Clayton Byrd Goes Underground Read online

  It was strange to see the hat rack in the corner with no hat. Cool Papa Byrd had owned many a hat, but mainly wore the brown felt brim porkpie hat.

  A wave of satisfaction swept through Clayton now that he had the hat safely out of reach in his closet. If he felt sorry for snatching the porkpie hat from the tall lady earlier that morning, the few pangs of regret were now gone. Instead, now he was mad. And hungry.

  When he came to the table where his dinner plate cooled, his mother asked, “Did you wash your hands?”

  “Yeah,” he said. But he was lying.

  “Say grace, Clayton.” His mother didn’t clasp her hands, but she bowed her head.

  Clayton lowered his head, but only because he didn’t want to face his mother eye to eye. And he felt down. Low and down. “Grace,” he grumbled, and picked up his meat by the bone and took a big chomp, then chewed, mostly with his mouth open. Knowing how his mother felt about table manners, Clayton wiped his mouth with his sleeve rather than using the embroidered cloth napkin still folded at the left-hand side of his plate.

  “Keep it up and you’ll be sorry,” his mother said.

  Clayton took an even bigger chomp than before. He hadn’t eaten all day and was truly hungry. And angry. “I don’t care.”

  His mother calmly picked up her knife and fork and cut firm strips of meat from the bone. “Keep it up,” she said, “and there’ll be no more gaming. No science museum with your father. And no harmonica. Keep it up.”

  “It’s a blues harp.”

  His mother exhaled, put her fork down, and stared at her son in utter disbelief. She picked up the angel saltshaker as if it were precious and tapped it lightly over her food. Clayton had once dropped the shaker, breaking the tip of one of its wings. His mother had glued it back on.

  “I know you miss your grandfather, but that’s no excuse for acting like some little demon.”

  Clayton laughed at that. Little demon. What would she call him if he threw the glass salt and pepper angels across the room? What could she do that was worse than getting rid of all of Cool Papa’s things?

  “I don’t think what you did was right,” Clayton told his mother. “You gave away everything without asking me.”

  “I told you,” she said. “There’s no room for that old stuff.”

  “You let them take the guitars.”

  “He can’t play them anymore, Clayton,” she said plainly. “It’s better to sell them to people who can’t afford to buy them brand-new.”

  “I can play them,” he lied. He couldn’t play the guitar. But he planned to learn, even though his school didn’t offer music lessons for kids who wanted to play instruments. Clayton planned to learn how to play the guitar and how to tune the strings, hold the neck and body the way Cool Papa did, and eventually read music charts and play the notes. “You don’t even know what Cool Papa called his guitars.”

  “It doesn’t matter what he called them. They’re gone to new owners who can call them whatever name they like. And if you care so much about his name, why don’t you honor your grandfather by calling him something respectful, like Grandpa Herman. After all, you are his only grandchild.”

  How did she do that? Clayton wondered. How did she make herself right and him wrong? He didn’t have an answer for himself and he didn’t have an answer to give her. A cool answer that would have made her stop talking and feel bad. As bad as he felt. Clayton did the next best thing to giving an answer, and chewed until meat fell out of his mouth. He picked it up with his hands and ate it.

  THE FOUR CORNERS OF THE WORLD

  That Monday morning, part of Clayton felt blue and wanted to stay at home, under his blanket. The other part of Clayton was ready to return to school after having been away for seven whole days. Clayton stashed his silver harp beneath his pillow. He ate his breakfast, grabbed his book bag, and said “Bye” to his mother.

  “Remember,” his mother called after him, “go straight to Omar’s after school.”

  Clayton didn’t turn around.

  He and Omar slugged each other hello and boarded the school bus. Clayton decided he was no longer angry at his friend, and that seemed to be good enough for Omar.

  When he entered his classroom, his teacher, Ms. Treadwell, said, “Welcome back, Clayton.” Her eyes were kind and bright, but not sorry. He had had enough of people giving him sorry eyes, or even worse, telling him they were sorry about his grandfather.

  He took his seat in the last row, glad to find everything where he’d left it. Luckily, his desk was next to the table where the lizard’s cage sat. The lizard, who was never named, didn’t venture out often from his rock den among the Egyptian clover, but when he did, it took every ounce of Clayton’s strength to not watch the lizard dart between the clover.

  The class began the day as they always had, with glee. Starting the day by singing from The Great American Book of Glee was one of Clayton’s favorite parts of the day. Since their school didn’t offer band or lessons on musical instruments, Ms. Treadwell let Clayton accompany the class on his blues harp a few times—something he’d never told his mother. This morning, however, Clayton neither sang nor played along when the class sang “You Are My Sunshine.” They sang so joyfully loud that Ms. Katz from across the hall tapped on their door’s window and motioned for less volume. Ms. Treadwell smiled her apology to Ms. Katz and the class sang on, but softer. Without Clayton.

  Clayton knew the words. He even liked the song. He simply refused to sing a song done wrong. The gleeful rendition had never bothered him before, but this morning it upset his ears. “Sunshine” wasn’t a fast, loud, and gleeful song. No matter how fast it was sung, “Sunshine” wanted to be happy but underneath felt blue.

  After recess, the class usually laid their heads on their desks while Ms. Treadwell read aloud in her storytelling voice. Instead, Ms. Treadwell announced, “Today we begin our new journey.”

  The class celebrated with yays and yesses, but Clayton pounded his fist on his desk. Ms. Treadwell had finished reading “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” while he had been on leave.

  Ms. Treadwell pulled down the map of the world that had been rolled above the board. It wasn’t the flat drawings of the seven continents and five oceans that caught Clayton’s eye, but the construction-paper model of a boat and a boy, taped to the middle of the ocean that Clayton saw first. He knew the small boat and its lone crew member. He knew their story.

  “Hey!”

  Ms. Treadwell held up the book that showed the same figures: a boy at sea on a small boat. Murmurs of excitement swept around the room. Normally, Ms. Treadwell would have told the class to quiet down, but not today.

  Without raising his hand, Clayton said, “I read that book already.”

  Ms. Treadwell replied, “There’s nothing wrong with reading it again.”

  “Can I read something else?”

  “No, Clayton. We’ll all read together and do group projects. Now, remember to raise your hand for permission to speak.” The twinkle in her eye encouraged him to want to do better.

  Clayton raised his hand, but didn’t wait to be called on. “But I don’t want to read it again.”

  Ms. Treadwell’s eyes stopped smiling.

  “Clayton, you know how this works. Raise your hand, and wait to be called on.”

  His classmates’ snickering trickled around him. Clayton put his head on his desk, his outburst ignored. Instead, Ms. Treadwell talked about the book, the project, and the boy and boat. She wrote words on the board: gaggle of geese, bee swarm, whale pod, wolf pack, and murder of crows. Everyone except Clayton seemed enthused about the journey.

  Baskets of the blue paperback books traveled from front row to back row until everyone had a copy of The Four Corners of the World on their desk. Ms. Treadwell said, “Open your books and your notebooks. If you come to a word you don’t know, write it in your notebook. When you finish chapter one, put your book in the basket and your head down on your desk. Everyone ready?” she asked the c
lass, but she didn’t expect a real answer. All eyes were eager, except for Clayton’s.

  “Read!” she said, as if signaling the start of a relay.

  This was no relay.

  Why Clayton couldn’t choose his own book, he didn’t understand. He wasn’t fond of group projects. Last year for the earthworm project, he’d been stuck with some kids who didn’t want to touch worms and another kid who kept trying to force everyone to eat the worms. Group projects were dumb. They weren’t like jamming with the Bluesmen, knowing when to come in, how to play against and with other musicians. Now that was a group!

  Clayton looked over at the lizard’s cage and searched for the small reptile, but couldn’t find him. Then he saw movement beneath the plant leaves. A quick movement followed by stillness. The lizard’s skin coloring had blended into the white, violet, and green of the Egyptian clover. Now he could see the lizard’s head, and only one black bead of an eye, which meant the lizard could see him. He thought it was cool and creepy the way a lizard’s eyes could see on both sides of its head.

  “Eh-um.”

  Ms. Treadwell’s throat-clearing was directed his way. Clayton got the message and opened the book on his desk.

  Pablo de Pablo’s lot in life was simple and predestined.

  Most of Clayton’s classmates were neatly writing “predestined” in their notebooks. Clayton didn’t touch his pen. He knew what it meant, and once more, he had the sound of his grandfather’s voice creating meaning in his ear. Predestined.

  His life would be the same as his father’s, his father’s father’s, and without a doubt, his father’s father’s father’s.

  Clayton chuckled. He had no dreams to follow his own father’s destiny. Who’d want to be a loan officer in a bank?

  But none of the fates written in the stars were of any concern to Pablo de Pablo. He heard the call of the sea once he laid eyes on its gleaming crests. Unlike his father, his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father, Pablo de Pablo was destined to journey to the four corners of the world.

  Clayton continued on, the words familiar and soothing, rolling melodically around inside his mind as he read. And before he knew it, his eyes grew heavy and his neck wobbly. He turned the page, and then put his head down on the cool surface of his desk. Before long, Clayton was sound asleep.

  He didn’t know that his neighbor Alma was pointing at him or that he was snoring. Clayton had fallen into a hard sleep. So hard he didn’t hear the clack-clump of Ms. Treadwell’s shoes hitting the floor, heading his way.

  “Clayton,” she said both softly and sternly.

  The classroom filled with laughter. That was what woke Clayton up—the laughter of his classmates.

  BLUES DAY

  The next day Clayton awoke determined to work on his goodness. He wanted to fall into the groove of things, so he sang “This Land Is Your Land” along with his class for glee. He raised his hand and waited to be called on before speaking. He didn’t whine when it was time for silent reading, even though he knew practically every word in chapter two, “The Call to Adventure,” by heart. He could hear his grandfather’s voice, reading:

  “The call of the sea pulled him closer to its tempting edge. Adventure! Adventure, the waves called. Let us show you the world, Pablo de Pablo. Explore!”

  Clayton opened his eyes wide. He leaned forward as if to lean into the story as the boy set off on his journey to one of the far corners of the world. He was doing well and read silently, rapidly, picturing the boy in the boat mastering the tide.

  Soon the motion of the green-blue sea, its flickering crests, sent him sailing toward drowsiness. He fought the urge to give in, but his eyes glazed. The words on the page blurred. Before Pablo de Pablo, boy explorer, could establish command of his little boat, Clayton’s head sank down upon his desk, and he fell into the deepest sleep.

  Alma tapped his leg with her sneaker, but Clayton only turned his head to the other side. A small wad of paper hit his ear. He scratched his ear and continued to snore, now, louder. Ms. Treadwell’s chair scraped against the floor, but she didn’t awaken Clayton. Nor did the sound of her heels. Clayton snored even louder, which made the class laugh louder. His teacher bent slightly, and placed her hand on his shoulder. She spoke softly.

  “Clayton Byrd.”

  One eyelid rolled up. Clayton looked around slowly. He was no longer in a boat out to sea, but in a row of desks and chairs. He tossed aside his oar, yawned until his ravioli-and-string-bean breath hit Ms. Treadwell. She blinked.

  “Clayton. See me after class.”

  The room echoed with “Oohs”. Clayton shrugged. He didn’t mean to fall asleep. He knew why. He just couldn’t say why The Four Corners of the World put him to sleep. Or that his grandfather died with The Four Corners of the World in his lap. Clayton couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Open. His. Mouth.

  “About time,” his bus driver said when he finally climbed aboard.

  Clayton said, “Sorry,” and then slid into the seat Omar had saved for him.

  “Alma told me what happened,” Omar said.

  Clayton stood and looked for Alma. She caught his eye and stuck out her tongue. Like the lizard. He sat back down.

  “What did Ms. Treadwell say?” Omar asked.

  “Nothing much,” Clayton said, although that was far from true. Ms. Treadwell asked him if he was getting enough sleep at home, to which he answered yes. She asked if there was a particular reason why he was tired. He shook his head and answered no. And that was true. He wasn’t tired for any particular reason. Then she told him in her special and gentle voice that she understood he was going through a rough time, but he’d have to stay awake in class. Especially during reading. He asked again if he could read a different book—any other book than the one she assigned. Ms. Treadwell smiled and said, “Nice try, Clayton, but no. No, you may not.” She said, “Tomorrow is a new day,” and that she wanted to see improvement.

  “Oh,” Omar said, disappointed. “That’s all?”

  Clayton took an envelope out of his book bag.

  “You got a note?”

  Clayton raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

  “You going to show it to your mother?”

  Another shrug.

  Clayton had played it off cool with Omar and the few classmates who laughed at him on the bus ride home. It had been the second day in a row that Clayton had fallen asleep during reading, and his classmates soon forgot that he was the kid whose grandfather died, or even the kid who played the harmonica. Clayton’s snoring became legendary. His new name was “Sleepster.”

  Their teasing didn’t seem to bother him.

  Clayton grabbed his book bag as soon as his mother pulled into their driveway.

  “Be strong,” Omar said, half teasing.

  Clayton shrugged. “Later.” He said “Bye” to Omar’s mom and was out the back door, striding toward his mother. She looked tired.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Hey, angel.”

  He didn’t waste time. She was tired, but she had called him “angel.” As soon as they entered their house, and she sighed heavily, Clayton pulled out the folded letter from his book bag.

  “What’s this?” she asked. Clayton noted she wasn’t angry yet.

  He raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

  “Clayton . . .” She whipped the paper open. He watched her eyes race across and down the paper. It took her all of three two-count musical bars to read the letter.

  He braced himself for scolding.

  “Why are you sleeping in class, angel?”

  Clayton’s eyebrows raised. He shrugged. “I don’t know. I want to read a different book. That’s all.”

  “Clayton, you don’t get to do what you want. You do what your teacher says. You know better.”

  He didn’t shrug. But he didn’t speak, either.

  She exhaled, and then seemed to wait a full two four-count bars before saying, “Tomorrow you’re staying home.”

  Clayton wis
hed he had read the letter. “Why am I staying home? Am I suspended?”

  His mother, who usually answered without fixing her words first, hesitated before speaking. Finally she said, “You have to speak to someone before you return to class.”

  What does that mean? he thought.

  “Did you have your snack?” she asked.

  He nodded yes.

  “Finish your homework?”

  “Not all of it.”

  “Get it done,” she said. “And Clayton . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t want to hear any harmonica playing tonight or I’ll take that thing away.”

  He didn’t remind her it was a blues harp.

  HOUSE OF GOD

  Clayton listened as carefully as he could while his parents spoke on the phone. It was hard to understand everything when he could only hear his mother’s voice, and not even every word she said. From what he gathered, both Ms. Byrd and Mr. Miller agreed that he had to talk to someone before he returned to school, but that was as far as their agreement went. His mother said, “A grief counselor?” as if his father suggested he speak to a witch doctor. And after his mother said Pastor Early’s name, he heard nothing, which meant his father was speaking. Then his mother’s voice became firmer than firm, and that was followed by more silence. And then there was no talking at all.

  This no-talking-at-all business didn’t surprise Clayton. His parents seldom spoke to each other for long, even though Mr. Miller had moved from his city apartment to be closer to the Byrds’ home. Clayton couldn’t imagine his parents holding hands. They were nothing like the happy young couple in the frame that sat on Cool Papa’s oak dresser. Ms. Byrd and Mr. Miller seemed completely alien to each other. How he had come into being, Clayton couldn’t figure.