This Way Home

by Wes Moore

  “True enough,” said Dylan. “I’m proud to get beat by him, though.”

  “Where you been?” asked Michael. “I finally get serious about practice, and you go missing.”

  “I’ve been working.” A half-truth, thought Elijah.

  Michael’s mother called from the kitchen to ask if Elijah was hungry.

  “Yes, ma’am. You know I never turn down your cooking.” He felt too keyed-up to eat, but in Michael’s house, there was only one rule: when his mother cooked, everyone ate, whether you were hungry or not.

  Dylan paused the YouTube video and opened up a new tab. “Hey, what’s the prize again if we win the whole tournament?”

  “You know what it is,” said Michael.

  “I know, but I like hearing it. It never gets old. Go on, Elijah. Say it.”

  “Three thousand dollars,” said Elijah. “Or a thousand each.”

  “That’s so awesome,” said Dylan. “Guess what I’m gonna buy with my share?”

  “A real haircut?” said Elijah.

  “Some clothes that fit you?” said Michael.

  “My clothes are mad stylish. You two are just jealous of my style.” Dylan turned the iPad around to show a full-screen image of a blond goddess in a string bikini. Airbrushed to perfection, she leaned over a yellow Mustang 5.0 convertible, showing ample cleavage. “Three hundred and fifty horsepower of pure driving pleasure,” promised the ad.

  “You’re going to buy a make-believe woman?” said Elijah.

  “No, stupid,” said Dylan, clearly offended. “The car. My dream car. I’m gonna get me one.”

  Michael shook his head. “And he can buy one because a new 5.0 only cost a thousand dollars in Dylan’s land of fantasy and make-believe.”

  “Shut up,” said Dylan. “Don’t you know what a down payment is?”

  “Down payment.” Elijah rolled his eyes, laughing.

  “Here you go, Elijah,” said Michael’s mother, carrying a plate of stewed chicken thighs and potatoes, with greens on the side.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Henderson.”

  “How about me?” said Michael. “You forget about your own son?”

  Mrs. Henderson slapped Michael on the back of his head. “Your legs still work, right? And you’re welcome, Elijah. How about you, Dylan? You want seconds?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Dylan.

  When they finished eating, Michael’s face lit up. “Okay, it’s time.”

  “Time for what?” asked Dylan. “You’re gonna sing for us? Remember when you sang that Michael Jackson song in the fifth-grade talent show?”

  Dylan and Elijah cracked up, falling over each other on the couch. It was rare for Michael to be the butt of the joke, which made it all the funnier.

  “Man, shut up,” said Michael. “Or I’ll give your stuff away to someone who ain’t ungrateful and stupid.” Michael disappeared down the hallway and into his bedroom, then returned with a plain cardboard packing box.

  “Is that what I think it is?” said Dylan, bouncing up and off the couch, grabbing at the box.

  “Man, what’s wrong with you?” said Michael, wrestling him back.

  “I got ADD. You know that.” Dylan struggled to free himself and have at the box again. “Let me see!”

  “Your ADD’s got ADD.” Michael handed the box to Dylan, who tore it open and dug out three folded basketball jerseys. They were of serious quality, official NBA weight, the white body offset by green trim and orange letters that spelled out the team name, Elijah’s Army. The color pattern perfectly matched their new Kobe 10s with the exception of a small circular patch. The patch showed a single drop of blood, like one half of the yin and yang symbol, only crimson. Next to the drop were the words Street Nation in black stylized script.

  “This is our team’s name?” said Elijah. “I like it, don’t get me wrong. But this isn’t my team, and we’re definitely not an army.”

  “We are out there, on the court,” said Michael. “Deal with it. You’re the man. El capitán.”

  “Whoa.” Dylan held one up for all to see. He ran his fingers over the lettering, and then the Blood Street patch. “That’s tight. What do you think, Elijah?”

  Elijah shrugged, not trusting himself to speak. Wildly different emotions rose up and crashed inside him. On the one hand, the jerseys were amazing; he could picture himself and his teammates walking out onto the court in style. And he had to admit that the team name was a good one. But then there was that patch, and what it stood for—Blood Street Nation. It was so small and discreet, which, he supposed, was the genius of it. A tiny, little crimson icon that said so much, namely that he and his friends were about to play ball for a gang. A couple of weeks ago he’d have laughed at the possibility.

  “It’s great,” said Elijah. “Really. I love it, except for the patch.”

  Michael placed one of his shovel-sized hands on Elijah’s shoulder. “Look, man. Don’t go bugging out about that patch, because it ain’t nothing. I’m taking care of it.”

  “How? You’re going to get rid of it?”

  “I’m meeting with Money tomorrow, and we’re going to work it out. I’m going to tell him how it is, and we’re going to iron out the rules of his sponsorship.”

  Elijah said nothing.

  “It’s like this: Elijah’s Army is all about ball, not business. BSN wants to set us up with a proper uniform, that’s cool, but it ain’t nothing more than that. Am I right, Dylan?”

  “Yeah,” said Dylan. “He’s right. You know how ESPN’s gonna film the quarterfinals, the semis, and the finals, right? And you know how there’s gonna be college scouts watching. So it’s good we got these jerseys, because me and Michael want you to look good out there. To get their attention.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Elijah. “Really, I do. You two are the greatest friends a guy could have. But I’m really freaking nervous about being connected to a gang. Haven’t we worked hard our whole lives to stay clear of that stuff?”

  “You’re right, but you got to trust me on this,” said Michael. “I’m going to take care of it. I got a plan.” And then, “Look, I didn’t want to get into this, but for you two it’s going to be strictly about ball. For me? Ball, and maybe a little business on the side.”

  “What kind of business?” Dylan spoke automatically, his eyes still fixed on the amazing Technicolor jerseys.

  “I’ll tell you some other time,” said Michael. “Right now I think you two should relax and let me do something good for you all. I mean, ain’t I trying to take care of my friends?”

  “Yes,” said Dylan.

  “Yes.” Elijah wondered at what point, exactly, Michael had worn him down. Or was that an excuse? He wished he could talk it through with someone. Coach Walters, from his school team, would have been a good choice. But Coach spent summers traveling in his motor home. He made a point of telling his players that from June to August they should consider him missing in action. Which left Banks as the only other man he knew. Could he talk over something like this with Banks? Not if he expected any help, or even a polysyllabic response.

  “That’s right,” said Michael. “And when we play, we’re gonna win this joint and help get Elijah his shot at college ball. Come on and give me some love, my brothers!”

  Elijah let himself be pulled in by his friends. They gave each other hearty whacks and thumps on the shoulders and arms. Maybe Michael was right, it was just about ball. Maybe the shoes and jerseys were gifts, with no strings attached. And maybe if he said it enough times, he’d actually believe it.

  FOR THE FIRST TIME, Elijah automatically woke at six, before the buzz of his cell’s alarm. He tried on his jersey and stood before the mirror. The team name looked especially good; from a distance, the patch resembled the small NBA logo, which gave him hope that not everyone would notice. But there was little chance of that, because up close, the patch practically glowed with the color of blood, a clear, strong indication that Elijah was in the deepest kind of shit. Trouble h
ad found him at last, even though he’d maintained a 3.8 GPA and didn’t get drunk, smoke weed, or fight (excepting the one altercation with Bull). Trouble in the form of a hundred-dollar tank top. He folded it and put it back into his dresser.

  In the kitchen, his mother sat at the counter with a book and a cup of coffee. Elijah noticed how peaceful and content she looked; he wished her life could be easier, if only so she could have more times like this.

  “Morning, stranger.” She closed the book in her lap and smiled. “Are you going to work?”

  “Uh-huh.” Elijah lifted her mug and inspected the strong, black liquid. “More Turkish coffee?”

  “Yes.” She took it from him and sipped, trying not to make a face. “I’m developing a taste for it. How are things at Mr. Banks’s house? Are you learning anything?”

  “A little.” Elijah filled a water bottle and grabbed an apple from the bowl on the counter. “But Banks isn’t so good with tools and chores and things.”

  “Is that what you call him, Banks?”

  “Yeah. He said he hates being called Mr. He said it’s for guys with sticks up…Never mind.” Elijah grabbed his backpack and keys. “I’ve got to go, Mom. I’ll be back after work.”

  “Bye, Son. Say hello to…Banks for me.”

  —

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Elijah filed in with a small crowd of early risers while a guard unlocked the front doors of the library. He walked briskly to the public access computers, where a librarian was booting up the terminals.

  “It’s my turn next,” said a short man with an impossibly thick, reddish-brown beard. He wore Bermuda shorts and snow boots.

  “That’s cool,” said Elijah. “I’m not going to take your turn.”

  The man looked up at him, his blue eyes blazing with manic intensity. He looked like he might go into attack mode, or possibly burst into tears. “Everybody takes my turn. They say they won’t, but then they do.”

  “It’s okay, man,” said Elijah as calmly as possible. He remembered now why he never came to the public library; it was filled with crazy people. But it was also the only way he could research Blood Street Nation without his mother catching on. “I’m not going to take your turn. I swear.”

  The man stood for several seconds, blinking. “I don’t want any trouble.” Then he repeated it but more loudly.

  “There is no trouble.”

  But the man turned and fled, the sound of his snow boots echoing off the linoleum tiles.

  At an open computer terminal, Elijah Googled “Blood Street Nation” and came up with more than seven hundred hits. There was everything from Twitter feeds and Facebook posts to newspaper articles detailing crimes with suspected links to the gang. Stories of arson, murder, and drugs.

  One feature in the Baltimore Sun was written by Dr. James Soldano. Of Blood Street Nation he said, “The gang is unique in three respects. First, relatively little is known about its history. However, it is believed to have originated in Los Angeles. Second, because of the decentralized power structure, Blood Street has been insulated from criminal prosecution; the few arrest to date have not led to significant conviction. And third, leaders have been described as virtually invisible, eschewing the notoriety and status typically enjoyed and prized by other leaders.”

  Elijah ran the cursor along each line of the article with growing dread. He continued reading: “The invisibility of Blood Street’s leadership is its greatest strength. After all, how can you set up, catch, and prosecute those who don’t have names or faces?”

  Instantly he thought of the guy with the Mercedes, nameless and, thanks to his dark hood, almost faceless, too. Soldano’s article closed with an 800 number for Baltimore’s anti-gang task force. It was a generic plea for citizens to call in with any information about illegal gang activity; Elijah wrote the number on the inside of his hand, even though he suspected his problems were too big for Soldano and his task force. He logged out and raced to catch the seven o’clock bus that would take him to Banks’s house.

  ELIJAH FOUND BANKS in the side yard pouring gas into an old power mower. It was a Toro, the kind you’d find doing service in yards all across the country at this time of year. Except Banks’s mower had been fitted with nylon straps and a forty-five-pound weight-lifting plate. Banks tested the straps to make sure they were secure.

  “Good,” he said. “You ready for the next job?”

  Elijah walked around the machine, confused. “Why do you have weights on your lawn mower?”

  “One weight. You can work up to two next week, if you can toughen up, that is.”

  “But why the weight?” said Elijah.

  “Makes it work better.” Banks grinned. “Greater traction.”

  Elijah tested the bar, but the Toro stayed put.

  “Don’t be afraid to put your back into it.” Banks patted him on the shoulder and started to walk away. “When you’re done, you can finish the driveway.”

  It took no fewer than ten pulls of the starter cord to get the old machine running. It turned over but rattled miserably as Elijah pushed and grunted it across the lawn. The front wheels dug into the soil, and he gritted his teeth as he put all his weight on the bar to free them. By the third pass, his calves, back, and shoulders burned from the tremendous effort needed to keep the mower moving.

  “Hey,” said Kerri, waving her right arm for him to stop. In her left she held a glass of iced tea.

  Elijah shut off the mower and accepted the glass. “Thanks.”

  “You know,” said Kerri, “it might work better without the heavy weight.”

  “Right.”

  “So maybe you should take it off.”

  “Right.” Elijah returned the empty glass and pulled on the start cord again. “Thanks for the drink.” The motor drowned out whatever Kerri tried to say in response.

  —

  AFTER MOWING THE LAWN, Elijah turned his attention to the driveway, which was exactly as he’d left it. He dropped a pile of pavers and began working each one individually, tapping it with a mallet until it matched its neighbor in depth and closeness. He liked that the materials were uniform, nothing more than concrete and sand. Aside from a few minor irregularities, like broken corners or humps in the underlying sand, there were no surprises. He only wished his life could be half as predictable.

  “Not bad.” Banks set one of his lime-beer concoctions on the remaining pallet of pavers. Elijah hadn’t heard him come out of the house, but there he was, gray T-shirt, cigar, and all. “It looks almost professional.”

  “Thanks,” said Elijah. “It’ll look even better when I fill the gaps with sand. Then I’ll need to tamp it really good. Do you have a tamper?”

  “Never heard of it, but I can pick one up. I like the hardware store. It’s a place of order and purpose. Know what I mean?”

  “I guess so. I never thought about it before.”

  Banks drained the rest of his drink and fished car keys from a back pocket. “What’s a tamper look like?”

  “There’s a picture of it in the instruction booklet. A piece of square steel with a wooden handle sticking out of the center.” He studied Banks for a moment, wondering what about him was different. His graying beard stubble was back, but his eyes…they weren’t so much cloudy as they were less intense. Muted. Elijah decided he was drunk. And what time was it—one o’clock? Two o’clock? Whichever, it was far too early to be sitting around your house drinking.

  “I can drive,” said Elijah.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Fire sparked in Banks’s eyes. “It’s one beer. You think you’re my keeper just because my doctor tells me to take it easy? Is that what you think?”

  “No,” said Elijah, wondering what other craziness he’d stumble into before the day’s end. First there had been the bearded guy at the library, and now a drunken, belligerent Banks. “I just want to drive your Jeep, that’s all. I didn’t think you’d let me, but you can’t blame me for trying.”

  Banks considered for a moment.
“Did Kerri put you up to this just now? Did she ask you to keep an eye on me?”

  “No. I haven’t talked to your daughter. Per your request, remember? She brought me a glass of iced tea and said hello. That was it.”

  Banks scowled. “Do you even have a license?”

  “Permit. I can drive with a licensed adult.”

  Banks hesitated. “Okay, then.” He tossed the keys high into the air.

  THE MUD WHEELS and lift kit on the Jeep required that Elijah both step and pull himself up. He settled into the bucket seat and gripped the steering wheel. It was surprising how high he was, and he couldn’t stop grinning.

  “What are you smiling about?” said Banks. He looked uncomfortable in the passenger’s seat, at least until he busied himself with the convertible top’s release latch.

  “Nothing. It’s a nice truck. I like it.” The inside of Banks’s Jeep was all business: black vinyl seats; a flat, Spartan dash; and hand-crank windows. But every surface gleamed, and there wasn’t a speck of dust. Elijah decided it was a real man’s vehicle, one he far preferred to the flashy luxury of the black Mercedes. Elijah started the engine and shifted it into drive.

  “If you mess it up…,” said Banks.

  Elijah accidentally peeled out. “I won’t.”

  “Go light on that pedal,” said Banks. “There’s three hundred and seventy-five horses under the hood. I custom-ordered this baby with an eight-cylinder power plant.”

  Banks continued talking about his beloved vehicle, the transmission’s gearing and the particulars of the transfer case, but Elijah’s concentration left little room for listening. “What?”

  “I said I know why you really offered to drive.”

  “Yeah?”

  “So what if I’m a little drunk. I’m retired. I’m not on active duty anymore, so I can do whatever the hell I want. Understand?”

  “Yes.” Elijah took a right-hand turn a little too quickly and felt the Jeep start to roll. “Whoa, sorry!” He corrected quickly, but Banks appeared not to notice. The man was busy rooting through his glove box, pulling out miscellany like the owner’s manual, ketchup packets, and half a dozen lighters.