My Monticello(25)
MaViolet and I used the dim restrooms—the faucets no longer worked, so we rubbed sticky soap into our palms. Just after MaViolet had settled on our first bench, I heard shouting. Looked like someone had raided the gift shop during the night, knocking over a pyramid of dark chocolate bars and leaving scattered scraps of gold foil and parchment wrappers. When I ventured inside, I found Georgie, arms crossed, standing over KJ—KJ hugging his green suitcase fiercely, with scrawny arms. Mr. Byrd had come too, his salt-and-pepper hair flattened on one side from however he’d rested. Together the old guards told KJ he best open up his bag, Mr. Byrd’s voice appeasing where Georgie’s went bright and trilling. It’s mine, KJ answered, backing between display tables, sweat trailing through tufted curls.
Ezra must’ve heard the commotion. He blundered over in his long denim shorts, his head spangled in naps. Ever since their father passed, we’d all witnessed his brand of grief around the neighborhood: how he stayed on the corner at all hours, voice too loud and tinged in fretful sorrow, fists balled as if ready to fight. Now Ezra settled those restless hands on KJ’s narrow shoulders. Y’all need to leave Little Man alone, he said. That could’ve been anyone.
As the day’s heat rose, we gathered in the patio space outside the café, clustering tables, sharing what little we had in our bags, rechecking our emptied pockets. Knox scratched out something in his gridded notebook and LaToya took a nap curled up on a bench in the sun. Ms. Edith read aloud to herself and beckoned Georgie—whenever he passed—to bring out more waters or something for folks to eat. Papa Yahya made a series of counting games for his children: How many columns could they count between him and the ticket office? How many doors and windows? How many shades of green?
When Devin approached our loose group on the café patio, his face looked softer than it had the night before, with stubble spotting his cheeks. The twins soon followed, talking back and forth between themselves. Elijah had a voice like a brook, a bulldog face, and a scruffy beard that had once been immaculate. He was the bigger twin and had played a single season of college football. Where Elijah was wide, Ezra had a ranginess to him. The twins looked like brothers, but not like the same person, as if one began where the other ended.
The Lord is my strength and my shield, Ms. Edith said.
Ira sank into a café chair as if he were melting. He’d cast off his blue button-down, revealing a bleached undershirt, white hair spilling from the deep V. He had been a lawyer once, a dogged do-gooder who took on lost causes and paid a hefty alimony—hence his retirement near our cluster of government-subsidized homes. Where the hell were the city officials, he was saying. The goddamn firefighters, the police?
Carol nodded to the rhythm of her husband’s rant, while at the same time swatting mosquitoes.
Police, Ezra said. Naw, we need to go back ourselves, find those motherfuckers, and make them pay—
Run on back, sonny! Ira’s snowy hair was shellacked in sweat. They’ll see you coming from a mile away.
Somebody’s gonna pay, Ezra said.
Devin agreed, his voice hedged: Someone would.
As if to demonstrate, Ezra then Elijah hopped up, put their dukes up, bobbing and weaving, a spray of sweat flying from their jostling bodies, like they aimed to box those armed men into submission.
Bring it down! Papa Yahya said. You are frightening the children. Indeed, Jobari and Imani stood mutely behind Mama Yahya, who rocked the baby, her thick curves held in pattern.
Naw, I mean to go back, Ezra persisted, cleaving himself from our small congregation, reminding us that we were no group at all, but only sat together on that patio by terrible circumstance. LaToya sat with crossed ankles in a lone café chair near Ms. Edith, digging an itch from her full amber hair. She’d scoured off her gilded makeup in the night, revealing a face partitioned by freckles. Could be our houses’re burnt to the ground by now, LaToya said. Where exactly are we s’pose to go back to?
She’s right, Knox said, his voice startling me. He’d pulled up a chair on the other side of MaViolet. When he spoke, it hit me, along with a pinch of bitterness: Knox probably could go back to town if he wanted, back to campus and to his dorm room.
But he hadn’t gone back, I reminded myself.
Slowly, Knox began to chart the dimensions of our predicament, calling on the old guards to answer his questions. Mr. Byrd had a working vehicle, a Lincoln Town Car, parked in the lower lot. And in addition to our battered Jaunt, one of the older shuttle buses had some gas in the tank.
Where else could we go? Knox said.
I thought of a day, weeks earlier, when I’d walked across campus to Beta Bridge, with its low guardrail wall covered in generations of student graffiti—exposed layers of paint peeled back in places, looking like sedimentary rock. I’d stood alone watching lines of cars leave town, burdened with luggage strapped to rooftops. In the midst of the storms there’d been a hunkering down, but afterward, people pooled what they had and made their choices to stay or go.
Knox looked around, jotted something in his notebook. But how safe will the roads even be, he was saying.
Devin had knotted his locs high and messy on his head. Who put him in charge, he said, looking around at all the neighbors he knew.
In a way, I agreed; even so, I spoke up. Let him talk, I said. We’ve got to let everybody talk, at least.
Knox kept on, telling everybody else what he’d already told me about traveling from campus to MaViolet’s house days earlier: how perilous town had looked and felt as he’d jogged through it. Neighborhoods either cleared out or marked by signs warning strangers away. Main Street had been deserted, except near the old bus station where he’d passed a platoon of women wearing dingy white clothing, carrying red satchels. They’d asked if he needed food assistance, medical assistance, their collective attention intense but passing quickly over him once he’d declined.