No Place (19 page)

 36 

It’s dark and I’m still in my sleeping bag. I listen to my parents’ breathing—Dad’s light snore, Mom’s whiffs of exhalation. I’ve been sleeping in this tent for weeks and it still surprises me every morning when I wake and realize where I am. But this morning there are other sensations as well—hunger and dread. Last night, maybe for the first time in my life, I went to bed hungry and was kept awake for a long time while my stomach growled for food. Now I wish I had signed up for free school breakfasts as well as lunch.

Tonight’s the demonstration at Town Hall. I can’t shake this ominous feeling that something bad is going to happen. But what can I do? Dad’s determined to go through with it. I slide out of the sleeping bag, quietly get dressed, and head out for school and something to eat.

*  *  *

I manage to sleepwalk through my classes until government and politics, where Ms. Mitchell fires up the SMART Board and projects the front page of the
Median Buzz
. The headlines read:

POLICE REPORT: NO EVIDENCE OF SECOND HOMELESS ATTACK

OPPOSITION TO DEMONSTRATION GROWS

MAYOR GEORGE ASKS BOTH SIDES TO STAY HOME

“Who wants to go first?” she asks.

While the usual suspects raise their hands, I’m wondering what’s going on.
No evidence of the second attack?

“So the police are saying the second incident never took place?” Justin auto-tech troll asks.

“Let’s just say they’ve cast doubt on it,” replies Ms. Mitchell.

“Then what’s the point of the demonstration tonight?” asks Susan Barrow.

Ms. Mitchell lifts her chin and looks around the room. I raise my hand. “If Mayor George wants to stop the demonstration, what would prevent him from having the police department issue that statement just to put doubt in people’s minds?”

“You’re saying the mayor and the police are lying, Dan?” Ben asks, but not in a condescending way.

“No, I’m saying that we don’t know how deeply they
investigated the second attack,” I reply. “Maybe they just didn’t look hard enough.”

The United States of Part-Time Law Enforcement . . .

Quiet in the classroom. And now that I think about it, I can’t help seeing Ben’s point. If there really had been a second attack, how could the mayor and police pretend there hadn’t been?

The victim never came forward.

Dad said the only person she’d confided in was him.

When class ends, Ms. Mitchell asks me to stay behind. Now what? Is she going to ask me to do a special report on the demonstration tonight?

She waits until the last student has left the room. “Dan, I want you to know how impressed I am.”

Huh?

She continues: “I know this has been an extremely difficult experience for you, but what you may not realize is that it’s probably been a very valuable one as well. You’re not the same person you were when school began. You’ve become more thoughtful, and caring, and introspective. Even if you don’t say another word between now and the end of the semester, I’ll still probably give you an A.”

*  *  *

I usually don’t see Noah until lunch in the cafeteria, so when I find him waiting for me at my locker, I know something’s up. “I said I’d be there this afternoon,” I assure him. “No way I’m missing two workouts in a row.” ’

“It’s not that.” He hands me an envelope. “Tory asked me to give this to you. She didn’t want to do it in front of everyone at lunch.”

Inside the envelope is a coupon book for free food at any Pizza Grandé. A few weeks ago I might have been riled, but not after last night, when I went to bed hungry. I slide the envelope into my pocket. “Thanks, man.”

“Thank Tory,” Noah says.

At lunch I catch her eye and nod my appreciation silently. She smiles briefly, then looks away before Talia or anyone else notices. A few moments later Noah squints down at his lap. His phone’s vibrating, and with raised eyebrows, he passes it under the table to me and mouths Oscar’s name.

The table goes quiet, knowing that if a lunch monitor catches us, Noah risks losing his phone. Talia gives me a concerned look. “Back in a sec,” I whisper. The band room across the hall from the cafeteria is empty and I squeeze into a corner where I won’t be seen.

Redial.

“This Dan?” Oscar answers.

“Yeah.”

He tells me where to be at seven o’clock tonight. But that will be in the middle of the demonstration. “Can we do it another time?”

Oscar grunts, “You kidding me?” as if just setting this meeting was a herculean endeavor.

So that’s my choice: go to the demonstration, where I’ll
be one in the crowd, or have a real opportunity to get some information about who beat up Aubrey.

“See you later.”

Crossing the hall to the cafeteria, I spot Mason sitting alone at the march on Washington sign-up table, reading a book. Now that I think of it, he’s been alone the last few times I’ve passed. On the wall behind him a corner of one of the posters has come unstuck and folds over.

“How’s it going?” I ask.

He looks up from the book,
The Grapes of Wrath
—right, he’s a junior; we read it last year. He gestures at the empty table. “Can’t you tell? It’s a mob scene.”

I nod at the book. “Kind of timely, huh?”

“Scary timely. Listen.” He flips to a folded-down page and reads: “ ‘Fear the time when the strikes stop while the great owners live—for every little beaten strike is proof that the step is being taken . . . fear the time when Manself will not suffer and die for a concept, for this one quality is the foundation of Manself, and this one quality is man, distinctive in the universe.’ ”

I tap the half-empty sign-up sheet. “Think the time to fear has come?”

He shrugs. “Unless they’re homeless and hungry themselves, most people just don’t care. . . . How’re
you
doing?”

“Hangin’ in.”

“Must be like the Weedpatch Camp over there, huh?” He gestures to the book.

“Guess so . . . strange, isn’t it? That book was written
seventy or eighty years ago, and here we are again. At least, some of us.” My eyes meet his and I wonder if anyone who isn’t living in Dignityville can really truly understand. Then I get the answer.

Mason leans forward. “We’ve got this little two-bedroom apartment over our garage? It’s just sitting there. I’ve been talking to my parents about letting someone use it. It doesn’t seem right to leave it empty when people are in need, you know?”

 37 

While Noah drives me back to Dignityville that afternoon, I can’t help thinking about Mason’s offer. I hate the idea that my family has gotten to the point where people are offering charity, but at the same time I really appreciate the fact that others are willing to help. His parents have nothing to gain by letting us stay in their spare apartment. It’s simply from the goodness of their hearts.

But it’s soon obvious that not everyone feels generous toward the homeless. In town Noah and I are sent on a detour. Lining police barricades are people with signs that say:
GET A JOB, OCCUPY A DESK, YOU WANT SOCIALISM? MOVE TO SPAIN, OCCUPY REALITY, REAL PEOPLE WORK.

What’s surprising is how many there are. Can they all be from Median? Has the news about tonight’s demonstration spread that quickly?

A few blocks away the crowd of pro-homeless demonstrators has spilled onto the sidewalk outside Dignityville.
Their signs read:
POLICE PROTECTION FOR ALL, THE HOMELESS ARE HUMANS TOO, WE WANT TO WORK—WHERE ARE THE JOBS?

Dad’s on the sidewalk with a megaphone, warning the crowd not to react to taunts from the opposition: “This is a nonviolent protest. No matter what they say, no matter what they do, do not respond, do not engage. Our intention is not to change the minds of those who are against us. We’re going there to make a point to the mayor and town council.”

In the car Noah gives my thigh a supportive slap. “Good luck. Don’t get hurt.”

I get out and work my way through the crowd to Dad, who’s huddling with Wade and Joel.

“Dad?” I tap him on the back.

He turns, looking grim and determined. “Hey.”

“Can we talk for a second?”

“Now? I’m in the middle—”

“It’s superimportant.”

He asks Wade and Joel to wait. In a low voice I tell him the police don’t believe there was a second incident.

“I heard that. They’re wrong,” Dad states flatly.

Knowing that everyone from Dignityville is supposed to be here, I gesture to the crowd. “Where is she?”

His face reddens. “She . . . doesn’t want to be identified.”

“I swear I won’t tell a soul.”

We stare at each other. Is he not answering because he’s realizing that I know any answer he gives will be a lie?

I finally ask, “Why, Dad?”

He looks everywhere but at me. “We’ll talk . . . later.”

“You know there’s a mob in town waiting for you? I’m not sure they’re all from around here.”

“We’ve heard.”

Mona and Stella are in the crowd from Dignityville, and so are one or two mothers with kids in strollers who must have moved in more recently. “You
sure
you want to do this, Dad?”

“I don’t want to,” he replies somberly. “I have to.”

*  *  *

By the time the demonstration begins, I’m standing many blocks away on an empty corner in the dark, waiting and feeling nervous. Since Oscar’s involved, I don’t think I’m in any danger, but I’m still wondering if this is the right thing to do.

The Range Rover pulls up and Oscar lowers the window. “Get in.”

I do as I’m told.

It’s not long before we enter a sketchy neighborhood on the outskirts of Burlington—boarded-up storefronts, empty lots strewn with garbage and rubble, row houses with bars over the windows and doors. Oscar pulls to the curb in front of a row of low, dark buildings and cuts the engine.

It’s a quiet block. Lights are on in some of the houses. Others are dark. Now and then a car passes, but there’s hardly anyone out on the sidewalks. Oscar sits quietly while I fight the urge to fidget.

We wait. . . .

Oscar harrumphs. “You ever wonder why this Dignityville thing is mostly about the white middle class and not folks from the hood?”

“Tell me.”

“We know the score . . . known it since the day we stepped off the slave ship. Why pay a free white man an honest wage to pick cotton when you could get an African slave to do it for nothing? They call it free enterprise . . . and for two hundred years it ain’t changed. It’s still about paying the peons at the bottom less than they deserve so that the fat cats at the top can keep more than they need.”

“Amen, brother.”

Oscar smirks. “Yeah,
you
know. The only difference now is all these middle-class white people are getting shoved down to the bottom, where they never thought they’d be. They thought all they had to do was get a college degree and it would be smooth sailing. Maybe they wouldn’t be millionaires, but they’d have a house and a car and a boat and two weeks’ vacation. Yeah, life would be sweet. Only now that’s gone away and they’re buzzin’ around like a bunch of angry hornets whose hive just got squashed.”

“Can you blame them?” I ask.

“Naw, but it’s kind of fun to watch. All these folks getting bent out of shape ’cause they ain’t getting what they thought they were entitled to.”

“I guess when you come down to it, no one’s really
entitled
to anything.”

Oscar chuckles. “What are you, un-American?”

Knuckles rap on a rear window. I start to turn, but Oscar mutters, “Don’t look.”

Someone gets into the backseat. The odor of cigarettes and alcohol creeps into the air.

“He cool?” a gravelly voice asks.

“Yeah,” Oscar replies, then nods at me. “Go ahead.”

Without turning around I explain that I want to know why Aubrey was beaten.

The gravelly voice says, “Because someone wanted it to happen.”

“Who?” I ask.

“A guy.”

“What guy?” Oscar asks for me.

The voice doesn’t answer.

“Go on,” Oscar says.

“I don’t know. Small guy. Wore a suit.”

“You mean, like about a hundred million other small guys in suits?” Oscar asks sardonically.

“Walked with a cane.”

My insides involuntarily tighten.

No . . . freaking . . . way!

“Any other questions?” Oscar asks me.

There have to be, but I’m so shocked by what I’ve heard that it’s hard to think. “Uh, how’d he get to you?”

“A guy named Paul. Used to run sports programs at the youth center.”

It hits me like a knock-down pitch.
Dad?
My stomach feels like it wants to turn itself inside out.
It can’t be true.
Why would my father help Mr. Purcellen do something like that?

“Any
other
questions?” Oscar asks impatiently.

It’s so hard to think. I’m stunned.

“Last chance,” Oscar says.

I scramble to make sense of it. Aubrey said the beating was deliberate. “Any idea why the guy in the suit wanted to have my friend’s brother beaten up?”

“No,” the gravelly voice answers.

A second passes, then the door behind me opens and slams shut.

*  *  *

As soon as Oscar drops me back in Median, I start down the dark sidewalk toward Dignityville. It’s after nine now and the demonstration should be over. My brain feels like it’s on spin cycle, going around and around but not getting anywhere.

Why would Dad help Mr. Purcellen harm Aubrey?

Ahead I see something that propels me into a jog. Flashing red and blue lights bathe the entrance to Dignityville, and the street is filled with police cars, fire trucks, and media vans. I assume the demonstrators have clashed. But wouldn’t that have happened over at Town Hall?

A crowd is milling around in the street in front of the entrance, which is blocked with strips of yellow crime scene tape. A lot of the people outside are Dignityville residents . . . the ones who should be
inside.