Read Online Half-Blood Blues by Esi Edugyan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Esi Edugyan
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‘You know they named Charles Street after me?’
Now who’s the dirty liar , I wanted to say, but I’ll admit I was kind of afraid of him. ‘Oh yeah?’ I said. ‘Your name Charles Street?’
‘Naw, fool, who the hell’s name Charles Street? I Charles Jones. Charles C. Jones.’
‘What the C stand for?’
‘Never you mind. Just C. Charles C. Jones. And one day I be mayor of this town.’
You keep counting them chickens , I thought. Here was a boy with years of disappointment ahead. Best let him have his way now, at least he’d have the memories. ‘Sure you will.’ I stood there in the dead heat, my skin prickling, wishing old Hetty would hurry up and call me so I could walk away.
‘Where you goin now?’ said Charles C. Jones, smiling a little. He’d sensed I’d go away any minute, and he meant to keep me as long as possible.
‘Hetty and me – that my sister Hetty over there, in the stupid hat – we goin home now.’
‘Why don’t you ditch and come on over to my house? I gots candy, chocolate.’
To me, chocolate was the sole reason we on this earth. But to have to go over to this joker’s house – no thanks, jack. ‘Hetty and me got to be gettin home.’
Just when I said this, who starts jogging up to us but Hetty, her hat flapping as she flown over the dry yellow grass. She stopped at the swingset to get her breath, leaning against its stripped wooden frame. Then she started running again, holding her chest as she reached us.
‘I’m goin over to Lucia’s,’ she said, looking at me with a teasing smile. She could tell I wanted away from this boy, and she wasn’t about to make it easy. ‘Mama said we could stay out till six today, so… you go amuse yourself, lizard boy. Spittin at me like that. You two amuse yourselves and we see you at home.’
With hate in my heart I watched her jog off. Imagine spending the day with this boy, his moods and grim smiles.
Standing from the sandbox, the grit poured from his clothes like water. He punched me on the arm. ‘All right now, let’s go see Tante Cecile.’
‘Who?’ I said, marching all reluctant behind him.
‘My great aunt. She’s where all the chocolate’s at.’
Charles C. Jones lived in a big broken-down brown-stone on the corner of Mace and East 26th. The porch was covered with ratty old couches coughing out foam, and the whole place smelled of bacon. Climbing the stairs, I said, ‘Nice house, Charlie.’
I guess I meant to suggest mine was nicer. But he didn’t catch no irony or rivalry in my voice. ‘Thanks,’ he said seriously. ‘But don’t call me Charlie, no one calls me Charlie. Y’all call me Chip.’
‘Chip.’
‘You goin tell me your name, or I got to guess?’
‘Sidney. Sidney Griffiths. Y’all call me Sid.’
In the dim foyer, which reeked even worse of bacon and of sweaty leather shoes, Chip yanked me to him. ‘Now when we go up to see Tante Cecile, don’t you damn well talk. Alright?’
I stood there, more shocked by his cussing than anything.
He scowled. ‘You want chocolate or don’t you? Then quit you gawkin and come on.’
Chip pulled me past rooms so packed with stuff it was spilling out the doors. Past the kitchen stinking of bacon fat and something sweet, past the living room with its magazines all covering the floor, past a room ladies used, their garters and stockings strung up everywhere like shed skin. Finally we reached a door cracked a finger’s-width open, a stale smell drifting out. I was seized with sudden terror, disgusted at the thought of eating anything that came from the same place as that stink. Chip shoved me through.
The room was overhung with lace, the mean sun burning through, lighting up everything. Hell. On the bed by the window lay a creature so ancient I’d swore it known Cain back in the day. Its skin was so ashy it looked grey, its face so scrawny it was caving in on itself. Looked like an enormous old sea turtle.
‘Tante Cecile,’ cried Chip in a deep
Now who’s the dirty liar , I wanted to say, but I’ll admit I was kind of afraid of him. ‘Oh yeah?’ I said. ‘Your name Charles Street?’
‘Naw, fool, who the hell’s name Charles Street? I Charles Jones. Charles C. Jones.’
‘What the C stand for?’
‘Never you mind. Just C. Charles C. Jones. And one day I be mayor of this town.’
You keep counting them chickens , I thought. Here was a boy with years of disappointment ahead. Best let him have his way now, at least he’d have the memories. ‘Sure you will.’ I stood there in the dead heat, my skin prickling, wishing old Hetty would hurry up and call me so I could walk away.
‘Where you goin now?’ said Charles C. Jones, smiling a little. He’d sensed I’d go away any minute, and he meant to keep me as long as possible.
‘Hetty and me – that my sister Hetty over there, in the stupid hat – we goin home now.’
‘Why don’t you ditch and come on over to my house? I gots candy, chocolate.’
To me, chocolate was the sole reason we on this earth. But to have to go over to this joker’s house – no thanks, jack. ‘Hetty and me got to be gettin home.’
Just when I said this, who starts jogging up to us but Hetty, her hat flapping as she flown over the dry yellow grass. She stopped at the swingset to get her breath, leaning against its stripped wooden frame. Then she started running again, holding her chest as she reached us.
‘I’m goin over to Lucia’s,’ she said, looking at me with a teasing smile. She could tell I wanted away from this boy, and she wasn’t about to make it easy. ‘Mama said we could stay out till six today, so… you go amuse yourself, lizard boy. Spittin at me like that. You two amuse yourselves and we see you at home.’
With hate in my heart I watched her jog off. Imagine spending the day with this boy, his moods and grim smiles.
Standing from the sandbox, the grit poured from his clothes like water. He punched me on the arm. ‘All right now, let’s go see Tante Cecile.’
‘Who?’ I said, marching all reluctant behind him.
‘My great aunt. She’s where all the chocolate’s at.’
Charles C. Jones lived in a big broken-down brown-stone on the corner of Mace and East 26th. The porch was covered with ratty old couches coughing out foam, and the whole place smelled of bacon. Climbing the stairs, I said, ‘Nice house, Charlie.’
I guess I meant to suggest mine was nicer. But he didn’t catch no irony or rivalry in my voice. ‘Thanks,’ he said seriously. ‘But don’t call me Charlie, no one calls me Charlie. Y’all call me Chip.’
‘Chip.’
‘You goin tell me your name, or I got to guess?’
‘Sidney. Sidney Griffiths. Y’all call me Sid.’
In the dim foyer, which reeked even worse of bacon and of sweaty leather shoes, Chip yanked me to him. ‘Now when we go up to see Tante Cecile, don’t you damn well talk. Alright?’
I stood there, more shocked by his cussing than anything.
He scowled. ‘You want chocolate or don’t you? Then quit you gawkin and come on.’
Chip pulled me past rooms so packed with stuff it was spilling out the doors. Past the kitchen stinking of bacon fat and something sweet, past the living room with its magazines all covering the floor, past a room ladies used, their garters and stockings strung up everywhere like shed skin. Finally we reached a door cracked a finger’s-width open, a stale smell drifting out. I was seized with sudden terror, disgusted at the thought of eating anything that came from the same place as that stink. Chip shoved me through.
The room was overhung with lace, the mean sun burning through, lighting up everything. Hell. On the bed by the window lay a creature so ancient I’d swore it known Cain back in the day. Its skin was so ashy it looked grey, its face so scrawny it was caving in on itself. Looked like an enormous old sea turtle.
‘Tante Cecile,’ cried Chip in a deep
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