Night on Fire (2 page)

The wind whipped my hair. I gripped the handlebars, hard. Then suddenly, everything changed.

We were the ones standing still, and the highway sped by. Trees, houses, mailboxes flew past, racing up the hill. Meanwhile we were motionless, suspended in space, the bus floating alongside like a silver bubble. Bus passengers watched us through the windows. A little girl tugged her mother's sleeve. A man in a brown hat walked along the aisle, bracing himself on the seat backs.

I wondered where the passengers were going—Montgomery, Monroeville, Mobile. Miss Harper Lee lived in Monroeville. That very morning her picture had been in the paper, with an article saying she had won something called the Pulitzer Prize for
To Kill a Mockingbird
, a book she wrote. They said she had an apartment in New York City and lived in both places. I wished I could live in two places. I would live another life, an important life, doing things that mattered. I loved my family, but I wanted more. I didn't know what, but I needed it desperately, sometimes so much that it ached.

For a moment, I imagined what it would be like not just to chase the bus, but to get on it and leave. I'd travel to Montgomery, the capital of Alabama, or to Monroeville to visit Miss Harper Lee. Maybe she would take me to see her apartment in New York City. I could go anywhere and do whatever I wanted. I would be free.

Free
. Mama said the word sometimes. Her eyes would light up and she'd gaze off into the distance. I wondered what she saw. Did it just mean getting away, like taking a trip? Maybe it was like summer vacation. During school, the summer shimmered in the distance. Then it arrived with a rush, and classes were over. We could sleep late and roam the hills. We could do whatever we wanted, even if it just meant lying in the grass and watching the clouds. Is that what freedom was?

The bus edged forward, and the bubble burst. I was back on my bike, and the bus rumbled on. Grant and I skidded to a stop at the bottom of the hill, in front of Forsyth's Grocery. Grant lifted his camera and snapped some pictures of the bus as it disappeared down the highway.

Isn't it strange how things work? Soon Grant would take pictures again, but the bus wasn't driving along the highway. It was broken down by the road, sides battered, tires slashed. Glass shattered. People screamed. My rosy dreams gave way to a nightmare of blood and flames.

And it all happened on Mother's Day.

CHAPTER TWO

We dumped our bikes in front of Forsyth's Grocery and hurried inside, where it was cool and smelled like melons. Mr. Forsyth stood behind the counter, and his wife, Cleo, was busy arranging fruit in the produce section.

I called out, “Hey, Mrs. F. Save a kumquat for me.”

A few customers wandered the aisles. Old Mrs. Todd was squeezing the bread. Bubba Jakes, a skinny kid in my class at school, was looking over safety razors, as if he needed one.

When we approached the counter, Mr. Forsyth shot us a tired grin. “So, kids, what'll it be?”

“The usual,” I told him.

He reached under the counter, pulled out an open box of 45 rpm records, and set it in front of me.

“Have at it,” he said.

The box contained the latest Top 40 hits, shipped in a batch every week so people like me could snap them up. I spent most of my allowance on records, and Daddy didn't like it.

“Paying for noise,” he would grunt. “That's all you're doing.”

At least it was better than Grant, who spent his allowance on bubble gum. Of course, it wasn't just any bubble gum, as he was quick to point out. It was Topps, and inside every package were baseball cards.

He bought five packages, the way he always did, ripped open the first, and thumbed through the cards inside.

“Frank Robinson!” he exclaimed, stuffing the gum into his mouth and chewing like a cow on caffeine.

Every week, Mr. Forsyth clipped a list of the Top 40 records from
Billboard Magazine
and taped it to the side of the box. Today the list showed that Elvis Presley had both the #2 and #3 records: “It's Now or Never” and “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” I elbowed Grant and showed him.

He snorted. “I can't believe you listen to that mush.”

“It's not mush,” I said. I had to admit though, I liked Elvis better when he was singing about jails and hound dogs.

Records cost more than bubble gum, so the most I could afford was one a week. I flipped through the box and found a song I had enjoyed on the radio.

Grant peered over my shoulder and burst out laughing. “‘Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini'? I'd like to see you try one of those. You've got nothing to hold it up.”

I felt my face get hot, but I didn't want him to know it. I ducked over to the cash register, reached into my pocket, and paid Mr. Forsyth.

“You kids are my best customers,” he said. “Just spend more, huh?”

He gave me my change, then tore off a row of S&H Green Stamps and handed them to me. “Paste those in your coupon book. If you fill it up, you'll win something.”

S&H Green Stamps were Mr. Forsyth's new scheme for promoting the store. You got some with every purchase, and if you filled enough coupon books, you could send off for a prize. He had planted an S&H sign out by the highway, where people would see it and come swarming in.

“Like bees to honey,” he told me.

Or flies. Or mosquitoes. Or ants, like Grant and me.

Across the store, I spotted Janie, the youngest of the Forsyth kids. She was twelve years old and a seventh grader at Wellborn Junior High. Janie had dark hair and glasses and usually could be found in a corner studying. Sometimes I thought she studied because it was the one thing that kept her parents from making her work in the store. But the studying must have paid off, because just a few weeks earlier Janie had won the Calhoun County spelling bee. Tomorrow she would go to Birmingham for the state bee, and half the neighborhood would be there to cheer her on.

I walked over and caught her eye. “Roll Tide,” I said.

It was the state football cheer, but I thought it might be good for spelling too.

Janie flashed a shy grin. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Ready for the big day?”

She showed me the book she was studying. It was a dictionary.

“Problem is, there are too many words,” she said. “Darlene's been helping me though. I reckon I'll do all right.”

Darlene was Janie's older sister. She had won the county spelling bee a few years before at age ten. Those Forsyth girls knew their alphabet. They were spelling fools.

“Janie?” said Grant, who had come up behind me.

She looked up, and Grant snapped her picture.

“Hey,” she said, “I wasn't ready.”

“That's the idea,” said Grant. “It's candid. That means you don't pose. The picture shows what you're really like.”

“So, what am I like?” asked Janie.

Grant gazed at her thoughtfully. “Smart. Nice.”

There was a bump and a crash behind us, and Mr. Forsyth strode over toward the canned goods. We followed and saw a young Negro man about my age. I was surprised because we didn't usually see many Negroes in our neighborhood.

He was kneeling in the soup aisle, with cans on the floor, and I realized immediately what had happened. Mr. Forsyth's motto was “One-Stop Shopping,” which meant he stuffed his shelves with as many different products as they could hold in hopes that people really would do all their shopping at his store. People didn't, but they did bump into the overloaded shelves, like I had a dozen times. Obviously that's what had happened to the young man.

I heard someone behind me and turned to see Bubba Jakes. Behind him, Mrs. Todd squinted through her thick glasses. I had smiled when I'd seen them before, but no one was smiling now.

“What are you doing, boy?” Mr. Forsyth demanded.

I happened to know that Mr. Forsyth was a softy deep down inside, but he sometimes put on a gruff front, especially if he thought it might impress one of his regular customers like Mrs. Todd.

“Sorry, sir,” the young man mumbled. “I'll get it.”

Janie pushed past us and crouched down beside him. “I can help,” she said.

Mr. Forsyth grabbed her arm and pulled her up. “Let him do it.”

“You shouldn't be here,” Bubba told the young man. His voice was low and gruff, as if he was trying to act grown up, the way he'd been doing when he shopped for safety razors.

“Why not?” said Grant. “It's a free country.”

Bubba grunted. The young man looked up at Grant, then gazed at me, as if he had a question but couldn't ask it. His face was open like a book, full of words and feelings if you knew how to read them. I tried to imagine what he was thinking but couldn't. It was like there was an invisible wall between us—white on one side, black on the other. It might seem strange to some people, but in Anniston we were used to it. That's just the way things were.

I wanted to tell him that. Grant was my friend, but part of me agreed with Bubba.
Go home
, I thought.
This is our neighborhood, not yours
.

The young man turned back to the pyramid, carefully placing creamed celery on chicken gumbo, old-fashioned tomato on vegetable beef. When he finished, he got to his feet and nodded awkwardly.

“I'll be careful next time,” he said.

“There won't be a next time,” said Mr. Forsyth. “Leave, and don't come back.”

The young man watched Mr. Forsyth. I saw something in his eyes—an impulse, a feeling—but I couldn't tell what it was. The two of them stared at each other for a long time, and finally the young man looked away. He turned, shoulders slumped, and left the store.

Mr. Forsyth shrugged, almost an apology.

“Personally, I don't mind them coming here,” he said. “But they might bother some of my customers.”

CHAPTER THREE

She always kissed the baby first.

He was cute, I admit, but what about me? I was cute too, if you looked at me just right.

“Hi, Mama,” I said.

“Hello, dear,” she answered, barely looking up.

Mama had arrived home from the army depot, just down the hill and around the corner, where she worked as a secretary. She was wearing a suit with a neatly pressed blouse and scarf. To me, the suit looked stiff and scratchy. Mama didn't seem to mind though, about the suit or the work. If a job had to be done, she would do it. It was that simple.

Mama was like that. She didn't tell jokes and carry on like Daddy. He would be out in front, making noise and taking chances. She would come along behind, cleaning up, making things right, doing what needed to be done. With a strong jaw and clear blue eyes, she wasn't exactly pretty, but something about her was beautiful, especially when she set her mind on something. Her hair was the color of chocolate, and her smile, when she showed it, was surprising, like one of those warm spring days that come along sometimes in the winter.

She had started at the army depot after my father changed jobs with an insurance company in Anniston. I'd never been quite sure what had happened to my father's job. One day he was working at a desk in town, and the next he was out in the countryside, selling insurance to poor families, the way he'd done years ago when I was little.

I was embarrassed to ask Daddy about it, so I'd gone to Mama. That's how it was in my family. Daddy made things happen, and Mama explained, or tried to.

“Your father is good with people,” she said. “You know that, don't you?”

I nodded. Daddy was always laughing and telling stories. If you wanted to find him, you just looked for where the people were.

“He did so well at sales, he was promoted to a desk job,” Mama told me. “He sat in the office all day, shuffling papers and going to meetings. Hated it. Just hated it. One day he blew up in a meeting and yelled at his boss.”

“Really? In the meeting?” It was hard to imagine Daddy blowing up at anybody, let alone his boss.

Mama nodded. “I think he planned it so he could get out of that office and back in the field. His boss was glad to oblige. People around town called it professional suicide. They shook their heads. Some of them laughed. Daddy didn't mind though. He was back on the road, meeting people, telling stories. Being Daddy.”

“And you got a job.”

“I like to keep busy,” she said.

Now, arriving home, Mama set her purse on the rug and got down on her hands and knees, where the baby was squirming on a blanket. She pressed her lips against his bare stomach and blew, making a rude noise. I suppose it was adorable.

The baby's name was Royal. That's right, Royal. As in his highness. It happened to be my mother's maiden name, Mary Lou Royal, but that didn't make it right.

“He's a good little baby,” said Lavender. “But, Lord, can he eat.”

Lavender Jones stood by, watching. She was a large woman with coffee-colored skin and eyes that took in everything. Lavender had been our maid for fifteen years. She cleaned the house and cooked, and when I came along, she took care of me.

As far back as I could remember, Lavender had been there watching me, holding me, comforting me. She was Mama's extra pair of hands, extra smile. Daddy would go off on sales trips, leaving Mama, Lavender, and me. The three of us had our own little world. Then Daddy would come home, and the world shifted. I was happy to have him back, but Lavender wasn't. Daddy treated Lavender differently from the way Mama did. Mama asked; Daddy told. Mama helped; Daddy gave orders. Mama listened; Daddy looked away.

Lavender seemed distant when Daddy was around. She didn't smile or sing the way she did with me. She didn't hum to herself when she was cooking or tell stories when she was folding clothes. But Lavender always smiled when she saw Royal, even when Daddy was home. She loved that boy. She was like his second mother. Which was fine, except that I wanted her to be
my
second mother.