Fire in the Streets (17 page)

I go to the stove and watch the soup, stirring carefully until the little bubbles start to pop on its surface. “It's ready.”

“Eat half and save the rest for your brother. I'm not hungry.” She sips from the tall bottle.

G
OING HOME WITH SAM IS FUN, BECAUSE
it's like escaping to an entirely different world. He lives a whole walk away from the projects. He has a real house, sitting in a row with other houses that all look more or less the same. He has a driveway for his dad's car. We wander down his block. He holds my hand with the usual quietness about him. I wonder what is going to be for dinner. His mom is a good cook, so whatever it is, I'm looking forward to it.

Mrs. Childs greets me with a hug. She frames my face with her hands and says, “Let me look at you. It's been a while since we've seen you.”

Sam takes off his jacket—Steve's jacket—and hangs it on a hook by the door. I'm a little surprised. I never thought of his wearing it as something he only does out in the world. I thought it was something he did because he couldn't help it.

“Your father's on his way,” she says. “We'll be eating soon.”

We go to his room for a little while. It seems bigger in here than it used to, for some reason, but I don't mention it because I assume it's the size of Steve's absence. You can feel it in the whole house. Then I remember that there used to be a big castle thing, made out of blocks, in the corner of their room that took up a bunch of space. There's no trace of it now.

“What happened to your . . . thing.” I gesture with my hand.

“I took it down,” he says.

We sit on the bed and look at a magazine he has with pictures of buildings in it. He likes to look at the pictures that show the outsides of the buildings, but I like to look at the way they're decorated on the inside. So we spend a while looking at every single page, except the ads. Usually when we sit this close, we end up kissing, but that would be weird here, in his room.

Then his mom calls, “Set the table, please,” and we go ahead and do that. We take seats at the table.

Sam's mom comes out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of potato salad, sees me sitting there, and starts crying. Nothing else happens. She doesn't stop walking or try to dry the tears. The bowl clatters gently to the table and she arranges the serving spoon. Looks at me. The crying is louder now.
She goes to the sideboard and brings out an extra hot plate. Sets it on the table. Looks at me. Her face is a fast-flowing river. Her shoulders tremble.

I look to Sam, alarmed.

“It'll be over in a minute,” he tells me. His mom nods. I think she's trying to smile. Maybe I shouldn't watch. I turn toward the photos on the wall.

Mrs. Childs is gasping, weeping. She clutches the back of a chair and lowers her head. I think I've made it worse. Tears spring up in my own eyes, seeing it all laid out before me. Family photos. Two good-looking boys, all different ages. Smiling.

Then it's done. She stops, breathes a shaky sigh, and retreats to the kitchen.

“I think she hates me,” I whisper, even though I know it's not the reason why she cried. Still, it feels like I caused it.

“You're sitting in his place,” Sam explains.

“Oh.” I jump up, which makes no sense. Four chairs at the table; I'm going to have to sit in one. “Sorry.”

“It's not because of you.” He fingers the edge of the tablecloth. “She cries when the chair is empty, too.”

“Is it terrible?” I blurt. My face goes hot. Some things you don't say out loud.

Sam says nothing. He knows me and my big mouth. That it's one of those things I mean and don't mean all at
the same time. I reach over and still his fingers. Slide back into the chair because it has to happen sometime. I can't eat standing up.

Mrs. Childs clatters around the kitchen.

“Should I help her?” I whisper. I've crashed right into their private sorrow. The least I can do is make myself useful.

Sam squeezes my fingers back. “No, just let her be.”

Sam's dad enters a moment later. After he hangs up his jacket, he comes and pats Sam on the shoulder.

“Hi, Maxie,” he says.

Then he catches Mrs. Childs by the wrist as she's exiting the kitchen. Kisses her on the cheek. Surely he can tell it's tear-stained, but probably it's not news to him, either.

Mrs. Childs lays a plate of rolls beside her place setting.

There's so much food on the table, it makes my stomach ache.

In Sam's family they hold hands together to say grace instead of everyone folding their hands in their laps like at Patrice's.

Mr. Childs says a short prayer. He even says my name in it, thankful that I could join them. He and Mrs. Childs both squeeze my fingers before they let go.

Then everyone starts reaching for different plates of food. Whatever's closest.

After a moment Mrs. Childs nudges me with a look. “Maxie, go ahead and start the mashed potatoes.”

It's a big bowl with a big spoon, but I'm afraid to take as much as I want. I look at Sam, but he's busy forking slices of pot roast onto his plate. There are ten slices. He takes two. I don't know how to divide up mashed potatoes so easy. I guess I'll try two spoonfuls and see how it goes.

Not well. The mound on my plate is huge. It's rude to put any back, though. I set the spoon in the bowl. Maybe no one will notice.

“Don't be shy,” Mrs. Childs says. “There's plenty more in the kitchen.”

I stop my eyes from widening by looking at my plate. Obediently I take another spoonful and hand the bowl off to her.

After that, item for item I match the pile of food Sam has, except he only took two green beans, and there are many more than ten. I shovel off a big forkful and wait to see if it's okay.

My mama didn't raise no charity case, after all.

A
FTER DINNER, MR. CHILDS SAYS, “SAM,
homework time. You and Maxie clear the table and get to work.”

We clear, and set up our books on the dining table. Sam's mom does the dishes and his dad sits at his desk doing whatever it is that famous lawyers do. From here it looks very official and like it requires a lot of paperwork and sighing. Sam and I press our toes together under the table while we work.

“I'll drive Maxie home,” Mr. Childs says around eight o'clock. But Sam hasn't finished his English essay, so he has to stay behind instead of riding along with us.

Mr. Childs opens the car door for me. I slide across the bench, run my hands over the leather, not even ripped at the stitches at all. It's not so usual that I get to sit in the front of anything. He comes around and gets behind the wheel. And that's when I realize we're going
to be in here together for a good ten minutes.

A big man. A famous man. It's dark, but I sit proud in the passenger seat, hoping some people will see. I try to think of him as Sam's dad, but I can only imagine his whole name: Roland Childs. Eating at the table with someone special doesn't take off the glow.

The car rides smooth. He drives smooth, hands coasting over the surface of the wheel on the turns. I can't help the places my mind goes, imagining what it would be like if Mr. Childs was my dad. Sam complains about him being stern, but to me he just seems steady. The kind of person who's always there. The kind of person who protects you and who knows how to do what's right. I feel safe, riding with him.

We get all the way to the end of the second block before my mouth kicks in.

“I saw you at the Panther office the other day. I work there, you know.”

Mr. Childs looks at me. “I know. I saw you, too. You're a very efficient envelope sealer, I'd say. You got through that big stack in no time.”

“I've had lots of practice.” It's funny that he noticed me. He's a center-of-attention person, and I'm always in the background. I've watched him up onstage a lot of times, leading marches and protests all over the city. Raheem used to take me to the demonstrations. We made signs with
markers and old cardboard we found on the street. This was all before the Panthers. Before it turned out that there was more we could do.

That's when I realize I'm still rambling. I don't even know what I've said. I clamp my mouth shut. For a second.

“How did you decide to be a lawyer?” The question pops out of nowhere.

“How?” He pauses. Smiles. “Well, I like to talk. I guess it seemed only natural.”

I smile too. I like to talk.

“But the real answer, Maxie, is that I never liked being told I can't do something.”

I look at him.

“It was hard to get into law school as a black man, and that just made me mad.” He thumps the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “I had to try a few times before I got in. The boys were young—” He clears his throat. “The boys were young by that point, and it was a big decision, whether to give it up and provide for them with some other job or go after what I really wanted.”

He stops, and I can tell he's thinking back to those days. Maybe thinking, too, about those little boys, little Sam and little Steve, all diapered up and chubby-cheeked like Betty is right now. It kind of makes me want to giggle, but I don't because it also makes me sad.

“Why do you ask?”

I don't say anything in response. Strangely, I can't find a way to say it out loud.

“Are you thinking of becoming a lawyer? We need more good minds like yours in the mix.”

I blush. Good minds like mine. “No. It's not for me.”

“Maxie,” he says. “Anything in the world can be for you if you want it badly enough. If you work hard for it.”

I gaze out the window, at the shadowy streets. The closed storefronts. Parked cars all cold and quiet. Trash drifting in empty lots. Guys on the stoops who are always on the stoops, never going in, never moving on. Stuck in the same place day after day.

“Do you believe me?” Mr. Childs says. “I'm not saying it's all going to go perfectly. But that's what we're fighting for.”

I
LIKE WHAT MR. CHILDS SAID ABOUT ME HAVING
a good mind. I listen to him say it over and over in my memory. Offhand, easy. Like it might be true.

I want to believe that anything's possible. I scrub the countertop by the sink in the Panther office. My fingers are turning to raisins. First the mop water and now this.

The commotion out front catches my attention. Fingers dripping, I hurry to see what's going on.

Rocco, Slim, Gumbo, and Raheem are back from policing, coming through the door with their shotguns over their shoulders. Rocco and Slim are arguing. “I thought they was about to fire on us,” Slim exclaims. “Why'd you step back like that?”

Rocco barks back, “I thought they was going to fire, too. Tried anything I could think of to tone it down.”

“Had to tone it down,” Gumbo says. “You did good, Rocco.”

“No,” Slim cries. “We shoulda let it go, let them get right up in it. We'd have taken out four or eight of them before they hit us.”

Gumbo throws up his hands. “You got some kinda death wish, brother?”

“Whoa,” Jolene says. “Back it up. Four or eight of them? What happened?”

“Bad day,” Rocco says. He launches into the story. It turns out they had to stop twice to intervene when the cops were pushing on people.

“The second time, they turned on us when we got up in it,” Slim says. “A whole pack of them came up out of nowhere, like they was waiting on us or something.”

“We were this close to getting shot up,” Gumbo says. “We kept our heads on, is all.”

“They were just trying to scare us,” Raheem says. One by one, he takes the shotguns from the other guys and hangs them back on the wall rack. The next shift of policers, including Cherry and Lester, has already rolled out to relieve them.

“No,” Slim declares. “They were ready to jump us. One wrong move and we'd be goners.”

“It wasn't that serious. We handled it.” Raheem drops onto the couch. I start over there to sit by him, but he jumps up, putting space between us. I hate it when he does that,
like I'm not good enough to be near him where people can see. I don't always want to be in his shadow anyway, but I also don't like the thought of him facing down a whole crew of pigs on a weekday afternoon. It makes me want to go and hug him, like he did for me after the shooting.

“I'm outta here,” Slim says, sailing toward the door.

Jolene blocks him with her body. “None of you leaves here until you talk this all out with Leroy or Hamlin.”

“I ain't staying,” Slim says, but he doesn't move to pass her.

“I got work,” Raheem says. “I can't wait for them to roll in.”