Union

by John Darryl Winston

  “Just listen.”

  Juba chanted.

  Marshal Park maiden in de streets today

  4th letter in de alphabet proud to say

  Big brown eyes dat reflect de sky

  There’s only one dimple on de left-hand side

  Pretty face got Naz nose wide open

  Got ’im sayin’ tings like “I’m black, and I’m hopin’”

  D wears glasses but no need to see

  To hear de smooth sounds of de Juba Lee

  D put her hand over mouth, and Naz couldn’t tell if she was amused, embarrassed, or some place in between.

  “Ooh, me next,” said the little girl.

  Juba gave a haunting laugh.

  Naz pulled out his phone, and several crumpled dollars fell to the ground. He picked up the money and put it in a hat that sat on the ground next to Juba. “Thank you, Juba.”

  “No problem, mon. Stick wit da pretty girl. Ur secret’s safe wit me.” Juba laughed.

  Naz laughed, shaking his head. He looked at his phone and then grabbed D’s hand. “I have to go somewhere. Would you go with me?”

  “Anywhere.”

  A chill ran through Naz as they walked down the street.

  Ooh, therapy. You’re not crazy are you, Naz?” D lay on the large leather sofa as if she were a patient.

  “You’re the one in the hot seat. And Dr. Gwen said ‘never say crazy.’”

  “Sorry.”

  “It doesn’t bother me, but now that you mention it,” He changed his voice to sound serious and academic. “It has been said by many that I may have a screw or two loose.” He paced around Dr. Gwen’s office with his hands behind his back as if he were giving a prognosis to a patient or colleague.

  D shook her head. “Who are those pictures of?” She pointed to some of the pictures on the wall. “Wait, I recognize him. That’s Sigmund Freud.”

  “That’s an easy one.” One of the things he’d been reading in his world history book the night before was about prominent psychiatrists. He had meant to find out who the people in the pictures on the wall were. It was time to impress her. “Do you know who that one is?”

  “Uh-uh. I’m a fan of the classics, not this.”

  “Carl Yung.” Naz beamed.

  “Good.” Dr. Gwen had come through the door. “But it’s pronounced with a ‘J.’ Do you know what he’s known for?” She set her briefcase on the floor, took her coat off, and hung it on the stand next to the door.

  “Um … analytical psychology?”

  “Excellent.”

  “See, and you said I don’t study.” Naz nodded to Dr. Gwen.

  “All right genius, who’s that?” She pointed to a picture of a brown-skinned man with a short, cropped haircut and then walked over to D, who had jumped up when Dr. Gwen had come in. “You must be D?” She held out her manicured fingers. “I think I remember you from one of Naz’s games.”

  D shook Dr. Gwen’s hand. “Nice to meet you. I should probably be leaving.”

  “Nonsense. We won’t be long. Naz is just here to fill me in on his first two days at Union … right after he tells me who that is on the wall.” She put her hand on her hip. “I hear you’re quite the artist.”

  D turned to Naz.

  “Don’t look at me,” said Naz. “I have no idea who that is, Dr. Gwen.” Naz returned his gaze to the picture on the wall.

  “You won’t find out about him in your World History book. I can tell you that. You’ll have to dig a little deeper. His name is Frantz Fanon.” Dr. Gwen’s eyes widened. “He wasn’t just a notable psychiatrist; he was a revolutionary and a member of the Algerian National Liberation Front.” She walked over to her huge mahogany desk and pulled a book out of her briefcase.

  D and Naz gave each other a quick, playful look of fear.

  “He was also an author.” She handed Naz the book.

  The cover read:

  The Wretched of the Earth

  By Frantz Fanon

  Naz took the book. “Uh, Dr. Gwen, I don’t know. I don’t wanna lose it or mess it up or anything.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I have more copies of that than I’d like to admit. Just put it next to your bed and get to it when you have a chance. But he’s quite extraordinary, I must say.”

  “Excuse me, Dr. Gwen,” said D. “How did you know about me being an artist?”

  “My son, John, texted me as soon as he saw your project. He said it was, and I quote, ‘superb.’”

  A corner of D’s mouth went up. “You’ll have to thank him for me.”

  “You can thank him yourself. He lives right here in this room during the week, you know. He should be here any minute. Naz, have you and John worked out your differences?”

  “We don’t have any differences. He just punched me in the mouth for … a good reason I guess, so we’re good.”

  “So tell me, D.” Dr. Gwen took both D’s hands, and they sat on the sofa facing each other. “What do you plan on doing with that talent of yours?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it, really.”

  “Well, it’s never too early to start thinking about scholarships. I assume you don’t have money saved up for college.”

  “College? I haven’t thought about any of that.”

  “Are you interested in graphic design or photography?”

  D shrugged with a big smile.

  “Well, my son is a bit impulsive, very ambitious, and quite the writer. It turns out Union doesn’t have a school newspaper. He’s asked me to help him set up a press on the school grounds, and he thinks you would be the perfect photojournalist.”

  “What’s a photo … journalist?” asked Naz.

  “They use pictures to tell stories,” answered D.

  “Smart, too, Naz. I’m liking this young lady more and more.” Dr. Gwen tapped D on her thigh playfully.

  “So she’s like a reporter that carries a camera, then,” said Naz.

  “Exactly.” Dr. Gwen and D said in unison. They laughed, D covering her mouth shyly.

  In that instant, it occurred to Naz how much D favored Dr. Gwen. D was a little shorter, but with their long, dark hair pulled back, similar complexion, and those glasses that seemed to be an inseparable part of them, they could easily be related.

  Just then, John walked in. “Hey, Mom … Naz.” With his coat still on and pack on his back, he hurried over and sat down on the other side of D. “Look.”

  He pulled a piece of cream-colored paper from a folder he was carrying. It was a mock-up of a fake newspaper, complete with a fake story and several pictures. Naz peered from behind the sofa. The upper left-hand corner of the paper read:

  John Hornbuckle

  Editor-in-Chief

  Delilah Dinwiddie

  Photojournalist

  “What do you think?” asked John as he looked at D.

  “I told you he was impulsive and ambitious,” said Dr. Gwen.

  D turned around and gave Naz a big smile.

  “I guess that answers your question, John,” said Naz as he smiled back at D.

  For the next few weeks, Naz and D settled into a routine. Whatever Naz had in mind when he came back to live with Mr. Tesla in the Exclave, he could not have imagined it would involve him being happier than he’d ever been. He and D were almost always together.

  Dr. Gwen talked to the principal at Union, and one of the few empty classrooms officially became home to the Union Press. John did the research, and Dr. Gwen outfitted the new high school press with everything it needed to get started, including a state of the art security system.

  Naz and D stayed after school every day. Naz either helped D come up with ideas for pictures at the Press, which had yet to publish its first issue, or she watched him, Harvis, Soul, and Ham scrimmage against Coach Fears’ team at practice. When they left Union, they would always go to MeeChi’s, where D would help Naz stock shelves or watch Mr. Tesla train Naz on the inner-workings of the store. Afterward, Naz would walk D home.


  Naz hadn’t met D’s parents yet. When he walked her home, he stopped on the sidewalk just in front of her house, never going up the walkway to the stairs even. They never talked about it, and he was OK with that, not really interested in meeting her parents anyway. He did see her mother come to the door a few times, and he could see her father peering out of the window, but that was it. From what he could gather they weren’t that friendly.

  On the last Friday before Christmas break, Naz and D sat in the stands behind the Union bench at one of the basketball games. While D took picture after picture with her phone, Naz fidgeted. He missed playing basketball on the team more than ever now.

  “Let’s move a little closer so you can get some shots of the team in the huddle during the next time out,” suggested Naz over the crowd noise. He stood up and reached for her hand.

  “I don’t wanna get in the way.” D reluctantly grabbed his hand and followed.

  “You better get used to it. That’s what reporters do: get in the way. Plus, I wanna hear what Coach is sayin’.”

  They made their way behind the Union bench.

  “You miss it, don’t you?” asked D.

  Naz shook his head. D raised an eyebrow.

  “A little, maybe.”

  “Why didn’t you play?”

  Naz thought about it. “To be honest, I don’t remember.”

  Fears called a timeout, and the team huddled around him.

  “Come on; time to go to work. You only have a minute.” Naz grabbed D’s hand and pulled her right up to the huddle.

  She looked uncomfortable, but pulled out her phone and went to work as if she’d been doing it all of her life. “They kinda smell.” She scrunched her face but kept snapping away.

  Naz laughed. Watching her work made him forget about playing basketball again—she’s a natural. He had an idea, but he would need to talk to Mr. Tesla and Dr. Gwen.

  In the booth, Naz watched D’s finger curve around the cup as she blew into it, trying to cool down the hot chocolate. Steam fogged up her glasses as she sat next to Naz at the little square table.

  “Do you have marshmallows?” she asked.

  “Um…” Naz jumped up and went to the cabinet over the stove.

  “I’m just kidding, Naz.”

  “Wait.”

  “Naz…”

  “Ta-dah…” Naz produced a small bag of mini marshmallows out of the cabinet. “See…”—thanks, Mr. Tesla.

  “I stand corrected. Mmmm … sweet!”

  “Thank you.”

  “Not you, the hot chocolate … but you, too.”

  While she sipped from her cup, Naz sneaked over to his cot and eased his hand behind his pillow. “Merry Christmas,” said Naz as he handed D a crudely wrapped box with red paper and a blue bow. “You’re welcome.”

  She laughed. “Let me say thank you first.”

  It occurred to Naz; he’d read her thoughts—oops. He didn’t consciously mean to, and he wasn’t overly emotional, just happy. He just wanted to know how she felt. So without thinking, he summoned her thoughts, and they came. He was learning to control his abilities, and that was good, but he knew he should never summon her thoughts without her permission again—no more.

  “Thank you,” she said deliberately.

  “You’re welcome. Is that better?”

  “Yes.” She smiled and picked up the gift she had leaned against the table leg. It was a foam board like the one she had given him before, the one that now resided on the wall next to his cot.

  “I don’t have a lot of money; my gift is my art.” She kissed him on the cheek and handed him a bag with the foam board in it.

  “Thank you.” He smiled and put it on his bed.

  “Would you take it out and look at it, please.” She giggled.

  “OK.” He picked the bag up and smiled. “Here comes the moment of truth.”

  She sighed.

  “You have to open yours first … Delilah.”

  “Fine.” She went to work on the gift, managing to take off the crude paper without ripping it.

  “Really? It’s just garbage.”

  She tutted and then held the box up and examined it. The box held a long camera lens. “This is really nice. What am I supposed to do with it?” She smiled, reading the box.

  Naz held his nose. “Now you don’t have to get close to the team when you’re taking pictures.”

  “But I don’t have a camera. Why do I need a lens?”

  “Oh, I dunno, just in case, I guess.”

  Tone laughed as he shuffled from side to side on top of the television. He flew over and landed on Naz’s shoulder and spied the gift as if he was examining it. Naz looked at him and shook his head.

  “I almost forgot he was in here. He doesn’t bother you, does he?” Naz and Tone exchanged glances.

  She shook her head. “He’s adorable. I love animals. I’ve never seen anything like ’im.”

  “Animal?”

  She looked at Naz and then Tone. “Sorry … Tone,”

  “Don’t mention it; Don’t mention it,” said Tone as he bobbed his head.

  “He scares the hell out of Soul.”

  “Stop stalling.” She pointed to the bag on his bed.

  He picked up the bag and removed the foam board inside. He studied it, expressionless.

  “Do you like it?” she asked.

  He continued to stare at it.

  “Naz.” She stood up and came around to look at it with him, the scent of vanilla and coconut following her.

  Tone, who was as still as Naz and appeared to be studying the picture, finally broke the silence. “Naz is magic; Naz is magic.”

  It wasn’t a drawing or a photograph but a painting of Naz in a dimly lit, empty Lincoln gym, wearing his royal blue uniform. The expression on his face was one of deep reflection, identical to his current expression. It was as if he were looking into a mirror. The only light in the picture emanated from the basketball he was spinning, not on his finger, above it, as if it were held there by some magical power.

  “W-Why’d you do this?” Naz pointed to the ball.

  “That’s how I see you. There’s something special about you, something that can’t be seen, only felt. The space between you and ball symbolizes a power that can’t be seen. You didn’t say you like it.”

  “How could I not like it. You know I like it.”

  “I wanna hear you say it.”

  “I like it. I love it.” He stood abruptly, causing Tone to lose his footing and flap his wings. “And now, the pièce de résistance.” He put the painting on his bed and pulled another poorly wrapped square box from his dresser and handed it to her.

  “Yay, French again. Another one?”

  “It’s a camera; it’s a camera,” said Tone as he bobbed up and down and flapped his wings frantically.

  “Tone!”

  “It’s a camera; it’s a camera.”

  “Shut up.” Naz looked at Tone. “No, you know what. You’re out of control. Now watch this.” Naz went to the booth door and opened it. “Get out!”

  Tone looked at Naz.

  “Now,” Naz yelled.

  Tone squawked and flew out of the booth to his perch near the door, all the while repeating, “It’s a camera; it’s a camera.”

  Naz closed the door and turned around. D tucked in her lips and flexed every muscle in her face, trying her hardest not to laugh.

  “It’s not funny,” said Naz.

  “I’m sorry.” D finally tore the paper off the box.

  “It was kinda funny, wasn’t it?” Naz helped her this time.

  “Yeah.” She finally burst into laughter. “Ohhh noooo … I can’t accept this. It’s too much. I’ve seen this camera online and—”

  “Mr. Tesla gets all this stuff on discount so—”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s too expensive; I can’t accept it.” She tried to hand the box to him, but he turned away.

  “Well it’s not from me, so when you see Mr. Tesla
and Dr. Gwen you can give it back to them … of course, they’re never together so that might be hard.”

  “Naz.”

  “Don’t look at me. I just bought the lens.” He threw up his hands.

  “I can’t take this home. My mom would get all paranoid and my dad … my dad’ll just freak out and do something stupid.”

  “Just tell ’em … just tell ’em it’s the school’s. They know about the newspaper, right? Tell ’em you’re borrowing it.”

  She smiled. “Igod Andersen … you are no angel.” She kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

  He grabbed her coat off the back of the chair and held it up. “It’ll be dark soon.”

  “What do you care?” She accepted his gesture and slid into her coat. She put on her knit hat and mittens then gathered her things. “How come you don’t worry about being out after dark?”

  “’Cause there’s nothing to fear. How often do bad things happen in the Exclave?” He propped his painting up on his bed, so it leaned against the wall. He took a few steps back and admired it again.

  She smiled “All the time … I hear.”

  “Right. You hear … but how often have you seen it?”

  She started biting the inside of her jaw, and he could tell she was giving it some thought.

  “See,” he continued. “I think the people that live here are proud of having that ‘tough’ reputation … any reputation, and the people that don’t live here love to have some kind of legend, some modern-day Sleepy Hollow they gossip about, something they use to scare their kids into submission, like a campfire ghost story.”

  “Now that you mention it, I’ve seen more drama in my house than I’ve ever seen on the streets, and I’ve lived here all my life. But … I still don’t feel comfortable, especially when it starts getting dark … unless I’m with you.”

  He smiled.

  “Why’s that?” she asked.

  “Because I’m Samson to your Delilah.”

  “My hero.”

  Naz knew it wasn’t exactly true and that there was something to be fearful of on the streets of the Exclave, especially after dark. He had been on both sides of those forces on more than one occasion, and he didn’t want D to get the impression that their home was safe when that was far from the truth.