Raise It Up, page 6
But today, with the whole cafeteria suddenly watching, something came over me, and I didn’t care anymore. I grabbed the tray off the table, turned slightly, and swung hard, catching a surprised Ricky Priest right in the face. The tray cracked in my hands from the force of it. Ricky snorted, groaned, grabbed for his nose, and began to curse.
There was blood on his hands, I saw with some satisfaction.
“You fucking looney retard!” Ricky muttered, looking at the blood on his hands, which was now dripping from his nose. “You fucking retard bastard! You’re just like your crazy little retard brother!”
“The next time you mess with me, I’ll kill you,” I vowed in a strangled voice. “I’ll fucking kill you, and don’t you think I won’t. And Charlie’s smarter than you’ll ever be, you fat fuck.”
He looked at me with disbelief in his eyes as if he could not comprehend why I would be upset, as if I had no right, as if he were being hard done by.
“What’s going on?” a voice demanded.
I turned to see Oliver Kowski and the twins.
“Why don’t you leave Cee Cee alone?” Oliver added. “He didn’t do anything to you.”
“Why don’t you kiss my ass?” Priest wanted to know.
“I’ll do that and a whole lot more, and don’t think I won’t.”
Unlike me, Oliver was not afraid, and there was no edge of his voice. He was simply stating the facts of life.
“Fucking losers,” Ricky muttered, clutching his nose and turning away.
“Touch him again and see what happens to your stupid fat ass,” Oliver said to his back.
Ricky turned and glared at me, his lips moving as if he wanted to say something, but he was outnumbered. “Fucking fags,” he snarled as he turned and stalked off.
“What a loser,” Michelle said. She tilted her head to the side as she looked at me. “You all right, Cee Cee?”
I shrugged.
Fact was, there were tears in my eyes, and I was scared.
The principal marched into the cafeteria.
SIXTEEN: You promised you’d behave
I WAS sitting in Algebra II when my name was called over the loudspeaker to summon me to the office.
Charlie again, I knew.
I gathered my things and hurried. When I got there, I was told the grade school had called because Charlie was “causing trouble.”
“We don’t have a work number for your father or we would have called him,” Mrs. Grayson said from behind the counter, looking very unhappy.
“He doesn’t really have a job,” I said, and not for the first time.
“Oh.” She gave me a searching look before her face softened. “Well, you’d better hurry, Cyrus. I was sorry to hear about your mother, by the way.”
“Sure,” I said, feeling uncomfortable and not knowing what to say.
“Well, go on,” she ordered, nodding her head at the door.
I went outside, down the steps and walked across the street to the grade school. Charlie’s teacher called about once a week now.
“Cee Cee!” Charlie exclaimed when I walked in the front door.
He’d been waiting near the front desk.
“Cee Cee!”
“What, bud?”
“Oh, Cee Cee, dammit! Dammit dammit dammit!”
“Don’t cuss, Charlie.”
“Where’s Mama, Cee Cee? Why Mama not come see me? I want Mama!”
“I told you, Charlie.”
“Why, Cee Cee?”
“Cyrus, Mr. Whitfield wants to talk to you in his office,” Mrs. Collins said from behind the reception desk. She was an elderly black woman. The kids called her Mrs. Chocolate Drop, which I thought was rather mean since Mrs. Collins was an incredibly nice person. “Charlie’s been very disruptive today.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Collins.”
“Well, Mr. Whitfield wants to talk to you about it. You’re going to have to do something, Cyrus.”
“I don’t know what—”
“Why, Cee Cee?” Charlie demanded in an aggressive voice, interrupting. “Why, why, why? Dammit!”
“Don’t cuss, buddy. I’m trying to talk to Mrs. Collins.”
“But I want Mama!”
“You’ve got to behave, Charlie. You promised me you’d behave.”
“But I want Mama, Cee Cee! Mama done been gone too long. Too long, Cee Cee! Done been gone gone gone!”
“Hush now.”
“But, Cee Cee!”
“Cyrus, if I could see you in my office?” Mr. Whitfield said suddenly from right behind me.
I turned and looked at him.
“Disco” Whitfield—that’s what we called him—wore a polyester suit that would have made the Osmonds proud. It was green with white checks. Mr. Whitfield always tried to look cool, and it didn’t work. His sandy brown hair was frizzed with a perm that had gone bad. His large plastic glasses sat on a thick nose above a thick mustache. He was in his forties and the rumor was that he smoked pot. He looked like he was ready to burst out of his suit, his belly bulging against the shiny fabric. He turned and headed for his office.
“Come on, Charlie,” I said, taking Charlie’s hand.
Charlie followed without complaint.
“Boys, sit down,” Mr. Whitfield said, gesturing at the two chairs in front of his desk.
I sat.
The trophy display against the wall distracted Charlie.
“Cee Cee, look!” he said excitedly. “They’s playing baseball!”
Charlie had a thing about baseball.
“Don’t touch those,” I ordered.
“But they’s got baseball players on top, Cee Cee. Look!”
“They’re trophies, Charlie. Don’t touch them. You don’t want to break them. They don’t belong to us.”
“But, Cee Cee!”
“Come sit down, bud.”
He would not sit. He stared at the trophies, fascinated, and in my mind, I saw him messing with them, perhaps picking one up and dropping it, or somehow or other knocking the whole shelf over.
“He’s okay,” Mr. Whitfield said. “How are you, Cyrus?”
I shrugged.
“I was sorry to hear about your mother.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“How are you managing?”
“We’re okay.”
He regarded me solemnly through those thick glasses. For all the world, he looked like Kermit the Frog. I had a mental image of him lighting up a doobie and resisted the urge to smile.
“Charlie’s been very disruptive in class.”
“I know.”
“He’s really getting to be too much to handle.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Whitfield.”
“Unless we put him in a class by himself, I’m not sure what we can do.”
I said nothing.
“Have you taken him to the doctor lately?”
“Why should we?”
“His behavior is getting worse, Cyrus.”
“He’s okay.”
“They may have medication that might help. Tranquilizers. Something.”
“We don’t have money for that,” I said quite honestly.
“Something needs to be done.”
I looked down at my lap and frowned.
“He’s a good boy,” Mr. Whitfield assured me. “Wouldn’t hurt a flea. But we can’t get him to focus on anything and his teachers complain they spend most of their time just trying to cope with him. He’s not learning anything.”
“He ain’t Einstein,” I agreed.
“And he’s distracting to the other students.”
I did not know what he expected me to say, or do.
“They have homes for children like Charlie,” Mr. Whitfield said softly.
“We’re not sending him away,” I exclaimed, a flash of anger sweeping through me.
“You may want to consider it.”
“No.”
“He needs help that we can’t give him.”
“He’s fine.”
“No, he isn’t, Cyrus. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”
“Well, we’re not sending him away.”
“Without your mother in the house—”
“No.”
“Would you just listen to me, Cyrus? I’ve tried calling your brother, but I can’t get ahold of him, so I need you to listen so you can talk to your brother about it and we can make a decision. I have information on some of these homes. We could visit them. I’ll help you figure out what to do. It’s the best thing for him.”
“No,” I said firmly, getting to my feet.
“I’m going to need your father to come talk to me.”
“The next time he’s not drunk, I’ll tell him to stop by.”
“Then I need your brother to come talk to me.”
“He works all day.”
“This is serious, Cyrus.”
“Charlie’s my brother, and I’m not going to let you send him away, and I don’t care what you say.”
“But we can’t deal with him anymore. You may want to consider keeping him at home.”
“He needs to go to school!”
“Cyrus, please try to understand. They have home schooling courses.”
I turned to Charlie.
“Come on, bud. We’re leaving.”
“I want to play baseball,” Charlie said. “Can we?”
“Sure, bud.”
“Okeydokey! Youse can be the pitcher!”
“Don’t say youse.”
“Daddy say youse all the time.”
“Come on. We’ve got to go.”
“Just consider what I said,” Mr. Whitfield said.
I did not answer.
SEVENTEEN: Keep the fire burning
“IT’S COLD, Cee Cee,” Kay said, standing in the living room next to the wood stove, rubbing her mittened hands together.
“It’ll heat up soon, sweetie,” I replied.
“Where’s Daddy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s Georgie?”
“He’s working. He’ll be home soon.”
“Cee Cee, I’m hungry.”
“Yeah,” Charlie added. “We’s hungry! We’s gonna eat eat eat!”
“I’ll make you something,” I promised. “But let me get the stove going. Charlie, help me bring in some wood.”
“It’s cold out there, Cee Cee!”
“Just help me bring in a few pieces, that’s all. You’re a big boy.”
“I don’t want to, Cee Cee.”
I said nothing.
I went out the front door, surprised at how dark the clouds were. It was going to snow again. Blizzard, someone said at school. Not a good time for the stove to go out and the pipes to freeze. There was wood stacked on the porch, and I grabbed an armful, went back inside.
The fire had burned to embers, was almost completely out. Mama never let the fire go out. Daddy? I don’t know if he ever spared a thought for it. But that’s how he was. If you couldn’t drink it or make a conspiracy theory out of it, he wasn’t interested.
“Cee Cee, I’m cold!” Kay whined.
“Give it a minute,” I said.
Charlie wandered to the kitchen in his snow boots, dropping clunks of ice and snow as he went.
“Take your boots off, Charlie.”
“It’s cold.”
“You’re making a mess.”
“It’s cold!”
I wadded up old newspaper, stuck it among the wood, and lit a match. It would take a while for the fire to get going again. Our house was not so good at retaining heat. If the fire went out, we had about three hours before all the heat was gone and the pipes began to freeze. We could thaw them with a hair dryer, but that took a lot of time. Better just to keep the fire burning.
“I’m cold,” Kay said again in a soft, miserable voice.
“Come here,” I ordered. I took her into my arms, hugged her, and rubbed at her back to get some friction going. “That better?”
“I miss Mama,” she confided into my ear.
“I know you do.”
“I don’t want to live without Mama.”
“We have to, sweetie. That’s what Mama would want.”
“But I don’t want to.”
“Neither do I.”
I continued to rub her back, her arms. I took her hands into my own, rubbed them together.
“Better?”
She nodded.
“Cee Cee?”
“Yeah?”
“Are they going to send us away?”
“No. Why would you ask such a thing?”
“That’s what they said at school.”
“Don’t listen to them. We’re not going anywhere.”
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure, sweetie. We’re going to be just fine. You’ll see.”
“I’ll ask Georgie,” she said.
“Ask Georgie. He’ll tell you.”
“You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. Come on. Let’s turn the oven on and you can warm up. But you’ve got to help me watch Charlie so he doesn’t burn himself.”
“Okay.”
In the kitchen, I turned on the oven, opened the door. We stood in front of it, minus our mittens now, warming our hands as the heat began to waft outward.
“Daddy said we’re not supposed to use the oven to heat the house,” Kay pointed out.
“We’ll just do it for a few minutes,” I promised.
“Yeah,” Charlie said, leaning dangerously close as he tried to stick his hands right into the oven itself.
“Be careful, Charlie,” I ordered.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding his head, distracted by the soft orange color of the coils as they came to life. “We’s gonna be careful! Careful careful careful!”
EIGHTEEN: Everything is fine
I MADE macaroni for dinner. We didn’t have cheese, but butter and salt made it okay. At least I thought so. Macaroni was cheap and Mama had stocked up on it just before she died. We were running low on butter, though. Actually, it wasn’t butter—that was too expensive. It was oleo.
As we sat down to eat, a strange car pulled into the driveway.
It was almost dark and the bruised skies overhead did not help on that front. Georgie still hadn’t come home, and neither had Daddy, and he probably wouldn’t. Georgie had been doing a lot of overtime lately, and he didn’t mind, because that meant extra money.
I went to the window and looked out as the dark-colored Lincoln pulled to a stop.
“Who’s that?” Charlie demanded. “Someone done come! Who is it, Cee Cee?”
“Hush, Charlie.”
“Is Mama done come home?”
“It’s not Mama, Charlie. Be quiet.”
It was Disco Whitfield. No one from the school, much less one of the principals, had ever visited us. Something in my gut tightened a little. I threw on my coat and went out onto the porch.
Mr. Whitfield huffed his way across the snow-packed yard and up the steps to the porch.
“Can we go in, Cyrus?” he asked. “It’s cold out here.”
Wordless, I turned and opened the door, letting him go in.
Charlie and Kay stared from the table, their eyes full of questions.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“Cyrus, I’m a little concerned,” Whitfield said, removing his leather gloves and regarding me rather frankly through those thick plastic frames of his.
“Sir?”
“I didn’t know you’d been in a fight today.”
“It wasn’t a fight.”
“No, it wasn’t. You attacked a student with a lunch tray.”
I said nothing.
“I’m simply concerned, Cyrus. That’s all. I wanted to make sure everything was all right.”
“Everything is fine.”
He looked around the living room, which was small and crowded with old, ragged furniture. The wood stove was burning hot now, so it was too warm, but the heat would soon seep into the bedrooms and the bathroom. The Christmas tree in the corner looked rather sad. Charlie had insisted on draping heaps and heaps of silver icing on its branches. He loved that icing, but it made the tree look like something from a horror movie. Wasn’t as pretty as Mama used to do.
“Are you eating?” he asked. “I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted. What are you having?”
“Macaroni.”
“And?”
“That’s all. Macaroni. We have it all the time.”
He frowned as if this was somehow just not acceptable.
“Cyrus, I can’t help you unless you talk to me.”
“Talk to you about what, sir?”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s going on.”
“I’m not sure what you’re going to do without your mother here. Where’s your dad?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“He should be home.”
Well, duh.
“Who’s supervising you?”
“Georgie will be home soon.”
“I want to talk to George.”
“Okay.”
“I tried to call before I came. Your phone has been disconnected.”
“Oh?” I feigned surprise. It had been shut off at least two years now.
“I’m just concerned, that’s all, Cyrus.”
“We’re okay, Mr. Whitfield.”
“Who’s taking care of you, Cyrus?”
“Daddy is.”
“From what I hear, your father isn’t around much.”
“We’re okay.”
“You need to be straight with me.”
“We’re fine, Mr. Whitfield.”
He paused to gaze at Kay and Charlie.
“Are you taking care of them?” he asked, turning back to me.
“They’re my brother and sister.”
“That’s not what I meant. Who’s looking after them?”
“I am, sir.”
“What if they get sick?”
“They’ll be okay.”
“How old are you now, Cyrus?”
“I’m fifteen.”
“Where’s George?”
“He’s working.”
“So he’s taking care of you?”
“Yes. He’ll be home soon.”
He did not seem happy about this, and I did not understand what his problem was. What did he care who took care of whom, or who was home or who wasn’t? Wasn’t none of his business.
