Just Above My Head Page 26

  “Snap out of it, Julia—for me? Can’t you do that for me? We can be real good friends, we can have wonderful times together.”

  He came back to the chair, and leaned over her, again.

  “We love each other, well, let’s just love each other. We doing any harm to anybody?”

  No, you’re just killing me, that’s all, but she said, “No, Daddy.”

  “I love you,” he said. “You all I got.” He kissed her on the forehead—she went numb with the shudder she did not want him to feel. “All right?”

  “All right,” she said.

  He leaned up again, at last, and moved away. “You think about what I said. I’ll see you later.”

  And she listened to him mount the stairs, listened to his footsteps above her head.

  Crunch, as good as his word, came by to see her in the late afternoon, three or four days later.

  It was a day both bright and sullen, with the gray sky veiling a glaring sun—as she was to remember years and years later, as she remembers now.

  Joel was at work on his “little piece of a job,” as he put it, and she had just come in from her job in The Bronx, had not been home five minutes: by just that narrow a margin, she barely missed what seemed, then, like salvation.

  The bright and sullen day hinted of the coming fall, the coming winter, and Crunch was wearing a gray turtleneck sweater and green corduroy pants.

  Her heart lifted up when she opened the door and found him standing on the steps, and she laughed.

  “Well, hello there! You all alone?”

  “Sure am, Sister Julia. How are you?”

  “I’m all right. Come on in. It’s kind of a shock to see you without your shadow—people can’t get used to it.”

  They closed the door behind them, and walked into the living room.

  “They going to have to get used to it—me and Arthur going to have to get used to it, too. He got a rehearsal someplace and I had to run a errand for my mama, right around the corner—and—so—here I am.”

  “And I’m glad to see you. Can I get you something? Would you like a glass of wine?”—they both laughed —“or would you prefer beer? That’s all we got, I think.”

  “Beer, please,” said Crunch, and sat down while Julia went into the kitchen.

  “What you been doing?” she called.

  “Working. Waiting. Sure wish I didn’t have to go.”

  She came back with the beer and carefully poured it and handed it to him.

  The moment she sat down, an electric current, violent and unexpected, began to flow between them and Crunch carefully crossed his legs and sipped his beer.

  “So? What you been doing?” he asked, bewildered, uneasy, and suddenly excited, not quite looking her in the eye.

  “Nothing. Staying here with my daddy, and going crazy.”

  She looked him in the eye more and more insistently—she could not help it—and more and more candidly, moving, now that she was moving, very fast, and frightened to death. Her heart hammered, her breasts rose and fell. She knew that he could not keep his eyes off her breasts. She was wearing a tight white blouse and a black skirt.

  “Where’s your daddy?”

  “He’s at work. He won’t be back till after dark—he might not be back then,” and she laughed a laugh which suddenly died, and neither of them, for a moment, could think of anything to say. She stared at Crunch, he stared at her.

  “What does your father do?”

  “He got a job in some kind of factory—downtown, near Fourteenth Street.”

  “Oh? I got me a little furnished room down off Fourteenth and Third.”

  “You do? Oh, Crunch, I sure wish you’d take me with you down there one day!”

  He grinned an awkward grin. “You want to see my room?”

  “Yes. Yes. I do.”

  “It ain’t nothing to see. It’s just a room.” “But it’s your room. I wish I had a room. I’ve got to get a room somewhere. My father’s going to drive me crazy if I don’t get out of here!” “Sister Julia!”

  “He is! he is! I don’t know what to do!” She shuddered and began to cry and Crunch, in misery, put his beer on the table and clasped his hands together, not daring to touch her.

  “I can’t tell you,” Julia muttered, “I can’t tell you, oh, but I got to tell somebody.” She beat on her thighs, and stood up. “I need somebody to help me.”

  “Julia—if there’s anything I can do—”

  “Take me! Take me! Take me to your room, before it’s too late!”

  He did not know how to comfort her, he did not know what to say. He did not know what she was talking about, but a great, dreadful, silent suspicion began to gather inside him.

  “It can’t—it can’t,” he said stupidly, “be that bad.” He stood up and moved toward her. He did not want to touch her, did not dare. He felt a terrible, terrible pity for her, and, at the same time, he wanted to run. “Come,” he said. “Sit down,” and touched her lightly, turning her toward the sofa. Now she was quiet, but her tears still fell. She sat down. Crunch was trembling; he remained standing.

  She looked up at him. “I’m so glad you came,” she said. “You don’t know how much I need a friend.”

  “Well, then,” he said, smiling, “you got a friend.”

  “You don’t know,” she said, “how much I wanted to see you, how many times I’ve thought of you.”

  “Of me? Why me?”

  “Lying next to my daddy, listening to him snore,” she said. “I thought of you, oh, how I wished it was you!”

  Her tears began to fall again. He stared at her stupidly, saying nothing.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “It wasn’t my fault, I swear it wasn’t my fault, please be my friend.”

  “Your father—?”

  “Don’t tell. Don’t tell, you hear? It wasn’t his fault, either, he can’t help it!”

  “Your father—?” He felt that he was about to throw up.

  “Yes. My father. He says it happens all the time.” She looked up at him. “Does it?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said—feeling colder and colder.

  She looked into his face as though she would never see it again, then rose and moved to the window. He was about to find a way of saying good-bye, of getting out of this house. He watched her frail shoulders, her fragile neck.

  “Well. I guess it’s all over for me then,” she said.

  And his heart turned over. He moved, and took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him.

  “Don’t think like that,” he said. “Don’t think like that. Nothing’s over. It’s just beginning—your life is just beginning.” He felt her trembling at his words, at his touch, and felt himself begin to tremble with pity and desire, and with fear. He could not catch his breath.

  She moved, and buried her face in his chest. He put his arms around her, then she moved again and held him close.

  “Oh, Crunch,” she whispered. “Please make me well. Please touch me—take me—make me well.”

  He tried to pull away, with a little smile. He said, “You’re just a little girl, Julia.”

  She looked up at him. “No, I’m not,” she said. “Oh, no, I’m not.”

  She touched her lips to his lips. Slowly, slowly, he pressed her closer to him, he gave her his lips, his tongue—involuntarily, as it were, tentatively: but pity and desire rose, driving, he could not pull back.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Oh, yes, I’m sure, please, I’m sure.”

  She placed one of his hands on her breasts, her own hands, as though she were blind, stroked his face, discovering it, his back, his buttocks, her hands ran up and down his thighs. She unhooked her skirt and stepped out of it; she ran her hands under his sweater, under his T-shirt, she stroked his skin.

  “Your father,” he whispered. “Your father—”

  “He won’t be coming home. He never comes home before night.”

  He took off his sweater
, worried, but, too late to worry now, and she stripped herself naked and came, helplessly trusting, back into his arms. He felt at once helpless and helplessly powerful: he could not refuse her. She unbuckled his belt, he let his pants fall to the floor. Her body, now, again as though she were blind, strained against his body, discovering it. He let her have her way, tremendously excited, but frightened, too. He wondered if she really knew what she wanted, he was afraid he would hurt her; but she put her hand on him and looked up at him with eyes which held neither fear, nor the fear of pain. She pulled him down with her to the floor and, very, very slowly, he entered her—she holding him close, sweating, straining to take it all, as he grew larger and larger, and, though still trying to be gentle, thrust harder and harder. She thrust to meet him, with astonishing strength, smiling and calling his name over and over. The sullen daylight beat down on his back, something moved in the body beneath him like waves rising and breaking, she seemed to sing his name. He wanted to whisper a warning about having a baby and thought to pull out, but she held him to her with all her force and he suddenly seemed to have plunged even deeper into her and, soon, it would be too late, too late, he tried to whisper a warning but no words came, only Julia. Oh Julia. She murmured his name again with an unbelievable exultation, he pulled up, thrust down again and again, harder and harder and deeper and deeper, she laughing and crying and calling his name and pulling him always deeper into her—almost as though his lunging body would touch and open and drench and heal her soul. He, as it were, prayed with her, longing to give her all that she needed, and yet holding back, the unbelievable delight and agony tormenting, finally, the very tip of his congested sex, boiling there for an eternity, boiling, boiling, he groaned, hiding his face in her neck, and, finally, what seemed like a single drop forced itself out, he was utterly helpless in her arms, and, at last, the wave broke, pounding him full force into her, and she murmured his name, like a song.

  He opened his eyes. He began, slowly, to soften inside her. He looked into her eyes which were, now, more peaceful than he had ever seen them, wet, and full of wonder.

  “How do you feel?” he asked her.

  “Saved,” she said, and smiled. “How do you feel?”

  “Beautiful,” he said, and grinned—but he had just thought of Arthur. He raised himself up, and pulled out of her. “Let’s get dressed and get out of here. I’m still afraid your father might come home.”

  She kissed him, then stood up, picking up her clothes. “I won’t be a minute,” she said. She started for the steps. “There’s a bathroom right here, Crunch,” and she pointed. “I’ll be right down.”

  She ran, lightly, up the steps.

  Crunch pulled up his pants, picked up his sweater and walked to the bathroom, breathing as though he had just run a race, with his knees shaking. He looked into the bathroom mirror as though the face in the mirror could tell him what had happened. Physically, what had happened was more familiar to him than his affair with Arthur—but only physically. And he did not feel, now, as he had so often, the humiliation and revulsion of having been used. He felt exhausted and bewildered—he would have to have it out with Julia. Then he thought of her father and felt a terrible pity for Julia; a pity sharpened by his knowledge that his pity was not his love. Then he wondered if he should tell Arthur. He bowed his head, and washed his face.

  Julia stood naked in the upstairs bathroom, and looked at her body and looked at her body and looked at her body and touched it with wonder, and, for the first time, without shame or fear. What her father had stolen from her, Crunch had given back. She was fourteen: suddenly, she was only fourteen.

  When she came down, Crunch had helped himself to another beer, and was sitting on the sofa, long legs stretched out before him, arms loosely folded, holding his beer in his right hand, head bent slightly, eyes raised, looking straight ahead. He did not seem to hear her, at first; then he turned and looked at her, and grinned, and gave a long, low whistle.

  She was wearing a green halter and green slacks and nondescript loafers and had arranged her hair in a ponytail which was controlled by the green bandanna. Her slacks had pockets; she carried no handbag.

  “Do I look all right?”

  “I can tell you ain’t no preacher.”

  They both laughed, and he stood up, placing his beer on the table.

  “Finish your beer,” she said.

  He finished his beer in one swallow and put the glass back on the table. She picked it up, carried it to the kitchen and rinsed it, dried it, and put it back in the cupboard. He watched her from the kitchen doorway, his eyebrow cocked, smiling his little smile.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes. Where we going? You going to take me to see your room?”

  “Not today, Julia. I got to stop by Arthur’s. You want to come with me?”

  “Oh—Arthur. Sure.” Then, “Is it all right if I come?”

  He laughed. “You’ve known Arthur just about all your life. What kind of question is that?”

  “Oh”—she laughed, looking confused; but this did not dim her radiance. “I just thought, if you wanted to talk—”

  “His mama’s going to be there, his papa, too, I reckon. We’ll talk. Come on.”

  “Crunch”—she ran to him, and kissed him. “I’m so happy.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her on the forehead, stepped back. “Come on. Let’s hit the streets.”

  They walked the hallway to the door. “You got your keys?”

  “Yes. In my pocket.”

  She grinned up at him, he opened the door, watching her utterly transformed face. They entered the paradoxical day, and started down the steps. She put her arm in his, as trusting as a baby. He was aware that she had never walked down the streets like this with anyone, in all her life: he was the first. And she was happy, but he was troubled. He was troubled on many levels, unspeakable, inaccessible: on the simplest level, he began to wonder just what kind of freak he was, what kind of monster found himself involved with two children, one boy and one girl? For Arthur was not a man yet, and Julia was certainly not a woman. And what was he? He shook his head, forcing the streets to come back into focus. He looked sideways at Julia, who now had both her arms linked around his one arm, and who was looking at the streets, and all the people in the streets, as though she had never seen any of this before.

  They waited for a light, then crossed a street. He was aware of one thing only, that Arthur’s house was coming closer and closer.

  “You know, Julia,” he said, “I’m not going to be here long.”

  She looked up at him, as grave as she had been as a preacher.

  “Hush,” she said. “I know that.”

  “Well. But do you know what it means?”

  “I know I’m happy—for the first time in my life—”

  “Julia! I might have to leave here tomorrow morning!”

  “But I’ll always,” she said, looking up at the covered sky, “have today!” Then, she flew down, as it were, from her glorious height and walked again beside him, matching her step to his; or rather, grateful for her sudden descent, he matched his step to hers.

  “I know,” she said. “I know. We got—we ain’t got no time. I got so many things to tell you—partly about my father—but about so many things—about my mother and Jimmy—and so many things. About me, when I was a preacher and how I always noticed you—oh,” and she laughed, “Arthur’s older brother, what’s his name? Hall—Mister Ha! I always called him.” She turned her face to his. “But I just don’t want to talk about any of that now—not now. You understand?”

  “Yes,” he said, finally—then, “But what if I have to leave in the morning?”

  “I’ll write you,” she said. “But anyway—how long we going to stay at Arthur’s house? Can’t you take me to your room?”

  “Julia”—he began to sweat—”no. Not tonight.”

  “You got another girl?” She laughed. “I know I shouldn’t ask you that—that�
��s none of my business.”

  “It might be,” he said, and, suddenly, he laughed. A weight dropped from his shoulders, and yet, dark wonder hovered about his head. “I might have things to tell you, too,” he said. “But all right. Not today.”

  Arthur recognized them from the open window—for Crunch was late—and did not recognize the girl walking beside Crunch, dressed all in green, in slacks, with a bare midriff, and wearing lipstick—he did not recognize Julia at all.

  “Here comes Crunch,” he said to Florence, “and he’s got some girl with him.”

  Florence came to the window and leaned out. “Why,” she cried, “what’s wrong with you, boy? That ain’t nobody but Julia!” She waved and called, “Hey, you two in green there! Was you fixing to sneak past my house?”

  “No such thing,” Crunch grinned, looking upward. “No such thing, ma’am. We was just asking for directions.”

  “Look like you got directed right. Julia, how you been, child? You come on up here and let me spank that skinny behind of yours! I declare, the way you been treating me is a shame—come on up here now!”

  “How’d your rehearsal go, man?” Crunch yelled.

  “Not bad, man. Come on in the house, I’ll tell you about it.”

  “Well,” said Florence, retreating from the window, “there he is—your heart. And Julia, too. That’s beautiful.”

  It is my impression that the young cannot fool anybody, except those people who wish to be fooled. The young tell you what you want to hear, which is how they learn to despise you, and themselves, and this is also how their youth becomes worthless to them so soon: in any case, Arthur never managed to fool anybody as long as he lived. Now, with his face glowing with a double relief—that Crunch had arrived, that the girl was only, after all, Julia—and facing his mother, our mother would have had to have been a fool not to have known what Crunch and Arthur meant to each other. Indeed, she very probably knew it before they did. It worried her, yes. It worried her the way the identity, the fate, the future of her child always worried a mother. If I had decided to marry a white girl, for example, my mother would have been worried but would never have opposed it. Her concern was that I marry someone I loved, who loved me—if, for that matter, I ever married at all, which was entirely up to me. She was not distressed about Arthur until the word was out on Arthur’s ass, and lots of people tried to gang-rape him in indescribable ways—oh, yes, believe me, it’s cold out there—and Arthur began to sink beneath the double weight of the judgment without and the judgment within. And, yet, it is true, and Arthur was right when he insisted, I’ve got to live the life I sing about in my song: he meant that he could not afford to live a lie.