FATHER'S FOOTSTEPS
By Tony Cheatham

Prologue
<September, 1975>

James "Bianco" Thompson took a long drag off the Salems brand cigarette that lay between his thumb and forefinger. He leaned against the plush padding of the creme leather couch, blew a line of smoke through his thick lips. Scoped the room through squinted eyes for the hundredth time, remembering the dissatisfaction with the furniture setup in his condo. He'd paid a decorator two grand to do the job for about an hour's work. In looking around the room, he felt like he'd thrown his money away. Wide World of Sports was set to come on the tube in a few minutes. He loved to see Cosell messing with Ali's head during his interview.

Chapter 1
    June, 1935

James sat on the matted tan carpet arms wrapped around legs folded up to his chest. He was studying his father. Willie Thompson Sr. wouldn't let his kids call him Pop or Daddy. He liked his name, didn't take to anybody calling him William or Will. Willie Sr. had been born and raised right there in Colver City. Had never been outside of the city limits. Never had the desire to see Baltimore, the next big city to the south or Philly to the north just over the state line like everybody else did. Figured one city was just like the other. Same crime, same problems. James was quiet, his father's seriousness giving the order. James watched Willie Sr. lean forward from the tattered green favorite chair planted in the center of the living room, face empty of expression. His ears were glued to the Joe Louis-Primo Carnera bout, deciphering the announcer's words through the wall of static coming from the RCA radio. On the right side of the chair, a wooden sound box sat atop of a tray supported by crisscrossed metal legs. On the left side a broken metal fan sat on the floor, its cord wrapped around its wide base. Beside the radio was an open can of beer. In front of the can, a Lucky Strike cigarette rested in the black ceramic ashtray James made in school for Father's Day. James watched the smoke rise and twist from the cigarette ash before disintegrating into the air. A tattered couch, its orange stuffing exposed in the middle cushion, sat behind his father by the front door. The bedrooms were toward the rear of the apartment, just past the couch and the small kitchen. The master bedroom was only inches larger than the bedroom where he and his brothers slept. Over the couch was a picture of a vase of sunflowers to hide a hole in the wall. The once bright yellow color of the flowers in the painting had faded its edges dirty from a combination of sticky children's hands and secondhand cigarette smoke. James watched his father lean in closer to the radio straining to hear through the static. James was able to make out the announcer saying something about a left to Carnera's jaw from Louis. Willie Sr.'s demeanor didn't change, though the shifting in the chair followed by a further forward lean was a sign he liked what he heard. From what the announcer said on the radio, Louis wasn't a big name fighter. Still, it was cool to hear about a black man in the boxing ring. Plus Louis had two black managers and a black trainer in his corner. Before the fight the announcer said the small black man didn't have a chance against the six-foot, two hundred sixty-pound Italian fighter. But from what James could hear, Louis was holding his own. James felt a drop of sweat roll down his face. The sun had been behind some clouds for most of the day, but the air was still thick with humidity. Made the three-room apartment on the second floor ten degrees hotter than it was outside. Through the apartment's two open windows, could hear the laughter of children playing in the street. Hearing the fun made James think about going outside to join them. Instead, he sat there listening to the fight.

    Willie Sr. was still dressed in the dirty factory blues that had his name stitched to the right side of the uniform in red letters. Levinson's Tile where Willie Sr. worked misspelled his name ending with a y instead of ie, but he never said anything about it. Three empty beer cans were scattered around the black work boots he'd worn to work. Dried sweat mixed with dirt masked his face as two beads of salted water made new tracks. Willie Sr. was home two hours earlier than his usual 7:30 walk in the door. And for four days within the past two weeks he was home even earlier than that. James saw his father glance at the clock hanging in the kitchen, the clock's face dirty with old splattered grease. Willie Sr. was starting to wonder about his family. James figured Ma had probably dragged his kid brother to her sister's house. Willie Sr. didn't like Aunt Linney coming over. Said she had a problem with minding her own business. Ma would probably stop at the corner store on the way home like she did every Saturday. And his older brother was probably hanging out in the street. Two years separated them but they weren't close. James knew his father. Willie Sr. wouldn't ask any questions until the fight was over.

    The announcer's voice was coming in clearer through the static. James heard the man's voice rise with excitement as Louis pelted Carnera with blows to the body, leaving him hanging on the ropes. James cut a glance at his father. He was smiling. The announcer telecast each punch yelling over the crowd in the background, until Carnera was down on the mat. The fight was over in the sixth round by a knockout. His father was still smiling when he turned off the radio.

    "You hear that Jimmy?" asked his father, shaking his head. James liked when his father called him Jimmy. Made him feel like a standout from his brothers since they didn't have nicknames. "Louis knocked that white boy on his ass." James nodded. "That nigga Louis is a baaad cat." Willie Sr. rose from the chair, the alcohol causing him to wobble slightly as he threw some shadow punches into the air. Willie Sr. picked up the white-labeled beer can with his left hand, and put the rim to his lips finishing what was left. He crushed the can and threw it on the floor with the rest of the empties. He picked up the cigarette and tapped the ash off with his forefinger taking a final drag down to the orange filter. Willie Sr. extinguished the Lucky Strike in the black ceramic ashtray and glanced again at the greasy-faced clock. He shook his head. He didn't like not knowing where his wife was. Didn't like that at all. The doorknob jiggled with the sound of keys being inserted into the lock from the other side. The door swung open as his five-year old brother Tyrone ran inside the apartment heading straight for his older brother, leaving their mother outside struggling with two brown bags. James started to go over and help her until his father shot him a look. Willie Sr. walked toward the door with a slight stumble and opened it wider for his wife. He kept his hand on the knob, eyeing her as she walked past him. James saw the sweat droplets beading up on his mother's coffee brown forehead. Willie Sr. slammed the door and walked over to the kitchen. He looked inside one of the bags and looked at his wife.

    "Where you been?"

    "I been out."

    "And why ain't my supper on the table?"

    "Cause it ain't," answered his wife. Her left hand rested on her hip as she stared back at Willie Sr. through slanted eyes. He didn't answer. Instead Willie Sr. walked over to the icebox shaped like a short fat man and pulled open its dingy white door. He reached inside and snatched out another white-labeled can. Willie Sr. pulled the tab back on the can. A surge of air escaped followed by an overflow of the yellow liquid and white suds spilling onto the hardwood kitchen floor. James was surprised they had stopped there. Usually his mother's simple answers would lead to a shouting match. James watched Willie Sr. spin around on his heels, walking towards his favorite chair without a word. His face was expressionless as he sank down into the cushion. He clicked on the radio. The announcer was giving post-fight commentary. Willie Sr. lit a Lucky Strikes, extinguished the match with a flick of his hand. He leaned back in the chair staring directly ahead of him. James could hear his mother complaining about his father under her breath. Tyrone was in a world of his own playing with a toy car on the living room floor. He imitated engine sounds with his mouth while playing with his toy car. The sound of a pan slamming against the top of the stove made James look towards the kitchen. Tyrone stopped playing long enough to look between James and his mother before escaping back into another world. James ignored the police siren that dissolved in through the living room window from outside. Willie Sr. took a loud sip out of the beer can and belched.

    "Where Willie Junior?" Willie Sr. asked the room. He answered his own question not waiting for a response. "Probably with that bunch a no goods." James knew the speech was next. Willie Sr. was summarizing his feelings of a wasted life. "That's the problem. Don't nobody listen to a goddamn thing I say around here. I'm the man of this goddamn house. Ya'll hear? And what I say goes goddammit! I told that boy not to hang with them criminals and he goes ahead and does what Willie Jr. wants to do. Staying out all night, coming home when he gets good and ready. Don't make no sense what that boy is doing out there." Willie Sr. took another swig of beer, formulating new thoughts on what was bothering him. "And on top of that Levinson cuts my goddamn hours at the plant. What am I supposed to do? A man can't even take care of his family with them hours he been giving me. Then I comes home and my damn supper ain't even on the table. Don't nobody respect Willie, but you know what? Willie don't need ya'll goddamn respect, you hear me woman? Willie don't need it!" James knew the speech. Heard the same thing every week since he could remember. James knew one thing. He wasn't going to let someone else have that much control in his life. Mr. Levinson pretty much owned his father. And when he didn't need his father anymore and laid him off, where would the family be then? James could see Ma was tired of dealing with it. She picked Tyrone off the floor and headed towards the bedroom. The door slammed behind her. James watched Willie Sr. down the last of the beer out of the white-labeled can. He was still mumbling something about respect under his breath and laughing to himself. In a few minutes Willie Sr. would be snoring in the chair where he would spend the night. That's when James would head out.