Brandon and Wilson at the Catch, Installment 37

Wilson

Monday, September 25, 1989

I was home from school for twenty minutes before I heard. The staff member who drove us back from Douglass High hadn’t said anything. I’d said, “Hey” to Wilkerson when I walked into the cottage. He hadn’t said anything either. I was doing my algebra homework at my desk in my room, and Trey had propped himself up on the empty bed – Brandon’s bed – doing his homework when I heard vague talk between Davey and Wilkerson from out in the common area. There was mention of the Catch’s new director.

I asked Trey if he’d heard anything about it.

“Yeah. They hired someone.”

I held out for a second or two before swallowing hard and asked, “Jennings?”

“Someone else.”

I made my way to the common area, where Wilkerson was still talking with Davey. “We have a new director?” I asked. Wilkerson kept talking to Davey but handed me a piece of paper, another memo. It asked us to provide a big Flycatcher welcome to Mr. Patrick Socolow. They’d hired Socks, my old therapist, the one before Kent.

The Flycatcher administration wouldn’t let a Black person run the Catch. We’re too Black already. A white director would be more easily trusted. That’s obvious to me now. Hope has big blind spots. I’d given my hopes unnecessary details: Jennings would drop by the cottage at the end of his first day as director to catch up on how his boys were doing. I’d stand back a little then catch his eye and smile a little to show how glad I was that he was back. He’d notice and smile back. I’d thought about what he’d do with that formal office in the administration building, knowing that his preference was to pile sports equipment in the corners. I’d wondered whether he would keep a tie in his desk drawer or whether he’d have to wear one all the time as the new boss. I’d hoped he would accept clothing advice from someone who had his best interests at heart.

I can’t yet wrap my head around the idea of Socolow as the director. I don’t have any fantasies about his first day and our reunion. He’d remember the old me, the one called himself Junior, a kid who hadn’t yet started improving. Socks’s major skill seemed to be looking at people with this inviting expression. He’s a man with questions, not answers. Still, after an hour of processing this new information, it started feeling like a move forward. Socolow would be responsible for hiring our new cottage manager and Wilkerson would not be his type. He’d also be the one to hire a new therapist for our cottage. I’d think he’d go for a clone of himself. Could be worse.

Ellen asked me to help her with a welcoming party next week for the new director. Our usual, sheet cake and punch. She’s taught me how to bake. It all works if you follow the recipe. She’ll let me make the icing, too, but she’ll do the decorating. I like the idea of being able to bake a cake for my man. When you’re skinny and a little girlish, it helps to have some other things going for you.

Wilson

Wednesday, October 4, 1989

Ellen fired me for stealing food from the kitchen when Brandon and I went on run a few weeks ago, but she still lets me volunteer there. She likes me. We had already presented Socolow with his cake. It came out nice. Ellen did the writing on it. It said,

We were back in the kitchen, slicing the cake and plating it with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, when LaTonya sidled up to me. “Hey, Wilson,” she said.

I didn’t look up. I was working. “I’m not sure you’re supposed to be back here.”

“Having a good day?” she asked.

“Decent enough, thank you.”

“It could get better,” she said.

I looked at her. She had the silliest smile I’d ever seen on her.

“What do you know?”

She took me by the hand to the serving window that separated the industrial kitchen from the home’s multipurpose room. She kept my hand in hers.

“What?”

“Far right corner,” she said.

Standing there, talking to Mrs. Coleman, was Brandon. He was wearing his grey corduroy pants and a blue collared polo shirt. He had worn his good clothes. He wanted to make a good impression. A lump grew in my throat. My heart thumped. I could feel tears forming.

“He’s back?” I managed to say.

“Not quite. He just finished a preadmission interview.”

“Not with Wilkerson. He was down here with us setting up.”

“For the other boys’ cottage.”

“Oh.”

“Time to serve!” Ellen called out to her volunteers.

LaTonya said, “You’ve got to bring him a slice of cake. You’ve got to. It’s too perfect not to do it.”

“I can’t. I’ll cry.”

“You’re already crying.” She was right.

I turned back to the large stainless-steel counter where we had laid out sixty slices of cake, four rows of fifteen. I scanned for the slices I wanted.

“Take him these two,” I said to LaTonya, handing her two plates.

One slice said “come,” the other “back.” “Tell him they’re from me.”

She smiled that big smile again. “It’s incredibly romantic!”

I took four plates, two in each hand and headed out into the multipurpose room myself, working the opposite side of the room. I couldn’t look. I spent three months staring at the boy and now I couldn’t even look in his direction.

He only stayed a few more minutes. LaTonya said later that they wanted to see if there would be a reaction from any of the residents who might still think Brandon was responsible for House’s death. There wasn’t. Barry’s gone. He left for a group home across town a week ago. House died four weeks ago this coming weekend. It wasn’t a lot of time. His death still cast a shadow over most of the activities of the Catch. But the residents had collectively and quietly come to the realization that House’s death was likely by his own design.

If there’s one thing these residents can relate to, it’s the loss of hope. Hope exists here like it does most places, but it’s more like a candle flame caught in a cross breeze in a trailer in northern Oklahoma. It can go out at any time.

I’ve got some of that hope back now. If that’s a good thing or not, I don’t yet know.