Unexpected Gifts (11 page)

“Goon squad?” I repeated.

“You know, the white
pigs!”

“I—I don't know, Leroy, if Sam and I should go…”

Sam instantly chimed in. “I agree. Maybe we should just take the subway back to…”

“Back to your safe,
white
little world?” My stomach was performing flipflops.

We stood there on that precipice of indecision, unable to move. Then Leroy broke the ice with a “Oh, come on. Go for it. Experience something different in your lives. Just think, maybe this'll even be good for you.” He had switched back to his old tone and we relaxed a little. It's true. Maybe we had been living in a cocoon out in White Plains.

We walked by a white cop who smiled at Leroy. “How's things, Leroy?” he said. Then he saw us. His face instantly turned deadly serious. “Get ‘em outta here, Leroy. There may be trouble tonight.”

Leroy nodded. He waited for the cop to disappear, then signaled us to keep going. Walking through the streets, I noticed Sam's and my hands were clasped together in a viselike grip as we stayed glued to Leroy. He was our protector for the night and as we came up to the crowds of people gathered at 125
^th
Street my heart started pounding so hard, I thought my chest was going to explode.

All along 125
^th
were makeshift platforms, formed mostly out of wooden crates. The first man we passed was barking at the gathering crowd, “…we're sick n’ tired of going downtown, working for The Man an' then come home and the white cops beat us to death!” Cheers and applause erupted as we moved on to the next speaker.

His soapbox was comprised of three crates, nailed together; obviously he was more professional. He was wearing a full suit and had several people behind him, all well-groomed.

“Don't listen to Martin Luther King, brothers and sisters,” he was shouting. “I know some of you's gonna Tom us Black Folk out. And you know who you
are
! Jest remember, they's
them
and we're
us!
Now Brother Malcolm's the Man.
He's
where it's at! He knows about the White Devils, the Klux Klaners.
He's
the one!” People were screaming, stomping their feet, and raising their arms up towards the sultry sky.

Leroy turned to us. “Those Malcolm X dudes be bashing Martin Luther King now!”

Suddenly, the crowd moved as a unit towards a police precinct. “To the 28
^th
, to the 28
^th
! Let's get rid of Lt. Gilligan!” they shouted.

I turned to Leroy as we were being pulled along with the crowd. “Who's Gilligan?”

“He's the white cop who killed the young kid…”

His face was turning hard again, and as Sam and I were being swept along towards the police station like two white specs in a dark, turbulent river about to overflow its banks, fear gripped me like a choke collar.

“What these honkies doing here?”

“Throw da white kids out!”

“Show these white kids what we
really
gonna do!” were spat at us as I glanced over at Leroy's profile. Finally, we all ended up in front of the police station, where several well-dressed men at the front trotted up the steps and went inside. The crowd was packed as tight as the upright cigarettes in Mom's cigarette canisters. I suddenly thought of Rose, and for the first time in my life, felt an intense longing for her and our world.

Outside the precinct, one of the leaders held up a bullhorn. “The head of the 28th said there will be full investigation of Lt. Gilligan's actions. So, let's just stay calm for now and go home. There's nothing more we can do tonight.” He turned to his fellow principals who both nodded.

But the mob stood their ground. A man called out, “The
hell
with doing nothing. There is something we can do tonight!” He reached down and picked up a brick. With a back swing, he launched it directly into a nearby store window, splintering glass all over the sidewalk. A few people cheered as another person grabbed a garbage can and hoisted it over his head. The crowd roared as he tossed it up towards the police station steps. Fascinated, we watched it bounce against the top step, then roll and jump, roll and jump downwards like the slinky Sadie had given me on my tenth birthday. Sadie. Oh, God. Would I ever see her again?

Ashen cops appeared from out of nowhere, surrounding the crowd with their riot gear and clubs poised for action. Several teenagers ran over to a dilapidated building and scraped the crumbling mortar clear of loosely embedded bricks, and as the police started swinging their batons in warning, the kids flung the bricks towards the helmeted men, then all hell broke loose.

Sam, Leroy, and I ran for cover behind a car, rocks and bottles flying past us hurricane force towards pane glass store windows. I had never seen a Molotov cocktail before, and when one exploded fifteen yards from me, I started to sob. Sam tried to shield me with his body, his face alive with a fierce protectiveness, while Leroy stared at me in horror, and the cop's earlier words of “Get ‘em outta here,” reverberated in my head over and over again like a scratched record. More and more people were arriving—there must have been thousands—all black, their faces twisted with hate, shouting, running, and ducking police as the night sky grew smoky gray from tear gas and raging fires.

Coughing, hacking, we took off towards a back alley, where a huge black man plus two companions accosted us. “Where the fuck do you think you're goin’?” he growled. We froze. Then he turned to his friends. “Looky what I got here! Miss Jane thing and her ofay boyfriend, or are you her boyfriend?” he sneered as he poked his stubby finger into Leroy's chest.

Another one chimed in. “Yeah. Maybe the dude be screaming Kill Whitey and all the while he be sleepin’ with a bale of straw!” The others grunted, their sweaty chests heaving.

Sam shoved me behind him as Leroy tried to stand his ground. “Look, man, they're with me. Leave ‘em be, okay?”

The men's eyes didn't soften. “Why should we? Did that Powell kid get a break from The Man when that motherfucker shot him? Let ‘em getta taste of what
we
live with!”

I closed my eyes and thought of everything that had ever comforted me—Sam, Sadie, Bimmy, the old Leroy, even Rose, encasing me like a warm cocoon. I waited, listening to the men grumbling to themselves when suddenly, I heard Leroy say, “Wait, Officer Stiles, it's okay, it's okay.”

I opened my eyes to that earlier cop, one hand swinging his club wildly at the men, the other gripping a handgun. Two of the men high-tailed it out of there, but the ringleader wasn't so lucky. As we escaped, I turned back to see Officer Stiles pistol-whipping our assailant until the man collapsed on the ground in a bloody heap.

We made it to the 125
^th
subway and scurrying down the steps, galloped towards the safety of the inside turnstiles. People were jumping over turnstiles from the other direction, trying to get to all the commotion above ground and fortunately, ignoring two white teenagers. As the three of us stood on the subway platform, Leroy placed his hand on each of our shoulders, blinking back tears.

“What can I say, Lily, Sam? I was so scared you both were gonna get messed up. I'm so,
so
sorry.”

I took his hand and looked at my old friend through my own mist. “I know, Leroy, I know. I just…”

He was still clasping my hand. “What?”

“I just wish things had turned out different, that's all…” I whispered. He nodded and with a long sigh, dug his hands deep into his jeans pockets to turn back to his world while Sam and I returned to ours and the whole time we rode the train down to Maggie's, neither one of us spoke a word. We just leaned into each other, drained.

Later, my cousin accepted our lateness as a product of being young and wanting to experience the big city. Without a word about our dirt-streaked clothes and lame excuses, she staggered off to bed, yawning and wishing us both good night along with a ‘Don't stay up too late in the living room, kids’. We lay on the couch with the TV on, watching the screen turn into a grainy fuzz, too numb to think. But in those quiet morning hours, cuddling on the sofa with my new found hero, I got the one thing I had wanted above all else—Sam's kiss.

Midterms. Chilling the air and escalating everyone's stride. Marveling at how fast students were scurrying to their next exam, cram session, or the campus cafeteria to maintain a caffeine high, Sonia was still chuckling as she entered her group's study room.

“Something funny, Sonia?” Mark was officious as ever.

“I was just noticing all the people racing to get everywhere. Midterm Syndrome they should call it, no?” Cackles filtered throughout.

Mark was humorless. “I guess. Okay, the only person we're still waiting for is Harry. If he can't get here on time, maybe he shouldn't be a part of our group.” He waited for a general approval that never came. “Well, I think we should have some rules in here, shouldn't we? I mean, we all have things to do, we…”

Harry charged in, plopped down, and unraveling his scarf from his neck, looked around quizzically. “So?” Everyone laughed except Mark who remained focused on the table. When he started passing out his own study materials (never mind Prof. Seidell), Sonia could feel her blood slowly percolating. No one else seemed to notice except Harry, who gave her a tiny wink before diving in himself.

Mark held up a couple of brain scan images in full Technicolor. “Folks, look at this horizontal view of the prefrontal cortex. Notice how spacious it looks when the activity is good, but on the left scan, see how bubbly this image looks when activity is decreased.” Everyone drew their photos in closer.

Remembering how excellent Prof. Seidell's lecture was last week on the same subject, Sonia couldn't sit still any longer. “Well, Prof. Seidell went over this exact same material, just last week.”

“Sonia, is your nit-picky OCD issues working overtime?” Mark sneered.

“Mark, maybe you have control issues,” Harry butted in.

Flipping around to confront him, Mark's face had turned crimson, a single vein on one side of his neck throbbing. People started peppering the room with side questions and comments to relieve the tension as Sonia looked over at Harry and smiled.

After that, it was pure academia, with Mark again employing the Socratic method, the others, tossing their two cents in every once in a while. By nightfall, the group was officially brain dead when Mark brought up getting a drink somewhere.

“Hey, Sonia, when are you going to get us into that club where Mike is always playing? You do have enough pull to do that for us, right?” he asked.

“Of course. But not tonight. I'm planning on going home and crashing.” The nods were unisoned.

Back in her apartment, she pulled paper after paper from her backpack, then stacked them neatly in front of her, lining up things she was going to review first on the right, essay questions on the left. She did a couple of taps then stopped. Oh, my God! she thought, catching herself in a tight, pursed-lip position, just like Grandma Rose used to do when she was working on a recipe.

Several yoga breaths later, she turned off the desk lamp, got up, settled down on the couch, and switching on the TV low volume, inched towards sleep as her mother's diaries drifted through her mind.

When the phone rang, it shattered her peace. “Mike! What's up?” Her yawn made the last two words unintelligible.

“Hey, I'm calling to ask you a favor.”

Pause. “Tonight? Oh, Mike, I'm beat, I…”

“Not tonight. Tomorrow afternoon.”

“After my big exam, you mean.”

“Oh, yeah, that. Yes, after your big exam. Can you help me with Ned?”

“Doing what exactly?” She was already sitting upright on the edge of the couch.

“I need you to come with me over to Ned's to tell him he's gone.”

She jumped up. “What? Why me?”

“Because he really, really likes you. You two have a connection. And by the way, it's not just me. The whole band agrees, it'd be better if you were there.”

“Who's this new manager by the way?”

“His name is Steve Marconi. He's a good friend of the club owner, Julius. He's a real go-getter, Sonia. I know he'll do a better job than Ned.”

“I don't know, Mike.”

“Babe, you do this for me, for us, I'll treat you right…” His voice deepened.

After her exam, she ignored Harry's concerned looks and Mark's sneers and hurried over to Ned's place. She should have known better. When she arrived all the guys looked surprised at her presence. “Hey, girl. What are
you
doing here?” Shannon's husband Pete exclaimed.

Sonia pulled Mike aside. “All the guys want me here?”

“Sure, Babe. They've just forgotten they said it the other day. You know how brain dead they are sometimes. Anyway, here's what I want you to do…” He gave her a short list of what to say to Ned, then patted her on the back, whispering, “You'll do fine. You're good at this shit.”

Ned finished offering drinks and said, “Okay, for what do I owe this honor?”

Mike turned his eyes on Sonia and nodded. “Ah, Ned,” she started, “I just wanna say, we all think you're a great guy and how you've done so right by the band. Tried and true…”

“Why, thanks, Sonia. That's sweet of you to say that.” Ned smiled but his eyes read caution.

She took a quick breath. “Having said that, sometimes people need to—need to move on, you know?”

He glanced at Mike, then turned back to Sonia. “Move on?”

Mike gave Sonia another go-ahead nod. “Ned, you're really wonderful and there isn't a person in this room that doesn't think so. It's just the band's been feeling like they want to be more creative and sometimes when you've been with people for a long time, you tend to get stuck in a rut, you know.” Her voice had weakened to a half squeak.

“Stuck in a rut? What the hell does that mean, Sonia? And why are
you
telling me this?”

He turned to Mike. “You let your lady do all the talking? Why don't you have the balls to say something, Mike?”

There were several throat clearings and swigs of tequila before Mike spoke. “Okay, I will. Bottom line is, Ned, you're out. We're going with someone new. Sorry, but it happens in showbiz sometimes, no?”

Ned was as white as his lampshades. “Maybe it would have been better if Sonia had continued talking…” he muttered.

They all shuffled out, leaving Sonia behind to give Ned a real embrace. Once again, she reiterated how invaluable he had always been and how sorry she was to bring him this news, but he simply patted her on her shoulder and warned her to beware as he closed the door behind her. Down on the street, Mike nuzzled her neck and cooed, “Thanks, Babe. You're the best! ”

She couldn't erase the image of Ned and an excited, well-dressed Leroy being told he couldn't go to that white boy's party. Stumbling on the subway steps, she tapped on the handrail all the way down to the train, where people took one look at her and stayed clear, wondering why this pretty girl, who should have the world at her feet, was sitting all alone, sobbing.

When the elevator opened on her floor, she tried to move. Clang. The doors slammed shut leaving her inside. She reached over for the open button, and almost made it out the second time, but not quite. By the third time, her neurons fired up enough to put her on the move. She staggered out of the elevator and over to her apartment where her neighbor, Mrs. Sanborne stood, holding a cat.

“Hey, Sonia, you've gotta help me. My other cats won't accept Petra.”

Sonia raised her eyebrows. “And?”

“And I was hoping you could take her in with you. If I return her to the pound she'll probably get euthanized, you know?”

What else could possibly happen today? Sonia wondered as Petra was gently placed in her arms. Trusting blue eyes, gray fur like velvet, she started licking Sonia's hand with her sandpaper tongue.

“What's with the Russian name, Mrs. Sanborne?”

“Why, she's a Russian Blue cat. Not thoroughbred of course, but a good eighty-five percent I believe. I'll be right back with all her supplies. Much thanks, Sonia, you're a doll.”

Yeah, yeah. I'm a doll all right, Sonia nodded, taking her new child into her lair. “This is it, kid. Might as well get used to my insanity,” she said, knowing Grandma Rose would never have had one of these in her house.

Even with the kitty litter box in place under her bathroom sink and beyond exhausted, Sonia still had trouble letting go. She kept petting the cat's sensory-laden face with special knuckle rubs, and each time Petra performed in the litter box, Rose's granddaughter stood over her, the scooper poised for cleanup.

The next evening, sandwiched between The Girls, Sonia leaned back, drink in hand, to enjoy
Grand Elbow
being in top form. There was Shannon's husband Pete, the bass player; Will, the drummer; Snooky on keyboards; lead guitarist, Jonathan, and finally, rhythm guitarist Mike, whose husky, emotional vocals could still send her chills.

After a while, she switched her gaze towards the crowd, gathering a panoramic view. At the front entrance was her Psych group. Mark looked around like a kid in a candy store, Ana and Pamela were riveted on the stage, Harry was staring straight at her.

She motioned them over. “Wow. You're all here,” she managed, not quite able to look at Harry directly.

Just then the set ended and working his way through shoulder pats and kisses, Mike joined them. Pamela and Ana instantly gravitated to his side, oohing and aahing themselves silly, Mark commenting nonstop on how electrifying the club and all the beautiful girls were. Harry just watched.

“Drinks all around?” Mike grinned, suddenly magnanimous, in spite of thinking the psych students were such a waste of space, Sonia mused. Laughing and joking, the university group was soaking up being in the spotlight of the band, their women, and Sonia's guy. All except Harry, who leaned in toward Sonia.

“How are you? ” he said, his eyes searching her face.

It was unnerving how he seemed to sense whenever she was holding something back, she thought as the new manager, Steve, swaggered over, drenched with gold chains. He placed his arm around Mike, explaining to the entire group to get ready, they were in for a great ride with him. In fact, he was going to take this group to the moon and back. Everyone looked starry-eyed, particularly Mark, but one glance at Harry's narrowed eyes and Sonia knew she had an instant ally.

Throughout the night, Will, Snooky, and Jonathan looked cheerful. Pete did not. Another ally? Sonia wondered as Julius the club owner came over, giving Steve a quick hug before turning to the group. Uni-browed and sweaty, he was obviously in the midst of receiving hair replacement implants to cover up his Male Patterned Baldness. He talked about the band as if they were his own private entertainment center and when Steve mentioned they were going places, he immediately brought it all back to him and how he got the group started. Then he looked down at his watch.

“Hey, fellas, last set,” he grumbled, then promptly smiled to offset his toughness.

When the band went back on stage, Harry leaned towards her. “You don't like him, do you?”

“No. I don't like him and I don't like Steve. I just don't get it.”

But by night's end, Mike again played the perfect host. He invited the entire psych group to come backstage, to see how a band breaks down and go over their performance notes. Mark and the girls were excited, Sonia preferred to stay with the pregnant Shannon. “Okay, guys,” Steve ordered, “let's go off and get some things straight before we break down.”

Mark and the girls followed obediently, delighted to be included in this group tête-a-tête, Harry less so. “Okay, Jonathan, you're great, but you kind of took over the last two songs. Hang back a little, man. Snooky, we could hear even more from you. Will, okay job, man, thanks! Pete, where are those bass notes coming from, man? Are they even part of the right scale? Mike, perfect. Just perfect. All right! Let's break down and go home.”

Amidst the babble of talk and high five's, Harry noticed Pete was not smiling.

“Hey, girls. Would you like the grand tour of the equipment room?” Steve was on a roll.

Pamela and Ana both nodded, giggled, and traipsed after him, Will, Pete, Jonathan, and Snooky. Mike was left with Harry and Mark.

“Hey, man. You are so lucky to be around all these beautiful girls at the club!” Mark exclaimed.