The Favorites of the Sun Read online

  The Favorites of the Sun

  Mac Pope

  Austin Macauley Publishers

  The Favorites of the Sun

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Acknowledgement

  Copyright Information

  Brooklyn: 1959

  M’DadCorcoran Air Force Base, South Carolina, 1965

  Blacks Upon Our Village Green1970

  The Twenty

  Our LadyMac S. PopeBrooklyn, New York, Nineteen-thirty

  Part 1

  Downstairs

  Upstairs

  Part 2

  An Old Child

  About the Author

  As a youth, the author used his Air Force service years to earn his degree, learn languages, and make friends in Italy, Japan, Turkey, and Great Britain. Later, he became a federal agent branch manager over two states.

  Throughout all the years, he thought and wrote about the dramatic, real, and wonder-filled life around him…

  About the Book

  Long and short captivating stories on progress, history, people, and new ideas.

  "From the first story to the last,

  you're going to read them fast."

  Dedication

  To African-Americans, their friends, and fans.

  Acknowledgement

  I acknowledge the good progress of our black, brown, and golden folk. They are workers, teachers, medics, and soldiers. Royal—even an ex-president and a royal princess of the British Empire!

  Copyright Information

  Copyright © Mac Pope (2019)

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

  Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Ordering Information:

  Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Pope, Mac

  The Favorites of the Sun

  ISBN 9781643780474 (Paperback)

  ISBN 9781643780481 (Hardback)

  ISBN 9781645366751 (ePub e-book)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019934624

  The main category of the book — Fiction / Short Stories

  www.austinmacauley.com/us

  First Published (2019)

  Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

  40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

  New York, NY 10005

  USA

  [email protected]

  +1 (646) 5125767

  Brooklyn: 1959

  From his third floor window, the boy Dwayne thought he was looking down on madness—a crowd of his rowdy twelve-year-old peers circling an aged, agitated Hasidic man. It was hard to tell who was menacing who; the man was carefully trying to grab one of the children, muttering incomprehensible explanations as they dodged and attacked, his beard and swirling costume reviving their worst bogeyman fantasies.

  The boy comprehended the mix-up at once. It was Friday, late afternoon—eve of the Jewish Sabbath, thus, the old man had come from the temple two blocks away to bring someone to turn on the lights, since Jews can’t do any kind of work on the Sabbath.

  The boy knew: he read a lot from the library books that shared his captivity in his room. Also, his mother was a Domestic in a Jewish home and briefed her family on every detail of ‘her other family’ and their life; every detail … how much love they shared, what nice things they did for each other; they were her living soap opera. Even when she was home, she seemed to be there. Resignedly, the boy got up and went to the stairs and outside to settle the mess and save the old man who had really gone about the thing the worst possible way…

  On the street, the children were popping the man with ice balls from a snowbank. Dwayne moved in, placing himself between the muttering old man and the screaming mob. He took up a heroic pose atop the snow pile, glowering at the others the way Superman would… “Let him be!” he ordered. “I can explain this…”

  “Git out the way!” came the response.

  “That boy’s weird!” someone else said, recognizing Dwayne. “Gets As in everything at school—and his mother keeps him stuck up in his room when he ain’t at school.” There were chuckles.

  “You’d have to go through me to get at him,” Dwayne warned them—hands on hips and jaw stern.

  And they did. Dwayne went down under the first barrage of dirty ice but his client had made it safely around the corner during the diversion. Dwayne got away and caught up with him. Walking alongside, he imagined he heard a grunt of gratitude as the old man tugged him by the sleeve towards the squat, stout little temple on DeKalb Avenue.

  The sign on the temple gate gave Dwayne a little anxiety; the red Hebrew letters against a blue background looked like little flames; but in the foyer, Dwayne was turned over to a kind-faced man, similarly dressed but with a longer beard. Dwayne’s client announced: “De Shabbat Goy,” and stalked off, shaking his head. After getting his directions, the boy carefully made the circuit of the temple using a chair to turn on the lights. He was impressed as he looked around at how churchy the temple appeared; lots of pews, lots of brass, and red velvet covers … But as soon as he was done, the Hasidic man rushed over and pressed a dime into Dwayne’s palm, looking closely to see the boy’s eyes beam. Dwayne rolled the coin: “Lord, teach him how to tip,” he hissed under his breath; out loud he said to the Rabbi: “Look, you must need the lights turned on about 4:30 every Friday, so I’ll be here—like Igor, every Friday; don’t send anybody out, there’s no telling what he’ll get around to here.” He got a pat on the shoulder before he loped off out of the temple to sneak home.

  Dwayne told his mother about the incident because he knew someone else would, and because he needed to turn the conversation away from his mother’s obsession with her other family, especially Mark, the Levys’ genius son, who was Dwayne’s age and who was ‘absolutely perfect’ according to Dwayne’s mother. She often seemed to go into a sort of trance at dinner while she described Mark’s book collection, his stamp collection, his awards, and all the gifts his perfect parents, Joel and Esther, brought him constantly. His mother, Ella, never seemed much interested in Dwanyne’s good reports from school, his debating or spelling bee prizes even though he placed them strategically for her to view and stayed nearby in case of some response. That night, though, she listened to him for the first time ever. She said that she was proud of Dwayne and praised him in front of his sister and the little group of her fellow housemaids who gathered every Friday night to trade gossip about their employers.

  “I don’t think my Mark has ever done anything that brave,” his mother mused.

  “He will,” Eulah, one of her cronies replied, “that boy’s really special, Ella, and that’s ’cause Joel and Esther are good people; wish they could give lessons to the people I work for—who watch me like I was a saboteur, work me like a coolie, and lunch? I don’t bring a sandwich, I starve…”

  “I don’t have those problems,” said Miz Lizbeth who had a reputation for acting above herself.

  “My family’s been knowing me for five years; I’m probably the only one that gets trusted with the special dishes…” All the women gave h
er the liar’s eye; they knew enough Kosruth to know that the Passover cabinet was off limits, so Miz Lizbeth must be just out to impress somebody.

  “I found an empty shrimp pack in the Lehman’s trash,” Miz Annie Mowbray said gravely.

  “Lord, you know that ain’t right,” somebody said, “breaks Kosher, they know better…”

  “Well,” Dwayne’s mother said, “I’d just leave that empty package out in the open somewhere so they know somebody is watching.”

  “Yes, Lord!”

  “You’re right though, Eulah,” said Dwayne’s mother, “I do have a good family compared to most. Esther is just like a friend most of the time… Joel now, Joel keeps his distance, but he’s a big lawyer downtown. You wait till they hear what Dwayne has done… Esther is always happy to hear about nice things people do!”

  Esther was thrilled, she was so pleased that she insisted the boy come along with his mother the next school holiday; he would meet Mark, she said, and since they both were good students, they should have a great time together. They should have thought of it a long time ago," she said.

  Dwayne almost died. He hated Mark, had never seen him, had never planned to know any of the Levys, they were cartoon people to him. There was the pride thing too… He’d never thought much about his mother’s work; the floor scrubbing, polishing, and whatever else; he’d just vaguely planned to get rich and let her retire to a fine home of her own, big as the Levys’. He tried to talk his way out of it on the bus ride to Ocean Boulevard, but his mother’s thoughts were already previewing the day. So he prepared for the encounter with his nemesis, Mark. He might encounter intellectual put-downs, he thought, sarcasm, even bad manners, he felt he could deal with those; but he expected they’d most likely spend the day making polite grunts and staring out of the window.

  He didn’t notice his mother watching him, but she had heard his protests, although she gave no sign, she had also heard him when he went about the house mumbling that he was probably just as smart as Mark Levy, heard him quoting big words and ideas, always within her earshot, looking for something… She would let it go because she worried that his ‘intelligence’ might not be real. He had come from her after all; and his father hadn’t amounted to very much. Sure, the boy read a lot, but then she knew there were vagrants in the subways and street corners talking big words and know-it-all ideas … She had to keep Dwayne’s feet on the good, hard ground. She’d push him towards the military when the time came, but now she wanted her boy to know Mark who was really bright; Science and Math bright. Someday, Doctor or Lawyer Mark might remember them and help Dwayne make it in the world for her sake; she could see them in the cafeteria of Mark’s future company sharing thoughts of her over coffee.

  She settled into that as a daydream…The meeting wasn’t the mess Dwayne had expected; Joel Levy came out to the bus stop to pick up Ella, as he did every morning, and he eyed her son with curiosity. It wasn’t his nature to show that he was buoyed up by the story of the boy’s rescue of the Rabbi. Esther, he reasoned, would show their pleasure and present him with the nice gift they got him. He did give Dwayne a nod and a lawyer’s smile when he dropped them at the apartment house entry.

  Dwayne felt uneasy in the plush car and out of place, going into the fine glass, brass, and brick building. He felt really uneasy when Esther greeted him with gushy smiles of welcome; he feared losing his reserve, his only defense against Mark’s possible sarcasm, or coolness towards ‘the maid’s boy’…

  But, when they were face to face, Mark’s face was as uncomplicated and open as that of some boy Life Scout; his round, brown eyes were in awe of Dwayne, the edges of his wide smile seemed to be spreading out to his prominent ears.

  “So, tell me, what were you thinking when you stood off the mob to save the Rabbi?” They were in Mark’s room, squatting Indian style on the floor. Dwayne was still wary. He was beginning to loosen, though, and to like Mark Levy. He still needed to match off IQs with the kid, but for a while he enjoyed the role of storyteller.

  “Wasn’t much time to think,” he replied, and went on to retell the story, stretching his role and doubling the crowd.

  “Jews haven’t got saved from too many mobs in history,” Mark said, shaking his head slowly, “the times when it happens seem like really special events.”

  “I just did what was right and that’s that. Everybody wants to say I’m some kind of hero. It’s goofy.”

  “You are some kind of hero. Most people would have let the old Hasid take the beating and slipped away…” Dwayne had seen Mark’s shoulders tighten as he said that and figured Mark was wondering what he would have done in that place, so Dwayne said:

  “For instance, if you had been there we would have gone back to back against the rabble, done in those Jacobins!”

  “Disperse the rebels, huh?” Mark cried.

  “Louis the sixteenth forever!” Dwayne shouted, and they both broke down giggling.

  “You’ve been reading too many novels…” said Mark.

  “You’re talking?”

  The two of them tested each other, bouncing the arcane knowledge they had been storing up off each other as they feasted on the tray of roast chicken, macaroons, sodas, and cheesecake Mark’s mother brought in. Then Mark suggested they go riding. He loaned Dwayne his backup bicycle and led the way down Ocean Boulevard towards the Bay.

  They hadn’t gone the distance of half a block along the sunny, wide Boulevard before bystanders stopped and stared, some of the men began shouting, “Look out!” and “Behind you!”

  Suddenly the boys realized that people thought that Dwayne, the Dark Stranger, was chasing down Mark, the Neighborhood Kid… Mark looked back at Dwayne, shaking his head in disgust at the stupidity. Then out of nowhere a car cut them off, forcing both bikes to the curb; a balding man got out huffing, placing himself between Mark and Dwayne. Just as suddenly, a tall youth of about seventeen, wearing an embroidered mini-yarmulke skidded his bike to a noisy halt at the site:

  “Shai!” Mark cried, recognizing the olive-skinned, curly headed youth.

  “Mark!” he responded. “Don’t worry, you’ll be OK…” He glanced at Dwayne with malice.

  Mark turned his back on both rescuers; his eyes sought the skies as he smacked his skull with both hands.

  Addressing the two, Mark stressed that he wasn’t in any trouble and that they had made a mistake. They insisted he was speaking under duress. Dwayne stood by; fascinated by their hand gestures…

  “So, who is—the guy?” Shai asked, not even glancing at Dwayne;

  “He’s a guest in my house,” Mark said.

  “What? You have never even invited me into your home…”

  “Well, look at you—you’re out of my age group; I see you at ball games, Young Israel…”

  The bald headed man just got into his car and left, “Be careful!” he shouted to no one specifically.

  “Shai—Dwayne; Dwayne—Shai,” Mark tried—no handshake, unmet glances, but head-nod acknowledgments…

  “Seriously, Shai, you want to come up, we’ll be back in an hour, you know the house, apartment 6-H.”

  “I’ll look for the yellow tape…” Shai snorted. Then, seeing the outrage on their faces, he let go his rare, odd-looking grin: “I’m joking,” he said, “I can’t joke?”

  Later, Mark told Dwayne that Shai was only a schlemiel on the outside… on the inside, he said, he was OK when you got past his palmach act. Dwayne knew schlemiel from Mad Magazine, palmach from Time. Shai, Mark said, was bull-headed, zealous; he’d been dropped from membership in youth groups; even the local Jewish Defense Group.

  “I want him to hang around with us; maybe stop him from turning into a real redneck…” Mark said earnestly. Mark also sensed Dwayne’s embarrassment over the incident and he got an idea. They returned to the apartment and Mark found an embroidered yarmulke for Dwayne; they pinned it to his hair and set out again down the Boulevard.

  This time, a woman dropped her groceries a
nd a car rear-ended another. They decided to stay inside.

  Back up in Mark’s room the talk turned to racism, which they agreed they hated. Dwayne recalled the stories his relatives kept alive about the attacks, the insults, and the discrimination they went through, in the North as well as the South.

  Mark was surprised at the hate acts Dwayne described, he allowed that he was raised in a ‘cocoon’ but he had never heard of anyone even being touched by bigotry.

  Shai came up, he muttered about all the places he had to get to but said he could give them some of his time and advice.The boys shared wry grins and the understanding that Shai was lonely and glad for their company.

  “Try to put up with him, Dwayne,” Mark whispered, “he’s not stupid, but Shai’s not a thinker, not ‘brainy’ like us.”

  Dwayne couldn’t answer: he was dizzy from the blast of self-esteem Mark had unknowingly set off…

  Shai gave his thoughts on the discrimination topic, “You get back from society what you put in,” he said, “a group that produces goods, inventions, medicines, a group like our kind,” he nodded towards Mark, “that group then gets accepted because they are valuable. Now groups that just work to eat—groups that don’t open stores, engage in commerce… They can expect to lose out… That’s the way it is!”

  Dwayne replied that his folk had another tradition; that they carried memories of generations of sharecropping in the South, where ‘stores’ were run by the landowners who cheated tenants out of their crop profits by tying them to high prices in their stores. Everyone knew legends of enterprising Blacks who started little stores in price competition with ’Mister.’Every story ended with a burning-out or a lynching and the whispered fear that the Black man brought ruin on himself by trying to climb higher than was allowed. “It’s still a strong feeling,” Dwayne told them. “Our entrepreneurs are really cautious and still get hit hard in competing…”