Tears of a Tiger (11 page)

MARCH 30, 11:00 P.M.

—Andy, you're home early. How was the talent show?

—What do
you
care? You didn't bother to come.

—You know I've had a sinus headache, dear. Where's Keisha? I thought you two had planned to watch a movie on cable tonight.

—She went home. She had a headache. I guess it's something all women get.

—Well, fix yourself something to eat, and I'm going to turn in. I have a sorority meeting here tomorrow, so don't muss up the house.

—Yeah, whatever.

—Andy, is there anything wrong? You seem a little distracted tonight.

—No, Mom. I'm fine. I had a little fight with Keisha, that's all.

—I'm sure you two will work it out. She's such a nice young lady. I think she's been real good for you—helping you through the difficult times of the last few months.

—I'm surprised you noticed. You're right. She was probably the best thing that coulda happened to me. I didn't deserve her. That's why I lost her.

—No, don't talk like that. You deserve the very best that life has to offer. As time goes on, and we learn to put that “unfortunate incident” behind us, you'll find that your life will be full of wonderful opportunities, as well as lots of wonderful girls like Keisha.

—I wish you'd quit callin' it “the unfortunate incident”! It wasn't an “incident”! It was a crash! A terrible, terrible crash! And it was my fault! You need a dose of reality, Mom. You want to pretend it didn't happen and I can't deal with this by myself.

—You're right, Andy. The reality hurts. I guess my way of dealing with it is to hide from it.

—I've tried hidin', runnin', even dreamin'. Nothin' works. Hey Mom, do you remember when I was nine, and we went on vacation to South Carolina?

—Sure. It was one of the nicest we ever went on.

—Yeah, if I remember, you even got in the water and let your hairdo get all messed up. I think that's probably the first, and last time, that I ever saw you without a “proper” hairdo.

—Well, I try to keep myself looking good.

—Oh, how well I know.

—So why did you bring up that vacation? Does it remind you of a time when things were better?

—Not really. Somethin' happened on that vacation that I never told you ‘bout.

—What? What do you mean? What makes you bring it up now?

—'Cause the way I felt then is the way I feel tonight.

—I don't follow.

—Do you remember that boy in the next cabin? He was about twelve, and we played on the beach together every day.

—Vaguely. Yes, now that you mention it. I remember you playing with an older boy quite a bit.

—Well, on the night before we were to leave for home, he and I sneaked out to see if we could catch crabs on the beach in the moonlight. You and Dad were asleep.

—Keep going.

—Well, we couldn't find any crabs, so we decided to go wadin' in this little pool of water that had collected near some rocks on the beach.

—A tide pool?

—Yeah, I guess that's what it was. Anyway, it was a lot deeper than we thought it was, so we were goin' to go back before our parents noticed that we were gone, when I slipped.

—Oh my goodness! Then what happened?

—It was dark, so I couldn't see, and I was under the water, so I couldn't breathe. I tried to scream, but water got into my mouth and my throat and my chest. I was cryin' out for help, but my cries only made things worse. That's how I feel tonight, Mom. That's
exactly
how I feel tonight.

—So how did you get out of there? Why didn't you tell us?

—That kid pulled me out, dried me off, and hit me on the back until I stopped coughin' and started breathin' normally again. Then he made me promise never to tell what happened, or he would find me and beat me up. I was just glad to be out of there, so I crept back into bed, and never said a word. I figured the kid wouldn't have to beat me up—you'd kill me if you had found out. But you're missin' my point. I didn't bring his up to tell you about a dump stunt I pulled when I was nine. I'm trying to explain how I feel tonight.

—Well, this is quite a revelation. You're right. I probably
would
have punished you. No doubt about it. And I want to help you now, Andy, but I don't know how. I just know that
time
heals all wounds, and that you're young and strong and resilient. You'll bounce back from this. Just like that time, when you were nine, you survived, and you emerged from that pool a stronger and wiser person. It will happen again. You'll see. My headache is getting worse. Let's talk some more in the morning. Good-night, Andy.

—Good-night, Mom.

She doesn't understand that this time there's no one to pull me out…. I bet her headache is
nothin'
compared to mine. Maybe I should call that Carrothers dude. Naw, I can handle this. I don't need Keisha. She was wastin' my time anyway. If I could just shake off the fuzziness I feel. I can't sleep. I can't eat. I feel like the world is closin' in on me. I'm drowning again, only this time, Mom, I'm in an ocean….

Naw, I can handle it. I can handle it.

APRIL 1

APRIL 2

—Hey, Andy. I haven't seen you since basketball season ended. How've you been?

—Oh, just great, Coach Ripley. My grades are up. Me and Keisha are really tight. I got my act together; I'm even lookin' at colleges for next year.

—That's good to hear, Andy. I'm so glad you got over that bout of depression you had a couple of months back. That was a rough time for you. It will
always
be difficult to deal with, Andy, but taking one day at a time, with a positive attitude, is the only way to do it. Speaking of colleges, I do have a little bad news for you, however.

—What's that?

—Well, a couple of days ago some basketball scouts were here from Ohio State and Michigan State—friends of mine from college—and they were looking for you.

—Me?

—Yes, you. I had told them about you and how much you had improved this year, and how well you were scoring and rebounding, and they wanted to talk to you, maybe even shoot a few with you at my house, but you weren't at school that day.

—Uh, I had a cold. I stayed home a day or two.

—I called your house that evening too, trying to catch up with you, but all I got was your dad's answering machine. Did you get my message to call me?

—No, he never told me you called. Are the scouts comin' back?

—It's possible, I guess, if you have a real good finish to the year, but you really blew your chance to meet them informally and let them have the next few weeks to be thinking about scholarship possibilities for you.

—Well, uh, I know I'll get another chance. You wait and see. Scouts from all over will be here to check me out.

—I thought you'd be really upset, but you're really taking this well. I know how much you want to play college ball. It's good to see a smile on your face again.

—You're right, Coach. I got a smile on my face and a bounce in my step. I'm gonna make it.

—Fantastic. Stop by my office any time you need to talk. See ya.

 

—College scouts? And I missed ‘em? My dad makes me sick. It's all his fault. I'll never get a scholarship now. When they see my low grades, all my absences, and my police record, they'll break their necks runnin' away…. I don't care. I don't care. Who needs college anyway? I don't need college. I don't need basketball. I don't need Keisha. I don't need nothin'!

APRIL 2
4:00 P.M.

—Hi, Dad, you're home early. What's to eat? I'm starved!

—Hello, Andrew. Is this the usual time you get home from school?

—Yeah, I guess—give or take a few. Why?

—Somehow I thought you got home after dark on most evenings.

—Well, I did, during basketball season, but that's been over for a couple of months now. So I just take the bus right after school and come on home.

—I see. How have you been doing in school? Are your grades any better?

—You want some of this ham sandwich? Sure is good. Where's the mustard?

—Andrew, I asked you a question.

—Huh? Oh, grades? No problem, Dad. I'm steady pullin' ‘em up. Is Monty home yet? The Teenage Warrior Space Soldier show is about to come on.

—Monty is with your mother. They went to the grocery store, I believe. But it's you I'm concerned about. Your report card came in today's mail.

—I'm dead meat.

—How can you possibly say your grades are improving? You failed English and chemistry, and you just barely passed history and math! You even failed gym! How can you consider yourself an athlete if you can't even pass gym?

—I lost my gym shoes.

—You what?

—I lost my shoes, and the gym teacher takes off points if you're not dressed in proper gym clothes. But I found ‘em. They were in Gerald's locker.

—Forget gym. What about English and chemistry? I talked to your English teacher a couple of months ago, and it seemed for a while there that you were improving. What happened?

—I don't know. She don't like me.

—That's a weak excuse, Andrew. She seemed genuinely concerned when she called me. That doesn't sound like someone who doesn't like you. Have you done all your assignments in her class?

—Yeah, most of ‘em…. Well, some of ‘em.

—What about tests?

—What about ‘em?

—Don't play with me, boy. I'm trying to figure out what's going on here. How do you usually do on her tests?

—I guess I fail most of ‘em.

—Do you study for the tests?

—Sometimes.

—How can you say you want to go to college? What college is going to take you with grades like this?

—I never said I wanted to go to college.
You
were the one who said I wanted to go to college.

—What do you mean? We've been talking about college since you were a little boy! Getting a degree—maybe even in the field of business administration.

—That's your dream, Dad, not mine.

—Well, what about basketball? Didn't you want to go to college to play ball so you could get a chance at professional basketball? You've really improved your game this year.

—How would you know? You didn't ever come to even one of my games this year! Not one!

—Well, you know how hectic my schedule is. Besides, I've seen you in the yard when you shoot hoops with your friends. I know you're good.

—Yeah, right.

—But back to the subject at hand—this absolutely reprehensible report card!

—Why you gotta always use such big words? I know my report card stinks. Why can't you just say that?

—If you had a better vocabulary, perhaps you wouldn't be failing English!

—Why don't you just get off my case?

—I'm not going to argue with you, Andrew. But I expect to see some major improvements in these last couple of months of school. Or I shall have to take some severe punitive measures.

—There you go with them big words again. What else can you do to punish me? Take away my car? It's in pieces at Joe's Auto Graveyard. Take away my driver's license? Sorry, the cops beat you to that. Stop me from seein' my best friend? He's in pieces at Spring Grove People Graveyard. I took care of that myself—I killed him—remember? So, you can't hurt me. I deal with big-time hurt every day.

—Andrew, I know the accident was very traumatic for you. But you have to get beyond it and move on. You have to be strong and show that you are bigger than the problem.

—Yeah, I know. You've told me that before. Be a man. Be strong. Put this “unfortunate incident” behind you. Well, maybe I can't do that.

—So you're going to let it control your actions and ruin your life?

—No, Dad. I'm gonna get it together. You'll see. My grades for the last quarter of school will be much better—I promise.

—That's my Andrew. I know you can do it, son. I'm counting on you. Don't let me down now, okay? Do it for me.

—Okay, Dad. Whatever you say…. Hey, Dad…. Can I ask you a question?

—Sure, Andrew.

—How come you always call me “Andrew”? Mom, Monty, all my friends, even my teachers—they all call me “Andy.” But you never have. And I've never had the nerve to ask you why.

—Well, son, let me tell you. My father named me Ezekiel Jeremiah Jackson—two strong Bible names—he had great ambitions for me. But that name turned out to be a detriment rather than an asset to me. When I was growing up, kids called me “Zeke” and even “Eazy,” and I hated it.

—Hah! Eazy Jackson. I love it!

—Well, I hated it. I wanted so much to be dignified and respectable and proper.

—Well, you sure got that!

—Quit interrupting. I'm trying to explain where I'm coming from. You see, I wanted to be—

—White?

—No, not white, but accepted by them. And it was almost impossible to be taken seriously in the business world with a name like “Ezekiel.” I'd be sitting in a meeting with a group of five or six of them, all of us in blue suits and serious ties. The meeting would go something like this:

—Then there'd be this silence while they tried not to giggle. It just didn't work. And “Zeke” was worse. They all had a black handyman at home named “Zeke.” So I started calling myself “E.J.” They seemed to respect and accept that. Besides, all the presidents of all the big companies refer to themselves as “T.W.” or “J.B.” They were used to the format, at least. So that's why I'm known at work simply as E.J. Jackson. I don't think there's anyone there who knows my real name, except maybe the people in personnel.

—Is that why you're always so nice to B.J.?

—Maybe. He seems like a nice falla, though. What's his real name?

—He said his mama won't even tell him, and he don't wanna know!

—Well, I can understand where he's coming from.

—I wish you could understand where
I'm
comin' from sometimes.

—What was that you said? You were mumbling.

—Nothin'. Thanks for tellin' me that. I mean, I knew your name and all that, but you never told me why you never used it. But you still haven't explained why you always call me Andrew.

—When you were born, I wanted to give you something my father had tried, but failed, to give me—a name to be proud of. I didn't want you to have to shorten it or lighten it in any way. So, from the time you were little, I called you Andrew. I guess it was partly from pride, and partly from this determination that I had to make you something really special.

—I ain't nothin' special.

—Well, your grades don't show it, but you
are
! You should be in the top of your class, showing everybody, both black and white, that E.J. Jackson's son is somebody to be respected and admired.

—How come I gotta be E.J. Jackson's son? How come I can't be just plain old ordinary Andy Jackson?

—Because ordinary isn't good enough!

—Why not?

—Look, I went to college—night school for six years—while I worked at various jobs during the day to make ends meet. I studied all the time. I carried a dictionary with me wherever I went so that I could improve my vocabulary. I was always conscious of improving myself—making myself better—making myself good enough, bright enough, proper enough, respectable enough.

—For what?

—For my co-workers. For myself.

—You think they care that you busted your butt to be acceptable to them?

—It's that desire to excel that I see lacking in you. Sometimes I think you just don't care.

—Sometimes you're right.

—How can you
not
care about your life, Andr…Andy?

—You seem to be doin' a fine job of dreamin' my dreams and plannin' my future. Maybe I don't wanna be acceptable to white folks.

—But you
must
! That's the only way to make it in this world—to assimilate into the society in which we live.
That's
why you must pull up your grades and improve your attitude. That is the key to success.

—What if I can't?

—I'm not taking “no” for an answer. You
will
show substantial improvement. I will not accept anything less than maximum effort.
No son of mine is going to be a failure!
Do you hear me?

—Okay, Dad. Whatever you say.

—There's your mother's car in the driveway. Help her bring in the groceries.

—I hope she didn't get much. I'm not very hungry anymore.