SINGING MR.

ARMSTRONG AT THE CITY GARDENS

by Alison Condie Jaenicke
From up here they look like ants crawling around little blue bowls. We got us
this place on the seventh floor after old Mrs. Rose died and oh, the view out my picture
window. Run-down city in one direction, cranes working on the highway bridge in the
other. Below, those ant people crawling around a green and brown patchwork quilt,
and spread overtop it all, a dusty blue smudge of mountain ridge.
I been down there, talked to them, even let them give me a bag of collards and
some potatoes at the end of a tight month, so I know the blue bowls are really plastic
swimming poolslittle kiddy ones you put in your back yard if you have a yardand
guess what they did: changed those pools into vegetable gardens. Theyre mostly white
folk, and I gotta admit when they came into that old school and started putting up
fences and building a greenhouse, I thought, Oh, lord, here we go again, but turns out
theyre cool. Even got me lined up to sing today at their harvest festival.
While Im fixing my hair and deciding what clothes to put on, Kevon is watching
me. He says, What you gonna sing for them today, Mom? and This your big chance,
Momma, your first gig outside-a church, until I finally say, You making me nervous.
Get on outta here. (Secretly, Im glad hes fussing over me and that Ill have one fan
there listening to me sing.)
But soon as we get to the creek that separates our building from school grounds,
Kevon spots his friend Angelo and hes off and Im alone walking that green stretch up
to the blacktop where I can see a microphone set up. Theres a white guy with sparkly
overalls juggling potatoes, and a face-painter leaning over Lavernes little girl, putting
the last yellow petals on her coffee-brown cheek. The sun is warm today, and this place
is cheerful and lively with baby pumpkins set out in clumps here and there, corn stalks
leaning around. I chuckle at those boys from 7B down under that big oak tree trying to
sink their teeth into red apples swaying from stringssticking their necks out like
turkeys, apples banging against their noses and chins. Theres a tractor rumbling its
motor, waiting to give kids rides on a hay-covered trailer, and for a second I think of
Kevon, but then I remember hes too old for that stuff now.
Far away on the broken-down playground, Kevon and Angelo are doing chinups. I count to ten for Kevon, whisper, Thats my boy, then turn around when I hear,
Delia, were so glad youve come. Were all ready for you. The farm manager is
coming at me from out the sun, her hair hidden under a red bandana and her eyes
hidden too behind little round sunglasses. I wish I remembered sunglasses to cut the
glare and hide me from all these people because Im sure now my eyes are looking

scared. I wonder if thats why those superstars always wear shades. Maybe they get
tired of their fans all the time looking into their eyes, knowing whats on their minds.
You want to get something to eat first? Weve got potato soup and the worlds
largest organic salad. Oh yeah, and apple cider. Its back behind the tennis courts in the
gardens. Can I get you something?
I hear her say something about food, but my stomach is bound up with a
thousand rubber bands, so I murmur, Thanks, but I think Ill just sing my song, then
get something. Im not looking at her but at my stage, cracked blacktop reaching out
from the tennis courts and a microphone sticking up all skinny and lonely right smack
in the middle. The stand sparkles in the sun, though, and if I squint my eyes I can
almost imagine that the chain link fence behind it is a dove-gray silk curtain. And if I
shut my eyes real tight and open them fast, the curtain turns red velvet. That farm
manager gal must be wondering about me, what with all that squinting and blinking,
because she puts her hand on my shoulder and says, You okay?
Just fine, I say.
Anytime youre ready. I nod my head, then she grasps the microphone with
two hands, jiggling it a bit until it lowers to my height, meanwhile introducing me real
nice, giving them some words about what a treat it is to have me there, like I was hard
to get or something.
Then Im in front of the mike. I breathe in the hay-smelling air, pull it along my
backbone all the way down to my hips, until Im straight as a broomstick. I try to
smooth my voice, and my words boom across the blacktop and fields. Today Im going
to sing for you a song by the great Mr. Louis Armstrong called What a Wonderful
World. I hope yall like it as much as I do, and I hope the Lord lets me do justice to Mr.
Armstrong today. I bow my head, close my eyes, and start up the orchestra in my
mind, my tennis shoe tapping the time. My eyes open and rise to look above the tree
line at the clouds. Then I lean in and touch my lower lip to the microphone, pull back
and inch. What comes out of my mouth is liquid velvet and I am pouring it from a
pitcher in slow motion. From low my voice rises up, and my outstretched arms follow
my voice from ground to sky: See skies of blue, red roses too. I see them bloom for me
and for you. And I think to myself What a wonderful world. On this last part, I clutch
my hands to my chest and shake my head at the beauty of it. Down in a gully I spot a
tangle of flowersmagenta and gold, lavender and whitelooking like they blossomed
and brightened since I passed them five minutes ago. Tall shadows from our apartment
buildings stretch out across the creek but cant quite reach this sunny patch of ground.

I dont know what I expected, but there really is no audience, just people milling
around at the edge of the blacktop checking out the different booths. I suppose a little of
my music might be sneaking into some of their ears, but its not like looking out at a
church full of black faces lined up in pews, and its certainly not like the tiny round
nightclub tables dotted with fans I dreamed about when I was a teenager. Just then, I
see a mom crouched about ten feet from me holding her little boy between her legs,
both the mom and her boy facing me straight on. Shes smiling at me and whispering in
his ear. Im so glad Im getting to the part I like best, and I sing it out for her and for me:
I hear babies crying, I watch them grow. Theyll learn much more than Ill ever know.
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world. I finish up with my arms spread high
and I am light as an angel up in the blue sky with the clouds of white and it is a bright,
blessed day. Theres not a lot of applause, but it is there, scattered around like when
popcorn starts popping and the pops get closer and closer together. I hear a few
whistles thrown in, and I whisper into the microphone, Thank you very much, and
lower my head.
A sound, low and rude, like a moan or a foghorn, turns me around, and I see its
Kevon, his right hand circling his mouth like a megaphone, and he is booing me.
Angelo snickers as Kevon keeps up with the heckling, sauntering along the fence with a
white Styrofoam cup in his other hand. All of a sudden I am tired, so weary, and thirsty
too. I stare hard at Kevon, only five feet from me now, and he busts out laughing. I say,
I could use some of that drink. He raises his cup and drains it. His broad smile breaks
out, and he shifts his gaze to Angelo and wisecracks, Sorry, woman, theres none left.
So many humiliations has Kevon slung at me since hes locked arms with his
pals. So many that Im able to make myself ice cold to them now. Im stumped at whats
happened to my baby, the one I still see reaching out his chubby arm, all eager to bring
me bites of his peanut butter sandwich, me happy to take nibbles of the gummed-up
mess. And Angelos momdoes she remember him patting her face, messing with her
hair, toying with her earrings? Outside our four walls, out here in a world of Angelos, I
cant remember Kevons soft hand on me.
What pops into my mind next is our empty refrigerator back at the apartment. Its
light has burned out and I dont have the spare change to get us a new one. I am empty
and dark and cold like that fridge, I think. I shoot a chilly stare at Kevon. None left,
huh? You gonna see whats left for you when we get home.
Ooh, boy, you done it now, says Angelo. I think its time I got myself home.
For a minute, he lets his little boy face slip through when he tells me, You done good,
Mrs. Haines. For that kinda music. If you like it and all. Then his kindness stalls and he
shouts, See ya, Kev, as he sets off running toward the apartments.
3

Once Angelo is out of sight, Kevons eyes start flailing around like someone
stranded at sea and cant swim a lick. He looks everywhere but at me. I wait. Im not
ready to save him yet. Im quiet until his eyes set on mine. I think I heard something
about some potato soup, I say. I clasp his hand and pull him toward the gardens.

Singing Mr. Armstrong at the City Gardens was published in Breathing the Same Air: An East
Tennessee Anthology, The Knoxville Writers Guild, Celtic Cat Publishing, Knoxville, TN, 2001.