I’M AWAKE AND DRESSED EARLY.
When I get to the parlor, Daddy is holding open the screen door.
“Ready?”
I startle.
“You’re coming?”
“What rule says I can’t?”
Trying to talk Daddy out of anything is impossible. “No rule,” I say.
He gives me an up-nod. “Then, come on.”
My daddy is a barrel of a man, but that doesn’t slow him. His hand swallows mine as he holds on, walking with deliberate steps. Night crawlers can’t escape Daddy’s stomp. Neither can the beetles asleep in the grass.
I want to prepare Daddy by telling him I’ll be performing Chick Webb’s “Harlem Congo” for Joe’s Brown Bomber Box Campaign, but he’s moving too fast, head forward, with a sure grip on me.
The fairgrounds is a crowded quilt of church hats, suspenders, and babies bundled tight. Morning’s sun is just starting its reach. I smell frankfurters. At the central pavilion, where Mr. Haskell usually parks his rations truck, there’s a bandstand, with a microphone.
Daddy stops quick, to get his bearings, to figure out where to go.
It’s the red-painted sign that shows me the way. “Daddy, over there!”
BROWN BOMBER BOX CAMPAIGN REGISTRATION
Next to the sign there’s a man-size photograph of Joe Louis standing firm, with long, smooth muscles and legs as solid as tree trunks. Joe’s dukes are raised to his chin. He’s prepared to win.
I like to think that as the reverend’s daughter I know most people in Elmira, or at least most people know me. But these are folks from all over, and more kids than I’ve ever seen in one place.
There’s a line to get to the front of the registration table, and bleacher benches for everyone else who’s here to watch.
“Go on, register,” Daddy says. “I’ll be in the stands.”
I’m glad to be rid of Daddy. He’s messing up my stroll. With him gone, I can weave into the fairgrounds. A long line means nothing to Hibernia Lee. I shoulder-slide through the ribbon of waiting people. Being skinny helps. So does looking at clouds, while you ease your way up. Daydreamers don’t get accused of cutting. If anybody notices, I say a simple “Excuse me,” mumble an apology for stepping on some toes, and keep sliding.
This morning it works as good as ever. I’m fourth to the front right away, where I see placards for each age category. My eye goes right to “The Twelves.” I pick up the registration paper, and scribble my name. As I write, I’m listening and glancing at the other “Twelves” who are warming up. Those kids look like babies, and they stink at singing. Even though I’m here to win, I sure don’t want to compete with a bunch of off-key whiners.
The next category up is called the “Teen Dreams.” It doesn’t take an A-plus student to figure out that the “Teen Dreams” are a whole lot better than “The Twelves.”
I fold into the “Teen Dreams” registration line, where I fill out a new paper. I leave the age column blank. Anyone with manners or sense knows it’s rude to ask a lady her age, even if she is a teen. Or dreaming of being a teen. Age is a very private thing. So I am holding on to my privacy, and helping the organizers of the Brown Bomber Box Campaign keep some class in their event.
I’m poker-faced Hibernia when I hand the registration lady my sign-up sheet. She eyes it quickly, studies me, sees that I’m almost as tall as she is, and points me toward the “Teen Dreams.”
At the end of the registration table, I pick up my Brown Bomber Box, the cardboard cube that each of us gets for collecting money. My name, like everyone else’s, is in big letters on the front. Hibernia is misspelled. The lady has written it from what I scrawled on my registration paper. It says Nibrenia. I’m too excited to care. When I do get my name on a real marquee, I’ll make sure it’s spelled right then.
The contest rules are taped to the box’s side. It’s simple. We each sing in turn. The audience shows us how much they like our singing by applauding. Then we pass our Brown Bomber Boxes. The true indication of how good we are—and who wins—comes when people put their money in our boxes. Or when they don’t. The singer who brings in the most dough for Joe is the winner.
When a kid’s Brown Bomber Box goes around and hands stay in pockets, it means the kid’s singing is not worth a nickel.
Just like in church. When Daddy gives a good sermon, folks feel inspired, and more coins end up in the collection plate.
This is where I like being the child of a reverend. I understand what it takes to help people part with their cash. Yours Truly is good at enthusing.
I find my place among the other “Dreams.” As soon as I’m standing next to a girl in a turquoise dress with opals on the collar, and a corsage at her wrist, honey, I know I’m in the right group. Happy Hibernia is ready to enthuse.
But when I hear this girl warming up, I get something Hibernia Lee Tyson never gets—nervous! This “Teen Dream” has some serious lung power. Even when she’s just practice singing, I can see by the way she breathes that she’s had some kind of formal training.
This girl can project. And her hands know how to express the notes flying free from her. She’s not actually singing; she’s trilling, and even that sounds professional.
“The Twelves” are starting to look better to me, whiny voices and all.
“My name’s Carmen,” says the girl with the opal collar. “Carmen Bellamy.”
I am so busy reconsidering “The Twelves” and picking at my thumbnail that it takes me a moment to see she’s trying to shake my hand with her slim fingers.
Carmen. Even her name is high-hat.
“What will you be singing?” she asks. She gestures toward the bandstand microphone.
Only half my attention is working. I’m mostly wishing I had a corsage like hers. I answer by telling her my name. “I’m Hibernia.”
The chance to shake Carmen’s hand has passed. She’s smoothing her hair, fixing her barrette.
“I’m here with my daddy,” she says, and points to an eager man down front, a few rows back from the bandstand.
I take this as a chance to look for my daddy. Even with so many people, I see him squished between a lady and a little boy in the same row as Carmen’s father.
A trumpet blows the start of the contest.
“The Twelves” begin. One by one, they’re as pitiful as can be. I watch them pass their Brown Bomber Boxes. Not much coin clinking for any of those whiners. Thank goodness I’m not one of them.
Now it’s our turn, the “Teen Dreams.”
Carmen goes first. She blows once on her pitch pipe, then collects a rhythm by tap-tapping her foot. This makes me notice her shoes. Real leather, with a heel, and a strap across the ankle. I flinch. Those are my shoes from the Sears, Roebuck catalog. Carmen hasn’t even started singing, and she’s already ahead. Even her toe-rhythm is jazzy.
The beat of her shoe strikes me right away. I know that tempo. And here’s what else I know. Though I have only heard church folks talk about what a heart attack feels like, I am near to having one.
The sky might as well open up and drop a piano on my head this minute. Carmen is singing “Harlem Congo”! She has stolen my shoes—and my song!
She doesn’t even need Chick Webb’s drum. Her only music is the leather tap of her heel. Her singing rises higher and smoother than an air balloon with a passenger basket.
Carmen’s “Congo” is belting off the bandstand, but she’s holding down the beat with her foot. The audience is applauding already. Carmen has passed her Brown Bomber Box. Folks are digging for their money.
This is not happening.
I am Not-Happy Hibernia.
I try to listen politely, but Not-Happy Hibernia is getting more Not-Happy with each “Congo” beat.
I wish there were another song I could sing. And the truth is, there are lots of them. But I’m not here to sing. I’m here to siiiing. “Harlem Congo” is the song to siiiing.
I can’t take any more of Carmen. If the squeeze on me is any indication, I will have a heart attack if I don’t do something.
My own foot starts a beat of its own, but my poopy, stupid shoes are no match for Carmen’s heels.
I look to the photo of Joe Louis and can’t believe what I see.
Is there a trick to that picture?
When I fix my eyes on Joe, he winks at me from his place on the sign!
I blink to be sure. I am not imagining this.
Now I know it’s time for me to shine.
If this were the ring, Mighty Joe Louis would not stay in his corner. He would go out there and take his prize.
I know every inch of “Harlem Congo.” I can feel where it spreads, pumps, syncopates, sizzles.
So I wait. It is so hard to keep still.
I had let my fingernails grow past stubs for this occasion, but hooey to that. I’m chomping as much as I would on an ear of corn.
When Carmen comes to the place where “Harlem Congo” slows its roar, my poopy shoe picks up speed. I double-time with my toe, getting ready to grab the song.
Carmen starts back in, slow to the Congo, then heats up.
I meet her right where she is, at Harlem Congo’s hottest place.
I put pepper on that tune.
Carmen glances behind to where I’m standing among the other “Teen Dreams.”
Her face has one word written on it: What?!
She doesn’t stop singing, though. This girl is a pro. Carmen throws down a jam, and takes the Congo up, up, up. She turns the song into locomotion.
I’m at her quick, with slammin’ pitch.
The people in the bleachers are calling for my Brown Bomber Box, so I pass it to the front row, and watch lots of pockets turn inside out.
Carmen’s ready to put the pulse on this party, and so am I.
She waves me up to where she is on the bandstand. I take my place next to her at the microphone.
Carmen turns her voice into popcorn blips.
I backflip the melody into flatted riffs.
The fairgrounds crowd is on their feet, wanting more.
Daddy’s putting two quarters into my Brown Bomber Box and two into Carmen’s. When both boxes reach Carmen’s daddy, he does the same thing. That’s two whole dollars!
Like in church, people are beginning to catch the “giving fever.” They are happy to contribute. They’re feeling motivated to let go of their money, which is not easy in these times.
Carmen and I keeping rolling with the Congo, and soon we’re sharing the song.
She bounces me a bop.
I shoot her back a scat.
We are celebrating “Harlem Congo” with ping-pong rhythms.
We are grits with gravy, each bringing out the best in each other.
Happy Hibernia Lee Tyson and Carmen Bellamy are siiiinging together.
Our Brown Bomber Boxes are still making their way through the fairgrounds. The contest marshals keep the boxes going and watch so that hobos don’t steal the money.
When Carmen and I bring it home with the final Congo groove, the cheers don’t stop. I’ve actually sweat a sheen onto my forehead. I wipe it quick with Thankie Hankie.
For the rest of the morning, kids from “Teen Dreams” sing for Joe. They pass out their Brown Bomber Boxes, but nobody comes close to Carmen and me.
The boxes have all come to the front. The money is being counted.
What happens next is a bigger surprise than a visit from Santa Claus himself. The lady at the registration station comes to the bandstand microphone. “We have a winner,” she announces. “And, we have a special guest to broadcast the news live on the radio.”
The fairgrounds is as quiet as a library on the day before a spelling test.
I’m back to tapping my poopy shoe, this time from the thing I’ve been cursed with several times today—rattled nerves.
The registration lady looks to her left at a curtained spot on the bandstand. “Please welcome Skip Gibson from the CBS Radio Network!”
The whole fairgrounds applauds. Some people shout, “Skip! Skip!” Others are truly gasping. I mean, holy cow, it’s Skip Gibson, right here in Elmira!
A tall man with creased slacks comes onto the bandstand. The microphone gets louder somehow. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m Skip Gibson, coming to you live at the Elmira, New York, fairgrounds, one of eight stops on the Mike Jacobs Brown Bomber Box Campaign, where the voices of tomorrow are raising money by singing for Joe Louis.”
If it were not rude to interrupt people while they were talking, I would call for Daddy this minute. I would beg Daddy to please take me to a doctor. I know enough now about my heart stopping, and mine has lost its ticker. I am really, really about to have a heart attack.
By this afternoon, Hibernia Lee Tyson will be headline news on the front page of the Elmira Star-Gazette as the child who faked being a teen and died of a heart attack at the Elmira fairgrounds.
Skip’s delivery is as polished as ever. “The Brown Bomber Box Campaign has raised a lot of cash to keep up Joe’s training fees, and to help him get to Comiskey Park next month in Chicago, where he will fight James Braddock for the world heavyweight title.”
There are whoops and clapping from all corners of the fairgrounds. Daddy is on his feet, bringing his heavy hands together.
“This was one of the fiercest of all campaign competitions, with two singers leading the pack. The only other times I’ve seen sparring like today’s is in the ring with two fit contenders holding up strong with each other.”
More cheers rattle the bleachers.
Skip says, “We saw quite a showing of talent today. Of fortitude, grace, skill, and work.”
Carmen and I exchange eager glances.
“There were many boxes stuffed for Joe, and confident voices that sang for Joe’s hope. That’s what counts most, the solid showing for Joe Louis.”
Skip Gibson announces, “Nibrenia Lee Tyson, please come to the microphone.” My poopy shoes must be filled with stones. I cannot rise from my chair.
People start to giggle. Skip says, “Carmen Bellamy, will you assist your friend and join her at the front of the bandstand?”
Carmen needs no help. She’s got me by the elbow and is propping me next to Skip, who has begun to sing the Joe Louis fight song.
“Let’s go, mighty Joe.
Battle like the Alamo.
Hey, hey, mighty Joe.
Time to bomb ’em—there you go!
Go, go, mighty Joe!
Get ’em good—there you go.”
The whole fairgrounds joins in, and soon the song becomes a chant:
“Go, go, mighty Joe! Get ’em good—there you go.”
Daddy and Carmen’s father are making the most noise.
Carmen and I are bringing it out, too, turning “Go, go, mighty Joe!” into harmony.
With everybody cheering for Joe Louis, with Carmen and me leading the way, I start to siiiing Joe’s name.
I put a spin on the refrain.
“Go, go, mighty Joe! Campaign bucks—here you go!”
The registration lady hands Skip Gibson two Brown Bomber Boxes. Skip holds one up high over his head. The registration lady lifts the other. The box in her hand has Carmen’s name on the front. Skip’s box says “Nibrenia Lee Tyson.”
Everyone settles down to hear Skip. “These two singers have brought in the most for Joe. One box is filled with only three dollars more than the other. The two are so close that we’ve decided to make it even. In the boxing ring we’d call that a draw—a tie.”
Carmen hugs me.
“You can sure spark a tune,” I say.
“Girl, I need pot holders to handle you.”
When Daddy comes to get me at the bandstand, he’s brought me a frankfurter.
On the way home, I tell Daddy why I couldn’t stand to sing with “The Twelves.”
He says, “Nibrenia, not even Goliath can stand up to you.”