The Planet of Junior Brown (11 page)

“Okay, okay, don't I always go with you?”

“I mean, go in with me so you can see for yourself. Will you go in with me?”

“I promised you, didn't I?” Buddy said. He didn't remember any such promise. “Look, man, don't get yourself all upset. I'll go with you. Everything's going to be fine.”

Junior let his breath out in a ragged sigh. “This coming Wednesday I'll take you over to my house,” Junior said. “I promised I would and I will.”

Finally Buddy remembered the bus ride when he and Junior made their deal. “You sure your mother won't get mad at you for bringing me home?”

“You'll come over,” Junior told him, “and my mother won't be mad that you can see.”

Waiting, overhearing, Mr. Pool smiled to himself. It had taken Junior Brown all this time to admit to himself that he needed Buddy Clark, that he could go no further with something he had to do without big Buddy helping him.

Maybe that's a beginning, Mr. Pool thought. He knew about Junior's mother. She was a self-centered, sickly woman who was probably good at heart. It upset him to know she would condemn Junior's friendship with Buddy simply because Buddy looked tough.

She isn't going to like one bit Junior bringing a poor boy home with him.

The squeak of the solar system intruded on Mr. Pool's thoughts.

“Somebody help me find that squeak,” he said, touching the planets.

“Maybe the squeak isn't in the system at all,” came from the far side of the planets. Buddy Clark.

“It is in the system,” Mr. Pool told him.

“But maybe the system is just rubbing too hard against the dark,” Buddy said. He laughed loudly at his own nonsense.

“Keep it down,” Mr. Pool said. “We're going to get ourselves caught because of you.”

On the far side, at the edge of the void, Buddy covered his mouth. He'd forgot for a moment that the solar system was not somehow up in space. He was feeling better. Here he was going over to Junior's house on Wednesday, just like some regular cat, and then on Friday, he'd go over with Junior to see Junior's music teacher. He'd straighten everything for Junior with the relative. Buddy was cool, whatever was wrong, he could fix it. Maybe soon he and Junior would be really tight, like brothers.

Like somebody I can tell everything to, even tell about the planets.

Buddy looked at big, bad Junior sitting so sad in his chair.

Man, when you see what I am into—taking care of kids, working my job. Wait till you meet old Doum—man, blow your mind! You going to want to be free as me …

Tuesday was no different and Wednesday Buddy lay on his back in Junior's room. He tried to remember when he'd rested on anything as comfortable as Junior's bed. Buddy had to keep blinking his eyes to keep from falling asleep. Junior's room was so peaceful. The heat of the house poured into him, warming him to his soul.

Junior played the piano across the room from Buddy. He hadn't been practicing much, he told Buddy earlier, but today he had felt like playing. As the windows filled with winter shadows, Junior played on and on.

Filling Junior's mind was the swelling, bursting sound of Miss Peebs' grand piano. With the strength of his imagination, he tried to fuse the music to the silence of his own Baldwin upright piano. As he pressed the soundless keys, he thought the responding tones. He never could quite imagine them as pure as the music of the concert grand.

Buddy watched Junior with amazement. For Junior swayed like a dark, brooding bear to an unheard rhythm in the stillness.

Since he'd come into the room, Buddy hadn't believed what he was seeing. Several times he couldn't help heaving himself up from the bed and tiptoeing over to the piano.

The top of Junior's piano had been taken off so that more sound could get out. But all of the wires meant to vibrate to make that sound had been removed. In place were the felt hammers made to hit the wires when the piano keys were pressed down. But the hammers struck against nothing. As Junior played on and on, the hammers rose and fell senselessly.

Buddy turned over and pressed his face into the soft fabric of the bedspread.

He felt empty of himself but outraged at the damage done to Junior.

Taking away his sound from him, Buddy thought. How could she do that to her own son?

From some far place, a deep place of his heart, Buddy slowly understood.

All their lives, they have been this family, he thought. Up so close, and for so long, they can't separate any of it. She has to have rest. Junior has to play his piano. I bet that's the way it is.

Buddy sat up on the edge of Junior's bed. He watched hulking Junior swaying in time with silence.

He plays a piano without sound and she has her peace and quiet. “God Almighty,” Buddy said out loud. He got up.

I can't stay here anymore.

“Junior? Hey, man? You finish up so we can split someplace. You want to see a film?”

A minute passed before Junior stopped. Smiling, he rubbed his hands together, as if he were washing them. He grinned at Buddy while his eyes remained sad. “A movie?” he said.

“Anything,” Buddy said. “Let's just get out of here.”

“I never do go out at night,” Junior said.

Buddy stared at him. “You just went out the other night, a week ago. I saw you,” Buddy told him.

“I never go out without my mother,” Junior said. The grin quivered.

I'll swim the river before I take his mother to a show, Buddy thought. “Man, you can go with me if you want,” he said. I might even show you my planet. How am I ever going to get you down the ladder to see it? Maybe if I just tell you about it, we both could figure a way to get you down there. “You got to want to go,” Buddy said. “Man, it's up to you.”

“I haven't had my supper.” Softly Junior spoke and got up from the piano.

“Nobody said it's ready yet,” Buddy told him.

“Nobody has to say,” Junior said. He stood with his hands folded in front of him, his head down, as though he were praying.

Buddy didn't realize at once that Junior was waiting. By the time he did, Junior's mother had walked in on them. She came close to Junior. She held her hands folded in front of her the way Junior did.

“Your supper is ready now, son,” she said. Mrs. Brown turned to Buddy. She stiffened, her thought bristling with contempt. Buddy Clark towered over her the way her own son would not. Hard with muscle, he was overbearing even when he was not moving or speaking. “You are staying for dinner, of course,” she said to Buddy.

“That was the plan me and Junior had,” Buddy said right back at her.

Boldly, Junior's friend was staring her down. She knew any decent boy would have lowered his eyes. But she continued to study him as though he were some rampant thing too widespread to be destroyed. He was not too different from the growth she weeded from her window box. And if she ever had the garden she dreamed of, she would cut this Buddy down toward evening.

“Come along then,” she told him. Buddy waited for Junior to go first. Then he followed, ashamed he hadn't found the nerve to tell Junior's mother what he thought of her.

Buddy never did know too much about the inside of people's houses. He had only a few vague memories of such places. The homes were dark, walls were bare and moist with grime. Always there was one table, maybe two chairs. A bed set in the center of the room away from rat holes. There was listless quiet, or noise, coughing sickness. Buddy kept hold of the memories because they were what he had.

Junior's house brought back no memories to Buddy. He saw a nice sofa and a couple of easy chairs as he passed through the living room. The dining room was in an alcove off the kitchen. The walls of the room were papered in a design of gold weave. A big table had a yellow tablecloth on it and high-backed chairs all around it. Carved candlesticks on the table had tall candles burning in them. The table had been set for three people. Next to each dinner plate there was a smaller one. And above the dinner plate there was still another small plate. There were cloth napkins the color of the tablecloth. Besides having a knife and spoon, each plate had three forks next to it.

Buddy was about to be nervous. His insides fluttered; he put his hands in his pockets, then awkwardly down at his sides. But something bright washed over his brain. In one sweep of his eye over the vivid table he knew how much care had gone into arranging it. He knew that on this Wednesday night in the middle of the week, with nothing better to happen than the coming of Thursday, the table had been set for a holiday supper. This was to be the Thanksgiving or the Christmas feast, or maybe even just the Sunday one before the time Junior's daddy went away again.

No. This time Buddy was to be the occasion.

Junior's mother came from the kitchen carrying a platter of roast stuffed turkey. She next brought gravy and sweet potatoes, broccoli and hot baked rolls.

No, Buddy thought. It's not a big turkey, but it's turkey just the same. You eat it. I am it. She's going to slice me up and help herself to my guts. She's going to suck my bones. She thinks so.

Thinking like that helped Buddy feel calm. Instinct born in him gave him an inkling of the man he would become. Some inbred notion told him that a table was no more than wood put together a particular way, no matter how you dressed it. The highback chairs were only more of the same. They could have been boxes, it didn't matter what they were as long as you could sit on them, with some surface to put your food on so you wouldn't have to eat in your lap.

No. Sitting down to a spread like this has to make you feel good. Good as anybody. Without it you can't feel half as good.

Silently Buddy stood across the table from Junior. Standing beside her chair, Junior's mother was between them at the head of the table. Buddy could feel her eyes on him. He glanced at Junior to find Junior again waiting for something.

The food steamed up over the table in a mixture of delicious smells in the candlelight. The aroma curled around foreknowledge in Buddy's mind. Easily he moved around the large table to Junior's mother. He pulled the chair out for her and gently held it as she sat down, pulling it in to the table.

All this done in a moment and in silence. Junior sat and Buddy sat down.

Expertly, Junior's mother carved the stuffed turkey. Talking all the while, she said, “I learned carving from my father and his father. My own husband was never home, you see, so learning to do for myself was necessary—Junior, you may pass the sweet potatoes and gravy. Buddy Clark, begin the broccoli around, please. I expect you are used to the turkey wings, the bony parts—shall I give you the back? Which do you prefer?”

Buddy had served himself a large portion of broccoli and had passed it over to Junior. He had two sweet potatoes neatly on his plate, then spread a small amount of gravy over them. After that he turned to Junior's mother. In the moment he kept her waiting, instinct came to him. Buddy said, “No thanks—if there's giblets in the stuffing, I won't have any of it, either.”

Mrs. Brown was caught with the serving fork in the air, ready to puncture the back of the turkey.

Junior grinned at her. “I'll take what he don't want,” he couldn't help saying. His mother served him nearly a quarter of the bird and a wing portion with a mound of stuffing. She took a small amount for herself.

“I expect you are some sort of Black Muslim,” she said to Buddy. “Pass me the sweet potatoes, will you please?”

“I just don't like eating off any flesh,” he said, placing potatoes and gravy near her hand. “It don't seem right somehow.”

Junior had filled his fork with glistening thigh meat and skin. He looked at the meat a long moment before he put his fork down.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Brown told Buddy. “A fowl or animal is not ‘flesh' at all. It is meat meant to be eaten.”

Buddy knew what he wanted to say. He could make Junior's old lady throw up right in her plate if he wanted to. But there was Junior sitting across from him, about to die from hunger, unable to eat because he had called the meat flesh.

Buddy swallowed hard. “I know it's just some kind of problem I have,” he said. “I know I should eat meat—no reason not to.”

Mrs. Brown smiled, buttering a roll. “I expect your mother finds meat too expensive to buy,” she said.

“My aunt,” Buddy said. “My mother's still down in Texas.” Old lady, see
you
scrounging in alleys. You'd know meat only could slow you down. Break away fast, and meat's going to stick in your side like a knife.

“It's nothing to be ashamed of,” Mrs. Brown said. “True, we sometimes fail to appreciate how much we have.” She glanced at Junior. “My own father always did say that whatever one had was a blessing.” She looked at Buddy. “We have plenty of meat here. Please feel free to help yourself.”

In spite of herself, Junella Brown had a feeling for this son of the poor, this stranger in her house. Pity eased into her heart as she reminded herself how he would rather not taste the turkey than have to long for it sometime when he couldn't get it.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Believe me, we have plenty.”

Junior's mother breathed through her mouth. Buddy had seen that when he first met her but now the fact stuck in his mind.

Fool lady, Buddy thought, see you cut up in pieces. Let some air in. Fry you and see the skin pop. Burn!

“I'd appreciate some water,” Buddy said. There was nothing at all to drink at the table.

“Goodness,” Mrs. Brown said, “of course you can have some. I never thought, since Junior seldom has anything with his dinner.” She got up to get Buddy some water from the kitchen, her breath strained, winded, as she walked away.

“I hate water,” Junior said when his mother had gone.

“I'd hate it too, if she was my mother,” Buddy couldn't help saying. Rage stung in his throat.