This Way Home

by Wes Moore

  —

  HIS MOTHER SAT rigid at the kitchen table, hands folded primly on top of each other. She did not get up or look at him.

  “What’s wrong?” Elijah dropped into a chair.

  But she didn’t say anything. Instead, she shook her head from side to side.

  “What’s the matter?” he said. “We won all three of our games today! That means we’re in the finals tomorrow.”

  “You are not playing in any game tomorrow.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said. “We won, Mom.”

  “Oh, Elijah. How could you?”

  He studied her face, trying to piece together what was wrong, what he’d done to disappoint her so much.

  “I went with Dylan’s and Michael’s mother to watch you play,” she began. “We couldn’t get close enough because there were so many people, but they had a big TV set up by one of those news vans.”

  His mind raced to find a connection—Dylan’s mother, one of the ESPN vans. Nothing. There was no connection.

  “We got to see you and your friends on TV, playing. I was so proud, of course.”

  She pulled a tissue from one of her pockets and dabbed at the corner of her eye. “But then someone else who was watching—a boy no older than you—said to his friend, ‘Do you see that little patch on their jerseys? Do you know what it means? What it stands for?”

  And then he got it, the full weight of her disappointment. “Mom, let me explain.”

  But she held up a hand. “What’s to explain? I’m not a fool, Elijah.”

  He hung his head.

  “How could you do this? We worked so hard to make a good life for ourselves. Just the two of us. Nobody helped. I know it hasn’t been easy. You don’t have the same expensive shoes and clothes as Michael and the other kids at school. But I think we’ve done just fine.”

  “I don’t care about those things, Mom.”

  She reached across the table and pulled at the little round patch. “Then why this? I don’t understand.”

  “Because I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

  “How would I get hurt? This has nothing to do with me. Don’t you dare put this on me.”

  He took the picture from his wallet and handed it to her.

  “Explain what this is supposed to mean?” she said, but her fingers trembled.

  And when she’d heard enough, she pulled a pair of scissors from the telephone drawer and cut the picture into pieces. Then threw the pieces into the trash.

  “Elijah, don’t you understand? They’ve already hurt me. By getting to you, they’ve won.”

  Elijah thought for a moment before speaking. How could he explain the truth without hurting his mother’s feelings? That maybe he couldn’t do everything on his own and he needed a father, a role model, to help him learn how to be a man.

  “I don’t know what to do, Mom. I don’t know how to fix this. If I resist, people might hurt you. And I can’t let that happen. But if I go along with it…well, you know.”

  She looked away. “I understand, Son, but you’re not playing tomorrow. That’s how you deal with this situation.”

  “Mom.”

  “I will not have you wearing that awful patch. Blood Street Nation.”

  “It will be worse if I don’t play.”

  “How could it be worse?”

  He pictured his father in the crowd, watching, waiting. And then the announcer telling everyone that the game was canceled. But his mother didn’t know about any of that; she was talking about the gang. “You don’t know these people.”

  “That’s right. I’m proud that I don’t know them. And I don’t want you to know them, either. Which means you can stay home, or play as yourselves.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Wear what you used to wear, T-shirts and old sneakers. You’ll be on television again, right?”

  “Yes,” said Elijah. “The finals are always televised.”

  “Then go and play on television as yourselves. I want the world to see that my son is not in a gang. I want the world to know you’re a good boy and not a criminal.”

  “Mom.”

  “It’s that or not playing at all. Your choice.” And then, “I’d move us out of here tomorrow if I had enough money. So that’s the best I can think of.”

  Elijah looked at his hands; his fingers were long, perfectly designed for palming a basketball. His legs were lean and powerful, suited for jumping. He’d felt himself getting better with each game, had developed an awareness that allowed him to see plays developing before anyone else could perceive them. He was meant to play ball. What would he do without it? How would he meet his father? And then there was Sam Lehigh’s business card. He’d come so close.

  “What’s that?” asked his mother when she saw the card.

  “Nothing.” Elijah slid the card along his palm and went to his room.

  WITHIN AN HOUR, Elijah’s mother had organized a full team meeting in their living room. Mothers and sons occupied the couch and the kitchen chairs. Dylan and Michael tried to goof and keep it light, but they knew that something big was up. Elijah was the first to speak. He tried to be strong and look his friends in the eye, but inside he felt like he’d let everyone down. If only he’d said no that day at school, when Michael had shown them the shoes. He could have. Sure, his friends would have been upset, but they’d have gotten over it. And they wouldn’t be in this mess.

  Elijah cleared his throat. “I’ve been talking to my mother and doing some thinking. If I’m still the captain of our team, I want us to play tomorrow in our own clothes. No BSN jerseys. No Kobe 10s. Instead, we’ll be ourselves—three best friends from the neighborhood who can play ball better than anyone else out there.”

  Dylan wrinkled his brow, thinking, trying to understand.

  Michael started to open his mouth to object, but his mother slapped him hard across the back of his head.

  “I did not raise a fool, Michael Allen Henderson. I’ve looked the other way too many times over the years. No more. You hear me?”

  “Mom,” said Michael. “You don’t understand. There’s gonna be consequences.”

  “Boy, don’t even try to tell me I don’t understand. You want to talk about consequences? I’ll give you consequences you don’t even know about.” She braced one hand on her hip, the other extended toward her son. “Hand over that jersey.”

  Michael tightened his jaw but said nothing.

  “Now,” said his mother.

  With great reluctance, Michael handed over the plastic bag that contained his clothes. Dylan did the same without any argument.

  Later, when some of the tension had drained, Elijah’s mother poured glasses of wine for the women. They talked in the kitchen about what else they could do to keep their boys safe. Talk to the police. And Pastor Fredericks. Check in with each other every night, to make sure they were accounted for and safe. The boys listened for a few minutes and then retreated to the front steps.

  Michael was the first to speak. “This ain’t okay. I’m just saying.”

  “We’ll deal with it,” said Elijah. “Clothes don’t make us a team.”

  “Sure,” said Dylan, “but they were nice. Are we really going back to our old kicks?”

  “Unless you want to face all those women in there,” said Elijah.

  “I definitely do not,” said Dylan.

  Michael sat, brooding. “You two don’t understand; it ain’t about the clothes. It’s what they represent. You just don’t do this to people like Money and Blood Street. It ain’t okay. There’s consequences.”

  “Right,” said Elijah, unable to swallow his anger any longer. “Which means you were stringing us along when you said it was just ball. Nothing to do with the gang. That’s what you said.”

  “It is just ball, but the man put out a lot for them shoes and jerseys. How are we going to say we ain’t wearing them anymore? How’s that going to look? Like disrespect. Like a great big ‘Screw you.’ ”
<
br />   “We’ll pay him back,” said Elijah. “That way he won’t be out anything.”

  “Whoa,” said Dylan. “Hang on a second. You know I’m broke.”

  “We’re one game away from three thousand dollars,” said Elijah. “We win the tournament and each put in an equal share to pay back the money.”

  Michael waved the idea away with his hand. “I told you, it ain’t about the clothes, and it ain’t about the money.”

  “What’s it about, then?” asked Dylan.

  “Respect and loyalty, man. We said we’d play for Money and wear his kicks. Now we’re saying no. He’s not gonna let that slide.”

  They sat silently, side by side on the top step. Michael rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. Tilting his head back to look at the dark sky, he said, “You two gonna be all right, probably. But I’m gonna have to explain this shit to Money. And you know what he’s gonna say?”

  “What?” asked Dylan.

  “He’s gonna say, ‘You screwed up, dawg. I was counting on you, and you failed. Now you got to fix it.’ ”

  “Fix it how?” asked Dylan.

  “Man, I don’t know. If I knew that, I’d just do it now and make things right.”

  “Then go back in there.” Dylan gestured in the direction of the front door. “Explain it and change their minds. I’ll do whatever you two think is best. I love my moms, but she doesn’t know how it really is. Man, she still thinks my brother, Marvin, is innocent. I love my brother, but he ain’t her sweet little boy no more.”

  “Damn,” said Michael, standing up. “I’m more afraid of my mom than I am of Blood Street. I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

  “Hey,” called Elijah. “You’re still with us, right? We’re still a team?”

  “Yeah,” said Michael. “We’re a team. I just gotta go home and think.”

  IT WAS AFTER nine by the time Elijah’s mother said goodbye to her guests. She poured herself a second glass of wine and sat down across from Elijah. Her face was drawn with fatigue. She looked like she’d aged several years in one night.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll be okay.”

  “I don’t know if I made the right decision. Michael’s mother agrees about the jerseys, but she says gangs retaliate. What if that happens, Elijah?”

  “It’ll be fine.” But he didn’t believe it. There was the picture of his mother. And Money’s comments. From now on Blood Street Nation’s your family.

  “I want to believe that so much, Son. I really do.” She held her glass to her lips but then set it down and pushed it away. “Can you call Coach Walters? He understands these things. He’ll know just what to do.”

  “Can’t,” said Elijah. “He’s gone until school starts back up, remember?”

  “How about Pastor Fredericks? He works with all kinds of young people. Maybe he can help.”

  “No offense, Mom, but that’s a terrible idea. He’s a nice guy, but this is way out of his league.”

  “Well, there’s got to be someone,” she said.

  —

  ELIJAH LEFT HIS mother in the kitchen and walked with his head down toward the Battlegrounds. She didn’t want to let him out of her sight, but he said he was going to meet Michael and Dylan for a final strategy session. A lie, of course, but he needed to think. If he and his friends were going to openly defy Money and Blood Street Nation, he had to have a plan.

  At the courts, all the garbage cans had been emptied, and the fences were covered with signs and banners announcing the championship game. Across the street, the neon sign in the window of Antonio’s Pizzeria blazed, but he didn’t feel like eating; instead, he walked on until he found himself at Banks’s house. He climbed the front steps and knocked on the door.

  “Hi,” said Kerri. “Isn’t it a little late to start working?”

  “I’m not working.”

  “That’s right. You’ve got a baseball tournament or something.”

  “Basketball, but that was in the morning.”

  Kerri grinned. “I know it’s basketball. Do you want to come in?”

  “I was hoping I could talk to your father,” said Elijah.

  “You mean you don’t want to talk to me?” Kerri made a sad face.

  “I do. I mean, I would, but…”

  “I’m just messing with you. He’s downstairs. Come on in.” Kerri led him through the living room and kitchen and down a steep, narrow staircase.

  Machine noise echoed off the concrete walls of a basement woodshop with Peg-Board-lined walls, a lumber rack, a workbench, and several contractor-grade power tools. In the center of the workshop Banks stood over a table saw, trying to force a cut through a board that wasn’t cooperating. Acrid, black smoke filled the air, along with a terrible whining noise.

  “Goddammit.” Banks jumped back as his board jammed and then shot backward, barely missing his hip.

  Kerri waved to get her father’s attention. He flipped a switch on the front panel and stepped away from the protesting machine. “What? I’m working.”

  Kerri jerked her thumb in Elijah’s direction, then turned on her heel and went back up the stairs.

  Elijah hunched to avoid hitting his head on the roof joists, which just cleared the bristles of Banks’s crew cut. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “It’s fine. I’m probably going to cut off a finger anyway.”

  “I didn’t know you had a woodshop.”

  “It came with the house. I thought I’d try a project, but…” Banks brushed sawdust from his forehead. “What’s up—did I forget to pay you?”

  “No.” Elijah’s eyes fell away from Banks and onto the table saw. The teeth of the blade were scorched and dull, a dangerous combination that his shop teacher, Mr. Lemke, would never have tolerated.

  “What is it, then?”

  “I’ve got a problem.”

  “What, you need more money? I’m not giving you an advance. You’ve done a good job so far, but you still have to work for—”

  “I don’t need money, but if you don’t want to hear me out, that’s fine. I mean, we don’t really know each other, and I get it. You don’t even like me.”

  Banks brushed sawdust off his arms. “Listen, I don’t like anybody, but that’s got nothing to do with you. Come on up to the kitchen and tell me what’s on your mind.”

  BANKS LISTENED INTENTLY as Elijah explained about Money and the basketball tournament. He did not interrupt, nor did he have questions.

  “It’s your basic catch-22,” he said at the end of the story.

  Elijah nodded, uncertain if the phrase meant “damned if you do…” or if it was a reference to the book title, which he thought had something to do with war.

  “And you want me to tell you how to get out of it? You can’t get out of a catch-22. That’s exactly why it’s a catch-22.”

  “But there’s got to be something I can do.” Elijah thought he heard footsteps in the next room, possibly from Kerri listening in on their conversation.

  “Sure. There’s always something you can do, but don’t expect a clean getaway.”

  “What should I expect?”

  “Hypothetically?”

  “Yes,” said Elijah.

  “To incur some damage. But if you intervene the right way, you should have some control over which pieces fall and where. When it all blows up, that is.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Elijah. “I’ve got two choices: I can join the gang or go against it. Whichever one I pick, I lose control once the choice is made.”

  “That’s good logical thinking,” said Banks. “But it’s dead wrong. Let’s say you want to knock down a building. How would you do it?”

  “I don’t know. I’d use a wrecking ball or a backhoe shovel, I guess.”

  “No good. Assuming you have one of those—which you don’t—it’s way too big. Too loud. Too obvious.” Banks grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil and quickly sketched a small, square structure with a peaked roof. “Okay, here’s the buildin
g, and say you want to knock it down quietly, secretly, so that when it falls, no one will even suspect that you did it.”

  Elijah couldn’t see how any of this related. “I’m dealing with a gang. Why would I want to knock a building down?”

  “Because in this case the building represents something more complicated and insidious, like a gang. They both have a structure that can be bolstered or weakened.”

  “Okay,” said Elijah. “I’m with you.”

  “So the real question is whether you’re content putting a little hole in the roof or you’d rather bring the entire structure down on itself.”

  “The entire structure. Definitely.”

  “Right. Now think. How would you do it? Where’s the weak point, and how much do you need to push on it?”

  “I don’t know.” Elijah studied the picture. He realized that at some point Banks had undergone a complete personality transformation. He was actually personable. Animated. Using complete sentences. “I could go inside and pull—”

  “You can’t,” said Banks. “Because the roof would fall right on top of you. Here’s the rules.” Beneath the drawing, he wrote the following in his perfect, machinelike hand:

  You must cause the building to implode or collapse on itself.

  The demolition will cause no physical harm to you.

  The demolition will not be attributed to you.

  Elijah turned the paper, examining it from different angles.

  “Come on,” said Banks. “We’ll do this live. But no questions. I want you thinking for yourself; ask one more question, and we’re done. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  BANKS HUSTLED OUT the back door and through the yard, which was still cluttered with piles of brush and concrete chunks. He ducked inside the toolshed and grabbed a coil of black rope. “This is nine-and-a-half-millimeter static line. Strong stuff. See if you can use it to knock the shed down without breaking any of the three rules.”