Unexpected Gifts

by Mallery, S. R.

  Rose was right. The acoustics were a waste. From the second the group started performing, all you could hear was the bass line, faintly hammering out familiar songs. With Sam's binoculars we got a great shot of their lips moving and their Mop Tops bobbing, but that was it. Nothing else. After a while, I stopped watching and looked around me, digesting all the sobbing, wailing, and groaning women. One woman in particular fascinated me. She was probably in her mid thirties, and like Rose, stylishly dressed. She was also making a complete fool out of herself. I stared at her, riveted, then later, realized how grateful I was to her for giving me a new perspective. The Beatles were great but it was time to move on.

  Seeing as communication had been reopened with Leroy, I was eager to rekindle our friendship, but the avoidance patterns immediately resumed.

  Finally, I had had enough. “Listen, this is getting ridiculous! You've got to see Sam and me!” I demanded, calling him up one day. The silence on the other end thickened.

  “Leroy?”

  “Okay. What do you want to do?”

  “We want to come to your place.”

  “You don't want to do that. You really don't.”

  “Why not?” I was really irritated.

  “You would never understand.”

  “Why, for god's sake?”

  He hesitated. “Because you're—you're white!” he spat out, like hacking up a hair ball.

  My voice got steely. “Why are you talking to me that way! What did I do!”

  “Okay.” He softened, sounding more like the old Leroy.

  He talked about an important protest rally he wanted to go to on the night of July 18th, and mentioned maybe we had better plan on staying with my cousin in the city, just in case.

  “In case of what?” I wanted to know.

  “Well, in case you're bored, or…”

  “Or what?”

  “You'll know once you get there.” He left it at that.

  Leaving Maggie's, we fled down into the subway like gleeful bandits, excited about seeing Leroy in his own habitat and getting away from any parental supervision. We boarded the local IRT train, then watched station after station flit by. The trip seemed to be taking an awfully long time, and after a while, I started noticing how the higher the station numbers, the fewer the white people. By the time we had reached 125th Street, we were the only Caucasians on the train.

  At 125th Street, the car doors shuddered open with a clang, and gingerly stepping over the wide gap between the platform and the train, we both gagged in unison. Years of sweat, soot, and urine bombarded us, seeping instantly into our hair, clothing, and pores. Hostile stares batted at us from every direction, and grabbing Sam's trembling hand, I wished with all my heart, we were back in White Plains as we mounted the old gum-infested stairs to the unknown.

  Above ground, black, overflowing garbage bags were on every curbside, emitting waves of stinking refuge that bombshelled our senses. Newspapers, flyers, and tickets left a veneer of white and red colors everywhere you stepped. Clusters of scantily-clad people sat on front stoops, desperate to find relief from their oppressive, non air-conditioned apartments, men in thin undershirts, shorts, and sneakers, women in colorful sleeveless blouses, shorts, and flip-flops, all staring aimlessly into space until they caught sight of us.

  We didn't dare ask for directions. That would be tempting fate. Instead, we tried to put imaginary blinders on against all the angry spitting and muttering as we passed and work our way over to Bimmy and Leroy's apartment at a speed-walk pace. Their building was horrifying. Once probably a pleasant four-story apartment complex, now a patched, crumbling, weather-streaked eyesore that should have been demolished years ago.

  From a top floor window, Leroy stuck out his head. “Hey, you guys. What'z the haps?”

  We just stared up at him.

  “Come on up. Apartment 4F.”

  We trudged up the rickety stairs and wobbly banisters to their apartment, past stained baby carriages, toys, and garbage cans parked in the hallways. My heart was pulsing up into my head and I soon realized Sam felt the same way because I could hear his breath coming in short, jumpy spurts.

  Up on his floor, Leroy stood outside his apartment waiting for us, watching us approach through narrowed eyes. As usual, there were hugs all around only this time, his felt different. He didn't squeeze me as hard as he used to, and his release was almost immediate.

  Inside, Sam and I both breathed sighs of relief. It was a cozy, spotless apartment, with floor to ceiling overstuffed bookcases, photographs on the wall (I was in several of them), and little hand-crafted pillows and knick-knacks everywhere. On the painted coffee table, there were various crossword puzzle books along with a stack of the New York Times crossword sections with a pen resting across its top.

  Some kind of jazz was playing softly in the background.

  “That music is really nice. What is it?” I asked, for want of a better topic.

  Leroy looked over at me and grinned. “Yeah, that's a real mean song all right. John Coltrane. Bet you've never heard of him, right?”

  I shook my head as he sneered. “Thought not.” I could feel my stomach tighten.

  “I wish you and Bimmy could bring this apartment with you and we all could live in White Plains,” I blurted out.

  Leroy snorted. “Yeah, right. Mom and me living in White Plains. Like that could ever happen in this country.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He brushed that off and asked, “You guys grease yo'chops?

  “What?” I cocked my head.

  “Dinner, dinner. Did you guys have dinner yet?”

  When we shook our heads, he retreated into the kitchen, reappearing with food neither of us recognized. We poked and picked at it while he made comments.

  “That's Soul Food, by the way. You're in my neighborhood now!”

  We smiled weakly and ate the collards, hog maw, and chitlins, admitting the collards tasted really good, but secretly wanting to chuck the pig stomach and intestines in the trash.

  The wall clock struck eight thirty and it was time to go to the rally. Clomping down the stairs, he explained to us what it was all about, his voice rising with excitement. “You probably know about the three Civil Rights workers who are missing in Mississippi.”

  “Mississippi? Civil Rights workers?” I floundered.

  He gave a disdainful headshake. “Yeah. Well, anyway, this here rally is some heavy shit. It was s'posed to be all about these workers in Mississippi, but then a kid got shot around here the other night, and so we're gonna protest the goon squad policy instead.”

  “Goon squad?” I repeated.

  “You know, the white pigs!”

  “I—I don't know, Leroy, if Sam and I should go…”

  Sam instantly chimed in. “I agree. Maybe we should just take the subway back to…”

  “Back to your safe, white little world?” My stomach was performing flipflops.

  We stood there on that precipice of indecision, unable to move. Then Leroy broke the ice with a “Oh, come on. Go for it. Experience something different in your lives. Just think, maybe this'll even be good for you.” He had switched back to his old tone and we relaxed a little. It's true. Maybe we had been living in a cocoon out in White Plains.

  We walked by a white cop who smiled at Leroy. “How's things, Leroy?” he said. Then he saw us. His face instantly turned deadly serious. “Get ‘em outta here, Leroy. There may be trouble tonight.”

  Leroy nodded. He waited for the cop to disappear, then signaled us to keep going. Walking through the streets, I noticed Sam's and my hands were clasped together in a viselike grip as we stayed glued to Leroy. He was our protector for the night and as we came up to the crowds of people gathered at 125th Street my heart started pounding so hard, I thought my chest was going to explode.

  All along 125th were makeshift platforms, formed mostly out of wooden crates. The first man we passed was barking at the gathering crowd, “…we're sick n’ tired of
going downtown, working for The Man an' then come home and the white cops beat us to death!” Cheers and applause erupted as we moved on to the next speaker.

  His soapbox was comprised of three crates, nailed together; obviously he was more professional. He was wearing a full suit and had several people behind him, all well-groomed.

  “Don't listen to Martin Luther King, brothers and sisters,” he was shouting. “I know some of you's gonna Tom us Black Folk out. And you know who you are! Jest remember, they's them and we're us! Now Brother Malcolm's the Man. He's where it's at! He knows about the White Devils, the Klux Klaners. He's the one!” People were screaming, stomping their feet, and raising their arms up towards the sultry sky.

  Leroy turned to us. “Those Malcolm X dudes be bashing Martin Luther King now!”

  Suddenly, the crowd moved as a unit towards a police precinct. “To the 28th, to the 28th! Let's get rid of Lt. Gilligan!” they shouted.

  I turned to Leroy as we were being pulled along with the crowd. “Who's Gilligan?”

  “He's the white cop who killed the young kid…”

  His face was turning hard again, and as Sam and I were being swept along towards the police station like two white specs in a dark, turbulent river about to overflow its banks, fear gripped me like a choke collar.

  “What these honkies doing here?”

  “Throw da white kids out!”

  “Show these white kids what we really gonna do!” were spat at us as I glanced over at Leroy's profile. Finally, we all ended up in front of the police station, where several well-dressed men at the front trotted up the steps and went inside. The crowd was packed as tight as the upright cigarettes in Mom's cigarette canisters. I suddenly thought of Rose, and for the first time in my life, felt an intense longing for her and our world.

  Outside the precinct, one of the leaders held up a bullhorn. “The head of the 28th said there will be full investigation of Lt. Gilligan's actions. So, let's just stay calm for now and go home. There's nothing more we can do tonight.” He turned to his fellow principals who both nodded.

  But the mob stood their ground. A man called out, “The hell with doing nothing. There is something we can do tonight!” He reached down and picked up a brick. With a back swing, he launched it directly into a nearby store window, splintering glass all over the sidewalk. A few people cheered as another person grabbed a garbage can and hoisted it over his head. The crowd roared as he tossed it up towards the police station steps. Fascinated, we watched it bounce against the top step, then roll and jump, roll and jump downwards like the slinky Sadie had given me on my tenth birthday. Sadie. Oh, God. Would I ever see her again?

  Ashen cops appeared from out of nowhere, surrounding the crowd with their riot gear and clubs poised for action. Several teenagers ran over to a dilapidated building and scraped the crumbling mortar clear of loosely embedded bricks, and as the police started swinging their batons in warning, the kids flung the bricks towards the helmeted men, then all hell broke loose.

  Sam, Leroy, and I ran for cover behind a car, rocks and bottles flying past us hurricane force towards pane glass store windows. I had never seen a Molotov cocktail before, and when one exploded fifteen yards from me, I started to sob. Sam tried to shield me with his body, his face alive with a fierce protectiveness, while Leroy stared at me in horror, and the cop's earlier words of “Get ‘em outta here,” reverberated in my head over and over again like a scratched record. More and more people were arriving—there must have been thousands—all black, their faces twisted with hate, shouting, running, and ducking police as the night sky grew smoky gray from tear gas and raging fires.

  Coughing, hacking, we took off towards a back alley, where a huge black man plus two companions accosted us. “Where the fuck do you think you're goin’?” he growled. We froze. Then he turned to his friends. “Looky what I got here! Miss Jane thing and her ofay boyfriend, or are you her boyfriend?” he sneered as he poked his stubby finger into Leroy's chest.

  Another one chimed in. “Yeah. Maybe the dude be screaming Kill Whitey and all the while he be sleepin’ with a bale of straw!” The others grunted, their sweaty chests heaving.

  Sam shoved me behind him as Leroy tried to stand his ground. “Look, man, they're with me. Leave ‘em be, okay?”

  The men's eyes didn't soften. “Why should we? Did that Powell kid get a break from The Man when that motherfucker shot him? Let ‘em getta taste of what we live with!”

  I closed my eyes and thought of everything that had ever comforted me—Sam, Sadie, Bimmy, the old Leroy, even Rose, encasing me like a warm cocoon. I waited, listening to the men grumbling to themselves when suddenly, I heard Leroy say, “Wait, Officer Stiles, it's okay, it's okay.”

  I opened my eyes to that earlier cop, one hand swinging his club wildly at the men, the other gripping a handgun. Two of the men high-tailed it out of there, but the ringleader wasn't so lucky. As we escaped, I turned back to see Officer Stiles pistol-whipping our assailant until the man collapsed on the ground in a bloody heap.

  We made it to the 125th subway and scurrying down the steps, galloped towards the safety of the inside turnstiles. People were jumping over turnstiles from the other direction, trying to get to all the commotion above ground and fortunately, ignoring two white teenagers. As the three of us stood on the subway platform, Leroy placed his hand on each of our shoulders, blinking back tears.

  “What can I say, Lily, Sam? I was so scared you both were gonna get messed up. I'm so, so sorry.”

  I took his hand and looked at my old friend through my own mist. “I know, Leroy, I know. I just…”

  He was still clasping my hand. “What?”

  “I just wish things had turned out different, that's all…” I whispered. He nodded and with a long sigh, dug his hands deep into his jeans pockets to turn back to his world while Sam and I returned to ours and the whole time we rode the train down to Maggie's, neither one of us spoke a word. We just leaned into each other, drained.

  Later, my cousin accepted our lateness as a product of being young and wanting to experience the big city. Without a word about our dirt-streaked clothes and lame excuses, she staggered off to bed, yawning and wishing us both good night along with a ‘Don't stay up too late in the living room, kids’. We lay on the couch with the TV on, watching the screen turn into a grainy fuzz, too numb to think. But in those quiet morning hours, cuddling on the sofa with my new found hero, I got the one thing I had wanted above all else—Sam's kiss.

  Chapter 7: Forks in the Road

  Midterms. Chilling the air and escalating everyone's stride. Marveling at how fast students were scurrying to their next exam, cram session, or the campus cafeteria to maintain a caffeine high, Sonia was still chuckling as she entered her group's study room.

  “Something funny, Sonia?” Mark was officious as ever.

  “I was just noticing all the people racing to get everywhere. Midterm Syndrome they should call it, no?” Cackles filtered throughout.

  Mark was humorless. “I guess. Okay, the only person we're still waiting for is Harry. If he can't get here on time, maybe he shouldn't be a part of our group.” He waited for a general approval that never came. “Well, I think we should have some rules in here, shouldn't we? I mean, we all have things to do, we…”

  Harry charged in, plopped down, and unraveling his scarf from his neck, looked around quizzically. “So?” Everyone laughed except Mark who remained focused on the table. When he started passing out his own study materials (never mind Prof. Seidell), Sonia could feel her blood slowly percolating. No one else seemed to notice except Harry, who gave her a tiny wink before diving in himself.

  Mark held up a couple of brain scan images in full Technicolor. “Folks, look at this horizontal view of the prefrontal cortex. Notice how spacious it looks when the activity is good, but on the left scan, see how bubbly this image looks when activity is decreased.” Everyone drew their photos in closer.

  Remembering how excellent Prof.
Seidell's lecture was last week on the same subject, Sonia couldn't sit still any longer. “Well, Prof. Seidell went over this exact same material, just last week.”

  “Sonia, is your nit-picky OCD issues working overtime?” Mark sneered.

  “Mark, maybe you have control issues,” Harry butted in.

  Flipping around to confront him, Mark's face had turned crimson, a single vein on one side of his neck throbbing. People started peppering the room with side questions and comments to relieve the tension as Sonia looked over at Harry and smiled.

  After that, it was pure academia, with Mark again employing the Socratic method, the others, tossing their two cents in every once in a while. By nightfall, the group was officially brain dead when Mark brought up getting a drink somewhere.

  “Hey, Sonia, when are you going to get us into that club where Mike is always playing? You do have enough pull to do that for us, right?” he asked.

  “Of course. But not tonight. I'm planning on going home and crashing.” The nods were unisoned.

  Back in her apartment, she pulled paper after paper from her backpack, then stacked them neatly in front of her, lining up things she was going to review first on the right, essay questions on the left. She did a couple of taps then stopped. Oh, my God! she thought, catching herself in a tight, pursed-lip position, just like Grandma Rose used to do when she was working on a recipe.

  Several yoga breaths later, she turned off the desk lamp, got up, settled down on the couch, and switching on the TV low volume, inched towards sleep as her mother's diaries drifted through her mind.

  When the phone rang, it shattered her peace. “Mike! What's up?” Her yawn made the last two words unintelligible.

  “Hey, I'm calling to ask you a favor.”

  Pause. “Tonight? Oh, Mike, I'm beat, I…”