The Last House on the Street(82)

“Everybody knows you’re out here, doin’ what you’re doin’. Tryin’ to change things when they’re just fine the way they are. Some of Daddy’s longtime customers are taking their business to the Dellaire Pharmacy. I’ve lost a few folks, myself, and Mr. Cleveland—Garner’s daddy—raised my rent by five percent on account of what you’re doin’. Mama’s friends are givin’ her a rough time of it, too. Plenty of gossip she’s gotta deal with. So it ain’t all just about you, Ellie.”

His words upset me, I couldn’t deny it. I didn’t want my actions to hurt my family, yet I had to do what I thought was right, didn’t I? Keep my eyes on the prize. “You don’t understand,” I said. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen these past few weeks. You don’t understand the political situation. You’ve never met the real people who suffer every single day because of the way things are.” I started to choke up with the truth of what I was saying. “You don’t know what it’s like for the people I’m trying to help.”

Blotches of color had formed on Buddy’s cheeks and neck, a telltale sign he was having trouble holding his anger in. Even as a little girl, I knew to run and hide when his cheeks turned red like that. He stood in front of me with his hands on his hips. “Right now I don’t give a shit what it’s like for those ‘real people’!” he shouted. “This has nothin’ to do with them. It has to do with how you’re hurtin’ your own kin. I’m only tryin’ to protect you against yourself, ’cause you ain’t thinkin’ right, little sister.”

“I’m not going home, Buddy,” I said.

“His name is Winston, right?” he asked, startling me. “Goes by Win?”

He knew his name. That scared me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Which one is Win, huh? Your spook boyfriend? Which is he?”

It was all I could do to keep from smacking him. He turned to look at the circle of people. They were singing a lively “I’ll Fly Away.”

“He’s not here,” I said.

Buddy grabbed the shoulder of one of the older men in the circle. “Do you know which one of these boys is Winston?” he asked.

“Ain’t no idea,” the man said, and returned to his singing.

Buddy cupped his hands around his mouth in a megaphone. “Hey, Win!” he shouted toward the circle. “Win!”

I spotted Win, way too close to us. If only he’d been on the other side of the circle, he would stand a chance, but hearing his name, he stopped singing. Looked toward us.

“Ha!” Buddy shouted. “Son of a bitch!” He raced toward Win, who was cornered between the crowd and the brick building. Before Win had a chance to run, Buddy was on him, pulling him out of the circle, pummeling him, punching his stomach, his face, knocking off his glasses. I was next to them in a heartbeat, trying to grab Buddy’s arms, pull him away, but my brother was enraged. Rather than fight back, Win dropped to the ground. He didn’t dare try to defend himself. The do-nothing cops were just waiting for a Black person to get out of line. Buddy kicked him. “You ever come near my sister again, I’ll make sure she’s the last girl you ever touch!” He angrily grabbed my arm. I thought he was going to twist it. Break it. But he let me go, fury still in his face, and took off, disappearing around the side of the building.

I dropped to the ground next to Win. He was dazed, his chin, his nose, his forehead bleeding. Blood was in his eyes, and he reached blindly for my hand. I thought of what Buddy had said about my father losing customers and my mother losing friends. That was not my fault. Not my business. My business was the bruised and beautiful man in front of me, hurt by my own kin.



* * *



I thought Greg should take Win to the hospital. The wound on his forehead was bleeding badly and he seemed dazed, looking through me instead of at me. I worried his cheekbone might be broken. Maybe his nose, too, the way it was gushing blood. But Greg wanted to take him back to the school. He and Chip and I managed to get him to Greg’s car and lay him across the back seat. Chip got in with him and pressed a handkerchief to the worst of his wounds. I tried to get in the front seat to go with them, but Greg barked at me.

“No! If you want to help, get Curry to take you back to the school,” he said. “Get the first-aid supplies ready. If you want to help, that’s what you can do.”

So I rode back to the school with Curry, thinking, At least Greg isn’t sending me back to the Charleses’ house. At least he’s letting me help.

Greg beat us to the school and by the time Curry and I rushed in, he and Chip were settling Win on the couch in the lounge. I ran to where Greg kept the first-aid supplies and soon he and Chip were dressing the wounds while I sat on a chair next to Win. He squeezed my hand and winced in pain. Greg made him some concoction to drink, and Win drank it down quickly, wincing at the taste or the burn, I didn’t know which.

“Don’t you think he should go to the hospital?” I asked Greg quietly as Win’s eyelids fell shut.

Greg shook his head. He sat back in his chair, hands on his knees. “Once, a few years ago,” he said quietly, his eyes on Win, “a civil rights worker I knew was beaten like this at a protest. We took him to the hospital and his attackers were waiting for him in the bushes outside the hospital doors. They jumped all of us. That fella didn’t make it.”