by Wes Moore
“Good. You met my daughter earlier?”
Elijah nodded.
“No offense, but keep your distance,” said Banks.
“How could I be offended by that?” asked Elijah.
“It’s my job to keep her off the radar of any knuckleheads.”
“Uh-huh,” said Elijah.
“Good.” Banks took a final puff of his cigar before stubbing it out under his heel. “I figured you’d understand.” He pulled a white envelope from his back pocket—the same one Elijah had forgotten on the green tarp—and handed it over in lieu of saying goodbye. “Seven-thirty tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
AT HOME ELIJAH opened the envelope and counted $111.13. He explained to his mother that Banks insisted on paying him, and they made a quick deal. Two-thirds of his pay would go into his savings account for college; the rest he could spend on himself. And tonight that meant the movies with Michael and Dylan. Big buckets of salty, extra-butter popcorn, and boxes of candy.
As usual, Dylan brought his coveted NCAA replica ball with him, and they passed it back and forth as they walked. The ball worked its way from hand to hand and around their backs like a quarter floating across a magician’s knuckles. Occasionally one of the boys would say the word switch, and the ball would change directions. And if someone said bump, the ball would skip over the boy in the middle. They didn’t even think of it as a game anymore; it was just something they did to pass the time, and it came to them as naturally as walking.
In the theater’s crowded lobby, Elijah found himself scanning the crowd, studying everyone in a dark hoodie. He knew how unlikely it was for the guy in the Mercedes to show up at the premier of the new X-Men movie, but anything was possible.
“Who are you looking for?” asked Dylan.
“Your mother,” said Elijah reflexively. “She was going to sit with me and hold my hand during the scary parts.”
Michael howled with laughter at the joke that never grew old—at least not if you were a seventeen-year-old boy hanging out with your two best friends. Elijah laughed, too, and wondered what would become of the three of them after graduation. They had sworn to stick together, but even now, at the end of their junior year, there were signs. Michael was becoming elusive and spent increasing amounts of time by himself, talking on his cell phone. And Dylan had plans for community college, even though he’d barely passed the eleventh grade.
As for Elijah, in May he’d gotten a money order for fifty-two dollars and fifty cents, made out to the College Board, and had registered to take the SAT exam. His mother was the smartest person he knew, but she’d never been to college—which meant she couldn’t really help him with the application process. For more than three hours he’d sat cramped at a miniature desk in the gymnasium, filling in bubbles with a number two pencil. But as stupid as Elijah had felt, he’d known he had to do it, and that soon it would pay off.
And, just like the coach of his high school team had predicted, he’d begun receiving letters from college basketball scouts. They came addressed to Mr. Elijah Thomas, printed on good paper with the college or university’s letterhead at the top. Each week a new one would arrive, mixed in with his mother’s bills, and he’d say the college or university’s name out loud: University of Southern Mississippi. University of Michigan. Florida State. Syracuse. It was exciting, and he wanted to share the good news with his friends. What kept him from doing this, though, was the awareness that Dylan and Michael might not have the same opportunities, that their trajectories might be lower, limited to neighborhood jobs and living at home.
He didn’t think Dylan minded, but Michael had big dreams that included a fat bank account and expensive clothes. And a BMW 750, or whatever kind he was always talking about. What would happen if he didn’t get those things? Elijah thought again about the guy in the hoodie and Michael’s alleged sponsor. What if they were the same person? No, there was no way his friend would have done that to him.
In the ticket line, Michael thumped Elijah on the arm and said, “Hey, what’s up with you?”
“Just thinking.”
Michael screwed his face up to show that he didn’t believe him. “Something’s up, man. What is it?”
“Yeah,” said Dylan. “What’s your malfunction?”
“You really want to know?” Elijah affected a miserable expression, as though he were about to confide his deepest, darkest secret.
“Yes,” said his friends together, drawing in close.
“I really wanted to hold hands with Dylan’s mom.”
Dylan jumped onto his back and pretended to wrap his friend up in a choke hold. Everyone laughed, even the other people in line, who were mostly other teenagers. Elijah took comfort in the fact that, for the moment, things were as they had always been.
—
THE NEXT MORNING, Elijah jogged to Banks’s house and made it ten minutes early. He discovered a ten-foot mountain of sand in the middle of what had once been the driveway. Pallets of red concrete pavers were stacked beside it.
Elijah studied the situation. He’d want to stagger the joints of the pavers, but there was the question of whether to use straight or interlocking rows. He knocked on the front door to ask Banks.
“Morning, sunshine.” Banks clenched an unlit cigar in his teeth.
Elijah took off his sneakers and followed him into the kitchen. Instruction manuals were spread over what looked like a brand-new table and chairs. New, stainless steel appliances had been delivered, and the walls had been freshly painted.
“Whoa,” said Elijah. “This place looks…nice.”
“My daughter picked it all out. She’s got her mother’s good taste.”
“Expensive?” Elijah touched something that might have been a cappuccino machine, or perhaps a juicer; he wasn’t sure.
Banks shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. There’s not much to spend money on when you’re a divorced guy in the army, except your kids.”
“That’s good of you.” Elijah took one of the instruction manuals and flipped the pages until he found what he wanted. The diagrams showed how to arrange the pavers in an interlocking pattern. Another diagram showed pictures of the tools needed for the job. He folded up the manual and set it on the counter.
“I don’t know about that; it’s just how it is,” Banks replied.
“My father never sent a penny. Not once.” As soon as the words were out of Elijah’s mouth, he realized that he’d broken his number one rule. He’d talked about his father. It was one thing for Elijah to think about him—another to disclose. But the words had slipped out so easily, unbidden.
“Neither did mine. I think today they call it being a deadbeat.” Banks lit a new cigar off the oven’s gas burner. “Funny—this appliance might be the most expensive cigar lighter in the world. I don’t cook.”
“Not at all?” asked Elijah.
“Never needed to. There was always a DFAC or O Club. What you’d call a cafeteria.”
Elijah wondered how Banks had become such a hard case and if it had anything to do with his father. And if so, was Elijah at risk of becoming that way? He hoped not. Banks didn’t seem like a bad guy, but he sure as hell wasn’t much fun to be around. Still, if Elijah was going to continue working for him, he should try to get to know something about the man.
“Is your daughter still in high school?” asked Elijah.
Banks fixed his dark, suspicious eyes on him. “What’s it to you?”
“Nothing. I’m just asking,” said Elijah. “Making conversation.”
Banks grunted. “Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not big on conversation.”
“Nope, didn’t notice. Because, you know, we’ve had so many great conversations, in between all the cigars and beers with lime juice, and the work.”
Banks crossed his arms defensively. “Kerri’s going to be here until the end of August. Then she leaves for college. In Manhattan. She’s studying criminology, and then she wants to join the FBI. She’s smart and beautiful and
practical like her mother, who lives in Virginia and is a lawyer. Does that answer your question? Anything else?”
“What question?” Kerri walked into the kitchen; she was dressed but had a towel wrapped around her hair.
Banks scowled. “Nothing, sweetheart. We were talking about work.”
“Right.” Elijah tapped the folded-up instruction manual. “I’m going to need a shovel, a rake, and a tape measure. And some string, to keep the edges straight.”
“I’ll meet you outside.” Banks brushed past Elijah and headed out the door.
But before Elijah could follow, Kerri stepped in front of him. “Did he give you the old ‘keeping off the radar’ speech?”
Elijah looked away uncertainly. “Yeah, he did. But I think he’s just…”
“Out of his element is what he is.” She tapped Elijah’s arm with a pointed finger. “And just so you know, I’m not what you’d call available, but I’m no leper, either. So if you’re up for a couple of lattes sometime…it might keep me from losing my mind around here. Know what I mean?”
“Uh, maybe.” Elijah skirted past her and hurried for the door.
IT TOOK ELIJAH two hours to shovel the sand, and half as much time to spread it with the flat side of the rake. He tried not to think about Kerri, how she’d looked with her hair wrapped in a towel, and the graceful curve of her long, slender neck. She was beautiful, for sure, but that wasn’t what distracted him. Rather, it was the way she carried herself. Smart and confident, yes, but there was something else. After all, how many girls did he know who were going to college in Manhattan to study criminology? And more important, what had she meant by “not available” but “no leper, either”? Was he supposed to ask her to go for coffee—or lattes, whatever exactly those were—or wait for her to ask?
Banks busied himself waxing and polishing his Jeep, which was a dark green Rubicon with oversized mud tires and a winch on the front bumper. When he finished, he lit up a cigar and watched Elijah work. “It’s looking good.” He took a green-and-gold medallion from his pocket and turned it in his hand absently.
“What’s that?” asked Elijah.
“What?” Banks opened his hand and looked. “It’s a challenge coin.”
“Yeah, but what is it?”
“In the military, if a guy pulls off a difficult task, his commanding officer might give him one.”
“Can I see it?” said Elijah.
Banks eyed him suspiciously but handed over the coin. It was about an inch and a half in diameter; the front had a yellow shield crossed by arrows, around which it said, “Special Forces Group” in raised letters. Below the shield were the words de oppresso liber. Elijah thought it was the coolest thing he’d ever seen. “What’s the Latin mean?”
“Means the oppressed shall be liberated. It comes from an old poem by Saint Augustine. ‘The needy have to be helped, the oppressed to be liberated, the good to be encouraged, the bad to be tolerated; all must be loved.’ ” Banks coughed into his fist. He looked embarrassed by his sudden lapse into poetry.
Elijah held the coin up, studying it. It seemed odd that an accountant would have a Special Forces challenge coin, but what did he know about the military? Maybe every division of the army had its own accountant. He knew that the military bought lots of things, so therefore it stood to reason that they needed to keep track of those purchases. Thus, accountants.
“If I ever joined the military,” Elijah said, “do you think I could earn one of those?”
“Tell you what,” said Banks. “You keep showing up on time and finish every job on the list, and that coin is yours.”
“Really?”
“Sure, if you can do it.” Banks took the coin and started back toward the house. “But I’m guessing one of these days you’ll get a bug up your ass about something and stop showing.”
“I won’t,” said Elijah. “You’ll see.” Because there was something about the medallion, the weight and feel of it, as well as the words and symbols cast in it, that had stirred feelings deep within him. Hope? Pride? Maybe he could join the military. And earn a bunch of coins with yellow shields, and Latin words that spoke of liberation from oppression, and love. He could be a part of something bigger than himself and know exactly where he belonged.
BONE-TIRED AND HUNGRY, Elijah put away the tools and grabbed his backpack, the outer pocket of which contained another envelope with a day’s worth of pay. At the bottom of the driveway, he heard the quiet purr of the black Mercedes, followed by the zip of a power window.
“Get in,” said the driver.
Elijah wanted to turn and run, but something primal and instinctive told him not to show fear. He opened the door and slid into the leather seat. A blast of chilled air hit his sweat-soaked T-shirt and made it feel like a solid, icy blanket. “How’d you know I’d be here?”
“Magician don’t reveal his tricks, does he?”
“I guess not,” said Elijah. “What do you want with me?”
“You’re a long way from asking questions anytime you feel like it. How much do you know about me?”
“I don’t know anything.”
“You don’t know facts, but you can guess.” He steered the car with his left hand while unwrapping a green Jolly Rancher with the other. He popped it into his mouth and clicked it against his teeth. “Like on a test.”
“You want me to try to figure out who you are?”
“Yeah. Go on and impress me.”
Elijah took a deep breath before speaking. “You’re driving an almost new Mercedes with nice aftermarket wheels, so you’ve got money and taste, but it’s still a regular car. There are lots of them on the road, so it doesn’t stand out too much. You’ve got standard plates, too, instead of custom or vanity ones. Those are too easy to remember, just like tattoos and jewelry, which you don’t have, either. So you’re not flashy, and you keep a low profile, which shows you’re smart and disciplined, which in turn shows you’re not like most of the losers who hustle around here.”
He laughed, low and quiet. “That’s good. I especially like the part about the other guys being losers. Always good to throw in some flattery; that never hurts. Anything else?”
“Yes, the most important thing: you’re going to ask me to do something I don’t want to do, which will leave me with the problem of saying no without disrespecting you.”
“And you wouldn’t want to disrespect me?”
“No.”
“Because I have a gun?”
“For starters, yes. But this thing you want me to do, what if I can’t do it?”
The Jolly Rancher clicked on the guy’s teeth. “Listen. I got dudes lined up round the block waiting for a chance to conversate with me about business.”
“I believe it.” Elijah pointed out a right turn that would leave them several blocks short of his house, or Michael’s. “Can you drop me over there?”
But the driver kept going straight, toward Michael’s block. “Then you should believe that I ain’t got time to hear what you want and what you don’t want.”
Elijah was silent. He didn’t understand any of it, and yet there he was, surrounded by tan leather with polished wood inserts that probably weren’t real wood but looked classy nonetheless. The dashboard glowed with Bluetooth and navigation programs, and hidden speakers pumped out a mellow hip-hop beat that Elijah liked in spite of himself.
“This is where one of your boys lives, right?” He pointed at Michael’s brick and vinyl ranch.
“How do you know that?” said Elijah.
The driver waved a hand dismissively. “Easiest thing in the world to find out where people live. Not so easy to play ball like you do. So what we learned today is we both got valuable skills.”
Elijah sat speechless next to the hooded figure. The Mercedes rolled to a stop in front of Michael’s house.
“You can get out now,” said the driver. “I’ll let you know if you passed your test. Then we’ll talk business.”
Elijah got o
ut but held the door open. “How about you tell me now and save the wait?”
But the car peeled away, nearly taking his hand with it as the force of acceleration slammed the door shut.
ELIJAH STOOD ON Michael’s doorstep, trying to calm his nerves and look normal.
“Oh, hello, Elijah.” Michael’s youngest sister leaned her back against the wall, fluttering her eyelids. “Come on in and I’ll get you a soda. What kind do you like?”
“Hi, Trisha,” said Elijah. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”
Trisha beamed as Michael shoved her out of the way. “I told you to stay in your room, Trisha. We got important stuff to talk about out here.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Man stuff.”
“Ha! Ain’t none of you men,” chimed in Alexandria, who was only a year younger than Michael. “Though, Elijah does look good, his friendship with you notwithstanding.” On the you, she poked Michael with a black-and-gold lacquered fingernail.
“What do you know about notwithstanding?” said Michael.
“More than you, stupid, because I pay attention in school,” said Alexandria.
Michael’s mother materialized from nowhere and stood between the two siblings. “Stop bickering at each other. You girls go on and give these boys some time. Then you can watch whatever you want.”
“Bye, Elijah!” said Trisha as her sister pulled her toward their bedroom.
“Hey,” said Dylan from his nest of overstuffed pillows on Michael’s mother’s couch. He balanced an iPad on his knees, watching YouTube videos from last year’s Hoops. “You just got smoked by that dude who went on to play for Villanova.”
“Donovan Murphy,” said Michael.
“Yeah,” said Dylan. “A fellow white brother.”
“He smoked you, too, as I remember,” said Elijah, pushing for space on the couch. “Dribbled right between your legs on his way to the winning layup.” He was still rattled from his encounter in the Mercedes. He tried his best to sound normal.