The Martin Luther King Mitzvah

by Tekulsky, Mathew;

  “We shall miss you too,” Sally replied, leaping up to give Gladys a hug.

  “Who is going to sit on the porch and drink lemonade with you during the summer?” I asked.

  Gladys pursed her lips and said, “I’ve always got Honey, and you kids are always with me in spirit, especially after what you’ve both achieved during the winter and spring; how you’ve both grown!”

  “Thanks to you,” I said. “We weren’t really thinking about wars and social consciousness until we met you.”

  Gladys leaned back in her chair and sighed wistfully.

  “And I was influenced by people older than myself,” she said. “We all have to pitch in from generation to generation to make sure that the world doesn’t fall apart, don’t you think?”

  “What do you think is going to happen with Martin Luther King?” Sally asked. “Do you think he’s going to win?”

  “If he wins, the whole country wins,” Gladys replied, “and if he loses, we all lose. It’s as simple as that.”

  When we finished our lemonade, I walked Sally home. On the way back to my house, I took a good look at the basketball court, the reeds, and the creek. When I walked into the kitchen through the back door, I heard my father call me from the living room.

  “I saw your friend Martin Luther King on Issues and Answers,” he said. “I’d like to meet this man.”

  Sitting next to my father on the couch, I said, “Oh yes, Dad, you would like him very much. But do you think people will ever learn to get along with each other?”

  “I don’t know, Adam,” Dad replied, “but if we can’t get along with each other in this country, then I guess that people can’t get along with each other anywhere.”

  On the television, the Mets were just starting the second game of a doubleheader at Shea Stadium against the Cubs, with Tom Seaver on the mound. I thought back to the Mets game that my father and I had gone to in May, just after I met Martin Luther King for the second time. So much had happened that year, and I wasn’t sure where it would all end up, but I had done my mitzvah, and that was the important thing.

  Sally’s birthday was in August, so we decided to celebrate it on Gladys’ porch on the last day of June, the day before my parents drove me to the bus that would take me up to Camp Mohawk. Honey made us a special meal of short ribs, collard greens, mashed potatoes, and gravy, and Gladys put an advance copy of Pete Seeger’s new album on her record player. After we listened to a song about the sinking of a ship called the Reuben James, Pete’s song about the Big Muddy came on. I remembered when he performed this song the previous March on Long Island. And still, the war in Vietnam was raging on and there seemed to be no end in sight.

  I sipped my lemonade until Honey brought out a chocolate cake with candles on it. Sally blew out the candles and Honey cut a piece of cake for each of us while Pete Seeger sang “Down by the Riverside,” where he was going to lay down his sword and shield, and study war no more.

  “I’ll have to play H-O-R-S-E by myself all summer long,” Jimmy said dismally, as he bit into his cake.

  “At least you will be really good at it by the time we get back,” I offered, trying to make him feel better.

  “Will you all come to my confirmation in September?” Sally asked. We all agreed to attend.

  “And you won’t have to follow Sally home this fall,” Gladys told me. “You can walk right next to her!” We all started to laugh. Sally’s ponytail bounced back and forth, but the yellow flower in her hair stayed right where it was.

  “Will you take us to see Martin Luther King again?” I asked Gladys.

  “Of course I will,” she said, “for as long as you like, even when you get older.” Then she promised to save her columns for us so that we could read them when we got back in the fall.

  “So, Adam,” she said, “have you finally found something to write about?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Why don’t you write about us?” Sally said.

  “Yeah,” said Jimmy.

  “I think I’m going to write about Martin Luther King,” I said. “And I may write about all of you as well.”

  “Lord have mercy,” said Honey.

  “Amen,” said Gladys, before adding “now you kids get out of here before I start to cry.”

  As Pete sang “Come All Ye Fair and Tender Ladies,” we said our goodbyes. Then Jimmy and I walked Sally home. I followed her to her door while Jimmy went on to the clubhouse. At the top of her steps, Sally gave me a big hug and kissed me on the cheek.

  “That was a good mitzvah, wasn’t it?” she said.

  “It was,” I replied.

  “Does that make me an honorary Jew?” she asked.

  “I guess so,” I replied with a grin.

  “Mazel tov,” she replied with a smile of her own, before opening the door to her house and disappearing inside, along with her marvelous ponytail. I made my way over to the clubhouse for a final smoke with Jimmy, but this time, he didn’t have any Playboys.

  “You’ll have to wait until you get back for Miss September,” Jimmy said.

  Although it was after six p.m., it was still light outside and the ducks could be seen on the creek. We heard the whistling of the red-winged blackbirds nesting in the reeds.

  “Are you going to marry Sally?” Jimmy said.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “That’s a long way off.”

  “Well, I hope you do,” Jimmy went on. “That way we can all stay together.”

  I suddenly realized that Jimmy’s reading disability might hold him back in life, and I made a promise to myself that I would always look after Jimmy, whether or not I married Sally. That’s what Martin Luther King would do, I figured.

  Later that evening, my mother drove me over to Grappa’s house and he gave me a bunch of film to take pictures up at Camp Mohawk.

  “We’ll print them when you get back,” he said. Elise gave me a big piece of walnut torte to eat on the bus. That night, as I laid my head down on my pillow, I heard Cousin Louie on the radio.

  “Just in at number one,” he said, “is a song by The Association called ‘Windy.’” As the song started to play, I thought about the wind that would take me up to Camp Mohawk, and the wind that would take Sally up to her art camp in Woodstock, and the wind that would carry Martin Luther King onward to the next stage of his struggle for human rights.

  The next morning, my father and I loaded my camp trunk into the car and my parents drove me on the Cross-

  Westchester Expressway and across the Tappan Zee Bridge to the village of Suffern. There, I boarded a bus that would take me up the Northway past Lake George and on up to Lake Placid and Camp Mohawk. I said goodbye to my parents and watched the Biscayne get smaller and smaller as it made its way back toward the bridge. Turning on my transistor radio, I leaned my head against the window and drifted off to “Groovin’” playing on WABC. I was woken by a voice talking in my ear; looking up, I saw a pretty, dark-haired girl.

  “Is this seat taken?” she asked.

  “No,” I replied, moving my bag to the floor to make room for her to sit down. The bus driver started the engine and the bus rolled out of the parking lot, over to the highway, and, before I knew it, I was speeding up the road to a new chapter in my life.

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to my editor, Jaynie Royal, for her support and suggestions; and to my literary agent, Peter Beren

 

 

 
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