Unexpected Gifts (10 page)

The boys started out on one side of the room, the girls on the other, but as the lights dimmed and the booze kicked in, they filtered towards each other. By the time Barbra was singing, I was safe in Sam's arms, floating slowly around the room. It was Heaven but still no kiss. We didn't partake in the beers, we were too busy focusing on ourselves, but others sure did, and when someone in the middle of the dance floor began to retch loudly, the lights snapped on. The fun was over, our chance to kiss gone.

After Sam's mom brought me home, I entered our dark house and felt my way over to the staircase. The silence felt eerie and I was about to ascend to my bedroom when I caught a hint of light coming from the living room. No sound, just a faint flicker. I carefully crept in, curling around the doorframe to see Rose by herself, holding an empty wine glass and staring at a candle placed on the coffee table, its flame barely moving in the still air.

She must have heard my movements because she suddenly looked over at me with glazed eyes and said, “Oh, it's only you,” before pouring herself another glass.

The next week, “The Beatles are here! The Beatles are here!” rippled through the hallways in urgent whispers, making us late for our next class. I had never seen anything like it before at school. Personally, I bubbled over on the subject, telling anyone within earshot just how much their music got to me. So Sam—bless his heart—using his Christmas money, immediately purchased three tickets, suggesting we call up Leroy and the three of us go see them at Carnegie Hall in Manhattan. Just the Three Wise Men.

I was so excited. The Beatles
and
Leroy! Recently, every time I had tried calling him at their Harlem apartment, his grandmother claimed he was busy and couldn't talk. But this, this event he seemed opened to and for the time being, I felt hopeful. I had gotten my foot back in his door.

“All right,” Mom said, “but I want you to stay with your cousin Maggie in the city after the concert. The Beatles at Carnegie
Hall
, for goodness sake! Carnegie Hall is supposed to be only for world-renowned classical musicians, not for English rock groups. Such a waste of beautiful acoustics!”

I by-passed her lecture and blurted out, “I've got to tell Sadie!”

I thought she was going to explode. “You're-never-to-see-her-again!” she pitched over her shoulder as she exited the room, her chin set at a high angle, her back ramrod straight.

I stood there stunned. What in the
world?
My stomach had already taken on my childhood churnings when it suddenly hit me. Their on-again, off-again arguments. Yes, that's all it was. Another spat.

As the line inched forward in front of Carnegie Hall, my heart grew heavy. I guess Leroy had decided not to come after all. I turned to Sam but his eyes had locked onto something past me, off towards the street.

“There he is! He's coming!” Sam shouted.

He had the same dark chocolate skin, same soulful ebony eyes, but Leroy had evolved into a handsome, young man. No longer wearing the White Plains outfit, he sported a pair of black Sears Roebuck's slacks, sneakers, and a knock-off black leather jacket, up-collared to fight off the frigid wind, something the kids at my school would laughingly call a Ghetto Coat. Still, there was something else about him that kept cropping up in my mind, even after the hugs, the chatter about the Beatles, and the cold climate. As we worked our way through the arched openings of the foyer into the hall, I realized what it was. His eyes had turned guarded, ready for bad things to happen.

Inside Carnegie Recital Hall, it was magnificent. Three separate white and gold embossed plaster balconies swirled gently over the orchestra level, and with the people streaming in to take their seats, I could just feel the growing excitement pressurizing the atmosphere. By eight fifteen, the lights had flickered on and off twice and someone had come out on stage with his arms up in the air. The crowd hushed for the first (and last) time that evening, to listen to his words: “Are you ready, America?” Unified gasps broke out.

“Ladies and gentlemen…Here, direct from Liverpool, England are…” He waited a good two seconds. “…the…
BEATLES!
”

The curtain opened to John, Paul, George, and Ringo and I nearly fell out of my second-tiered seat. The crack of noise was so deafening, people leaping to their feet with flailing arms so jarring, the sustained shrieks so intense, it was a total shock to the system. I kept waiting for the man to come out again, to quiet us down like Principal Thomas always did when kids got too out of control in Assembly, but it never happened. They probably figured it was pointless—the frenzy was too ubiquitous, the raked in piles of ticket money too enticing.

Rose was right. The acoustics
were
a waste. From the second the group started performing, all you could hear was the bass line, faintly hammering out familiar songs. With Sam's binoculars we got a great shot of their lips moving and their Mop Tops bobbing, but that was it. Nothing else. After a while, I stopped watching and looked around me, digesting all the sobbing, wailing, and groaning women. One woman in particular fascinated me. She was probably in her mid thirties, and like Rose, stylishly dressed. She was also making a complete fool out of herself. I stared at her, riveted, then later, realized how grateful I was to her for giving me a new perspective. The Beatles were great but it was time to move on.

Seeing as communication had been reopened with Leroy, I was eager to rekindle our friendship, but the avoidance patterns immediately resumed.

Finally, I had had enough. “Listen, this is getting ridiculous! You've got to see Sam and me!” I demanded, calling him up one day. The silence on the other end thickened.

“
Leroy?
”

“Okay. What do you want to do?”

“We want to come to your place.”

“You don't want to do that. You really don't.”

“Why not?” I was really irritated.

“You would never understand.”

“Why, for god's sake?”

He hesitated. “Because you're—you're white!” he spat out, like hacking up a hair ball.

My voice got steely. “Why are you talking to me that way! What did
I
do!”

“Okay.” He softened, sounding more like the old Leroy.

He talked about an important protest rally he wanted to go to on the night of July 18th, and mentioned maybe we had better plan on staying with my cousin in the city, just in case.

“In case of what?” I wanted to know.

“Well, in case you're bored, or…”

“Or
what?”

“You'll know once you get there.” He left it at that.

Leaving Maggie's, we fled down into the subway like gleeful bandits, excited about seeing Leroy in his own habitat and getting away from any parental supervision. We boarded the local IRT train, then watched station after station flit by. The trip seemed to be taking an awfully long time, and after a while, I started noticing how the higher the station numbers, the fewer the white people. By the time we had reached 125
^th
Street, we were the only Caucasians on the train.

At 125
^th
Street, the car doors shuddered open with a clang, and gingerly stepping over the wide gap between the platform and the train, we both gagged in unison. Years of sweat, soot, and urine bombarded us, seeping instantly into our hair, clothing, and pores. Hostile stares batted at us from every direction, and grabbing Sam's trembling hand, I wished with all my heart, we were back in White Plains as we mounted the old gum-infested stairs to the unknown.

Above ground, black, overflowing garbage bags were on every curbside, emitting waves of stinking refuge that bombshelled our senses. Newspapers, flyers, and tickets left a veneer of white and red colors everywhere you stepped. Clusters of scantily-clad people sat on front stoops, desperate to find relief from their oppressive, non air-conditioned apartments, men in thin undershirts, shorts, and sneakers, women in colorful sleeveless blouses, shorts, and flip-flops, all staring aimlessly into space until they caught sight of us.

We didn't dare ask for directions. That would be tempting fate. Instead, we tried to put imaginary blinders on against all the angry spitting and muttering as we passed and work our way over to Bimmy and Leroy's apartment at a speed-walk pace. Their building was horrifying. Once probably a pleasant four-story apartment complex, now a patched, crumbling, weather-streaked eyesore that should have been demolished years ago.

From a top floor window, Leroy stuck out his head. “Hey, you guys. What'z the haps?”

We just stared up at him.

“Come on up. Apartment 4F.”

We trudged up the rickety stairs and wobbly banisters to their apartment, past stained baby carriages, toys, and garbage cans parked in the hallways. My heart was pulsing up into my head and I soon realized Sam felt the same way because I could hear his breath coming in short, jumpy spurts.

Up on his floor, Leroy stood outside his apartment waiting for us, watching us approach through narrowed eyes. As usual, there were hugs all around only this time, his felt different. He didn't squeeze me as hard as he used to, and his release was almost immediate.

Inside, Sam and I both breathed sighs of relief. It was a cozy, spotless apartment, with floor to ceiling overstuffed bookcases, photographs on the wall (I was in several of them), and little hand-crafted pillows and knick-knacks everywhere. On the painted coffee table, there were various crossword puzzle books along with a stack of the
New York Times
crossword sections with a pen resting across its top.

Some kind of jazz was playing softly in the background.

“That music is really nice. What is it?” I asked, for want of a better topic.

Leroy looked over at me and grinned. “Yeah, that's a real mean song all right. John Coltrane. Bet you've never heard of him, right?”

I shook my head as he sneered. “Thought not.” I could feel my stomach tighten.

“I wish you and Bimmy could bring this apartment with you and we all could live in White Plains,” I blurted out.

Leroy snorted. “Yeah,
right.
Mom and me living in White Plains. Like that could ever happen in this country.”

“What do you mean?”

He brushed that off and asked, “You guys grease yo'chops?

“What?” I cocked my head.

“Dinner, dinner. Did you guys have dinner yet?”

When we shook our heads, he retreated into the kitchen, reappearing with food neither of us recognized. We poked and picked at it while he made comments.

“That's Soul Food, by the way. You're in my neighborhood now!”

We smiled weakly and ate the collards, hog maw, and chitlins, admitting the collards tasted really good, but secretly wanting to chuck the pig stomach and intestines in the trash.

The wall clock struck eight thirty and it was time to go to the rally. Clomping down the stairs, he explained to us what it was all about, his voice rising with excitement. “You probably know about the three Civil Rights workers who are missing in Mississippi.”

“Mississippi? Civil Rights workers?” I floundered.

He gave a disdainful headshake. “Yeah. Well, anyway, this here rally is some heavy shit. It was s'posed to be all about these workers in Mississippi, but then a kid got shot around here the other night, and so we're gonna protest the goon squad policy instead.”