by Alana Terry
Kennedy kept her eyes down and tried not to stiffen when Sandy gave her another hug, this one from the side. “Now maybe you don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t blame you one bit. If you don’t mind, I could sure use an extra set of hands with these pork chops.”
Kennedy followed Sandy into the kitchen where the sound of sizzling onions and the smell of homemade bread rolls welcomed her. She washed her hands, grateful for a chance to make herself useful. Anything for some sort of distraction. The afternoon had dragged on just like she expected. She didn’t know what it was about the spring that made it even harder to sit in a classroom while the sun streamed in from outside, warming everything up like a giant greenhouse.
“It smells delicious.” She wasn’t sure what it was about Carl and Sandy’s home, but she always felt so peaceful here, as if there was some magnetic field at their front door that stripped away all her stress and anxiety as soon as she entered.
Sandy was bustling over the stove and put Kennedy to work chopping up veggies for a green salad.
“Where’s Carl?” Kennedy asked. “Is he still at church?”
Sandy slurped a taste of gravy from a steaming saucepan. “No, he was invited to sit on a panel down at Channel 2. Different community leaders are giving their opinions about the ...” She let out an exaggerated sneeze. “Excuse me. I must have dumped too much pepper in here. Tell me, would you mind tasting this and letting me know what you think? My nose has been a little stuffy all week, and I’m afraid I’ve over-spiced everything.”
Kennedy gingerly sipped from the spoon Sandy held out. “Tastes fine to me.”
“Oh, good. Thanks. It must be allergy season or something. Can’t smell a thing.” Sandy started telling Kennedy a story about her grandson Tyson, who was expecting a brand new sister at the end of May. “You should see the way he loves that baby already. Pulls up his mother’s shirt and gives her belly rubs. Says he’s playing with his little sister.”
Kennedy forced herself to laugh along. She wondered what it would be like to be pregnant, always carrying around a little person you’d never even met. Did it feel like an intrusion, or was it more like snuggling with someone you loved? Did pregnant women always think about their growing uterus, or did they get used to it and go on with life as normal? Motherhood seemed so far away in Kennedy’s future. Three and a half more years at Harvard, four years of medical school, then residency ... By the time she was settled enough to even think of having kids, would she be too old? Funny how she never pondered these things except for when she was at the Lindgrens’. What was it about this house that made her long for family? For home?
Sandy prattled on, but Kennedy’s thoughts still wandered, her ears ringing with the sound of her own screams as she had tried to protect Reuben. The more she thought about it, the angrier she grew. Maybe she should have gone to that protest after all. After her dad’s warning, she had checked the news several times. The only coverage Channel 2 offered was a small article at the bottom of their home screen, but the event itself had been perfectly peaceful. Why was it that strangers were protesting Kennedy and Reuben’s mistreatment while the two of them hid like Claudia and Jaime in The Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, crouching beneath art displays in the Met?
Sandy took some bread rolls out of the oven and set them on a hot pad. The warm, yeasty smell set Kennedy’s stomach growling. Other than a few bites of Reuben’s fruit salad and a bowl of Craisins for a snack after her lit class, she hadn’t eaten all day.
Sandy went back to whisking the gravy on the stovetop. “There’s some melted butter in the microwave, hon. Could you grab that basting brush and spread it on top of the roles?”
At the beginning of the semester in her lab class, Professor Adell had posted a quote from a Julia Child cookbook about multitasking in the kitchen. Adell said those same skills would come in handy in the lab, and Kennedy had done enough chemistry experiments as well as assisted Sandy in the kitchen enough times to realize her professor was absolutely right. It also helped to have a partner who could anticipate your moves and know intuitively where to jump in to be the most useful. That’s why she was so grateful to work with Reuben. After a week or two of clumsily stumbling over each other in the lab last fall, they could now look at the same set of instructions and perform the entire procedure without having to talk through each specific task. They worked so smoothly, so gracefully together.
She was nearly done spreading the melted butter when the doorbell rang.
Sandy glanced up but didn’t look surprised. “Could you get that for me, dear? My hands are a big mess.”
Kennedy glanced out the kitchen window to see a multicolored VW bus parked in the Lindgrens’ driveway. Maybe she wouldn’t have Carl and Sandy to herself tonight like she thought. She dusted her hands off on her pants legs and opened the front door. Nick, the youth pastor from Carl’s church, stood smiling on the porch.
“Hey, Kennedy. Glad to see you.”
She tried to hide her disappointment. She hadn’t expected to be sharing her time at the Lindgrens’ with anyone else. Forcing a smile, she stepped aside to let him in. No matter how often she saw Nick, she was always slightly startled by his appearance. From his dirty blond dreadlocks and grungy fashion sense, you’d think he stepped off of a West Coast beach. Today, his T-shirt sported the verse from Revelation where Jesus says, “Behold, I am coming soon,” along with a picture of Jesus typing BRB into a text message.
“Hi, Nick!” Sandy called from the kitchen, and Kennedy wondered why nobody had mentioned the additional dinner guest. For an awkward moment, neither Kennedy nor Nick knew which one was supposed to be the first out of the small entryway. After a clumsy exchange and a few more apologies than necessary, Kennedy led the way back to the kitchen. The sound of sizzling pork was just loud enough to cover the rumbling in her belly.
Sandy wiped her hands on her apron before giving Nick a big hug. She was as tall as he was, but whenever they were together, Kennedy got the sense that Sandy towered over him. “I’m so glad you made it.” She pointed at the dining room table. “Why don’t you both make yourselves comfortable? We’re just waiting on Carl now. He should be here any minute.”
Kennedy wondered what Sandy meant by any minute and wasn’t sure their definitions would match. She sat across from Nick, trying to guess if he felt just as uncomfortable with this forced arrangement. It wasn’t the first time the Lindgrens had gone out of their way to make sure Kennedy and Nick spent time together. Carl kept mentioning how nice it would be if Kennedy found the time to volunteer with Nick during his weekly visit to Medford Academy for an afterschool Bible club. It’s possible the church was just short of volunteers, or maybe Carl thought if Kennedy plugged into some sort of ministry at St. Margaret’s, she’d feel that sense of belonging she’d lacked ever since her first Sunday there. But then sometimes she’d catch Sandy winking at her husband or smiling mischievously and wondered if there was more to it than the Lindgrens wanted her to know.
She didn’t dislike Nick, but that wasn’t a good enough reason to pursue a relationship. Besides, she was pretty sure he was interested in someone back in Oregon. He kept a picture on his office desk of a blond girl in a cute tankini, sporting a model’s figure and a dimpled smile Kennedy envied. She wished she could be back in the kitchen helping Sandy with the salad. She didn’t have anything against Nick. She just didn’t like the thought of Carl and Sandy arranging a match for her out of sympathy. Granted, she hadn’t made as many friends in college as she’d had in high school, but she had her roommate.
And of course she had Reuben.
She stared past Nick’s cross earring and wondered what Reuben was doing now. Was he still upset about their encounter with the policeman or had he forgotten the entire ordeal already? That sounded like Reuben. Never one to dwell on the past. Never one to hold a grudge or harbor negative emotions.
Solid, stable Reuben.
Across from her, Nick cleared his throat.
“So, how’s school?” His voice grated her ears with its artificial cheer.
She glanced at Sandy, hoping to find some reason to excuse herself to the kitchen. When no opportunity presented itself, she shrugged. “Not too bad. I’m glad midterms are over. The next few weeks shouldn’t be too busy.”
“Good.” Nick’s dreadlocks bounced when he nodded, reminding Kennedy of the apostle bobble heads he had plastered to the dashboard of his painted bus.
“What about youth group?” she asked when the silence grew oppressive. “How’s that going?”
A forced smile. More head bobbing. “Good. Good. You should come check it out sometime. We always need volunteers.”
Kennedy mumbled her usual excuses about her course schedule and school obligations. She liked the idea of getting involved in ministry. If anything, it might help her snap out of whatever spiritual funk she’d found herself in since she got to Cambridge. It wasn’t that she’d rebelled or run away from God. She didn’t hate him or doubt him. She didn’t even have as much trouble with temptations as she feared she would when she first arrived at Harvard. Her roommate drank nearly every night of the week, partied with harder stuff every weekend, and slept with more partners than Kennedy could name, but so far Kennedy hadn’t felt pressured to get involved in any of that stuff. Maybe if she had at least been tempted, she’d find herself more drawn to God and the strength he could give her to resist sin. Instead, she was just coasting through her first year of college. She had drive and ambition when it came to her classwork, but when it came to matters of faith, she was the spiritual equivalent of her roommate — laid back and irresponsible. The only difference was Kennedy felt guilty for her apathy. She doubted Willow entertained those same kinds of self-doubts. She always told herself once she got into the hang of school, she’d get more involved at St. Margaret’s, but even now, with three whole weeks before her next major test or paper due, she was reluctant to add anything to her schedule. She was at Harvard for her education, right? So why did she feel so empty?
The door to the garage burst open, and Carl bustled into the kitchen with arms outstretched. He pecked Sandy noisily on her cheek. “And how’s my favorite wife today?” He lifted a lid off one of the simmering pots. “You scrape up that squirrel from the driveway?”
Sandy slapped him playfully with a hot pad.
“You know I’m joking, dear.” Carl wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Everything smells wonderful. And how are you two doing tonight?”
Nick was already standing up to shake Carl’s hand even though Kennedy figured they must have spent most of the day together at church. After that, Carl gave her a bone-crushing hug that reminded her of her preschool days and a grandpa who’d died when she was only five.
After he let her go, Carl patted her on the back. “Staying out of the news, I hope?”
A disapproving look flashed from Sandy to her husband, who cleared his throat. “Well, let’s take our seats. Who’s hungry?”
CHAPTER 14
Dinner was even more delicious than it had smelled. Kennedy, who had unintentionally fallen into a mostly vegetarian diet since arriving at Harvard, had to admit she’d eat a lot more meat in the student union if it were as juicy and savory as this. She wondered how many servings Reuben would devour if he were here. Maybe she should have invited him over. Carl and Sandy wouldn’t mind.
For a while, the only sounds in the dining room were the scrapings of silverware on Sandy’s floral-patterned dishes and Carl’s loud chewing and smacking noises. It was the quietest meal Kennedy could remember sharing with the Lindgrens. Sandy diligently kept all the plates at least half full. Whenever Kennedy took more than three bites of anything, Sandy would pass more her way or simply plop another helping onto her plate. Kennedy had spent so much of her college days munching on nothing but dry Cheerios and Craisins she’d probably be anemic if it weren’t for these occasional meals at the Lindgrens’.
But tonight, something was different. Carl hadn’t given a single commentary on current events, hadn’t shared a single political opinion. Nick spent most of dinner avoiding eye contact with everyone, and Sandy made several failed attempts to start up a conversation. She asked Nick about a few of the youth group kids whose names Kennedy didn’t recognize, questioned him about an upcoming concert with some Christian band Kennedy’d never heard of. Nick’s answers were polite but never more than a single sentence.
Carl, who had been a loud and messy eater for as long as Kennedy had known him, finally finished his last pork chop. He dropped the bone onto his plate and wiped his stained hands on one of Sandy’s dainty, rose-embroidered napkins.
“So, you had any more problems with the cops?” Carl’s eyes were fixed on Kennedy, so he couldn’t see Sandy’s disapproving scowl.
“No.” She shook her head and caught Nick passing her an apologetic look.
Carl frowned. “The nerve of some people. I just can’t ...”
“Honey.” Sandy’s word was laced with meaning. With warning.
He threw his napkin over his plate. “Now sweetheart, I know you wanted to give Kennedy a night off from all her troubles, but those same troubles will just be waiting for her as soon as she leaves. We’re all friends here. We all love each other. So let’s talk. You doing ok after everything you’ve been through?”
The breath Kennedy had been holding rushed out of her. Relief flooded her entire vascular system. No more pretending. No more avoiding the real issue. This was why she loved the Lindgrens so much. And why she was almost always a little nervous whenever she stopped by for a visit.
“Well, it’s been kind of crazy ...” She wasn’t sure where to begin. How much did Carl already know?
“Sweetheart, it’s ok.” Sandy grabbed Kennedy’s hand. With all the time Sandy spent in the kitchen scrubbing and washing, Kennedy never knew how she kept her hands so silky and soft. “We can change the subject if you want.”
Across the table, Nick nodded enthusiastically.
Kennedy stared at her half-full plate, wondering if she’d regain any semblance of an appetite. “Well, I guess you guys saw the video.” She was afraid to raise her eyes, afraid of what expressions she’d find on her friends’ faces.
“I’m surprised the reporters haven’t come to you to get your side of the story.” It was the most Nick had said at once all evening.
Memories buzzed through Kennedy’s mind like a swarm of Yanji mosquitoes. Dominic, the praying policeman who’d told her to keep quiet unless she wanted to see Reuben hurt. Her dad’s lawyer buddy who told her to give up unless she wanted to get arrested for assault. Willow’s friend Othello who treated Kennedy like a KKK conspirator when she didn’t blast her story to every media outlet on the East Coast. She felt the onset of a headache and squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “It’s a little more complicated than that.”
Carl leaned back in his seat, crossed his arms, and stared at Nick. “Let’s say she did give her story to the news. What exactly do you expect would be the benefit of that?”
Nick set his elbows on the table. “Justice. Weeding out a racist cop who has no business wearing a uniform. Making the streets safer for hundreds of other young African-American men so they don’t have to face the same humiliation.”
Flashbacks of Bow Legs’ hands on Kennedy’s thighs forced the air out of her lungs. She begged her parasympathetic nervous system to function properly and rehearsed the breathing advice she’d gleaned from all those self-help websites.
Carl raised his eyebrows slightly but didn’t respond.
“Think about it,” Nick went on. “White cop pulls African-American teenager out of a car. No warrant. No speeding ticket. All this kid’s guilty of is driving while black.”
“I believe it was Kennedy who was driving.” Carl’s voice was soft.
Kennedy glanced around the table. Sandy was still holding her hand.
Nick’s dreadlocks grew even more animated the faster he talked. “Ok, so she was the
driver. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is this white officer pulled this black kid out of the car, and then without any reason ...”
Carl jerked his head toward Nick but addressed Kennedy. “How much of the story is he getting right so far?”
She glanced at Nick, her cheeks hot beneath everyone’s sympathetic stares.
“Go on,” Carl prodded. “Tell him how much of what you went through last night was because Reuben is black.”
Kennedy inventoried the faces around her, trying to guess what they expected her to say. “Well,” she floundered, “at first I thought that might be some of it. He wanted Reuben to get out of the car, but he told me to stay in my seat.”
Carl nodded. “So he told your black friend to step out of the vehicle, and Reuben complied. Peacefully?”
“Yeah.” Kennedy remembered how calm he had looked. He wasn’t surprised. Wasn’t angry. Maybe this story did deserve retelling.
“And then what?” Carl prodded.
Beside her, Sandy strained as if she were about to say something, but instead she just patted Kennedy’s hand and stayed quiet.
“He put Reuben in handcuffs. Slammed him against the car.”
“So he was rough with him?”
“Yeah.”
Carl took a sip of water. “And during this whole time, what was Reuben doing? Was he arguing with him? Threatening him?”
“No. He didn’t do anything. I was the one who kept asking why we got pulled over.” She was trembling now. She hoped the others wouldn’t notice, but she doubted that based on the way Sandy gripped her hand a little tighter.
“See?” Nick banged his fist on the table to accentuate his point. “This is clear-cut racial profiling. The officer didn’t have any reason to do what he did. Besides, if it was a regular traffic stop, why would he have the passenger step out of the car? Why the handcuffs? It’s what’s been going on for decades. White policemen with overinflated egos pulling over young black men just to ...”