How High the Moon Page 17

  I had taken to mostly staying in my room after I got home from school. I’d draw or paint, or just be alone with my thoughts. My sadness had changed. It hadn’t gone away at all, but I’d had it for so long that it was becoming something gristly and hardened. I wanted to feel light and happy again, but I needed to stay with the sadness a little longer. Ella didn’t mind giving me that space. She spent plenty of time alone, too, mostly writing in her diary. I think it was helping her with all those questions she had, about George, about her mama and Mr. Parker, and with all of her sadness.

  “Boy.” Poppy leaned his head into my bedroom. “Go cut a Y out the tree and meet me on the porch.”

  I’d wanted a slingshot for forever, but wasn’t till I was ten that Poppy made me one. He had taken me out back and cut a piece where the branch broke off into two new branches. The shape of a Y. I sat with him on the porch and watched him whittle that Y clean. His knife was sharp as the dickens, but Poppy knew how to handle it so it scraped razor-thin curls from the wood, leaving it smooth and blond. I fetched him some rubber bands and he ended up handing me a swell slingshot.

  But I wasn’t in no mood to whittle.

  “Aw, Poppy, I don’t really feel like—” I started, but he ignored my protest and walked out front.

  “See you out there,” he said.

  I chose a low branch from our elderberry tree, found a good Y, and snipped it free. Poppy was leaning forward in his rocker, staring down our drive, deep in thought, when I walked up.

  “Here you go,” I said. He motioned for me to take a seat, then pulled out his knife and handed it to me. I was real careful releasing the blade. He watched me closely, still leaning forward, as I shaved the skin of the bark.

  “Yes. Direct the blade away from you. Good, Henry,” he said.

  My strokes were slow and measured. I was intent on getting it right. Poppy didn’t seem to mind my speed. He watched. Once in a while he nodded. I was close to done with the handle before he spoke again.

  “Son, there are gonna be folks that take to judging you ’fore you done walked in the room. But just ’cause they say you is something, that don’t mean you is. You is what you decide you is. That’s your decision. Ain’t nobody else’s. You can’t make other people change they minds about you neither, so don’t go wasting your time with none of that. You just be what you know is right. Don’t talk about it. Be it.” He stood up and walked to the edge of the porch and spit, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and settled back into his rocker. “I know fellas that always talkin’ ’bout how their word is good, but these is men I seen lie. Time and again they lie, but they want to tell you their word is good. You are what you do. Not what you say. What you do.”

  His words struck hard in my chest and I felt my throat tighten. There might not have been a more respected man on our side of town than my poppy, but he still had to step outta the way if a white man wanted him to. When he spoke with white folks, he always said “yes, sir” and “yes, ma’am.” Even when they called him, a grown man, “boy.” But none of how they treated him changed who he was. And, in turn, it did nothing to our respect for him.

  He reached out and I let him take the branch. I tried to give him the knife, too, but he waved it away.

  “I can do better,” I said. Looking at my whittling in his hands, I could see every imperfection. Poppy held the branch out to me.

  “Then do it,” he said.

  Poppy rocked and smoked his pipe. I took my time finding the right amount of pressure of knife to wood. I found a rhythm, too. In the distance, I thought I heard somebody hammering; aside from that, it was silent. There was just the motion of the rocker, the whittling, the sweet aromas of tobacco and new wood. Just me and my poppy.

  I ran my hands over the smooth surface I’d created. It was better work than I knew I was capable of. I handed it to Poppy. With calloused fingers, he carefully inspected the handle and each short arm.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding at my handiwork. He looked up at me, smiled, and held his arms out to me to crawl into. I got up on my knees and waddled to him, buried my face in his scratchy wool sweater, and wrapped my arms around him. The tears rushed from me, uncontrollably. My whole body shook and I couldn’t hold back my whining as I sobbed. Poppy rocked me and patted my back and soon, I just cried, quietly. I cried and I cried.

  Granny was always generous with her affection. She’d stop us as we were walking from one room to the next to take a hug. We teased her that she was greedy, and she’d say, “Well, if the shoe fits!” But while we never doubted Poppy’s love for us, hugs that came on regular days (not birthdays or Christmas) were few and far between.

  His arms were strong. Wrapped tight within them, I felt safe. But I knew he couldn’t hold me forever.

  “Don’t let how nobody treats you in this world make you think that you ain’t worthy.” He spoke in a firm but soft voice, directly into my ear. “You are as entitled to happiness as anybody else. Don’t forget that. You’s a good, smart, loving boy. Don’t you let nobody else make you think different ’bout yourself. You hear me?” I nodded, sniffling into his chest. He held me there a good long time. I thought I heard him sniffling, too.

  After a while, things simmered down and you could feel the tension let up a bit. Granny and Poppy started going into town the way they always had and didn’t mind if we went with them so long as we behaved. Myrna, Ella, and me didn’t have to always travel everywhere together. I could go for a walk by myself if I wanted to. But to be truthful, I didn’t want to.

  The white folks was happy. They said justice had been served. I couldn’t help but feel, though, that deep down, them folks knew that George Stinney, only five feet tall and skinny as anything, didn’t kill them girls. All the colored folks sure knew he didn’t do it.

  Soon folks were walking about like it was all a thing of the past. It wouldn’t be long before they forgot all about it and life just went on.

  Pastor Nichols held a special church service, but I don’t think it made anybody feel any better. I still couldn’t sleep. Most nights, I’d start to doze off only to suddenly dart up, wide awake. After tossing around for a bit, I’d finally just get up. Start on my chores early.

  One of them mornings, after I’d finished up all my chores, I went to my room and seen that Granny’d put my newly whittled slingshot on my bed. I ran a finger over it, proud of my good work.

  Near my bedroom door, there was a nail in the wall that hadn’t held a picture for some time. I hung my slingshot from it. A good spot to display my craftsmanship. It was beautiful to look at but I had no interest in playing with it. Instead, I tore off the cover of the Allan Crite pamphlet Ella had brought me back from Boston, the picture of his painting of a Boston street crowded with schoolchildren. She’d told me all about him and I still couldn’t get over that a colored man was living up there having big shows of his work. I tacked the picture on the wall near the slingshot. They looked mighty nice side by side. Maybe someday I’d have to see Boston for myself. Noise and all.

  I sat down to finally finish my portrait. I wasn’t so sure it was looking like me, so I went ahead and put a little more distance between the eyes. Shaped the eyes a little more like almonds, but still big and brown. The jaw needed to be a bit narrower. The whole face did. I kept the skin tone a deep brown, but made the top lip a little fuller. A little fuller than the bottom lip. And I turned up the corners of the mouth a bit so that you could see a small smile. My teacher called it a Mona Lisa smile, like from the famous Italian painting. One of them smiles where you’re just barely smiling, but it’s clear that you’re happy.

  I sat back and took a good look at the portrait. At the young man smiling back at me. Confident. Full of life and hope. I thought I’d done a pretty darn good job.

  It captured George perfectly.

  ella

  Summer vacation came on the heels of George’s execution. Myrna didn’t come back to school before break. Instead, she just did her schoolwork fr
om home. Everybody agreed it was best that way. The Stinney kids being gone was a constant reminder of what had happened. School was miserable.

  Summer seemed to come and go in the blink of an eye. Mostly, we stayed close to home helping Granny and Poppy, or playing in the yard. We went fishing some, but not like we used to. Myrna said there was no way she could go near the creek. It would remind her too much of George.

  Much as we hadn’t wanted to go to school after George passed, the lazy summer days, when we were left alone with our thoughts, made us long to go back when the fall did come. It would never be the same, but being back in school, having to think about our studies and the whole routine of it all, I think it helped take our mind off things. It was also good to see friends we’d barely seen all summer long.

  “I’m telling you, Ben showed me the paper. A man called Jackie Robinson was arrested and court-martialed!” Henry slapped the palm of one hand with the back of the other for emphasis, the way Poppy sometimes did. “Wouldn’t go to the back of the bus. Can you believe a big star athlete like that got arrested? He played football for UCLA!”

  Henry and Ben had become friends. I’m not sure anybody knew exactly why or what had changed between them, but Ben wasn’t mean no more, and Henry wasn’t mad.

  “He told the driver no?” I asked.

  “If I’m lying I’m dying! I’ll get the paper from Ben.” He ran back to Ben, who was whooping it up with Fred a few paces behind us. Myrna and her girlfriends were close on their heels. Myrna seemed mostly back to normal now, but I knew, deep down, she’d always have a pocket of sadness inside her for George.

  “Ben! Lemme see that paper again!” Henry was finally returning to his old self. I guess we all were.

  Henry ran up and showed me the paper.

  I studied Jackie Robinson’s handsome face. Sitting behind a desk, in his military uniform, he didn’t look particularly defiant. Just a man.

  Myrna caught up to Henry and me.

  “I’m gonna go to Lorraine’s for a bit. Tell Granny?” She ran off ahead.

  Suddenly a hand swiped the newspaper from Henry. It was Ben.

  “I gotta go,” he said as he and Fred took off down the side road.

  I turned to Henry. “Wanna come with me to the post office?”

  “Race you!” He was gone before I had a chance to answer. I grabbed hold of my Stetson and took off after him.

  Mama had been writing me letters and dropping me gifts in the mail ever since she kicked me outta Boston. I was so mad at first that I didn’t wanna have nothing to do with her. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought that just maybe Mama had a little heartbreak of her own inside. Maybe it was hard for her, too. And maybe she was doing the best she knew how. I finally came around to forgiving her. All the while she was hellbent on making it up to me.

  Sure enough, there was a package. It was a large flat parcel, stamped on each side in red letters that said DO NOT BEND. Carefully I ripped it open along the top seam. It was a record album in a red, protective sleeve, along with a letter.

  Ella Sunshine,

  I wanted to share with you Mama’s latest little project. I met a producer here in New York and he had me go back into the studio to record a brand new demo record. I had them make a special copy just for you. I hope you like it.

  Missing you mountains,

  Mama

  The label of the record was black with gold writing. It read:

  HOW HIGH THE MOON

  LUCILLE HANKERSON

  CRYSTAL STUDIOS, NEW YORK, NY

  Henry was waiting outside on the front steps of the post office for me.

  “What you got?” he asked when he spotted the package. I handed it to him and he mouthed the words as he silently read, and then flashed me a big smile. “Your ma made a new record?”

  I nodded and read the label again.

  “I think it’s the song she sang on New Year’s,” I said, then remembered. “Oh, Henry. I think this is from your dad.” I handed him an envelope addressed to him.

  He wasted no time ripping it open and even tore the letter inside a bit.

  “Dang, Henry!”

  He started reading, then suddenly stopped, cracking up.

  “What?” I leaned over his shoulder to see. He handed me a drawing and went back to reading. It was of Pinocchio, but with dark skin and tight curly hair under his hat. Above him, it read, How’s My Boy?

  “He’s coming home!” He read it over again to be certain he’d gotten it right. “Yeah! He’s coming home!”

  “When?”

  “In a month.” He shook his head, looked at the letter again, then up at me. “Wow.”

  “Oh, Henry! That’s wonderful news!” I was so happy for him. For all of us. I felt like I could burst.

  “Yeah.” I expected a rip-roaring howl of delight, but instead he tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and beamed into the clear blue sky. Even though he was completely silent, his face may have been happier than I’d ever seen it. The excitement pumping through my veins made me wanna holler, but I kept my lips zipped. I stood there quietly and allowed my cousin his private moment.

  Finally, he opened his eyes, and through that smile he said, “Let’s go play that record!”

  We ran the rest of the way home.

  ella

  Myrna said she was going to make me look like a movie star for the church picnic. She showed me a magazine photo of Dorothy Dandridge riding her bicycle with her husband, Harold Nicholas. She was wearing casual slacks and sandals, and had her hair rolled up real pretty along the sides of her head.

  “I don’t know if my hair will do that,” I said.

  “Don’t worry. You watch.”

  I sat on the floor in front of Myrna as she undid my braids and brushed out my hair.

  “Ow!” I said as she tried to get the brush through a particularly knotted chunk of hair. I pulled away.

  “Don’t be so tender-headed!” She yanked me back into my spot on the floor and rubbed the sore spot of my head. “I’m sorry. I’ll try not to hurt you, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, unsure if it was a promise she could keep. I went back to the knitting needles and blue yarn she’d placed in my lap, along with quick instructions on what to do with them. I wasn’t sure I remembered any of it.

  “The slipknot first,” she said. “Remember? Then cast on. Remember how I showed you?”

  With the needle in its slipknot, it began to come back to me. I looped stitch after stitch onto the opposing needle.

  “Oh, yeah. I got it!”

  “Now do twenty-five of those, then you’ll switch sides and we’ll start knitting the scarf.”

  I still had more than two months before Christmas to knit Poppy a scarf. Every year, I helped with the baking and I made cards for everybody, but this would be the first year I was going to make special presents for everyone. A pincushion for Granny, a decorated box for Henry to keep his drawing supplies in, and a barrette with a felt flower for Myrna. Myrna said she’d teach me how to knit Poppy a simple scarf. She said it was easy. While we don’t really get scarf weather down here, Granny agreed that he would appreciate having it on those unexpected cold nights. Most important, he would be moved by my taking the time and the effort.

  “Ha! You should see your hair! It’s huge!” Myrna laughed.

  “I know. I’ve seen it,” I said, yanking my head away and getting ready for all the teasing that was about to come, like always. Instead, she gently stroked my hair and smoothed it down.

  “No, no, Ella. I didn’t mean anything bad. It is so soft and pretty. You’re lucky,” she said as she dragged her nail through my woolly mane, making a part. She rolled the hair along my hairline and secured it with a hairpin, then moved to a new section and did the same. She repeated this along both sides of my head until my hair was all neatly rolled and pinned.

  “Now let me see!” She leaped down in front of me, inspecting her handiwork. “Nice.” She smiled.

 
She snatched a large hand mirror from the dresser and held it up to me at an angle that allowed me to see the side of my head.

  “Look!”

  I took the mirror and inspected the other side. When I touched it I couldn’t even feel the hairpins.

  “How’d you learn how to do that?” It was perfect.

  “You like it?” She was beaming.

  I nodded and held the mirror directly in front of me to see that angle. Myrna was by my side, smiling as she looked at my reflection.

  “You’re so pretty, Myrna,” I said.

  “What?” She sat back, surprised.

  I set the mirror down, wrapped my arms around her, and hugged her. I hadn’t given it any thought. I was just happy.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She hesitated a moment, then she put her arms around me and held me tight.

  One of my knitting needles poked her in the tummy.

  “Ow.” Myrna pulled back and saw the tangle of wool and knitting needles in my lap. “Oh, no. What’s this?” She lifted it and tried to unravel the mess. I was embarrassed. While I knew I might not get it exactly right, I hadn’t expected to make a complete mess of it. I think Myrna saw my humiliation.

  “We’ll just get this last bit straightened out and we’ll be fine. You got the cast-on perfect!” She took both needles and sat next to me on the floor. “Now watch carefully.”

  It didn’t take long before I got the hang of it. Myrna was so proud of me that she ran to the kitchen to show Granny my seven-by-seven-inch swatch of perfect scarf.

  Everybody danced at the picnic. Boys and girls. Old and young. I don’t think one person stood on the sidelines. Certainly, there wasn’t nobody snickering. Myrna pulled me onto the grass and spun me around and dipped me low. I couldn’t stop laughing. We all danced for a long time. I didn’t notice when Myrna had stopped, but at one point I looked up and saw her walking toward the creek, all by herself, with a big plate of beets.