by Wes Moore
“I ain’t bleeding,” said another. “Do you see any blood?”
“William.” Jones pointed at the nonbeliever, and all eyes turned. “How many bank accounts you got?”
“I don’t trust no bank,” said William.
“Health insurance?”
“Naw.”
“You own a house or rent?”
“What do you think?” said William.
“You see what I’m saying? You’re bleeding money and power all over these streets. Every day.” Jones lowered his voice. Now he was all kindness and compassion. “It ain’t your fault, brother, but it is up to you to fix it.”
A murmur went through the small crowd. “How we supposed to fix it?”
“I’ll show you.” Jones reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick roll of bills. He held them up, fanning the edges, like a deck of cards.
The men leaned in close, hypnotized by the fat display.
“This is how we fix it!” Jones stamped his foot like a TV evangelist calling up the power of the Holy Ghost. “This money’s healing my wounds, brothers. You feel me now? The green gonna heal us and make us strong. The green gonna set us free. Now, who wants to place a bet and make some good healing green of their own?”
The men grumbled. Bills exchanged hands again.
“Got to pay to stay, brothers,” said Jones.
“Come on.” Elijah appreciated the performance, but he was disappointed that, in the end, it was just a different kind of hustle.
“Dude’s good,” said Michael.
They crossed the street to Antonio’s, the closest if not the cleanest or the best pizza joint in their neighborhood. Inside, they dug deep into their pockets and made a pile of ones and quarters on the counter.
“None of that Hawaiian pizza,” said Dylan. “This time I want straight up cheese and pepperoni.”
Michael shook his head. “That’s why you got no woman.”
“You got no woman either, but tell me why I don’t got one. Because I’m taking a stand against your nasty Hawaiian pizza?”
“Yeah, but also because you got no imagination. You think too small.”
“I’m not thinking small,” said Dylan. “I just want what I want. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, but a woman likes a man who ain’t afraid to stretch his horizons.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Dylan. “Pizza ain’t horizons; it’s pizza. Right, Elijah? Tell this fool.”
Elijah shrugged and looked at his amazing new shoes. Part of him couldn’t believe his good fortune; the other part knew there had to be some kind of a catch. After all, If something looks too good to be true, it probably is. That was one of his mother’s favorite sayings, and it pained him to admit that most of the time she was right.
After negotiating pizza toppings (half Hawaiian, half pepperoni), the boys crammed into a booth and fell into the time-honored practice of bragging, exaggerating, and telling stories about their victory on the court.
“You remember that big rebound?” said Dylan. “Michael was like King Kong swatting toy airplanes.”
Michael raised one of his big paws and waved it in the air movie-monster style. Then he pointed at Elijah and said, “Best play of the game by far was that dunk. That was incredible.”
Elijah tried not to smile. “It was the setup. Dylan’s bounce pass and your alley-oop. You two can feed me passes like that all day long.”
Before walking home, the trio sat on a bench and carefully removed their new shoes. They picked pebbles from the treads and spit-polished scuffmarks. Dylan kissed both of his and finally, with a sigh of regret, returned them to the orange box.
“You really think we can win Hoops?” asked Dylan. “It’s a whole different thing, playing in the adult division.”
“Yeah,” said Elijah. “Didn’t you hear what Coach said at the end of the school season? He said we’re ready, and if we play like we did at the end of the school season, no one out there is going to stop us.”
“Passing game, right?” said Dylan.
“Ball moves faster than the player,” said Elijah.
MICHAEL WAS UNUSUALLY quiet, and it wasn’t until later, after Dylan peeled away from them at his apartment building, that he spoke.
“That dunk you pulled off tonight. I didn’t even know you could do that. It was like you changed in front of us. Went up to a whole ’nother level. How’s that happen? No, just tell me what it feels like, because I don’t think I’ll ever know.”
Elijah wasn’t sure if his friend was proud of him or upset. But he understood what Michael meant, or at least, he thought he did. Because, over the past couple of months, something strange and inexplicable had been happening to Elijah whenever he stepped onto a basketball court. As soon as he picked up a ball, energy began to course and surge through his body, all electric and powerful, muscle fibers burning and twitching with the promise of…of what? A scholarship at a good college, like Coach Walters had talked about? Sure, that was great, but it wasn’t nearly as strong as his dream.
“I didn’t know I could do that, either,” said Elijah. “It just happened.”
“You got something special, man. Your skills are gonna carry you right on out of here.”
“You, too,” said Elijah.
“Naw. I got enough skills to hold my own in any neighborhood game, but not like what you got. You got the real thing, Elijah. You’re going places.”
“Come on, man.” Elijah waved his hand dismissively. “Stop blowing smoke.”
“I’m serious. It should be a thing of pride; it is for Dylan and me. We talked about it last night, and we’re both proud of you and what you’re gonna do when you leave here. Coach Walters is, too.”
Elijah looked down at his feet. He didn’t know how to respond.
After a beat, Michael added, “You can be humble and downplay it all you want, but this is real. It’s one of the reasons I pushed to get us them shoes, because you deserve to play your best in some real kicks. You’ll see; you’re gonna go somewhere.”
“Yeah, like where?”
“Anyplace you want. Check it out. The other day I was downtown with my uncle Cole, and I seen this guy who couldn’t have been more than a few years older than us. Twenty-three at most. And, like, he got out of this sick-looking BMW, one of them 750s, wearing a two-thousand-dollar suit, Rolex, the works.”
“So what? He was rich.”
“I asked my uncle what the dude’s story was, and he said the guy was just a brother with a MBA or a law degree. Man, I didn’t even know what a MBA was! I had to ask him.”
“Master of business administration.”
“Smart-ass.” Michael delivered the slightest shove that sent Elijah reeling off the sidewalk. “Point is, there’s, like, other worlds out there. And the doors to them worlds is locked, unless you’re like my uncle Cole or that dude with the BMW. And those two busted their butts to get the keys. You know what I mean?”
“You’re sounding a little bit like Jones. I’ll get you a red Kangol hat.”
“Man, don’t change the subject. Do you or do you not know what I’m talking about?”
“I do, but if I’m going off to play college ball, they’d better offer me a three-for-one deal. You guys are coming with me.”
“Come on, man. Dylan’s gonna have to work his hardest just to get a diploma or maybe a GED, ’cause you know the white brother can’t read! I love him, but I ain’t lying, am I?”
“He can read the pictures in his comics,” said Elijah. “And what about you?”
“I’m gonna live with one beautiful woman after the next. They gonna support me because they know that a sexy fat boy got all the love they need.”
Elijah laughed and threw an arm over his friend’s big shoulders. He’d known that, someday, they would all go their separate ways. But he never could have said it out loud, the way Michael had. And he hadn’t thought it would happen so soon. After all, they’d been together si
nce kindergarten. They’d talked about growing old together, settling down in the neighborhood and coaching each other’s kids in peewee sports. What kind of a guy would he be if he left all that behind?
“I’m not going to lie,” said Elijah. “I want to play college ball. I mean, that stuff you said about doors and keys, I’ve thought about that a lot. But I don’t think I can leave my mom.”
“Your moms will kick your butt if you stay because of her. Why do you think she works two jobs? So you can carve out your own little square of pavement and fight the rest of your short, stupid life to protect it?”
“You’ve been watching too many movies. That’s not how it is.” Or was it?
“Maybe,” said Michael. “But things is changing. Trust me, I know.”
“How do you know?”
Michael looked over his shoulder twice in quick succession, a gesture of nervousness that was out of sync with his smooth-talking persona. “You know that shooting on Grider Street?”
“Yeah.” Elijah still hadn’t told anyone that he’d been at the crime scene. He guessed a part of him couldn’t believe it had happened.
“I heard the kid got iced by some gangbanger that calls himself Assassin.”
“Okay,” said Elijah. “So, what does that prove? Every year there’s a different suburban school that gets shot up with a machine gun. Doesn’t mean everyone in the suburbs is packing an Uzi.”
“No,” said Michael. “But maybe this neighborhood is changing if kids like Ray Shiver are getting shot. I’m just saying that pretty soon we’re gonna have to choose what side we’re on. And your side better be college. So listen. When you go, I want a T-shirt and sweatshirt with the school’s name on it. Georgetown, UNLV, UCONN, whatever. Get me the heavyweight ones, right? Double XL, or as I tell the ladies, man-sized.”
Elijah gave his friend a bump before turning up the walkway to his house. “If college is my side, what’s yours?”
“It ain’t gonna be school, I can tell you that much,” confided Michael. “And there’s no way I’m wearing no corny Burger King uniform, working at a minimum-wage joint. So what’s that leave?”
“Lots. The priesthood. Marine Corps. You could be a park ranger, or a shepherd.”
“You ain’t even close to funny,” said Michael.
“Then how come you’re laughing?” asked Elijah.
“I ain’t; it’s just heartburn. And because I’m fat. But seriously, I’ll figure something out. I’m a survivor, man. I’ll get my own set of keys to them doors we been talking about. I’ll show up one day in a big BMW and take you and Dylan out for a steak dinner. Or sushi. You like sushi? My uncle Cole says that’s what rich white folks eat.”
“Okay,” said Elijah. “I’m going home now to wait for my free sushi dinner.”
“Later, college boy.”
“Later, Michael.”
ELIJAH AWAKENED CRAVING coffee and eggs, which meant he’d have to make it himself or settle for cold cereal; it was one of the long-standing rules of the house. His mother cooked dinner, but for breakfast, he was on his own.
He pulled on sweats and got to work in the kitchen, scrambling a few eggs while frying a pan of onions and red peppers. He stirred in the eggs and then scooped coffee grounds into the machine’s paper filter, waiting for the omelet to set.
“Smells good.” His mother set the table with cream, sugar, and Tabasco for the eggs, moving with the briskness and efficiency of a waitress, one of the two jobs she held in service of being a single mom. She sat down at the kitchen island, her face strained with worry. “Did you hear about that poor boy who was killed on Grider Street?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know him?”
“We went to school together. I knew him well enough to say hi.”
She shook her head, her posture tense. “How come you didn’t say anything?”
“I didn’t know what to say, Mom. I read in the paper that they’re doing a big investigation. But that doesn’t change anything. Ray was a good kid. He followed all the rules. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes me very sad,” said his mother. “What if something like that happened to you or one of your friends?”
He nodded, understanding the source of her concern.
“I feel like I’m supposed to have some answers for you, Elijah, but I don’t. Does Coach Walters talk to you boys about gangs? About staying safe?”
“He does, but Michael, Dylan, and I look out for each other.” They exchanged smiles. His mother was still a pretty woman, especially when she was happy. But he noticed lines of worry and stress on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes. He wished her life could be easier, but how do you stop a single mother in West Baltimore from working hard and worrying about her only son? Maybe that is her job, but he wanted to do whatever he could to make it better.
She took a careful sip of her coffee. “Elijah, there’s somebody from church I’d like you to meet.”
“Who?” For a moment he entertained the terrible fear that his mother was about to set him up with a girl, someone’s sweet, cross-eyed goddaughter who sang in the church choir and collected ceramic cat figurines. In short, a nice person but not anyone he’d want to date.
“He’s a friend of Pastor Fredericks. He just retired from the military and bought an old house that needs a lot of work.”
“Are you talking about a job?”
“No, I just thought he could use your help. His daughter is coming to stay with him for the summer, and the yard is a mess. He wants it to look nice for the girl, which I think is sweet. He lives on Prospect.”
“I know where Prospect is. That’s a rough neighborhood. So why wouldn’t I get paid? I did last time.”
The summer past he had painted an entire garage while the owner, a retired dentist with a fluffy, white Afro, had supervised every brushstroke from his nylon lawn chair. You missed a spot, the guy had said about 137 times. Or, You’re going too heavy there; it’s going to drip. See! There’s a drip.
“No, I’m not asking you to do this for money,” she said. “I’m asking you to do it because, frankly, I’m worried about the world we live in. And I think it would be a nice thing to help a new neighbor. It’s just a little yard work. And maybe someday, if we ever move, someone will help us.”
“Why would we move?” said Elijah. But he knew. If Ray Shiver could get shot in the street, then so could he, or his friends. And for his mother, that was more than enough of a reason.
“We’re not moving. I’m just saying that it’s nice to pay it forward sometimes. And this man is desperate for some help; he’s asked me half a dozen times when you can get started. I told him you’d come by this afternoon.”
“I’m practicing basketball at eleven,” said Elijah.
“Then you can meet him at two o’clock,” said his mother.
Elijah thought it over while sipping his coffee. Inwardly he groaned at the thought of meeting an old military guy from his mother’s church. And just how much help would he need? A little yard work would be fine, but anything more would cut into his training time. Not good, because if he was going take his team all the way—which he had to do if his father was going to hear about it and come watch him play—he’d have to stay focused. But as a rule he did not argue with his mother; she worked too hard for that. “Okay, Mom. I’ll help him.”
“His name is Mr. Banks,” said his mother. “I think you two will get along just fine, and spending a few less hours hanging around with your friends isn’t going to hurt you. I’ll bet Dylan’s brother, Marvin, wouldn’t have gotten arrested if he’d been working for Mr. Banks instead of running the streets.”
“I’m not Marvin, Mom. And neither is Dylan.” Elijah sprinkled shredded cheese and folded the omelet into a perfect half-moon. He garnished it with a sliced cherry tomato and then slid it onto his mother’s plate.
“Heavens, the boy can cook!” she said. “This looks delicious. Thank you.”
And with that, th
e matter was closed. Elijah wanted to explain that playing basketball or, more accurately, practicing with his friends for the tournament, was not a gateway to dealing drugs or getting arrested.
“So, what did this guy do in the military?”
“You know, I’m not entirely sure. You should ask him; I bet he’d be happy to tell you about it, if you’re curious.”
“I’m not,” said Elijah. “I was just wondering.” He started making his own eggs, hoping Mr. Banks, the retired military guy, didn’t interfere too much with his training schedule.
NEARING PROSPECT STREET, Elijah wondered about this Mr. Banks. How old was he, and why couldn’t he do his own yard work? Elijah soon stood outside the small bungalow on Prospect Street that was being reclaimed by weeds and shrubs. The house was on a large double lot that was almost completely overgrown. A pair of ceramic garden gnomes peeked out from under a ragged boxwood, their tiny necks encircled with creeper vine. He looked at the neighboring houses for comparison. Both of them were freshly painted, picture-perfect. “Jesus,” he muttered out loud. “This place is hopeless.”
Heavy footsteps fell behind him, and he turned.
“Who are you?” said a lean, middle-aged man who stood ramrod straight, eyes blazing with intensity and suspicion. His dark brown skin was deeply creased and was shiny with sweat. He’d wrapped a white towel around his neck, the ends tucked into his plain gray T-shirt.
“Um, I’m supposed to…,” muttered Elijah.
“Better speak up, son.” The man removed his towel; cords of muscle and tendon stood out. “You’re on my property, and I don’t know you.”
“My mother goes to Pastor Fredericks’s church,” said Elijah quickly. “She said you needed help with your yard.”
A flash of recognition. The man’s face smoothed, but he still looked far from friendly. “I remember now. What’s your name?”
“Elijah. Elijah Thomas.”
“Right.”
Elijah had the distinct feeling that the man was seeing straight into him, or through him. He didn’t like it and was about to say something, but the man turned abruptly and headed up the uneven, cracked walkway that led to the front steps.