Yolonda's Genius (10 page)

Yolonda dozed lightly in the backseat. The comfortable drone of her mother's new used car made her feel safe. There was nothing much to do but read or nod in and out of sleep.

They were on their way to Chicago at last, and the excitement of packing and loading the car and running in and out for almost-forgotten things was behind them like an old dream.

Yolonda had tried to call Shirley to say goodbye. She had wanted to be able to say good-bye to someone. Shirley's mother had said that she was off to the playground with her double-Dutch
rope — “my ruined clothesline” was how she said it. “She's paying double for the new one,” Shirley's mother informed Yolonda with mean satisfaction. “Double for my trouble. That kid's just bought herself one hell of an expensive jump rope.”

Yolonda had been startled that a parent would swear in front of a kid. Parents swore. Kids swore. But not in front of each other. Yolonda wondered if Shirley's mother was always so nasty.

Next Yolonda had wandered over to Asphalt Hill. Maybe Stoney would be there and she could say good-bye to him. He would grin, she thought, his intent, look-into-your-eyes, Stoney grin. And she would remember it all the way to Chicago.

But Stoney wasn't there. Just a few skaters she didn't know. Nobody to say good-bye to.

Would summer scatter everyone? She had just begun to get nods, even smiles, from kids. Would she have to start all over again in the fall?

Shirley still spoke to her and had nodded in the hallway, but her face was always closed up tight. Given a few more weeks, Yolonda thought, we might have started being friendly again. There hadn't been enough time for Yolonda to engineer that before school was over.

Yolonda grunted and sat up. Her mouth felt sour and gummy. She popped in a malt ball from
the box in her jeans pocket. She felt itchy under her seat belt, so she unclicked it.

Andrew was asleep in his seat belt with his head against the window. The last week or so she had heard him playing on his harmonica a beautiful line of music, strong and pulsing. He played it, changed it played it again. It had touched Yolonda inside her somewhere near the place where food was a joy and where she held Stoney's smile. Whenever she had heard Andrew working on this piece, she'd stopped what she was doing and listened.

Now he was holding his harmonica, fingers relaxed around it. The case had fallen to the floor. The smallness of his hands moved Yolonda.

He's getting better, she thought. Earlier, he'd been looking out the window and playing little chords.

Yolonda stretched and wiggled, bored with the backseat. Her momma relaxed when she was driving. She sang snatches of songs playing on the radio and her lips stayed in the shape of a hum as they droned down long stretches of road. Yolonda leaned forward, her ample arms cradling her head against the back of the front seat.

“Seat belt, Yolonda,” admonished her mother mildly.

“I need to change positions,” said Yolonda,
matching her mother's mildness. “Don't crash us just yet.”

Her mother laughed. “Yolonda, you are so quick.”

They rode in silence for a while. Yolonda basked in a vague peace. She played with some stray ends of her momma's hair, which still bore Tiny's glamorous cut but had been unbraided and unbeaded and was now rolled simply at the back of her neck again.

“Yolonda?” Yolonda steeled herself to resist the seat-belt command, but her momma asked instead, “Are you happy at your school in Grand River?”

Yolonda was startled at the question and couldn't think of an answer. She needed to know what was up. Why was her mother asking about school? Warily she asked back, “Why?”

“I've been thinking. You are such a smart girl. Maybe you need a special school. I mean, in Chicago, I couldn't afford a private school. But maybe in Grand River I could swing it. Your Aunt Tiny mentioned it. She'd like to contribute to your education, too.”

Private school? Yolonda was stunned. She leaned back and buckled the seat belt automatically. Her mind whirled.
Give me time. Give me time to think.
Pros and cons. For some reason, she could
only think of good things about her Grand River school. Mr. Johnkoski — definitely pro. She'd have him again next year. The kids? She was just beginning to break them in. Shirley — she didn't want to leave Shirley, even though things weren't so hot between them right now. Stoney Buxton. She could hunt him down in the fall if she stayed in the same school. Most important of all, who would protect Andrew if she were in another school? She couldn't come up with any good reasons for leaving her hick school — not unless they were moving back to Chicago. And even that would require some thinking about now.

“It's never too early to start thinking about a university,” her momma, continued. “Before we know it, you'll be in high school and you ought to know by then what you want to be. You can do better than I have. You could be the lawyer — not some assistant. You could be the judge, even. A doctor . . .”

“How much college does a police officer need?” asked Yolonda, for somewhere in the back of her mind she saw herself doing what her father had done.

“Police office?” Her mother almost shrieked. The car swerved wildly for a brief moment and Yolonda was grateful for the seat-belt. Andrew woke up with a little gasp.

Then suddenly, in Yolonda's mind, everything fell into place. Her mother just had it all backward.

“Momma! I've got it! The perfect solution. Andrew ought to have the private school, Momma. He needs — ”

“Police officer! What's this about a police officer? Yolonda Mae? Where is your mind? What is in your head?”

Yolonda pulled back. She took a breath. She'd have to tackle this surprise panic of her mother's before she convinced her of the perfect solution.

“Well,” said Yolonda slowly, thinking fast, “I could aim for chief of police as an ultimate goal.”

“How did that ever enter your head?” her mother asked. Her voice was still sharp, but Yolonda could tell she was calming down — or maybe gathering her forces for an attack.

“I'm more like Daddy than Andrew, Momma. I'm big and I'm strong and nobody messes with me. Remember? You always said it.”

Her momma sighed.

“Besides, Momma, I don't need a private school to get into college. I get straight A's now. I'm what Mr. Johnkoski calls a “prime candidate,” a “first draft choice.”

Her momma sighed.

“It's Andrew who needs the special teaching,
Momma. I think he's an unrecognized genius.”

“Oh, Yolonda.” More sighs. “I know you love your little brother. And you're right. Andrew does need special help. For some reason, the school has him in speech therapy.” Her mother's voice turned sharp again. “There's nothing wrong with Andrew's speech. He says words perfectly — not a lisp or a stammer. I've told the school I don't want this Watts character working with Andrew's speech. Next year, he'll go back to Miss Gilluly.”

“
No!
” protested Andrew, struggling to sit forward in his seat belt.

“Ah.” Their mother's voice dropped to a purr. “My sleepy boy is awake.”

Andrew's face bore an unfamiliar twist of panic. “No!” he cried again. “Mr. Watts shows me
A
's and
B
's and
T
for
tuba
.”

There was a silence filled with only the hum of the car.

Andrew looked desperately from his mother to Yolonda and back to his mother. “Mr. Watts shows me the little feet and how long they tap.”

The car motor thrummed, suddenly very loud, it seemed to Yolonda.

As if to prove to them how much he knew, Andrew closed his eyes and said, “The Mickey Mouse feet go
tap
. When they dance in a row, there's a heartbeat in between. The see-through
feet with no legs go
taaap, taaap
.” Andrew's voice rose. “When Mickey waves a little flag, that tells you a quick sound — ”

“That's enough, Andrew. What's gotten into you? That's enough silliness,” said their mother. Then she muttered to Yolonda or to herself, “That's how they teach speech. They'll ruin my baby.”

But Yolonda saw the frustration in Andrew's face. What was he talking about? she wondered. She had had no idea he even liked his teacher.

She put her arm around Andrew. “School's a long way away, Drew-de-drew,” she murmured close to his head. “Momma will change her mind by then.”

For the next hour, until they hit the outskirts of Chicago, Yolonda tried inventing ways to make that happen.

Then the shock of seeing the shabby approach to her home city sent Andrew's problem to the back of her mind.

Yolonda had only seen the Chicago that now greeted her along the expressway once before — when they left to move to Michigan. And that was at night from the backseat of their old car. There had been streetlights glowing and distant lights blinking all over the city. She had felt an aching sorrow at leaving all the beauty.

Now, amid heavy traffic in broad daylight, it
seemed fallin'-down shabby. Ugly buildings that looked as if they had been unpasted from one another lined the thruway. Paper trash was plastered against cement abutments and gathered with old leaves in corners.

Her mother hummed nervously and sometimes hissed when a car shot by, weaving in and out. “Idiot!” she fumed. “Idiot!”

Finally they exited from the thruway and dipped down and around and they spun, like entering the land of Oz, onto Lake Shore Drive. Here was the beautiful. Here was the Museum of Science and Industry and Soldier's Field. Here was the big birthday-cake dome of the planetarium at the edge of the lake and the gigantic Shedd Aquarium, like a luxury hotel for fish from everywhere in the world. Boats bobbed and dipped in Lake Michigan. Along the clean, long streets bordering the lake, joggers in bright clothes jogged; bikers in bright clothes biked.

Yolonda felt herself begin to beam with pleasure. “Look, Andrew, look!” she kept saying.

In the front seat, their mother chuckled happily. “Chicago” she said and, without forethought, Yolonda and her momma began to sing it: “Chicago ! Chicago!
Da-da
-de-
da
-da!” Andrew pulled out his harmonica and joined them.

Chicago! Chicago!

Aunt Tiny now lived in midtown Chicago near the historic Water Tower. It was a clean block with grand old apartment buildings. Elegant horse-drawn carriages waited for tourist customers at one end.

You had to be buzzed into the handsome lobby by calling Aunt Tiny's apartment from a phone in the outer foyer. The elevator was old, slow, and beautiful. Its walls were polished brass set with mirrored panels. The lighting was soft and golden. The door slid open noiselessly at the eleventh floor.

Tiny's apartment was huge, with vast ceilings and tall windows. You could look down at a pretty children's park and across at another big, old building. By one of the windows in the living room shone Tiny's new white piano. “I can play ‘Frère Jacques' now,” she joked. “Later on, Yolonda will have to give us a little concert.”

“Maybe Andrew and I can work up something,” said Yolonda, her mind clicking away.

Before they unpacked in the elegant guest room, she corralled Andrew and took him to the piano. She ran her fingers over the keys. They were light and responsive, with a silvery sound. Andrew was fascinated.

Yolonda began to finger out a Schubert piece from memory, making up bridges she had forgotten. And, in a moment, the sound of Andrew's little pipe was spilling around Schubert like sprinkles on ice cream. She was tempted to say to him, “Hold that till later. Remember it for Aunt Tiny and Momma.”

She could hear her momma and Tiny giggling in Tiny's bedroom. Why couldn't they just shut up and get out here now while Andrew was doing his stuff? Yolonda worried that, later on, she wouldn't be able to capture the same easy mood that seemed to waken Andrew's gift.

She was right. That night, after a wonderful din
ner of chicken and biscuits and seven-times-washed collards cooked with ham hocks, Tiny announced that it was time for Yolonda's concert.

In the living room, Tiny and her momma sat in what Tiny called her soiree chairs. They were pretty, with velvet seats, straight backs, and delicate curved legs. Tiny's own chair had been specially made in king-size to match the regular ones.

Yolonda sat at the piano and cleared her throat. “Stand there,” she told Andrew, indicating the inward curve of the piano. Her hands were sweating and she couldn't get comfortable on the piano bench.

“What d'ya feel like playing?” she mouthed in a low growl at Andrew. Her mind was a blank. “Let's get this show on the road.”

Andrew cocked his head and looked at Yolonda. He was frowning.

Yolonda could feel the heat gathering all over her body. Sweat moistened her forehead beneath her hair. The easy mood was nowhere to be found. Her momma and Aunt Tiny had begun to chat comfortably, no longer waiting. Schubert was out of the question. Yolonda needed a bomb, an explosion.

Suddenly her hands pounced on the keys and her brain sent chords from the middle of a Chopin prelude to the ends of her fingers. Left hand dug out the melody. Sound splashed into the room.
Tipsy. She hit a few wrong notes. Okay, though. It felt good. She played a few extra chords to steady herself. Awkward. She rumbled some low notes and then deserted Chopin completely, stabbing at the keys, gobs of sound erupting. She knew she sounded crazy. But Tiny and her momma had stopped chatting and were paying attention.

Then there was the rush of harmonica music like electric strands painted through the air, like a net beneath the piano noise — catching Yolonda's sounds, making them music. Wow!

She gentled, tiptoed back into Chopin, her right hand taking the melody, leveling off, fading away — soft now, melting into silence.

Yolonda dropped her hands to her lap. She turned to the startled faces of her momma and her aunt. “Just a little experiment,” she said modestly.

There was a long silence. No applause. Then Yolonda's momma said, “Well, that's enough of that kind of experiment, Yolonda Mae. That was terrible noise.”

Her momma didn't get it, hadn't even caught on to the soft forgiving last part.

“I don't know, Josie,” said Aunt Tiny. “I don't know whether they were playing new stuff — or just messin' around. Part of it made sense, kind of. You know, sometimes you can't tell, with this new stuff if it's any good of not.”

“It was a cacophony,” said Yolonda. She felt superior and misunderstood.

“Don't you pull those big words on me, Yolonda Mae. I know noise when I hear it.” Her momma shook her head. “All those piano lessons, and she wants to be a police officer.”

Yolonda was relieved when her Aunt Tiny began to laugh. She looked at Andrew. His expression was satisfied and happy.

Next morning, Yolonda had no time to savor waking up in her beloved Chicago. Aunt Tiny woke her.

“My, my,” she said, “this Chicago air must be too much for my big, strong niece. Wore you plumb out, looks like. It's nearly nine o'clock, and I've got an important job for you.”

Over breakfast of biscuits and jam, Yolonda was enlisted to go down to Grant Park as soon as she finished eating to save them seats for the blues concert later that day.

“We'll never enjoy the music this evening if we don't have good seats,” said Tiny. “Walk or take the bus, honey, but get us located in a choice spot.”

“She can walk. She needs the exercise,” said her momma. “And do
not
stray! Stay on Michigan Avenue.” To Tiny, she said, “I have to remind myself she's only just turned eleven.”

“Saturday is yuppie shopping day, Josie. Remember?” said Aunt Tiny. “Only thing you have to watch out for is pickpockets.” Then she pulled a big, worn chenille bedspread out of her linen closet. With a sweep of her great arms, she ripped it in half.

“Here, take this,” she told Yolonda. “I knew I saved it for a reason.” She handed Yolonda half of the chenille bedspread and a bunch of safety pins. “No one gonna steal one half a chenille bedspread. Pin it on some good seats, baby.”

It had rained in the night. Carrying the half a chenille bedspread over her arm, Yolonda walked the wet, familiar streets. Grant Park was about a mile away.

When she got there, workers were picking up trash where last night's concert had brought out the picnickers. The trash bins, sitting here and there across the flattened grass, were overflowing. Yolonda's tennis shoes squished as she made her way across the damp field toward the public seating area. It was surround by high steel fencing and wooden police barricades. She had to enter through a narrow entranceway. Chocolate malt balls kept up her energy.

The chairs were gray metal and hooked together in endless rows, a huge semicircle flanking the band shell, called the Petrillo Music Shell. There were already people there in some of the
choice seats, saving whole sections for their friends. Some had brought umbrellas against the rain or sun — whichever came first. On the giant stage, a group of musicians was rehearsing, largely ignored by the early arrivers.

Yolonda chose the closest available row on the center aisle and spread the yellow chenille across the first five seats. Aunt Tiny needed an aisle seat and an extra one to spread out onto. Carefully Yolonda pinned the yellow chenille in several different places, hiding the pins in the folds. Anyone who wanted to steal half a bedspread, she thought, or steal their seats, would have to work for it. She counted the row — eleventh from the front. Eleventh row on the left center aisle. Good seats.

Then she wandered from the public seating area and up East Jackson to the corner. The stage entrance was there at the back of the band shell. There were lots of police everywhere. She found herself looking for her father among them the way she had done when she was little. There had been a family joke about how three-year-old Yolonda used to think every policeman was her father when she saw one from a bus window or when she was out walking with her momma. Even the white policemen. Her daddy used to tell that joke to everyone.

Now there were lots of women police. “I
could
be chief of police,” she said to herself.

At the stage entrance some musicians were unloading intruments from a large van — a bass viol, a small keyboard, some tall African drums.

I should have brought Andrew, thought Yolonda. He would have loved to see this.
And they should meet Andrew!

They should meet Andrew. Musicians at the blues festival were the great blues players of the entire world, coming to Chicago, where the blues were the very best. They would be interested in a boy like Andrew — a musical genius. Maybe someone like Sunnyland Slim, a mean blues piano man. He was old, with a voice like a dry wail, a bog-man voice centuries old that could get inside his listeners. Someone like Sunnyland Slim should hear Andrew. How could she engineer that?

The food stands were open already, so Yolonda stopped at the Japanese booth and bought herself a cardboard box of hot tempura to help her think. She crunched her way through strips of carrot, onion, and green pepper tangled together in their crisp puffed shells.

She crunched and thought. Maybe she could bring Andrew early tonight. She'd have to find the right musician. Someone who would listen to a kid. No one on dope. Dopeheads had no time for kids, no mind for kids.

Yolonda crunched and the tempura was gone.
She dropped the cardboard container into a now-empty trash bin. Tonight this bin would be overflowing. The street would be too packed to move and there would be long lines in front of the food tents. She strolled up and down past all the lovely smells. She'd better load up while the getting was good. Maybe a rib sandwich now since she'd already had her vegetables.