Skating with the Statue of Liberty (15 page)

Mrs. Walker laughed. “You children—Lord have mercy! I'm glad you have a new friend, Seppie. Pleased to meet you, young man. Miss Noelle saw you the other day and she got me all worried,” she added, a bit apologetically. “She always keeps an eye on things in our building.”

September Rose snorted. “ ‘Keeps an eye on things'! That's one way to put it. It's like living in the same building as the FBI!”

Mrs. Walker shook her head at her granddaughter. “She's just looking out for you. Gustave, you and Seppie can talk right here in the living room. No need to lurk in the hallway and alarm Miss Noelle again!” At the door to the kitchen, she looked back. “You know, I think you're the first white person I ever had in my home. Thought I'd never live to see the day.”

“Sorry—she's so old-fashioned,” September Rose whispered, blushing. “So, this is our apartment. Make yourself at home.”

Chiquita seemed to think the last comment was addressed to her. She jumped up onto the sofa, turned in a tight circle, and settled down with a sigh. Gustave looked around. The room had high ceilings. Light streamed through the tall windows onto bright, stuffed furniture;
a big radio in a wooden cabinet; a thick, soft rug; and photos on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. Overhead, something moved and glittered. When Gustave looked up, he realized that the shiny figures of birds dangled from the ceiling as well as from the mantelpiece and from hooks around the room. In the center of the mantelpiece, in an ornate frame, with more glittery birds around him, was a photo of a middle-aged man in a military uniform. He had a high forehead, deep-set dark eyes, and close-cropped hair. His posture was stiff and proud, and he gazed steadily out of the frame. Something about the man's eyes was familiar.

September Rose came over to look at the photograph too. Her mouth looked sad and vulnerable in a way Gustave hadn't seen before, and he suddenly realized who the man must be. “Is that your father? He's a soldier?”

September Rose nodded silently, running her finger gently around the frame. She seemed to be far, far away, and Gustave wanted to pull her back into the sunny room. “What are these?” he asked, indicating the metallic birds.

September Rose touched one with the tip of her finger. “My Granma makes those. She's a tin-can artist. She makes a bird for every day my father's away. It's kind of like a prayer. Pretty, aren't they? Especially when the sun shines. This one's my favorite.” She cupped a pale blue one with a long neck, then tapped it gently, making it sway and tinkle against the other birds dangling around it. “There are even some outside on the fire escape. I'll show you.”

September Rose led Gustave into the kitchen and
pushed up the window. A brisk wind whipped in. Outside, a wind chime made of dangling tropical birds swayed and jingled above the fire escape. “See? Granma made that too.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Mrs. Walker was at the stove with her back to them. “September Rose Walker, shut that window now! It's windy out there!”

September Rose slammed it shut, and a last bit of breeze rushed through the kitchen, making the birds dangling from the ceiling collide noisily. Chiquita had trotted into the kitchen behind them, and now she sat next to the kitchen table, sniffing the air.

“Those are all made out of tin cans?” Gustave asked.

“Yes. Granma paints some of the birds and some she leaves shiny. She makes them for her friends too. Each one's different.”

“They're amazing,” Gustave said.

“I know! I tell Granma they could be in a museum.”

“Not my birds.” Mrs. Walker pulled a pie out of the oven. She glanced up at the ornaments, still jingling against one another in the stirred-up air. “No one's taking away my birds. They for Martin, your daddy, my baby boy. To bring him home.”

Her voice was hushed, and nobody spoke for a moment. Then Mrs. Walker opened a cupboard and pulled out glasses and blue-patterned dishes. “Who's hungry?”

Chiquita gave a little squeak and jumped up, balancing on her hind legs.

Mrs. Walker snorted. “I don't make pie for dogs! Seppie,
you never had your after-school snack. What's your daddy call you? String Bean? And looks like Gustave could use some banana cream pie too.” She took a bottle of milk out of the refrigerator and poured them each a tall foamy glass.

“Banana pie?” Gustave whispered as he and September Rose sat down. “Pie made with bananas?”

“Sure! Don't you have it in France? Banana cream pie with sliced bananas on top. It makes it super sweet.”

“It smells delicious,” he told Mrs. Walker. “When we got bananas one day, they stayed green and then turned sort of gray. How do you make them ripe? We don't have them in France.”

“Oh, sugar!” Mrs. Walker put a slice of pie on his plate. “I'm so old, I don't buy green bananas!”

“Don't say that, Granma! You're not so old,” September Rose protested, handing a small chunk of pie down to Chiquita.

“None of that, Seppie!” Mrs. Walker tapped her arm as Chiquita gobbled the bite of pie. “When I buy bananas, I buy them yellow. But they aren't in the market too often nowadays. Most days I eat a can of fruit salad,” Mrs. Walker said. “That's what I mostly make the birds out of. I love those red cherries. They go down easy. Martin loves that fruit salad too.” She sighed.

“You and Daddy love fruit salad! I get tired of it.” September Rose put down her fork, pushed back her chair, and stood up. “Gustave, how are you trying to ripen your bananas? You gotta keep them warm. Like at the equator.
We think that's where my dad is. He's not allowed to say in his letters where he is, but we know it's someplace warm.”

She held out her skirt and started to sway back and forth like the Hawaiian girls in a movie Gustave had seen once in Paris with Marcel and Jean-Paul. “You know the jingle from the radio, right?” September Rose said. “Watch—I'll be Chiquita Banana.”

September Rose started to sing, rocking her hips and swaying her arms to the syncopated beat. It was a song about bananas and how you could tell when they were ripe. Her voice was warm and rich, and it filled the small, bright kitchen. How could she sing like that with people listening—so easily, so lightly?

“Bananas like the climate of the tropical equator,

So never put bananas…in the refrigerator!”

September Rose twirled around with her hand on her hip as she ended the song. Chiquita jumped up on her, yipping.

Gustave clapped. “Are you going to try out for that chorus for the Victory Rally?”

“I guess.”

“You'll be picked for the solo, I'm sure.”

“Maybe.” September Rose sat down and took a big bite of pie.

“Don't you get embarrassed, singing in front of people?” Gustave asked.

Mrs. Walker laughed. “Not my girl Seppie!”

“Why would I get embarrassed?” September Rose
asked. “I'm going to be a famous singer when I grow up, just like Josephine Baker. I'm going to sing to audiences of hundreds in Paris!”

“Josephine Baker indeed!” snorted Mrs. Walker. “You go right ahead and sing, Seppie, but you keep your clothes on your back while you do it.”

“I
know
, Granma! I just love the way she sings and dances! And her curls, of course.” She turned her cheek toward Gustave. Now that he was up close, Gustave was surprised to see that her curls were drawn on, not real.

“I thought that was hair!” he said.

“I
want
to get my hair done like Josephine Baker's for real, but Granma
won't let me
,” September Rose complained. “So I have to draw the curls on with an eyebrow pencil.”

“Your hair's a gift,” Mrs. Walker said tiredly, as if they'd had this same conversation many times before. “Your daddy's going to want to see his little girl in braids when he comes back from the war. We're going to leave it be.”

“For now,” September Rose said meaningfully.

“Did you ever hear Josephine Baker sing here in New York?” Gustave asked.

“No. Just on the radio. She used to perform in Harlem sometimes, but I read an article in an old magazine that said she doesn't like to sing in America, because even with a Negro singer performing, they won't let Negroes be in the audience. It makes her mad. It makes me mad too. It's not like that in Paris. She said so in the article.”

Just then they heard the apartment door open.
September Rose stiffened. “I thought Alan was working this afternoon,” she whispered nervously to her grandmother.

A moment later a young man stood in the doorway. “Who's
that
?” he demanded, staring at Gustave. “And what's he doing in our kitchen?”

20

“
S
it down, Alan,” said Mrs. Walker calmly, cutting another slice of pie. “Gustave, this is September Rose's brother. Please excuse his rudeness. He must be tired. Alan, this is Gustave. He goes to school with September Rose.”

Alan dropped his pile of papers onto the table. “What's he doing hanging around Seppie?” he demanded, folding his arms across his chest.

“Geez, Alan! He's my friend!”

Alan glared at September Rose. “We talked about this!”

“Not in front of our guest, Alan,” Mrs. Walker said sternly. “You can stay and have pie with us all, or you can go to your room.”

Alan sat down with a thud. Feeling uncomfortable, Gustave excused himself and headed toward the bathroom. He took a long time in the little room, splashing
water on his face and drying it on a pink embroidered towel. He walked back hesitantly.

“He goes to my school,” he heard September Rose hiss as he approached the kitchen. “You said that was all right.”

“I said it was okay to be friendly to the white kids
at
school. Out of school is different. You could get yourself into trouble, especially with a boy. Granma, tell her!”

“I'm the one who invited him in,” Mrs. Walker murmured. “He talked to Seppie at the door one day when he was delivering for Quong's. Miss Noelle got me all worried over it.”

“He's from France, anyway. He's not American,” September Rose jumped in. “It's different.”

“People won't know that just seeing you and him together.”

“He seems like a very nice boy, Alan, very polite,” Mrs. Walker said. “Anyway, hush! He's our guest right now. We'll discuss it later.”

Gustave hesitated in the kitchen doorway. Mrs. Walker turned and saw him. “Would you like another piece of pie, Gustave? Seppie is having one.”

“Go ahead, Gustave. You don't have to go just yet, do you?” September Rose asked. “Granma's trying to fatten us up a little.”

Alan scraped his chair back loudly and crossed his arms, scowling. “You all know I have a Negro Youth Group meeting here at five-thirty,” he said. “It's going to be crowded enough in the apartment with just us.”

“Oh, that's today?” September Rose reached for the
papers. “Are those the flyers? Let's see! ‘Democracy—At Home and Abroad,' ” September Rose proclaimed, holding one up for Gustave to see. “Ooh—they're swell!”

“Here are the other two,” Alan said, pulling flyers from the stack.

“ ‘Don't Buy Where You Can't Work!' ” she read, holding one up and then the other. “ ‘Victory Abroad, Victory at Home!' ”

Gustave leaned closer and looked at the two “V”s on the third flyer. “What is ‘Victory at Home'?” he asked September Rose quietly.

Alan snorted.

“Victory against race discrimination,” September Rose said. “Like the theaters Josephine Baker won't sing in because they don't let Negroes be in the audience. Places we can't live. Jobs they won't hire us for. Stores that won't let us try on clothes.”

Gustave nodded, feeling a bit sick. It sounded all too familiar.

September Rose turned to Alan. “Where are you going to post the flyers?”

“Around Baumhauer's Department Store, on One Hundred and Twenty-Fifth Street,” Alan said. “I dressed up and applied for a job there last week. So did Willie and Roberta. ‘We don't hire coloreds,' they said. They wouldn't even let Roberta use the customers' restroom as we were on our way out. But they're happy to sell us stuff and take our money.”

“Alan, honey.” Mrs. Walker looked at her grandson worriedly. “I don't know if that second flyer is such a good
idea. ‘Don't buy where you can't work?' They aren't going to like that, if people stop shopping at their store.”

“That's the whole
point
, Granma. We're going to picket too. If they lose enough money, maybe they'll finally hire some of us.”

“Your daddy went and got himself a good job without doing any of that. Paid well too. Thirty-eight dollars a week before he went off to war. That's real good wages.”

“Sure, Granma. But I don't want to drive a garbage truck.”

“Sanitation truck,” said September Rose.

“That's just a fancy name for garbage, Seppie,” said Alan. “I know it's good money. But even Dad says, ‘It's good money, but it smells!' And who knows if he'll be able to get his job back when he comes home.”

“I
wish
you'd let me join your group,” September Rose said. “I'm old enough.”

“You're just a kid. It could get dangerous. You don't understand anything!” Alan threw a glance at Gustave. “I changed my mind about the pie. I'll wait for supper.” He left the room.

“I didn't know he applied for that job, did you, Granma?”

“No, I sure didn't. But it was asking for trouble. Everyone knows they don't hire our kind. I wish that boy had more sense.” Mrs. Walker began clearing up. “Say goodbye to your classmate. His mother'll be expecting him.”

“Thank you for the pie, Mrs. Walker,” Gustave said. “It was delicious.”

“You come again now, hear?” She smiled at him. “Anytime.”

Mrs. Walker started to hum the Chiquita banana song as she ran the water.

September Rose watched until her grandmother had turned her back, then ran her finger over her plate and licked it, grinning conspiratorially at Gustave. “Anyhow, that's probably what you're doing wrong.”

“What is?”

“The bananas. That's probably why they didn't ripen. Like the song says, ‘You never put bananas in the refrigerator.' ”

“We don't have the refrigerator. I put the bananas on the windowsill.”

“You don't have a refrigerator? Why not?”

“Seppie—hush!” Mrs. Walker swatted her with a dish towel.

“What? Anyway, probably too much cold air is coming through the window glass. Try someplace warmer.”

She walked him to the front door.

“Could my father get that kind of job, the garbage job?” Gustave asked her.

“If they're hiring. And if he's strong enough. The workers have to jump up and down from the back of the truck all day.”

“Oh. No, he has a bad leg. He can't jump,” Gustave said.

The two of them were standing alone in the living room. September Rose dropped her voice to a whisper. “I'm sorry Alan said all that. He's just being bossy and
overprotective. When I started junior high, he told me I could be friendly to white kids in school, but not outside of school, especially boys. He said when a girl was in junior high or older, it was asking for trouble.”

“Why? What kind of trouble?”

“Oh, you know, sometimes people might yell dumb stuff at you on the street or whatnot. I just tell Alan, ‘Uh-huh, uh-huh,' and then I do what I want where he can't see. I mean, nearly all the kids at our school are white. What am I gonna do, not be friends with anybody except Lisa and the people from our church?”

Gustave nodded.

She smiled a little shyly. “Anyway, I've been meaning to say, you can call me ‘Seppie' if you want to. That's what my family calls me, and my friends. Hey, maybe one day soon after school we can go to the library to work on our reports for history. You've probably never been there, right? I could help you get signed up for a library card.”

“I did go, once, but I didn't get a card. That would be swell!”

September Rose laughed. “You're learning to talk just like an American!”

Gustave felt himself smiling as he pedaled away from September Rose's building. “That's what my friends call me,” she had said. He hadn't misunderstood. She had said it twice. When Alan had walked into the kitchen, she had told him, “He's my
friend
!”