The nice librarian, with glasses dangling from her neck, comes toward us, stops, her face puzzled, then steps around me and squeezes Sarah’s shoulders. “Shouldn’t you be in class, Sarah?”
Sarah doesn’t answer.
“Are you all right?” The librarian—Ms. Penny, her name tag says—encourages Sarah to sit. “I’ll call the principal’s office. Let her know you’re here.”
“No, wait.”
Ms. Penny plops down in the kid-sized chair. She leans forward. “Do you want a counselor? I can call Mr. Stevens.”
“No. I just want to sit.”
Ms. Penny leans back. “Sit as long as you need.”
“How about forever?”
Ms. Penny pats her hand. “You’d get hungry, I think. Bored.”
Sarah can’t help but giggle and I feel lighthearted. I haven’t heard laughter in a long time. Sarah stops. “In class, some kids talk about what a good cop my dad is. He is a good cop. But he can’t be if he killed a kid, can he?”
Ms. Penny doesn’t say a word, just hugs her.
“Ask her about Emmett,” I whisper, though Ms. Penny can’t hear me anyway.
“Ms. Penny? Have you heard about Emmett Till?”
“Now, now, that’s an upsetting case.” She gazes blankly into space. “You can research it when you’re older,” she says, flat.
“Why not now?”
Yeah, I think, feeling proud of Sarah. What’s wrong with now?
“You’ll learn about Emmett when you learn more about civil rights.”
“When’s that?”
“Well,” Ms. Penny says, flustered, “it happens bit by bit. During Black History Month. In history class. Social studies.”
“I’m in seventh grade and I haven’t learned about Emmett Till.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t know about it. At least for now. It’s terrible when grown men kill a child.”
“Like my dad?”
“Oh, Sarah, I didn’t mean—”
“But it’s true!” I holler in the librarian’s ear. “It’s terrible when a man kills a child.”
Sarah looks at me. Then, she looks at the librarian. “Jerome died in the city. Chicago. The same city where Emmett was born.”
“That’s true. But Emmett Till was murdered in Mississippi. Sixty years ago.”
“So, what’s the difference?”
“Emmett’s death made a difference. His death began the African American Civil Rights Movement.”
“You mean like Martin Luther King Jr.?”
“Yes. But much more. Desegregation of schools—Brown v. Board of Education. Desegregation of trains, buses. You’ve heard of Rosa Parks? The March on Washington? The Voting Rights Act? So, so much more, Sarah.”
“You’re saying Jerome’s death is less important?”
“No, no, I’m not saying that. I was a young girl just like you when the call for civil rights went out. My family was Jewish. We knew discrimination, too. All types of people fought for change.
“In 1955, Mrs. Till was very, very brave. She insisted on an open casket. She wrote, ‘Let the world see what I have seen.’”
“Can I see?”
Ms. Penny closes her eyes, shakes herself, then sighs. “Better to light a candle than curse the darkness.”
“What’s that mean?”
“A Chinese proverb. It means I’m going to show you a picture of Emmett Till. I was the same age as you when I saw it.”
Ms. Penny types “casket” and “Till” in the computer’s search bar. Click.
I turn away. I don’t want to see. Dead is dead. Doesn’t matter what dead looks like. I walk out of the library, down the hall, through the front doors.
It’s a bright sunny day.
I hear Sarah sobbing, “Oh, oh, oh,” over and over and over.
WANDERING
Leaves are budding. I walk and walk and walk. At least, it feels like walking.
I roam, going nowhere.
Why am I still here? Yet not here. I walk among people, invisible, and people still make space for me. Like the weight of my air is tangible. Real.
Dead, I walk, while living people talk, laugh, make plans.
Emmett walks beside me. Just like that. Bam. Not here, then here. Next to me. He smiles. I want to hit him.
I don’t want to know a sixty-year-old ghost.
I want to go home. But home isn’t home anymore.
Maybe if I waited, I’d see my family becoming happier without me. I don’t want to wait that long.
I don’t want to feel myself being missed less and less. Will it happen?
I hope not.
I hope so. I don’t want Ma, Pop, Grandma, and Kim to be unhappy forever because of me.
I move faster and faster. I’m like smoke in the wind. If I was alive, I’d be jogging. Running.
Emmett is keeping up. I’m angry and angrier. “Stop bothering me!” I shout. “Go away. Leave me alone.”
I stop abruptly. If we were alive, me and Emmett would crash into each other.
“Why were we killed?” I holler.
“Right. Why?”
Another ghost walks ahead. Dipping side to side, swaying. He’s graceful. Fly, hip. Wearing a gray hoodie.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Killed about six years ago. In Florida.”
“Hey, kid,” I yell. “Hey!”
He keeps walking. Be-bopping ahead of me.
All I can think: Peter Pan sucks.
Preliminary Hearing
Chicago Courthouse
April 18
Sarah’s father is called back to the stand. He looks sharp in his uniform but he also looks beat-down. Weary. The sides of his mouth droop; his eyes are rimmed red. I almost feel sorry for him.
I stand in the back near the double doors. I want to flee but I can’t help myself. I stay.
Emmett’s missing.
Sarah sits next to her mom. I stare at the back of her head, at her brown hair, thinking, Look at me. Look at me. She doesn’t turn.
Ma rests her head on Pop’s shoulder. Grandma weeps quietly, huge tears dampening her face.
The prosecutor moves close, face-to-face with Officer Moore. “Did you announce yourself? ‘Police’?”
“No.”
“Did you order Jerome Rogers to put down the gun?”
“No.”
“To raise his hands?”
“No.”
“Did you fire from the police cruiser before it had come to a complete stop?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes or no?”
“I guess so.” Officer Moore looks down, like an answer is written on his hands. Yes. No.
“Yes,” he says, looking straight at the lawyer. “He was waving his gun. A police car is a coffin. I had to react.”
“Did you react when Jerome Rogers lay wounded on the ground? Did you render aid?”
“No.”
“CPR?”
“Objection!” shouts the defense lawyer.
“Sustained,” responds the judge.
“Call nine-one-one?” the prosecutor persists.
“Objection.”
“Sustained. Counselor, I’ll cite you for contempt.”
“Sorry, Your Honor. Just seeking clarification on the unconscionable lack of aid.”
“Objection,” roars the defense.
Before the judge bangs her gavel, Officer Moore answers hoarsely, “No. No aid.”
The room erupts. Chaos. Sarah and her mom hold tight to each other. Ma shudders, then collapses into Pop. Pop tries to hold her upright. I can tell he’s trying to be strong. Trying to calm Ma and Grandma. Just like I always tried to do.
Three good things can’t be said. Can’t fix what’s wrong.
“Court’s adjourned. Tomorrow. Nine a.m. We begin again tomorrow.”
Angry bursts swirl like a hurricane. Sarah buries her face in her mother’s lap.
I can’t help Grandma, Ma, or Pop.
I w
alk out. Disappear.
CARLOS
Since January, Grandma walks Kim to school. Carlos meets them on the steps and walks Kim inside. After school, Carlos walks them home. For months, they walk. It’s a ritual.
Carlos is a good big brother. He isn’t me. But he’s better than no one.
Both Grandma and Kim have lost weight. Grandma seems so much older and Kim barely smiles except when Carlos makes jokes. Or gives her pictures. Or gifts like a stick of gum, a purple lollipop. Sometimes Carlos does cartwheels and Kim giggles.
He tells her about San Antonio. “Always sun. Never snow. The sky is wide open and blue. No skyscrapers. Not like Chicago.” Hands waving, he’s skipping backwards, chattering excitedly. He’s wearing sneakers.
“The San Antonio River. It flows lazy, through downtown. The River Walk, it’s called. Weekends, there’s partying. People in small boats, some eating, drinking by the river. All kinds of music. Mariachi, jazz, pop.”
Kim stops, shifts her backpack. Grandma’s head tilts, watching her.
“Are you going back?
Carlos’s smile slips. He says solemnly, “Nope. Couldn’t ever. Chicago’s home now.”
Kim smiles, then races ahead, happy.
Grandma puts her hand on Carlos’s shoulder. “You’re a good boy, Carlos. Think you can walk Kim home by yourself?”
“Walk her to school, too.”
“No, I’m not quite ready.” Grandma rubs her forehead. “I know it’s not good for me to hover close. One step at a time. I’ll walk Kim to school. You walk her home.”
“You trust me?”
“I do.”
Carlos bows his head; his toes wriggle inside his sneakers. He’s proud.
Grandma pats his shoulder. “Jerome should’ve brought you to supper. I didn’t know he had a good friend. You like cake?”
Not answering, Carlos calls, “Kim, wait up.” He runs toward her.
I focus on Carlos catching up to Kim. I like him. I really do.
The two slow, stop, wait for Grandma.
Carlos stands in profile. Sadness cloaks him. It didn’t when we first met. Not like this… not like he’s standing on a grave. As Grandma gets closer, he smiles big, bright. Now I know it’s false.
If I squint my eyes, I can imagine Carlos is me.
Preliminary Hearing
Chicago Courthouse
April 19
Day two.
“Calling Officer Moore back to the stand,” the prosecutor says.
I look for Sarah. She’s not in the room. Maybe her parents have decided the hearing is too much. They’re protecting her like my family tried to protect me. I wish I could tell them it isn’t working. Sarah already sees me. Better than her dad ever did.
(Strangely, courtroom benches remind me of church pews. Long, hard, polished wood.)
Grandma is having trouble breathing. Whispering, Ma wraps her arm about her. Emmett appears, stands behind Grandma and, amazingly, she lets out a big sigh. Breathes clear, deep. She pats Ma’s hand. “I’m okay.”
Officer Moore slips into the witness chair. He’s sworn in for a second time.
“Do you swear to tell the truth?”
“I do,” he answers, eyes front, looking over my family’s heads. He sits.
“You thought the victim, a child, was a large man.”
“Objection. Not a question, Your Honor.”
“Sustained.”
“You were in fear for your life.”
“Objection. Not a question. Repeat testimony.”
“Sustained.” The judge leans forward. Even though she’s trying to hide it, she’s irritated. “Do you have a question, counselor?”
“Yes, I do, Your Honor.” The prosecutor turns, walks away from the judge and officer. He looks at Pop. Then, turning back to the stand, says loudly, seriously, “Why was the child shot in the back?”
Uproar. Panic. Stomping. Cameras flashing. “No photos,” asserts the clerk. Reporters are shouting questions. Community activists are demanding justice. Ma, Pop, and Grandma huddle, cling, and cry.
“Order, order.” The gavel bangs again and again.
Officer Moore’s wife shuts her eyes.
Officer Moore looks pained. I see the skull beneath his face.
The video shows me shot in the back. People knew. This is the first time the lawyer has said it, but everyone knew this moment would come. Sarah’s parents. The other lawyer. My folks.
“He was running away. Why did you shoot?”
Sound dies. There’s tense quiet. Like this second is the most important moment in the world. The answer unlocks the universe.
“I was in fear for my life.” Officer Moore’s eyes are bleak.
“You’re under oath.”
“I was in fear for my life,” he says, more forcefully.
If I were alive, my whole body would be trembling. Officer Moore speaks (I think) a truth he believes. When truth’s a feeling, can it be both? Both true and untrue?
In truth: I feared for my life.
ROAM
The dirt strip in front of our apartment has wild dandelions. No longer weeds, they’ve grown puffy yellow tops.
I haven’t seen Emmett. I’m relieved. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to see Sarah either.
I’m not sure how to help her. I’m not even sure I want to.
People tell the dead, “Rest in peace.” I haven’t any. Rest or peace.
I roam seeing neighborhoods I’ve never seen before. Some people live in huge houses. With blooming roses—yellow, red, white—planted in their yards. With cats perched on windowsills. Some houses have painted fences that their dogs rush, tails wagging, barking. (Animals know I’m still here. I wish I’d had one. A big dog like a black Lab or German shepherd.)
Chicago is more beautiful than I ever thought. I didn’t know there were parks with swings, slides, running and bicycle tracks. I didn’t know there were over a hundred skyscrapers. Or Lincoln Park Zoo, with African penguins striped black and white.
I wish I could tell Carlos that Chicago has a Riverwalk, too. Moms push strollers. Men and women run in black tights. Kite surfers ride the river. Wish I’d tried it. Wish I’d known the world was so much bigger and better than my neighborhood.
I’ve stopped shadowing Ma and Pop. It’s too painful watching them act like robots.
It’s like they got shot, too. They’re not happy like before.
Ma and Pop used to laugh, play card games. Fuss over me and Kim.
Inside the house, it’s worse. Pop passes my closed bedroom door. He doesn’t check on Kim before he goes to work. In the kitchen, Ma, shoulders hunched, barely eats, speaks. No goodbyes between her and Pop. They don’t hug or kiss. Just work. Sleep.
Try to forget.
Grandma and Kim don’t mind their grief showing. Especially after dinner. They talk about me, cry. Hurting, they seem real. Alive.
I worry Ma and Pop will get used to trying not to feel. So used to it, one day they won’t feel anything anymore. That’d be worse than me dying.
I wander Green Street, drifting behind Grandma and Kim on their way to school, then shadowing Kim and Carlos coming home. Both ways, I pass Green Acres. I keep my eyes forward, not wanting to see where I was killed.
Preliminary Hearing
Chicago Courthouse
April 19
After lunch, everyone files back into the courtroom. Officer Moore sits next to his lawyer. The prosecutor (I guess he’s my lawyer) sits alone. He seems confident, relaxed.
Everyone stands when the judge enters. Her face isn’t still. Brows twitch; her lips tighten; she breathes deep.
Something’s wrong. She’s got tender eyes but as she speaks, her voice is robot calm:
“As a reminder, this hearing is not to determine innocence or guilt,” says the judge, looking everywhere, yet nowhere, “but rather if there is enough evidence for the State to file criminal charges against Officer Moore.
“The circumstances a
re beyond a doubt tragic. The court truly regrets the death of Jerome Rogers. But…”
Everyone sucks in air, holds their breath. Stillness, silence. Not even a fly buzzes.
“…justice is tempered by the fact that a police officer’s job is incredibly hard and complicated.
“An emergency nine-one-one call, a young man with a realistic-looking gun, a concern for public safety, and an officer’s fear for his life are all facts I’ve considered.
“In the opinion of this court, there is not enough evidence to charge Officer Moore with excessive force, manslaughter, or murder.”
SCHOOL & AFTER
It’s May. Dandelions are white now. Puffs of seeds float, reseeding the grass and vacant lots. School will be over in six weeks.
Every morning Carlos meets Kim. He says “Hola” to Grandma and grips Kim’s heavy backpack.
“Thanks,” Kim answers, a little breathless.
I follow behind them. But today I panic. Mike, Eddie, and Snap are at the top of the stairs, standing sentry-like in front of the school doors. Other kids don’t ask them to move. They just swarm, flow around them.
I’m scared. Mike, Eddie, and Snap never bullied Kim. But maybe that’s changed now.
I howl. No reaction. I can’t protect Kim.
Grandma, worried, shouts, “Kim!” sensing danger.
“It’s okay,” Carlos shouts back, and Grandma sways, side to side, her arms crossed over her stomach.
Carlos holds Kim’s hand. Rail-thin, he isn’t much taller than Kim. He’s not a match for one bully let alone three.
Wary, Kim watches Carlos. I do, too, worrying Carlos is going to pull another toy gun.
Even a toy brings cops, endangers Kim. I keep circling—Kim, Snap, Eddie, Mike, Carlos—wishing I could be visible, alive again. Keep my little sister safe.
Ghost Boys Page 5