know. I started to walk away then but Miss Cecil showed her other side, her true side. She grabbed my arm. "I asked you a question: Are you ready? Are you ready for this talent show that I'm about to enter you in. I don't want anyone to embarrass me, understood?" I nodded my head yes, even though I really wasn't ready. I was afraid then of her fat fingers and razor-sharp fingernails. I looked back at the other boys. They were hiding on the stairwell now. They were not laughing at me but they don't cry out in protest either. That day, a part of my childhood slipped away and that night, I slipped under the covers and cried myself to sleep. I awoke the next day to the sound of the other boys outside playing. I knew they would not play with me but I wanted to go outside. I could smell something boiling on the stove. It was probably Miss Cecil's tea and the oatmeal she prepared for us each morning. I was required to wash up before going downstairs. During the summertime, Miss Cecil allowed us to go outside to play while she stayed in the house. On this particular day, I could feel a growing anxiousness to get away from everyone. I bathed quickly and threw on my play clothes. I debated climbing out her bedroom window because there was a tree right next to it but then I thought of what might happen if she came upstairs. I decided against it, knowing that she might punish me by making me stay inside the house. I didn't know what was wrong with me. On most days, I ran down the stairs, grabbed my baseball cap by the coat rack and went out the house but on this day, I tookmy time going down the stairs. Only once did I suspect that she might have heard my footfalls on the steps but I didn't hear her call out to me as she normally did. I felt my hand on the brass doorknob and I could feel her eyes in the back of my neck. On the wall to my right was a country wooden telephone shaped like a face with eyes that rang like cymbals and a round mouth that dialed to any destination in the world. The telephone I was accustomed to being afraid of but I looked at it and realized that it too didn't have control of the sounds that came from within. Then, I heard her voice. "Where are you going?" I understood now why sometimes at night, she would drink sherry and play the same records over and over again. She never wanted them to end because ending those songs meant moving on and going back to reality, which I desperately, in that hallway, wanted to escape. I asked Miss Cecil if I could go outside to play and she said no. I asked her why I could not and she said it was because I needed to prepare for the talent show. There was a first place prize of five hundred dollars. I did not know then how much that was but by the look on her face, I knew it was a lot of money. I didn't understand at the time why this was more important than playing outside. Not even the voice inside me brought as much joy as I felt when I was free. Being outdoors allowed me to escape and dream in my own world. There were so many places in the neighborhood where I could hide away from everyone and play alone. Instead, I was standing in a black-and-white kitchen with Formica countertops and spinning chairs. I saw Miss Cecil reach into a drawer and pull out a microphone. She sat there in her housedress and rollers, sipping tea from a coffee cup. I saw The Michigan Chronicle in her lap. Her teeth were slightly yellow from all of the tea she drank. I didn't know if she had been out last night, as I sometimes heard her sneaking out right at dusk, right when we went to bed and not coming home until right before sunlight but her makeup was slightly smeared like she had a lot on her mind but she was happy. I didn't understand the look on her face so I looked down at the equipment, not sure what to do with it. The look of confusion on my face caused her to grab the microphone from me. "Today, you are going to practice singing for the talent show." "But I don't want to. I want to go outside and play!" "Play? Play for what? You see them out there," she walked over to me, pulled me gently off of my chair and took me over to the back window. I watched them playing jacks on the sidewalk next to the backyard. I nodded my head yes. "They are going to grow up to be just like their mamas and daddies. They are going to be low-lifes. You, on the other hand, could make Miss Cecil a lot of money. Enough to help me out," she looked down at me and winked. I wanted to say something else but my mouth felt dry. I could not find any more words to say. In the meantime, she had placed the microphone on the counter, which I picked up to hold in my hands. It felt foreign, black, and heavy but I knew if I treated it right, it would be more of a friend to me than anyone else I had met as of that day. I saw her then, looking at me for the very first time with a content smile. "All this time . . ." her voice trailed off. The sun was out but it was not hot that day. The boys were throwing down jacks and catching bouncing balls. I felt her words bounce off of me and linger in the air. How long had I had this voice? Where did it comefrom? I realized then that it was more than my skin that separated me from the others. We had one thing in common, though: We were at Miss Cecil's house because no one else wanted us. I wondered then: Did my parents know that I had this voice? Perhaps they had voices like me. Looking back on that moment, I realized then that I was different from all of them, including Miss Cecil. She wanted to use me and though my young mind told me to go along with whatever she said at the time due to my fear of what she might do to me, I realized later on as a teenager that I had taken that opportunity for my own selfish reasons: to find my mother. That decision I later regretted. As a child, my mind only believed in emotion and not reason. I had been taught in school to differentiate between the two but I didn't that year. Instead, I would open my mouth like a puppet and do what I was told but little did I know that the puppet inside me was being guided by emotion and not reason. I began to sing. I closed my eyes and pictured myself rowing a boat. I could feel waves crashing down all around me. A shark or two almost knocked my boat over. I grabbed onto my oars with both hands and tried to stir away from the thunderstorm. The harder I rowed, the closer I felt myself moving toward the lightning. My face was wet and I couldn't tell if it was due to the rain coming down or tears from God himself. I was a grown man with my eyes closed. My long eyelashes kept my grown self from seeing the child who was controlling the dream. I told him to stand up, not to run away but to wait for me. He stood and began beating his chest. He screamed, "I am a man," over and over again but no one was listening. No one cared. I could see the shark coming back for him. I cried out for him to turn around but the thunderstorm drowned me out. He was still standing in the boat, waiting for danger. As he tore his shirt to free his body, the shark knocked him over into the blue-green waters. I opened my eyes. I realized that my face was wet and my throat was sore. She plastered a fake smile on her face. She thought my tears were for her but they were for me. I knew I had done a terrible job. In my own heart, I could feel the satisfaction that my voice wasn't too good. I knew that the other boys regarded me with skepticism and I didn't want those feelings to turn towards jealously. "That's alright. We don't have a lot of time to get you ready. We'll practice, practice, practice until you're ready," she turned around and poured herself another cup of tea. "When we're done practicing, can I go out and play?" I looked toward the window. The other boys were now out in the street, playing football. I knew that Miss Cecil's next-door neighbors were out-of-town, as they were frequently, and I wanted to go climb into their tree to watch the boys play. Once, the man of that home had come home early for lunch and had seen me way up in the tree. He had asked me if the squirrels bothered me. I remembered only shaking my head no. He was glad because he couldn't stand them either. He said that all that they did was dig holes in his yard. He opened the trunk of his car, a 1956 Nash and pulled out his lunch pail. The man tipped his hat to me and went into his house. I was scared that evening to go home because I was afraid that he might have said something to Miss Cecil but if he did, she did not say anything to me.
Copyright © 2008 Piper Davenport |