Courage

by Barbara Binns

  Chapter

  Three

  I SMELL THE SUGARY AROMA of peach cobbler before I open our apartment door. Mom is the best cook in the world. She used to practically take over the communal kitchen back when we lived in the homeless shelter. That happened after Dad died of cancer and we lost our home. Back then, Malik Kaplan volunteered to be my temporary “big brother.” He helped save me from Lamont and his gang-member friends. Malik is a college sophomore now, playing basketball at the University of Illinois in Champaign. Dontae may be my best Chicago friend, but Malik is my best friend in the whole world. Sometimes, I pretend Malik is my for-real brother. His father is Dwayne Kaplan, owner of Kaplan Auto Body Shops and Mom’s boss. She works at the headquarters downtown.

  “Hey, Mom . . . ,” I begin as I enter the kitchen. Then I stop and worry that Mrs. Morrow was right: it’s not a day to hit my mother with bad news. Mom bakes desserts when she’s upset. That peach cobbler tells me something is wrong.

  “Wash your hands,” she says, looking up from a mixing bowl.

  “But, Mom . . .” I sound like I’m whining, but I can’t help that right now.

  “Hands, young man.”

  “Hands,” my four-year-old sister, Rochelle, echoes. Yellow-and-pink barrettes on her black braids jingle as she looks up from the table, where she is drawing a picture.

  I can’t argue with either of them. I run to the bathroom and wash my hands. I also wipe my face before I go back to the kitchen, so Mom can’t send me back again. I even take a minute to look in the mirror and practice my hopeful look.

  I return to the kitchen and check the bowl she is stirring. One deep breath, and I know she is making oatmeal raisin cookies. Today is a twofer—homemade cookies plus cobbler equal double trouble.

  “How was your afternoon?” she asks. “Did you have a good time, T?”

  “The best,” I say with enthusiasm, hoping she won’t ask more questions.

  “What’s wrong?” She wipes her hands on her apron and approaches me.

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “I know that look. There’s something.”

  I will never make it as an actor. Not when I cave every time the all-seeing Mom eye is turned on me. “It’s nothing. I just have these.” I hand her the papers. That’s easier than describing how my blood congealed and my brain blanked when the cop pointed his gun at me. The pages are a little damp; some stick together as she examines them.

  “Swim club, huh?” She relaxes, even chuckles. “I remember how you used to hate the water. We’d take you to the lakefront, but no matter what bribe your father or I offered, you’d never do more than stick in a toe. Then your brother took you in the lake with him.” She smiles and goes silent. She’s remembering the days before, the same way I am. Maybe that’s the reason for the baking. She must have heard something that made her think of him again.

  Mom takes a seat at the kitchen table and begins pulling the wet sheets apart and reading them. I grab plates from the cabinet and begin setting the table to remind her how helpful I am. I do all my chores, most of the time, anyway. Plus, I’m her number one babysitter, and I always get high grades. She knows I would never go near a gang, certainly not join and fight to become a leader the way Lamont did. I deserve a little something good.

  “Uh, don’t worry about that concussion-release-form thingy—it’s totally bogus.” I knew she’d have a problem with all the warning messages. Moms are like that, always saying don’t do this or be careful of that. Sometimes a little danger helps make things more fun. “People don’t get hurt swimming. Water is good for you.”

  “I’m not worried about that,” she says.

  Then the problem must be the costs. “I know it looks like a lot of money.”

  “It does.”

  “But me and the diving board—”

  “The diving board and I,” she corrects absently, still looking at the papers.

  “The diving board and I were awesome together. I mean, I loved being up there. I made eight dives today and even managed a backflip.” Sort of. She doesn’t need to know about the ache in my back. “The Racing Rays is a swimming club, but they train divers too. I want to take diving lessons,” I say, like it’s the most important thing in the world.

  Maybe it is right now.

  My voice speeds up, words tumbling from my lips. “Think about it, Mom. If I can do this, you wouldn’t have to give me anything else. I wouldn’t need any other birthday present and not even a Christmas present. I’ll do extra chores and stuff without complaining. I could go to the Olympics, become famous. I mean, this kid I met is a super diver, and he even said I was a natural! Schools give scholarships for diving too, so I could get to college someday. Please, please, please!”

  By this time next year, I could be famous, the diving champion from Chicago’s South Side. I could win medals for the USA at the Olympics. The city might even throw a party for me with a parade down King Drive. I can barely breathe while I think about sitting on a float and waving at the kids from my school and my teachers. I’ll let Dontae sit beside me. Carmela too, of course.

  “T’Shawn.” Mom bites her bottom lip, looking from the papers to me and then out the window into the growing darkness. “We are not giving up on your special day. Besides, we have something great to celebrate this year. What if I told you this would be your best birthday ever?”

  “Best?”

  The silence goes on and on. Her tablet is open on the kitchen table. I look at the screen. I don’t know what I expect, maybe a recipe or something. But definitely not a listing for bedroom furniture. Are we moving, or is she planning to get me a new bed for my birthday? There’s nothing special about that.

  “A lot is happening,” she finally says. “We have some big changes to prepare for.”

  “Did Mr. Kaplan fire you?” My stomach twists into a giant knot. Her boss promoted her to be his executive assistant a few weeks ago. How could he fire her now?

  “No, my job is fine, sweetie.” Mom puts the papers on a shelf and pats my hands.

  Sweetie? That’s what she called me while Dad was dying in hospice.

  “Are you sick?” I ask.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Is something wrong with Rochelle?”

  “Sweetie, your sister is fine too. No one is sick, I promise.”

  “Then what’s wrong? Tell me, Mom. I can take it.” Because something is definitely not fine, I can tell.

  “Actually, it’s wonderful news. Lamont is coming home.”

  Chapter

  Four

  I WAIT TO HEAR MOM yell, “Just kidding!” and burst into laughter. This has to be one of those colossal jokes that couldn’t wait for April Fools’ Day.

  But Mom isn’t laughing, so I can’t either.

  Ten years. My brother and his friends tried to rob a restaurant. He pled guilty to a Class 1 felony and was sentenced to ten years in prison. That was only two years ago. I’m supposed to be all grown up before he can come back to mess up my life again.

  The world wavers. I sit down, grabbing the edge of the table because I need support. My left foot starts tapping on the green-and-blue mosaic tile floor.

  “Lamont is coming here?” I ask. “How? Why?”

  “He’s being paroled early,” Mom continues. “He’ll be released in two weeks, only a few days after your birthday. Kind of like a belated present for you.”

  She beams, as if my scary brother really is a present.

  I was ten the last time I saw Lamont. I stare down at my feet and feel myself shake as my mind returns to the past.

  I loved my brother. I trusted him. After Dad died, he was there for me. We sat in a dark closet together after the funeral, and my brother held me and let me cry and never once called me a baby. I thought he was perfect. When he defied rules, I was proud of him. I totally agreed with him when he said, “What’s the point of following rules when we’re all going to die?” He was the man in our family, and what he said was magic. “L
amont said” were my two favorite words.

  Lamont said he was happy when the director of the homeless shelter banned him for breaking curfew every night. When he came to me and said, “I’m going places. I want you with me—we belong together,” I was happy to run away with him.

  I left school, left Mom and the homeless shelter, and joined him in the abandoned building he and other members of his gang called home. The guys drank and smoked and made plans to strike out at enemies. Lamont talked of leaving Chicago and heading down to Memphis, where he “knew people.” My great-great-grandfather, a former slave, settled near Memphis following the Civil War. My grandfather moved to Chicago after World War I, leaving many relatives behind. But I knew Lamont wasn’t talking about those distant relatives. He meant gang members around the city.

  I was glad to be with my big brother . . . for a few hours.

  By the evening, the laughter and boasts and smack talk couldn’t make me forget how cold I was and how lost I felt. The place had broken windows and no heat, and it was winter. The longer I stayed in the apartment, the more I coughed and shivered. Puffs of white smoke emerged from my mouth when I breathed. The room was dirty, with only a mattress and a few rugs scattered around the floor. And guns. Every guy in the house had either a gun or knife on them. Always. And after a few hours, I didn’t feel safe. All I wanted was my mother and sister, not the string of unknown faces circling me.

  Lamont began playing with one of the guns. I had no idea what type. It was just big and black and ugly and seemed to fill his hands. He pushed it across the floor to me, saying, “Take it, Short Stack. It’s time to man up.” His voice sounded as cold as the January wind blowing through one of the broken windows.

  I reached out a finger and touched the barrel of the cold, black, deadly gun. It was just as hard as it looked. I snatched my hand back. “I don’t want a gun. I want to go home.”

  “This is your home now. We’re your family, all of us.” He waved at Toxic and Darnell and all the other guys lounging around, laughing.

  My teeth chattered. “I want Mommy.”

  Darnell stared at me the way a cat eyes a mouse. “Baby wants a bottle,” he sneered, and handed me a beer bottle.

  I pushed it away and turned to my brother. “Please, Lamont. Let’s just go home.”

  “That shelter ain’t home, T.” Lamont stared at me through narrow, scary eyes. “Life is hard. It’s time for you to man up unless you intend to end up like Dad. Tossed aside when you get too sick to be useful. Dying and leaving behind nothing but people who—”

  “You’ll die too,” I said.

  “At least when I go, I’ll be remembered as a real man.”

  His tense voice made me shiver. I was only ten. I didn’t want to be a man.

  “Are you sure this is really your brother?” Darnell asked. He was an older guy, bigger than Lamont. I could see he didn’t like taking orders from my brother. He reached for the gun Lamont left in front of me, but my brother was quicker. He picked it up and pointed it at me! My mouth went dry. I felt like a mouse caught in one of those sticky glue traps, still alive but unable to move or even cry out. All I could do was sit and shiver and pray.

  “I decide what happens to my brother,” Lamont said in the coldest voice I had ever heard.

  Darnell never smiled. Hatred filled his eyes and tightened his lips as he confronted my brother. He was not going to be controlled much longer.

  Then Malik showed up. He never told me how he found us, but he was smart enough not to come alone. He refused to leave without me.

  My nerves tingle every time I think about guns. I am afraid. I’m scared to be in the same room, the same apartment, even the same world as my own brother.

  I wish I could tell someone.

  “You’re noisy.” Rochelle has come to stand beside me. I hit my knee to stop the tap dance I haven’t done since the days before Lamont’s arrest. A doctor called my leg movements a nervous tic and smiled as he said it was harmless. Then he sent my mom another bill.

  I grab my little sister and pull her onto my lap. Her weight means my leg can’t start tapping again. Rochelle won’t even remember she used to have two brothers. She had barely started to talk when Lamont left us. She doesn’t have anything to forget. I envy her.

  “I thought, hoped maybe, you’d be willing to postpone your party a little bit,” Mom continues. “Then we could have a combined event. You know, a birthday and welcome-home bash.”

  “I told you I don’t want any old party!” I shout. “I don’t want Lamont either.” Rochelle throws her hands over her ears. I rub her forearm gently until she relaxes.

  “He’s still your brother, T’Shawn,” Mom says in a whisper, her lips pursing like she’s sucking on a Lemonhead.

  At least she dropped the “sweetie.”

  “How is he getting out so soon? The judge said ten years.” Even with time off for good behavior—as if—he should be in prison at least three more years.

  “Apparently a judge adjusted his sentence. It all came up so sudden, I’m not sure of the details. Lamont is excited about coming home and promises things will be different. Your brother made a mistake; he got caught up in gang life, but that’s over now.” She stops for a moment, takes a deep breath, and wipes below one eye. “He thought money from selling drugs and stealing would help. But he accepts his mistakes now, and he’s done with all that.”

  “Is that what he tells you?” I don’t remember my brother ever admitting to a mistake about anything. I just remember him running around calling himself the King of the World and claiming he could save us all. I believed him. I got mad at Mom for refusing to take the rolls of money he collected.

  But I was ten in those days. I’m older and way smarter now.

  “I wish you had come with me to talk to him yourself, at least once,” Mom says.

  Once a month, Mom makes a trip to the prison to visit Lamont. She comes back wearing the same expression she had during Dad’s funeral. My brother did me one favor: prisoners have to give permission before people can visit. He never put my name on his list. He knew I’d never want to see him again. I wish he hadn’t put Mom on either. She could have forgotten him by now.

  “Does he have to come here?” I ask. I know I sound bitter and almost as young as Rochelle. But I don’t care. I want her to know how I feel.

  “He’s still my son, just like you. Wherever I am, my home will always be his home. No matter what happened in the past, we don’t stop loving family.” She lifts Rochelle away from me and sets her on the floor.

  “Where is he going to stay?” I ask meekly.

  “I was thinking about getting bunk beds,” Mom continues, confirming my fear. “You two can share a room, get to know each other again.” She clasps her hands and smiles. “Both my boys, together again. You two were always so close. I know you’ll want to be with him.”

  My mother couldn’t be more wrong.

  After a dinner I can’t even eat, I go to my room. I open my closet and climb on a chair and reach up to the top shelf. I push back the cardboard box holding the rock collection I began but never did anything with. But it makes good camouflage. I strain on tiptoe to reach the wooden box pressed behind it against the wall. I pull it down and sit on the edge of my bed, opening the box filled with memories that I keep hidden so Mom won’t find them and cry. Things I managed to salvage after our eviction and kept close through all our travels. There’s not much. A few toy soldiers that Dad and I used to play with. A picture of Dad with some of his Iraq War buddies. He’s wearing the heavy silver ring passed down from his great-great-grandfather. A DVD of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. We used to watch the old black-and-white horror movie every Halloween, with Mom fixing fresh buttered popcorn and worrying about the nightmares I never got.

  I remember squeezing in between my dad and my brother to feel safe. I would bury my head in Dad’s shoulder and inhale his aftershave every time Dr. Jekyll transformed. Dad knew the doctor’s part by heart, and Lamont
knew most of Mr. Hyde. “Does Jekyll tell Hyde?” Dad would ask minutes before the movie started, and then they’d recite every line those characters spoke together.

  Then Dad died, and my brother became the crazed and lawless Mr. Hyde.

  “Read about Aunt Nancy,” Rochelle says, breaking me free from the past. She walks into my room with a book in her hands.

  “You mean Ananse,” I say, wiping my cheeks and sitting up.

  “That’s what I said: Aunt Nancy, the magic spider,” she says, her eyes wide and happy.

  I love Rochelle and always try hard to be a good brother. That’s why, instead of correcting her again, I playfully tug one of her braids before taking the book and pulling her onto my lap. She is soft but solid, real and mine. I know by heart this book about the legendary trickster African spider and his many adventures because she makes me read from one of the stories inside every day.

  How will I protect Rochelle from our brother? I ask myself. She thinks of me the way her friends talk about their fathers. That makes me feel good because I love her, and bad because it means she thinks I’m the same as a grown-up. Only I’m not.

  I flash back again to when Lamont and I sat in our closet, the day our father died, and he let me cry into his shoulder while I prayed for the miracle that never came. Lamont was my hero—Superman and Batman and Iron Man all rolled into one.

  Now after everything that happened, my brother is the biggest villain I know.

  Chapter

  Five

  BEFORE HISTORY CLASS ON MONDAY, a few of us gather inside our classroom and watch the video on Dontae’s phone of Mr. Owens’s arrest. Our teacher hasn’t arrived yet. The video went viral over the weekend. There are thousands of likes and shares and almost as many comments from all over the country. Most of the time it’s a big deal to have something you upload go all over the country and even the world. This time it’s also sad, because of what’s in the story and what was left out. Mr. Owens wasn’t important enough for anyone in the major media to pick up the story. What happened to that old man wasn’t anything new. A lot of kids in the class have friends or relatives who have been struck by violence. But it was the first time I’d seen that kind of cruelty happen right in front of me.