Skating with the Statue of Liberty

by Susan Lynn Meyer

  She laughed. “It’s a saying. I mean, everybody will know we’re friends now, after history class. They’ll probably say we’re boyfriend and girlfriend and tease us. Do you care? I don’t. Anyhow, something bigger is going on. Today’s the day,” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. “I heard Alan talking to Willie on the phone. They’re going back to Baumhauer’s department store to picket this afternoon. There’s a big sale today, because it’s the Monday after Easter, so they thought it was a good day to get attention.”

  “Are they picketing right now?”

  “Some of them might be there already. Alan won’t be. He doesn’t get out of work until five p.m. He’s going over right afterward. I heard him tell Willie. And you know what? I’m going too. I know where Baumhauer’s is, so what’s to stop me? Somebody needs to keep an eye on Alan and make sure he’s safe.”

  “You’re going all by yourself? What if something bad does happen?”

  “I’m not going to picket. Alan would never let me. I’m just going to hide and watch.”

  Gustave looked at her. Her face was fierce and brave and just a little bit scared. “I’m coming with you,” he said.

  “Really? It might get dangerous.”

  “That’s what I was telling you!”

  “He’s my brother. I have to be sure he’s all right.”

  “Then I’m coming too.”

  “Well, okay. But don’t come to my apartment. I don’t want Granma to get wind of what we’re doing. She’d never let me go. Baumhauer’s is on West One Hundred and Twenty-Fifth Street. Let’s meet at the corner of One Hundred and Twenty-Fifth and Seventh Avenue at five-fifteen.”

  “All right. I’ll see you there.”

  “And, Gustave?” Her voice was tense again. “Wear dark clothes. So we’ll be hard to see.”

  35

  It was funny, really, that September Rose hadn’t noticed how few clothes he had, Gustave thought that evening as he walked uptown. Girls were supposed to care about that kind of thing. Luckily, the clothes he did have were dark in color.

  As the street numbers got higher, Gustave saw more and more Negro faces on the street. He hadn’t been so far north before. By the time Gustave got to 125th Street, he hadn’t seen any white faces for several blocks, and he was feeling self-conscious about his own skin color. It was uncomfortable to stand out in that way. September Rose must have that feeling all the time at school, he realized.

  She was at the corner, waiting in the dusk. She didn’t have on her usual bright red coat. An old navy blue men’s jacket hung, massive and shapeless, around her slender body, but she had drawn her elegant curls on her cheeks, and under the jacket he spotted the gleam of her long necklace. Something darted toward Gustave, yipping, as he approached.

  “You brought Chiquita?” He squatted down to pat her behind the ears. “How are we going to hide if we have a dog with us?”

  September Rose’s face was pale. “I know! I couldn’t help it! I told Granma I was going over to Lisa’s to study, and just as I was going out the door, she said to bring Chiquita, because she’s been barking all afternoon. She didn’t get a long enough walk today. I didn’t know what to say to get out of it. Then Chiquita gave me so much trouble at One Hundred and Third Street. There’s a sweet-potato vendor there, and you know how she loves those. I had to pull and pull to get her to go past.”

  Gustave nodded, remembering the buried orange potato Chiquita had dug up from the snow in the park that day.

  “I haven’t fed her dinner yet, and she just pulled and whined like crazy. It was murder getting her past there.”

  “Let’s find her something to chew on. That’ll keep her quiet.” Gustave looked around. Big, brightly lit stores lined the wide street. Shoppers were going in and out of them carrying bags. A few trees overhung an alleyway. He ran toward them, and under one he found a fallen branch. He ran back to September Rose. “Here, Chiquita,” he said, giving it to her. “That should work.”

  “Thanks! Smart thinking.” September Rose was gazing apprehensively down the street. “Look. I see them gathering. Down there. That’s Alan with the tan band on his hat.”

  A cluster of young Negro men and women was forming outside one of the brightly lit stores. Gustave recognized Roberta from the meeting behind the furniture store, because she was wearing the same green scarf over her head, and Willie, as well as the serious boy who seemed to be the leader. Alan was handing out picket signs. When everyone had one, Willie said something, and they all held up a hand and flashed the double V at each other. Then they formed a loose oval on the sidewalk in front of the store and began to walk, holding the signs high. “Don’t buy where you can’t work!” Willie started the chant, and the others picked it up. “Don’t buy where you can’t work!”

  Shoppers coming out of the store looked at them before walking away. Others who had been about to go in paused on the sidewalk. One Negro woman began talking to Roberta, walking with her while she marched.

  “Come on!” September Rose whispered. “I want to get closer. I can’t hear what’s going on.”

  They crept down the street, staying out of the light spilling from the buildings.

  “There!” September Rose hissed, pointing at a mailbox. “Let’s hide behind that.”

  They squatted in the shadows. Chiquita flopped down by them, contentedly gnawing on the stick. Gustave and Seppie peered around the side of the mailbox together. A supercilious-looking white man strode out of the store and said something to the protestors. Willie stopped marching to talk to him.

  “What’s he saying? I can’t hear!” September Rose hissed.

  “I can’t either.”

  The man turned abruptly and went back into the store. Willie rejoined the marchers. Another chant began. “Victory abroad, victory at home! Victory abroad, victory at home!”

  Alan put down his sign and moved to a spot on the sidewalk in front of the picketers. He began handing out leaflets to the people going by. “I can carry a gun for Uncle Sam, but I can’t carry a crate for Baumhauer’s,” he called. “Baumhauer’s discriminates against Negroes.”

  September Rose watched him, entranced.

  A crowd of people was beginning to gather, reading the leaflets, murmuring in agreement, and watching the marchers.

  Suddenly one of the marching girls gave a shrill cry, and a rock clattered against the sidewalk. Blood streamed down the girl’s face. “Shana!” Roberta cried out, dropping her sign and running to her friend.

  More rocks flew through the air. Three burly white men advanced on the group. Several more appeared on the sidewalk behind them. “Go home! Get outta here!” a thick voice shouted, and an empty can hit the sidewalk.

  “Oh, no! Oh, no! Those rotten skunks!” September Rose moaned. “Why aren’t there any police around?”

  The crowd that had gathered quickly dispersed, and the picketers clustered together. Somebody stepped on a dropped picket sign, and Gustave heard a sharp crack. The white men remained a few yards away, jeering and occasionally hurling something. And then a broad-chested white man wearing a red-checked shirt ran forward and shoved Willie in the chest with both hands, knocking him to the pavement. The other white men closed in around the Negro teenagers, shouting and punching.

  “Alan!” September Rose screamed, jumping to her feet. Gustave grabbed her arm, holding her back.

  Down the street a siren wailed and lights flashed. Chiquita stopped gnawing and lifted her head, her ears alert.

  “Finally, the police are coming!” September Rose cried in relief, shaking her arm free.

  Three police cars wailed to a stop. Six policemen ran toward the chaos, shouting and wielding clubs. But something was wrong. In the blur of bodies and fists in front of him, Gustave saw that the police weren’t pushing back the white attackers. They were hitting the Negro teens. September Rose darted forward, and Gustave grabbed her shoulder again. Chiquita tugged frantically on the leash. Alan emerged from the chaos of bodies, and a cop t
ackled him, slamming him against the sidewalk. September Rose screamed. Another cop closed in and raised his club. The white man in the red-checked shirt came out of the crowd, spat at Alan, and kicked him in the side.

  “Alan!” September Rose shrieked. She struggled out of Gustave’s grip and ran toward her brother, dropping Chiquita’s leash. “Stop!” she shouted at the policemen. “He didn’t do anything wrong!”

  Gustave grabbed for the leash, missed, then ran after Seppie, trying to catch her and pull her back. With her thin hands September Rose grabbed at the policeman who was holding her brother, and the policeman swung around. She fell hard to the sidewalk, and her long necklace broke, beads spilling all over the cement.

  Gustave knelt down by her, and someone stepped on his foot. Hot red pain shot up his leg.

  “Seppie!” Alan’s voice was shouting through the din. “Get out of here! Go home!”

  Seppie’s eyes were closed. “Are you all right?” Gustave asked, grabbing her hand. Her eyes opened. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the policeman lifting his club. “Stop!” Gustave shouted up at him. “She’s his little sister!”

  The policeman stepped backward and fell on the beads, landing heavily on his side and swearing as he pushed himself back up. Gustave and September Rose scrambled up from the sidewalk. Chiquita circled the scene, snarling and yipping at the police. A shot rang out. Chiquita’s ears went back, and she bolted down the block, her leash dragging. The cop who had knocked September Rose down pulled at her arms and yanked them together behind her back.

  “We were over there!” Gustave shouted to the cop, pointing at the mailbox. “She’s thirteen! She didn’t do anything!”

  “Get Chiquita!” September Rose shrieked at him.

  “What are you doing here?” A red-faced cop grabbed Gustave’s collar and stared down at him. “Why are you mixed up in this? Let the girl go, Riley,” he called. “These two are just kids.”

  He blew his whistle shrilly. The thudding stopped, but somewhere Shana was crying, a thin, high wail that went on and on.

  The policeman holding September Rose let go of her, and she ran to Gustave. “You kids get out of here,” the red-faced cop said. He turned to the other policeman. “Take the rest down to the station. Book ’em. Assault. Disturbing the peace.”

  “No!” September Rose cried. “They didn’t do anything! My brother’s hurt! He needs help!”

  The red-faced cop turned. “You brats get out of here before I change my mind,” he snarled.

  “Come on.” Gustave pulled her arm. He got her across the street and helped her sit down on a bench at a bus stop. She was breathing raggedly.

  “I’ll tell Granma where you’re at!” she screamed as Alan was handcuffed and pushed into a police car. “Don’t worry!”

  The three police cars pulled away from the curb, and the sidewalk, littered with broken picket signs, was dark and empty.

  September Rose took a deep, gasping breath.

  “Are you hurt?” Gustave asked her.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “But Alan isn’t! And where’s Chiquita?”

  36

  September Rose wasn’t fine, not really. Her face was scratched, and a trickle of blood ran down her cheek, blurring one of her spit curls. But she insisted on walking down 125th Street in the direction Chiquita had gone, calling her.

  Soon September Rose started to limp, and the limp got worse and worse. Finally she stopped, leaning against a lamppost.

  “My ankle’s twisted, and it really hurts,” she said. “Poor Chiquita. The loud sounds must have terrified her, like that time in Maryland with the fireworks.”

  “You have to go home. Lean on me,” Gustave said. September Rose was in too much pain to argue. “Anyway, maybe Chiquita ran home,” Gustave added.

  September Rose brightened. “Oh—maybe!”

  With her arm around Gustave’s shoulders, Seppie hobbled, wincing, down the long blocks back to 99th Street. “Chiquita!” she called as they went. “Cheeky! Come!”

  No little feet came pattering toward them.

  “Maybe somebody let her into the building,” Gustave said as they got to 99th Street.

  “Cheeky! Cheeky!” September Rose called on each floor as they went up the stairs. When they got to the fourth floor, Miss Noelle’s door opened.

  “Have you seen Chiquita, Miss Noelle?” September Rose asked.

  “No, honey child, I sure haven’t. Oh, you’re hurt?”

  Just then Mrs. Walker opened the apartment door.

  “Is Chiquita home, Granma?” September Rose cried, hobbling forward into the light.

  “Chiquita? Oh, Lord have mercy! What happened to you? Gustave, what happened to her? Oh, my baby girl!” She ran toward her.

  “Alan…,” September Rose started to say as Mrs. Walker reached her.

  “You hurt your ankle? Oh, Seppie!” she moaned. “I might have known it had something to do with your fool brother. Noelle, can you come help me tend to this child?”

  “I have to go back out and find Chiquita!” September Rose cried.

  “You’re staying right here. Oh, my Lord, your poor face too!”

  September Rose turned as the two elderly ladies hustled her in the door. “Please find Chiquita!” she called as Gustave started down the steps.

  But where in this vast city did you look for one little dog? Gustave walked the blocks around 99th Street, calling into the night. He retraced their route all the way back up to 125th Street, calling and calling, peering into every dark alley. At 125th Street he turned around. His feet were getting sore, and he couldn’t bear to look at his watch to see what time it was. His parents must be going crazy. Maybe the question he should be asking was, where would a small dog who didn’t like loud sounds go for comfort in this enormous, noisy city? Somewhere small and dark and safe? Or somewhere warm with good food?

  Sweet potatoes! That was it. Where had September Rose said Chiquita had stopped and pulled, whining for a roasted sweet potato? One Hundred and Third Street.

  Gustave headed south again. Would the vendor still be there? “Chiquita!” he called as he got closer. “Chiquita!”

  He saw a cart with an umbrella a block away and smelled roasting potatoes. And then, as he ran toward the cart, calling, a bedraggled little dog emerged from under it, chewing on something orange.

  “There you are! Silly dog!” Gustave grabbed the dangling leash jubilantly.

  “Is she yours?” The sweet potato vendor smiled at Gustave, showing two missing front teeth. “What a sweetheart. She’s been hanging around here for an hour or so. She won’t need any dinner now. She’s eaten so many potatoes!”

  “Thanks!” Just to be sure the little dog couldn’t get away again, Gustave gathered her up into his arms and ran all the way back to 99th Street. He panted up the stairs with Chiquita wriggling in his arms and rang the doorbell. Mrs. Walker answered it, her face drawn and worried.

  Gustave saw September Rose on the sofa behind her. At the window brightly colored tin-can birds swayed and jingled in the gust of air from the open door.

  “Chiquita!” September Rose cried out joyfully. “You found her!”

  Gustave put the little dog down, and she darted across the room and leaped on top of September Rose. “I thought I’d never see you again!” September Rose said. She put her face into the little dog’s fur and started to cry in great, gasping sobs.

  37

  After that, things were a bit of a blur. Gustave’s parents were upset when he got home, but after he told them the whole story, their anger turned to concern. “Their poor grandmother,” Maman said. “What’s she going to do now, with her grandson hurt and in jail? Still, I thought it wasn’t such a good idea for you to spend so much time with that girl, Gustave.”

  Papa nodded. “The way things are in this country, it’s just asking for trouble, being friends with Negroes. It’s tough enough being in a new country. Why make things harder on yourself?”

  Hot anger wa
shed over Gustave. “Her name’s September Rose, not ‘that girl’! And we are friends! It’s not her fault that Negroes are treated badly here. And what you’re both saying about not being friends with Negroes—people said the exact same thing about Jews in France!”

  Gustave felt shaky and sick. He had never felt so different from his parents before. “And anyway, it isn’t supposed to be like that here in America!” he added miserably.

  Maman looked at him worriedly. Papa set down his cup of tea, and it clattered against the saucer. “Gustave, this is something you know as well as we do by now, I’m afraid. The grand proclamations countries make and what really happens, how people really behave—those are often two very different things.”

  —

  September Rose wasn’t in school the next two days. On the second day she was out, Mrs. McAdams asked in homeroom if anyone could bring September Rose her homework assignments. Gustave immediately raised his hand to volunteer, ignoring the comments and giggles coming from the back of the classroom.

  After he rang the Walkers’ doorbell, he waited longer than usual, and then he heard a thumping sound. September Rose opened the door, standing on one foot. Her face was still scratched, and she looked tired. “I’m supposed to keep my foot up,” she said, hopping back to the sofa. “Come on in.”

  Gustave perched on the armchair across from her, watching her prop her bandaged foot up on a stack of pillows. “I brought your homework,” he said. “Does your ankle hurt a lot?”

  “No, it’s much better today. I’ll be able to walk tomorrow.” The swinging door to the kitchen opened slightly. Chiquita’s nose poked through, and then she pattered in, wagging her tail. September Rose brightened. “Look who’s here, Cheeky! Your rescuer!”

  Chiquita licked Gustave’s hand, stayed to be patted for a moment, and then jumped up next to September Rose. Seppie lifted her up and rubbed her face against Chiquita’s. “Thanks so much for finding her,” she said. “I was so worried that maybe she’d gotten hit by a car.” Her voice turned hard. “Or kicked by one of the cops, and that she was curled up wounded in an alley somewhere and I’d never see her again.”