My Monticello(27)

Ira leaned down toward the closer hen—it had reddish-brown lacing through its feathers. It pecked at Ira’s hand, then skirted away. How should I know, Ira said.

Ms. Edith cooled herself with the fan she’d constructed from a glossy leaflet, a stubborn back-and-forth motion. The Lord is my light, my salvation, she said, and whom shall I fear?

Shuddup already, Ira told her. Do you ever just shut the hell up?

Hardly missing a beat, Ms. Edith flung a sharp stack of leaflets in Ira’s direction, catching him in his hunched shoulder.

Ira skittered in his chair. I can’t stay here with you people! He called out to Mr. Byrd, demanding keys to a vehicle, any vehicle.

Ms. Edith responded coolly, not looking at Ira. If he gets keys, I get keys. I’ll drive to Mount Zion. I’ll drive to Columbia Heights.

I’ve got to get out of here, Ira said.

We heard a lock turn then. Our eyes all flew to the café, where Georgie had shut himself inside, separating us from most of the food and bottled water. We could see him through the glass, his features twitching with fear or excitement, his cranberry belly compressed against the glass door. Mr. Byrd was already hurrying over from the ticket office, but Ezra got to the door first. You kidding me, Ezra said, his back bathed in sweat. He pummeled the glass with the heel of his palm. Oh hell no, Ezra said.

Ezra turned as if to walk away, then doubled back, producing a handgun from the back of his shorts, pressing it flush against the glass.

Mama Yahya’s arms seemed to multiply as she deftly looped in Jobari and Imani, who’d careened forward to try to get a better view. KJ’s eyes were trained on Ezra too, even as the boy ferried something dark and sweet into his mouth. MaViolet pushed herself to her feet. Young man! she said, her face steeped in worry on top of worry. Georgie remained frozen on the other side of the glass, his eyes on Ezra’s gun.

Put that away, son, Mr. Byrd was saying.

Someone must’ve gotten Elijah, because he came sprinting from the Jaunt toward his twin, with Devin close behind. C’mon now, Elijah kept saying to Ezra, trying to peel his brother’s smaller body from the door with patient hands. But Ezra bucked, threw out an elbow, knocking a grunt from Elijah’s throat. Elijah cocked his arm back and struck Ezra two times on the face. In the jostling that followed, the gun fell to the ground. The twins toppled too, knocking over a tower of chairs. Elijah worked to pin Ezra down, but Ezra resisted, biting and scratching. Mr. Byrd swept the gun out of reach. Devin shouted at Ezra and Ira shouted at Elijah. Ms. Edith prayed sternly and Knox took a stumbling step back. Papa Yahya scolded his children for having been too close to danger once again. You must listen to me, he said.

Beside me, MaViolet winced.

I was up and teetering on my feet.

I remember looking out at all those people, most of whom I’d seen or known over months or years—several whom I loved. Everybody was yelling or cowering or sneering, angry or afraid. I blinked, and their familiar faces blurred into the profiles of the men with fire, those other faces distorted by rage. I opened my big mouth, my voice, deep like Momma’s when it needed to be. I remember I shouted, We’re here!

Everybody froze. Even Ira, who’d been laughing sourly. Even Ezra, who had a bruise beginning to darken his cheek. I could feel Knox beside me, his eyes fixed on me, like he was surprised by that voice of mine. Mr. Byrd unlocked the café door, a slow turn of a key, and Georgie stood sweating in its gap. I let out a long and trembling breath.

We were together and safe, but how safe, I said. And how would we ever get home, if we couldn’t work together. It was only by chance that we’d gotten away, and we were fools if we thought we were out of danger. It was up to us, just us, I said, to turn that fragile grace into something more.

Words flew from me, but afterward, they felt weightless. Above us, through the atrium, I saw a swooping silhouette: a lone bat or a sparrow in flight. It was already dusk again. A full pale moon was rising, and I felt exposed beneath it.

Weaving through a maze of chairs and people, I retreated toward the restroom. Even at the entrance, the stink of unflushed toilets hit me. I gagged but nothing came up—my body dense with a sick, held-in feeling, like I was carrying something impossibly heavy that I could not set down, not even for a moment. I leaned against the wall, flicking the switch out of habit. My fingers—even after all those weeks—still reaching for the world as it once had been.

I made my way to the sinks in the low light, feeling like I’d only added to the chaos. In the mirror, I could barely make out my reflection, my hair pulled into two messy knots, my face black and blue like the ebony sculptures Momma used to collect. I planned to come out and say to everybody, What do I know? I planned to come out and apologize.

When I finally came out, everyone was still standing near the café, their bodies close. I could hear a voice, unsteady but rising: MaViolet’s voice. She was singing an old hymn I half remembered, and Ms. Edith’s voice fell in too. Other folks seemed to know its rhythm, the way they swayed to it.

Thing is, MaViolet had lived on First Street most of her life and she knew everybody. Even feral kids, like KJ, who tended to come around looking hangdog near suppertime. Even the white families, like Ira and Carol, who’d begun to raze or renovate the run-down houses adjacent to First. Ms. Edith knew lots of folks too, from bringing covered dishes to the homebound, and bundles of fresh herbs and greens to everybody in Augusts past back when the community garden was bursting with color. That evening, those two old ladies sang as if our lives depended on it: MaViolet’s light voice lifting up, and Ms. Edith’s drum-major depth coming in underneath, so that other folks began to hum or sing, like they wanted to be held in between. When I walked toward that singing, the group pulled me in, one hand after another, until I was standing beside my grandma and part of the rough circle they’d made. I felt their gazes rising to take me in, like they wanted to hear my voice too, like it was an extension of theirs.