SUMMER 1965

Chapter 1

PINKIE

Ever since I’m little I be wondering who my momma is.

It ain’t Jolene. Jolene’s been raising me but I ain’t her blood. Reminds me of it every chance she gets. Picked me out of a trash pile one day, that’s what Jolene says. Like a maggot out of a garbage can.

If I’m trash I say, why you done it? Just teasing she says, you be worth real money, check for $102.80 on the first of every month. Calls it her Pinkie check. Long as the Welfare keeps sending the Pinkie check, that’s all she cares about, Jolene.

Jolene just laughs when I ask about my real momma. One day I be finding her though. See does Jolene laugh when that day comes.

Jolene don’t treat Bettina no better than me even though Bettina be blood and flesh to her. Bettina asks who her poppa was but Jolene pretends she don’t hear. Poor little thing, Bettina, bumping into things like she does. Jolene says Bettina was born with a caul, that’s why she so clumsy. I know better though. Bettina can’t help it. Something wrong inside her head. She plenty smart all right, just something inside there don’t work how it’s supposed to, like a doorbell is busted or a toaster don’t pop.

All Jolene cares about is the money though, $102.80 a month for me and $94.73 for Bettina. And Bettina’ll be worth more soon Jolene says, worth as much as you gal, $102.80 a month when she turns nine. Then in September when you turn twelve, you’ll be worth $106.35, and Jolene grins.

No wonder Jolene gets so happy when she talks about the money. We’re her most valuable property. That’s why I got to protect my baby sister best I can. Bettina’s my most valuable property. Till I find my real momma, Bettina’s the closest thing to kinfolk I got in the world.

Should’ve protected Bettina better than I did though, the day things got turned upside-down.

* * *

That day must’ve been a hundred degrees out. Was a Monday—Monday, July 12, 1965, summer hardly started. Jolene says, “Gal you ain’t seen hot yet. Wait till it gets August, then we’ll see about hot.” Sitting in the window all the while, electric fan blowing in her face.

“Pinkie,” she says, “you feel all that hot, go cool off in the hydrant with your baby sister.” That’s what folks do on Morgan Street in hot summers, open a fireplug so kids can play in it. Can’t go to the Taylor Pool, been closed for years. I hear there’s city pools open in other parts of town but not on the West Side, not around Morgan Street anyhow. City don’t spend no money here. Trash sits in garbage cans till it turns ripe. My school, Galileo, it’s got holes in the roof. Walk down the wrong hallway while it’s storming and you get wet without never leaving the building. Nossir, no Taylor Pool since I’m little and no sign when it’ll open again, if it ever does.

It’s too hot to watch TV even. I put on cutoffs and thongs, what Jolene calls sandals only they’re made of rubber tires not leather. I can play in the hydrant if I want. I ain’t twelve till September.

Outside, sun’s like a furnace on my neck. Fireplug in front of our building goes spraying every which way, onto the cars, kids, grownups too. Plenty grownups out on the street, some cooling off in the water their own selves and laughing like they’re kids all over again, others sitting on folding chairs drinking Olde English 800 malt liquor out of paper bags. Don’t matter it’s a Monday or a Sunday or what it is, grownups be out on Morgan Street in summer. Why not? Ain’t got no jobs to tend to, today nor no other day.

Bettina sings outPinkie! Come on in! I smile, duck my head and dash towards her, slipslipsliding on the street tar. Wouldn’t care if I slipped and fell, the cold water on my hot skin feels so go