We can write short stories that pay attention to personal triumphs and personal injuries. We must find the rhythm to inform our writing. The following short stories were written with a sense of urgency - one to bring my father home and the other to remember those who have fallen prey to gun violence.
My Daddy’s Shrine
by
Alfred W. Tatum
My momma always told me my daddy ain’t nothing, but I still decided to love him. I’m his seed and I carry his name. It’s been three years since I last saw him. It was a perfect day. I remember waking up early on my tenth birthday. The blinds failed to block out the morning’s sunlight that crept into my room. The ray of light stretched like a rope across the tiny bedroom that I shared with my little brother, Fergie. I dressed quickly when mom told me that daddy was on his way over to take me to the game. I heard the horn and I rushed downstairs. Big Gib, with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, was sitting in his new Chrysler. He looked perfect to me. I was excited to go to the north side to see the Cubs. Kids in my neighborhood lost interest in the game; the parks are now empty. It is rare that I get a chance to wear my jersey with the number 37 on the back, another gift from my father. He’s fourth generation and I am fifth generation.
My great grandfather moved to Chicago from Philadelphia in the 1920s. Philly was the black Mecca of baseball for a long time. As long as I can remember, dad always talked about the famous left-hand catcher, Willie “Gibson” Wells, who played for the Grays. Stealing second base on Willie Wells was like trying to steal a piece of fresh meat from a cage of hungry lions. He went by the name, ‘It just ain’t goin’ happen’. The depression forced great grandpa to move to Chicago. He got a job slaughtering hogs. Although he never played again after slicing off two fingers and a thumb in an accident, he never could get the game out of his head. His stories were passed down to me. I began to love the game like my dad.
Big Gib knew I loved the sound of the train going through the tunnel. He parked the car close the ballpark and we rode the El train the last few miles. It was crowded. He held my hand tightly as we snaked through all the people with Cubs and Brewer jerseys. We were special, the only two fans with jerseys from the Negro Leagues – the Homestead Grays and the Kansas City Monarchs.
“Today, we’re sitting in the left infield box seats right over the dugouts.”
I couldn’t believe it.
“It’s not everyday you turn ten, Gibby.”
My name rolled off his tongue with such affection. The Cubs were up by two runs, and I was glad that I did not have to share my cotton candy with Fergie. We were having our own special day until the bottom of the third inning. This strange lady walked up to Big Gib and kissed him on the lips. A boy who looked my age followed her. I hadn’t noticed the two empty seats until they plopped down next to us. He was wearing a jersey like my dad with the number 37. There were now two Grays vs. one Monarch.
“Introduce yourself Gibby. Robby knows all about you.”
How could he know all about me and I knew nothing about him? I was wondering if Big Gib shared all the same stories about the number 37. Big Gib told me, “It carries weight to wear that number on your back. Only 37 Negro Leaguers made it to baseball’s Hall of Fame.” He told me that the 37 hall of famers were not better than the rest, but they were able to breakthrough. He always called me his ‘Breakthrough Kid’. Now, there were two of us. He was sitting on Big Gib’s right side and I was sitting on the left side.
The game became a blur as I stared at the 400ft marker on the wall in centerfield. The innings went by quickly. It was the beginning of the seventh-inning stretch when I heard Big Gib say, “Time to stretch sons.”
“You mean son, right?”
“No, Gibby. Robbie is your brother. I thought it was time for you to meet him.”
“I don’t want to meet him. I wished you would have left me at home with momma.”
“I will next time. You and your mother deserve each other.”
“That’s not nice, Big Gib,” I heard the lady say.
I felt a tear roll down my face at the same time the fans around us started standing. A fly ball was heading in our direction. Big Gib managed to snag it out of the air with his huge hands.
“Can I have it dad?” Robbie asked.
“No, this is Gibby’s. It’s his special day.”
It was hard for me to refuse the baseball. Robbie may have had the same jersey, but I had the ball. The Cubs, up by six runs in the top of the ninth, needed three outs to win the game. The crowd began pouring out of the stadium, but as always, Big Gib refused to leave the game until the final out. He believes leaving early insults the game and the players. I was ready to leave, but I did not want the day with my dad to end.
Cubs win! Cubs win!
“Honey, I will see you and Robbie later,” dad said.
Dad leaned over and gave the lady another kiss before grabbing my hand and leading me through the crowd. He was all mine again just for that moment at least. I had the ball to prove that I was the special son.
That was the last time I saw Big Gib. He called and sent me a card for my eleventh birthday. We talked for a few minutes on my twelfth birthday. I did not hear from him on my thirteenth birthday. Maybe, he forgot how to love me the way he used to, the same way we forgot how to love the game. I will be ready for him when he returns. Until then, the shrine I have in my room – the jersey, the ball, the ticket from the game, the glove, and his photo – will keep us connected.
Black Bag
by
Alfred W. Tatum
Lil’ Joe sat in the back of the car with a stupid look on his face. The large graffiti-laced t-shirt and hanging jeans with large cuffs hugging the ground at the back of multi-colored gym shoes marked him as a young man looking for trouble. The bulky bag he was toting raised suspicion. His run-in caused him to imagine the weight of Mrs. Jackson’s disappointment. He heard her saying, “Stay out of trouble.” He was excited and scared at the same time. He would become one of the guys after sharing what happened tonight; he was now a first-timer, an official member of the brotherhood.
Lil’’ Joe felt the sting of the man’s tone when he was asked, “What’s in that bag?” Unfamiliar with the protocol, the caringly harsh question that he knew he had to answer troubled him. He hesitated to speak. Saying the wrong thing could escalate the situation. An inner voice remind him of a conversation when he heard, “I ‘ont say nothing when they ask me questions. A second later he remembered, “I make up any old lie.” But, there was no reason for him to lie.
“Did you hear me ask you a question?”
Shaken from his thoughts in his tightly squeezed space, Lil’’ Joe was about talk when the cell phone mounted on the dashboard rang. On the fourth ring, the phone answered automatically.
“Hi, are you busy right now, dad?”
“No, what’s going on?
“I am just sitting here with one of your brothers.”
“Not again.”
The boy on the other end sounded like he was about the same age. It was quite stirring to hear the other boy use the word dad in such a warm way, he thought. He remembered his days as Little Man, but that name didn’t fit his 6’ 1’’ 177 lbs frame anymore.
“I just wanted to say goodnight and let you know that I finished the project we started.”
Lil’ Joe was fifteen, and he hadn’t seen Big Joe in more than six years. Big Joe just stopped coming around one day. For months, Lil’ Joe longed for a phone call or visit, but they never happened. Trying the ease the pain in his heart, he just decided to bury Big Joe. Hearing the boy on the other end of the line reminded of how Big Joe’s hands swallowed up crayons and pencils as they worked together. Big Joe always talked about how important it was for a man to have big hands. It made Lil’ Joe happy to see how his father could make other people smile with those hands. Strangely, in some sick sort of way, Lil’ Joe was proud of his daddy’s hands.
“Mom wanted me to tell you she wasn’t able to pick up your package. So you have to pick it up in the morning when you get off.”
“No problem.”
“Be easy on them out there.”
“Will do. Love you, son.”
Lil’ Joe thought to himself, I love you too. He mouthed the words silently as he heard them coming through the speakerphone. Instantly, he felt angry. He wanted to reach and choke the boy who called him, Brother. He is no Brother of mine, he thought. His brothers, who were with him all the time, were in the bag he carried.
“What’s your name?”
“ Lil’ Joe.”
“Is there a Big Joe, and does he know you are running the streets?”
“No, there is no Big Joe. He died long time ago.”
“ So, what’s in the bag?”
A call came over the radio reporting a shooting on South Aberdeen Avenue and 72nd place. Sirens were blaring in the background, but Lil’ Joe he had a weakened state of anxiety. Sitting in the car several blocks away from the call, the officer told Lil’ Joe to get out of the car and go straight home. The warm tone the man used on the phone turned harsh again. Lil’ Joe grabbed his black bag and jumped out of the door on the left side near the curb. His first run-in was not as exciting as he thought it would be. He would be laughed out if he talked about being in the back of car with a man who loves his son; works on projects with him; and who has to pick up his own clothes in the morning. He couldn’t share how he started missing in his own father.
Lil’ Joe almost had the chance to share what he was doing. Maybe the officer would see him as being different and safe, not just another one of the Brothers that he tells his son about. As he walked home, he felt his bag becoming bulkier. It was light three years ago when he started carrying the bag to honor the memory of his best friend, Ray Ray. This year, there were more than twenty-six deaths in one school year. He was using his bag to keep his real Brothers alive. He was sketching images. Among the main images, were cars, trees, a front porch, a vacant, a basketball court, a school, a park, a gym, an el train, and a bus stop; each with a face and name that others have forgotten or will soon forget. There were images of Carl, Derrick, Phil, Main-Main, Corey, Eric, and Dusty placed in the shadows of city’s flag. He scribbled the same note under each image that said - This flag does nothing to protect the brothers who live under its banner. Tomorrow, there might be another name and another image in the shadow of the same flag. Lil’ Joe had more images to capture. The weight of the bag could not compete with the burden in his heart. He then wondered if this is what Big Joe meant when he said it was important for a man to have big hands.
