P.S. Be Eleven (7 page)

I screamed for Jackie, whose real name was Sigmund, and I screamed for Tito, who had the best eyebrows and always looked cool and tough. Vonetta screamed for Jermaine, who was kind of good looking, and she screamed for Marlon, whom she claimed was the best dancer. The only Jackson Fern screamed for was Michael. Every chance we got, we'd stand in the record department of Korvettes and study every inch of their album cover.

“Papa, can we go to Madison Square Garden in December?” I asked.

“To see the Jackson Five?”

“We want to see the Jackson Five.”

We sealed our wishes together singing, “Pleeeease.”

“The Jackson who?” Pa asked. “Sounds like a Mississippi chain gang.”

Vonetta asked, “What's a chain gang?”

“They make chains,” Fern answered, sounding every bit like me.

The two got to arguing about chain gangs, which I think Pa intended all along. I wouldn't let go of our wishes. If we learned anything from our summer with the Black Panthers, we learned to be clear about what we wanted, and to be willing to do what was necessary to get it.

“They are not a prison chain gang.” I threw in the prison part to answer Vonetta's question and for solidarity. I needed my sisters to be united with me and to stay focused. “The Jackson Five is the best singing group in the world.”

“In the universe,” Vonetta added.

“And the Milky Way.”

“Jackson Five?” Pa said. “Never heard of them. Can't sing better than Sam Cooke. Or the Temptations.”

“And what about Smokey Robinson and the Miracles?” Miss Hendrix said. “Oh. And Marvin Gaye.”

I said, “The Jackson Five are better than all of those singers and groups put together.”

“Their Afros are bigger,” Vonetta said.

“And they have Michael,” Fern said. “He's better than best.”

“He is not,” I said.

“Jermaine is the best,” Vonetta said.

“Jackie is the best looking,” I said, “and then Tito.”

“Not hardly,” Vonetta said. “Jermaine is. And Marlon is the best dancer. Like I am.”

And before we knew it, our solidarity had fallen apart.
For the rest of the ride to Central Park, we did nothing but argue about the Jackson Five until Fern began to sing “Can You Remember” and Vonetta and I joined her. Pa and Miss Hendrix talked amongst themselves.

We bought ginger ale and a bucket of fried chicken and we headed over to Central Park with a blanket. Big Ma wouldn't have seen the point in an outing like this. Especially buying store-fried chicken. But there we were, spending a lazy Saturday afternoon with our father, eating chicken I didn't have to cut, clean, and fry. I could put up with his lady friend tagging along.

“Papa,” I said as calmly as I could, “we want to see the Jackson Five.”

“At Madison Square Garden.”

“In December.”

All together we sang, “Pleeease.”

“I don't know,” Pa said. “Madison Square Garden. New York City. Mobs of screaming teenagers. I don't know.”

This was a time that called for Uncle Darnell. He'd know who the Jackson Five were, and he was grown enough to take us to the Garden. Instead of Uncle Darnell coming to our rescue, Miss Hendrix said, “What if I took them?”

Vonetta and Fern began to shriek and Pa covered his ears. As much as I wanted to see Jackie and Tito in person, I refused to shriek. I didn't want anything from Pa's lady friend.

“How much could the tickets cost, sweetie?” She
fluttered her eyelashes at my father. “Five, six dollars each? And a little extra for soda? Popcorn. Raisinets. Maybe a hot dog.”

My sisters screamed. Pa choked. “Marva honey. That's nearly seven or eight dollars.”

All I heard was “honey.”

“Are you sure you want to do that? All those rowdy teenagers screaming and hollering over some finger-popping little hoodlums in Afros?”

“They're not hoodlums!” Vonetta cried out. “They're entertainers.”

“Surely are,” Fern said. “They entertain us.”

The “honey” stuck to me. The sick sweetness of it. I knew I had to unstick myself if I wanted to see Jackie and Tito Jackson. I decided I wanted to see them more than I didn't like Pa's lady friend.

“As long as the girls behave, there won't be a problem,” Miss Marva Hendrix said.

“We'll behave,” Vonetta pledged without hesitating.

“We will behave, be good, be seeing Michael,” Fern said in one breath. “Surely will.”

I didn't add my voice to my sisters' but I at least nodded. Then Pa said, “And Delphine will see to it that they do.”

To him I said, “Yes, Papa.”

“And it will be my treat,” Pa's lady friend said.

There was screaming and cheering from Vonetta and
Fern. But Papa said, “Oh, no. Can't let you do that, Marva honey.” And Vonetta and Fern had an “aw, shucks” fit.

“If you girls want to see these little boys sing and dance, you'll have to earn half the money for your tickets and refreshments,” Pa said. “And I'll pay the other half.”

I felt myself coming out of the sticky-honey sulk. If I knew anything, I knew how to earn my way.

Pa said, “If you pitch in around the house, you'll get a weekly allowance.”

“I get a weekly allowance,” I told Pa.

“They'll get one too,” he said.

“But I work for mine,” I said.

“They'll work for theirs too.”

“Good idea,” Miss Hendrix chirped. “That's a good idea, Lou.” And then she reached over and kissed him, leaving her chicken oil and lipstick on his cheek.

“But you'll have to save your money,” Pa said, ignoring the greasy kiss. “That means no chasing the ice-cream truck with every penny you earn,” he said to Vonetta and Fern. “If you want my money, you'll have to save yours.”

“Don't worry, Pa,” I spoke up. “I'll make sure they save.”

Then, at the part where Pa was supposed to pat me on the head for saying the right thing, Miss Marva Hendrix said, “Why can't Vonetta be in charge of saving?”

No one said a word. Hers was a shock of an idea that
caught anyone chewing or swallowing. Even Vonetta had to cough.

She got over the shock and said, “Yeah. Why can't I be in charge of the saving?”

“Because,” I said, “the saver has to be responsible.”

That should have fixed that, but nosy Miss Marva Hendrix said, “How will she learn responsibility if she's not given a chance?”

“I can learn responsibility,” Vonetta chirped up. She looked worried.

“Surely can!” Fern added for solidarity.

Then Miss Hendrix asked, “What is with all this ‘surely'?”

Later at the line for the bathroom, Vonetta and Fern went in together, leaving me alone with Miss Hendrix.

I said, “What if Vonetta loses the money we save?”

She stepped on my question right away with one of her own. “Delphine, do you know what a self-fulfilling prophecy is?”

I could have figured it out with more time than a second to answer but I said no. There was no point spinning straw and coming up all straw and no gold.

She said, “Don't wish for bad things to happen, Delphine. Vonetta deserves a chance.”

I said, “I'm always in charge.” I made sure I spoke Papa-calm and not Cecile-crazy, although I felt Cecile-crazy.
“Papa and Big Ma depend on me to look out for my sisters.”

“I know you're older, Delphine, but if you keep your sisters down they'll never learn.”

She might not have used the word, but I heard her calling me an oppressor. Someone who keeps the people down. It isn't oppression if you get whipped for what your sisters do and don't do. It's keeping them in line.

“I don't keep my sisters down,” I said.

But she didn't say anything and neither could I. I was both angry and hurt. Nothing good could come out of my mouth. Certainly not gold.

We headed back to Herkimer Street after seeing Miss Marva Hendrix off to her apartment in Brownsville. I let Vonetta and Fern beat me out of the Wildcat and up the steps so they could tell Big Ma all about our day with Pa's lady friend. I would have felt a little giddy if Miss Marva Hendrix hadn't soured the day by making me out to be my sisters' oppressor.

I followed behind and unlocked the door while Vonetta and Fern ran inside. I left the door cracked for Pa, who was getting the blanket out of the trunk.

My sisters tried to clamor around Big Ma but she wanted no part of them. She didn't want to hear about our outing with Miss Marva Hendrix, that we'd seen the Jackson
Five billboard, or that they were coming to New York City in December. She had a long, brownish-yellow envelope choked in her fist. And she looked confused while she turned left and then right like she was playing keep-away. I saw she'd been crying, so I said, “Vonetta. Fern. Quit it.”

Big Ma threw herself in her chair and squeezed the envelope even more. “A mercy, Lord,” Big Ma sobbed. “A mercy. A mercy.”

Then Fern ran straight into me, ramming her head above my belly. She cried hard, almost biting me, while Vonetta went, “What's wrong? What's wrong?”

Then Pa walked in whistling, the blanket folded up in his arms. He saw Big Ma in the chair, put the blanket in my hands, and went to Big Ma. “Mama, Mama. What's the . . .” He saw the envelope and took it from her hands. “All right, Mama,” he said calmly. “All right.”

The envelope was still sealed, but crushed like Big Ma had been holding on to it for hours, waiting for us to come home. The hush over the house lay heavy, like snow sitting on our rooftop.

I felt bad news coming but I didn't want to hear it. Didn't want to hear it. And that was all I could fit in my prayer. That I didn't want to hear what the letter had to tell us.

Pa closed his eyes for a second. When he tore open the envelope, Big Ma cried out like he was tearing a part of her. Vonetta put her arms around Big Ma's neck while Big
Ma shuddered and cried. Before my eyes, Big Ma seemed to shrink inside her housedress.

“A mercy, a mercy. A mercy, Lord. A mercy.”

To God, I said:

Don't let him be dead.

Don't let him be dead.

Don't let him be MIA. Or dead.

Then Pa said in his plain, warm voice, “Darnell's coming home.” When he laid the envelope down on the stereo, I read the address in the corner:
DEPARTMENT OF THE UNITED STATES ARMY
. It had come special delivery and was addressed to
THE FAMILY OF PFC DARNELL L. GAITHER
. No wonder Big Ma had been afraid to open it.

Pa had to say it again: “Darnell's coming home, Ma.” Finally she gasped for air, like a baby gasps before its first cry. Now Big Ma was all-out crying.

Fern unstuck her head from me and dried her face with my top.

After we'd gotten excited about the good news, Pa added, “He'll be in the hospital in Honolulu for two weeks. That's all.” His voice sounded old, like when Cecile left us, and not light, like a man who whistled “My Girl.”

I tried to ease myself back into normal breathing, but I imagined all the things that could have happened to him at war. Watching the soldiers and the people in Vietnam on the six o'clock news was the only time I was glad we didn't have color TV. They showed a lot on the news:
Dead soldiers. Prisoners of war. Wailing children, broken old people, bombing, and blood all came in sharp enough in black-and-white. The news anchor always said, “Parents, send the children out of the room if they're nearby.” I was the only child in the room but I watched anyway.

Big Ma was now quietly sobbing, but Vonetta and Fern danced a hula because Pa had said “Honolulu” and I had to tell Heckle and Jeckle again to quit it.

“What happened to him?” I asked my father. “Did he get shot?”

“Shot by the enemy?” Vonetta added.

“Is Uncle Darnell almost dead?” Fern asked. “I thought he was dead.”

Big Ma cried even more.

“Hush up,” I told my sisters.

“You're not in charge. You can't hush nobody,” Vonetta said.

“Surely can't.”

“The two of you, hush up,” Pa said.

Vonetta and Fern hushed.

Last year Mrs. Peterson asked our class if we were for the war or against it, or like the evening news anchor said, “hawks” or “doves.” I said I was a hawk for my uncle Darnell and the soldiers he slept in foxholes and trampled through jungles with. But I didn't tell my class that I sometimes prayed at night that my uncle and the soldiers would kill the Vietcong who were trying to kill them. I
didn't tell them how I prayed the same news anchor who told parents to shoo the kids out of the room would say, “Gather round, everybody. The war is over. The soldiers are all coming home.”

But then they showed Vietnamese children shot up dead. And they showed bony Vietnamese people older than Big Ma, pointing to the sky and to the hills in the distance. Pointing to clouds of smoke and helicopters. They were never pointing at doves.

Big Ma went to bed early that night. The US Army envelope coming and her thinking the worst about Uncle Darnell had been too much. I remembered what Miss Marva Hendrix had said.
Self-fulfilling prophecy
. I figured she was saying that if you think something, it will happen.

Big Ma, Pa, Vonetta, Fern, and I had all thought the worst, but now everything was all right. Uncle Darnell would be home in two weeks. We would be under one roof on Herkimer Street. Except for Cecile.

Later that evening, I stood by the entrance of the kitchen after supper. “Where y'all going?” I asked Vonetta and
Fern. I folded my arms and tapped my foot to show I was serious.

“To brush our teeth,” said one.

“And play Old Maid,” said the other.

“You have a table to clear and dishes to wash and dry,” I said.