by Evan Balkan
Joseph heard her and dropped his hands immediately. Either Caroline didn’t hear, or she didn’t care, because she just kept on holding on. If she had extricated herself and turned around, she would have seen Beatrice glaring at them, would have seen the malevolent look in her eye, a look that spoke of real trouble.
Caroline sat on her bed, a book propped on her chest. But she wasn’t reading. Instead, she was staring at the ceiling. In the background, she heard her mother call her to supper. But it seemed so far away, she didn’t react.
“Caroline!”
Now it registered. The book slid off her chest as she got up. “Coming,” she said. But Mrs. Panski didn’t hear her.
When Caroline took her place at the table, Mrs. Panski stared at her.
“What?”
“When I call you, I expect to be answered.”
“I did answer.”
“And I expect to not be lied to. Now, let’s say prayers.”
Sam mumbled his, Mrs. Panski was barely more audible. Caroline was completely silent.
“Young lady?”
“What?”
“You’re too big for prayers now?”
“I don’t believe in God,” she said, but even she was stunned by the declaration. It felt more for effect than from any real conviction. Still, it came from deep inside, and it had some truth to it. At least in the moment, it was true.
Sam stared at his sister, a mix of awe and shock.
“I’m sorry. What did you just say?”
“I said—”
“I am not deaf and I know perfectly well what you said. The good Lord is the reason we have this food in front of us, and this roof over our heads, and the reason you have the clothes you wear and—”
Braying through a veil of tears, Caroline shouted, “I don’t want any of that. You can have all of that. I want my daddy, and my daddy is dead, and God took him away and so I don’t believe in him.”
“Caroline!”
“And you tell me I can’t play hockey and I can’t be friends with Joseph either. So I don’t believe in anything!”
Caroline ran up the stairs. Sam and Mrs. Panski just sat at the table not moving, even after Caroline’s bedroom door slammed shut. Finally, Mrs. Panski slowly rose and wordlessly cleared the dishes.
CAROLINE WAS HEADING home after school when she heard Beatrice call out to her.
Caroline stopped on the sidewalk, allowing Beatrice to run up.
“Going home?” she asked, catching her breath.
“I have to watch Sam this afternoon.”
“Oh, okay, see you.”
Beatrice beamed. It was a smile that Caroline had seen before, one that Beatrice turned on in only two circumstances, namely when she sought to use her charms to disentangle herself from some particularly sticky situation, such as the time she and Caroline and Alma had been caught poaching Easter eggs from the lawn of a neighbor who had hidden them in anticipation of a forthcoming hunt. “Hi, Mrs. Twardowicz,” Beatrice smiled, three eggs cradled in the long hem of her shirt. “We were just putting these in better hiding spots. I know your back hurts when you bend over, so we’ll put them under the bushes for you. The kids will have a much better time hunting if they weren’t in such obvious spots, you know.”
“Yes, it’ll take them longer to find the eggs,” Alma put in.
“And that means more time hunting, which is what everyone wants,” said Beatrice. “Isn’t that right, Caroline?”
Caroline nodded, angry that Beatrice had a habit of always dragging her into whatever mess she had gotten herself into. But angry at herself even more for being unable to resist her. And then Caroline watched as Beatrice laid on the bright smile again, adding with fake compliments, “Mrs. Twardowicz, I do think, without question, your roses are the finest in the neighborhood.”
It was only in the last year or so, as Beatrice had finally and completely lost the chubbiness in her cheeks that had defined her as a little girl, did some of the adults seem to wise up to her manipulations.
And then there was the other thing. Beatrice was a good friend to Caroline, had been for years, but she could be downright mean. And when she was scheming something Caroline might think sinister—capturing a cat so that her brother could shave it, for example—she’d get that smile. Caroline saw it as a wicked thing, hardly discernible from the flattering smile but in one respect: the glint in her eyes died. Beatrice possessed lovely green eyes that always seemed to have a little extra layer of moisture in them, giving her the cherubic look of a kid on the edge of crying. But when she got to scheming something particularly nasty, that wetness left her, as if her very soul had dried up and shriveled.
Caroline saw it now, there on the edge of the steps to school, and she wanted none of it. So she muttered a “goodbye” and hurried on, not looking back.
Alma and Genevieve joined Beatrice on the sidewalk.
“She still sad?” Genevieve asked, seeing Caroline walking home.
“I think she’s gone too far,” Beatrice said.
“Her father died, Beatrice. Give her a break,” Alma said.
“It must be a dreadful time for her.”
“I’m sympathetic to that,” Beatrice said. “But to run into the arms of a Negro isn’t going to help her. I’m sure it will only make things worse. Much worse. Why invite more trouble on yourself?”
“I’m not certain it’s really our business,” Genevieve said.
“We’re her best friends,” Beatrice responded. “If it’s not our business, whose is it?”
Alma shrugged. “I guess.”
“In fact, it’s our duty to help her—even if she acts like we’re the worst people in the world,” Beatrice said.
Genevieve and Alma didn’t say anything. They just stole a quick glance at each other, the way they did when Beatrice got a head of steam about something and the two of them—or, in what felt like the old days, the three of them, including Caroline—were powerless to stop her. They still said nothing, even as Beatrice turned and walked away from them, heading back into school.
As Joseph walked through the hallway toward the front doors, he turned a corner and there stood Beatrice.
“Hi,” she said.
Joseph didn’t react.
“I’m Beatrice. We’re in Miss Bloom’s class together.”
“I know who you are.”
“You and Caroline seem to be very close.”
Joseph shrugged. On edge, he looked back and forth and from side to side.
“You don’t have anything to be scared about.”
“I’m not scared.”
“I just want to be friends with you, like Caroline. In fact, she’s looking for you. She told me to tell you to meet her at the playground.”
“Why didn’t she just tell me herself?”
“You know Caroline. I mean, I think she’s wonderful, but she likes rules. And Miss Bloom is strict about talking in class. Besides, when Miss Bloom saw you two in the hallway, well, I think Caroline thought that she was already in enough trouble.”
Beatrice paused, she seemed unsure of her next move. This unnerved Joseph even more.
“Well, okay then. Goodbye.” Beatrice held out her hand to shake, then retracted it, then put it out again, tentatively. But Joseph wasn’t taking her hand in any case. He just stood there, unmoving.
“Well okay then,” Beatrice repeated, pulling her hand away again, seemingly not upset or offended by Joseph’s rejection of it, or of her. She went to leave, but then called over her shoulder. “See you at the playground. Don’t forget.”
Outside, Joseph walked in the opposite direction of the playground.
Beatrice turned and spotted him walking away. She took off in a trot and caught up with him. “Hey, I thought you were meeting Caroline. Didn’t I tell you that you need to go to the playground, silly?”
Joseph said nothing.
“She told me she was expecting you at the playground. You don’t want to disappoint her, do you
? I know she’d be disappointed if she showed up and you weren’t there.”
“I need to get home now,” Joseph said. He squinted into the sun and held his hand up to shield his eyes. “And I don’t want any trouble.”
“What trouble? You’d think we were all commies or something.”
Just then, Alan and two other boys from the hockey rink appeared from around the corner of the school. They walked right up to Joseph.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at the playground to see your little white girlfriend?” Alan asked.
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“You sure right she ain’t, nigger,” one of the other boys said. “You don’t even belong here.”
Joseph glared, anger flashing across his face. His jaw set. He was more than ready for a rumble. But it was three against one. He looked at Beatrice, who gave him a wicked grin.
Joseph took off running and the three boys pursued.
They looked like wolves as they ran. Joseph glanced over his shoulder to watch them. They were not getting any closer, and, in fact, on two occasions, they stumbled over each other, almost spilling to the ground in their zeal to catch him. At one point, Joseph almost laughed, a combination of nervous titters and the fact that they just looked so stupid. They had little chance of catching him. He hadn’t even hit second gear yet, saving it for the moment they might close in. But one of the three had already fallen far behind and when Joseph next looked back, he could see the overweight kid had stopped, bent over with his hands on his knees and sucking breath. Not long after, a second one tripped. When Joseph stole a glance, he saw the kid lying on the ground holding his knee, a tear in his pants. But Alan still pursued.
Down the street, through an alley, past the frozen pond.
Joseph was willing to draw him in further, lead him toward his own neighborhood. Once he could be sure it was just the two of them left, Joseph would stop, allow Alan to catch up, and then punch him square in the nose. Just one or two more blocks. But then Joseph turned into a dead end. As he changed course, he saw Alan coming into the blind alley. He and Joseph just stopped, staring at one another, catching their breath. And then, a moment later, the other two boys arrived.
There was another moment of pause. Joseph watched the three boys; they watched him. And then it started as if by some sort of silent decree, the three white boys went at him simultaneously.
Joseph fought back, landing a few punches, but was soon overwhelmed. And soon enough, the white boys beat the tar out of him, slashing at him with fists and shoes and stopping only when Alan told them to, but not before he landed two or three more rapid fire punches on the back of Joseph’s head. Joseph wrapped his arms over his head, but the damage was done.
Satisfied, the boys started to move away, chests heaving, sweat dripping.
“Maybe Caroline can come bandage up her little nigger friend,” Alan spit.
The boys left Joseph, bloodied and bruised, in the alley.
He lay there a long time, occasionally straightening his legs and then pulling them up again against his chest. He had trouble drawing a full breath and when he tried, a sharp stab of pain flashed through his ribs.
Eventually, he got himself up and limped his way home, some twenty blocks. Each step brought on more painful stabs of air, more reminders of his place in this world. But he wouldn’t cry. Nuh-uh. Never, not in a million years. He’d take his lumps. He’d known they’d come someday. This was something all little back boys knew. It was one of the few things he could remember his Daddy sitting him down and telling him. Mostly, the old man just grunted his way through life. But that one time, he took Joseph out on the porch and looked him in the eye and said, straight as an arrow, “You stay out of trouble. There’ll be times you’ll want to scream and thrash and tell those ignorant crackers what’s up. But you hold your tongue, boy. If you know what’s good for you, you hold your tongue. No matter if it ain’t even true. You keep yourself out of the situation in the first place. They’s just looking for you to slip up. Just looking for it. You keep your head down and you hold your tongue. Make it through, son. Just make it through.”
The last block before home, he passed three men sitting out on their stoops playing the dozens. “Your mama so fat, she . . .” and “Your old lady so dumb, she . . .” But they stopped jabbing each other when they saw Joseph pass. They shook their heads. But Joseph kept walking. None of them stopped him, or asked what had happened.
They knew all too well.
THE STUDENTS IN Miss Bloom’s class were writing in their tablets while Miss Bloom sat at her desk grading.
Caroline looked over toward Joseph’s empty desk. He wasn’t in school. Hadn’t been all day. She got back to her work.
“Psssst.” It was Alma. Caroline looked over.
“Did you hear?” Alma whispered.
Caroline shook her head.
“Joseph was beaten up yesterday.”
“What—? By who?”
Miss Bloom glanced up from her work. “Caroline Panski, is there a problem?”
“No, ma’am.”
Caroline and Alma got back to their work. But after another few moments, Alma turned back to Caroline and whispered. “It was pretty bad.”
Caroline wanted to scream, wanted to do something, anything, but there was nothing she could do stuck in the classroom.
Alma tapped her foot on the ground to get Caroline’s attention again. “Don’t worry. He’s not dead, though.”
Just hearing the word was enough for Caroline. She scrambled out of her desk and burst out of the classroom, heels clacking down the hallway until she pushed right out of the front door of the school. This time, unlike every other day when she headed left for home, she turned right, toward the part of Baltimore where she knew Joseph lived, somewhere deep over the color line, but unsure where. No matter—she headed that way anyway.
It wasn’t long before the flavor of the neighborhoods changed. There were the same old rowhomes and the same old stoops she found in her neighborhood. But there was more garbage collected along the curbs, more cracks in the sidewalk, more dormant weeds pushing up through the cement. But she continued, even as the scenery got worse, even in the face of small piles of broken glass lying near the curbs, even past houses with stoops that were not only not polished, but full of chips and scrapes and scuffs. Joseph’s house couldn’t have been too much further ahead. She began to consider it as something of a refuge. She needed only to reach his house. But how she’d find it, she had no idea.
She turned onto Eager Street heading toward Preston, where Joseph had told her he lived, and saw three men sitting on their stoop talking and laughing. As Caroline approached, they stopped and stared.
“You a long way from home,” one of them said.
“You lost little girl?” asked a second.
“I’m looking for Joseph,” she said nervously. “Joe Louis? Famous boxer? Ain’t from around here.”
“Maybe she’s looking for Joe Gans.”
“No luck in that, either,” the third man said. “Less you want to run over Mount Auburn Cemetery and dig him up. It’s thataway.”
The men laughed, but it was good-natured, a clear attempt to defuse what could have been a potentially explosive situation. “What you want with these old fighters anyway?” they continued, the rag still full on.
Undeterred, Caroline told them: “I’m looking for Joseph Wilson. Colored boy. Lives around here somewhere.”
“Lots of colored boys live around here, don’t you know.”
“And I suspect quite a few of them named Joe Wilson. Pretty common name.”
“He goes to the white school south of here,” Caroline explained.
One of the men turned to another and said, “Say, isn’t that Mavis’s boy? The one integrating the school down Patterson Park?”
“Walked through here all beaten up yesterday?”
“That’s him,” Caroline said.
“If it is, you in luck little lady. Mav
is lives just around this corner here, on Wolfe. 1104, I believe it is.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Good luck to you.”
Caroline started to walk away.
“Say, you got something stuck behind your ear there,” one of the men said.
“What?”
“Can’t hear me cause you got something stuck behind your ear. Come here.”
Caroline went and stood before him. The man reached out behind her head and slowly, steadily pretended to be extracting something good and jammed. Then, with a quick jerk, he ripped his hand from behind her head, opened his palm, and revealed a shiny copper penny. “Here you go,” he said, handing it to her. “Now you should be able to hear better.”
Caroline smiled and deposited the penny in her pocket.
“Say, what you want with this Joe Wilson anyway?” the man asked.
Caroline looked him square in the face and said, “He’s my friend.”
1104 Wolfe Street was a fine enough place, solidly built, with multi-colored bricks lain one atop the other with extraordinary precision and with an attractive plaster decoration—some kind of tree branch—just above the lintel. And yet there was a certain shabbiness to Caroline’s eye, a sense of neglect just at the outer edges of this house, with its collection of curbside litter, its stray Coke and beer bottles, its scuffed and unclean stoop. This whole block was teetering on some edge, a long slide into despair. Even the weather seemed harsher here, and for the first time, Caroline became aware of being cold.
She walked up to the front door, hesitated and then sucked in her resolve. She knocked and then jumped back at the response: ferocious barking coming from inside.
There was a struggle to open the door, but when it swung open, it revealed a tall, thin woman in a floral housedress with her gray hair pulled back on her head. She bellowed to someone inside, “Take the dog to the back room!” Then, she turned and addressed Caroline in a curt voice. “Can I help you?”
“Is this where Joseph Wilson lives?”
“And who wants to know?” Her voice was laced with impatience, even accusation.