I became enraged. This motherfucker, I thought. Who does he think he is sitting in jail for the sake of what? Us? His nobility? His martyrdom? He made me so mad I started thinking about selling drugs myself. How many nickel and dime bags would it take to get to seventy-five thousand? How much time would it take me? I was confounded by brotherhood. I was confronted by the question of whether or not I should be more tied to what Donnel wanted or what I wanted for him. In the end, I couldn’t sell drugs. I was scared of standing on the street. Scared of the police. Scared of being seen by Lorenzo at the wrong place and time because he told my friends and Eric that what happened at the park wasn’t over, that if he caught me alone or without Kaya it was on. So I rarely walked alone and when I did I avoided him, ducking into a store, turning around, or cutting down a different street whenever I saw him or any of his friends. But more than anything else, I was scared about one thing: not doing what Donnel told me. He would never let me follow him, never let me do what he did.
Still, I kept looking for the money. Finders keepers: if I found the money then the rule clearly stated that it was mine to use as I pleased. So I looked even more than everywhere, which led me to look in places I had no business looking in, like my grandma and my aunt’s panty drawers. I prayed to God. Lord, where is it? Tell me where one hides such a thing. I kept faith that I would find it.
And I kept my promise to Kaya and went to school. There, I did only three things. I thought about the money. I loved Kaya. And I wrote Donnel letters. But not just hello, how are you letters. I constructed petitions, pleas, and demands. I created rationales and arguments meant to confuse him and bend his heart into telling me where the money was. But it was fruitless. Donnel told me it was useless.
He said, “What do you think, just because a nigga is behind bars he don’t have principles?” He breathed a breath that I knew so well I could see he was smiling. Then he added: “But don’t stop writing. Shit is entertaining, at least.”
Still I kept searching. And I lay awake and thought about being free. But I couldn’t find the money. On the phone it became a back and forth between Donnel and me, cat and mouse, Abbott and Costello. Who’s on first? What’s on second?
“So, where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know where it is?”
“Exactly.”
“But it’s yours?”
“Yup.”
“So where is it?”
“I already told you.”
“Nigga, you said you don’t know.”
“Exactly.”
Somehow, and despite the fact that he was incarcerated, the conversation between Donnel and me always ended with him laughing. Which always made me laugh. And so I continued asking Donnel where the money was. Because I hoped he would tell me. But if not then at least I could hear him laugh. And so he could hear me. And without going into emotions and details, we could assure each other we were forgiven; and he could tell me he loved me; and I could prove the truth was I loved him.
II
I sat on the couch watching The Simpsons with Eric, who was eating the pork lo mein and French fries he’d bought at the Chinese food hole-in-the-wall down the block. A bottle of pineapple soda and a bottle of hot sauce were at his feet. He slurped and chewed loudly. He had headphones on and the volume of the Discman Donnel bought him to replace the stolen one was as loud as it would go. I don’t know how Eric heard the TV, but he watched it with a level of intensity that demonstrated he not only heard, but his whole soul was in it. He laughed at opportune times and nodded to the rhythm of his music. He shoveled some lo mein into his mouth, chewed, and, following the rhythm of a song’s bass line, he tapped the plastic fork on some invisible drum above his head.
The phone rang. And because there was no sense asking Eric to do anything when he was eating or watching TV, I went to the kitchen and answered the call.
“Good evening,” said the voice on the other end. “I’m looking to speak with a Mr. Abraham Singleton.”
“Speaking,” I said. “Who’s this?”
“Abraham, this is Coach Rivers from Brandeis University,” said the man, his voice heavy with authority. “I was wondering if you have a few moments to speak.”
I doubted Rivers was real. I thought a friend was playing a joke on me…maybe it was Cleveland. I listened closely. Hold on, I thought. What was that noise? Was that Jefferson giggling in the background? Maybe it was Titty. No. Could it be Precious? Yusef? Maybe it was a scam, I thought. Maybe it was one of the fulsome Army recruiters who called once a week luring with lies about serving my country.
“I know your uncle,” he said.
“You from Ever?” I asked.
“Brooklyn,” he said. “Brownsville. But I used to coach in the summer leagues out in Ever Park. We were the only team that ever had a player block one of your uncle’s shots. You know you’re a hard man to find?”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“You tell me.”
I was silent. I leaned back against our brown refrigerator and waited for Rivers to continue talking. For a variety of reasons, messages weren’t passed in my home. Sometimes it was simple innocence; sometimes forgetfulness; sometimes it was spite; other times it was worry. I didn’t take it personally.
“You know,” said Rivers, awkwardly filling the silence, “I spoke to your uncle. I’ve heard a lot about you, a lot of good things.”
“Yeah?” I said, still not trusting Rivers was who he claimed to be.
“Your uncle said you’re a hard worker; a warrior; a determined, headstrong, smart kid. That not true?”
“If that’s what you heard,” I said, shrugging as if Rivers were standing before me.
“How’re your grades?” he asked.
“All right,” I said.
“What’s all right? You got A’s? B’s?”
“Some,” I said, still doubting he was who he said he was.
“What’s some? You don’t know?” he asked. “What you got in English? How ’bout science?”
“I got a B on my last test.”
There was another long moment of silence. Again, Rivers was the one to break it.
“Listen,” he announced, hoping to infuse me with some excitement, “I’m gonna be straight with you. Students come to Brandeis with straight A’s. Maybe a B in gym or something like that. What’s wrong? The work too hard for you?”
“Nah, it’s all right,” I said. “It’s just.”
“I might be able to help you out,” Rivers interrupted. “I can’t say you’ll be a starter or even play on my team. You’ll have to try out. I don’t even know if you can make it. I’ve never even seen you play. So don’t go thinking you’ll be some kind of college superstar. Brandeis ain’t like that. But you’ll get a damn good education.”
Rivers told me about Brandeis. He said it was a small division-three university where athletics were hardly the most important thing.
“But,” he said, “I can’t make any promises.”
But he’d try. He’d advocate for me. He would write a letter to the admissions office, stand before the admissions panel and say that I was worth whatever the risk was. As long as I kept passing my classes. And if I took the SAT.
“You take it?”
“No,” I said.
“Then sign up,” he said. “What you waiting for? There’s got to be only one, maybe two more times you can take it before it’s too late. You owe it to yourself. And your family. You understand what I am saying?”
“You think I got a chance?” I asked.
“It ain’t about what I think. What do you think?”
“What did my uncle say?”
“He said you don’t back down from nothing.” Rivers paused. He softened his voice. “Think of it as opening a door. As giving you the key to a lock. What do you think? What do you have to say?”
Suddenly, I was sure Rivers was a liar. So sure, in fact, I had the urge to hang up the phone.
; “Have you thought about what you want to be?” he asked. “What type of work are you going to do? What sort of career? If you could be anything?”
Anything? I thought.
“What about president?” I asked half sarcastically.
“Have you ever heard of Angela Davis?” he responded.
“No,” I said.
“Well, look her up. Do you know where she went to school?”
“Where?”
“Brandeis.”
Rivers talked about Brandeis like it was a new phone service or some kind of pyramid scheme he wanted me to sign up for. Then he told me Brandeis was a Jewish school and asked me if I thought that might be a problem.
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”
Then Rivers’s voice dropped to a serious tone. “Abraham, I know what I’m talking about. You got to trust me.”
Trust him? I wondered what Rivers looked like. Was he tall or short? Thin? Fat? Fatherly in disposition? What was fatherly? And what would Donnel think? What would he want me to do?
“Son,” Rivers said, “Do you know who Plato is?”
He called me son and a thick knot blossomed in my throat.
“No?” he asked. “Well, Plato was a Greek philosopher who said that all a man takes with himself when he dies is his culture and his education. That’s it. Nothing else. Think about that. Ask yourself, what does it mean?”
I began to speak but Rivers cut me off.
“Don’t answer,” he said. “Just think about what I said.”
When I got off the phone, I returned to the couch, watched The Simpsons, and thought about what Rivers said. I thought about Ever and what I had and I thought about my friends and family, Donnel and Eric and my uncle and my mom and my Aunt Rhonda and my grandma, all of us crammed in my grandma’s two-bedroom apartment.
Eric shifted one of the earphones from his ear. “Army recruiter?” he asked.
“Air Force.” I said.
He slammed a forkful of lo mein into his mouth. “Fuck those niggas,” he said. He finished chewing. Then he added: “I seen Lorenzo just before.”
“What he say?” I asked, trying to sound impervious.
Eric kept his eyes on the TV. He swigged from his bottle of soda. He swallowed. “Nothing. Same old shit.”
We continued to watch The Simpsons. I thought about Lorenzo and the fight at the park and what Rivers said. I thought about what might happen if and when I ran into Lorenzo alone. And I thought about Kaya, about how she said going to college might mean being apart from each other. That thought made me feel empty. I thought about where Donnel was. I wondered how empty, how much nothingness he felt. And sitting on the couch, I knew I wanted more than such nothingness. I wanted more for him. And what I wanted was more than Ever; more than what my grandma had and what my mother had; I wanted more than dying. I wanted no more crackheads; no more brothers selling drugs; no more prisoners and parolees; no more prowling cops, truant officers, and social workers. No more brothers killing one another, inherently killing ourselves.
III
A week later, I came home from school and got the mail. In it was a manila envelope addressed to me. I walked across the lobby to the stairwell and opened it. Inside there was a glossy college bulletin, an application to Brandeis, and a short handwritten note on a Post-it that said Did you think about it? Coach Rivers. In the dim light of the stairwell, I studied all of it as best as I could. I walked slowly, pausing at each landing. I read Rivers’s note over and over again. I devoured it. I didn’t lift my foot high enough and tripped on a step. I fell, putting one hand down, holding the application against my chest. I stood and started walking again. Did I think about it? Of course, I thought about it. I thought about all of it, Ever Park, the charges pending against me, Donnel. What was in that bulletin was the antithesis of what was around me. How could I not think about it? I scrutinized the shiny pages of smiling faces amidst landscapes of green trees, kidney-shaped flowerbeds, brick buildings and walkways, and students sitting before disheveled professors in sport coats, shirts, and loosened ties. I read the text and studied the captions. I reviewed the table of contents and titles at the top of every page. I was mesmerized, awed entirely.
I scanned the application, its directions, what I was to write in each blank space, on each black line, what I was supposed to circle and check off and fill in. It was too dark to read in the stairwell. But somehow, I did.
At our apartment door, I stopped and looked through the bulletin more, slowly, all of it once again. I had never seen such a sight, never held such a prize.
I unlocked the door and walked into the apartment, still looking, scouring, picking apart everything, including the finest of fine print. Eric was sitting on the couch watching TV. I crossed between him and his electric lover.
“What’s that?” he asked, intrigued by how serious I was, how much I ignored everything in our surroundings.
“Nothing,” I mumbled, not stopping, not looking at him, my eyes planted in what my hands held.
Although I assumed my uncle knew, I hadn’t told him about Rivers’s phone call. And I hadn’t told my aunt or my grandma about it either. I hadn’t even told Kaya. The only thing of any importance was getting Donnel out of jail, getting him a decent lawyer, ensuring his freedom. I leaned against the kitchen counter and flipped the pages. I sat at the kitchen table. I went into the bathroom and sat on the toilet. I closed the bedroom door and sat on the floor. I lay on the bed. I took the bulletin, the application, and the note with me wherever I went.
Maybe Titty and Precious stood beneath the window and shouted my name. Maybe they said Abraham, nigga! Yo, you deaf motherfucker! We know you’re home! Maybe someone was having sex in one of the apartments that surrounded ours. Maybe a sister was moaning and wheezing and the bed was bumping against the wall, squeaking as its legs scraped and skipped to the cadence of her lover’s thrusting. Maybe there was the wail of police sirens, and the blue and red flash of police lights banging off the afternoon. But I wouldn’t have known it. I was in Ever, but I was enveloped by Brandeis, encased by the wonderment of what it might be like to exist in a world so different from Ever. I studied the faces in the bulletin. Their eyes were eager. They seemed so innocent; so agape, so aglow with indomitable naïveté.
I heard the door open and my uncle come home and Eric tell him I was in our room. Quickly, I hid the application under the pillow and pretended I was sleeping. The bedroom door opened. My uncle came in.
“A,” he said, shaking my foot. “You feeling all right?”
“Yeah,” I said, putting sleepiness in my voice. “Just tired.”
A short while later, my grandma came home, and some time after—I don’t know how long it was. A half hour? An hour?—she shouted my name.
“Abraham,” she said. “There’s food out here! Abraham, I’m talking to you! Come and get something to eat!”
I couldn’t go without it. I was a toddler with his favorite blanket, a little boy with his most favorite, invisible friend. I walked out of the room into the kitchen, my arms at my side, one hand clamped around the bulletin, the application, and the yellow Post-it. Dinner was spaghetti. Eric and my Aunt Rhonda were already sitting on the couch, their bowls in their hands, their eyes planted on the TV. My grandma and my uncle stood at the stove. She shoveled a heap of spaghetti from the pot and dropped it into the bowl he was holding. Then she saw me.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “You sick or something?”
She looked at what was in my hands then tried to read me, decode my expression, my lips, my eyes, the thoughts behind them.
“What you got?” she asked, tipping her chin at what I held. “That homework or something?”
“Nigga hasn’t put that shit down since he got home!” Eric shouted.
“Ain’t no one talking to you!” my grandma shouted back, her eyes burning on me.
I looked at my uncle. He studied me with a stoic yet slightly hurt expression, as if he knew w
hat I held and wanted to know why I had not told him. My grandma wiped her hands on the dishtowel hanging from the handle on the oven door. Then she reached out and took the bulletin and application from me.
“Let me see,” she said.
She studied Rivers’s note for a moment. Then she peeled the Post-It back from the bulletin and studied the bulletin’s glossy cover. She opened it, thumbed through the pages. She looked at its back cover. She looked at the front cover again. She read what she saw aloud and struggled with the pronunciation. The schools that recruited my uncle used to send bulletins. She had seen hundreds of bulletins before.
“Brandeeze, Broondise.” She looked at my uncle. “What’s this?”
“College,” my uncle said, his eyes on me.
“No,” said my grandma. “What’s this note mean? Did you think about it?”
I wanted to speak. But I didn’t know where to begin. My throat and tongue were lifeless, heavy. I did not know how to balance the excitement I felt over what Rivers said and Donnel, where he was and where that application meant I might go.
“You spoke to Rivers?” asked my uncle.
“He said I got to fill out the application,” I said.
Thrust between joy and suspicion, and the realization that things were occurring in her home that she was not aware of, my grandma looked at me. Her eyes demanded clarification, specific details. She looked like she was reading, turning pages with her eyes, learning my face from left to right. What was I talking about? What kind of man was I becoming? She had just seen me in a police car for the first time. She had seen me handcuffed. But college? A student? How many times had she prayed for us, her children and grandchildren? How many times had she prayed for the capacity to fill the role of mother, father, grandfather, uncle, aunt, and a plethora of ethical family confidants? After everything that had happened, had she been able to imagine this?
My grandma brought the application and bulletin to her chest. She closed her eyes, took a deep, strained breath in through her nose.
“Oh dear God,” she whispered. “I listened to her. I prayed and prayed on what Kaya said. But never once. Oh dear God, Abraham.”
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