“I guess she missed you,” he says. “Come in.”
He leads the way into the studio and sits cross legged in Sukhasana. I grab a bolster pillow so I can do a modified Sukhasana ‘cause my left leg’s still a little stiff. Peppy settles onto my lap. “The doc’s cleared me for all regular activities,” I tell him.
“That’s good,” Joe says. “You look lots better than you did a few weeks ago.”
“Feel better, too,” I say, rubbing Peppy’s ears the way I know she likes. It’s funny. Dogs. Buddy loves a belly rub. With Peppy, it’s ears. She never rolls over on her back the way Buddy does, begging for a belly rub. But then, Buddy’s not big on ear rubs.
“I can help out at the studio again on Tuesdays and Thursdays and watch out for Peppy on your long day away.”
“I’ll only be needing you on Thursdays now.”
“What about Tuesdays, when you’re gone until late at night?”
“Well, you know, since you were laid up so long...”
I keep rubbing Peppy’s ears, watch while her eyes slowly close halfway, then pop back open. Her head rests lightly on my knee, and I know that with two more ear rubs she’ll be totally asleep.
“Jason’ll keep covering Tuesdays.”
“Jason!” Peppy jumps awake. “I told you! You can’t trust him!” Peppy jumps off my lap and goes to her bed.
Joe pulls his knees into his chest and leans forward. He gives me a long, searching look, then says, “Calm down. Deep breaths.”
“Fuck deep breaths! Cameron would have walked Peppy, or Brent, or anyone else!”
I push up from the bolster. Joe stands to his full height, feet planted firmly on the floor. Arms slightly bent. Fists tight. Fight stance.
“You. Need. To. Calm. Down,” he says, in a tone I’ve not heard before. Maybe it’s his prison tone.
“You trust Jason? You don’t know shit about Jason!” I say, and I’m outta there.
I start toward my house, then take a turn. Two blocks up Elm Street, toward Palm Avenue. I wonder, why are some streets called streets, and others avenues. And then there are boulevards. Oh, yeah, and drives. There’s Peach Drive over by where Rosie lives. Who decides what’s a street, or an avenue, or a boulevard, or a drive?
A nearly full moon shines through the leaves of one of the giant elm trees that line the sidewalk edge. I guess that explains the Elm in Elm Street. The February air is crisp and chilly, and I pause under the partially moonlit elm and take ten deep cleansing breaths. Not because Joe told me to. Because I want to. Because it’s like I need cleansing. Body and soul.
A text ding. I hope it’s Rosie. It’s Joe.
Come back. Talk.
I stand under the elm for a long time, breathing in fresh air, not wanting to talk to Joe. Like how could he trust Jason to watch out for Peppy? Why would he even let him inside the studio? Another text.
Please.
So, okay. I go back to his place. Joe leads me into the kitchen. Peppy glances up from her bed, then goes back to sleep.
“Tea?” he asks, pouring a cup for himself and waiting for my answer.
“Okay.”
We sit across from each other at the kitchen table, sipping peppermint tea. After a long silence, Joe says, “I don’t understand what got you so upset.”
“And I don’t understand how you could substitute Jason for me.”
“Look. I know you two got off to a bad start...”
“He’s a dick.”
“Eddie. Hear me out...Jason could use a little work, and I needed some help with you out of commission. I know I could have used Brent, or Cameron, or any other number of kids. They would have been fine. But I have a sense that Jason’s a guy who needs something good in his life, and I’m pretty sure Jason needed work in a way the others didn’t.”
Every time Joe says Jason’s name, I hear that squeaky voice in my head saying, “Enough! Let’s get outta here.” It plays in my head at the weirdest times.
Joe goes on, “I know you can pretty much get as much work as you want with William, and cutting you back a day shouldn’t be a big deal. I still won’t charge you for yoga...”
“Wake up! Jason’s a scumbag!”
“I know you don’t like him...”
“I fuckin’ hate him!”
“That’s a little extreme, isn’t it?”
“No!”
I get a heart pounding surge of adrenaline and want to shout out the truth about Jason, that he’s one of the guys who jumped me. But first...I wanna give Jason a taste of what he gave me.
“Forget it,” I say.
“He’s been doing a nice job on Tuesdays. Peppy...”
“Just forget it.”
ONLY THREE DAYS BACK at school, and then it’s a long weekend for Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. There’s always a big MLK march down Main Street past City Hall to Dodsworth Park where there’s music and dancing and a big BBQ dinner, unless it rains. Then everything shifts to a church that’s close to the park and has a big covered outdoor space. Max and I’ve been walking with William and Imani every year since they moved in with us. It’s a reminder of what MLK stood for, and it’s also a big party.
People may not be in as much of a party mood this year, what with the decision not to press charges against the cops who shot Devon Parker. And then last week, police in L.A. shot and killed another black guy who came at them with a pocketknife. The guy’s wife had called 911 asking for help—said her husband hadn’t been taking his meds lately and he was acting all crazy. When the police got there, the guy was outside his wife’s house stabbing at the door with his pocketknife. When the police called to him to drop the knife and put up his hands, he lunged at them, and they shot him. So, the guy was a nutcase, but did they have to kill him? Between that, and all of the white supremacist talk going around lately, the MLK march will be serious.
Rosie’s going to the march, too, with her church group. She invited me to walk with them, but, as much as I like to be with Rosie, I’m not into the church group thing. We’ll meet up at the park after the march. But today, Saturday, she’s in the garage with me and Max and Imani and William, making signs. We always make a bunch of extra signs for the march for people who don’t bring their own. Besides, William’s got all of the paint and clean-up supplies, and masking tape and heavy-duty knives, and with the overhead garage door open, we get plenty of light and air.
Text from Cameron:
Helping Dad paint the kitchen. Borrow a ladder?
I show the text to William. “Sure, as long as it’s back by Tuesday morning.”
K, I text back.
Imani has painted two signs. One says “We’re who MLK” and the other says “dreamed about.” She and Olivia plan to walk side by side. Rosie’s sign is “Standing on the Side of Love.” She says that’s what her church is emphasizing this year. Max’s sign is “Together We Can!” which was one of the mottoes of Cesar Chavez and the farmworkers. William’s is “Live together as brothers, or die together as fools.” Imani doesn’t like it.
“It should be brothers and sisters!” William looks at her blankly. “Live together as brothers and sisters, Daddy!”
Rosie high-fives Imani, who adds a fist bump.
William nods, gets the white paint, covers the quotation marks, and changes it so it reads: “Live together as brothers and sisters, or die together as fools.”
My sign says. “3 Words” at the top and “Equality for All” beneath it. “3 Words.” It’s a good contrast to the “14 Words” I’m still seeing all over the place. William and Max have painted a few more signs to hand out at the march: “No Justice. No Peace.” “Know Justice. Know Peace.” “Black Lives Matter.”
The signs are laid out to dry on the garage floor when Cameron stops by for the ladder. “Whoa! What’s all this?”
“What holiday are we out of school for?” I ask him.
“Oh, yeah,” he says, walking around the garage to read the signs. “For the march? But isn’t that mostl
y...?”
William’s stopped painting and is watching Cameron, whose face turns pink.
“I mean...” Pink turns to red.
“The march is for everyone who wants Dr. King’s vision to be real...The ladders are over there,” William says, nodding toward the wall where six ladders hang from giant hooks. “Take your pick.”
Cameron chooses the six-foot ladder. “Thanks,” he says to William.
William picks up the “We must live together as brothers and sisters, or die together as fools” sign and hands it to Cameron. “Take this, too.”
“Daddy...!”
“I know, Shug. I’ll make us another one.”
Cameron holds the sign, looking puzzled.
“Go on,” William says. “Take it with you. Sleep on it.”
“Well, okay,” he says to William, “Thanks. See ya,” he says to me and Rosie, as he walks past us, taking the ladder and sign out to his dad’s car.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Revelation
I wait for Tuesday, knowing Jason will show up at Joe’s around 4:15 to walk Peppy. Knowing what CC would not do, I leave my WWCCD bracelet in my top dresser drawer.
By 4:00, I’m standing close to the wall by Joe’s back steps, a place where I can’t be seen by anyone coming from the direction Jason will be coming from.
Tense. Adrenaline pumping. I feel the regained strength in my body, feel the rage that’s been building over hate signs, and bullying Muslim girls, and most of all over hearing that squeaky, “Let’s get outta here,” as I lay crumpled on the ground. I replay that night, the sudden attack from behind, the fists, the kicks, the weeks of pain and fogginess that followed...
Jason glides around the corner of Joe’s house on his bike, rests it against the side of the wall, and walks toward the door. I step from the shadows and walk toward him, blocking his way. He steps back, tries to walk around me. I step in front of him.
“Tuesday. It’s my day to walk Peppy!” he squeaks. His face is red. Fists clenched.
I’m lightning fast with the karate fist to chest. He takes a swing. I block it. Chop to the throat. Kick his legs out from under him. He’s on his knees. I kick him in the face. He’s down, curled in a ball.
“Get up you cowardly piece of shit!” I kick him again. And again. “How does it feel??”
“I didn’t want...”
I draw back for another kick and, wham! I’m pinned flat against the wall, staring at Joe’s face.
“What the fuck are you doing???”
Peppy is barking, barking, barking behind the door. Joe’s face is so close I can smell his gum. Minty. Over his shoulder, I see Jason on his hands and knees, trying to get up.
“He started it,” I say, like I’m back to pre-school days.
Joe looks back at Jason, half up now, but not quite. “You stay right here, Eddie. Don’t move!”
He turns to give Jason a hand up, guides him a few feet to one of the patio chairs. He checks Jason’s head and a bloody spot on his cheek. “Where do you hurt?” Joe asks him.
Jason whispers something back, but I don’t get what he says. My breathing’s slowed. Adrenaline’s subsided. I get Joe’s key from the fake rock. Peppy’s all over me as I open the door. I attach her leash and walk back outside.
Joe notices. “Hey! I told you to stay there!!”
“Peppy needs a walk,” I say.
Joe looks from me to Jason and back to me. He takes a step toward me. “I want to know what this is about!”
I walk Peppy down the driveway and onto the sidewalk. Joe doesn’t stop us. I feel good. Like for the first time since I got jumped, I feel good. Payback feels great.
Well...when my shoe connected with Jason’s face, it felt weird. I’ve never hurt anyone in a fight before. Karate, that’s only for self-defense. But this was self-defense. Delayed self-defense. And at least I didn’t have a bunch of other guys with me. I didn’t do that chicken shit jump from behind thing. One on one, face to face, like it’s supposed to be.
Peppy finds her pee place and squats. I take her another two blocks, then turn back. Aware of the strength and power within me, I’m calm. Relaxed. It’s starting to drizzle, and the light rain feels good. Cleansing. When we get back to Joe’s, I scuff the soles of my shoes back and forth on his doormat, then hold Peppy in place and wipe each of her feet on the mat. I tap lightly on the door. Joe doesn’t call to me to come in, like he usually does. Instead, he opens the door and stands looking at me like maybe he doesn’t know me. Maybe he doesn’t.
“Are you over whatever kind of fit you just had?”
“I’m through with Jason, if that’s what you mean.”
He pushes open the screen door and stands aside. I unhook Peppy’s leash, and she rushes into the kitchen. I turn to go but Joe takes my arm. “Come in,” he says. “Have a cup of tea. It’ll calm you.”
“I’m calm,” I tell him.
“Well, come in anyway.”
I let him guide me into the kitchen. Jason’s sitting at the table, staring into a teacup. Joe pours tea for me and sets it on the table. He pulls out a chair. “Have a seat.”
I stand, leaning against the counter. After a pause, Joe puts my teacup on the counter beside me and sits at the table across from Jason, who’s still staring at his cup. He’s got a scraped place on his left cheek. Other than that, he looks okay. As okay as he ever looks, anyway.
“I want to know what this is about. Who wants to go first?” Joe says.
Silence.
“Well, okay. How about you go first, Eddie? You obviously were the attacker. You shouldn’t even have been here today.”
Silence.
“Well? Eddie?”
“He started it,” I say.
“Jason?”
Jason shifts his gaze from his teacup to the window over the sink, like there’s something fascinating out there.
“Well...?” Joe says, leaning so far across the table he’s probably also giving Jason a whiff of his minty gum.
Jason’s eyes dart toward me, then quick back out the window.
“Okay, Jason. You started it? Like Eddie happened to be in my yard, on a Tuesday, when he doesn’t belong here, and you started fighting with him? And then you let him beat you to the ground?”
Long silence.
“I don’t buy that you started the fight, Jason. Did you?”
He nods his head, just barely, and continues staring out the window. “Maybe. Sort of.” I can hardly hear him, he’s speaking so softly.
“What? How???”
“Before. Not today.”
“Way back when you decided you didn’t like each other? Back when you gave him the finger?? That was a long time ago!”
“Not then...” Jason says, shaking his head.
“Well, then, when?”
Silence. More silence.
“C’mon guys,” Joe says.
I take a deep breath. “Back when he and his buddies jumped me. Back when they kicked the shit out of me. That’s when he started it.”
I sip my tea. I think I’m getting used to Joe’s tea. Joe looks at Jason, then me, then back to Jason.
“Wait. I don’t get it. Jason, you were part of that bunch that jumped Eddie? I know you guys have had it in for each other since the beginning of school. But getting a gang of guys to jump Eddie? From behind? Because you don’t like him?”
Jason looks at Joe. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It was like that!” I say. “I heard you! You and your fucked up squeaky voice!”
“No. I mean...it wasn’t because I don’t like you.”
“What then?” Joe says.
“It was...Eddie gets in the way.”
“What????”
“You know. We’re Patriots. We fight for our country. For everyday working American men.”
Joe sits rubbing his tattoo.
“I tried to get them to stop! One of the guys kept kicking him, and I told him it was enough—it was time to go. I k
new they were hurting him bad.”
Jason puts his head down on the table. At first, I don’t know if he’s laughing or crying, but he’s crying. Sobbing. Really hard. Peppy leaves her spot by Joe and sits close to Jason, her paw on his thigh. I pick her up. Rub her ears. Watch Jason cry. What the fuck is he crying about?
Joe walks to the counter, refills the electric pot with water, dumps in a handful of tea leaves, and plugs the pot in. Deep breathing, organic tea, yoga. Joe’s answer to all that’s fucked up. Sometimes that’s not enough. He gets a box of tissue and sets it in front of Jason, who takes one and wipes his nose and face. “I didn’t want to,” Jason says, looking at me. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“What?? You didn’t want to??? Someone was holding a gun to your head telling you to jump me and beat the shit out of me???”
“Not exactly...kind of...”
And then he tells this weird story about his dad and these Patriot guys who’re on a mission to give pure white men their rightful power. To secure a future for white children. Between all of the Mexican immigrants sneaking in and taking jobs, and the Muslim terrorists, and the Jew conspirators, and the faggots and, worst of all, the nigger hoodlums who’re trying to take over with their Black Lives Matter thugs, it’s up to the Patriots to crush the scum who are ruining their country. They've got to squash anyone who gets in their way.
And I got in the way of their message, painting over their sign. And if it hadn’t been for me, their fellow Patriot who taught that raghead girl a lesson would never have been arrested. So Jason, along with four other Youth Patriots, were sent on a mission to stop me. Not to kill me, but to hurt me so bad I’d never get in their way again.
“There were five of you?” Joe asks.
Jason nods.
“And you’re all like...Patriots??”
Jason nods.
“Why do you hang out with those guys, anyway?”
And then the story gets even weirder. He says he was living with his mom in Texas. He hadn’t seen his dad since he was six, when his parents split up. His mom was a druggie, sometimes selling to pay for her habit, sometimes being away for two or three days at a time. But that was okay. Really, he liked things better when she wasn’t home.
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