“GREASE ME, SPEAKY!”
I don’t care if everybody in Elmira hears me talking to Daddy’s radio. Let them say whatever they want about Hibernia Lee Tyson. They’ll need to remember my name, anyway, when news spreads that it was me whose singing in the Brown Bomber Box Campaign earned enough to fill an entire box with plenty of money to help Joe Louis get to his big fight.
I’m supposed to be cleaning Speaky, not conversating with him. But I’ve hit on a way to dust and also rehearse for the Brown Bomber Box Campaign at the same time. All I have to do is make friends with the radio by talking to it, and singing with it, and allowing us to each do what we do best—let our tunes fly.
Housework goes faster when you sing. With Daddy out on prayer calls for the afternoon, Speaky and me can really go. That’s why I’m happy to dust Daddy’s radio. It’s a piece of cake when you invite the CBS Radio Network to the party. “Hey, Speaky, let’s swing!”
I waste no time getting to the station, where sounds from the Savoy Ballroom bring the Chick Webb Orchestra into the vestry. I don’t even have to fiddle too much with the tuning knob. I ease past radio static and comedy programs and come right to the spot where “Harlem Congo” flares as hot as bootleg Tabasco. Chick Webb and his band are bringing it home. And, oh, can Chick slam.
He doesn’t play his drums, he works them.
When the radio announcer invites his listeners to sing, I’m there, Happy Hibernia. Not singing, but siiiinging.
Working the downbeat.
Milking the backbeat.
Siiiinging like tomorrow won’t ever come.
My dust rag makes the best dance partner there is ’cause the rag lets me lead. I shimmy the rag, then land it with a swift rhythm—slap!—onto Speaky’s head. I polish till the radio’s wood is slick. “Gleam on, Speaky, gleam on!”
Here comes Chick’s drum solo—hitting hard!
His timpani sets “Harlem Congo”—and Hibernia Lee Tyson—on fire.
As far as cleaning goes, the dust-rag flip is my specialty. I fling the rag from behind my back, wrist-snap it once, hard, and put a shine on Speaky’s wood-tone side. The whole time I’m siiiinging.
Busting loose in the sermon room.
Showing my dust rag who’s boss.
Fierce Bernie Lee.
That’s me.
I wish Joe Louis knew how lucky he was to have Hibernia siiiinging for his campaign. Thanks to me, Joe’s promoter will be able to dress him like a king for his big fight. He’ll look good in the ring.
Now I’m really rehearsing, putting my all into the song. Those fairgrounds spread out far, and I want to make sure everybody and everybody’s cousin can hear me. Even Mrs. Trask from church says the best way to deliver a song is to project. And the best way to impress while you’re projecting is to smile. Because part of winning is grinning.
So I snap my rag, siiiing with Chick and his orchestra, and project loud enough to shoo the sparrows off our roof.
When a knock comes to the door, there’s enough force behind it to stop my song.
“Hello, hello!” a voice calls.
Now I’m Not-Happy Hibernia because my siiiinging has been interrupted.
I turn down the radio, tuck the tail of my rag into my skirt’s waistband.
More knocking rattles the screen door. “Good afternoon!”
It’s not a voice I recognize, but as soon as I get to the screen door and see the copper-colored hair, I know the face. It’s that lady from the Mercy Home for Negro Orphans. She’s holding a bunch of daffodils at her chest and clutching a small paper bag. Her dress is the yellow one from Baptism Sunday, the best thing she owns, probably. I can’t help but inspect for the doughnut-roll socks. They’re gone, thank goodness. Maybe she’s put them away for spring. Her shoes are the same, though. Still ugly. Still shaped around her onion bunions.
Now, any girl who’s got a thimble of sense knows you can’t open the door for just anybody who knocks. But, well, she is smiling. And she isn’t just anybody. And those flowers are as bright as the day.
“This’ll take only a moment,” she says. “I was hoping we could have a word.”
She steps closer to the screen door. “These are for you.” She holds up the daffodils and the bag. “Gifts to welcome spring, and a belated thank-you for such a rousing holiday concert.”
I look closely at what she’s brought.
She explains, “The flowers are from me. The gift in the bag is from Otis, one of the boys at Mercy. He made it especially for you, with the help of his friend, Willie, another one of our children.”
“Otis,” I say, knowing just who she means. “He’s the boy with the riddle, right?”
She smiles. “Otis Rollins.”
Nobody has ever brought me flowers for singing. I motion for her to step back so I can swing open the door. I take the flowers and the bag and set them down. With all this lady’s talking, I forget about them for the moment.
The lady says, “You and I have enjoyed several brief encounters, but we’ve never truly been introduced. My name is Lila Weiss.”
“I’m Hibernia Lee Tyson.”
“I know who you are,” says Lila Weiss. “And I must ask. Where did you learn to sing with such fortitude?”
“It comes natural, I guess.”
“You certainly have a gift,” she says.
I giggle. “I do, don’t I.”
It’s then that I start to miss Chick Webb, and realize that he and the Savoy are gone. Now there’s some advertisement for tooth powder chiming from the radio. I’m eager for more “Harlem Congo,” but what I get instead makes Not-Happy Hibernia even more Not-Happy. It’s Skip Gibson’s Boxing Commentary, butting in—again!
That blasted Skip! He must be the president of the Let’s Make Hibernia Lee Tyson Not-Happy Club.
“Ladies and gents, the date is set. On June the twenty-second the Brown Bomber will go head-to-head with James Braddock for the world heavyweight title. There’s bets everywhere about this fight. Louis is the two-to-one favorite. But does he have what it takes to go all the way? Can he unseat the champion?”
“Do you hear that?” Lila Weiss says. “Joe Louis is fighting for the world heavyweight title.”
Skip’s got Lila’s attention, and for once, he’s got mine. I’m hoping he’ll mention Joe’s Brown Bomber Box Campaign. I invite Lila Weiss inside. I’m eager to close the door. Without the screen between us, I start to worry about flies and mosquitoes taking this as their chance to have a bug party in Daddy’s sermon room.
Lila goes right to the radio. She fiddles with the knob to sharpen the sound. I guess this lady doesn’t ask before touching. She catches herself. “Oh, goodness, excuse me.”
I offer her a seat. Yes, excuse you, I think. Onion bunions, and no manners.
“Hibernia, I am not a woman who gambles or puts much stock in sports and the gossip that comes with it. But there is a rumor circulating about Joe Louis. There is all kinds of speculation and debate about his next match against James Braddock for the heavyweight championship of the world.”
Maybe Lila Weiss knows something about Joe’s Brown Bomber Box Campaign. But I can’t even squeeze in the question. There’s a motor driving her mouth. I tug at my dust rag. Lila says, “Some people believe it’s a cinch that Joe will win. Others think Joe doesn’t stand a chance against Braddock, who is known as one of the toughest fighters anywhere.”
Skip continues his commentary. Lila hushes up.
“Louis is laying low until he steps into the ring with Braddock. Mike Jacobs, Louis’s promoter, has hired Joe a private railroad car to take him on a western tour of small-potato exhibition matches.”
This lady is ready to burst open, the same as the stitching on her shoes is about to give way to her onion bunions. She’s Happy Lila Weiss.
Now she’s the one speaking to Speaky. “How do you like that? They’re treating Joe like royalty!”
I start in with my question: “Do you know anything about Mike Jacobs’s Brown Bomber Box Cam—”
But Happy Lila Weiss is getting even happier.
She’s slowed down some, and is picking her words carefully. “Hibernia, I’m a firm believer in the power of prayer,” she begins. “I trust that being the daughter of such a prodigious preacher, and the deliverer of such inspired singing, you share my sentiment.”
I shrug. “I guess so.”
Happy Lila Weiss says, “I don’t like to waste precious time entertaining hearsay, but I am finding it difficult to keep my mind off this fight. You see, my late husband was an avid follower of boxing—and a huge Joe Louis fan—and more than anything, it would have brought him no greater joy than to see Joe Louis become the heavyweight champ of the world.”
Lila’s sincere, but she sure can ramble. Finally, she gets to her point. “Hibernia, we need a prayer. A prayer for Joe Louis.”
“You want me to pray for the Brown Bomber?”
Like Daddy, Lila Weiss must be making prayer calls today.
“Yes, for Joe.”
Lila hikes her skirt, and kneels, right in front of Speaky! Her knees are two hams pressed to the floorboards. “Supplication is always best for prayer,” she says. She motions for me to kneel with her.
I have been asked to say a lot of prayers in my life, but none like this. “I’ll kneel, but my skirt stays where it is,” I say.
Lila Weiss bows her head. She shuts both her eyes. Her hands are folded tight.
I’ve rested the daffodils and brown bag on the small table where Speaky sits. The daffodils’ yellow faces watch up at me and this lady with the pork knees.
Happy Lila Weiss lowers her voice. “Hibernia, why don’t you start us off.”
I’m lost. I know the Lord’s Prayer, a Thanksgiving prayer, and even a prayer for sick dogs. But a Joe Louis prayer?
Lila Weiss opens her eyes to look at me sideways. “Just pray what comes to you. Prayer is a petition. All you have to do is petition on Joe’s behalf.”
She goes back to a lowered head and closed eyes. She is concentrating on whatever it is I’m about to say.
My head is bent, but I’ve only got one eye shut. My other eye roams the room. Maybe by looking around I’ll get some idea about what kind of petition I can make for Joe.
Lila Weiss is expecting something special from me, but I’m as empty as an overdrawn bank account. But okay, sometimes performers have to improvise. So I try.
“Lord,” my lone eye is still searching for even a speck of inspiration. “Please help Joe Louis to fight with might, and to be all right. And to—”
This is the one time I’m glad that Skip is back with his commentary. Speaky has saved me!
“America is waiting and wondering on the Brown Bomber. Every radio in our nation will be tuned in to the Louis-Braddock fight. All ears will be listening for boxing’s future.”
Lila Weiss cuts in. She can’t help herself. She’s the one with the petition. This is the easiest prayer I’ve ever said. Happy Lila Weiss is doing all the work.
“Heavenly Father, in all your goodness, bless Joe Louis with your powerful hand. Make him strong. Lead him in the ways of prizefighting.”
I’m back to both eyes open. Even as the reverend’s daughter, I have never seen so much true feeling behind a prayer.
Lila sighs. “And, dear Lord, let Joe Louis take James Braddock out quickly and with a steady fist. If James Braddock falls in the ring, please give the referee the fitness he needs to count down swiftly. Amen.”
“Amen, times ten,” I say.
After Lila leaves, I remember the gifts she’s brought. I put the daffodils in a jar with water, and set the flowers on our kitchen table, where they greet Daddy when he comes home for supper. I tell Daddy about Lila’s visit. He looks pleased.
“Daddy,” I ask, “what is supplication?”
Daddy’s answer is simple. “Humbling yourself.”
“What’s a petition?” I want to know.
“A request from the most sincere heart.”
Later, I open the crumpled bag from Lila, reach down in, and pull out something so special that not even Sears, Roebuck sells it.