Light It Up

by Kekla Magoon

  There are bows in their hair. Placed by their mother’s swift and gentle hands. The strongest hands you’ve ever known.

  STEVE CONNERS

  Every news outlet carries the footage of the White Out protest. Neo-Nazis and their families stand in Griffith Park. I can almost see it from here, but not quite. Out my window, down at the street level, the city looks peaceful. The corner of the park I can see is not the part with the bandstand. It’s not that I want to see it firsthand. Not exactly. It’s more about how unsettling it is to have it happening out there, out of sight.

  John strolls into my office. I’m leaning back in my chair, online footage running on-screen. It relates to my job, so I don’t bother to mute the screen or punch it off.

  “You’re watching this?” I ask. He’s here to discuss the Henderson account, no doubt. It’s what I should be thinking about. How this white power demonstration relates, how we should react. Instead, my mind is scattered.

  “The full storm hasn’t hit the media yet,” John says.

  “How so?”

  He plops two typed pages onto my desk. A press release. I recognize the logo of the news outlet, a fringe conservative site with questionable judgment regarding content and sources and, well, questionable everything.

  “What have they done now?” I muse as I skim. The press release is poorly written, but the salient details are clear enough:

  White-nationalist organization White Out, in conjunction with the White Might, White Rights demonstration today, has announced that they’ve raised $$$ for Officer Henderson’s family, to offset the loss of income during his time on administrative leave …

  “Well, that’s some crazy,” I say. “What kind of respectable journalistic outlet uses the money symbol instead of spelling out the word?”

  John chuckles. “Tell me about it.”

  All joking aside, this development will open up a whole new mess for us. “What’s Henderson saying about this?”

  “This is where it gets interesting.”

  My brows go up. “Uh-oh. Is he connected to the group? Did he ask them for money?”

  “No, nothing like that. It was out of the blue.”

  “Good. So, clear deniability.” I set the press release aside.

  “But still an optics problem.”

  “Everything about this is an optics problem.” I toss my pen onto the desk. “We have to be simple about it. We announce that he’s not connected to these groups and isn’t accepting their money.”

  “There’s the rub,” John says.

  “What?” The pieces come together in my mind, drop like a stone to my gut. “No.”

  “Yeah. Henderson wants to accept the money.”

  “He can’t.” Out of the question.

  “He is.”

  My feet press against the glide mat, roll my chair back. I need space. Need air.

  John tosses himself into my corner chair. “So…”

  Loosen my tie. “He can’t. Come on. He’s being investigated for the death of a black child, and he’s going to take money from white supremacist groups now? The press will have a field day.”

  “I know, but it turns out a fair amount of it was delivered in cash. There’s no easy way to return it. Frankly, I think he’s already using it.”

  “Great.”

  “He didn’t report receiving it. Didn’t know it was going to become public. Thought it would be his little secret, I guess.”

  “Not the brightest bulb in the box, is he?”

  John props his foot on his knee. Bounces it. I would swear he’s enjoying this. “To be fair, he’s facing some hefty legal fees, even with the police union involved.”

  “He doesn’t know better than to get in bed with these people?”

  “He claims he doesn’t know for sure where it came from. It was an envelope, with a note.”

  “Does he have the note?”

  “Says he threw it away. Didn’t think it mattered.”

  Brighter bulb than I thought, maybe. I don’t know if I prefer him to be a bumbling idiot or someone capable of calculation. Bleak pictures, both. “Maybe that was something separate, and he can still refuse the White Out contribution. It might still be coming.”

  Silence falls between us. The moment is long, both of us working the problem.

  John finally speaks. “Does it offend you, as a black man?”

  My face wrinkles of its own accord. “What kind of question is that?”

  He shrugs. “Optics.”

  “It offends me, along with every black and brown human being on the planet, and hopefully a good portion of the white ones.”

  John sighs.

  “Look, it’s cash in exchange for a lynching. They’re essentially saying that Shae Tatum deserved to die because of the color of her skin. No due process. They want to reward Henderson’s extra-legal judgment solely on the grounds of race.”

  “It makes him look guilty.”

  “He is guilty!” Whoa. Breathe. Objectivity has left the building. “You wanted my opinion, as a black man.”

  John nods. Lets it slide. He has his reasons for everything. You won’t see him fly off the handle. And I can’t afford to, as a black man in the corporate landscape. Can’t afford to be labeled “angry.”

  “What would you like to see come of it?” he says. “What would take the edge off?”

  Honestly? To see every person with white supremacist leanings scorched off the planet. But John is asking from a PR perspective. “I don’t know. He could donate it. Preferably to a black charity.”

  “From a damage-control standpoint, that would be best.”

  I nod. “Something camera-friendly. An after-school program. Probably not SCORE.”

  John laughs. “Something more neutral.”

  “He can’t keep this money. It is the height of stupidity to think otherwise.”

  “From a PR perspective?”

  I shrug. “That, and more.” John looks expectant. “Legally, it opens up the door for him to be sued successfully in civil court. He’s accepted money from a group that thinks black people deserve death for existing. It’s perfectly legal to hold that ideology, in theory, but it’s not legal to actually kill someone for the color of their skin.”

  John frowns. “If he acted in the line of duty, feeling his life was under threat, and those actions were made free of bias…”

  Now he’s getting it. “Right. It could be argued that accepting this money is an admission that that might not have been the case.”

  “The legal side is not our problem. But if Henderson’s legal trouble gets worse, it becomes our problem.”

  I raise one shoulder. “Tell him to pick a charity and give generously, without being splashy about it. No one has to know how much he was really given, if it’s coming in cash.” My solution is rife with guilt, complicity, compromise.

  John leaves, and I lean back in my desk chair. Pivot to the window. Insulated glass.

  I prop my feet on the corner of the desk, a well-worn spot. Peer at the tiny vehicles, crawling far below like ants. The people, even smaller.

  Thinking about where the money ever comes from. Thinking about complicity.

  EVA

  Eddie Johnson draws eyes and ears and a snout on my folders with a permanent marker. Everyone laughs.

  “Pig!” they whisper when the teacher is on the other side of the room.

  There is no one I can tell, so I don’t. The teachers are not better anyway. They whisper, too.

  That’s the daughter.

  Apple, tree.

  I’m supposed to know what to say. I do know what to say. Nothing.

  Eddie Johnson says, “I bet he beats your mom. All cops are beaters.”

  There is only so much a girl can take. My brain snaps, taking my mouth along with it. “He’s a good person. A good cop.” My fists clench. No, no, no. I broke the rule. Say nothing.

  Eddie Johnson shakes his head. “Good at beating people up, all right.” He pounds his k
nuckles into the other palm.

  The smack of skin on skin. Beer bottle against the wall. The boxing bag hanging from the garage ceiling.

  This time it’s not so hard to keep my silence. I don’t have to say anything at all.

  I know how to throw a good punch.

  ZEKE

  I smooth my blazer, second-guessing my shirt choices. Ha. And I thought I was nervous about dressing for my first date with Kimberly. This is some other level.

  I hover near the front door of the community center. Can’t stop myself from eagerly peering out the window every few moments.

  The Reverend Alabaster Sloan is a living legend. He’s been organizing since the seventies, when he was a teenager. He marched for civil rights as a child before that.

  “He should be here any minute,” I tell Kimberly.

  “I know,” she says. She’s bustling around doing our actual work, while I stand here like a fool, vaguely practicing the moment when he walks in and I extend my hand in greeting. Wow, I’m such a dork.

  I turn back to our task, which is inventorying the materials we’ve packed to take to the protest. “Is that everything?”

  “Think so,” Kimberly says, examining her clipboard. She waves over two teen volunteers. “Let’s load it up, guys.”

  The boys start loading the boxes into the rental van parked in our lot. They’re full of flyers about police shootings, SCORE pamphlets, “Know Your Rights” and “What to do if you get arrested” cards. Packs of black Sharpies for people to write our lawyers’ phone number on their skin in case those cards are confiscated. Two cases of three-inch, baby-pink buttons that say in bold black letters, UNARMED. Poster boards painstakingly hand-lettered with messages like #TODAYFORSHAE #TOMORROWFORALL, RUNNING WHILE BLACK IS NOT A CRIME, LOVE NOT HATE, EQUALITY IS JUSTICE, and BLACK IS BEAUTIFUL.

  The boys walk back in after a trip to the van. “Yo, I think your dude is here,” one of them says.

  “My dude?” I echo, cuffing him on the shoulder. “Have some respect.”

  He grins. “Your boy?”

  I can’t help but grin, too. “Okay, okay.”

  I pull open the heavy front door. Sure enough, there is Alabaster Sloan.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Welcome to Underhill Community Center.”

  We shake hands. He has a firm, comfortable grip. He’s perfect. I hope my return handshake comes across as half that cool and confident.

  “Ezekiel?” he asks.

  “Yes, sir. But you can call me Zeke.”

  He nods.

  The boys appear for another load, and I motion them over. “Senator, these are two of our best volunteers, Lemanuel and Ricky.”

  They perk up, standing straight. “Hi, Senator,” they mumble. They look both flattered and unsettled to be called out.

  The senator smiles and shakes their hands in turn. “Thanks for what you’re doing. It’s important work.”

  “Uh, thanks,” Ricky says.

  “Happy to help,” Lemanuel adds.

  They look at me, clearly unsure what to do next. “Finish the van, okay?”

  “Yup, yup.” They grab more boxes and flee.

  “Come on in.” I spread my hand out, inviting Senator Sloan deeper into the room. He moves past me comfortably, and weaves around the chairs to greet Kimberly. I flounder in his famous wake.

  “Hello, Kimberly.” He knows her on sight. That’s impressive. They’ve met before, she told me. I assumed it was in passing.

  “Hello … Senator.” She pauses in the middle of speaking. Maybe she, like me, isn’t sure what to call him. Senator? Reverend? Sir?

  Senator Sloan grasps Kimberly by the shoulders and kisses her on the cheek. “Nice to see you again.”

  I’m confused, but there’s no time to focus on that.

  Yvonne flutters toward us. “Oh, hello, Senator.” She enfolds him in the wings of her long, flowing dress thing. “Welcome, welcome.”

  Senator Sloan embraces her in kind. “Good to be back. Wish the circumstances were different.” Somehow, he makes the perfunctory comment sound warm and original. He’s a master communicator. I prepare myself to pay close attention to his every word, every gesture.

  Yvonne says, “If you have a minute, I’d love to show you some of what’s been done with your most recent generous donation.”

  “Of course, Yvonne.”

  His mere presence in the room makes the space zing to life. People drift toward us, as if drawn by an invisible tide. As long as he’s here, it’s a master class in organizing. Inspiring people.

  I hover in his wake. Behind his back, I mouth to Kimberly, Oh, my God.

  She smiles only slightly.

  It’s almost time to go. The van keys are still sitting on my desk, I remember. I go pick them up, double-checking that we got everything.

  I return to find Kimberly standing in the community room with Senator Sloan. Something about it trips me up. My feet pause halfway there, my eyes fixed on their exchange. The pose between them. Yvonne is nearby, butterflying around the senator, and yet his gaze is on Kimberly.

  She’s shy around him. She lowers her head, in a way I haven’t seen. Except once. When we were talking about our history. About how she’s never had sex before me, and only been interested in one man. It’s weird that my mind goes to that place, but it does.

  He’s familiar with her, too. He puts his hand on her shoulder like they’ve known each other forever. Or else he’s just that kind of guy, smooth enough to get away with it. Does she want him to be touching her? When his hand goes out, her eyes go down.

  My gut tugs and flutters. Some kind of warning. Or … I’m jealous. Is she into him? He’s godlike, I know, but he’s so old.

  Kimberly shrugs away from Sloan’s touch, turns her body at an angle and focuses on her clipboard.

  I stroll toward them, like I belong in the conversation. Which, technically, I do.

  “I’m here to support you,” the senator’s saying. “I don’t have to speak. I can just be a face in the crowd.”

  “You’ve come all this way,” I interject. “We’ll make sure the cameras find you.” It’s great for our cause, that he’s here.

  Kimberly shoots me some side-eye. Damn. I totally just did a jerky guy thing that girls hate. And with reason. I shouldn’t be butting in like that. She had this.

  Senator Sloan laughs. “The cameras will find me. Don’t worry about that.”

  “It’s about time to go,” I tell them. “Everybody ready?”

  “I have my car out front,” Senator Sloan says.

  We walk him back toward the door. “I’ll be driving the van. Would you like to have your driver follow me?”

  “Kimberly can ride with me. She’ll make sure I get to the right place.” He smiles fondly at her and my spidey-sense tingles.

  JENNICA

  My eyes grog their way open. I am cozy and cotton mouthed, deep-settled and unsettled all at once. The comforter is gray and blue and thick. It goes on forever. This is not my bed.

  Where am I?

  I struggle upward, blink into the near dark.

  “Hey,” Brick says. “You okay? You’re okay.”

  Oh, no. Oh, God. It all comes back to me. The shots, the kissing, him pushing me away.

  “What happened?” I whisper. “What am I doing here?”

  He sits up. He’s rubbing my back. “You don’t remember?”

  All I can do is stare at my hands. I remember. And I’m humiliated.

  I shake my head. “I drank too much.” Maybe this is the best course of action.

  “Oh.” Brick scoots closer. I can’t tell if his voice is disappointed or relieved.

  “I probably did something embarrassing,” I admit. “And I’m in your bed, so…”

  “Nothing happened,” he assures me. His arm is around my waist and it shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t. He’s warm and close and his hand cradles my hip. I’m still in my clothes, so it feels safe enough to let him hold me. I turn my fac
e into his shoulder.

  “I can’t have you walking around drunk, trying to get home after curfew is all. You always have a place here.”

  “Why are you this nice to me?” It’s like I want him to say it. Even though I’d have to shoot him down.

  Or would I?

  “I’m worried about you. You’re not acting like yourself.”

  “I’m fine. Really.” I let my face rest on his muscled chest. He’s so broad, unlike Noodle. He feels like a wall around me, like nothing can touch me here. Safe.

  “My boys … We’re all going to this demonstration in a little while.”

  “Zeke and Kimberly were here,” I recall. “You made plans with them?”

  “Yeah.” Brick strokes my hair. “You wanna talk?”

  I lean into him, without answering at first. Maybe I’ve misjudged the whole situation. Maybe it doesn’t have to be so black and white.

  “I messed up,” I whisper. “Noodle—”

  “That’s nothing,” Brick says. “He done you wrong.”

  It’s not so easy to see it that way. I came here. I wanted … something. Just not Noodle. Not like that.

  “Listen,” Brick says. “You’re perfect. You’re beautiful. I—you just say the word, and I’ll mess him up so bad—”

  “No, no.” My hand cups Brick’s bicep. Oh, wow. An uninvited laser of YES shoots through me. Those muscles. I’m kinda turned on and I hate it because it reminds me of last night. Of Noodle’s hand going between my legs.

  “No,” I whimper. With my face in Brick’s chest, I can’t stop the tears. “I’m sorry. I’m so messed up.”

  Brick hugs me gently, whispering nice words.

  When I’m quiet, when I’m trying to figure out what to say next—in other words, right when it starts to get awkward—Brick shifts slightly, reaching for something. Then comes the blinking, sucking sound of the TV powering on.

  I straighten up, wipe my cheeks.

  “Members of the white-supremacist organization White Out have begun to gather in Griffith Park this afternoon…”

  “You wanna see messed up?” Brick says. “Check out these motherfuckers.”