Fire from the Rock (22 page)

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Authors: Sharon Draper

BOOK: Fire from the Rock
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The two of them stood there on her porch for a moment, just looking at each other, saying nothing.
“Walk with me a little,” Reggie said shakily. The steps creaked as they left the porch.
“The air still smells like smoke,” she said softly as she took a deep breath of the morning air.
Reggie paused, then shuddered. “Nobody in town knows who really caused the fire.”
“I do,” Sylvia said quietly.
“What?”
“I saw you, but I didn't tell the police.”
“You lied? For me?”
“I didn't lie. I just didn't tell the whole truth, which I guess is just as bad. I feel dirty inside.”
“I'm so sorry, Sylvie—for everything.” Tears trickled down his face.
“Why, Reggie? Why did you do it? I don't get it.”
The morning sun shone as if the day held hope and promise, but all was dark in Sylvia's mind. Reggie took her hand and cried unashamedly. Finally, he gulped, sniffed, and wiped his face with the back of his shirtsleeve. “I never meant to hurt anybody, Sylvie. The Zuckers have always been cool to me, and Calvin's mom has always been as sweet to me as if I were her own son. She always smells good.” He sniffed, trying not to break down again.
“Tell me everything,” Sylvia said.
Reggie started walking again, as if it were easier for him to talk as he moved. “I think about you all the time, Sylvia,” he began. “I dream about you at night.” He looked over at her and smiled sadly.
The words she'd always wanted to hear, but not like this. This was such a mess. “Oh, Reggie,” she said sadly.
“When you told me how you and your sister got pushed around by the Crandall boy and the Smith brothers, I wanted to make them pay for hurting you.” He looked over at Sylvia again. “It was all for you.”
“I still don't understand what happened,” she said, feeling guilty.
“Johnny Crandall and his friends hang out at his father's shop every Friday after school. Sometimes I have to walk home that way, and they always yell at me and call me names. I'd had just about enough, but when they messed with you, that was the last straw. So I thought about it for a long time, and I decided to make a couple of firebombs.” He waited.
“You what?! How do you even know how to make such a thing?”
“Well, you know those meetings I've been going to with Gary?”
She nodded, amazement on her face. She removed her hand from Reggie's.
“Some of the older guys are radical—they talk about violent protests, not the stuff Dr. King preaches. One of the guys talked about how to make firebombs.”
“Gary's been making bombs?” Sylvia asked, astonished.
“No, I'm the stupid one, not him.” Reggie hung his head again. “They were just supposed to be little puffs of smoke and fire to scare the Crandalls—nothing dangerous. I must have made them too powerful.”
“I can't believe you were walking down the streets of Little Rock with firebombs in your hands. It sounds like something out of a movie or TV show.” Sylvia shuddered.
“Except it's real life, and I'm a big chicken,” he said. “I didn't have the courage to toss them. I had just about decided to go back home when I saw that punk Johnny harassing you again. It made me nuts.”
“You were there and didn't say anything?” Sylvia felt like her head was going to burst.
“I had two firebombs under my shirt. I couldn't come up to you and act normal. As soon as I saw that Johnny was in the barbershop, I decided to toss what I thought would be something like firecrackers. ”
“But Crandall's barbershop wasn't harmed,” Sylvia said, still confused.
“Remember last year when I didn't make the baseball team?” Reggie asked.
“Yeah.”
 
“It was because I couldn't throw worth a darn. Coach said I had
really
bad aim.” He paused. “I aimed for the barbershop, but the firebomb hit Zucker's window instead. I went crazy because I knew you were in there.”
“Oh, Reggie.” It was all so pathetic.
“I ran into the store to get you out and dropped the second bomb accidentally when I slipped on something that had spilled. I got scared because I couldn't see you. Everything was smoke and fallen stuff. Then Mr. Crandall came in and I ran out the back door. I panicked. I had no idea the fire would be so big. No idea.”
“I tried to cry out when I saw you, but I couldn't. I could hardly breathe, ” she said sadly, remembering it clearly. “I could have died.” The thought made her dizzy.
He looked directly at Sylvia. “I'm so sorry. I didn't know what to do.” He dropped his eyes. “I'm the one who deserves to die.”
She frowned. “It was stupid, Reggie. Really stupid. But you didn't mean for any of this to happen.”
“But it did.” He scowled. Reggie gazed down Sylvia's street—the neat little houses, the crooked sidewalks, the morning sun on the tiny, well-kept lawns. “I love Little Rock,” he said wistfully.
“You have to make this right, Reggie.” Sylvia sighed, knowing that things had forever changed between them. “Somehow you have to fix what you messed up.”
“I don't know what to do,” he said helplessly. “Maybe I ought to just leave town like my dad says. I've got relatives in Cincinnati. If I stay, I'll go to jail. I'm not scared to face my punishment, but I can't help anybody if I'm locked up.”
The thought of Reggie in jail made her head swim, but the idea of him cutting out on his responsibility made her ill. “You can't run away from this,” she said. “That really would be the coward's way out.”
“I'll be back one day,” he said vaguely. “But not until I make my parents, and you, proud of me again. I'm going to get a job—maybe two jobs, and I swear, even if it takes a hundred years, I swear I'll pay them for what they lost.” For the first time, Sylvia noticed, he held his head a little higher. “I promise on my life.”
“It wasn't supposed to be like this,” Sylvia said sadly. “I had such stupid teenaged dreams about you and me. Lace curtains and picket fences and flowers in a garden someplace in a make-believe world. You've spoiled it, you know.”
“Yeah, I know. But those dreams weren't stupid,” he told her, his face drawn and serious. “It's just that the real world isn't as pretty as we hoped.”
“But we can try to make it better,” Sylvia insisted. “Come in the house and talk to my dad,” she said. “He might be able to figure something out.”
“Oh, I couldn't. I'd be ashamed to face him.” Reggie turned away from her.
“Be a man, Reggie!” Sylvia's eyes flashed with anger. “The whole town is going to know what you did very soon. There might be a better solution than running away with your tail tucked. White folks expect the worst from us anyway. Don't give them the satisfaction of being right.”
Monday
Night, August 19, 1957
Daddy is
a miracle worker.
He convinced Reggie to confess to the police, and apologize to the Zuckers and the Cobbs. They aren't pressing charges, but Reggie still has been charged with vandalism. Daddy says he'll be tried in juvenile court, and he'll probably only have to do community service, or pay something toward the damage. He'll have to drop out of school, for now, at least, I suppose. I've never known a dropout. I always thought they were bad kids who got in fights and skipped school and made bad grades. Not kids like Reggie who I've known all my life.
He has already promised to work and give his paycheck to the two families every week. Like his little dollar-an-hour job is going to make a difference! They've got lives to rebuild. Reggie can't pay for that. It's amazing how families in the neighborhood, both colored and white, are kicking in to help them rebuild. Mr. Herman from the hardware store gave them lumber; Mr. Massey from the dry goods store offered paint; and women from all over have been taking the two families food. That makes me feel good, especially with all the ugliness still burning in the city. The Mothers' League is still stirring up hatred, and the newspaper is still printing articles that predict World War Three if integration happens.
The past two nights I've had terrible dreams about the fire and explosions, about how close I came to death. Everything was so hot, so very red. It's like my brain is full of color and smoke. I wake up screaming and Mama comes in to soothe me.
Reggie is out of my life. I won't be seeing him anymore. That hurts, but only a little. Too much real pain floating around. I want to feel sorry for him, but he went too far. I finally get a boyfriend and he turns out to be all mixed up. Maybe Rachel was right—he was just training wheels for the real thing. All I know is I have a big burning hole inside of me. I feel like a dancer with no partner.
dance with me my agony
brittle on a shelf
dance beyond my misery
lost within myself
 
tears and pain tears and pain
memories return
dancers never leave the stage
fires always burn
 
dance away dance away
dance away from fear
spin around spin around
spin and disappear
 
mama! mama! hug me quick!
i dreamed you flew away!
you perched on the back
of a large green bird
with feet like clumps of clay
 
mama! mama! hug me tight!
and wake me from my sleep!
you smile as i dance
to a dark stale song
and tears like mud i weep
 
mama! mama! hug me now!
i dreamed of shadows past
you watched as i burned
in the cold dark fire
like hope that could not last
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 21, 1957
Dressed that morning in a new blue and white sailor-styled blouse and navy blue skirt, Sylvia felt refreshed. Her mother, who always sensed exactly what her children needed, knew that for once, homemade wouldn't do. Instead of making the outfit on her sewing machine, she had brought it home from the department store and left it on Sylvia's bed the night before.
“Thanks, Mama,” Sylvia said with pleasure as she twirled around in the full skirt in her parents' bedroom. “It's beautiful!”
“It's a back-to-school outfit,” her mother replied, her tone practical, but she smiled as she said it. “Don't get it mussed and dirty before the first day. You're going to school with white children—I expect you to act as pretty as you look.”
The thought of going to Central made the sunny day seem suddenly cloudy, but Sylvia refused to focus on that today. “You know I'll always do my best to make you proud, Mama,” Sylvia said, sitting on the edge of her mother's bed.
“You always do, child. Maybe I don't tell you often enough how proud I am of you.” She reached over and squeezed Sylvia's shoulder. “You shine in school, and you make good decisions, even if they're difficult sometimes. Sometimes my heart can't hold all the joy you bring me.”
Sylvia glanced at her mother and was amazed to see she was blinking away tears. She shifted on the bed, unused to emotion from her strong, practical mother. “Can I ask you something, Mama?” Sylvia asked softly.
“Of course.” Her mother got up, sniffed, and fluffed a pillow.
Sylvia took a deep breath. “Reggie looked like a piece of carved chocolate candy to me. The sound of his voice made me shiver. He even
smelled
like something good enough to lick off a plate. So if I'm so smart, why couldn't I figure out he was just a piece of cardboard?”
Her mother laughed out loud. “Oh, Sylvie, women have been asking that question since Adam and Eve! It sometimes takes a lifetime to figure out men. You're young—you've got plenty of time to find the right one for you.” She gave her daughter another squeeze. “Any man who wins your heart is a lucky fellow, you hear me?”
“How did you know you were in love with Daddy?” Sylvia dared to ask. She didn't want anything to disturb this moment of closeness with her mom.
“It happened two weeks after our wedding day.”
“After you got married?”
“Well, I knew he was special, and I knew I cared about him deeply—deep enough to promise the rest of my life to him, but love is not bells and flowers and a pretty white dress. It's something deeper.”
“I don't get it.” Sylvia was fascinated.
“We'd been married two weeks and it was pouring rain that day. I was on the bus, coming home from work, and all I had on was my new pink cotton dress. I didn't have a coat or umbrella or hat. We lived in a tiny apartment three blocks from the bus stop. I just knew I'd be soaked by the time I got home.”
“So what happened?”
“As the bus approached my stop, I could see your father standing there, sopping wet, with a puppy-dog grin on his face, holding a big black umbrella, a shiny yellow raincoat, and a bouquet of red roses. It was then that I knew I loved him. And that he loved me.”
“Wow. That's a really good story. Why haven't you told me before?”
“I don't know. You were too young to understand, I guess.”
Sylvia almost didn't recognize the soft, dreamy woman who was smoothing the covers on the bed. Surely this couldn't be her prim and proper mother. Sylvia wished this conversation could last forever. “Did you and Daddy meet at church?” she asked.
Her mother laughed. “I never told you where I first met your father?”
Sylvia shook her head. Her parents rarely talked about their youthful years. All Sylvia knew of her parents' marriage was the black-and-white photo on the mantel. It showed two serious-looking younger versions of her parents standing stiffly in her grandmother's living room. Her mother, slim and smooth-cheeked, dressed in a high-necked, white lace dress, stood next to a very slim young man with dark, curly hair and a look of fierce determination on his face.

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