by S. F. Henson
“Leave it alone, baby,” she says. A lady I’ve never met stands beside her, handing out white candles with white paper circles around the bottoms. A parade of people in dresses and suits marches past me, taking papers and candles. I self-consciously smooth the wrinkles in my thrift store button-down.
Brandon motions to me, then ducks through the crowd and into a nook just inside the front doors. He loosens the tie knot and leans against the wall. “The police have barricaded my street. They’re only letting residents through.”
“What does your dad think of that?”
“He hates it. But I’m relieved. I sleep better knowing the police are watching. Now, if I only knew why this was all happening in the first place. This is way scarier than Ellis’s auntie finding some racist Easter eggs.”
I run a fingernail down my candle, peeling off a curl of wax. If only it were as easy to peel back the layers of myself. If only I were wax underneath my skin—no feelings, no pain.
“I know,” I say. But my voice is hardly loud enough for even me to hear.
Brandon’s forehead wrinkles. “Huh?”
I swallow hard and try again. “I know why,” I say more forcefully. “I know why this—”
“Boys.” Brandon’s mother appears at the edge of our nook. “We’re about to start. And quit it with the tie!” She tightens the knot around Brandon’s neck again, lifting it up to adjust his collar underneath.
The coil around his neck, the strip of fabric held over his head, it looks …
Oh God.
It looks like a noose. A black-and-gray paisley noose.
I blink and see that body I dragged into the woods. Except it’s Brandon’s face that’s swollen and purple.
I stumble back into an empty umbrella stand. Metal clatters against the wall. Mrs. Kingsley’s head jerks toward me. “Nate, baby, you okay? You’re white as a fish belly.”
Brandon meets my eyes. His face is a mask of confusion and something else … Hurt? Curiosity? His mother takes my arm on one side and Brandon’s on the other. He shoots me a look over the top of her head.
“Later,” I mouth. “After.”
His forehead wrinkles more. We shuffle to a middle row where Dr. Kingsley and Henry saved us seats. Dell and Bev are squished against the bench rail along the inside aisle. Brandon tries to maneuver around his mom to sit beside me, but she plops down first, stranding me on the outside edge, alone.
The entire church is packed—standing room only. Most of the faces are shades of black and brown and tan. Every minority in town must be here. There are plenty of white folks, too, though. We’re all mixed together on the benches, in the balcony, along the walls. With all these bodies crammed against one another, I’m surprised the place doesn’t spontaneously combust.
A black man in a black suit mounts the plush, red carpeted steps at the front of the room. He places one hand on the walnut podium and raises the other high above his head. The thrum of the crowd fades as though someone is twisting a volume knob.
“Ga-wd,” he says in a deep voice.
Every head drops as if the man has put them all in a trance. I shrink against the bench and dip my head, too, watching Brandon’s mother out of the corner of my eye for cues.
“Our precious, precious Ga-wd. Our Lord!” he shouts.
Oh, he said God. We’re praying.
“Bless this place!” the man yells. The concept of an indoor voice seems to have escaped him. “Hold each person here in the palm of your hand. Take care of us, Jesus. And take care of these aggressors!” Each word is drawn out, elongated.
“Amen!” someone calls. I start to look up, but the Kingsleys’ heads are still bowed. I don’t think I’ll ever get the hang of this praying thing.
“Show them the error of their ways. Lead them to peace. FILL them with your spirit!”
More people shout, “Amen!” Around me, hands raise, palms up like the man by the podium.
“And guide us,” he says, softer. “Help us show these aggressors your love. Teach us how to treat them with the same grace and mercy you exhibit every day. And all Ga-wd’s people say …”
“Amen!” everyone calls out so loud I jump in my seat.
A stick of a woman moves into the light near the preacher and starts singing about getting your house in order. Her voice is full and thick and can’t possibly be coming out of that tiny person.
After the first line, the crowd sings back in unison. I’ve stumbled into one of those movie musicals where everyone suddenly breaks out in song. Is this a black church thing, or just a church thing in general?
The woman’s voice lifts over the people, surrounding us like a fuzzy blanket. After a couple lines, the congregation responds again. Mrs. Kingsley removes a book from the seat in front of her and flips to a page. I mumble the words on the line she points to, stumbling along until the song ends and the building goes so silent that it feels like God pressed mute on an all-powerful universal remote. Then there’s the flutter of pages as Mrs. Kingsley puts the songbook away. The woman sits to the right of the stage and the preacher moves back to the podium again.
“Congregation,” he says, not as yell-y this time. “There’s a plague in our house. A scourge of evil! Now, we don’t know who’s behind it or why.”
Brandon inclines his head to me ever so slightly. I stare at the lines of wax under my nails, choking down the urge to stand up and shout that it’s all my fault.
“But we do know this.” The preacher scans the crowd slowly, his gaze pausing on different people. “It’s a test. You see it’s been quiet in Lewiston for too long and the enemy don’t like that. So he’s testin’ us. Tryin’ to see if we’re really Ga-wd’s. Or if we’re his. So you know what we’re gonna do?”
Several people mumble answers.
“We’re gonna make sure our houses are in order,” the preacher says. He strides from one side of the stage to the other. “We’re gonna make sure our hearts stay in the right place. Gonna come together as a town. Black, white, purple, yellow, green, and everything in between.”
“Amen!” choruses around me.
“We’re gonna show that Devil he ain’t gonna divide Lewiston! Not this time!”
“Yes, Lord!”
“Gonna show these aggressors that we’re united!”
“Yes, Lord!”
“That noooooobody’s gonna tear down this house!” He jumps up and down. People around me start clapping, sporadically at first, then the woman is singing again and the claps hit the beat. Someone lights their candle and passes the flame down the aisle.
When it’s my turn, my hands are so sweaty the candle slides through my fingers and rolls across the floor. Brandon picks it up and passes it back to me, his face a giant question mark. I light my candle off Mrs. Kingsley’s, and let the white guy against the wall light his off mine.
When all the candles are lit, the overhead lights go out. Hundreds of tiny, yellow flames dance, illuminating the darkness. I focus on the dot of light in front of me.
I wish it could always be this easy to find light in the darkness. Just look down, and there it is. I used to think it was for some people—people like Ms. Erica and Brandon—but I don’t think so anymore. I think all of us have a little bit of darkness inside in some form or other.
The preacher is right, though. We can’t let our darkness win.
I can’t let it win.
The song shifts into a new one, slow and soft. Candles rise in the air and wave in time with the tune. The tiny singer’s voice swells. She lets out a long, warbling note then falls back down to a whisper, taking the entire congregation along on the ride. No one hollers out this time. We’re all quiet. Transfixed. The notes weave an invisible cord between us, drawing us all close, threading a sense of peace through me that I’ve never felt before. The pianist hits a final note and there’s only the singer’s voice. The candles grow still. I hardly dare to breathe. I raise my candle with all the others, watch the small flickering dots of hope. The si
nger’s last word hangs in the air for a moment, then the entire church falls silent. Motionless. No one wanting to be the first to break the spell.
CRASH!
Sharp points graze my face. Cold air rushes in from my left. A glittering shower of glass rains down around me.
CRASH!
CRASH!
Bloodcurdling screams as piercing as the glass sweep in with the air. I turn, trying to locate the source of each sound, but something heavy falls on top of me. My candle slips out of my hand to the carpet. Flames nibble at the red cloth.
I can’t move. I’m wedged against the pew by the hot mass on top of me.
A body.
There’s a body on me and the fire is eating the carpet now. I wrench my foot free and stamp out the candle. The man slumped over me—the one I’d passed my tiny drop of light to—is slick. There’s water on his back.
Not water. Blood.
Glass sparkles on his shirt like deadly fairy dust. He’s not awake. I’m not sure he’s even breathing. I have to get help.
I wriggle free, bumping into Mrs. Kingsley still sitting in her spot on the pew. She turns to me, dazed. Blood pours from a cut on her forehead. Her candle has fallen to the floor, too. I stomp on the wick
“Mrs. Kingsley? Are you okay?”
Her head wobbles on her shoulders, like one of those dashboard figurines. “I’m okay,” she mutters.
“Mama!” Brandon cries.
“Something hit me.” Her hand falls into her lap and she lifts a rectangular object.
My body immediately goes cold.
“A brick?” she asks.
Brandon tears it from her hands. It’s covered with blood, but I don’t think it’s Mrs. Kingsley’s.
I think it’s from the man beside me. I think he might be dead.
Bodies jostle around us. The fallen man blocks the side aisle, but that doesn’t stop people from trying to climb over him in the dark. Someone trips in the next pew up. Another candle tumbles to the floor. I can’t reach this one, but from the amount of smoke curling to the ceiling, I don’t think it’s the only fire to worry about.
Brandon tears something away from the brick. A rubber band. A sheet of paper. He holds his own candle to the page. “‘We said you’d burn.’”—the blood-smeared paper shakes in his hands—“‘Courtesy of Nathaniel Clemons.’” He stares at me hard. “You—”
“Nate!” Dell pushes through the crowd, appearing in the next pew. “Are you okay?”
“I am, but they aren’t.” I point at Mrs. Kingsley and the man. Another window breaks and fresh shrieks erupt.
People are screaming. Shouting names. Crying for help. Just plain crying. We have to get out of here. I try to pull Mrs. Kingsley to her feet.
“We have to go. Now!” Dell says, echoing my thoughts. “Help Mrs. Kingsley.” He and Dr. Kingsley climb over the pews to the shattered window. They each take a side of the possibly dead man and lift.
Brandon loops his arm under his mom’s, the bloody page crumpled in his fist. I take her other arm and we haul her down the row. People push and shove and scream. We’re propelled forward and back in a living, breathing current as everyone surges for the door.
Glass crunches under our feet. Freezing air rushes through the room. Candlelight flickers. No one has thought to turn the lights back on. No one seems to know what’s going on, only that there are dozens of broken windows.
That means dozens of bricks.
Dozens of notes.
Sirens wail. Police? Paramedics? Does Lewiston even have paramedics? Whatever they are, they sound forever away.
I have no concept of time, of how long ago the bricks flew, or how long we stand in the aisle trying to get out. The only thing I’m aware of is how hot the room has gotten with all the terrified bodies pressed together and how difficult breathing has become and how the door is miles away.
Brandon and his mother and I cling to one another. Behind us, Dell and Dr. Kingsley drag the maybe-dead man. Bev and Henry have disappeared, faceless bodies in the current.
The crowd surges forward. Someone falls. A woman. The singing woman, maybe? People scramble to help her up before she’s trampled under all those dress shoes and high heels.
Fresh, cold air tickles my nostrils, but it’s tinged with something familiar and woody.
Suddenly, we’re outside.
But outside is no better than in. In fact, it may be worse. Fire rages around us, licking the night sky with its hateful tongues.
“What are those?” Brandon asks, his voice clogged with smoke and fear. “Are they …”
“Crosses,” I answer. “They’re burning crosses.”
In every direction, fire laps at sky, spewing from the eight giant crosses forming a semicircle in front of the church. The skinheads have to be close, but where? Between the screams and the sirens and the crackle of burning wood, I can’t hear myself think.
Someone tears Brandon’s mother away from us. I try to object, but Brandon holds me back. “Fire medic,” he says. He levels his gaze at me and I turn back to the crosses. Their fire is nothing compared to the one blazing in Brandon’s eyes. I know that look. I’ve felt it. It’s the thorn that shoots out of fear and anger, that leads to impulsive decisions and bad choices. I have to do something before the spines sting him too deep, before he steps on my path and gets trapped in the muck.
I tug on Brandon’s arm. “Come on. I need to—”
A hand falls on my back and I flinch. “Thank God.” Bev squeezes my shoulder. Her voice sounds higher than normal. “I thought I’d lost you. Have you seen Dell?”
“He was behind us,” I say, “helping someone who was hit by a brick.”
A megaphone buzzes nearby. “Across the street. Away from the fire. Go across the street.”
The crowd heaves again. People scramble around us, their nicest clothes torn and bloody. A man shuffles past, a stunned expression on his face. He’s missing one shoe, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
Police and firemen and nurses scurry every which way, directing people away from the burning crosses and shattered building. Brandon, Bev, and I cling to one another as we weave through the crowd. Nurses have set up folding tables and are unloading bandages and gauze. Fire medics wheel out oxygen tanks and carry out blankets.
The sweat-tinged odor of terror mingles with the smoke pouring off of the crosses. It smells like that town in West Virginia. My hands shake and my throat closes up. I can’t swallow. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Frightened faces stream past me. Tear-streaked cheeks and wailing mouths. I close my eyes and see swastikas on shop windows and blood in gutters. All I want to do is run away. Hide in a closet. Cover myself with Mom’s clothes. But I know I can’t run anymore.
We scan the emergency nurses’ stations until we spot Mrs. Kingsley with Dell, Henry, and Dr. Kingsley.
She holds up a hand. “Before you ask, I’m fine. Just a couple stitches. The other gentleman took the brunt of the hit. How is he?”
Dr. Kingsley shakes his head. “We don’t know. They loaded him in an ambulance as soon as we got him outside. He was breathing, so there’s that.”
“Oh, Lord,” Mrs. Kingsley says. “It’s at least forty-five minutes to the closest hospital.”
Dr. Kingsley pats her arm. “Once we’re squared away here, I’ll go up and wait for him. I didn’t even get his name, but at least he won’t be alone when he wakes up.”
I hear loud hissing behind us, like a giant, angry cat. The smoke gets thicker, stinging my eyes. I turn, blinking away the smoky tears. The firemen have put out the fire and darkness creeps into the spaces between the flames, slithering across the street and down my nostrils, snuffing out all the light inside. I clench my fists tighter.
I hate them, The godforsaken Fort and everyone in it. Everyone who did this.
They’re going to regret ever stepping into Lewiston.
I close my eyes and breathe in smoke-tinged air. It’s easy to read articles or watch reports on TV an
d think “oh how sad” for the victims without really feeling anything, but when it’s people you know—people you could’ve shopped behind or passed on the street—it throws the whole picture into clear focus.
They’re not characters in a book or movie. They’re real people feeling real pain. Real fear. Bleeding real blood. I grew up with it all, but this town … it’s experiencing it for the first time in fifty years. Some of the people, for the first time ever.
This can’t happen again.
My eyes flutter open. Dell and Bev are beside an ambulance gathering armfuls of bottled water and blankets. Dr. Kingsley and Henry are huddled by Mrs. Kingsley, but I don’t see Brandon.
I whirl around, looking up and down the street. He can’t have gone far. Too much could happen on this packed street where faces blend into a featureless mass. Every time I blink, I swear I see that tie-noose around his neck. I weave through the crowd, trying not to panic. Red and blue lights flash, washing the street with eerie light. An ambulance blips its siren and the crowd parts so it can pull onto the street. Its headlights highlight a familiar shape: Brandon.
He’s besides a police cruiser, talking to a cop.
Why would he be—
He hands the officer a blocky object: the brick. I’m close enough to see the cop pull a latex glove from his pocket. Close enough to see that it’s the bald guy from the principal’s office. Brandon gave him the note, the one that points the finger at me.
My body screams at me to run, but my feet aren’t listening. Is Brandon turning me in?
I’m not sure. That look he shot me earlier …
He stalks toward me. I still don’t run. I have nowhere to go. Brandon doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even look my way as he passes.
“Brandon,” I call.
“I don’t even want to hear it.”
Mom’s button is clamped in my fist. I probably look like a weirdo, but I don’t care. I cling to the button, holding myself in place. I trail behind him. “Are you okay?”
Brandon whirls. “Am I okay? Of course not! Bricks flew through my church’s windows. People are hurt. My mama is hurt. Crosses are burning, Nate! What do you mean ‘am I okay?’”