Courage

by Barbara Binns

  “You know I can’t,” he mumbles, his voice sounding bitter.

  Sometimes I forget he isn’t allowed to do everything I can.

  “Your parents will like it when you bring home medals,” Sammy tells him.

  “Yeah, but his parents hate it when he ends up in the hospital with a sickle cell crisis.”

  He hates being the “sick” boy. There’s nothing on the outside that reveals his invisible disease until he has an attack. But with SCD, sickle cell disease, his blood tries to kill him. At least, that’s how he describes it. He told me that when he has an attack, his normally round blood cells form into sickle shapes that clump in his arteries. Every joint aches, and it’s like being stabbed with a butcher knife, over and over. He’s on special medicines to stop the sickling process, keep attacks from happening, and help him make new blood cells.

  “Hey, T.” Carmela steps up and points at the brochure in my hand. “Are you joining the Rays? That’s awesome.”

  “Are you in the club?” I ask.

  “I’m one of the top swimmers in the twelve to fourteen age group. Wait until I tell Coach Mung I discovered you.”

  “You didn’t discover anyone,” Sammy says.

  She ignores him and pushes another brochure into my hands. “You need this too. You have to pay the USA Diving Association fee to compete in meets. Get your mom to sign the papers and pay the fee right away so you can start practicing with us on Monday.”

  Fee?

  I look through the stack of papers and automatically begin counting. Enrollment fee; team swim trunks, jacket, and swim bag; monthly fee.

  Why does everything have to cost money? Mom and her friends compare their skills at pinching pennies and clipping coupons and making do while telling me there’s no reason to worry. No reason? I see the truth in her face. I learned addition from the medical bills Mom still has to make payments on four years after Dad’s losing cancer fight plus the expenses for Rochelle’s birth. Subtraction came when I counted how little money we had left after those bills and after my brother did something stupid and got locked up. Division came from watching her figure out how to support me and my baby sister on what was left. Multiplication from . . .

  I don’t want to add more bills to Mom’s pile. I pull out the swim-team papers and take another look at the fees and the big total my mind calculated. Most sports are expensive. That’s why a lot of guys around here play basketball. All you need is a hoop, a ball, and a good pair of kicks, and you can play all day. Almost everything else means equipment and money, usually lots of money.

  I can’t get a real job, but I earn a little money in the winter shoveling snow out of parking spots and clearing out the alley in front of garage doors around my block. Not much, but it helps me help Mom and my little sister. That makes me feel like the man of the family. But it’s almost March, and that means spring, so that money source is drying up. There may still be snow; here in Chicago we sometimes get snow in April. But it won’t be enough to mean real money.

  I look back at the board and see a few Help Wanted signs posted. Everything but the part-time custodian position wants at least high school graduates. Even if I could lie and get a job, it means I could end up like the guy over in a corner right now, mopping up a wet mess on the floor. I sort of like the school custodians. A lot of us are friends with the custodians, talk to them about things we usually don’t tell other adults. They smile and listen and don’t judge like some teachers and even counselors. They all spend a lot of time struggling to remove graffiti ghosts from the walls and fronts of lockers or dealing with a stopped-up toilet or the smelly locker rooms

  “You have chores, T,” Dontae says quietly, reading my thoughts. “Even if you found someone to hire you, how would you get your schoolwork done and practice? How long would your mom let you do this if your grades fall?”

  He’s right. I’m almost always number one in my class, and Mom expects that. She’d never let that change. If working ends up meaning I can’t find time to practice, why bother joining? I fold the papers and sigh.

  “Club membership doesn’t cost that much,” Sammy says. “Mom says it’s a bargain considering the quality of the coaches, and she knows. She used to be a champion diver.”

  Sammy’s clothes and shoes look pretty expensive. So does the gym bag slung over his shoulder. Carmela’s not rich either, but her family isn’t paying off old medical bills or new day-care payments. Or sending care packages to a son in prison.

  “Samuel Baker, hurry up,” a voice calls from down the hall. A woman about my mother’s age stands there waving one arm. Tall and white, with long brown hair that hangs around her shoulders. Standing in tall heels and a pink fur coat, she looks a little like the Snow Queen from fairy tales.

  “Oops, there’s my mother,” Sammy says.

  “She’s pretty,” I say. “And really tall.”

  “I know. I don’t think I’ll ever be that tall,” he says with a tiny frown. “My dad always asks why she wears those heels. They make her taller than him. Maybe that’s why.”

  “Are you rich or something?” Dontae asks.

  “No way. My parents give me anything I ask for because they think they have to make something up to me because they adopted me.” He grins.

  Dontae and I look at each other.

  “Sammy, now. I don’t have all day.” The woman frowns. She’s just as impatient as Sammy was when I first climbed on the board.

  His lips tighten for a second. “Gotta go, but, hey, I hope you’ll join.” He throws one last look at me before running to his mother. His gym bag bounces against his back as he runs, and they both leave, her heels clacking on the floor. His legs move fast to keep up with her.

  A few minutes later, Dontae’s mom pulls up in a car that’s older than I am. It’s pink and square shaped but clean, with no rust spots. I’m happy to climb into the back seat and let her drive us home. That gives me time to plan how to get Mom to agree to let me join the Rays.

  I know how to get around the city on CTA buses or by renting a Divvy bike. Divvy provides a fleet of bicycles for sharing around Chicago. The big blue bikes are situated at docking stations all over the city and can be rented for thirty-minute trips. Mom has an annual membership so she can bike from our apartment to the CTA train station in the morning and then back home in the evening. You’re supposed to be sixteen to ride a Divvy, but I sometimes use her personal key to grab a bike for a short ride. But the afternoon is chilly, I’m damp, and I don’t want to ride the bus or a bike if I don’t have to.

  Besides, it’s good to have more time with Dontae.

  Dontae and I joke together as we begin the ride home, traveling east toward the lake. The University of Chicago is to the north of my home, and Windy City Community College is to the west. Maybe, with a scholarship, I might be able to attend one of them someday. Another option is being a star at sports or a perfect student or both. Both bring a real chance. Dad always said he hoped his sons would go to college. I don’t plan to fail him the way Lamont did.

  I look out the window as we drive, trying not to move so the bruise on my back doesn’t start throbbing again. My city is big, endless. The weather is still chilly, but in a few months, the outdoor festival season will begin. Every year we attend the gospel and blues fests in the downtown parks, because music moves me. My mom sets up a blanket, and we sit on the grass and let the wind blow waves of music and cool air over us. Here on the South Side we have the lakeshore, baseball (Dad taught me to love the Sox; I don’t care about the Cubs), and every kind of food. Chicago dogs, Maxwell Street Polish laced with greasy mustard and fried onions, super sweet churros, and spicy Jamaican-style beef patties or Jamaican curry chicken. Those are all my favorites, and at the end of summer, I can find them all at the annual African Festival of the Arts.

  Dontae’s mom crosses over the Dan Ryan Expressway, with its daily load of cars lined up bumper to bumper in both the north and south lanes. From the road above, the multicolored car top
s look like scales waving on the back of a giant snake. The train tracks of the Red Line serve as the Ryan’s backbone.

  I glance at Dontae. Sweat keeps popping up on his face.

  “You should drink some water,” I whisper.

  “You’re not my mother,” he snarls.

  “Drink your water, Dontae,” Mrs. Morrow says from the front seat. His family is always watching his health closely. Luckily for him, his father is our minister, and he spreads prayers the way gardeners spread seeds in the community garden near our school. Dontae jokes that God is on his side.

  We pass houses and our church, along with a few abandoned buildings and vacant lots. My neighborhood isn’t the kind of place where rich people live. We are all ordinary, with rent to pay and day care and bills. There are always bills.

  I pull my bag onto my lap and hear the brochures rustle inside. Maybe I can talk Mom into letting me be a member for my birthday present. She said she wanted to get me something special. Nothing would be more special than this. I’ll tell her I don’t need a party or anything else, just this.

  “Why do you want to dive?” Dontae asks for the fourth time since we left the pool.

  “I told you, I don’t know,” I say, thinking back to that feeling of freedom as I was sailing through the air. I never know why awesome ideas simply pop into my brain. In spite of the pain in my back, I had fun diving. And maybe I want to learn because Lamont taught me to swim years ago when things were good. I loved him.

  Once.

  “Mom wants me to have friends.” I’m talking mostly to myself, but Dontae overhears.

  “Hey, you’ve got me.” He points at his chest and looks upset. No, make that indignant, that was one of our vocabulary words last week, a combination of unhappy and angry. “Why bother with those guys? Mom says people from the swim club are stuck up. They never talk to her or any of the other staff members.”

  “Carmela is a member.”

  He snorts. “Like I said, stuck up.”

  “Sammy talked to us.”

  “Talked to you. He lost interest in me once I refused to care about the Rays.”

  “You know you’re my number one,” I remind him, and punch his shoulder. That’s enough to make him relax. We have been best friends since the day he walked into my class last year and my sixth-grade teacher asked me to be his first-day buddy. I think she forgot I had only been there a few months myself. We got together and never separated. Even his parents and my mom became friends.

  The car stops suddenly, throwing me against the seat belt. It digs painfully into my stomach before pushing me back against the seat cushion.

  “Mom!” Dontae shouts. Mrs. Morrow mutters a curse. As the screech from the tires dies down, I turn to look at the other side of the street. There is a string of stores, including the barbershop where I get my hair cut and listen to men reminisce about what life was like when they were my age. Carmela’s mother works in the beauty shop next door as a stylist. There’s also a Laundromat and a drugstore—all small businesses where people work hard.

  As our car crawls by, lights flash from two nearby police cars. A man stands in front of the drugstore, hands raised, brown skin gleaming above a dirty white shirt. I recognize him; so does Dontae. It’s Edward Owens, one of our neighbors.

  He must be out on one of his jogs. At least, he was. A bandanna covers his hair. He’s wearing gym shoes and sweat pants. He’s short and thin, and he loves to run, weaving through walkers on the sidewalk with a laugh and a wave. He’s friends with Sergeant Rhodes, Carmela’s father.

  “Drop your weapon!” the cops yell at him.

  I look at Dontae and whisper, “That’s whack. Mr. Owens doesn’t even own a weapon.”

  Dontae shrugs. Mr. Owens and Mom are members of the Take Back the Streets group. TBTS is our neighborhood organization that works to help clean up our area, stop violence, and help residents with any problems they are having. We look out for one another around here.

  “Dontae.” Mrs. Morrow’s voice is hushed, shaky. “Get out your phone and record this.” My phone lies buried deep in the bottom of my bag. Dontae has his in his pocket. I can tell his mother wants to blow her horn; her hand hovers over the wheel. The sound might make the officers realize they are being watched and stop. Or startle one and make him fire. Traffic has stopped in both directions. A few drivers make a U-turn and head off. Others sit on the side, staring, seeming to be fascinated but unsure what to do.

  One cop hits Mr. Owens with a club. My stomach churns like a washing machine at the sight. The other officer tackles him, throwing him to the ground. “Stop resisting!” they shout, like a well-rehearsed chorus as they twist the old man’s left arm above his shoulder, trying to turn it in a way shoulders don’t go. A pain-filled scream rips through the air.

  I can’t just sit and watch my neighbor being tortured in front of me. I can’t think of anything to do.

  Except jump from the car and run through traffic to get closer.

  I barely remember opening the car door and spilling from my seat, racing toward the cops hurting my friend. Behind me, I hear Mrs. Morrow scream my name. I know what I’ve been told to do in situations like this. I had the talk from Dad before he died, and Mom repeats that lesson over and over. I know to keep my head down and stay silent. Hands in the air to show they are empty and no sudden moves. But sometimes, when I’m scared, my brain stops thinking, and my body acts on its own.

  Swirling winds strike my face. I advance toward the figures, but even with his cheek pressed into the pavement, Mr. Owens stares at me and shakes his head to tell me to stay back. A cop responds by kneeling on his back until he stops moving. I freeze, not knowing what to do.

  “Don’t hurt him!” I yell. One cop leaps to his feet, weapon in hand. For the second time in my life, I see a gun pointed at me.

  The first time, it was my older brother who held the weapon.

  I stand still, frozen except for tremors that rack my body. Hands, legs . . . I can’t stop shaking. I stare at the gun he extends with both hands, pointed at my chest, and wait for it to fire.

  “Get over here, Jenkins.” The voice belongs to the cop kneeling on Mr. Owens.

  “Get back,” Jenkins bellows to me. He is wild-eyed, flushed, and furious.

  “He’s my friend,” I cry.

  “Doesn’t matter if he’s your Siamese twin, go or end up on the ground beside him.”

  Another police car pulls up, and two more officers leap out, guns drawn and pointed at the man on the ground. Jenkins continues staring at me for several seconds. Then he slowly backs up to join the group. Mr. Owens continues moaning, but the sound is softer now, and his breath hitches as they join together to drag him to his feet.

  “T’Shawn.” Mrs. Morrow hisses as she comes up behind me, grabs my shoulders, and pulls me away. “Get back to the car before he changes his mind.” She pulls me across the street. “I feared I’d have to tell your mother I got you killed.”

  I get back in the car and close the door. Dontae continues filming, doing more good than I did. Mrs. Morrow shakes her head. “Four cops waste time arresting a nice man who would never hurt anyone. Protect and serve who? Not us.”

  I cringe as Mr. Owens is thrown into a police vehicle. Mrs. Morrow puts her car in gear and drives away. I keep staring at the scene out the back window until we turn a corner.

  “What they did was wrong,” Dontae says, breathing heavily. “We should file a complaint.”

  “I forgot, you’re still new to Chicago and the Chicago police,” I say. “I don’t know what Florida is like, but if you file a complaint here, the cops will have your name and address. And it will keep happening anyway, so there’s no point.”

  “I’m still posting the video online,” he insists.

  I nod. If I had managed to film what happened, I would be doing the same.

  We drive in silence for ten more minutes until Mrs. Morrow pulls up one block from our courtyard apartment buildings, where she finds a parki
ng spot. A lot of people here don’t have their own cars, but so many people live around here that both sides of the narrow street are lined with parked cars.

  “Do not tell your mother what happened,” Mrs. Morrow reminds me as we climb from the car. “She doesn’t need to know how close you came to— She doesn’t need to know.”

  “I won’t add anything for her to worry about.” Especially since my heart is still jumping around painfully inside my chest.

  “Don’t forget your stuff.” Dontae grabs the diving-team information I left in the car and holds it out to me.

  “I don’t care about that anymore.” How is anything supposed to matter when I can’t unsee what I saw, can’t unknow what happened to a poor old man who is my friend?

  Mrs. Morrow takes the papers and forces them into my hands. “You have to care about your future, T’Shawn. About life. Understand? You need something to knock that memory from your head. Go after what you want. Don’t let one tragedy destroy your dreams.”

  I nod and take the papers. Between the car to the building, we pass an old man walking slowly, with a small panting dog on a leash at his side. His face is as rough as brown shoe leather. Bet he wishes his dog would hurry up and finish its business so he can get inside out of the cold. The old man nods and cracks a smile while his dog sniffs at my leg.

  Dontae’s mother unlocks the gate in front of the group of courtyard apartment buildings where we live. Five brownstone apartment buildings arranged in a U shape with a gate in front of the long, narrow court of grass and low bushes. Each building has six apartments above ground, two on each floor, plus two garden apartments belowground with only the windows visible from the outside. My family lives on the second floor of building number two. A big hulking, green ash tree stands alone in the center of the courtyard. The treetop is taller than my window, arms extending upward from the gnarled trunk. The branches are filled with buds now, but soon there will be big leaves.

  Dontae and his mom watch me until I safely enter my building before they cross the courtyard to number five, the building where they live. I enter the outer door, grab our mail, and use my key to unlock the inner security door. I’m supposed to feel safe in the building’s inner lobby, a small tile-floored alcove leading to a staircase. Usually I do and quickly spring up the stairs to our second-floor apartment. Today my skin feels cold, and the memory of Mr. Owens’s cries fills my ears.