Ike’s Word

by Edd

The old woman sits on her stoop and dispenses words. Nobody really remembers when she first arrived, but Mister Rainey, who’s retired now, went to her when he was in second or third grade. She said one word that changed him forever. She never spoke to him again, he says.

It’s like that. Parents take their kids to the old woman. She won’t say anything if they stay to listen, but once a child is alone with her she will look them over. From head to toe, from leftmost finger to rightmost, from skin on in.

Then she whispers a word.

I never got a word. We moved to Harlem when I was ten, and my parents didn’t even know about the old woman until Ike was almost too old. Now I’m fifteen, he’s nine, and we’re standing on the curb looking at her. The ice cream truck has just passed, and she’s gumming a rocket pop.

Ike followed me around every day, idolizing me, wanting nothing more than to be me. It’s annoying, it’s flattering, it’s what little brothers have done since time began.

Something will happen to Ike when he gets his word. He’ll be different, an individual. That scares me. I don’t want us to grow apart. I’ve had my fights with dad and mom, but Ike’s my brother and always will be. At least that’s how I think it is. What he might think after getting his word I don’t know. I reach for his shoulder, to turn him around so we can leave.

She looks up. Ignoring me, she glances at Ike and it’s as if she says, “Come here, boy.”

He walks to her. She sits there and she runs the rocket pop around her gums and she looks at him. Bit by bit and all over she examines him.

She leans forward. So does he, until his ear is next to her mouth. She pulls the pop out and lets it drip. Then I see her lips move. He steps back and turns.

A new Ike looks out of his eyes. He’s looking at me almost the way the old woman looked at him. Then he smiles. “Let’s get ice cream,” he says.

He leads the way down the street to where the truck waits.