by Kekla Magoon
When the door opens—and I jump out of my skin—it’s not even Kimberly. Of course it’s not. She’s not due in for an hour.
It’s Yvonne. Looking dead serious.
“Hey.” I greet her with a smile anyway. “What’s going on?”
“It’s the funeral this morning,” she says.
Right. That’s enough to bring anyone down. “Yeah, I heard that on the news.”
Yvonne shakes her head. “There’s a problem. Unexpected.” She looks downright shaky all over.
“How can I help?”
Yvonne sinks into the chair on the other side of my desk. She bursts into tears. Whispers. “She was a child.”
My hands fumble toward a tissue box that I know is somewhere.… There it is.
I pull one. Two. Three. Fork them over. “I know. It’s a tragedy.”
She lets it go for a minute. I don’t really know what to do. My impulse is to go over and hug her or something. We’re friends, I guess. But she’s sort of my boss, and again, there’s an underlying no-touching rule about the workplace that’s hard to get over. I settle for pulling more tissues. Maybe there is no comfort, anyway, in the face of human cruelty.
Yvonne takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m supposed to be smooth and in charge.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it,” I assure her. “This is a rough one for all of us.”
Her tearful smile contains a thousand years of suffering.
“There are protestors,” she says finally. “At the funeral. They showed up with signs.”
“Not my SCORE crew. We didn’t arrange for that.”
“No.” Yvonne clears her throat. “Not us. Not on behalf of Shae.”
That doesn’t compute. “They’re protesting the funeral?”
Yvonne nods. “Someone organized a group. I don’t know from where.”
She turns her phone to face me. The image on the screen strikes hard. All the breath rushes out of me. The background is filled with the chests, knees, and arms of several adults carrying posters and banner sticks. The focus is on a small girl, not more than ten, standing at the front of the group. Her long blond pigtails fall over her shoulders, framing the hand-lettered sign at her chest:
SHE HAD IT COMING.
KIMBERLY
Zeke’s call makes no sense, and neither does this vision of the small clump of white women outside the funeral. From the corner of the church steps, they sprawl out in front of me, a sea of hateful signs, hateful faces. It is impossible to comprehend and yet it’s taking place in real time. The edges of two different worlds collide and the aftershocks would bring me to my knees. But I have a job to do.
It’s easy enough to count the women. Twelve. They have children with them. Four small, pale beings bundled in colorful coats and hats. They are one small, silent island, but they loom large, even amid the hundreds of people coming up the steps for the funeral.
I don’t know who they are. A women’s group? Church ladies? Cops’ wives? A book club? I don’t know who they are, but I know who they follow. A woman in the front has a Wes Steele Studio logo on her jacket. One of their signs reads END THE WAR ON COPS. Another reads EXPOSE THE BLACK CONSPIRACY #MAKEITKNOWN.
I post from the SCORE account, tagging every news outlet on our list. The news media will show up sooner or later. The ones who are already on-site are actively filming.
My still shots of the group lack the power of video, but to film too long means I have to stop posting. I take a 15-second short every now and again. Try not to focus on how I’m eating through data.
This is history. This is worth it. This is the twenty-first century’s Birmingham. This is radical segregationist stay-in-your-inferior-place bullshit and we can’t stand for it.
It’s bizarre to see my pics—mine—going viral.
Zeke texts. You OK?
I’m good. I’m on it.
I’m on my way. Hang in there.
Hang in there. That’s what they want, too. This is a twenty-first century lynching and they’ve come with their picnic baskets to witness the spectacle.
As if she’s read my mind, one of the women whips a square of cloth from her bag, spreads it over the pavement. She settles the smallest of the children onto it, pouring out Tupperware. String cheese and grape halves and Goldfish crackers. The toddlers loll against the handle of her sign, which reads:
HENDERSON DESERVES A MEDAL, NOT A PUBLIC LYNCHING.
Click. Post. A picture is worth a thousand words.
TINA
Shae was my friend
She’s gone now
Tariq was my friend
not only my brother
He’s gone now
I am supposed to say Tariq died
but gone sounds nicer
I am supposed to come to terms
which means to accept it.
This is confusing
because it is not up to me whether it is true
Tariq is dead
but gone sounds nicer.
It does not mean I don’t know what is real.
Words can mean different things
Why doesn’t everybody know this?
Now I say it the other way out loud
Tariq is dead.
Shae is dead.
Grown-ups are goofy sometimes
In my head, gone sounds nicer.
BRICK
Sheila likes riding with the windows down, even though it’s too cold. Today, I let her. We’re going to her best friend’s funeral, so she deserves a pass on the stupid stuff.
She buzzes the window up and down, eyeing me. Her smile is huge.
She leans out and giggles, straining against her seat belt. Her cheeks redden, her eyes sparkle, and she glances at me out the corner of her eyes waiting for me to crack down, like I usually do.
Maybe she doesn’t care about the window. She just wants to get a rise out of me.
“It’s too cold,” I chide her. “Stop that.”
Buzz, buzz. Side-eye. Grin.
It’s not about the window. It’s the fun of breaking the rule. Huh. That’s my kid sister all right.
“Come on, goofball. Are you trying to freeze us out?”
I wonder if she finds healing in her own reckless laughter, or if the game just takes her to another place.
The spire of the church pokes up at the end of the block. Cars everywhere. There’s going to be nowhere to park. Should’ve realized that earlier.
The 8-5 Kings better show up in force. My word is law.
And yet I’ve been hearing about it for two days. “Why we gotta show at some kid’s funeral?”
What goes unsaid: there’s a funeral every day in Underhill. For someone too young.
The implication slams me like a hit. Why do we care about this one, and not all the rest? Because of Sheila. Like losing T, like losing a member of our ranks, this one hits home.
“Respect.” I’m in charge. We care when I say we care.
“Breeeeeeeeeeze,” Sheila drawls, pulling for my attention. The window goes all the way down.
“We’re almost there, goofball. Roll it up.”
I reach across and poke her tummy. Hysterics. Kids are so simple sometimes. When I pull my hand back, she stops suddenly.
“Is it bad to laugh on a sad day?” Sheila asks.
Not so simple.
MELODY
They roll in the tiny coffin. Music plays. Organ swelling, choir moaning, that kind of thing. Can’t help but get thick in the throat. Tina’s small hand slips into mine. Her mother sits at her other side, stroking her back. It’s interesting. Often she slides away into her own separate world, not wanting to be touched or bothered. But when she wants comfort, it’s here for her in spades.
In the middle of the service, Sheila comes to me, crying. She slips down the aisle from somewhere behind. I wrap my arms around her and pull her into the pew with us. There is room. We can make room. She tucks herself onto my lap.
A second
later, a long shadow crosses us. Brick looms over me.
He takes Sheila’s hand. “Come on back. Sorry,” he says to me.
Sheila presses herself against me tighter. She doesn’t need to worry. I won’t let go. “It’s okay, she can sit with us.”
“She needs to sit with family.”
I shake my head. This is what he gets for sending her away.
“There are all kinds of family.”
His body tightens up.
Maybe it’s a slap in the face. Maybe that’s a risk worth taking. Turn my head, send a glance toward all Brick’s boys in their row.
“You made your choice a long time ago.”
JENNICA
They come into the diner together, two men in nice clothes, well layered, with signs folded in their bags. I bring them menus and water and they ask for tape to repair a thing.
They order bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches and fries. When they ask to borrow the tape, I think absolutely nothing of it. I bring it, and they say thanks. They smile politely.
I could’ve said Sorry, we’re out and sent them across the street to the corner store to buy some. They don’t look like they’re from around here. I did notice that. We don’t get a lot of clean-cut white boys out to eat in Underhill.
Their signs are horrible, confusing, upsetting. I stay behind the counter as they do up their tape job, looking satisfied with themselves. I hope they finish before their order comes up. I have to bring them their sandwiches, but it would be easier if I could pretend I didn’t see.
They leave me a decent tip. I’m surprised they’re willing to eat in a diner in this neighborhood. They must’ve been really hungry, to accept food prepared by black hands. Except, by the look of them, I doubt they even know what it means to be hungry.
OFFICER YOUNG
I don’t agree with their signs. I’m not racist. People should live and let live.
Certainly, they should live and let Rest in Peace. It was a kid, after all. It’s distasteful to show up with hate signs at someone’s funeral, regardless of how you feel about things. There’s such a thing as basic decency, after all.
I hook my thumbs over my belt, put on my sternest expression. No one gets through me. Not today.
I’m not worried about it, though. They’re all just standing there with their signs. Exercising their First Amendment rights. They’re not even yelling.
They’re not here to start a fight.
DEVANTE
“Can you fucking believe this?” Robb marches into the lounge, where I’m trying to study. Econ is kicking my butt already and we’re only a couple weeks into the semester.
“Which part?”
Robb holds up his phone. It’s open to the Twitter feed of Underhill SCORE. Picture after picture of the white protestors and their rabid, homemade signs.
Tiny flames erupt beneath my skin. My voice, though, barely simmers. “They misspelled the N-word. Kinda undercuts the argument, don’t you think?” My fingers fan the pages of my textbook. I really need to focus. I don’t have time for this.
“She was a little girl! Why are they picketing her funeral?”
I rub my temples. “Uh. ’Cause they’re messed in the head?”
“It makes no sense.”
“It’s racism. It never made any sense.”
Robb paces. “For a child.”
“Remember that school shooting? All the elementary schoolers? People planned to picket at the funeral.”
“That’s batshit.”
I shrug. It infuriates me to my marrow, and yet the world keeps turning. I still have an Econ quiz at two. “It happens all the time after hate crimes. The shooting in that nightclub in Florida.”
“The gay club?”
“Yeah. They’re cool with domestic terrorism as long as it’s ultra-wack white Christians doing the terrorizing.”
“Ultra-wack,” Robb echoes. He tosses himself down on one of the couches. Great. Now I’ll have to endure his popcorn thoughts.
“Look, I gotta study.”
“Sure, sure.” Robb scrolls through his phone, occasionally clucking in disgust. He never seems to study. I don’t know if he gets good grades like magic, or if he just doesn’t care if he does well. A job in his dad’s company is already waiting for him.
There are earbuds in my backpack, somewhere. Here they are. Whew. I pop them in, even though I was enjoying studying in silence. I really don’t feel like music right now.
My thumb stops on an album of thunderstorm sounds. Yup. That feels fitting.
WILL/EMZEE
When the bell rings at 11:40, I don’t go to the cafeteria. I pack up my books, take my coat from my locker, and bounce. No one stops me or asks questions. Easy as that. Skipping is a no-brainer, it turns out.
All I know is, I can’t sit still anymore.
I’ve been prepping for college. Steve’s big on academic achievement, and I’ve got the goods, you know? I can put pencil to paper and come up with some solid thesis statements or whatever.
Today, I don’t know. Four more years feels like a long time to be cooped up in a classroom, waiting for real life to kick in. Real life’s alive and kicking all over Underhill, right this very minute.
Or else it’s got a bullet in it. And it’ll all be over before it begins.
The apartment is quiet in the middle of the day. Too quiet.
The pile of textbooks stares silently back at me from the middle of the dining room table. This homework feels like nothing now. No meaning to it.
On the other hand, my backpack, my hoodie, a half-dozen cans of paint—they scream to me.
What went down with Tariq Johnson, well, you could chalk that up to bad luck. A freak thing. Call it gang banging, put it in a box with things that don’t make sense, and padlock it away.
But this girl now? Shae?
You can’t call that nothing but racist. Tragic. The cops are gunning for our annihilation, one innocent at a time. They say they ain’t, but they keep on shooting. What’s that?
I should do my calculus worksheet now … but why? Because, screw it, I could spend ten years getting a PhD or whatever and still get shot on the street like a dog. LIKE A DOG. Worse than a dog, actually. With a dog, they stun you or Tase you and throw you in a net. They don’t shoot to kill dogs. Say it’s inhumane. I’ll paint a dog, being killed. Watch the news cover it as a blight on the community. I’ll paint a black man being killed. No news. Cruelty to animals = sickness. We are less than animals now.
TINA
We Don’t Call It a Picnic
Ladies, ladies
loud ladies
big ladies
chewing ladies
sipping ladies
humming, Lord Jesus
humming, my baby
humming all the way to the cathedral sky
crying ladies
hugging ladies
stories and stories and stories
all sad
laughing anyway
checkered tablecloth
fried chicken and greens
biscuits and mac and cheese
vocabulary word: cliché
means
always delicious
princess tablecloth, like someone’s birthday
pies and cakes and cookies
yum
red tablecloth
iced tea and lemonade
and someone’s uncle, Arnold Palmer
vocabulary word: family
means
blood and beyond
plain black tablecloth, plastic
photos and notebooks and tears
because
they don’t make deathday tablecloth
TYRELL
“Hi, Tyrell.” The background hums with sounds of chatter.
“Tina? Where are you?” My brain zings upright. Is she lost? Is she in trouble?
“I memorized your number. I can call you from any phone.”
“That’s very smart. Whose phone are you us
ing?”
“The one on the wall.”
“Which wall?”
“The church. It’s a funeral,” she says.
Oof. “You’re at Shae’s funeral right now?”
“There are too many people.”
“I bet. Does your mom know where you are?”
“She’s busy.”
“What is she doing?”
“Holding Shae’s mom’s hand. She’s crying a lot.”
“I bet.” I rub my forehead. I’m really not sure how to help Tina from here. “Don’t go outside, okay?” I’ve seen the news. The mess over there is hard to fathom.
“There are too many people outside, too.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“Did you know there are six different ways to make macaroni and cheese?”
“I bet there’s more than that,” I say. “Why do you think there are only six?”
“There are six macaroni pans on the table downstairs. They all look different.”
“Which one did you like best?”
“The ones without any crunchy stuff on top.”
“Oh, but the crunchy stuff is my favorite.”
“You can have it.”
I laugh. “You’re all about the cheese, huh?”
“Tariq says cheese and noodles are the perfect food.”
“Yeah, he liked his mac and cheese, didn’t he?” My eyes close of their own accord. Let the memories scroll across the screen of my mind. With Tina on the end of the line, it doesn’t hurt as much. My heart doesn’t try to stop.
“Everyone likes mac and cheese, silly.”
“Who you calling silly, silly?”
Tina giggles. There is a small pause. “I won’t go outside,” she says. “There are lots of police out there. I don’t want them to get me.”
Oh, my heart. “You stay with your mom, and you’ll be okay.” I want to add, I promise, but it doesn’t seem very wise, all things considered.
EVA
We light candles in the living room. “In honor of a young life lost,” Daddy says.
“We could go to the funeral,” I say.
