The Treasure of Lemon Brown
Language Arts
The treasure of lemon Brown, by Walter dean Myers. The dark sky filled with angry, swirling clouds, reflected gray, Ridley's mood, as he sat on the stoop of his building. His father's voice came to him again. First, reading the letter, the principle had sent to the house, then lecturing endlessly about his poor efforts in math. I had to leave school when I was 13 his father had said, that's a year younger than you are now. If I had had half the chances you have, I'd, Greg had sat in the small pale green kitchen, listening, knowing the lecture would end with his father saying he couldn't play ball with the scorpions. He had asked his father the week before and his father had said it depended on his next report card. It wasn't often the scorpions took on new players, especially 14 year olds, and this was a chance of a lifetime for Greg. He had been allowed to play high school ball, which he had really wanted to do, but playing for the community center team was the next best thing. Report cards were doing a week, and Greg had been hoping for the best, but the principal had ended the suspense early when she sent that letter, saying Greg would probably fail math if he didn't spend more time studying. And you want to play basketball, his father's his father's browse, knitted over deep brown eyes. That must be some kind of joke. Now you just get into your room and hit those books. That have been two nights before. His father's words, like the distant thunder that now echoed through the streets of Harlem, still rumbled softly in his ears. It was beginning to cool. Gusts of wind made bits of paper dance between the parked cars. There was a flash of near by lightning, and soon dropped large drops of rain splashed onto his jeans. He stood to go upstairs, thought of the lecture that probably awaited him if he did anything except shut himself in his room with his math book and started walking down the street instead. Down the block there was an old tenement that had been abandoned for some months. Some of the guys had held an impromptu checker tournament there the week before, and Greg had noticed that the door, once boarded over, had been slightly ajar. Pulling his collar up as high as he could, he checked for traffic, and made a dash across the street. He reached the house, just as another flash of lightning changed the night today for an instant, then returned the graffiti scarred building to the grim shadows. He vaulted over the outer stairs and pushed tentatively on the door. It was open, and he let himself in. The inside of the building was dark, except for the dim light that filtered through the dirty windows from the street lamps. There was a room a few feet from the door, and from where he stood at the entrance gray could see a squarish patch of light on the floor. He entered the room, frowning at the musty smell. It was a large room that might have been someone's parlor at one time. Squinting, grant could see an old table on its side against one wall. What looked like a pile of rags or a torn mattress in the corner, an a couch, with one side broken, in front of the window. He went to the couch. The side that wasn't broken was comfortable enough, though a little creaky. From this spot, he could see the blinking neon sign over the bodega on the corner. He sat a while, watching the sign blink first green, then red, allowing his mind to drift to the scorpions, then to his father. His father had been a postal worker for all Greg's life. That was proud of it. Often telling Greg how hard he had worked to pass the test. Greg had heard the story too many times to be interested now. For a moment, Greg thought he heard something that sounded like scraping against the wall. He listened carefully, but it was gone. Outside the wind had picked up, sending The Rain against the window with a force that shook the glass in its frame. A car passed, its tires hissing over the wet street, and its red tail lights glowing in the darkness. Grand thought he heard the noise again. His stomach tightened as he held himself still and listened intently. There weren't any more scraping noises, but he was sure he had heard something in the darkness. Something breathing. He tried to figure out just where the breathing was coming from. He knew it was in the room with him. Slowly he stood, tensing, as he turned a flash of lightning, lit up the room, frightening him with its sudden brilliance. He saw nothing, just the overturn table, the pile of rags, and an old newspaper on the floor. Could he have been imagining the sounds? He continued listening but heard nothing, and thought that it might have just been rats. Still, he thought, as soon as The Rain let up, he would leave. He went to the window, was about to look out when he heard a voice behind him. Don't try nothing because I got a razor here sharp enough to cut a weakened to 9 days. Greg, except for an involuntary tremor in his knees, stood stock still. The voice was high and brittle, like dry twigs being broken, surely not one he had ever heard before. There was a shuffling sound, as the person who had been speaking moved a step closer. Greg turned, holding his breath, his eyes straining to see in the dark room. The upper part of the figure before him was still in darkness, the lower half was in the dim rectangle of light that fell unevenly from the window. There were two feet in cracked, dirty shoes, from which rows, legs, that were wrapped in rags. Who are you? Greg hardly recognized his own voice. I'm lemon Brown, came the answer. Who are you? What you doing here? The figure shuffled forward again, and Greg took a small step backward. It's raining, Greg said. I can see that the figure said. The person who called himself lemon Brown peered forward, and grant could see him clearly. He was an old man. His black, heavily wrinkled face, was surrounded by a halo, of crinkly white hair, and whiskers that seemed to separate his head from the layers of dirty coats piled on his smallish frame. His pants were banged to the knee, where they were met with rags that went down to the old shoes. The rags were held on with strings, and there was a rope around his middle. Great relaxed. He had seen the man before, picking through the trash on the corner and pulling clothes out of a Salvation army box. There was no sign of the razor that could, cut a week into 9 days. What are you doing here, Greg asked? This where I'm staying. Lemon Brown said, what'd you hear for? Told you it was raining out, Greg said, leaning against the back of the couch until he felt it gives slightly. Ain't you got no home? I got a home, Greg answered. You ain't want to them bad boys looking for my treasure, is you? Lemon Brown, cocked his head to one side, and squinted one eye. Because I told you I got me a razor. Not looking for your treasure, Greg answered, smiling. If you have one. What do you mean if I have one? Lemon Brown said. Every man got a treasure, you don't know that. You must be a fool. Sure, Greg said. As you said on the sofa and put one leg over the back. What do you have? Gold coins? Don't worry none about what I got. Lemon Brown said, you know who I am? You told me your name was orange or lemon or something like that. Lemon Brown, the old man said, pulling back his shoulders as he did so. They used to call me, sweet lemon Brown. Sweet lemon, green gas. Yes, sir, sweet lemon Brown. They used to say our son, the blue, so sweet, that if a saying at a funeral the dead would commence to rocking with the beat. Used to travel all over Mississippi and as far as Monroe, Louisiana, and east on over to Macon Georgia, you mean you ain't never heard a sweet lemon Brown. Frey naan, Greg said. What happened to you? Hard times, boy. On time's always after a poor man. One day I got time. Sat down to rest a spell and felt it, tap on my shoulder. Hard times caught up with me. Sorry about that. What are you doing here? How come you don't go on home when The Rain come? Rainbow bother you young folks, none. This didn't Greg looked away. I used to have a knotty headed boy just like you. Lemon Brown had half walked half shuffle back to the corner and sat down against the wall. And then big eyes like you got. Used to call them moon eyes. Look into them moon eyes and see anything you want. How come you gave up singing the blues, Greg asked? Didn't give it up. Lemon Brown said, you know, give up the blues. They give you up. After a while you do good for yourself and it ain't nothing but foolishness, singing about how hard you got it. Ain't that right? I guess so. What's that noise? Lemon Brown asked. Suddenly, sitting upright. Greg, listened, and he heard a noise outside. He looked at lemon Brown and saw the old man was pointing toward the window. Greg went to the window and saw three men, neighborhood thugs, on the stoop. One was carrying a length of pipe. Greg looked back toward lemon Brown, who moved quietly across the room to the window. The old man looked out, then beckoned frantically for Greg to follow him. For a moment, Greg couldn't move. Then he found himself following lemon Brown into the hallway up the darkened stairs. Greg followed as closely as he could. They reached the top of the stairs and Greg felt lemon brown's hand. First, lying on his shoulder, then probing down his arm until he finally took Greg's hand into his own and they crouched in the darkness. Days bad men lemon Brown whispered. His breath was warm against gray skin. Hey, rag man, a voice called out. We know you in here. To cut up under them rags, you got any money. Silence. We don't want to have to come in and hurt you, old man. But we don't mind if we have to. Lemon Brown squeezed Greg's hand in his own hard, gnarled fist. There was banging down stairs and a light as the men entered. They banged round noisily, calling for the rag man. We heard you talking about your treasure, the voice was slurred. We just want to see it. That's all. You sure he's here? One voice seemed to come from the room with the sofa. Yes, daisy or every night. There's another room over there. I'm going to take a look. You got that flashlight? Yeah, here. Take the pipe too. Greg opened his mouth to quiet the sound of his breath as he sucked it in uneasily. A beam of light hit the wall a few feet opposite him, then went out. Ain't nobody in that room, a voice said. You think he'd gone or something? I don't know, came the answer. Oh no, is that I heard him talking about some kind of treasure. You know they found that shopping bag lady with that money in her bags. Yeah, you think he's upstairs? Hey y'all man, are you up there? Silence. Watch my back. I'm going up. There was a footstep on the stairs, and the beam from the flashlight danced crazily along the peeling wallpaper. Greg held his breath. There was another step and allowed crashing noise as the man banged the pipe against the wooden banister. Grain could feel his temples throb as the man slowly neared them. Greg thought about the pipe, wondering what he would do when the man reached them. What he could do, then lemon Brown, released his hand, and moved toward the top of the stairs. Greg looked around and saw stairs going up to the next floor. He tried waving the lemon Brown, hoping the old man would see him in the dim light, and follow him to the next floor. Maybe Greg thought the man wouldn't follow them up there. Suddenly, though, lemon Brown stood at the top of the stairs, both arms raised high above his head. There he is, a voice cried from below. Oh man, so I won't have to bash your head in. Lemon Brown didn't move. Greying felt himself near panic, the steps came closer and still lemon Brown didn't move. He was an eerie sight, a bundle of rags standing at the top of the stairs, his shadow on the wall, looming over him, maybe the thought came to Greg, the scene could be even eerier. Greg, what his lips put his hands to his mouth, and tried to make a sound. Nothing came out. He swallowed hard, what his lips once worn, how old is evenly as he could. What's that? As Greg howled, the light moved away from lemon Brown, but not before Greg saw him hurl his body down the stairs at the men who had come to take his treasure. There was a crashing noise and then footsteps. A rush of warm air came in as the downstairs door opened, then there was only an ominous silence. Grang stood on the landing. He listened, and after a while there was another sound on the staircase. Mister Brown, he called, yes, it's me, came the answer. I got that flashlight. Can I get exhaled and relief? Is lemon Brown made his way slowly back up the stairs. You okay? The bumps and bruises, lemon Brown said. I think I better be going, Greg said, his breath returning to normal. You better leave too before they come back. They may hang around outside for a while. Women brown said, but they ain't getting a nerve up to come in here again. Not with crazy old rag man and howling spooks. This used to be a while till the coast is clear. I'm heading out west tomorrow. To east St. Louis. They were talking about treasure Greg said. You really have treasure? What I'll tell you. Didn't I tell you ever man got a treasure? Lemon Brown said, you want to see mine? If you want to show it to me, Greg shrugged. Let's look at the window first. See what them ground rules be doing. Lemon Brown said. They followed the oval beam of the flashlight into one of the rooms and looked out the window. They saw the men who had tried to take the treasure sitting on the curb near the corner. One of them had his pants leg up looking at his knee. You sure they're not hurt? Regret asked lemon Brown. Nothing hadn't been heard before. Lemon Brown said. When you get as old as me, all you say when something hurts is howdy mister Payne sees you back again. Then when mister Payne, so you can't worry you none. Go on, mess with someone else. Greg smiled. Here, you hold this. Lemon Brown gave Greg the flashlight. He sat on the floor near Greg and carefully untied the strings that held the rags on his right leg. When he took the rags away, Greg saw a piece of plastic. The old man carefully took up the plastic and unfolded it. He revealed some yellowed newspaper clippings in a battered harmonica. There would be, he said, nodding his head. There it be. Greg looked at the old man, saw the distant look in his eye and turned to the clippings. They told of sweet lemon Brown, a blues singer, and harmonica player, who was appearing at different theaters in the south, one of the clippings said he had been the hit of the show, although not the headliner. All of the clippings were reviews of shows, lemon Brown, and Benin, more than 50 years ago. Greg looked at the harmonica. It was dented badly on one side, with the Reed holes on one end nearly closed. He used to travel around and make money for the feed my wife and Jesse. That's my boy's name. Used to feed him good too. Then his mom had died, and he stayed with his mama's sister. He grown up to be a man, and when the wall come, he saw fit to go off and fatten it. I didn't have nothing to give himself these things and told him who I was and what he'd come from. If you know your pappy did something, no you can do something too. Anyway, went off the wall and I went off still playing and singing. Of course, by then I wasn't as much as I used to be without somebody to make it worth a while. You know what I mean? Yeah. Greg nodded, not quite really knowing. I traveled around in one time, I come home and there was this letter saying Jesse got killed in the war. Broke my heart. It truly did. They sent back what he had with him over there, and what it was is this old mouth fiddle and these clippings. Him carrying around with him, like that, told me it meant something to him. That was my treasure. And when I give it to him, he treated it just like that. Treasure. He does something. Yeah, I guess so. Greg said, you guess so? Lemon brown's voice rose and octave as he started to put his treasure back into the plastic. Well, you got to guess 'cause you sure don't know nothing. You know, no, not to get home when it's raining. I guess. I mean, you're right. You okay for a youngster, the old man said, as he tied the strings around his leg, then those scalawags, what come in here, looking for my treasure. That's for sure. You really think that treasure yours is worth fighting for, Greg asked? Against a pipe? What else a man got? Step one, he can pass on to his son or his daughter if she be as eldest. Lemon Brown said, for a big headed boy, you should do as a foolish question. Lemon Brown got up after padding his rags in place, and looked out the window again. Looks like they're gone. You get on out of here and get yourself home. I'll be watching from the window so you'll be all right. Lemon Brown went down the stairs behind Greg. When they reached the front door the old man looked out first, saw the street was clear and told Greg to scoot on home. You sure you'll be okay, Greg asked? Now did not tell you where I was going to east St. Louis in the morning. Remember Brown asked, doesn't that sound okay to you? Sure it does. Greg said, sure it does. And you take care of that treasure of yours. That I'll do. Lemon Brown said, the wrinkles about his eyes suggesting a smile. That, I'll do. The night had warmed and The Rain had stopped, leaving cuddles on the curbs, Greg didn't even want to think about how late it was. He thought ahead of what his father would say, and wondered if he should tell him about lemon Brown. He thought about it until he reached his stoop and decided against it. Lemon Brown would be okay, Greg thought, with his memories, and his treasure. Greg pushed the button over the bell marked Ridley, thought of the lecture he knew his father would give him. And smiled.