The kid that ran into me put a knife blade cold against my belly button.
Cut his dick off, Lawrence! Cut Whitey’s dick!
I kicked and screamed but there were too many of what I thought of then as little gorilla hands, pink monkey-nails digging in. They would have cut me — I was sure they would have — but then Daddy came with his baseball bat and chased them all away.
At the zoo we were going around, looking at all the animals — the giraffes, the elephants, the zebras and baboons — when I saw this flat-nosed colored boy standing next to the water fountain, mouthing a big red Popsicle. Red Popsicle-lips. Red inside his mouth too — pinky-red — like a baboon’s butt.
I sidled in closer to Daddy.
“You can’t measure everybody by the likes of a few,” Daddy said.
While I owned that this was probably true, I stayed close to Daddy just the same. After while we came in front of a building with steps going up to a giant sized double door.
“Now, this here’s a Cat House,” Daddy said.
Momma said, “Don’t be talking that way.”
“Well it is,” Daddy laughed. “Ought to have a sign out here a saying so. Ought to have a red light over the door.”
“It’s that kind of talk I don’t like,” Momma said. The way she said it I knew it would be trouble to ask her why. Inside, there were big cages with tigers and lions and leopards that moaned and growled so loud the floor trembled under our feet — a great big stinky-breath place with giant echoes like in a cave.
“I told you it was a cat house,” Daddy said.
“Look at’em all!” I shouted. “Goddamn!”
“Orbie!” Momma hard-whispered.
“What?”
“You know what.”
“God don’t care,” I said.
“You just think he don’t.”
We came to a big cage with a white tiger that was walking around in circles. Yellow fangs, knives, hung out his mouth. He went with his head down, looking at the floor, making hot-breath sounds, going “Huh… Huh… Huh… Huh…”, just walking round and round, muscles rolling over in big white shoulders.
“He looks lonesome, don’t he? Sad,” Momma said. She bent down to fix Missy’s straps. “Maybe he’s got a momma and daddy too. Maybe he’s got kids.”
“He’ll eat you guts and all,” I said.
“Hush that talk!” Momma said. She looked at Daddy. “See how he talks? That’s your doing.”
Daddy smiled.
“I seen it on TV, Momma,” I said. “First they scare you. Then they make you so you can’t move. Then they eat you. And your eyes are still open and everything!”
Missy pointed at the tiger and shouted, “Dat!” Her white hair, white as the tiger’s almost, made an upside-down bowl around her head.
“Everyone of God’s creatures got a family. Ain’t that right, Missy-Two-Shoes?” Momma said.
Missy smiled and put all her fingers in her mouth.
“He used to work for Fords,” Daddy said, all serious like.
“He was a foreman there. A good foreman too. Must have run a foul of the law though. Be in a cage like that. Look at him. Why, he’s even wearing stripes.”
“Probably he robbed a bank!” I said.
“Probably,” Daddy winked. “Probably he did.”
“Ya’ll make fun if you want to. I know what I’m talking about.” Momma looked her usual pretty self, wearing that curvy blue dress, the one Daddy said showed off her legs.
“He was a foreman though,” a man said in back of us. He was fine looking and tall, way taller than Daddy, dressed nicer too, with silvery pants and a short-sleeved shirt that was black with silvery diamond shapes up the front. “The foreman of the jungle.” He was wearing thick black-framed eyeglasses. They slid down his nose as he talked and nodded toward the tiger. “I imagine he’s worrying about production. That and the cost of living, of course.” A thick new cigar, unlit, stuck out between the man’s fingers. “Our Mr. Foreman here would like to balance the books, if you know what I mean. But he’s in a bit of a fix.” He put the cigar in his shirt pocket and looked at Momma. “It is sad, Ma’am. I agree.”
Daddy shook hands with the man and looked at Momma. “This here’s Mr. Denalsky, Ruby. From the picnic.”
Momma put on a company smile. “Real nice to see you again Mr. Denalsky.”
“Nice to see you as well, Ma’am.” Mr. Denalsky shook Momma’s hand. He gently put his other hand, the left hand, on top of hers. There was a clean tattoo on the back of the hand — a sharp red heart with a beige-colored snake coiled around it. Green letters were written across the snake’s body.
“‘Born To Lose’,” Momma read. “You believe that Mr. Denalsky?”
Mr. Denalsky pulled his hand back a little and smiled. “I got that when I was younger. When I was in the army. Back then I was more cynical.”
“You’ve changed your mind since then,” Momma said.
“I’ve come to see things a little differently, yes. You see; every living thing eventually loses. Suffers and dies.” His voice was like a man I heard on the radio once, all deep and smooth like. When he smiled, he glowed, and the glow made all his good looks come out at you like a friend. He kept holding Momma’s hand. “That we lose is not a cause for despair. It inspires tenderness, Ma’am. Kindness.”
“Why, that’s so purdy,” Momma said, gently pulling her hand away. “And so spiritual too.”
A little curl of black hair had fallen across Mr. Denalsky’s forehead. “Victor Ma’am. Call me Victor.” He looked at Daddy too. “Both of you; please.” He said it straight out; like there was nothing in the world he would like more. A little red mole gleamed at the side of his nose.
“Victor,” Momma said and smiled.
He slapped Daddy on the shoulder. “Your husband is one hell of a worker Ma’am. I don’t care if he is a Union Man.” He said this jokingly but nobody laughed.
“Much obliged,” Daddy said.
“That’s so nice,” Momma said. “Ain’t it Jessie? Ain’t it so nice?”
Victor opened his eyes at Daddy. “I’ll bet the Local appreciates the work you’re doing.”
“I’m just a volunteer,” Daddy said.
“Still it could lead to something, you know.” Victor looked at Missy then, then at me, soft eyes floating over big muscled shoulders. “That your little sister?”
“Her name’s Missy,” I said.
Victor reached in his pants pocket, brought out a piece of caramel candy, unwrapped it and gave it to Missy. Missy put it right away inside her mouth and began to chew. Caramel colored spit bubbled at the corner of her mouth.
“She can talk when she wants to,” Momma said.
“I have no doubt about that at all,” Victor said, his smile somehow too smooth. Still, I wanted him to pay me some attention too.
“My name’s Orbie,” I said. “I like army men. My Daddy used to be in the army.”
Victor reached up and touched his glasses, pushing them back along the bridge of his nose, his eyes going on Daddy. “What theater?”
“Two years in London,” Daddy said. “Didn’t see much action.”
“A damn good thing too,” Victor said. “I was at Normandy. All but three men in my platoon died.”
“Lord A Mighty,” Daddy said.
“Golly!” I yelled. “Was you shot?”
Victor laughed.
“He can be polite when he wants to be,” Momma said.
“I’m sure he can,” Victor said; still laughing.
I didn’t see what was so funny though. “Did your guts hang out?”
“Orbie!” Momma shouted.