BUD, NOT BUDDY

CHRISTOPHER PAUL CURTIS

WINNER OF THE NEWBERY MEDAL

 

CHAPTER 18

WE GOT IN TWO CARS to drive for a hour and a half north of Grand Rapids.

We were headed to a dinky town called Mecosta. I got to ride with the band
while Mr. Jimmy and Herman E. Calloway and the instruments were riding in
the Packard. Miss Thomas stayed back at Grand Calloway Station. I'd been
living with Miss Thomas and the band for about seven days and this was
already my third trip on the road.

The band was doing their next favorite thing to playing music, they were
teasing each other and talking about Herman E. Calloway behind his back.
The Thug said to Dirty Deed, "I'd be offended, man, and I ain't trying to say
that you ain't good on the eighty-eights, but you know the only reason you got
this gig is 'cause you're Dutch, you're white and you don't have the strongest
personality in the world."

Deed said, "Yeah, well, such is life. You think I'm going to give up the best gig
in the state just 'cause you'd be offended? Take a look out the window, baby,
there's a depression going on. How many folks you see living like us, Negro or
white? Not many. That man may have his faults but he's a struggler, I'm putting
my hat in with him.

Eddie looked at me and said, "Bud, Mr. C. has always got a white fella in the
band, for practical reasons. But we don't hold his skin color against him, he
can't help that he was born that way."

Deed said, "You're just too kind, Edward."

Eddie kept talking, "We do that 'cause the boy can play, Mr. C. won't
compromise on his music."

I said, "Why does he always keep one white guy in the band?"

Deed said, "It's the way of the world, Sleepy. It's against the law for a Negro to
own any property out wham the Log Cabin is so Mr. C. put it in my name."

Eddie said, "That, and a lot of times we get gigs playing polkas and waltzes and
a lot of these white folks wouldn't hire us if they knew we were a Negro band
so Deed goes out and sets up everything."

"But what do they say when the Dusky Devastators show up?"

Deed said, "Well, it's too late for them to say anything then, it's us or no
music."

Eddie said, "And Mr. C. tells them if we aren't the best band they'd ever had
then they don't have to pay. We haven't been stiffed yet."

With all the arguing and jokes about Mr. C., the trip seemed real short. We
unloaded all of the instruments and waited for nighttime to come.

I'd heard the band play and practice a thousand times and still had to just about
sit on my hands when they were finished so I wouldn't bust out clapping.

We finished our set at a little place called the Laughing Jackass and I got to
sleep right onstage to guard the instruments. The next morning I was packing
everything into the cases when I got some real bad news.

Herman E. Calloway told Mr. Jimmy, "I'ma stay and catch up with Eugene, you
head back with the boys. The man who owned the club. Mr. Eugene Miller
used to be in one of Mr. C.'s bands.

Mr. Jimmy said. "Bud, take your time loading everything into the Packard and
you call ride back with Herman."

Uh-oh. Me and Mr. C. looked at each other like this wasn't a good idea. He
said, "Whatever," and walked back to the club's office.

Shucks, a whole hour and a half trapped in a car with him.

I loaded all of the instruments into the Packard, sat on a big rock and took out
my recorder to practice. I could hear Mr. C. and Mr. Miller talking and
laughing for the longest time.

At last Herman E. Calloway came out and walked over to the side of the
building and started nudging things around with the toe of his shoe. I walked
over to watch what he was doing.

When I got next to him I could see that it was just rocks he was pushing
around. Finally he grunted a couple of times and started to bend over but his
big belly got in the way and wouldn't let his arms reach to the ground. After a
bunch more grunts he said, "Make yourself useful, boy, and hand me this one."

"This what, sir?"

"This stone, this one."

Right at the end of Mr. C.'s shiny brown shoe was a little roundish rock. I bent
over to pick it up, blew some dirt off of it and turned it over a couple of times
in my hand to try and see why Mr. C. thought it was so special. The only thing
that I could tell was that he'd picked 3 perfect throwing rock, the exact same
kind of rock I'd use if I was about to chunk someone in the head. I dropped it
into his hand.

He didn't look at it or nothing, he just stuck it in his pocket and I heard it bang
up against some silver dollars.

I kept my nose out of his business for as long as I could then had to say, "Mr.
C., wasn't that just a rock?"

"Sure was." He started walking back to the Packard. I followed.

There were a million ways to ask what I wanted to know and I chose the worst
one when I said, "What in Sam Hill are you going to do with a doggone rock?"
It sounded a lot meaner than I wanted it to but I was really surprised that Mr. C.
would want a old rock.

He climbed in on one side of the Packard and I climbed in on the other. After
he stuck the key in the dashboard he said, "Bad habit."

Then he leaned over toward me and opened the glove box of the car. There
weren't any gloves or maps or papers in the box, just a bunch of perfect
throwing rocks. They all looked like they had writing on them.

I reached in and took one of the rocks out. Written on the back of it was
"idlewild in 5.2.36." I took another one and it said 'preston in. 6.4.36." These
were just like my rocks! I took one more and it said, "chicago in 3.19.32."

I looked over to Mr. C. and said, "I've got some of these, sir."

He said, "Hmmm."

"Really, I've got some too."

He looked at me, shifted his pipe away from the talking side of his mouth and
said, "Bud, I know you're not the sharpest knife in the drawer, and I hate to be
the bearer of bad tidings, but those are found all over the world. In fact, they're
about as common as rocks."

I almost didn't answer him but since I didn't want to look so stupid I said, "Yes,
sir, but mine have writing and numbers on them too."

He said, "Hmmm."

We kept driving. Finally I said to him, "You don't believe me, I’ll show you."

I dropped his three rocks back into the glove box and closed it, then climbed
over the front seat to get at my sax case. I found it and set it on the backseat and
un-locked it. As soon as I opened the top that smell of old spit and crumblingup
velvet and mildew came rushing out, it was still great. I lifted the little door
that covered my rocks and took two of them out. I climbed back over the front
seat but kept the rocks covered in my hand--if he was going to see these he was
going to have to ask first. I crossed my arms across my chest and waited.

It's a good thing I've got lots of patience 'cause I waited a long, long time.

When we finally got back to Grand Calloway Station Mr. Jimmy helped us
unload the car.

Finally I decided that Mr. C. had waited long enough. I stuck my rocks in his
face and said, "See, I told you I had some rocks like those, the only difference
is mine say, 'flint in dot eight dot eleven dot eleven' and 'gary in dot six dot
thirteen dot twelve.

He said, "Where did you find these? Didn't I tell you not to do any rummaging
around in that room you been sleeping in?"

He reached for the rocks. I don't know why, but I let him take them. He was the
first person other than Bugs that I'd ever let touch the rocks that my momma
had give to me.

Mr. C. turned the rocks over and over in his hands and said, "Well? Where'd
you get these?"

Uh-oh, I could tell by the way Herman E. Calloway was holding my rocks that
he didn't plan on giving them back to me anytime soon. I kept watching his
hand, waiting for a chance to snatch my rocks and get out of there.

If I could get my hands back on my rocks I knew I could outrun Mr. C. even
though he was a lot stronger and his legs were a lot longer than mine.

Herman E. Calloway said, "Answer me, where'd you take these from?"

Mr. C. sounded meaner than he ever had before. Mr. Jimmy heard him and put
down the box he was carrying and walked over to us real quick.

Herman E. Calloway had the rocks squeezed tight in his right-hand fist and had
his left-hand fist balled up like he was ready to fight.

Mr. Jimmy said, "Herman? What's this? What's wrong?" He stood between me
and Mr. C.

Herman E. Calloway said, "I told you about this boy from the word go. He's
been snooping through things in the house that he's got no business being in, he
stole these."

I said, "No, sir, I did not."

Mr. C. said, "Then where'd you get them? I'm not going to ask you again." He
unsqueezed the rocks in his hand. I was surprised they hadn't turned into
diamonds or dust the way he'd been holding them so tight. Mr. Jimmy took my
two rocks from him. He looked at the writing and said, "Flint, Michigan,
August eighth, 1911, and Gary, Indiana, July thirteenth, 1912? That's more than
twenty-five years ago."

He squatted down and looked right at me and said, "Son, where'd you find
these? Just tell the truth."

I kept one eye on Mr. C., he still looked like he was getting ready to jump
funny on me.

I said, "Mr. Jimmy, I didn't find them or steal them from nowhere, these've
always been mine. I got them from my momma and that's the swear-'fore-tied
truth. Now could I please have my rocks back, sir?" I stuck my hand out.

Both Mr. Jimmy and Herman E. Calloway said, "Your momma?"

"Yes, sir." I kept my hand out.

Mr. Jimmy said, "Bud, where did your mother get these?"

I said, "I don't know, sir. She always had them."

Mr. Jimmy and Herman E. Calloway were looking at with that can't decide which-
hand-to-smack-you- with-look when Mr. Jimmy said, "Bud, what did
you say your momma's name was?"

"No one ever asked me, sir."

Herman E. Calloway was still hot. "You throw a lot of 'sirs' around but you've
still got a real strong, real small mouthed, disrespectful streak in you, boy. Now
you answer the question or I’ll--"

I screamed at him, "Angela, sir." I was so mad that I hadn't meant to say "sir"

but it came out anyway. "Her name is Angela Janet Caldwell."

Mr. Jimmy said, "Lord have mercy... ."

Herman E. Calloway's pipe dropped out of his mouth and he stumbled and
fumbled into Grand Calloway Station, feeling his way like he'd been struck
blind.

Then I knew! Herman E. Calloway was the best liar in the world, he'd been
lying to me and everybody else all along! Now that there was some good proof
against him he was all shook up.

I said to Mr. Jimmy, "I knew it! I knew he was my father!"

Mr. Jimmy was still crouched down right in front of me. He said, "Bud, he's not
your father."

"Yes, sir, he is. That's why he run off like that, he got caught lying after all
these years!"

Mr. Jimmy said, "Bud, that's enough. Herman is not your father. But Angela
Janet is his daughter's name. If what you're saying is true, Lord help us all, it
looks like Herman might be your grandfather."

This was real surprising, but the thing I felt most was glad that Herman E.
Calloway wasn't my dad. Shucks, who'd want a daddy that on top of being so
old and so doggone mean had such a big belly? Not me.
 

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