by Evan Balkan
“Well, I suppose it is. Places south. Alabama. Mississippi.”
“Not Maryland?”
“I should hope not.”
“I told you there’s a Negro boy in my class at school …”
“You did tell me that. Are you worried someone would do that to him?”
Caroline thought a moment. “Not really. But I wonder if maybe he worries about that. People aren’t very friendly to him at school.”
“Are you friendly to him?”
“I try to be. But he doesn’t seem to like people talking to him. And he told me he hates it here, that if he had a choice he’d just stay in his neighborhood.”
“I imagine it’s difficult for him. Being the only Negro. He doesn’t have the same kinds of freedoms you have.”
Caroline knew better than to ask, but she couldn’t help herself. “Is that what Daddy is doing in Korea?”
Mrs. Panski stiffened, the way she always did when Caroline asked questions about her father.
Caroline kept going. “Fighting for Negroes to have freedoms? Or Koreans, I mean. Before he left, he told me that sometimes part of being an American and having freedom is being called on to fight for others who aren’t free.”
Mrs. Panski’s eyes watered. “He’s right. Your father is right about that.”
“Does Daddy fight with Negroes? I mean, other American soldiers who are Negro?”
“I don’t know about that, Caroline. I really don’t.” Mrs. Panski unpacked Caroline’s satchel. “We need to get to this homework, don’t we?”
“Maybe I’ll try to be Joseph’s friend.”
“Who’s Joseph?”
“The Negro boy at school.”
Mrs. Panski looked long and hard at her daughter.
“What?” Caroline asked. “Joseph seems like a nice boy. Besides, if Daddy can fight for freedom in Korea, I can fight for Joseph’s freedom to make friends here at school.”
“Just be careful, Caroline.”
“What do you mean?”
Mrs. Panski looked off into space again, something she had been doing more and more of lately. “I don’t know what I mean, sweetheart,” she finally muttered. “I really don’t.”
Caroline tried to catch Joseph the next day before school. Once again, she left her house early, telling her friends the day before not to wait for her, but not telling them why. Images from Lewis’s bedroom had been swimming in her head all night, as did the sounds of that big guy with the saxophone, and she figured this would be something she could talk to Joseph about. But then she realized that she couldn’t even remember what Lewis had said the saxophone player’s name was.
In any case, she stood alone on the steps for a half hour before groups of kids started showing up including, eventually, her friends. Caroline saw them coming and didn’t want to have to answer their questions, so she stepped inside just at the moment she spotted Joseph walking alone along the sidewalk in the distance. She wanted desperately to wait for him, but she knew she couldn’t without it looking strange. No one would understand.
During Geography she remembered. Billy Holiday. That was his name. She couldn’t wait to talk to Joseph about him.
During lunch, she sat at her usual table with her friends. But when she noticed Joseph carrying his tray to his spot at his table, she headed over to him.
“Where are you going?” Beatrice asked after her.
Caroline didn’t answer.
“Hey,” she said when she got to Joseph.
He looked around before answering. “Hi.”
“So, you know Billy Holiday?”
“Who?”
“Billy Holiday.”
“That the blond kid in our class?”
“No, that’s Billy Trethaway. Billy Holiday’s a musician, plays saxophone. Sometimes I go down to the clubs on Pennsylvania Avenue to see him play.”
“Don’t know him. But my uncle plays saxophone. Can play the cornet, too.”
“Really? That’s interesting. Can I sit?”
“Uh ...”
“Hey!” Caroline and Joseph turned. There stood Alan and two of his buddies.
“Don’t answer them,” Caroline instructed, though it appeared that Joseph had no intention of doing so anyhow.
“Don’t you know that you’re supposed to answer when someone talks to you?” one of the boys asked Joseph.
“Why don’t you leave us alone?” Caroline said.
“Aw, isn’t that sweet?” The boy turned to Joseph. “You get your girlfriend to fight your battles for you?”
Caroline turned red, partly from anger, partly from embarrassment. “I’m not his girlfriend,” she spat at the same moment Joseph whispered, “She’s not my girlfriend.” His eyes looked wide and big and he suddenly appeared to Caroline a lot younger than she knew him to be.
Alan stepped closer, close enough to brush Caroline as he passed, and then stood hovering over Joseph. Alan paused, seemingly contemplating his next move, before sweeping Joseph’s tray to the floor, spilling his food all over the place. A nasty looking stew, with chocolate milk spilling from its container and inundating Joseph’s sandwich and French fries.
“Whoops,” Alan said, a big dopey smile across his face. The other boys snickered.
Caroline wanted to punch them in the face. She could feel the heat crawling up her neck and spilling out over her collar. She wanted to kill them.
But Joseph remained calm. He didn’t bother to pick up the food. But he didn’t say a word to his tormentors, either. He simply stood and grabbed his books. But as he started to walk away, one of the other creeps poked the books from behind, causing them to spill out all over the floor. “Whoops again,” he said.
Why isn’t Joseph doing anything about it? Caroline thought. Why is he just taking it?
Whatever the reason, she wasn’t going to take it. She wasn’t going to just stand there. By this point, half the lunchroom had turned to watch. Something had to be done, and no one—not even the teachers—was doing anything about it. So, without thinking about what she was doing, Caroline turned to the jerk who had poked Joseph’s books and slapped him in the face—hard. Instantly, a deep red imprint of Caroline’s hand swelled up on the kid’s face.
Stunned, the boy’s jaw slacked and his eyes grew wide. He unconsciously placed his own hand where Caroline’s had hit him. Then, as if finally realizing what had happened to him, his eyebrows creased into a sharp V and he pushed Caroline, sending her crashing against the table behind her. Two teachers came running over. The rest of the kids in the lunchroom rose from their seats, angling for a better look at the commotion, heading over to get nearer, ignoring the teachers yelling at them to sit down. The excitement was a tangible thing, zapping the entire room, at once filling the kids and emanating from them, each of them lucky enough to be witnessing this, to be able to have this exciting story to tell to friends later who hadn’t seen it, or at home over supper to siblings and parents.
And then it got even better.
Caroline grabbed a milk carton from a girl sitting at the table where she’d just been pushed and, ignoring the girl’s Hey!, threw it at the boy who pushed her, covering his entire face and most of his hair with milk. By the time the kid brushed it from his eyes, the teachers had grabbed both him and Caroline and had started escorting them out of the lunchroom and toward the principal’s office.
Caroline’s eyes and face burned at this public and embarrassing display. But the worst part was that when she looked back, she realized that Joseph had just stood there the whole time. He hadn’t even bothered to come to her defense. He hadn’t done anything. What she did, she did for him, and now she was going to get in trouble.
When it was her turn with Principal Podolski, Caroline sat in the chair in front of his desk with her arms crossed over her chest, still fuming about what had taken place.
“I just don’t understand it, Miss Panski. You are probably the last one at this school I would expect this behavior from.”
Carolin
e didn’t say a word.
“Now, I am going to let you off with a warning. I know the circumstances with your father and—”
Caroline felt a burn behind her eyes, the tears that threatened to spill. But she blinked and swallowed it back. She would not cry. “It’s not that,” she choked out.
“What then?”
“What about those boys? Shouldn’t they be in trouble? What they did to Joseph?”
“Caroline—” Principal Podolski folded his hands on his desk, wrapping his fingers around one another into a tight ball. “I’m not certain I understand why you are concerning yourself so much with Joseph.”
“Why shouldn’t I? No one else cares.”
“I’m not necessarily saying you shouldn’t care. But it is not accurate to say that no one else does. He is here under special circumstances. His father died in South Carolina and he has moved to Baltimore and we are experimenting with integration in some small cases.”
“I saw some Negroes at the high school.”
“Yes. A-listers. What I’m telling you is that perhaps you’re taking on more than you might wish to chew.”
“What I know is that my Daddy is fighting in Korea so that other people can have freedom. And it only seems right that people here should have freedom, too. Like the freedom to not be bullied. To be able to sit wherever they like in the lunchroom. To have whatever friends they want to.”
Principal Podolski sat back in his chair, leaning so far it looked like he might topple over. “I’m not certain I see an apt comparison there. But I respect what you’re saying. And I certainly respect what your father is doing. I fought in World War II myself.” He paused and let out a long sigh. “You are free to go.”
Caroline rose from her chair and gathered her satchel. “Am I in trouble?”
“No. But Miss Panski?”
“Yes?”
“I want to be clear that there will be no more milk throwing in my lunchroom. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wait until it becomes an Olympic sport, and then you can throw all the milk you want.”
Caroline smiled. “Yes, sir.”
She made her way back to the lunchroom and when she arrived, just a few minutes before dismissal, the place went dead quiet, everyone staring in her direction like she was some new creature no one knew, or cared to know. Even Alma, Beatrice, and Genevieve stared.
Caroline tried her best to ignore everyone. But when she saw Joseph looking at her, too, she felt angry again. She marched up to him. “What is wrong with you?” she asked.
“What do you mean? What are you angry with me for?”
“You just sat there while I got in trouble.”
“I never asked you to come to my rescue.”
“But no one else was.”
Joseph grabbed his books and got up. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”
“But you were just sitting there.”
“You don’t understand. People like me? We don’t get to hit back. Hit back, we get killed.”
“You don’t know what I understand and what I don’t.”
“Believe me, you don’t understand,” Joseph said and collected his books before adding, “And you never will.”
Then he left Caroline standing there, alone, in the middle of the room, with everyone else staring in open-mouthed silence. She wanted to scream, throw more milk, throw whatever. She hated them, hated them all. Hated everything.
But very quickly, and very much against her will, the anger turned to something else and before she could even realize it, tears were flowing down her cheeks, like someone had turned on a spigot with no turn-off valve. She ran from the room, out into the hallway, and then right out of the school.
CAROLINE TRIED HER BEST the next day to act as if everything was still normal, as if she hadn’t made a spectacle of herself in front of everyone the day before. She left for school early to avoid her friends since she just couldn’t bear to see them, or anyone, really. In her classroom, her level of concentration was intense. She made her best effort not to look anywhere but to the front of the class. It made no difference that Joseph continually looked her way—something Beatrice eventually took notice of. To no avail. She was not looking back at him. She was not looking at anyone.
She remained quiet during lunch, too, only muttering “Nothing” when the other girls asked her what was going on. Eventually, they tired of asking and just ignored her, something she was grateful for.
Even on the walk home she remained silent, lost in a reverie, the sounds of her friends chattering away merely a wash of noise.
Until she heard Beatrice’s voice, clear and loud, above all the others: “How long, Miss Caroline, before you start speaking to us again?”
She didn’t mean to inflame Beatrice, but when Caroline shrugged in response, Beatrice obviously took it as an intentional dig, a suggestion that Caroline might never speak to any of them again.
“Well, it sure is rude. And annoying.”
“Lay off,” Genevieve said.
“I’m not certain how long we have to take her acting this way. I’m sorry, Caroline,” Beatrice said. “It just seems you have more of an interest in talking to the new nigger boy than to us. That hurts, Caroline. How are we to feel if you act like you hate us?”
Caroline couldn’t respond. She had no obligation to anyone and anyway, this was the way Beatrice had acted for years—involving herself in something inexcusable and then twisting it in such a way that it seemed like it was your fault. Besides, Beatrice was right. Caroline did have more of an interest in Joseph than she did in her own friends, even if she would never put it as meanly as Beatrice had.
But she couldn’t say this to Beatrice, or to anyone. She didn’t have the words for these sentiments because she didn’t understand them. At least she couldn’t understand them except as fuzzy feelings bubbling to the surface at arbitrary times and filling her with a mixture of anger and sadness and hurt.
At their separation point, she bid her friends goodbye—her only words to them—and didn’t even register Beatrice’s face turning red, the anger leaking out of her so much she was rendered speechless. Alma walked home beside her in silence.
Caroline repeated her avoidance tactic the next morning, leaving before her friends could join her. In school, the other students still cast wary looks her way. But by lunchtime this had stopped, replaced by something far more meaningful. A sense of deep expectation pervaded the classroom. Miss Bloom looked at the clock. The students stared, wide-eyed, expectant, big smiles plastered on their faces. The clock ticked its way toward 3:00 p.m.
“Have a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year,” Miss Bloom said. “And please don’t forget to keep the less fortunate in your prayers.”
The bell rang and the students ran out of the classroom. Caroline was far more composed. Amidst the chaos of fleeing students, Joseph caught her eye and smiled. Caroline couldn’t help herself. She smiled back. It felt good. It seemed like ages since she’d smiled.
The students burst out of the school, screaming and running. At the back of the procession came Caroline and Joseph, preceded by Beatrice, Alma, and Genevieve.
Caroline turned to Joseph: “Have a nice break,” she said.
“You do the same.”
The two of them lingered—a bit too long.
Alma, Beatrice, and Genevieve waited. While Alma and Genevieve talked, Beatrice looked up at the top of the stairs. “Caroline!” she yelled with obvious impatience.
“Gotta go,” Caroline said.
“Bye.” Joseph started down the sidewalk.
Caroline called after him, “See you next year.”
Joseph smiled.
Beatrice glared, and this time Caroline took real notice. Joseph, she decided, was worth a lot of things. But worth losing her best friends? That was a tough one.
A SMALL DUSTING of snow softened the building’s hard brick edges. Just a few blocks and a whole world away, the
boys played hockey, their shouts ricocheting off the nearby buildings. In her room, Caroline lay on her bed reading a book while downstairs Mrs. Panski made pancake batter and scrambled eggs. A teapot whistled on the stove.
Though school had stopped for winter break, the rest of the world went on. After breakfast, Caroline walked along the sidewalk, passing the two men on their stoops. They waved and she returned an unenthusiastic wave. She came to the alley that led to the frozen pond, hesitated, and then turned back around, back toward home. She didn’t much feel like hockey. Whereas once it had been her outlet, her joy, her everything, now she couldn’t really muster the energy to do much of anything. The excitement she usually had when she thought about playing hockey just wasn’t there. She spent the rest of her day mostly in her room, silent, brooding. No one in the house spoke much, each settling into his or her own private world. Despite the closeness of the quarters, Caroline, Sam, and Mrs. Panski managed to keep entirely clear of one another.
Beautiful spent much of the morning in a prolonged fight with her coughs and dry heaves. The Panskis had seen this before and they no longer thrust their fingers in her mouth to extract whatever it was they believed must have been stuck up there. When he was younger, Sam used to give the dog spoonfuls of peanut butter and then watched with glee as Beautiful spent the next twenty minutes licking furiously at the top of her mouth—head tilted, tongue spinning like a top, her little beard soaked and dripping. Sam called it “yakking” and he couldn’t get enough of this entertainment until Mrs. Panski forbade it and told him that what he was doing amounted to torturing the poor animal. At that Sam wept and held onto Beautiful, apologizing over and over again until Mrs. Panski told him that it wasn’t really torture, that it was just something she said to get him to stop, and that in fact the dog loved peanut butter. But to stop doing it nonetheless.
But now Beautiful was yakking again, her head tilted in that little dance. But this time it wasn’t food that brought it on. In fact, it seemed to come out of nowhere, the coughs and yaks, before subsiding on their own. Then she would she lay peacefully on the floor next to one of the family.