I HAVE THREE THINGS LEFT FROM DADDY and Ma—gum wrappers from the time Daddy brought me a treat, Daddy’s Philco radio, and an embroidered hankie stitched by Ma. I keep the gum wrappers in one pocket, Ma’s hankie in the other.
I take the radio with me wherever I go. Somehow that small box keeps me remembering Daddy. The brown leatherette case is the same color as Daddy’s skin.
Tonight I have the radio quiet as a whisper.
Maybe that kid likes radios, too, because the first time I see him, he’s got his eye on my Philco. His cot is near mine, and he’s watching me. Lila has just come on to her shift. The sky is still black, even though morning will be here soon. That kid is wearing white cottons, the sleep shirt and pants they give us children.
Lila and the bleach man are at his cot. When he talks, they listen close, and pay even more attention when he shows them his hands.
His hands are solid flesh. Heavy, but they can dance. They push the air when he speaks. They bob and fly in front of him. He uses his fists to show what he’s saying.
I shift on my cot to see more for myself. I get a closer look at his hands, puckered with cracked black skin.
One hand isn’t a hand. It’s still got most of its fingers, but it’s a stump, is all. No fingernails. No thumb.
The other hand, it isn’t much better. The pinkie and the ring finger look sewed together. The other finger, his pointer, is only half there, forming a claw.
I don’t want to gawk, but my eyes keep stealing, once, twice, then daring to go back a third time. I make my way to his cot and sit gently on its edge.
The kid offers the bleach man one of his hands. The bleach man’s own hands hurry to hide in the pockets of his pants. So the kid turns to Lila, who doesn’t shy away. She gives his curled hand a shake. Just like that. Like she’s meeting the mayor. Turns out, she knows this boy already. “This is Willie,” she introduces.
All’s I can think to do is cup my hand over his. It’s knitted skin stretched across crooked knuckles.
I tell him, “I’m Otis.”
With my palm on top, he pumps his stump fist once to give a shake.
Later, in the dayroom, Willie’s sitting in one of the chairs made of paint-chipped metal. He’s perched at the window, looking out on the back lawn of patchy grass and dandelions.
All he does is stare. But he’s watching something, too. Something only he can see. Something that makes his eyes shift. Seems he’s watching a memory pass in front of him.
A smile plays on his lips. Then a wince tugs at his face, and he shakes his head. Something’s gone all wrong.
He mumbles a bunch of gibberish, talking to the lawn. I can barely hear, so I move closer. He says, “The peanut bag got to cryin’ when it saw me coming. Used to be, I could hook that bag dizzy. Uh-huh, I could hook it. Same way I could hook in the ring.”
While he talks, he rocks in his chair. His shoulders sway forward and back, close to the window glass.
I pull one of my own chairs next to him. My radio is in my lap, with the cord pulled to its fullest to reach the wall outlet. The Lone Ranger is on. Silver, Lone’s horse, is galloping Lone away from danger. I set the radio down on the floor.
This Willie kid doesn’t even notice me sitting by him. At least he doesn’t let on if he does. But when Silver gallops back, the kid’s eyes turn to see the radio.
He keeps talking words that don’t make sense. This doesn’t bother me, though. I guess whatever he’s saying makes sense to him. The same way my riddles make sense to me.
His hands are talking right along with him. The hand with the sewed-up fingers stays close to his face. The stump hand has a mind of its own. It punches the air with a sure rhythm.
Willie sees me then, smiles a little. He looks glad to have another kid nearby. I move closer. I don’t have a clue what Willie’s saying, but I nod once to show him I’m listening. Go ’head.
He says, “Soon as I stepped between the ropes, folks was calling my name. They was wanting to see my hook. They was hollering, ‘Hook him, Willie! Hook him good!’ Folks was betting their last dime on Willie Martel’s hook.”
Now both his hands go wild in front of him. They are two quick-witted crows, working together. One hand helps the other.
“Hooks and crosses could’ve taken me all the way,” he says. “Hooks and crosses, they was my ticket. I could snap out the lights of any kid who dared fight me. I was gonna be a champ. I could’ve had the Copper Gloves junior title in my back pocket. Uh-huh, could’ve had it tucked tight. Down in my pocket.”
The chair legs make tiny screeches on the floor tiles. Those dayroom chairs aren’t meant for rocking.
Willie’s breath paints gray steam on the window glass. Then something in his voice changes. His talking drops to a whisper. His words get tight. “Sampson hated my hooks and crosses. He hated that I was on my way to the top, while he was falling fast. I was a contender in line to be a champ, but he was a sorry sack, standing in the bread line.”
Willie’s rocking fast. I’m not scared he’ll tip the chair. He needs to rock, I think.
His hands have fallen to his lap. Something’s shot down those fast birds. Now they’re heavy hooves, slow to move, quiet as he speaks.
A little tin medal hangs from a chain around his neck. There’s a holy man on the medal. He’s holding a little kid, helping that child get to where he’s going.
When he speaks again, he touches the medal. “Them copper gloves was mine,” he says. “But Sampson wanted ’em for hisself. That’s why I threw the fight. That’s why I gave the title to Slick Ricky Tate. To make Sampson pay for being so greedy.”
I still don’t understand what Willie’s saying, but I’m listening close, anyhow.
He presses his forehead to the window. He squeezes his eyes shut. “But Sampson, he won in the end. He took my hands. Stole ’em from me,” Willie says softly.
When his eyes open, he turns them from the patchy grass to me. His eyes are set in a wide, dark face. It’s by looking back at him that I see. He’s about my same age, just bigger.
Willie sets his messed-up hands on both my shoulders. He says, “Otis, I’m a boxer gone bad.”