Maybe You Never Cry Again Read online

  “I’m going to school,” I said.

  “Ain’t you hungry?”

  “No.”

  They could see that things were still very wrong. My grandma said, “Beanie, you be a man today, hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, and left the house.

  On my way down the street, I saw Edward—the kid from school, the one who’d told them not to hit me in the face—waiting for me near the bus stop. He looked worried.

  “Bernie—”

  “Don’t say nothin’,” I said, cutting him off. I didn’t want anything from him. “I got no beef with you. But I’m telling you right now: I’m not running with no fucking gang. And I’m going to kill the next motherfucker that comes up on me.” I showed him the shiv, taped to my hand.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.” And he ran off to tell the others to leave me the hell alone. “Bernie is out,” he said.

  After school, I went to the park, to play ball, try to improve my game, and the guys who’d beat me up the day before walked right past me, didn’t say nothin’ directly. They sat and watched me play for a while, making fun. But then the ball went off to one side, and I went to get it, and the lead guy got right in my face. “I hear you think you too good for the gang?” he said.

  POW! I hit him smack in the mouth, and again—POW, right quick—a left hook that knocked him down. But suddenly the rest of them were on me—too many to handle—so I threw a few more punches and turned and ran. I was flyin’, movin’ like lightning, and as I reached the sidewalk I almost collided with my big brother, Darryl.

  “Hey,” he said, grabbing me. “Why you runnin’?”

  And he turned around and saw these five guys coming toward us, and he looked dead at ’em—and they froze the hell up. All five of them. Stopped on a dime. Looked scared. And Darryl said, “You guys fuckin’ with my brother?”

  And the one guy—he was like shakin’—the one guy said, “We—we didn’t know he was your brother, man.”

  “He’s my brother all right. And if you want to fight him, he’ll take you. But he’ll take you one at a time.”

  Man, these guys were nervous. Darryl was known in the neighborhood. Didn’t take shit from no one. He was mean and crazy. Kids called him Karate. Nobody messed with Darryl.

  Now the guys were trying to back down; telling Darryl that we didn’t have to fight; that maybe we should forget the whole thing; and how sorry they was. But I looked at Darryl. I wanted to fight. And he walked us back into the park and I took the leader on, one-on-one. And I’ll tell you: I tore his ass up good.

  “Represent this, motherfucker,” I said. The sumbitch was scared to get up.

  And my brother said, “It’s over, see? If any of you bother my brother again, you better shoot me in the back of the head, because I’m coming for you.”

  Darryl and I left the park and he walked me to the corner. He didn’t say nothin’. Didn’t tell me I fought good or anything. He must’ve figured I knew I’d fought good and that I must’ve felt that inside me. It wasn’t for him to judge my fighting, anyway. It was for me. And then he said, “See ya.” Like it was nothing. And off he went down the street.

  “Where you goin’?” I said, hungerin’ for him.

  “Practice,” he said, not even turning to face me. “I got me a new band.”

  “Band?” I hollered. I didn’t know he had a band.

  When I got home, I went into the kitchen to get a glass of water. My mama said, “How you doin’, Bean?”

  “Good,” I said.

  “You know,” she said, “funny thing about life. Most people, they got a problem, they crank and moan. What they don’t think about is fixin’ it themselves.”

  I didn’t say nothin’. I just listened.

  “But if you fix it yourself, you’re going to find that there’s always going to be one person in the world you can turn to. You.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “One person you can depend on.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Thinking is something people don’t do enough of, Bean. It’s a strong man that knows how to sit in the dark and be alone with his thoughts.”

  “I’m trying, Mama.”

  She had it down. Suffering is the best teacher of all. If you want people to respect you, you got to respect yourself first. Life don’t change unless you make it change.

  Mac-isms, I call ’em. They’re with me to this day. I use them to this day.

  Later that same evening, before dinner, my grandma came into my room, clutching her worn Bible. “Read to me, son,” she said. When I was a kid, she used to read to me all the time, but now her cataracts were so bad she could hardly see. Still, she knew that Bible inside out. Every last detail: who did what where and who was who’s brother and that bit with the burning bush and so on and so forth. Someone had sure drummed that book into her head when she was a little girl.

  “Men are weak, son,” she said. “They like sheep. They followers. And usually they follow the wrong man down the wrong road.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You remember your seven deadlies?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Tell them to me,” she said, and she closed her cloudy eyes to listen.

  “Pride, greed, lust, anger, envy, gluttony, and sloth.”

  “Gives me the shivers just to think on it, son. Lot of wickedness in this world. Takes a strong man to find the right path and follow it.”

  We went down to dinner, and my grandfather was already waiting at the table. He looked at me like he wanted to slap me up the side of the head.

  “Messing with that bad element!” he said. “Pass them there bread rolls, boy! You never gonna learn.”

  He didn’t mean anything by it. He just didn’t know how to spin things the way my mother and grandmother did. There wasn’t any lesson in it—which was odd, seeing how he was a deacon. But it was just the way he was. Wasn’t warm or affectionate, either. Never once put his arms around me; never once told me he loved me. But that had power, too. His attitude shaped me, too. He was there for a reason.

  I passed him the rolls.

  “When you gonna start using your head, boy? You know what that even mean—thinkin’?” Didn’t bother me. He could call me a damn fool if he wanted to. I’d been hearing shit like that my whole life. You stupid skinny ugly and your hair nappy, too. But so what? Take it in; only makes you stronger. And at the end of the day, you’re gonna need your strength. At the end of the day, you in this fight by yourself.

  A few days later, a Saturday, early evening, Darryl swung by and picked me up and took me to the Regal Theatre. It was Chicago’s answer to the Apollo, and it was as fine a club as I’d ever seen. ’Course, it was the only club I’d ever seen.

  “You gonna hear me croon,” Darryl said, and it was all he said.

  He had me help him carry some stuff inside, then found a place for me to sit, way in back. I had a pretty good view of the stage, and when Darryl came out with his band I grinned and clapped along with everyone else. He had a nice voice, my brother, and I enjoyed listening to him, but he was just the opening act. It’s the main event that has stayed with me to this day—and the main event was none other than Moms Mabley, the legendary comedienne, in what might have been one of her last performances ever. She hobbled onto the stage, popped out her teeth, slapped a hair net on her head—and damn if she didn’t turn into another person. It was magic. She had the whole place roaring with laughter, and I was roaring louder than them all.

  “Have a good time?” Darryl asked me on the way home.

  “Great,” I said.

  He never told me why he’d come by the house to take me to the Regal. Never talked about the neighborhood gangs or the fight in the park. Never asked me whether anyone had bothered me since, which they hadn’t. Maybe it was a family thing. We were taught not to crank and moan. We were taught to let things sit deep inside us and figure them out for ourselves. Fact is, nobo
dy really cares about your little problems. And you know for damn sure that nobody wants to hear you whine.

  After that, I started going to the Regal by myself. They got to know me there. I ran little jobs for them. Helped move stuff around. Went to the store for cigarettes if someone ran out, or coffee, or ice cream when it was hot. And in between I watched the shows.

  The music and dancing were pretty good, but for me the main attraction was the comedians. Whenever they brought one out, I held my breath during the entire set. That’s the way it felt, anyway. I’d watch the way they moved. The way they timed things. The little pauses here and there. The way this one cocked his head to the left just before he told the punch line.

  One night, Pigmeat Markham was on. He was an old-timer, like Moms Mabley, and he’d come up through the Chitlin Circuit, same as her. But you could see the big, raucous man he used to be, the power he held when he did the bit that made him famous: Here Come Da Judge.

  For me, a kid, to see that, not breathing the whole time he was on—it was something special. This was comedy, this was living history, and it was powerful.

  Sometimes Darryl would come for Sunday dinner with his best friend, Uncle Mitch, but mostly he wouldn’t talk to me, and he hardly ever even looked at me. He and Mitch were inseparable, and they were two of a kind: men who quit their dreams. Darryl was gifted. Like I said, that boy could sing. For a time, after that first band broke up, he was hooked up with the Chi-Lites, but he couldn’t get along. Then he tried to start another group, and the same thing happened all over again: Seemed like Darryl fought with everyone.

  After dinner, when he and Uncle Mitch was gone, the adults would talk about them. That Darryl—boy is headstrong. He don’t know how to listen, don’t know how to get along.

  Uncle Mitch had his own gifts, and his own troubles, too. He was maybe one of the best natural-born ballplayers in the whole South Side, but he let it slip away. That boy don’t focus, they’d be saying in the kitchen. He let the bad element deteriorate his goals. All that God-given talent, and he don’t have the guts or the heart to make use of it.

  Thinking back on it now, I know they were saying this for my benefit. And it worked. Eventually.

  “Darryl has a lot of his father in him,” my aunt Evelyn told me. “You’re more like your mama.”

  Maybe she was right, but I wouldn’t have known—I never really knew my father. He only came to see me three, four times my whole life. His name was Bernard Jeffrey Harrison, but I took my mother’s name, McCullough, since he was a stranger to me.

  Early one Saturday, I heard my mother on the phone, talking like she’s tense about something, keeping it under her breath. When she hangs up, she comes lookin’ for me, tells me, “Put your little suit on. You father’s comin’ to see you.”

  “My father?”

  “That was him on the phone. He’s gonna take you for ice cream. Get dressed right quick.”

  I had this little suit I only wore Sundays, to church, with my starchy shirt, and I put it on and went and sat in the living room, my hands quiet in my lap, my eyes glued to the front door. I didn’t move a muscle. My daddy was coming! My daddy loved me! My daddy was gonna take me out for treats!

  Hours go by. Three o’clock, four, five, six. No Daddy. My mother comes in from time to time, looks at me, feelin’ for me, getting angry and trying hard to hide it. Finally, she can’t take it anymore. She tells me to change out of my little suit. “Your daddy’s not comin’, Beanie.” I start crying. I tell her she’s wrong, I tell her he’s coming for sure. “I’m not changin’!” I want my daddy to see me in my Sunday best.

  She just shakes her head, all brokenhearted for me, says we’re out of milk. She’s going to the store, she tells me. “Be right back.”

  I sit there, wipin’ the tears, and when I look up I hear something at the door. I think it’s my mama; that maybe she forgot something. But it’s not. It’s my daddy. I’m grinning so hard my jaw aches. I about float right off that couch. My daddy smiles down at me.

  “Well, well, well. Can this really be Bernard Junior?”

  Big man. Six-three, two hundred–some pounds. He didn’t hug me or nothin’, like maybe he didn’t know how, so I jumped up and grabbed him around the waist till my arms were achin’. He was laughin’, patting me on the head like I’m a little dog.

  “I thought you wasn’t coming!” I say.

  “Me? Not comin’? You really think I’d let you down?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I know I’m late, son,” he says. “But there’s a reason I’m late.” He holds up a set of keys and jiggles them and takes me over to the window. I look outside. Car out there, right in front. “See that car? That your car.”

  “My car?”

  “Sure is. I bought that car for you, son.”

  I’m ten years old. Maybe he jumped the gun a little. But I’m not thinking about that. I’m so excited. My daddy bought me a car!

  “Only one thing, see,” my father says, and he crouches low, gets right in my face, big smile. “I spent all my money on the car. So I don’t have money for gas. And without gas money, I can’t take you nowhere.”

  “I got some money, Daddy!”

  “You do?”

  “I’ve been saving and saving!”

  I did chores around the neighborhood. I helped the old lady across the street with her garbage. I used to walk my neighbor’s dog. I shoveled snow. Washed cars.

  I’d been planning on getting a bike, but this was different. This was for my daddy. This was important. I went and got my piggy bank. There was forty-seven dollars inside. My daddy’s beamin’, and I feel so proud I’m like floating all over again. But just then my mama walks in with her carton of milk, and she can’t believe her eyes.

  “What’s going on here?” she says.

  I see my daddy take the money and shove it deep into the pocket of his pants. “Nothin’,” he says. “The boy and I are talkin’.”

  “Are you taking Bernie’s money?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he moves toward the door. She goes to stop him and he shoves her and she falls backward to the floor. Milk goes flying. I run over and punch him in the legs. “You hit my mama!” He pushes me away and moves toward the door again and my mama’s back on her feet, moving fast. He whips around and slams her with his arm, right up near the throat, and she hits the wall.

  “Mama!”

  I don’t know which way to turn, but now he’s gone and my mama’s on the floor and I run to her side. “Mama, Mama! Mama, you all right?”

  She takes me in her arms. Holds me there, the two of us on the floor. “Beanie,” she says, softlike, right in my ear. “I wish you hadn’t seen such a thing, son. I wish you’d never seen such a thing.” After that, she didn’t say nothin’ more. She just cried softly and held me for a long, long time. Rocked me. We held and rocked each other.

  “THINK BEFORE YOU SPEAK, SON. DON’T JUST SAY EVERY LITTLE THING THAT POPS INTO YOUR HEAD. YOU GOT TO LEARN TO GO DOWN IN THE DARK AND BE ALONE WITH YOUR THOUGHTS.”

  03

  SHE WAS GOING TO EDUCATE ME IF IT KILLED HER

  When I was in the eighth grade, I got home one day and walked in and saw my mother dressing. She had a sliding door on her room, and it was open, and she hadn’t heard me coming. When she looked up, she saw me there, my mouth hangin’ open, my eyes big as spotlights. I was looking at her chest. One of her breasts was gone. There was a huge scar in its place, like a square.

  She slid the door shut. I walked over and slid it open again.

  “Mama, what’s wrong? What happened to you?”

  “Close the door, Beanie.”

  I couldn’t move.

  “Did you hear what I said, son? Close the door.”

  I backed out, dazed, and did as I was told. I went into the kitchen, looking for my grandma. She was sitting there, her glasses on her nose.

  “Grandma,” I said. “What’s wrong with Mama? She…her breast…she cut.”
/>   I was crying by now. I was trying to hold it back, but I couldn’t help it. My whole body was shaking.

  “Wipe your tears, boy. Be strong.”

  “But what’s wrong with her? She sick?”

  “Go ask your mother, Bernard.”

  I went back. Knocked on her door.

  “Come in,” Mama said. She was finished dressing.

  “Mama,” I said. “I have to ask you something.”

  “What is it, Beanie?” She was acting like nothing happened.

  “What’s wrong with your chest?”

  “None of your business,” she said. She said it gentle, but I knew she meant it. She gave me that look of hers—the one that went right through you—and fetched her bag. She worked for the Evangelical Hospital. She was a supervisor, in charge of personnel, and she was working lots of overtime back then. “Now go do your homework. And clean up your room. And I’ll see you when I get home.” She kissed me on the forehead, gave me a little pat on the backside, and moved toward the front door. “Mother!” she hollered toward the kitchen. “I’m gone.” And off she went.

  I went back to the kitchen and looked at my grandmother. She could see the hurt on my face, but she wouldn’t tell me nothin’. People in my family keep things to themselves.

  Sometimes, late in the day, after my mother left for work, I’d sneak off and hook up with my friends. I knew every inch of my neighborhood, all the way from 74th and State to 59th and Loomis. I knew every yard and every alley and every boarded-up house. I even knew all the dogs, and I knew which dogs could jump what fence. You had to know this shit, because there was always guys looking for trouble, guys who got their kicks crackin’ heads.