Clayton Byrd Goes Underground Read online

  “No kisses for you, Papa,” she whispered into the dark room. “No kisses tonight.” And then she closed the door.

  A SMALL WIND DANCE

  The wind from the cracked window said, “Wake up, Clayton.”

  Clayton turned over.

  The wind blew around his ears, across his closed eyelids. “Wake up, Clayton. Wake up.”

  Finally, he did. Clayton stretched and opened his eyelids just as the violet of night turned pale blue and before white-yellow sun streams ran the pale blues out of the room.

  Cool Papa still sat in his watcher’s chair, the bedtime book in his lap.

  There was something about how Clayton’s grandfather looked to him, sitting in that chair. Something Clayton felt, but wasn’t ready to know. Cool Papa’s head and body were fully upright, his eyes on Clayton, but not with the same glint as when he sat in his watcher’s chair and said, “Strap in, son,” or “Clayton, I have my eye on you.”

  Clayton sat up. He took a breath, a deep one, then slipped out of his bed and stepped slowly toward Cool Papa. His heart thumped madly but he couldn’t go any farther. Clayton stopped breathing. He inhaled sharply to force the breath out of him until he was breathing more in—quick and jagged—than out. He could taste the sour sickness in his stomach. When his breathing was almost normal, Clayton took another step and waited. His was the only breathing he heard.

  When he took the last step, he bent down to be eye to eye with his grandfather. But he bent down mainly because his legs were weak.

  “Cool Papa . . .” he whispered.

  The bedtime book rested in Cool Papa’s lap, his shades in his breast pocket. His reading glasses had fallen to the carpet.

  Clayton looked into Cool Papa Byrd’s eyes, to see if Cool Papa still had his eyes on him. He looked into the liquid brown, and saw himself. He stood a moment longer.

  Clayton put his hand on Cool Papa’s face. At first, just the fingertips, and then his whole hand. Cool Papa Byrd’s face was hard and tough, not soft and tough, like Clayton had known it to be.

  He stroked his hand along Cool Papa’s jaw. His grandfather’s skin was cold.

  The curtain blew a small wind dance through the cracked window. Clayton Byrd didn’t have to be told. Instead, he’d be the one to tell his mother Cool Papa Byrd was gone.

  THE SKY IS CRYING

  Ms. Byrd and Clayton sat in the very front pew of the church, across from Cool Papa Byrd’s long, polished oak coffin.

  Ms. Byrd didn’t cry, so Clayton didn’t cry, even though sadness filled almost every inch of his being. No matter how badly he felt, he couldn’t start crying. He didn’t want anyone to see him cry and feel sorry for him. Most important, he had a plan, and he couldn’t carry it out if his nose was full of snot and his throat was choked up. Clayton had slipped his blues harp in his pocket while he was getting dressed. Instead of reading a poem or a farewell letter like Omar had read at his grandfather’s funeral, Clayton decided to say his farewell in a simple blues scale in G. Blues in G was the first scale he learned and accompanied Cool Papa on. It was the scale of the sleepy midnight jams. Clayton had practiced for a week. He knew what he’d say in his twenty-four bars and how he’d say it.

  He didn’t tell his mother about his planned farewell. He knew she wouldn’t approve. Even worse, he knew his mother would forbid blues-playing of any kind. He kept his blues harp in his jacket pocket and rubbed his fingers across the holes every now and again.

  Clayton and his mother sat in the pews meant for family on the right-hand side of the church. Behind them sat Clayton’s grand-aunts and -uncles, many second cousins, and a slew of relatives. On the left-hand side in the front row sat the Bluesmen, all looking sharper than seven sharps in the key of C.

  When Clayton had met the Bluesmen a few years ago, he thought their middle names were “On.” Cool Papa Byrd had said, “This is Jack Rabbit Jones on keyboard, Big Mike on bass, and Hector Santos on percussion.” His grandfather, of course, was Cool Papa Byrd on blues guitar. The Bluesmen agreed that they could sure use a man on blues harp. From then on, Cool Papa Byrd taught Clayton to blow the harmonica out to make it shout, and to draw in his breath to make it shudder or chug like a train.

  Behind the Bluesmen sat three lovely ladies in hats. All carried hankies in their fat dimpled hands. They out-cried Ms. Byrd and Clayton, and all of Cool Papa Byrd’s family seated on the right-hand side of the church.

  Behind the three lovely ladies sat Cool Papa Byrd’s shipmates from the navy, their gold buttons gleaming against their dark-blue jackets. Or as Cool Papa Byrd would have said, “Man, they were shipshape.”

  Behind the navy men sat a few of Cool Papa Byrd’s classmates from his school days. And even his old math teacher.

  Behind the mourners from school days’ past sat the throng of people who had heard and loved his electric blues guitar licks. And then behind them sat a few people who, by the looks of them, hoped sandwiches would be served later.

  Last, Mr. Miller, Clayton’s father, entered the church. He strode down the aisle and filed into the front pew where the family sat. He kissed Clayton’s mother on her cheek. A quick hello kiss. Hello with sorrow. He patted Clayton on the back and sat next to him.

  “You all right, son?” his father asked.

  “I’m cool,” Clayton answered.

  “Clayton!” Ms. Byrd scolded. “Don’t forget where you are.” She shook her head, short and curt. “You sound like your grandfather.”

  And that made Clayton smile in his heart.

  Then the organist began to fill the church with organ sounds. It wasn’t the music of the blues clubs. The honky-tonks. Their secret Washington Square Park concerts. Or their midnight jams. It was the music Ms. Byrd instructed the organist to play. “A heavenly tune,” she’d told the organist, although Ms. Byrd didn’t believe her father would go straight to heaven. He had made too many people cry—especially her mother—to go straight to heaven. Her father’s soul had a long road to travel.

  The Bluesmen had come ready to play. A send-off wouldn’t be a party without the blues to ferry Cool Papa Byrd on his journey.

  They offered to play a tribute, but Ms. Byrd thanked them kindly and firmly and said, “No blues music of any kind.”

  The Bluesmen were not pleased, but kept their cool.

  So the organist played hymns. The preacher preached. The lovely ladies boo-hooed. And Clayton fiddled with the folded paper that told the story of Cool Papa Byrd’s life, read by one of Cool Papa Byrd’s brothers.

  Clayton hoped to hear funny stories about his grandfather as a kid, or as a young musician during his “Mr. Louisiana Hot Lick” days, or of his days at sea in the navy. He hoped to hear about the Cool Papa he knew, and how he got to be so cool.

  Instead, Uncle Clifton Byrd read the date that Clayton’s grandfather had been born. He read that he had brothers and sisters—who began to cry. That he had married and was joining his wife in heaven. (Ms. Byrd uttered a “hmp” that Clayton, his father, and the preacher heard.) Uncle Clifton read that he and his wife had one daughter, Clayton’s mother, and one grandson, Clayton Byrd. Then Clayton’s father muttered, “Clayton Miller.” Ms. Byrd’s fingers rose to her lips.

  Cool Papa’s brother read a list of schools he had attended. Named the church he belonged to and said that he was an officer in the navy. To that, Cool Papa’s navy mates lifted their hats and shouted, “Hoorah!”

  But the folded paper with a beautiful sunset did not mention one word about the blues. The big concerts he opened and closed, the songs he wrote, and the famous musicians he toured with. There was nothing about his oldest friend—First Guitar; or his glitzy Show Guitar that had been custom-made for his style of playing; or his funky, hard-crying guitar, Wah-Wah Nita, the guitar he played the most. There was also no mention of his time on the road with the Bluesmen. There was no mention of his grandson, Clayton Byrd, as his blues protégé. That was because the name on the folded paper was not Cool Papa Byrd, as he was kno
wn on the blues circuit, uptown and downtown. The name printed on the folded paper with the setting sun and praying hands was Herman Clayton Byrd.

  The Bluesmen, the lovely ladies in hats, the people who loved his blues guitar-playing had all read the folded paper and were not pleased. Murmurs of “Do you see this?” and “How could she?” rustled through the pews.

  Ms. Byrd made no particular facial expression to the murmurs and rustling from the left-hand side of the church.

  At last, when the eulogist finished eulogizing, the preacher finished preaching, and the organist finished playing heavenly hymns, the preacher asked if anyone would like to say a few words. Jack Rabbit Jones on keyboard stood up. Big Mike on bass stood up. And Hector Santos on percussion stood. So, naturally, Clayton Byrd on blues harp also stood. But he was quickly and firmly pulled down to his seat. Small stabs of anger pricked at him. She had killed his plan.

  Then the Bluesmen gathered around the speaker’s mic and sang a blues song, “The Sky Is Crying.” When they finished singing, Jack Rabbit Jones took off his shades, walked over to the long, polished oak coffin where Cool Papa Byrd’s body rested, and placed the shades over Cool Papa Byrd’s closed eyes.

  Only then did Clayton smile on the outside.

  TAKERS

  Clayton kept the window cracked open just in case Cool Papa decided to breeze on through. He knew his grandfather’s body had been buried in the cemetery. He’d seen the oak casket lowered into the ground with Cool Papa’s body inside. But he wasn’t certain about his grandfather’s spirit and where it went. Clayton’s list of what he believed in was short, but he held out a small hope that Cool Papa, like music, was in the air, and Clayton didn’t want to miss his last chance to feel him near.

  The next morning Clayton awoke in a foul mood and found it hard to stay wrapped in his blanket, with sunbeams streaming into his room. It might as well have been a school day instead of Saturday. He planned to stay indoors, and under his blanket. He’d tell his mother he was sick, but there was noise rising up into his room, noise that had nothing to do with his grandfather’s roaming spirit.

  Clayton poked his head out from his blanket to hear what was stirring below. He got out of bed and pressed his forehead against the window. There were people in his yard. Neighbors and strangers milling. Looking. Carrying things away. Cool Papa’s things.

  A charge shot through Clayton, from the blood beneath his skin to the tips of his toenails. He got out of his pajamas and into his jeans, pullover, and sneakers and was dashing down the stairs and out into the yard to stop the takers.

  A man rifled through his grandfather’s crate of record albums. Cool Papa had promised the collection to Clayton, even though Clayton didn’t have the right player for the large black discs. Still, they were his, and he was on a mission to stop the man from taking them.

  The man must have seen Clayton spring out of the house, because he asked him right away, “Son, how much for the records? Right fine treasures.” The man wasn’t from around the neighborhood. He had a cowboy twang that Clayton would have liked if he hadn’t been one of the takers.

  “They’re not for sale,” Clayton told the man.

  His mother, who’d been showing ladies souvenirs from places Cool Papa had traveled, stopped talking and turned her head toward Clayton and the man. She left the ladies with the knickknacks and sped over. “They’re all for sale, mister,” she said. “Every last one.”

  “You can’t!” Clayton said.

  “Bob,” the man told Ms. Byrd.

  Ms. Byrd said, “They’re all for sale, Bob. Take the whole crate.” She looked to the sky. “Ten dollars.”

  “You can’t!” Clayton said louder, although that didn’t matter.

  Bob looked at Ms. Byrd with big, astonished eyes. “Madam,” he said politely, flipping the through the flat cardboard covers, “why, there’s Bessie. Billie. Rosetta. Son. Robert. B.B. King, Albert King, and Alberta King. And Howlin’ Wolf, too! And there’s Stevie Ray! Madam, are you sure you know what you’re giving away?”

  “I know what they are,” Clayton’s mother sang flatly—but not in the flat notes that gave the blues its funk.

  “Tell you what.” Bob’s voice was cowboy twangy and amazed. “I’ll give you fifty. Only way I can sleep at night—and I might still toss and turn.”

  “Suit yourself,” Clayton’s mother said.

  “That’s not right,” Clayton told his mother. “Those are Cool Papa’s blues people. He meant them for me!”

  “It’s old stuff, Clayton. And it’s taking up too much space. It’s gotta go.”

  It didn’t matter. People continued to fill Clayton’s front yard. They saw the sign Yard Sale—All Must Go! and stopped their jogging, bike riding, and dog walking. Ms. Byrd gave them whatever they offered for Cool Papa’s treasures. Sometimes she said, “Just take it.”

  “Great stuff!” Omar exclaimed. At that moment, “friend” was the last thing Clayton would have called Omar. Omar pinned one of Cool Papa’s navy medals to his T-shirt and plopped Cool Papa’s navy cap on his head. The front slunk down over Omar’s eyes, which Omar thought was funny.

  Clayton could have bashed his face in.

  “Take that off,” Clayton said.

  “Nope.”

  “Take it off.”

  “I paid a quarter. It’s mine.”

  Clayton didn’t bash Omar’s face in like he wanted to, but shoved him instead. Hard. Omar stumbled backward.

  “What’s the big idea?” Omar shouted.

  Clayton was too angry to answer. And he was on a mission. He had to stop the takers from walking away with his grandpa’s treasures.

  They’d ask how much and Clayton would say, “Not for sale.” Then his mother would scold him and sell Cool Papa’s treasures anyway.

  No matter what he did or said, he couldn’t stop the takers. There were too many, and his mother kept accepting their few dollars or few coins.

  A shaggy-haired teen walked away with Cool Papa’s showtime alligator boots—the ones he always wore onstage with Show Guitar. A woman older than Clayton’s mother tried on Cool Papa’s showtime vest, “oohed” in F major, and hollered, “I must have it!” But when a young woman picked up Cool Papa’s porkpie hat and placed it on her head, Clayton couldn’t stop himself. He set eyes on his target, crouched low, and with a running start, jumped high, because she was tall, and snatched the porkpie hat off her head. “Not for sale!” he snapped at her. He might have hurt the young woman. He might have tugged on her hair, because she cried “Ouch!” and walked away.

  His hands were awfully angry.

  Ms. Byrd had seen enough, and came toward him. Like Clayton’s angry hands, his mother’s feet and face were awfully angry.

  Clayton ran into the house, up the stairs, and inside his room and slammed the door.

  “Stay in there!” his mother called up to him. “Stay until I say you can come out.”

  Clayton hurled the porkpie hat high up on a shelf in his closet. He fell on his bed and mumbled, “I don’t care,” among other things.

  It was a bad Saturday morning, on the verge of getting worse. But Clayton didn’t know the worst of it until it happened.

  He got out of his bed to see if the takers had gone. He pressed his forehead against the window pane and looked down. One by one he saw the takers: The first walked out of his yard with Cool Papa’s First Guitar. The second had Cool Papa’s Show Guitar. And the last taker had Wah-Wah Nita slung over his back as he carried her out of the gate. Clayton could hear her crying, wah-wah. But he didn’t cry with her. He just let his crying boil up inside him.

  EMPTY ROOM

  The people had all left once the sun began to set. By then everything was gone and the Yard Sale signs had been taken down from the garage door and front lawn.

  Clayton’s mother called up, “Clayton. Dinner!”

  Clayton’s stomach growled. He had eaten only half a box of old Red Hots that had lost their zing, and a pack of stale and c
rumbly peanut butter crackers nearly forgotten in his book bag. Peanut butter crackers were bad for playing the blues harp, but they were okay after a day of anger and starvation.

  He emerged from his room, then stood in the hallway, just outside Cool Papa Byrd’s room. The narrow, empty room once belonged to Cool Papa and Grandma Irene, but she died first and all of her things had been taken away. The disappearance of his grandmother’s dresses, hats, sewing machine, and gardening books didn’t bother Clayton. In fact, he’d helped his mother put her things in boxes for the church rummage sale. She had been so sick, he was relieved when his mother told him his grandmother was gone. It was different with Cool Papa’s things. Why his mother didn’t understand that, Clayton didn’t know.

  Clayton entered.

  The room, stripped of almost every trace of his grandparents, made its own hollow quiet. Clayton whispered, “Why, Cool Papa, why?” His voice, wrapped in the quiet, bounced off the walls, echoing the emptiness of the room. All that was left was Cool Papa’s hat rack, the bare bed, and an oak dresser. The dresser was the resting place for the framed photograph of Cool Papa Byrd, Grandma Irene, and First Guitar. It was strange to see Cool Papa and Grandma Irene so young. Young, before they had Clayton’s mother, and long before they had become grandparents. Clayton never liked the mushy song about the wings of love, but he could see his grandparents once had the kind of happiness that had wings. Young Cool Papa and Grandma Irene looked happy, like they could fly away.