“Sorry for your loss. I was two months old when my mother passed.”
He gives me his condolences. “And your father?”
“He never approved of my drawings.” I dip my brush in my coffee cup. “Or me.”
“My father was hard on me too. Yes, sir. No, sir.” He salutes and laughs. “I came to write a letter to him…explaining.”
“You said he was dead.”
“He is.”
I watch the blinds rise at the enlistment center and use the opportunity to change the subject. “Hope Uncle Sam wears bifocals.”
“I am proof that he does.” Nicholson laughs.
Ma sits a plate of grits at his elbow. Sliding a forkful of heaven into his mouth, he asks, “Are you planning to enlist? I went in early myself.” He leans in and waves me closer. “I wouldn’t advise it.”
My stomach drops. “Next week. I plan to, um…join.” I think about my father. He has no use for war, though he served his time. This is not the Negroes’ fight, he said in his letter. Your duty is to hearth and home. I do not mention this to Nicholson.
He finishes the grits in no time. With his hands wiped clean, he shows off his father’s medal. “For bravery.” Out comes another cigarette. “I joined the navy three years ago, at fourteen. With my mother’s blessings. She’ll blame herself if I never make it back.”
“Well, come back, then.”
It’s a whole hour before he says another word. Or Ma and Mr. Jackson interfere. They clear tables and wash dishes, serve themselves lunch, and empty the tip jar. I’m painting. Taking advantage of the sun pouring in. Nicholson is back to his writing. It’s not long before the tips of his ears turn red in the sun. And he and I are the only customers.
He sets his pen down. “Have you ever seen a torpedo?”
How could I?
“Oh, the damage they do.” He looks at me with pity in his eyes.
For Nicholson’s sake, I change the subject. “I noticed you write a lot of letters.” Since he came, he’s been writing day and night. Filling up the trash can but never the page, it seemed. “I don’t care to write much myself. I wrote my father, though. Wish I hadn’t is all I can say.” I babble on much longer than I would have expected. I’m talking about our farm, the peaches it produces. Some of the sweetest around. City fellows never seem to appreciate such talk. He doesn’t either. He looks lost again…in his own thoughts. “They say a sailor has a girl in every port. Any truth to that?” I ask.
He fidgets with his pen, dropping it a time or two. “My best friend…lost his legs. Both.” Using his fingers, he names other boys injured in the war. “Miller, Jamison, McIntyre.” Whispering, he starts on the ones who died.
I’m glad when he stops.
“What if it’s my turn next? Her time too?”
“Her?” I swallow.
“The Indianapolis.”
He looks around. Then whispers. “I don’t want to die.”
I never think about dying. I can’t. I got plans, big ones on the ship and beyond. Not that I share them with folks much. They laugh whenever I do. So, I’ve learned to lie about those too. To color my dreams small so people feel more comfortable.
I pull a seat over and sit down. “Sometimes it’s better to run than fight.” I look around the café, as if I don’t know it’s empty. The soldiers and sailors all gone for now. “Some fellows go AWOL, don’t they?”
“Saints alive.” Ma Susie looks disappointed in me. “We don’t talk like that in here. No, sir.” Ma pours coffee in his cup. “We believe in the war effort.”
She’s in the kitchen when he whispers, “I think about Tahiti.”
“What?”
“Tahiti. Where they have island girls. There’s no girl prettier on earth.” Closing his eyes, he talks about lying in the sun with a coconut drink in his hand.
“Why don’t you go?”
“Duty. Duty to my family and country.” Sweat from his forehead drips onto the table. “I came here to write. To apologize to my father for being a coward. I have not found the courage yet.” He picks up a notebook and out comes a ticket to Tahiti. “And what about the other boys?” He seems to be talking more to himself than to me. “I have a duty to them as well.”
What’s a boy’s duty to himself? I wonder.
Ma Susie walks in between me and Nicholson. Escorting two military men to their tables, she thanks them for their service. “ ’Cause for sure the Negro soldier will put an end to Hitler once and for all. That Jim Crow too.” She puts two fingers up on each hand and makes a Double V—the sign for victory at war plus victory over racism here at home—then fills their cups with coffee.
One of the men tips his cap Ma’s way. The other cuts his eye toward the door when it opens. In walks a lady with a peacock-colored purse swinging from her wrist. Once she takes a seat, she sits it on the table like a prize.
Nicholson and I resume our conversation. I mention the first teacher I ever lived with. She taught me about the Vikings and Columbus. For the first time, I tell the whole truth. “Ever since, I’ve wanted to be a sailor. A quartermaster, to be exact. Charting the ship’s course, I’ll use the stars to guide my way.”
“The navy doesn’t allow Negroes to do that.”
“Not yet. But one day they will. After I’m done, I’ll go to school. Then I’ll teach astronomy. Maybe at Tuskegee. A colored university. My teacher said that one day, scientists will get us to the moon. I plan to be one of them.”
For the first time in two days, he laughs. His eyes tear up. He holds his stomach. Doubling over, he apologizes. As soon as he gains his composure, he bursts out laughing again. Soon sorrow seems to fill his voice. “Tahiti might as well be the moon.”
“What?”
“Colored or white, boys like us never follow through, Zakary.” He rips the ticket in two. “The ship takes off tomorrow. Duty, right?”
Ma Susie likes to say that the devil is always set to unveil the truth about you. And no sooner than the soldiers leave and Nicholson’s words settle in the air does the door blow wide-open—a hurricane of boys rushing in. Four. My old friend Ezekiel among them.
“Heathens!” Mr. Jackson reaches for the hatchet. The woman at table seven reaches for her purse. “Told you all last time—” Losing his temper, he backs into Ma, knocking a pitcher of lemonade out of her hand. “Susie. It’s all your fault.” With his shirt dripping wet, he takes off running. “Some of these blasted boys can’t be saved.”
The boys run in every direction. They jump over chairs and boxes, sliding across the floor like ice is underneath their feet. The oldest is younger than me, by a hair. But just as skilled. The tallest is quick-fingered, able to separate people from their wallets in a blink. Like frogs trying to leap out of hot water, they run this way and that, Mr. Jackson behind them but never close enough. “Zakary James. You owe me,” he says, stopping to catch his breath. “Fix this!”
Nicholson snatches the youngest one, who kicks and squirms to be set free. Cook reaches for Ezekiel, but only catches air. I stand where I am, frozen, while Ezekiel scoops the purse off the lady’s lap and dances away.
“Zakary James.” Ezekiel slows down some. “Catch!”
The peacock purse lands in my hands. The lady stands and gasps. Ma, over by the register, looks sad enough to cry.
“Meet me at the usual place.” He flies out the back door, along with the others.
I look across the room and think of all the places I been tossed out of. My fifth-grade teacher’s house after he passed on. A friend’s place when his folks couldn’t feed me any longer. The back room of the library. I stayed there six months, unnoticed. It all comes to an end soon enough, I suppose. Fixing my eyes on my creation, I swallow. Taking pictures of it in my mind’s eye, I clutch the purse and almanac and take off running. Told you so, I half expect to hear Mr. J
ackson say. But like the blues, his words are sad and soft—filled with a bucket of tears. “Zakary James. Stay.”
I stop. Everything stops, it seems. “Sorry.” I look Ma’s way. Then walk out the front door.
* * *
• • •
We always meet behind the pawnshop on Twelfth Street after we do a job. For the first time, I’m the last to arrive. They probably thought I wouldn’t show up. That I’d keep the money for myself.
“What took you so long?” Ezekiel wants to know. He never asks about Luke, the kid left behind. It’s how it is. You lose a few along the way. Can’t cry over spilled milk.
It’s been three hours since I left the café. I spent all that time at the park, thinking. “They sent the cops after me,” I lie. “I hid awhile.”
Sitting on a trash can, I wave flies away. Then I toss the purse to Ezekiel, who has his fingers shoved deep in one of Ma Susie’s peach pies.
“Found two on the back-porch steps, cooling,” he says. “Last one. Have a taste.”
Passing what’s left of it around, he unsnaps the pocketbook. Then thanks me for my assistance. After he counts the money, he offers me the lion’s share. It’s how we’ve always done things. The person who takes the biggest risk—gets the biggest reward. Holding out his hand, he waves thirty bucks my way.
“I don’t want it.”
He faces the back door of the pawnshop. “Get that telescope.” It’s been in the shop window for years. A few times, when the store was open late, I got to use it.
“And keep it where?” I sigh.
Ezekiel hands them each a few bills. The rest get folded and shoved deep in his front pocket. The other boys finish their pie. I take the empty pans and wipe them clean on my pants. “She likes these back.” Walking over to Ezekiel, I warn him. “Stay away from them. They’re good people.”
Ezekiel was the first person I met when I came to this city. I had no coat, or shoes on my feet. At night, I slept on the cold ground. He showed me the ropes. And listened to my stories about the stars and beyond. More than once, I can say. I owe him.
He squats down to tie the younger one’s shoe. “Didn’t expect you to be at the café. I heard you left town.” He stands up. “Wish you had.” He looks at the sky. “Is it true?”
“You ask me all the time. Sure, it is.”
“The sun is really that far away?”
We all stare up, watching the sun going down. “Ninety-three million miles.”
Randy, the youngest one now, sits on the ground, clutching his knees. I watch maggots squirming in water not far away. I look up to the sky. Then I find a stick and show Randy where he can find the Big Dipper, the Great Bear. An hour later, he can name the planet that’s farthest away. “Pluto, right?” He smiles.
“Right.”
We sit in the alley in the dark, under the lights. Ezekiel rolls dice, eventually winning back most of the money he shared.
“I thought the judge gave you two years,” I say to Ezekiel.
“He did.” He pulls up his shirt to show me his back. A scar runs from his shoulder to his tailbone. “Sixty-five stitches,” he admits.
Put there by a doctor who still needs schooling, I’d say.
“Got it in a knife fight in reformatory. It took three months to heal. I ran off after the doctor took the stitches out.” His eyes lose their sparkle when he says, “Wouldn’t you?”
I nod. Randy wanders away. They’ll spend their money on candy, I bet. Not Ezekiel. He pulls his shirt over his head. “I need a nap.” He yawns. “Later we’ll go up under the bridge. I got a pallet there. A blanket for you. Like always.” A few minutes later, he’s snoring.
I think about my mural. Then I decide not to think about it. I look around the alley instead. The maggots gave up, I see. But the flies haven’t. They stick to my sweaty skin. Aim for my lips and ears. I give up on swatting them. And head for the pawnshop. From the sidewalk, I can hear the owner quarreling. A woman wants more money for her pearls than he is offering. The words they use once got my mouth washed out with soap. I step inside, wave at him, and head for the telescope. It’s dusty, as usual. But it still works. Not perfectly, though. The lens was always broken. A line passes through the sky when you look through it. I can’t see now why I always talked about buying it. Even the knob that makes it turn left to right is rusted.
Stepping outside an hour later, I see leaves get chased up the block by the wind. And the boys get chased out of a store. They run past me laughing. Then dive into the alley, calling Ezekiel’s name. A few minutes later, we hear sirens.
I look at the opposite end of the alley and think about making a break for it. Then the fire engines sound. Flying past the alley, it drowns our voices. And gets Ezekiel moving. He talks about not pressing our luck. Taking Seventh Street to Michigan, walking up back alleys, then heading for his place, under the bridge.
I pick up Ma’s pans and my almanac, but can’t seem to get moving.
“Let’s go.” Ezekiel slips more candy into his mouth. “They’ll be coming for us.”
“I dodged the cops,” I lie. Ma would never send cops after a boy.
“Somebody’s always coming,” he says.
“Could be the man from the store up the street. Them reformatory folks, the police.” Ezekiel lowers himself to tie Randy’s shoes again. “I don’t trust nobody.” He steps in a maggot puddle. Then leads us out of the alley.
We’re on Main Street when I ask for the money he swiped. “A buck. That’s all.”
“Only a dollar? That’s it? It’s your loss.” He hands it over.
Using a pencil from my pocket, I write down my father’s address. “He could use a farmhand. He’ll drive you hard. But you’ll get paid…well. It might work in your favor if you don’t mention you know me.”
The others fix their eyes on me. I don’t know what to tell them. My father’s not the type to take a whole crew in.
Ezekiel folds the money neatly. Slides it into his breast pocket. Gives it a little pat, and then squats. He brings up the boy we left behind. “You think Luke’s gonna be all right?”
Randy, climbing onto his back, doesn’t notice the heavy load.
“Why wouldn’t he be? You trained him. Didn’t you?”
Ezekiel looks up and down the street and begins walking. I head in the opposite direction.
Scarcely able to keep up with my own feet, I run for miles. Out of breath, I stop at the bridge, blocks away from the café. Looking down, I see pallets and people. Trash cans spitting fire. Crossing the bridge, you can see the café plain as day. Along with a man on a bench. Mr. Jackson, for sure. I take my time getting to him.
“Sit, boy.” He has a bat in his hand. I saw him kill a rat with it once.
“I’ll stand, sir, if you don’t mind.” Peering across the street at the café, I see a few of the regulars. “Is Ma Susie here?”
He sounds tired, older than usual. “Sent her home.” He leans the bat against the wall. “Of course, she took that blasted boy with her.” He takes the pie pans from me. “She don’t know, you can never replace what’s lost.”
I think about Ezekiel replacing me. He can’t, I guess. But maybe he doesn’t want to.
I sit down and rest on the far edge of the bench. “Maybe she only wants to help boys get back on their feet.” I slide in closer. “I plan to join the navy, Mr. Jackson. Go to college. Live my dreams. I have a right to that, don’t I?”
He doesn’t say a word.
I bring up Nicholson, to clear the air between us mostly. “Did he go with Ma Susie?”
He jumps up. “He better not had!” Then settles himself back on the bench. “Tahiti! Your generation, Negro or white, got sawdust for brains.”
Smiling, I think about Nicholson with them girls.
“Quit that smiling. You ruined my day!
” He’s up now, grabbing the bat.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Sorry don’t always do. What about that woman’s money?” he says, bringing up the stolen purse.
“I’ll pay it back from my sailor money.”
He walks to the curb, prepared to cross the street. “How many years will that take, boy?”
I got no answer for him.
He rubs his shoulder. Crosses the street. Stopping in front of the mural. “Ma made me pay that woman, even for her purse.”
“I’m thankful.”
“You’re indebted to me, that’s what you are.”
Opening the café door, he asks, “What made you come back? The police coulda been here.”
I look at my name written in cursive at the bottom of the mural. “I left things here.”
He steps inside first. “You left a mess is what you did. I told Susan, ‘I ain’t his butler.’ You boys….” He grabs a coffee pot. Heading for the kitchen, he talks about making a fresh batch of coffee.
I sit down at my regular table. With my hands behind my head, and my feet up, I stare outside at the moon. A boy’s got a duty to hold onto his dreams, I think.
GRAFFITI. The white spray-painted message glowed on the sandstone bricks of Jordan Hall. Couldn’t miss it even if I wanted to. A big middle finger and a particularly shocking phrase smack in the middle of my Monday morning, reminding me that—even at what you thought was your prestigious cosmopolitan university, the one you had worked so hard to attend—someone will try to make you feel like you’re an imposter. A warning not to get too comfortable. I’ll give the tagger this much credit: he or she was bold, choosing this spot, knowing so many students passed through the quad. Even if you didn’t see it, gossip was spreading fast.
* * *
—
LAB PARTNERS. My first class that morning? Microbiology. The graduate student running the lab asked us to evaluate different water samples for bacteria. As I prepared a dilution of the sample, my group chatted about what else? The graffiti.
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