Fire from the Rock

by Sharon Draper

  The policeman wrote down everything Sylvia said. “Did you see or hear anything unusual while you were shopping?”

  “No. It all happened really fast. I heard breaking glass, then two thuds, then I smelled something oily—I guess it was kerosene—then smoke. I pulled myself and Rachel out of the building and watched it burn like everyone else.”

  “So you saw no one outside the building? No one running away?”

  Sylvia hesitated. Her heart thudded. She wondered if the cop could see inside her, if he could tell whether she was telling the truth or not. “Uh, I was on the floor, and everything was kinda blurry.”

  “Think now. It’s important.”

  “Uh, I did see someone’s shoes.”

  “Could you tell whose feet they were? Was it a woman or a man?”

  “A man.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Women don’t wear those kind of shoes,” Sylvia said.

  “Can you describe them?” the officer asked. He had not looked up from his clipboard.

  “They were, uh, brown. And shiny. With pointy toes and laces. And taps. I’m sure I heard the taps as he walked.” Chill bumps covered Sylvia’s arms. She’d done it. Everybody in town knew Mr. Crandall’s shoes.

  The officer looked up with a start. “Are you sure, girl?”

  Sylvia’s mother also looked at her sharply. “Was it Mr. Crandall, Sylvia?” she asked carefully.

  “Yes, Mama,” Sylvia said, her head down.

  “You’re saying you saw Mr. Crandall in the store just as the explosions began?” the officer asked in disbelief.

  “Yes, sir. I mean, I saw Mr. Crandall leaving the store after the explosions.”

  “Did you see or hear anyone else?”

  Sylvia looked up at the sky. Please forgive me, Lord. “No, sir. That’s all I saw.”

  The policeman wrote furiously on his clipboard, then hurried away to confer with the other officers. Sylvia watched them question the Crandalls again. Although she couldn’t hear everything that was said, it was clear that Mr. Crandall was yelling, perhaps cursing, and was very, very angry. Sylvia felt light-headed, like she might pass out.

  The young officer returned to Sylvia, his face tight and angry. “How dare you lay blame on an upstanding citizen like Mr. Crandall?” he asked. “You almost made us arrest an innocent man!”

  “I didn’t accuse anybody,” Sylvia replied shakily.

  “She answered your questions and told you what she saw,” Mrs. Patterson told the officer crisply as she moved closer to Sylvia.

  “He said he went inside the store to make sure everyone got out safely. He’s a hero, not a criminal!”

  “He didn’t save me,” Sylvia replied quietly.

  The policeman ignored her, but asked once more, “Are you sure you didn’t see who tossed the firebombs, if that’s what they were? Maybe you were just playing with matches and got careless!” He almost snarled at her.

  “I told you everything I know. And I told the truth.” Sylvia felt a deep pain in the pit of her stomach. Oh, my Lord. What have I done?

  The officer gave Sylvia another sharp look, but said nothing else. Her father moved nearer to Sylvia and held her closely. Her thudding heartbeat was muffled by her father’s large and comforting arms.

  Mrs. Patterson walked over to the Zuckers then and sat down beside them on the grass. No one spoke. She placed her brown hand in Mrs. Zucker’s pale one. The two of them sat there silently, hand in hand, watching the remains of the buildings sizzle and die. The water from the fire hoses drenched the already charred wood, but had had very little impact on the flames.

  Just then a collective cheer erupted from the assorted onlookers as Miss Lillie’s faded green 1951 Studebaker clattered around the corner. She jumped out and ran to Calvin and her father, who almost collapsed with relief. “I was out delivering flowers for the Nelson wedding,” Sylvia heard her explain. “I heard about the fire on the car radio. We’re gonna be okay, Calvin baby. We’re gonna be just fine.”

  “Let’s go home, Mama,” Sylvia said, her eyes stinging with tears as well as smoke.

  The Patterson family stepped over hoses and lines and ropes to get to their car, holding hands to steady one another. “I’m so glad Calvin will get to laugh again,” Mrs. Patterson said. “The pursuit of happiness is the discovery of joy.”

  “Thanks, Mama. For once, I needed your little quote,” Sylvia said as the Patterson family climbed into their car.

  “I’m glad this is over,” DJ said, relief in her voice.

  Sylvia knew that the consequences of this day were far from complete. Her stomach ached with the knowledge.

  Friday Night, August 16, 1957

  I’ve never been up close to somebody dead. I was sure Miss Lillie had been killed, and just the thought made me feel ill—like I was about to throw up. Some friend I’d be—Calvin would be screeching and crying and needing somebody to turn to, and I’d be puking in the street. I’m so glad she’s okay. If Mama died, I wouldn’t know how to keep on breathing.

  I still feel sick, but for a different reason. I’ve never lied to my parents before. For sure I’ve never lied to the police—never even had a conversation with a cop before. Yesterday I was a good girl who just wanted a boyfriend and a chance to make a difference in the world like everybody seems to think I ought to be doing. Today I’m a liar and a sinner and a criminal.

  But it was all too much—the smoke, that smell, the way the ashes blew in the wind and landed on my head. I’ve never been so scared and so messed up inside. Johnny Crandall and his threats. Miss Lillie maybe gone forever. And Reggie—I’ve got to talk to him.

  It never even occurred to me that it could have been me they were bringing out on a stretcher. All I could concentrate on was how bright the fire was, how hot the air felt, and how fast everything burned up and disappeared. Stuff they’d had their whole life-gone in just a short time.

  Our house, standing there ugly and gray, was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen when we pulled into the driveway. It seems like it would have changed while we were gone, like it should be feeling sad like we were, but instead it looked solid and safe.

  I didn’t realize how tired I was, or how sore. I was covered with eggs and spices, my hair was full of flour, my pretty yellow dress was filthy, and every muscle in my body ached. I couldn’t get the smell of smoke and destruction out of my nostrils, or the image of those timbers glowing in the darkness. I took a shower and let the steamy water run over me for a long time. While no one could see me, I cried and cried and cried.

  I cried for the Zuckers and all the Jewish people who had already suffered so much. I cried for Calvin and his mom and the loss of innocent little daisies in her shop. I cried for Miss Lillie, who was always nice to me. And I cried because I know the truth. What I don’t know is why.

  Why? Why? Why?

  As I stepped out of the bathroom, still sniffling a little, Mama was there with a cup of hot tea-thick with lemon and honey like I like it. I sipped it while she brushed the tangles out of my hair. Words weren’t necessary. Not yet.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 17, 1957

  Sylvia awakened slowly, hoping the events of the night before had been just a horrible dream. Then she turned over, looked at the scratches on her arms, and knew it was all too real. Her throat felt raspy, and she still felt a little nauseous. She wondered why her body couldn’t just shut down and let her sleep for a year or so.

  She stretched and sat up, noticed her head ached a little, but she felt no serious aftereffects from the night before, at least not physically. She listened for the usual household sounds, but all seemed to be quiet downstairs. She noticed that Donna Jean had gotten up quietly and even made her own bed.

  Sylvia got dressed, choosing a faded green dress that had been washed and worn so many times the fabric was soft. It made her feel safe. She took her time walking down the steps, each creak on the stair seeming to yell at her. Her family was just finishing breakfast. Th
e room was unnaturally quiet—none of the usual arguing or laughter. “What’s going on?” she asked quietly. She coughed and tried to shake away the thickness she felt.

  Mr. Patterson sat quietly, sipping his coffee, a slight frown on his face.

  “Drink some of this orange juice, Sylvia,” her mother said with concern. “You sound a little parched.”

  “Thanks, Mama, but I’m not very hungry this morning.”

  “But I saved you two strips of bacon,” Donna Jean offered, her eyes large with concern.

  “That was nice of you, DJ,” Sylvia managed to say. “Maybe later.” Just looking at the food made her choke.

  Gary, unusually silent, crumbled a biscuit into little pieces. Finally, he looked up and asked Sylvia, “You talk to Reggie lately?”

  Startled, Sylvia said, “Uh, no, not for a couple of days.”

  Gary said nothing else, but continued to play with his food.

  Sylvia felt weak at the stomach, afraid to think that Gary could somehow have been involved in this mess as well.

  “Rachel called first thing this morning,” Mrs. Patterson said as she wiped invisible crumbs from the table. “She said to tell you they’re staying with relatives for now. And she said to tell you thanks once more.”

  Sylvia nodded and shrugged. “I’m just glad nobody got hurt.”

  “One of the ladies from the church called to say that Calvin and his mother are with Miss Lillie’s father,” her mother continued.

  The whole day before spun through Sylvia’s mind, and she reeled from the images. She ran to her mother, who let her cry into her apron.

  Her father reached over and gently touched Sylvia on the shoulder. “Do you feel like talking, Sylvie?” His voice, filled with understanding, was softer than she’d ever heard it.

  Sylvia gulped, wiped her eyes, and nodded. “Are you gonna be mad at me, Daddy?”

  “Of course not, child. What could you possibly have done to make me angry?”

  Sylvia said nothing at first. “I didn’t tell the police everything,” she admitted slowly.

  “What did you leave out? Do you know who set the fires?” Her father had placed his coffee cup back on the saucer. The rest of the family was silent.

  “Well, first I saw some shoes. They were brown, shiny oxfords with metal taps on the toes and the heels. I could hear them click.”

  “So it was Crandall after all!” her father gasped.

  “No, Daddy. Mr. Crandall was in the store, but I think it was like he said—he had heard glass breaking or something, and he came in to see what was going on. He didn’t bother to help anybody—he ran out when he saw what had happened—but he didn’t do it.”

  “Are you sure?” her mother asked, sounding confused.

  “I think so, Mama.”

  “Then who did it?” her father insisted.

  Sylvia gulped and trembled. “Well, I’m not sure, but I think I saw ...”

  The shrill ringing of the doorbell made the whole family jump with apprehension. “I’ll get it,” Gary said as he strode across the room. When he opened the door, Sylvia gasped. Walking into her living room was Reggie.

  For months Sylvia had been dreaming of asking her mother if Reggie could come over one Sunday for dinner. She’d planned it all in her mind—she’d be wearing her best dress, her hair would be combed just perfect, and they’d have fried chicken and baked potatoes and maybe an apple pie that she had baked herself. Never did she think he’d show up like this—with her looking a mess and him looking worse. Nothing was as it should be.

  Reggie stood in the middle of the living room, head down. His raggedy blue tennis shoes were covered with dried mud, his shirt was wrinkled and ripped, and his slacks were filthy. “Excuse me, Pastor Patterson, sir, and Mrs. Patterson, ma’am,” he said awkwardly. “Forgive me for interrupting your breakfast, but I came to ask if I could speak to Sylvia just for a moment. It’s kinda important.”

  Her father cleared his throat, frowned, but nodded. “Do you need help, young man?”

  “I’ll be fine, sir,” Reggie replied politely. “But I gotta talk to Sylvia—please.”

  “Does this have anything to do with you, Gary?” Mr. Patterson asked then.

  “Believe it or not, Dad,” Gary said, holding up his arms, “I’m not part of this one.” Mr. Patterson looked relieved.

  Donna Jean watched the whole scene, wide-eyed.

  Mrs. Patterson asked Reggie, “Are you hungry, son? I can scramble a couple of eggs real quick if you’d like.” Always the perfect hostess, Sylvia mused, even in the middle of a catastrophe!

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I can’t. Is it all right if I talk to Sylvia on the porch?”

  Sylvia looked at her mother, who nodded and said, “Put a sweater on before you go out, Sylvie.” Sylvia recognized the all-knowing look on her mother’s face. “But don’t be long. We’re in the middle of something important here.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Sylvia replied faintly. She grabbed a sweater from the coatrack and ran outside before her parents could say anything else. Reggie followed behind her, glancing back at Gary before he closed the front door.

  The two of them stood there on her porch for a moment, just looking at each other, saying nothing.

  “Walk with me a little,” Reggie said shakily. The steps creaked as they left the porch.

  “The air still smells like smoke,” she said softly as she took a deep breath of the morning air.

  Reggie paused, then shuddered. “Nobody in town knows who really caused the fire.”

  “I do,” Sylvia said quietly.

  “What?”

  “I saw you, but I didn’t tell the police.”

  “You lied? For me?”

  “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell the whole truth, which I guess is just as bad. I feel dirty inside.”

  “I’m so sorry, Sylvie—for everything.” Tears trickled down his face.

  “Why, Reggie? Why did you do it? I don’t get it.”

  The morning sun shone as if the day held hope and promise, but all was dark in Sylvia’s mind. Reggie took her hand and cried unashamedly. Finally, he gulped, sniffed, and wiped his face with the back of his shirtsleeve. “I never meant to hurt anybody, Sylvie. The Zuckers have always been cool to me, and Calvin’s mom has always been as sweet to me as if I were her own son. She always smells good.” He sniffed, trying not to break down again.

  “Tell me everything,” Sylvia said.

  Reggie started walking again, as if it were easier for him to talk as he moved. “I think about you all the time, Sylvia,” he began. “I dream about you at night.” He looked over at her and smiled sadly.

  The words she’d always wanted to hear, but not like this. This was such a mess. “Oh, Reggie,” she said sadly.

  “When you told me how you and your sister got pushed around by the Crandall boy and the Smith brothers, I wanted to make them pay for hurting you.” He looked over at Sylvia again. “It was all for you.”

  “I still don’t understand what happened,” she said, feeling guilty.

  “Johnny Crandall and his friends hang out at his father’s shop every Friday after school. Sometimes I have to walk home that way, and they always yell at me and call me names. I’d had just about enough, but when they messed with you, that was the last straw. So I thought about it for a long time, and I decided to make a couple of firebombs.” He waited.

  “You what?! How do you even know how to make such a thing?”

  “Well, you know those meetings I’ve been going to with Gary?”

  She nodded, amazement on her face. She removed her hand from Reggie’s.

  “Some of the older guys are radical—they talk about violent protests, not the stuff Dr. King preaches. One of the guys talked about how to make firebombs.”

  “Gary’s been making bombs?” Sylvia asked, astonished.

  “No, I’m the stupid one, not him.” Reggie hung his head again. “They were just supposed to be little puffs of smoke and fi
re to scare the Crandalls—nothing dangerous. I must have made them too powerful.”

  “I can’t believe you were walking down the streets of Little Rock with firebombs in your hands. It sounds like something out of a movie or TV show.” Sylvia shuddered.

  “Except it’s real life, and I’m a big chicken,” he said. “I didn’t have the courage to toss them. I had just about decided to go back home when I saw that punk Johnny harassing you again. It made me nuts.”

  “You were there and didn’t say anything?” Sylvia felt like her head was going to burst.

  “I had two firebombs under my shirt. I couldn’t come up to you and act normal. As soon as I saw that Johnny was in the barbershop, I decided to toss what I thought would be something like firecrackers. ”

  “But Crandall’s barbershop wasn’t harmed,” Sylvia said, still confused.

  “Remember last year when I didn’t make the baseball team?” Reggie asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “It was because I couldn’t throw worth a darn. Coach said I had really bad aim.” He paused. “I aimed for the barbershop, but the firebomb hit Zucker’s window instead. I went crazy because I knew you were in there.”

  “Oh, Reggie.” It was all so pathetic.

  “I ran into the store to get you out and dropped the second bomb accidentally when I slipped on something that had spilled. I got scared because I couldn’t see you. Everything was smoke and fallen stuff. Then Mr. Crandall came in and I ran out the back door. I panicked. I had no idea the fire would be so big. No idea.”

  “I tried to cry out when I saw you, but I couldn’t. I could hardly breathe, ” she said sadly, remembering it clearly. “I could have died.” The thought made her dizzy.

  He looked directly at Sylvia. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what to do.” He dropped his eyes. “I’m the one who deserves to die.”

  She frowned. “It was stupid, Reggie. Really stupid. But you didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

  “But it did.” He scowled. Reggie gazed down Sylvia’s street—the neat little houses, the crooked sidewalks, the morning sun on the tiny, well-kept lawns. “I love Little Rock,” he said wistfully.