This Way Home

by Wes Moore

  “Do you even have fifty bucks?” asked Michael.

  “No, but you don’t have to be all negative.” Dylan put the shorts back, and they eventually settled on a plain white pair at an even ten bucks.

  “They’re not as nice,” lamented Dylan over a sweet-and-sour-chicken combo platter from the food court.

  “You can buy the nice ones after we win,” said Michael between forkfuls of sausage lasagna. “Elijah, how many pairs of them shorts can homeboy get with a thousand dollars?”

  “Twenty pairs,” said Elijah. “And if he changes them every three days, he can get through most of the year without doing laundry.”

  “Funny.” Dylan had finished his Chinese food and was eying Elijah’s slices of deep-dish pizza. “You going to eat that second piece?”

  “Touch it, and you will pull back a bloody stump.” Elijah slid his tray farther away.

  “Hey,” said Michael, rapping the side of Elijah’s head with his knuckles. “See that girl over there? She’s waving at me. Watch this. I’m going to talk her up.”

  Elijah spotted Banks’s daughter three tables away, sitting by herself with a book. He put a hand on Michael’s arm. “Sorry, Casanova, but she’s not waving at you. I got this.”

  ELIJAH WASN’T ESPECIALLY nervous around girls, but there was clearly something unusual about Banks’s daughter. For one thing, she was by herself with a book, instead of sitting in a protective circle of pretty friends. And she didn’t look like the girls in his school; it wasn’t so much the way she wore her clothes and hair as how she held herself. Composed. Assured, he decided. And then there was the matter of growing up with Banks as a father, which would have been enough to make anyone stand apart.

  “I almost didn’t recognize you without concrete dust stuck to your sweat,” she said.

  “That was just spray-on.” Elijah took a seat across from her at the tiny metal table. “For effect.” He looked back once and saw Dylan making a big show of eating his last slice of pizza. “Your father would have a major fit if he knew I was talking to you.”

  “Probably.” Kerri marked her place in the book and set it on the table. “But I’m a big girl; I can decide for myself who I want to talk to.”

  Elijah took this as a positive sign, but he had no clue what to say next. “Your father said you’re going to college somewhere in Manhattan?”

  “The old ‘where do you go to school’ question,” she said. “You can do better than that.”

  “Sure,” said Elijah, feeling a line of sweat standing out on his brow. “How about this: How did you turn out so…normal, with Banks as a father?”

  “I’m not normal.” Her answer came quickly, as though she were stating a simple fact. “I study criminology all day. In my free time, I read books about murderers.” As proof, she held up her book, the title of which was In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote.

  “Yes, but you’re not chewing on a cigar. You haven’t grunted once. And your style goes so far beyond the plain gray T-shirt.”

  “You’re funny.” She laughed. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

  “Why not?” said Elijah.

  “I don’t know. Six-foot-four jock covered in concrete dust. But since you brought up the subject of my father, maybe you can tell me what you two did yesterday when you allegedly went to the diner.”

  “What do you mean ‘allegedly’?” Elijah remembered Banks’s caution and registered his disappointment; she was talking to him only to find out about her father.

  “Um, I’ll ask the questions here, thank you very much.” Her smile was broad and sincere, not at all like her father’s crooked facsimile. “Let me put it another way. Did my father instigate any arguments or fights? Or interrogations?”

  Elijah resisted the urge to smile, because it hadn’t been at all like a fight. Fights involved two people hitting each other; what had happened with Banks had been more like a surprise attack. Crippling and completely effective.

  “We went to Home Depot to buy a tool,” he said. “Then we went for burgers in the bad part of town and ate at the counter with a bunch of old retired guys. That’s it. Oh, and the waitress’s name was Sherita.”

  “Yes, that’s the official version I got, but I’m not convinced. I think you two got into some kind of trouble.” Kerri pushed her glasses up onto her hair and studied him. “All I know is that when he came back, he was different. Not himself.”

  “What was wrong?”

  “Nothing was wrong; that’s the problem. He’s usually grumpy and unpleasant to be around.”

  “And he wasn’t?”

  “No. He was, like, excited. We stayed up late talking, which never happens…because he never wants to talk. Plus, he didn’t drink or smoke himself to sleep.”

  “Maybe he did but in secret. How would you know?”

  “I’m the one who empties his ashtrays and puts all the beer bottles into the recycling bin. I did it when I was little, too, before my parents divorced. Lots of practice, you could say.”

  “You do know it’s not a crime to be happy.”

  “Um, have you met my father? Mr. Grizzled Hard-Core Military Guy? For him it is a crime. The order of people who are sure to go to hell is like this: axe murderers, arsonists, pedophiles, slackers, and then happy people.”

  Elijah smiled. “Yeah. Actually, I have met that guy. I thought he just had a grudge against me.”

  “He’s that way with everyone.”

  Elijah felt the eyes of his idiot friends watching him from the other table. Any minute they would come over to embarrass him. Keep talking, he told himself. “You know, I still can’t picture him as an accountant. It doesn’t fit.”

  “Are you changing the subject? Because I still think you’re lying. I think you two had some kind of, I don’t know, adventure or something. Did he take you to a shooting range? Jumping out of an airplane? Come on, tell me what you two really did.”

  “You just met me and you’re calling me a liar.”

  “Well?”

  “We went to a diner. We ordered cheeseburgers. I got curly fries and he had regular ones. He told me that his were preferable because they were efficient to eat. More functional, he said. Who talks that way?”

  She grinned.

  “How could I make something like that up? I’m not that creative.”

  “Well…that does sound like something he’d say.” Satisfied, Kerri snapped up her book and stood. “Nice talking to you. I’ve got to go.”

  “That’s it? Where are you going?”

  “See you later, Basketball Player.”

  “Wait.” But he was talking to her back. “I still don’t know anything about you.”

  Kerri turned her head. “That’s right. You don’t. And the statute of limitations on lattes expires in two days.” She disappeared into the dense, moving mass of shoppers, and Elijah returned to his friends.

  “ALL RIGHT,” SAID MICHAEL. “Hot new girl. Who is she, and when are you going to introduce me?”

  “Do you think I’m crazy? I’m not going to introduce you,” said Elijah. “She’s smart and beautiful. You’re a pig.”

  “That hurts,” said Michael. “It’s petty and cruel, but I respect your fear of my sexual powerfulness. I wouldn’t introduce me, either.”

  “That’s not a word, powerfulness.”

  “It should be,” said Michael. “I ain’t responsible for the inadequacies of the language.”

  “Inadequacies is a word,” said Elijah. “Much better!”

  “Okay, professor,” said Michael. “But seriously, who is she?”

  “Her name’s Kerri. She’s the daughter of that guy I’m doing yard work for.”

  “The retired dude? Damn, I might have to do me some yard work, if you know what I’m talking about.”

  “No. What are you talking about?” said Dylan.

  “You’d have to actually do some work,” said Elijah. “That’s a deal breaker for a major player like you, right?”

  “Probab
ly,” said Michael. “Are you talking about real hard work? Like with shovels and wheelbarrows and stuff?”

  The boys dumped their trays and walked outside to the bus stop. Dylan had brought his ball, and they passed it around as they waited. It went back and forth, changing directions, and threading through legs and behind backs. The speed of passing increased until the ball became a blur, distinguished only by the hands that were passing from the ones receiving. They continued to talk and horse around, but the ball never stopped moving. When their bus arrived, they stashed the ball and sat close.

  “Tournament starts in less than fourteen hours,” said Elijah. “Are we still meeting tomorrow morning at your place?”

  “You know it,” said Michael. “Our moms are making us food.”

  “Hey,” said Dylan. “I’m nervous. I might be up all night. Going to watch Coach Carter, Above the Rim, and Love & Basketball. Get me inspired.”

  “You should watch Space Jam,” said Elijah. “That’s more your speed.”

  “Maybe I will,” said Dylan. “Michael Jordan, baby!”

  At their stop, the boys bumped fists and went their separate ways home.

  ELIJAH WAS NOT surprised to find the black Mercedes parked in front of his mother’s house. He stalked to the passenger door, opened it, and got in. This time, the man in the driver’s seat wasn’t wearing a hood. His head was shaved. Early twenties, with light coffee-colored skin, and a hard, chiseled face. Not the friendliest-looking guy, but not overtly evil-looking, either.

  A flick of the finger activated the door locks. “Big day tomorrow.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re going to play in front of all them people and represent. That means you and me, we’re connected now.”

  “How’s that? I don’t even know your name.”

  “You need me to spell it out? I thought you were smart. I thought you’d put two and two together.”

  “I can add,” said Elijah. “But I want to hear it from you.”

  “Name’s Money. And from now on, Blood Street Nation’s your family.”

  “I’ve got a family.”

  Money sucked his teeth. “You should be honored. We only take the best.”

  Elijah paused to let it sink in.

  Money thumped him hard on the shoulder. “Smile, dawg. This is a good thing.”

  “Exactly who is the Nation?” said Elijah.

  “For now it’s you and your boys. One small, tight unit. Like a little military unit. That’s why the boss came up with the name Elijah’s Army.”

  “What are we supposed to do?”

  “Play ball and represent. Win Hoops. After that, we’ll talk. But one step at a time, baby.”

  “What if we don’t win?”

  “Don’t be asking what-ifs. Just do your job, like a good soldier.” Money held out his fist for a bump.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Elijah touched his knuckles to Money’s. He looked out the window at his house; the living room light was still on. He knew his mother was waiting up for him, probably beginning to worry. It would break her heart if she knew the choice he was making. How could he explain it to her? Could he say he was doing it to protect her? That he’d let Michael pressure him? No, he couldn’t put it off on other people. He was the one bumping fists with this person, Money. He was choosing, and he would have to pay the price.

  “Okay, but tell me what’s next,” said Elijah. “After basketball.”

  “Life. Business. You and your boys work hard and prove yourselves. Make some green. You ain’t got a problem with the green, do you?”

  “No,” said Elijah. “But I’ve got a job.”

  “Mowing lawns ain’t a job; it’s a waste of time and talent. Listen, if you’re half as smart as the boss thinks, you gonna be driving a Mercedes, too.”

  “Who’s the boss?”

  “You’ll know that when you prove yourself, which you can start doing at Hoops.”

  “What if I don’t want a Mercedes?”

  “Then a BMW. Lexus. Whatever.”

  “What I mean,” said Elijah, bracing himself for the return of the silver handgun, “is what if I don’t want to be a part of the Nation?”

  Another grin, this one colder. “Everybody wants to be part of the Nation, baby. We’re small, exclusive, and all-powerful. Nobody knows who the boss is, not even the cops. But here’s the straight answer: it don’t matter what you want. You’re wearing the Blood tomorrow, and that makes you one of us.”

  “You mean that little patch? That doesn’t mean anything.”

  Money’s sharp face turned toward him, slitted eyes reading him, studying him, like a snake ready to strike. His voice was low and smooth, no longer discussing or explaining. He was stating facts.

  “The Nation owns you, baby. Everybody got their price, and you know what yours is?”

  “No,” Elijah lied. He wanted to plug his ears and go back in time, to before things had gotten so complicated.

  “Your price is a pair of shoes.” Money hit the button that unlocked the doors, a signal that their time was up. “But don’t feel bad about that; most people cost less. Now get out of the car and win me a goddamned trophy.”

  SLEEP DID NOT come easily that night for Elijah. At twelve o’clock, he gave up and called Michael’s cell.

  After a sample from R. Kelly’s “I’m a Flirt” came the following instructions: “Fine ladies can leave a message; everyone else, I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Can’t sleep,” said Elijah after the beep. “Call if you’re up, because I was thinking about walking to Joe’s. And you really need to change that message!”

  Thirty seconds later, his phone rang.

  “Joe’s?” said Michael.

  “Yeah. I’m craving a hot dog and cheese fries.”

  “If you’re buying, sure.”

  “Who said anything about buying? I’ll be at your house in five.”

  The air had cooled enough to be pleasant, and they sat at a picnic table outside Joe’s Texas Hots, which was the only all-night restaurant in their neighborhood. It also happened to be dirt cheap. They ordered foot-long hot dogs, cheese fries, and large Cokes. Michael swatted at a seagull that hovered at a safe distance, poaching stray fries.

  “I hate those things,” he said. “They’re nasty.” He tented a napkin over his fries and stood up.

  “What are you doing?” asked Elijah.

  “Gotta go to the bathroom.” He pointed at his food. “This is so none of them flying rats will eat my fries.”

  Elijah shrugged and took a bite of his hot dog. On the sidewalk, a muscular guy carrying a gym bag walked by. The guy looked in his direction, squinting. Elijah tried to figure out where he recognized him from. School? No, too old for high school. The Battlegrounds? Maybe. He sipped his Coke and then he remembered—Bull.

  The big man came closer, separated by only a row of planter boxes. The gold ring in his nostril flared with each enraged breath. “You tell Money he’s a dead man. You tell him I’m—”

  Elijah dropped his hot dog and put his hands up. “Hang on. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Bull jabbed a finger into the space between them. “I seen you with Money. At the Battlegrounds parking lot.”

  “So what?”

  Bull’s face twitched. “I heard one of Money’s boys shot my nephew.”

  “I’m not Money’s boy,” said Elijah. “I swear. You want to come at me because I hit you, fine. But I didn’t shoot anybody. I’ve never even held a gun.”

  Bull scowled. Thinking. Deciding.

  Keep talking, thought Elijah. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Michael returning from his phone call, closing the distance with long, silent strides. “Who’s your nephew?”

  “Ray Shiver.”

  “I knew him. He was in my AP English class. I’m sorry, really.”

  “Yeah, AP classes,” said Bull. “That was Ray. You smart too?”

  “I guess so,” said Elijah.

&nbs
p; “Good.” A cruel line of a smile spread across his face. “Then you’ll understand why I gotta do this.” He stepped over the planter boxes and toward Elijah, just as Michael wedged himself between the two of them.

  “Back off,” said Michael, chest to chest, eyes locked. “How come you look like you’re about to jump my boy Elijah?”

  Elijah managed to get his long legs out from under the picnic table, expecting blows at any minute, but they didn’t come.

  “Ask him.” Bull’s face was a mask of rage and frustration. He looked from Michael to Elijah, and then back to Michael.

  “I’m asking you,” Michael said.

  “He sucker punched me,” said Bull.

  Michael raised an eyebrow.

  “I hit him,” said Elijah. “But just once.”

  “Now I’m gonna hit you.” Bull tried to muscle his way past Michael, until a crack in the background stopped them all. Harold, a cook who used to play ball at the Battlegrounds, had slammed the back kitchen door against its frame. He stood, tall and furious in his white apron, pointing his spatula at Bull.

  “Man, get the hell outta my restaurant,” he said.

  “This ain’t your restaurant,” said Bull.

  “It is when I’m cooking,” said Harold.

  “It’s a public place,” said Bull. “I can be here as long as I want.”

  “You can until Louie comes out here and eighty-sixes you for bothering customers. You wanna go the rest of the year with no more hot dogs or french fries?”

  Bull looked at the two boys, clearly deliberating between revenge and continued access to the best hot dogs in town. “I’m going,” he said at last, “but this ain’t over.”

  After the big man was out of earshot, Michael said, “Why do you have a beef with him? You don’t ever fight.”

  “He kept fouling me on the court, so I punched him in the nuts. Listen, Michael. Thanks—”

  Michael cut him off with a hand. “Forget it. You want to thank somebody?” He pointed at Harold. “That’s the man.”

  “Harold,” said Elijah, walking over to shake hands. “I owe you. Big-time.”

  “Forget it,” said Harold. “That dude’s an animal. But you know he’s gonna keep coming after you, right?”