The Stars Beneath Our Feet

by David Barclay Moore

  Handcuffed and Black, he landed on the floor, right in front of us. Kinda heavyset. I couldn’t see his face, but something about him was familiar.

  He was breathing heavy, on his knees.

  “Get up!” one of the cops yelled at him.

  He stayed kneeling on the floor, face pointed at the tiles. He was heaving now. Like he was about to throw up.

  Dude stared up at us. Ma and me just looked at him. He was, like, twenty-something. Face miserable. He stared at us like he needed help.

  “Man, will you get up!” the cop shouted.

  “Push me again and see what happens,” the dude in handcuffs said. His voice was cracked.

  “You need to watch where you step,” the cop answered. “Up, up, up!”

  The man shut his eyes and spat on the station floor.

  Both police looked fed up. One pulled his nightstick out and twirled it. It was a long shiny rod.

  Scowling, Ma raised her hand and shouted at the cop. “Why you wanna hit him?” That cop’s stick stopped in the air, and him and his partner glanced at me and Ma and the cop behind the desk, who looked like this was just any other night.

  It was like they was seeing us for the first time.

  “I am an officer of the court,” Ma said, exaggerating. “You only carry nightsticks when you wanna use ’em. I know that!”

  She was right. I hardly ever saw the police carry those long sticks around anymore. Most of them used the expandable ones.

  The two officers exchanged looks. The one clipped his baton back into his belt.

  “Mind your business,” he told Ma.

  She sucked her teeth.

  Loud.

  Then they stepped to either side of the dude on the floor, yanked him to his feet and dragged him into the back, where all the other people who got busted were laid up.

  Before they disappeared, one of the police said, “He’s been mixing it up all night.”

  I didn’t know if he had meant that for us or the cop behind the desk. I didn’t have much time to wonder on this, because right then the desk cop spoke up. “You two can go home. It says here Yvonne Grayson was sent down to Central Booking to see a judge.”

  “Central Booking?” Ma said. “When was this? We been here since—”

  “Go home, lady,” the cop said. “You won’t see her tonight. They’ll let her go late tomorrow.” His phone rang. “If you’re lucky.”

  The news really was hostile. It wasn’t just my imagination.

  My mother had her friend Mr. Jonathan—who worked at Legal Aid down at the courthouse—get us a lawyer to give us some advice.

  This morning we had got up early, dressed up nice and took the subway down to Midtown, 47th Street. Thanks to Ma, we rose up out the subway on the wrong side of the street. I had tried to tell her she had picked the wrong exit, but she wouldn’t listen. I had learned my way around because of my trips with Rose.

  Today Ma was as nervous as I was. Probably even more.

  Ma and me crossed over Sixth Av.’ Rose and me had just been over here a few weeks ago when we had come to visit Yvonne at her job.

  That day was fun. This day was evil.

  My book bag’s straps had started to slide down off my shoulders. I hiked it back up, remembering what I’d brought inside it.

  I gazed up at the tall buildings of Rockefeller Center. They calmed me some.

  Ma and I marched to 50th and Sixth Avenue, where we had arranged to meet the Legal Aid lawyer. His name was Aston Stewart. Ma said that Aston sounded like a girl with a deep voice when she had spoke to him over the phone, but he was truly a dude.

  “Probably one of the children,” Ma had said.

  As we approached Radio City Music Hall, where Aston was supposed to be, I spooked him out before he had even noticed us. Sure enough, even from half a block away, I could see plain as day that Aston was one of the children.

  “I think that’s him, Ma,” I said, and pointed.

  He saw me and smiled with a wave. He was waiting beneath that big Art Deco overhang at Radio City. This place for concerts was also part of Rock Center. When we stepped under that overhang, it blocked out the sun.

  Aston was a tall, thin Black dude with a shaved baldy. He looked about Jermaine’s or Steve’s age but must’a been older. He was wearing these big black thick-rimmed glasses like that movie dude Spike Lee and was dressed all in black.

  Except that what he was wearing was kind of in between what you would expect a man to wear and what you might expect a woman to wear. He wasn’t wearing no dress or nothing like that, but he had on some skin-tight black leggings and a black kind-of poncho. His shoes were black too, with these jumbo silver buckles.

  Ma’s eyes bugged when she met him. Then she caught herself and shook his hand.

  “Sue-ellen,” Aston said. “Thanks for being on time!”

  He was lively. And he had a nice smile. A smile that had put me at ease, as nervous as I had been. I liked what he was wearing, though I would never wear it myself. It made him stand out.

  Unique.

  “Mr. Stewart, thank you for coming with us and setting up this meeting,” Ma said. “With everything that’s happened, well…”

  “Yes, yes, I know, hon,” Aston said. His voice was deep for somebody dressed like he was. “Anything for a friend of Jonathan’s. I just hope this Tuttle character doesn’t try it.”

  By “try it,” Aston meant: try to take advantage of us. Years of listening to how gay people talk had taught me a few things.

  “You must be little Lolly,” he said, turning to me.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hello!”

  “And it’s just Lolly. Not little Lolly.”

  “Super! Well, I am so sorry this happened to you, Lolly. But keep your head up.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s go. I hate being tardy.”

  A woman met the three of us at the front door of Tuttle’s Toy Emporium. She led us to an elevator in the back of the store behind the giant Lego dragon. We waited for the elevator. None of us said anything.

  On either side of us were all these girl dolls, smiling, dressed in pink-and-white gowns. I felt like they were grinning at me. Teasing me. Aston scowled at them.

  The inside of the toy store seemed louder and brighter than before. So that it kind of hurt my eyes and ears being here. Everything was more real this time.

  Mr. Tuttle’s office was empty.

  It wasn’t a really big office like I had thought it would be. It was kind of dark and coldish and it felt like we were in somebody’s attic.

  While me, Ma and Aston waited in three green-velvet chairs, Aston peeked at his watch. He mentioned again how much he hated people being late.

  Ma just grunted.

  She was comical sitting there in one of the two dresses she owned. She didn’t like wearing dresses at all. Said they made her feel naked and vulnerable. I thought that I finally understood what she had meant.

  Aston got up and poured himself a glass of ice water from a pitcher. The lady who had showed us into Tuttle’s office had said to help ourself, but Ma and me didn’t want none.

  Our lawyer sipped his water and crunched an ice cube between his teeth. With his hand on his chin, Aston squinted, scanning Tuttle’s office, taking in everything like he was studying a textbook.

  “I wonder what compels a fully grown man to surround himself with playthings,” he said.

  Ma flared her nostrils at me, like I should know the answer. It seemed like Aston liked hearing himself talk even if nobody else was really listening.

  “Maybe,” I started, “maybe he likes to collect toys.” Aston raised an eyebrow at me. I said, “If you’re grown and own a toy store, that gives you an excuse to have a bunch of toys around you. Without people criticizing you.”

  “You think he plays with those frilly dolls downstairs?” Aston asked.

  I shrugged. “You know how little kids get when you take their toys from them….”

  He grinned and
crunched another chunk of ice between his teeth, then glanced at the door to the room. There were voices outside, coming nearer.

  “Showtime,” Aston said. He sat the glass of water on a table and folded his hands behind his back. I glanced at my book bag between my legs on the floor.

  Into the room walked two men. One old and the other one older. The older one said to the old one, “Well, we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

  I recognized Harold Tuttle’s voice right away. They paused at the door to eyeball Aston, Ma and me. Ma stood up. So did I.

  Both men stared at Aston like they were analyzing somebody on the east side of 125th Street, trying to decide whose gang he belonged to.

  Aston paced the small attic office. His black poncho-thing drifted behind him like a shawl.

  “Mr. Tuttle,” Aston went on. “All of us in this room know that Yvonne Grayson stole your toys—your Legos—from you. You must have felt troubled, betrayed, by this. But you’ve seen all of the good that came from Grayson’s admittedly unjustifiable act.”

  After having gone back and forth with Aston for fifteen minutes, Tuttle finally waved his wrinkled hand at him like he was trying to shoo away a fly.

  The other man, who had introduced himself as Rich Fowler, the vice president and legal counsel, but who Tuttle had introduced as his assistant, had been mostly quiet, leaning against the window behind his boss.

  Tuttle’s frosty office had got hot.

  Aston continued, “Little Lolly’s Lego cities were on the news. All over the Web. People across the planet have enjoyed the magic this impoverished child of Harlem created. Magic that originated from here—from your Legos, Mr. Tuttle.”

  Mr. Fowler rolled his eyes.

  “Mr. Tuttle, what I’m saying is this: Sure, Yvonne Grayson stole from you. It’s not too late for my clients to return to you all that was taken. But instead of prosecuting the Rachpauls, couldn’t you regard this small incident as not one of thievery, but of sharing? Sharing your wonderful toys with this young boy who has so little and with the children of St. Nicholas Houses.”

  “My foot!” Tuttle blurted.

  “I watched the Lego videos he shot in Harlem,” Fowler added. “In one of them he mentions getting a new game console for Christmas.”

  “I did not buy that set for him!” Ma said. “It was that hoodlum Rockit.” Aston shot her a look.

  “Doesn’t sound impoverished to me,” Fowler said. “Or innocent, actually.”

  I grabbed my book bag off the floor. Fowler glanced at me.

  “Mr. Stewart,” Fowler said to Aston. “It is mister, isn’t it?”

  Aston narrowed his eyes.

  Fowler continued, “You know that we have a signed confession from our former employee Yvonne Grayson. Yvonne admits stealing Legos from our store—God only knows how many—to give to her friend’s son here.” He nodded toward me. “They were all in on it.”

  “That ain’t true!” Ma yelled. “She told me they were rubbish.”

  “And you truly feel that Ms. Rachpaul and her young child were complicit?” Aston asked him.

  I felt small.

  “Coercing Ms. Grayson in some way?” Aston went on.

  “Why not?” Fowler asked.

  Tuttle shook his head, then spoke in his quiet voice. “That woman has worked here for five years. She had worked here, I mean. I treated Yvonne the same as my, my grandniece Evelyn, or Richie here. Like family. Stealing from me!” he mumbled, almost trembling.

  “Ms. Grayson’s apologized and agreed to pay restitution, Mr. Tuttle,” Aston said. “I don’t exactly understand why we’re here today.”

  “Wait a minute. This get-together was your idea, not ours,” Fowler said.

  “Yes,” Aston answered. “Because you were threatening charges against my clients here. Charges that are groundless.”

  Tuttle straightened up in his chair and glared at me and my mother. “Did you two ask Ms. Grayson to steal my merchandise for those Internet videos?”

  I felt mad all of a sudden. “You mean, are we crooks?” I asked, kind of loud.

  All heads turned toward me.

  I took a deep breath and clutched my bag tighter. I tried to settle down. “My mother and I might not have much, but we don’t need to steal.”

  I could feel myself getting angrier.

  Tuttle started to speak, but I broke in, more quiet: “There’s lots of stuff I want, Mr. Tuttle, but you won’t see me being a hoodlum for any of that. Actually…seeing all the badness Yvonne caused taught me something extra—not how to do anything crooked, but just the opposite. I like using my head, building.”

  Tuttle didn’t say nothing. I tried to recall how those lines went.

  Then I remembered: “ ‘Imagination, who can sing your force? Who can describe the swiftness of your course?’ ” I thought I had said that right. I rubbed my head. “That’s Phillis Wheatley. I read that.”

  “I know Wheatley,” Tuttle mumbled.

  “Well,” I said, feeling cooler, “it’s about using your head, getting a spark from being creative, I think. All I’m trying to say is I’m real lucky that Yvonne helped me the way she did.”

  I had got too emotional.

  “It saved me,” I said.

  I reached deep into my book bag. I felt around inside. I yanked out what I was looking for, clutching it in my hand.

  Aston stood up straight, squinting at me.

  I handed Tuttle the envelope I held. He read my message inside. In the letter, I had promised to work for him after school at Tuttle’s Toys as a janitor, or whatever, until the money for the stolen Legos had been paid.

  Tuttle was stupefied.

  You don’t really know anybody, or what they’re capable of.

  Aston almost spoke, but snapped shut. He folded his hands behind his back and waited. Tuttle was blinking at my letter in his hands. Fowler’s eyes had wandered out the window.

  Ma touched my hand with a pressed smile.

  “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” Tuttle finally mumbled in his weak voice. Fowler asked him what he had said. “Never mind, Richard,” Tuttle told him. Then, to me, “I believe you, Lolly, that you had nothing to do with our pilfered Legos.”

  Ma let out a big sigh. Aston smiled and gave me a thumbs-up.

  Tuttle announced, “I’ve decided, just now, to drop this matter and not press charges against Ms. Grayson.” Behind him, Fowler groaned. “Richard, you will sweep this whole thingamajig under the rug for me. I am sapped.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tuttle!” Ma said, looking released. “We will return to you all of those Legos that are left. Some of them have been given away already.”

  Tuttle waved his hand at her. “Unnecessary, Mrs. Rachpaul,” he said.

  “The cost of sterilizing them would be prohibitive,” Fowler added.

  Mr. Jonathan would’a called him saying that “shady.” Aston rolled his brown eyes at Fowler.

  “And, Lolly,” Tuttle said, “though we appreciate your offer to work off the cost of the Legos, that won’t be necessary either. Focus on your schoolwork instead.” He turned toward Ma. “Your son’s an unconventional sort of young man, Mrs. Rachpaul.”

  “He’s a little different,” Ma said. “Like his mother.”

  “I see why Yvonne wanted to help him,” Tuttle admitted. “However, her actions were wrong. We will not rehire her.”

  “Oh, we understand that,” Ma said to Tuttle.

  “And of course, I’ll have to cancel my offer for the children to construct a decoration for our store,” Tuttle said. “But I hope they keep on building.”

  Somebody knocked on his door. “Yes!” Tuttle shouted. “What is it, Ev?”

  The young lady who had met us downstairs earlier cracked the door. Tuttle’s next appointment, a toy exporter from China, was waiting on him outside his office.

  “Thank you, Ev,” Tuttle told the lady, then said to me, “I am fond of the old
poems.” He paused and told Ev, “Will you show the Rachpauls out? We’re done.”

  It was late at nighttime and me and Vega were roaming the streets of Harlem. Not many others were hanging out on the blocks. My eyes kept darting around in the darkness. I was waiting for Harp and Gully or some cops to pop up any second.

  Seeing some movement up ahead, I motioned for Vega to pick up his step. I could just see two people up ahead on the street, but couldn’t tell if it was the two older boys or not. Two shadows moved toward us.

  Vega started faster toward them. I could tell that his hand was tightening around the gun in the pocket of his dark-blue hoodie.

  My heart was booming like a woofer.

  When we got to the end of the block, Vega and me could see their faces. It wasn’t Harp and Gully. It was a young couple, a girl and a boy, walking real slow on their way somewhere.

  Vega and me turned onto Macombs Place and walked across a long footbridge. We crept beside Rucker Park down below and stopped on a dark overlook, just across the river from the Bronx.

  We had been leaning there against the wall for over twenty minutes. Our backs were to the Harlem River. Glancing over my shoulder, I could see the lights of Yankee Stadium across the water and Harlem River Drive beside us, traffic humming like bumblebees.

  “You finally ready to do this?” I asked Vega.

  He nodded. I stuck out my hand and he lightly placed the gun into it. I felt it in the darkness.

  Heavy, cold and mean. That Glock felt like the end.

  I leaned there against that wall, deep-thinking about Harp and Gully’s faces and what they would’a done if they had been here right now.

  What we would’a done.

  I handed the pistol back to Vega.

  He waited a second, then swung around and hurled that gun out into the night air, screaming. He had pitched it like he was throwing all of his fear and anger along with it. It flew about ten yards and disappeared into the Harlem River. I heard a plunk as it broke the water’s surface.

  He stood there a minute, watching the river rush by. I hoped that whatever rock Vega had been carrying in him had just sunk to the bottom of the river along with his gun.