Percival Everett - Suder

I pull my britches on and step up to the deck and see the woman who was with me running down the pier. Sid is doing pushups and two real-made-up women are watching him.

“How many is that, sugar?” Sid asks one of the women.

“Twenty-something,” she says.

Then as Sid is holding himself up, arms stiff, he vomits.

“Maybe you should stop,” says the other woman.

“Naw,” Sid says and continues to do pushups. He does about four more and his face is coming really close to his mess. Then he passes out and plops facedown into his vomit.

The women look at each other and frown and then pick up their things and leave the boat. I watch them as they stagger away down the pier and along the waterfront. Then I check on Sid. I’m afraid he might drown in his puke, so I roll him over and pull his handkerchief out of his pocket and wipe his face.

Sid comes to. “How many was that?” he asks and then he passes out again.

I toss a blanket over him and then I climb back down into the cabin and go to sleep.

We played church-league baseball. Martin and I were teammates on the First Calvary Baptist Bulldogs. Bud and Ma came to watch us play the Bethel A.M.E. Tigers. Daddy had to work. I was glad Bud had come, but it sorta turned my stomach to see Ma in the stands, with all the other parents, wearing her heavy coat. It was ninety-five degrees.

The first time Martin stepped up to bat, Ma ran down the bleachers and to the high fence behind the catcher. Her fingers grabbed the chain-link fence like she was a caged animal. She yelled at Martin. “You pull on yourself, Martin!” She moved along the fence. “You’re a disgusting person, Martin! My son, the pervert!” Martin looked ahead at the pitcher. “Clench that bat, Martin!” Ma shouted. “Wrap those nasty fingers around it. Is that how you hold it, Martin?”

Martin swung wildly at three pitches and was out.

“You’re out, Martin! You’re out! Now you can do it on the bench!”

Bud came down and grabbed Ma and pulled her back to the bleachers.

Then I came up to bat. “Come on, Craigie!” Ma screamed. I slapped the ball into an empty spot in left field and started for first. All of a sudden I realized that I wasn’t alone on the baseline. Ma was beside me. “Come on,” she said, “hurry up, move it.” I stopped running and looked over at Mr. Jeffcoat, the manager of our team; his face was in his hands. I looked at Bud and he shrugged his shoulders. The left fielder held the ball and looked on. Ma was at first base now, yelling for me to come in. I trotted on to first. The umpire asked Ma to leave the playing area. She nodded and walked back toward the bleachers.

On her way to the stands, Ma stopped at the Bulldog bench to yell at Martin. “Your brother got a hit, Martin. Why couldn’t you? Does the hair on your palms make the bat slip?”

Martin got up and ran away. I just stood with my foot on first, my hands resting on my knees and tears rolling down my face.

Soon the game was going again. I tried to endure the embarrassment, but I failed. As soon as our side was out, I slipped away and ran home.

Martin was lying facedown on his bed, crying, when I walked in.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He sat up quickly and glared at me. “Just go away. Why don’t you and Ma just go away?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Leave me alone.” He ran out of the room.

I stretched out on my bed and looked at the ceiling. I tried to hate Ma, but I didn’t understand enough to hate her. I was just confused. I wondered if the fact that I didn’t hate her meant that I was crazy.

That night we sat around and listened to Bud play the piano. Daddy and I really enjoyed it, but Martin seemed annoyed. He was upset about the game and not thrilled at all by Bud Powell’s presence.

“Play that song,” I said, ‘Orthinology.’”

“That’s ‘Ornithology,’” Daddy corrected me.

“I’ll play it for you, Bird.” Bud played it. I could feel the push of the song, a tension. It seemed like Bud was going somewhere he wasn’t supposed to go.

I was looking for Martin. I walked down to the pond and kicked a couple of dead sparrows. Then I went looking around Wendell and Fred’s house across the street. There was an old toolshed in their backyard that the fellas used as a clubhouse. I could hear laughing and so I peeked inside through a space between two boards. Sitting on the only chair was Naomi Watkins, her dress pulled up and held under her elbows, so her lacy panties showed. But I could only look at her face. She had a real pretty face. I could see Martin and the twins. Then somebody grabbed me from behind. It was Bucky.

“You oughta be ashamed of yourself, peeking in at people.” He pushed me inside. “Look what I found.”

“Hey, hey, just in time,” said Wendell. He winked at his brother.

Martin looked at me angrily. He was still upset about Ma and the baseball game. It didn’t matter to him that I had been embarrassed, too. “Make him touch it.”

I fought Bucky’s hold and then Fred helped him control me. Wendell grabbed my hand and pulled it toward Naomi’s crotch. Wendell moved the back of my hand against the smooth panties. I looked right into Naomi’s eyes. Her eyes were soft, vacant in a way, somehow stupid.

“No, make him touch it, really touch it,” Martin said and then he yanked Naomi’s underwear to her knees.

I struggled, but slowly Wendell pulled my hand down again. I closed my eyes tightly as my fingers pushed against the soft hair and soft flesh. I opened my eyes and found Naomi smiling a stupid smile. I screamed and ripped away from their grasp and ran out of the shed. I ran home and into the bathroom, where I held my fingers under the running water for a long time.

I went into my bedroom and looked out the window. Ma was sprinting back and forth across the yard. I could hear Bud playing the piano downstairs. I kept hearing his words. He said that maybe Ma was just different. I was searching for “just different” in the woman dashing back and forth, back and forth, but all I saw was crazy. And again I was scared to death that whatever sickness was loose in my mother was also loose in me. I closed my eyes and told myself I wasn’t crazy. I left my room, walked down the back stairs, and entered the garage. I took the hatbox of dead birds from behind the tires and carried it to the trash can by the street. I went back into the house and sat on the sofa while Bud played. I fell asleep.

“Wake up, Craig.” Sid is shaking me.

My eyes open and I yawn and I stretch a little. “What is it?” I ask in the middle of a second yawn.

“Time to get up,” he says, walking across the cabin. He stops at the counter and pours two mugs of coffee. “I must have had some time last night.”

“I guess.”

“I remember doing pushups.” He comes over and gives me a mug of coffee. “But that’s about all I remember.”

I reach down and pick up my britches.

“How’d you like the honey I picked out for you?”

I’m pulling on my pants. “She was okay.” I stand up and fasten my belt and then I stretch. “So, what are we up to today?”

“I thought we’d take a little trip,” he says, moving up the steps to the deck.

I follow him and I’m pulling my tee-shirt on and I step out into the morning. “Where are we going?”

“South.”

“Where south?”

“San Francisco.”

“Why?”

Sid looks up at the sky. “Good weather. I figure we’ll load up the deck with barrels of fuel.”

“I don’t know if I want to go all the way to San Francisco,” I tell him.

“Well, I’m going and if you want to come you’re welcome, but I ain’t gonna beg you. I got business in San Francisco and I mean to take care of her.”