by Kekla Magoon
“No, we can’t,” Mommy says. “No one wants to see Daddy there.”
“Because he did a bad thing?” It doesn’t make sense, because when you do a bad thing, you’re supposed to apologize.
“He did his job.” Mommy is what Daddy calls a broken record, saying the same thing over and over.
“But what happened is a tragedy,” I say. This is the word everyone keeps using. The worst of the worst possible thing. The most terrible kind of sadness.
Daddy puts his head in his hands.
“It’s complicated,” Mommy says. “Let’s pray.”
NATIONAL NEWS NETWORK SPECIAL REPORT
Host: Shae Tatum’s funeral in Underhill.
NNN Commentator: This is the wildest thing I’ve ever seen. Protesting at a child’s funeral?
Guest Activist: There’s a history of counterprotest. Remember, the “God Hates Fags” contingent showed up at Matthew Shepard’s funeral.
Commentator: What is the point? It’s insult to injury. What do they hope to accomplish?
Guest: It’s a stunt.
Commentator: It’s twisted.
Host: And yet, legal. First Amendment protections.
Commentator: Hate speech is not protected. This is hate speech.
Guest: We have freedom of beliefs in this country. That doesn’t mean we have to tolerate cruelty.
Commentator: We tolerate a lot in the name of religious faith.
Guest: When a serial killer says God made him do it, we don’t let him off the hook for his crimes. Are we supposed to accept murder as a protected aspect of faith?
Host: That’s a false parallel.
Guest: Actually it’s not.
Commentator: But the white supremacists will turn around and say the same. That the mere presence of diversity impinges on their beliefs.
Guest: It doesn’t. It’s not the same.
Host: Why not?
Guest: Because exclusion and liberty can’t co-exist. Exclusion means you don’t have liberty and justice for all. Full inclusion is, or should be, an American value.
Commentator: The minute you accept the premise that intolerance is a valid point of view, you lose freedom.
Guest: Exactly.
Host: Isn’t that intolerant?
Guest: No. Empirically. My existence makes no threat to the personhood and liberty of a white supremacist. His existence does make a threat to mine.
Commentator: He perceives a threat, though.
Guest: He also thinks white people are better and more deserving than non-white people. His perception is not reality. More importantly, his perception does not get to define MY reality.
Host: Freedom of speech—
Commentator: I get it. It’s the difference between beliefs and actions.
Guest: You can believe you’re better than me all you want—
Commentator: But look at their signs. “She had it coming”? And what was trending on social media this morning from the same people? “The only good n—— is a dead n——.” I won’t say that word on air …
Guest: Thank you.
Commentator: That message is about more than a belief. It’s a call to action. That’s troubling.
Guest: My liberty does not stop a white supremacist from enjoying his own liberty. His existence and beliefs are specifically about limiting what someone who looks like me can do in society. How is that freedom?
Commentator: White supremacy enforces liberty for whites only, at the expense of all others. Which is the system we’re already living under.
Host: The system—
Guest: If a police officer is justified in shooting any citizen who appears to possibly have something in their hand, then we’d see similar proportions of dead “suspects” across races. If this justification only holds when the citizen is black, then black people are not safe anywhere. Not while holding a cell phone, not while driving lawfully, not while listening to headphones. As long as bias is our reality, black Americans are not truly free.
KIMBERLY
We sit side by side on the steps of the church. Zeke rubs his forehead, looking tired. “I’m starving. You wanna get some food?”
“Oh, sure.”
He jolts upright, dropping his hand. “I mean, uh, no. I mean, Kimberly, would you like to … or maybe not … I didn’t mean to suggest … I just said it.” His cheeks are all flushed. He’s adorable when he’s flustered.
“I’m hungry, too,” I said. “There’s a diner where my roommate works. If her manager’s not in, she can hook us up with some free dessert or something.”
“Sounds good,” he says, relieved.
He’s bending over backward to make clear that he wasn’t asking me out. Got it. I let him off the hook with a smile. “You act like you’ve never eaten out with a friend before.”
“Friend? Right. Yeah.” He shakes his head. “That’s totally normal.”
Now my cheeks are flushing. We’re side by side now. Maybe he won’t notice.
We walk in silence for a block or so. Should I be trying to make conversation? My head is kind of swirling with everything that happened this morning and I don’t know how to shake loose of it. I can’t get the image of those kids and that hateful sign out of my head.
“You’re really good at the media stuff,” Zeke says. “What did you major in?”
“Oh, I didn’t go to college.”
He blinks long and slow at me. “Really? Why not?”
“I got my cosmetology license,” I say.
He nods. “That’s great. And do you like what you’re doing now?”
“Yeah, sure,” I say. “I make decent tips at the salon. And I still have some time to volunteer.” I wave my cell phone at him. The battery is down to one red sliver of life.
He grins. “Sure. Well, we’re glad you’re on board.”
We. Okay. I get it. Still, it’s no effort at all to smile back. He has that kind of draw. “Right.”
“I mean, uh—” His long fingers dance in the air between us. “I mean, I’m glad you’re here.”
My face is hot, hot. “Thanks. I’m glad you’re here, too. Although, I mean, I guess none of us would be here if not for you, so…” Gah. Awkward much? My brain screams at me. SHUT UP.
“I’m proud of the work we’re doing,” he says. “SCORE is going to make a difference around here. I really think so.”
“Me too.” My hand twitches with the impulse to reach out and hold his. But I can’t. That would be weird. I don’t know where he is with all of this. It’s okay. We’re friends. Colleagues. He wants to share a meal with me. It’s enough.
We arrive at the diner. Jennica is working, which I expected. The place is not too crowded. She greets us and seats us near a window. Prime table placement. She lays down the menus for us, but I stay standing.
“Excuse me for a minute. I’m going to wash my hands.”
I make huge eyes at Jennica and tip my head toward the bathroom. It’s a one-seater, which I know, but she follows me in there anyway.
“Is this him? Zeke?”
“Yeah.”
She smiles and smacks my arm lightly with the backs of her fingers. “Oh, he’s cute.”
“Right?” I can’t hold it. I slip into the stall.
“Totally. And he’s into you.”
“You were there for like two seconds. How can you tell?”
“I know what guys are like. He was looking at you.”
It feels like I’m going to pee forever. I speak over the sound of it. “So, wait, is this a date?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Jennica says.
“We were both hungry after working the funeral. Not exactly romantic.”
“If he didn’t want to spend extra time with you, he’d be eating by himself.” Jennica starts washing her hands. “I have to go back. I have other tables.”
I squeeze my way around the stall door. My reflection in the mirror is frazzled and all my makeup is worn. “Gah. I’m so not dressed for this.
Maybe it’s not a date.”
“If he pays, it’s a date. Go get him.” She grins and slips out the door.
* * *
Forty minutes later, Jennica lays the check on the table. She glances at me out the corner of her eye, as she positions it delicately in the middle of the table. Exactly between us. It is all I can do not to laugh.
Moment of truth. Zeke reaches for the check. When he does, I put my hand forward also.
“I got it,” he says.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that,” I blurt, fumbling toward my purse.
“You worked hard today. The least SCORE can do is buy you dinner.”
Ah. So, he’s treating but as a SCORE work meal. What does this mean?
“Well, thanks,” I say. “That’s really nice of you.”
He smiles. “This was fun.”
“Yeah, it was. Thanks.” How many times do I need to thank him? Sheesh.
Zeke stands up. He plucks my coat off my chair and holds it while I slide my arms in. I make an excited face at Jennica while my back is to him. She gives me a double thumbs-up.
We step out to the sidewalk.
Zeke says, “I’d, uh … Kimberly, I’d like to buy you dinner another time, if you might be interested.”
JENNICA
They’re cute together. Kimberly claims not to know if he’s interested in her, but it’s so obvious. I mean, come on.
I’m happy for her, but there’s more to it. Something under the skin that doesn’t sit right. Maybe I’m jealous, which is awful and unfair. Kimberly deserves everything.
I’m butterfingers all afternoon. Feel it all slipping from my fingers.
When the door bell jangles, I know without turning who it’s gonna be.
Noodle. He had to choose tonight to drop by. It’s like he’s got some kind of radar for when I’m lonely, when I’m sad, when I’m vulnerable. How does he do that? How does he read my mood from all the way across the neighborhood? When we were together, he couldn’t read my mood from across the room.
“What are you doing here, Noodle?”
“I came to see you, baby. I missed you.”
Maybe. It sucks how much I want it to be true. “Then why don’t you ever text me back?” He’s hurt me too many times. I’m supposed to be strong. I am strong.
“I’ve been busy,” he says. “This girl who died, all the chaos. Haven’t you been busy, too?”
“Sure, of course.” I wave at the rest of the diner. “In fact, I’m busy right now.” If I walk away, maybe he’ll go. Not so much.
“Table for one,” he says, following me.
“Why don’t you just sit at the counter?” I suggest. Noodle doesn’t pay his check, let alone tip the way Brick does. I don’t want him taking up a whole table when it’s about to be the dinner rush.
“Nah.” He tosses himself into a prime booth that could seat four. “This is cozy.”
I pull in one big breath, gather my courage. “If you’re gonna sit there, you gotta spend at least fifty bucks,” I inform him. “It’ll come out of my tips, otherwise.”
Noodle grins. “Sure, sure. You know I’m good for it.”
“Up front,” I insist.
He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a fifty. “Most expensive cheeseburger I ever ate,” he says, grinning.
“Well done with fries and a shake?”
He grins. “I haven’t changed.”
Lord knows that.
As I return to the kitchen, my cell vibrates in my apron pocket.
This is me, texting you.
And then, while I check on my other tables.
You look hella sexy in that apron.
And then, while I’m refreshing the coffee.
Do that hair flippy thing that I like.
And then I stop looking. The phone vibrates six more times.
“Order up,” Troy calls.
I march back to Noodle’s table with the burger. He’s all smiles, all surface chill.
“What, you don’t write me back?” He pouts. “After giving me all that grief?”
I push the plate over to him and smack down a bottle of ketchup. “Stop it. I’m working.”
“Aren’t you gonna ask me if there’s anything else I need?”
The words almost rush out of me, by habit. But … “No.” I walk away.
He texts twice more. I don’t look. The diner gets more crowded, and Noodle’s taking his time with the fries and shake. I want his table to turn over.
When I finally circle back to clear his dishes, he says, “No, seriously. I hate to think you’ve been waiting by the phone.” His hand teases my hip.
“Of course not,” I lie. “I have a life. It’s just … if you’re gonna drop by like this, it’d be nice to hear from you in between.”
“We’re not together anymore,” he says. As if I need reminding. “You got no claim on me. We’re chill. We’re casual. I thought that’s what you wanted. Just friends, and shit.”
“We’re not getting back together,” I assure him. “I’m not expecting anything.”
“Then why you giving me grief about a few texts, baby? We cool?”
“Sure. Yeah.” I want him to go. I want him to leave me alone before it all becomes too much and the inevitable happens. I’m not strong. Not nearly strong enough to fight all the things he reminds me of. Being held. Being part of a pair. Having someone who would always, always bring me home.
As if I have willed it, Noodle grabs his coat and slides out of the booth. He seems not to notice that I’m holding his dirty plates in my hand. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. “Love you,” he says. “Miss you.” He holds me just long enough that my body wants to relax into him and let him carry me away.
He leaves, and about ten minutes later, my phone vibrates again. This time, I check, just in case it’s not him.
I really miss you, Noodle texts. Come home with me tonight?
It may or may not be true. The truth is that I’ve missed him and he knows it.
STEVE CONNERS
“What are you doing in my room?” Will demands. He marches in through the open door and tosses his backpack onto his bed.
I drew the short straw on who gets to talk with Will. Actually, I lobbied for the gig, although at the moment it doesn’t exactly feel like a win.
My wife is hopping mad, too mad to have this conversation in a reasonable tone. “I will tear him limb from limb,” she announced, the moment she hung up from the school attendance office. They called to report that Will missed his afternoon classes.
I offered to talk to him first, since she was threatening to take a metal spatula to his backside, as if he was still young enough to be cowed by the fear of a spanking. It seemed like a good plan at the time, but it failed. The second he walked through the door, she lit into him like there would be no tomorrow. So I came in here to wait.
“Mom already read me the riot act,” Will says.
“I heard.”
“So, leave me alone.”
“Let’s go get some ice cream,” I suggest.
He blinks, then scoffs. “What am I, seven?”
We used to go for ice cream when he was small. When my wife and I started seeing each other, he was so young, and already jaded by the world. By the men of the world, in particular. It took a long time to worm my way in, and looking at him now, I’m not sure if I ever fully got there.
“Rocky road,” I say. “Cookie dough. Are you really gonna make me go down there alone?” Ice cream outings used to be good for us. We got to talk a little, even if it was only about the merits of various toppings.
“I want to be alone,” Will says.
“She might not be finished,” I tell him. “If I go out there and have to say we didn’t talk, you better believe you’re gonna hear more from your mother.”
It’s a cheap shot, I know, but desperate times.
Will considers me. “I’m getting an entire banana split,” he says. “With extra everything.�
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“You can order whatever you want.” I clap him on the shoulder. He flinches.
BRICK
We stand at the window, looking down at the night. My condo overlooks the park, and the neighborhood beyond. They’ve placed floodlights at each corner. They’ve linked up rows of metal barred fences to keep people from gathering on the grass. So instead, people fill the streets, pressing and surging and chanting.
“You seen these barricades,” I tell Noodle. “We can’t stand for it. This is our turf.”
“You wanna walk up and tell the popo that? They will carve you up. Pigs.” He spits into an empty glass on the windowsill.
“Maybe we carve them up first. Let them know whose space they’re stepping into.”
Noodle huffs. “Sure, right. We’ll get right on that.” He sips his drink with a grin.
He thinks I’m not serious. Thinks I wouldn’t rather be down there screaming with everyone else. It’s not a planned protest. It’s organic, spontaneous. A pouring out. We may be disorganized, but we are unified. And we are loud.
Behind us, the never-ending music thumps on. I could lose myself in it, find some honey to wriggle against me, soft and warm. There’s someone for me. Always. Any woman I want. The one in the hot-pink mini skirt. Damn. The one with the shaved head and earrings like Olympic rings. Hmhmmm.
It’s ten-fifteen. In an hour or so, I ought to shut this party down. Make sure everyone gets home safe, before the midnight curfew.
Or.
Or, I could shut it down now, and take the party to the streets. Bust into my arsenal and take it to the cops. Show them a taste of what Underhill really has to offer. There’s enough of us. We could do some damage.
I wish—goddammit. I wish I could have this conversation with someone else besides Noodle. Anyone.
No, not anyone.
Jennica isn’t the most bookish person I ever met, but she asks the right kinds of questions. The stuff she doesn’t know shows me what I know and don’t know. The shit she knows is on a whole other level. She knows how to stay calm when everything is flying off the handle.
“No joke,” I insist. “We gotta go down there.”
