Kneel

by Candace Buford

  “Where’s Karim?” Terrance croaked. His eyes grew wider as he looked from me to Marion.

  I shook my head slowly, trying to remember the last time I’d seen him. The last fifteen minutes was a blur of scattered crowds and alleyways, a mash of panting breaths and hiding. There was no telling where Karim was.

  “Shit.” Terrance ran his hand over his short, coily hair. “Where was the last place you saw him?”

  “He was getting cuffed near...” Marion’s low voice trailed off. He blinked away from me, turning his gaze to the grass.

  “Gabby,” I whispered. My jumbled memory began to settle into something I could hold on to. “You’re right. He was standing near Gabby.”

  “Rus.” Marion shifted in his crouch, lowering his voice so that the approaching footsteps couldn’t hear us. “I’m sorry.”

  “My fault,” I mumbled, barely loud enough for anyone to hear. Regret seeped into my pores. We should have never gone to a BLM protest.

  “We had a right to—”

  I held my hands up, cutting Marion off. I didn’t want to hear about the permits, about how everything was cleared with the city, about the fact that we had a right to be in the town square.

  I didn’t want to hear any of that.

  Those were the justifications I’d used before all this happened. I used to believe in the power of protest, in the power of words to affect social change, but now...

  Right now, I was sure of only one thing: I was squatting on the ground because I was being hunted like an animal.

  This is it, Rus. This is what being Black in America is. And you can’t change it.

  Remaining crouched, we scampered around Terrance’s house to the back porch, which was safely out of sight. We slipped into the house through the back door, resigning ourselves to a long wait until the dust settled.

  28

  It was almost normal, being in Terrance’s house. I’d sat in this room with him and Marion countless times—sneaking booze out of his mama’s liquor cabinet and staying up too late. I never thought I’d be prying his blinds apart to nervously watch the streets. These were strange times.

  The red emergency light on the side of the fire station was blinking, flooding the street with a creepy glow.

  “Where did everyone go?” I turned in the window seat and looked at Marion on the couch. He ran his fingers through his dreads, frown lines drilling into his forehead.

  “I don’t know,” Marion mumbled.

  “I’ll try Gabby again.” I tapped her number again, and the phone rang and rang. Each time I dialed, I hoped she might answer—as if the police would miraculously realize they’d been idiots and set her free. But the call emptied into a full mailbox. I couldn’t even leave her a fuckin’ message. I shook my head. Pretty soon, if I still couldn’t get Gabby on the phone, I’d have to call Dupre Produce and speak to her dad—and I was seriously dreading that conversation. “Still nothing. What about you, T?”

  “No one’s answering. It just keeps ringing. Three-one-one is such a fake service.” Terrance tossed his phone onto the coffee table. “But my mom texted me. She’s trying to find another doctor to cover her shift, so she can come home. Anyone get in touch with Karim?”

  “He isn’t answering either,” Marion said, bringing his phone from his ear. “He must be in jail. I mean, where else would he be?”

  With a grunt, Terrance hopped up from where he was sitting on the floor and shuffled down the hallway in the direction of his bedroom. He called over his shoulder, “I need a break.”

  We sat quietly for a while, me and Marion, occasionally looking out of the window to keep an eye out for the cops. But the streets were pretty dead. There was only one sound that pierced the eerie quiet of the moment, that sliced through the silent darkness of Terrance’s living room, and it was the buzzing coming from my phone.

  Mama.

  I stared at the screen, wondering if I should answer it. She could have been calling about anything, like asking me to pick up something from the grocery store on my way home. But I doubted that. Mama lived for the evening news, so by now she knew about the protest and the raid. That’s why she was calling.

  I let it roll to voice mail.

  “That’s bold.” Marion raised his eyebrows. “You remember what happened last time you ignored her phone calls?”

  How could I forget? After I’d spent the night in the tree house, Mama had put me to work for weeks. And that was just for kneeling and sleeping in the backyard. I could only imagine the punishment that would follow this. I’d be grounded through graduation—college graduation.

  Marion jolted upright. Now his phone was ringing. He gave me a knowing look, reaching for his back pocket.

  “Don’t answer that.” I held my hand up. “Come on, man. Please don’t pick up her call until we figure out what we’re going to do.”

  “What is there to figure out?” He scowled. “We can’t do shit.”

  “Gabby’s in Westmond, right? Look at the TV.” I shoved off the window seat and edged closer to the flat screen above the mantel. A small crowd was beginning to form outside the Westmond precinct, demanding they release everyone who’d been rounded up tonight. “That’s where Gabby and Karim are. We gotta be there.”

  “Jesus.” Marion threw his hands up. He shoved off the couch and started pacing near the window. “You ain’t thinking this through.”

  Ignoring Marion, I dialed Gabby again. It went straight to voice mail, meaning her phone must have died. In fact, it seemed that the only phone in town that was working was Mama’s. She buzzed angrily in my palm, insisting that I pick up the call. But I pressed Decline.

  Marion’s jaw went limp. He could stay here if he wanted—and maybe he should stay put to avoid getting into more legal trouble—but I couldn’t just sit here and do nothing. I tilted my head toward my car keys on the coffee table, eyeing them hungrily as a plan brewed in my mind.

  “Don’t be stupid.” His eyes tightened.

  I leaned forward, prepared to snatch the keys, but he was one step ahead of me. He lunged for the coffee table, knocking a decorative vase off-kilter in the process. It teetered on the table, wobbling close to the edge.

  “Stop!” I swooped down to catch it before it shattered on the floor. It was enough time for Marion to secret the car keys in one of his pockets.

  “What the hell, guys?” Terrance skidded into the living room, his mouth growing wide when he saw me on the floor with his mama’s vase.

  “It’s nothing,” I said, scrambling to my feet. I turned to Marion, who skirted the room to put the table between us. “Gimme back my keys.”

  “Can’t do it. No.” He shook his head. “You’ll thank me later.”

  “Can someone tell me what’s going on?” Terrance slapped his sides.

  “He wants to go to Westmond. He wants to be a fuckin’ hero.” Marion rolled his eyes and paced in front of the TV. “Not sure if you remember all those angry white dudes from earlier, but they all live over there. I know exactly what’s going to happen when we see them again, and we might not be as lucky as we were this time around. So the answer is no.”

  He pointed a shaky finger toward the parish line.

  “That’s enemy territory. I ain’t marching into the belly of the beast. And neither are you.” He waved his hands, effectively ending our conversation. As if on cue, his phone started buzzing again.

  On some level, I knew Marion was speaking the truth. I had no plan to save Gabby. I had no power. But Marion didn’t trust me not to act impulsively. He slid his phone out of his back pocket and tapped the screen, accepting the call. “Hi, Mama.” He frowned across the room at me. “Yes, yes. He’s right here.”

  * * *

  My eardrums were still ringing well after I handed the phone back to Marion. Mama had given me an earful, and now she was laying into Marion. I’m su
re he was getting the same dose of discipline she’d already dished out to me.

  I’m so disappointed in you.

  Y’all shouldn’t have been down there in the first place!

  You coulda been hurt.

  The streets aren’t safe.

  Y’all should be home!

  Marion held the phone away from his ear, holding his head back as Mama barked another order. This time I could hear her exact phrasing.

  “Put Rus back on the phone!” she boomed from Marion’s outstretched hand.

  “She wants to talk to you again,” he said apologetically.

  “I know.” I snatched the phone from his outstretched hand, more than a little annoyed that he’d answered Mama’s call.

  She breathed into the line, the kind of long breaths she used after arguing with Pops. She was trying to calm herself down, lower her blood pressure, which was probably dangerously high.

  “If I had my druthers, I’d have you in the car and headed home now.” She let out a deep sigh, and I could almost see her lips pursing as she said, “But you’re going to have to stay there. I already called Terrance’s mom, and she’s going to leave the hospital as soon as she can. She said she’ll be there within the hour. But you need to stay put. The streets are not safe right now. The area is crawling with cruisers. I swear your dad and I hear sirens zipping down Calumet every fifteen minutes. Stay at Terrance’s, you understand?”

  I nodded vigorously, partly distracted by the news on the TV, at the growing demonstration brewing in Westmond’s town square. The thickest knot of people stood in front of the police station, where countless protestors had been locked up. Where Gabby was.

  Mama obviously couldn’t see me nodding, so she cleared her throat and asked me again. “Russell, do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m dead serious this time. There’s a lot of energy and guns out there—a whole lotta ‘shoot first, ask later.’ And I don’t want you to get caught in the crosshairs.”

  “I know. It’s pretty...” My voice trailed off. I stepped farther into the hallway so that the guys couldn’t hear the panic in my voice. “It’s pretty scary outside.”

  “Honey, you should be scared. We all should be.”

  When I hung up the phone, I didn’t have the energy to speak to the guys. I stormed down the hall and dropped to the stairs, finding a moment’s peace in the silent darkness.

  After a while, the quiet darkness began to cave in on me, so I joined the guys in the living room. But even then, the space felt cramped, tight. And as the night crept onward, I felt trapped, bound to the spot as the world burned around me. It took all the willpower I had to obey Mama’s instructions. Sometimes my mind would drift to my keys, and I’d think about where Marion might have hidden them. But I couldn’t help but think of Mama’s warning. Her voice swarmed my thoughts.

  You should be scared. We all should be.

  Is that what the cops wanted? To scare people into submission? To back us into a corner so that our only option was silence?

  Maybe Darrell was right. Maybe silence was safety.

  Because right now I didn’t feel safe—not by a long shot.

  My knees buckled and I plopped onto the carpet in front of Terrance’s massive flat-screen TV. Images of this afternoon’s protest flashed across the screen. Pictures of Ms. Jabbar at a previous rally speaking passionately alongside Charlotte Martin and the other speakers, of Gabby with her bullhorn today. The fiery passion of earlier was now chilled—chilled by the arrests and police violence, chilled by the banner scrolling across the bottom of every local news channel.

  Monroe and Westmond protests now deemed riots. Anyone in the vicinity will be arrested for disturbing the peace.

  29

  Marion and I laid low at Terrance’s house until midday, just to make sure the dust had settled. Even though it was a Sunday afternoon, the streets were empty. My hands were still shaking as I slid behind the wheel of the Civic. We were scared, and we had every reason to be. It would be just like Officer Reynaud and his fellow officers to patrol the streets, arresting anyone who was driving while Black.

  I didn’t take Calumet—it was too much of a main thoroughfare. Instead, I weaved through side streets and back roads, keeping my head down just like my parents taught me and driving under the speed limit all the way home. As we inched closer to home, we got closer to the parish line that separated Monroe and Westmond. A police cruiser turned on its lights behind me, and my heart almost stopped.

  Oh, no.

  My face went cold as I watched it speed up, swerve around the Civic and cut in front of me before it turned onto the main road. I panted, trying to slow my heart rate.

  I felt like a dog escaping the dogcatcher.

  The rapid blades of helicopters chomped at the wind as they circled above the freeway—right near the parish line. My heart raced every time they drew closer, and my jaw unclenched every time the sound faded. I tried not to let my face betray my worries. Marion was clearly becoming more unraveled by the minute as his good dress shirt became more wrinkled and untucked and his eyes grew wider with every helicopter pass.

  I was a mess by the time I swerved into the driveway, and Marion looked equally frayed. We scrambled out of the Honda, looking over our shoulders as we made our way to the porch. Mama stood there in her robe, hands on her hips with a dish towel flung over one shoulder.

  “I ought to skin you alive.” She shook her head slowly, her nostrils flaring. She snapped her fingers, then pointed straight through the door. “Get in here now.”

  “Mama.” My voice cracked as I fell into her arms. I cried into her shoulder, the adrenaline and fear becoming unraveled with every tear I shed. I couldn’t keep myself together anymore.

  “Baby, you’re okay.” Mama patted the back of my head, rocking me back and forth in the doorway, her slippers shushing against the floorboards. She whispered over my shoulder, “What happened?”

  “Gabby got arrested. It was...really, really bad...” Marion cleared his throat after a while. “We think Karim might be in a cell too. But we can’t get through to him.”

  “Come on inside,” Mama said a little softer than before. “Your daddy and I got the news on.”

  Crammed in the living room, we watched the live feed from the Channel 5 news chopper as it zoomed in on a growing crowd of protesters. A newscaster on the ground held her microphone out to Charlotte Martin, who stood on the steps of the Westmond Police Department.

  “We’re outside Westmond PD, where the police are holding more than a dozen protesters from yesterday afternoon’s demonstration in front of Monroe Town Hall. The protesters said they were peaceful. The police say otherwise. Ms. Martin, what do you think of the situation?”

  “We will not leave this police precinct until they release the protesters. Their First Amendment rights have been violated.” She unfolded a sheet of paper and leaned over the microphone, her lips moving rapidly as she read out the names.

  “They do have Karim.” Marion bobbed his head from side to side, like he’d already known for sure.

  “And Ms. Jabbar,” I mumbled under my breath, waiting to hear Gabby’s name read off Charlotte’s page. Finally she said Gabby’s name. I released my breath in a rush of air.

  “At least she’s with Ms. J.” Marion shrugged, twisting his lips like even he didn’t find solace in that fact.

  “Does her dad know?” Mama rubbed my hand with both of hers.

  “I don’t know. I don’t have his number.”

  “I’ll go give him a call.” She got up from the couch, headed down the hallway to her bedroom.

  I turned my attention back to the TV, unable to look away from the gathering crowds outside the precinct in Westmond.

  Charlotte Martin finished her list of names then, grabbed the microphone from the reporter. She st
epped so close to the camera, I could see her pulse thumping through her neck. “We have a right to demonstrate against police brutality, and the police proved the point of our protest once again. And as long as these charges stand and a murderer walks the streets, there will be no peace.”

  My muscles relaxed at the sound of Charlotte’s promise. If I couldn’t be at the police station to get Gabby out, I was glad that she was there commanding the media’s attention, forcing people to hear about what the police had done to Gabby and all those protestors yesterday.

  Fury and indignation swirled in Charlotte’s eyes. Even through the screen, you could feel the heat. There was no chilling her speech. She held the microphone so close to her mouth that the felt head brushed her lips. “No justice, no peace!”

  No Justice, No Peace.

  I winced when I heard the phrase that was on the posters Gabby had pasted all over town last week. My heart sank, knowing there was never going to be justice in Westmond. Not for people like us.

  Judging by the fire in Charlotte Martin’s eyes, she knew it was going to be a fight and she was ready. She turned her back to the camera and shouted it again to the crowd, “No justice, no peace!”

  And by the look of the police in riot gear—batons drawn as they made an impenetrable wall in front of the station—there would be no peace tonight. I was certain of it.

  Mama sprang from her rocking chair during the commercial break, keeping busy by opening mail from the stack on the counter. Keeping her hands occupied was her way of processing, but Pops was the opposite—he wanted to dig in.

  “Change it to Fox, will ya?” Pops waved his hand at Marion to grab the remote during the commercial break. He fumbled through the clutter on the coffee table and grabbed it, changing the channel.

  Another reporter stood in front of the Westmond shopping mall on the other side of town. There was a group of white protesters standing outside with tiki torches. Some had rifles slung over their shoulders.

  “We just want to protect our businesses in case these people lose control and come over from Monroe,” a man said into the microphone. A woman behind him waved her poster across the screen.