Behind You

by Jacqueline Woodson

  “You should go see him,” Nelia said. “You’re right—he is sweet.” After a moment, almost to herself, she said, “Sweet and sad.”

  She picked up her binder again, opened it. “Number 434. Just ring the bell at the top of the stairs.”

  I stood up and she pointed across the street. “That brownstone over there. Follow the music.” She smiled, then hugged me again, picked up her pen and leaned into the pages.

  Jeremiah

  WHEN I SIT DOWN BESIDE MY MOTHER, SHE SHIVERS. WHEN I touch Ellie’s shoulders, she smiles like she knows it’s me. Maybe she does. Who could have told me that the wind was some passed-on soul stopping to touch your face, your hands, your hair. Who knew a surprising cool breeze was someone who had gone before you, saying, “You’re loved.”

  You’re loved, Mama.

  Ellie . . . you’re loved.

  Some days I wish hard for the chance to kiss Ellie again. But today—this moment—the two of them sitting on the stoop is perfect.

  This is what I know now: In your life there will be perfect moments. And in your afterlife too.

  My grandmother watches me and shakes her head. Leave the living alone, she says. But she doesn’t understand. It’s not easy to let go. Even if you turn your back on the world you left, you’re still pulled toward it, you’re still turning around—always—to look behind you. To make sure everyone’s okay.

  Carlton

  SATURDAY MORNING, I WENT OVER TO A PICKUP GAME AT FORT Greene Park. I knew some of the brothers playing, but a bunch of them had come over from Bed-Stuy and Brownsville. One brother had on a Percy shirt. He had pretty good game, so I decided to ask him.

  “What do you know about Percy?” I said.

  He looked me up and down. Not in a mean way, but more in a Who the hell is this light-skinned brother? way. I’d seen the look a lot from darker-skinned brothers. It was a “chump until proven un-chump” look. I kept my gaze steady.

  “What you know about it?” he asked back.

  “I know they should have slammed Dalton in their final game last year, but didn’t.”

  “True that.” Then he let himself grin a little and held up his hand. I slapped it.

  “Kennedy,” he said. “I play ball there.”

  “Carlton. I’m over here at Tech.”

  The other guys were standing around the basket, tossing the ball around and taking shots. Me and Kennedy were standing midcourt. He was tall, about my height. I noticed right away that anytime he wasn’t smiling, he was frowning.

  Someone tossed him the ball and he took a shot—hardly even turning to look at the basket. The ball went in, though—nice and smooth too.

  “I got Kennedy,” I said. We were choosing up sides, and seeing his jump, I knew I wanted him on my team.

  “I seen you play,” Kennedy said. “You play a’ight.” He smiled again. I looked back over to the other guys and picked another one. It went back and forth like that for a minute.

  “You know Miah?” I asked Kennedy.

  He’d bent down to pull up the tongue in his sneaks, but he stopped midpull and looked up at me. “Who ain’t know Miah? After he got shot, everybody in New York claimed a piece of him.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Kennedy kept on looking at me. “He lived around here, didn’t he?”

  “On my block.” I didn’t look at him, just kept picking guys until each team had five players. “We went way back.” After a minute I said, “Grew up together. Knew him since we were both five or six. He was my boy.”

  “So you really knew him—not just fronting like a lot of people.”

  “Yeah. We were pretty tight.”

  “The cops messed up. Nothing new, though,” Kennedy said. “I didn’t know him tight like you did, but he was always cool with me.”

  “Miah ain’t all gone. He’s still here.”

  Kennedy looked at me. And I looked back at him.

  “You don’t feel him?” I said.

  He stared at me for another minute, then shrugged. “You know,” he said. “Whatever.”

  “Check it,” somebody said, and we started throwing the ball around. I took a shot and missed it. Kennedy retrieved the ball and chucked it back to me. We were just playing around, hadn’t started a real game yet.

  I dribbled the ball through my legs and behind my back, shot it and watched it sail in.

  “Let’s stop playing around and get this game on,” one of the guys said.

  I nodded. “Hit or miss, yo,” I said.

  Kennedy held his hands out. I threw him the ball and he took the shot, a sweet sinker. The game was on.

  By the time I got home, it was late in the afternoon and I was sweaty and hungry as anything. The house was empty. My mom had cleaned and the hardwood floors smelled like the oil soap she used to clean them with. I made myself some lunch and ate it standing at the kitchen counter. I smelled bad and could feel myself stinking up my mother’s clean kitchen, so I finished eating and went upstairs to take a shower. The whole time the water was washing away the funk, I was thinking about Kennedy—not only about the great game of ball he had going on, but also about the way he looked at me when I said that thing about Miah still being with us. There was something in that look that let me know that he felt it too. His look kept flashing in my head and then disappearing and replacing itself with how beautiful all those guys looked running up and down the court. I turned the water to cold, wanting to shut it all out. I didn’t want to think about anything—not about Miah, not about Kennedy, not about the beautiful bodies of ballplayers . . .

  After I got dressed, I went back downstairs and sat at the piano. The windows were wide-open—whenever my moms cleaned, she did that—like she was hoping the whole block could see what a clean house we had. I smiled and shook my head, not bothering to close them. That song “Landslide” had come to me again—all the words—and I tapped a few keys, ready to play it. I sang the song softly at first, letting the words move through me. I could feel myself beginning to sing louder and louder, wanting to forget, to sing right over the part of the day that made me feel ashamed—thinking about those beautiful bodies. And remember the good stuff—scoring, Kennedy’s look, our team winning by ten points. Maybe I had sung the song twice or three times when the doorbell rang.

  I waited a minute, hoping whoever it was would go away. But they didn’t. The bell rang again and I figured I might as well answer it.

  At first I didn’t know who she was. She’d changed over the months. Her hair was longer and her clothes seemed—different. Then I remembered I’d only seen her out of her uniform once and that was at Miah’s funeral. That day, she was dressed in black like everyone else. But this time, she was wearing jeans—the kind that fit low on the hips in a way that looked nice on her. She looked paler than I remembered. For some reason I’d remembered her as being the same complexion as my mom, but she wasn’t. Her skin was whiter.The kind of skin that burned right up in the sun.Then she smiled. And I remembered that smile, remembered the way Miah always grinned when he talked about it.

  “Hey, Ellie,” I said.

  She looked surprised. Then her smile got bigger. “So you remember me?”

  I stepped back and let her in. “How am I gonna forget the love of my best friend’s life?”

  Ellie looked at me. “Is that what he called me?”

  “He called you a lot of things.”

  “I heard you singing.”

  “Yeah. I sing.”

  We stood in the foyer a minute without saying anything, just sort of looking at each other. It was starting to get dark out and the inside of the house seemed too dark.

  “I was visiting Nelia,” Ellie said. “She showed me where you lived. Thought I’d, you know, stop by and say hey.”

  “Hey yourself. It’s nice to see you.” I put my hands in my pockets, then took them out again. “Come in,” I said, backing up a bit. “You want some water or juice or something?”

  Ellie shook her head, lookin
g around as she walked, taking everything in, I guess. Our house was full of art that my dad collected—African masks, drums, oil paintings, things like that. She walked over to the couch and sat on the edge of it.

  “It’s pretty here.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s a nice place. Lived here most of my life. You’re uptown, right?”

  She nodded. “Central Park West. An apartment—not a house. Brooklyn makes me wish we lived in a house, though. So much more air.”

  “Sometimes it’s a lot of hot air, though. People hanging out, talking junk. I love Brooklyn, though. It’s home to me.”

  We got quiet again. I didn’t have any idea what else to say to her. She was Miah’s girl and now Miah was gone. In some fairy-tale type novel, she’d probably end up being my girl, but this wasn’t that kind of story. She was pretty enough and all, though. Maybe Kennedy . . .

  “Hey—do you know this guy Kennedy? He goes to your school?”

  A small frown, and then she said, “Yeah—I know him somewhat. He’s not very friendly.”

  “It’s New York,” I said. “Who is?”

  She nodded. “That’s true. How come you ask? You know him?”

  “He was over this way, playing ball in the park today. He’s got good game. That was the first time I met him, though. Miah’d talked about his game a couple of times and I’d seen him play.”

  Ellie nodded. “He’s supposed to be pretty smart too. I tried to talk to him a couple of times, but—he pretty much brushed me off.” She shrugged. “I think it was my fault, though. I said something about him sounding like Miah. Sounds like, from what he said, he hears that a lot.”

  “You know how people are. He was probably getting compared to Miah right and left. Especially at a place like Percy.”

  “Yeah. He kind of suggested that was the case.” She looked across the living room. The windows go from the ceiling to the floor almost. I watched her staring out at the block. It was almost dark now. “I don’t know. I was just trying to make conversation.”

  I got up and went into the kitchen and took two bottles of water from the fridge, then came back and tossed one to her. “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why try to make conversation . . . why try to make it with Kennedy? Either convo happens or it doesn’t.”

  Ellie opened the bottle of water and took a sip. “To connect. To remember. To forget. All of the above. Wrong reasons and right reasons.”

  “Yeah, I hear you. I get it.”

  “You know . . . ,” Ellie said softly, “I feel like the world stopped. And I got off . . . and then it started spinning again, but too fast for me to hop back on. I feel like I’m still trying to get a . . . to get some kind of foothold on living.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “That’s deep.”

  “You don’t feel that way? I mean—you guys were best friends.”

  “Yeah. But for me, it’s like there’s this place where there’s just . . . nothing. Like this hole or something. I throw some TV or a movie or a book in it every now and then. I throw a lot of ball in there, and music—you know, I take steps. Press on.”

  Ellie stared out the window, then sighed and leaned back into the couch. “I guess that’s what we’re doing, huh? Guess we’re pressing on.”

  “Yep.”

  “No girlfriend, huh?”

  “Nope.”

  She looked at me. Then without blinking she said, “Boyfriend?”

  “Nah. Just me. Just me trying to figure it all out.” It felt like something heavy lifted up off of me. I took a breath and the breath came easily. Ellie hadn’t even blinked.

  “I think the figuring out takes forever,” she said. “It seems like everybody’s trying to figure something out.”

  “How about you—what’s your thing? The thing you’re trying to figure out? I mean, besides how to hop back onto the world.”

  Ellie shrugged. “I don’t know, really—I mean, I guess that’s the thing. How do we go on? How do we get back on the world and move along?”

  “Well . . .” I sat down on the couch beside her. “I guess this is a step, huh? You ringing my bell.”

  Ellie smiled again. “I guess.”

  “It’s a big day for me,” I said.

  “ ’Cause I rang your bell?”

  I took another sip of water. She hadn’t even blinked when she asked about a boyfriend. And here I was thinking there’d be the world exploding out from under me.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Glad you crossed that street and rang my bell.”

  “Well, then I guess I’ll have to do it again sometime.”

  “You better.”

  “And maybe one day you can cross that bridge to Manhattan.”

  “Maybe—it’s a long bridge.”

  Ellie nudged me with her shoulder and smiled. I nudged her back.

  “Nah, really, though,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me. Nelia’s the one who pointed your house out and suggested I come say hi. I just followed the music.”

  I started singing the song again. Ellie listened and after a moment she joined in—her voice high and soft in a way that blended nicely. I was surprised she knew the words, but didn’t stop to ask her about it.

  “And I saw my reflection . . . ”

  When the song ended, we sat there drinking our water and staring outside. It grew dark, but I didn’t turn on any lights. Somewhere someone was playing a Stevie Wonder tune. Somewhere else, a little kid was singing her ABC’s. Then the block got quiet. And another day was almost over.

  Kennedy

  SUNDAY, MY MOMS WAKES ME UP EARLY AND I TAKE A SHOWER, grease my braids a little and put on some decent clothes. She’s already dressed, wearing dark blue, her black coat and pocketbook on the couch next to her Bible.

  “Made you some bacon and eggs,” she says when I come out of the bathroom. She sets the plate down on the kitchen table and smiles at me. “Don’t you look nice.”

  I smile back, sit down and say, “So do you.”

  Sunday mornings, I miss my dad the most. His chair across from mine is empty. In our building some of the kids got dads and some don’t. Some of them never met their dads and some see them on weekends.

  Sunday mornings, we go to church and then go see my dad.

  The whole time the preacher’s preaching, I’m thinking about my dad. If anybody asked, I’d say he was good—like in his heart, he was good. You’d see him coming down the street and he was always carrying some lady’s bag or helping somebody with one of their kids or giving some poor chump some spare change. That’s the kind of guy I remember him being—somebody who was always thinking about other people. I guess somebody like that should have gone out real tragic—like, shot or something—like Miah. But he didn’t. He went out early because he had a whacked heart. Something from when he was young that just stayed on and caught him when he was thirty-seven. Makes you always think about how you’re living.

  Even though it’s freezing, the cemetery is hopping. Sunday seems to be Visit the Dead Day—people walking slowly up and down the rows and rows of dead people or crouching all close around some tiny grave. Makes a body wonder if the dead know what Sunday is and get all ready.

  My daddy’s grave is in a lot about a quarter mile in then another twenty feet to the left. KENNEDY MAYARD SR. it says. Something about the way his name looks there makes me wish gravestones wasn’t stone—it seems real permanent that way. Like it’s saying, You better believe he’s dead!

  I make a fist and pound it against my heart a couple of times, then throw the peace sign at him. My moms fixes the plastic flowers around the gravestone. We stand there a little while without saying anything. Then I’m feeling my dad right there with us—his arm around my mom’s shoulder, his big hand rubbing my head.

  My moms pulls her coat tighter and says, “Sure is windy today, isn’t it?”

  I look out over the cemetery. Even though it’s only the third day of November, I see the first few flakes
of snow.

  Me and my moms stand there watching it come down—all soft and slow and cold.

  It’s strange the way death connects people. I wasn’t real tight with Miah when he was living, but now here I was, standing in a brick-cold cemetery, feeling my dad everywhere and knowing that me and Ellie and Miah’s moms and pops and everybody who’d ever lost somebody they’d been tight with—we all . . . it was like, I don’t know—like a continuum—and we’re all a part of the same something. We ate our breakfast and did our work and had conversations that were stupid and conversations that weren’t so stupid. At night we closed our eyes and hoped sleep came quickfast. And with all of our living going on, our dead peeps were there—everywhere. Watching over us, holding us up, giving us some kinda reasons for going to church and school and the basketball courts. Always right there, making sure we kept on keeping on. I guess if anybody asked, I’d tell them we were all doing what the living do.

  I take my mom’s hand, pull her a little bit closer to me. She smells like cold weather and perfume.

  “Your daddy always liked himself some snow,” my moms says.

  And we stand there, freezing our behinds off and watching it fall.

  Norman Roselind

  WHEN I FIRST MOVED TO FORT GREENE, WHAT I LOVED MOST were the trees. The city had planted saplings back in the sixties and now the trees stand like soldiers up and down the block. As though they’re guarding the residents of Fort Greene from harm. I wish I could say they do. It amazes me that they’re still standing—that anyone or anything is still standing. The trees change—leaves bud, grow green and wide, wither, turn red and brown, then fall. Again and again. Year after year. When Miah was a little boy, he’d climb up and swing on the lowest branches and invariably, some adult would lean out of a window and say, “Miah, get down off of that tree and let it grow like you grow.” For some reason, that always made Miah laugh—the idea of a tree having the same upward journey as himself.