Chapter 12 #3
stiff. “The Blue House reconstruction will be postponed through the spring semester with hopes to have new lodging by the start of the next school year.” He looked up at me. “I wasn’t sure if you were still here—in the city, I mean. But then I snuck your address from the admission
records.”
I couldn’t process Jay’s relief at my presence with the rest of his news.
Next school year? That wasn’t good enough. “Really?” I muttered. “That’s what they’re giving them? It’s getting colder. People need homes now.”
“I asked my father if there could be space made in the White House, and he just said no,” Jay said, shaking his head. His
frustration was raw. “I hate him sometimes.”
I wanted to say something about his troubles with his father, but I couldn’t comfort him—not when I knew Gatsby had the power
to change things but chose not to.
“There’s a protest coming up,” I said, to avoid the impending silence. “Do you want to come?”
Jay’s eyes sparked with rebellion. “I’ve never done that before,” he admitted sheepishly. “But yeah, I would go. This fire’s
worth screaming about.”
He’d stand against his father, and that meant something to me. Jay wasn’t just a puppet. I hadn’t realized how much I needed
to know that until now.
In that moment, the awkwardness of our dance became less important than the fact that we could fight side-by-side when it
truly mattered.
“I also . . .” Jay hesitated, words seeming foggy to him. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable at the dance. Sorry if I did.”
I stood there blinking, somewhat taken off guard by his sincerity. “Oh, it’s fine,” I said. “You didn’t—I mean, I’m the one
that ran off, after all. I’m the odd one.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding, with a quiet laugh. “Okay.”
“Okay.” I smiled in return.
We stood for a moment, our energy warming the air. What was this? Two friends sorting through a misstep or something else?
It was better—whatever it was—now that we had said something about it.
Days passed and people across Harlem came together by word of mouth about the horrific fire that had nearly killed our top
students. I didn’t even realize so many people knew about the school! But all of Harlem had been quietly rooting for the West
Egg crew. Rooting for us keen-minded folk to make it to the big leagues.
At work, I barely had time to grab my apron before Mr. Kirby bounced out of his office.
“How many people you think comin’ to the protest?” he asked.
I did the math on the spot. “Well, there were about sixty boys in the Blue House. Almost all of them lived at school, but
about half went home. If the girls of East Egg join in, that could make close to ninety—assuming their numbers match ours.
Then you’ve got relatives, word spreading through the press . . . maybe 150 total?”
Mr. Kirby nodded, thoughtful. “I’ll double the number to be safe.
” He pulled out loaves of fresh bread, set them on the counter, and started slicing.
Then he stopped, looking me over with something like pride.
“I like the courage on you, young man. You a plucky little nigga. Stand up for what you believe—that’s how you get it done. ”
He made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, tucking each one into a bag and stacking them in the fridge.
A plucky little nigga. Mr. Kirby was plainspoken, and hard-knuckled, and even if he didn’t say it a lot, he wanted to see me make something of myself!
Just like Grandpa. They both knew that when times got rough, we had to press forward together or not at all.
Grandpa was the first Nick Carrington. He met my Grandma Ruth by the Red River in Shreveport, Louisiana, when she was singing
to the ducks. Ruth was the daughter of a slave owned by a man named Mr. Morgan, and Nick the son of a Native mother and a
Mulatto man. His complexion allowed him more movement in the world—he didn’t have to work the tenant farms like Ruth. Instead,
he traded fur up and down the river, always restless and seeking.
He spotted Ruth while delivering pelts to Morgan’s estate and he knew the moment he saw her he’d risk everything for her love.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said, bold as anything. “You’ve got the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard. This might sound strange,
but can I have you as my wife?”
Ruth laughed. “That all it takes?”
“That, and a beautiful soul.”
“I don’t want to marry you, stranger.”
“I’ll give you anything you want.”
At first, she thought it was a trick—a test of her loyalty to Morgan. But Ruth had plans to get off her plantation. If she
was ever going to run, she’d need a distraction.
“My freedom,” she said at last. “Give me my freedom.”
So, one evening, Nick dined with Mr. Morgan in the parlor room of the estate—a large space with velvet curtains and a pianist
playing softly by the fire. The meal, prepared earlier that afternoon by Ruth and her mother, was served by one of Morgan’s
houseboys.
Three bites in, Morgan began pacing, agitated. “Why is this chicken not seasoned?” he barked toward the kitchen.
Nick leaned back, calm. “Ruth’s likely gone to bed. Might want to wash it down.”
Morgan grunted and waved toward the pianist. “Play that piano concerto—it calms me down.”
As the melody rose, Nick slipped a pinch of bromide salt into Morgan’s wine. One long sip, and the man started coughing—then
slumped unconscious in his chair.
The pianist looked away, hands still gliding over the keys as Grandpa Nick dragged Morgan by the ankles and tucked him behind
a chaise, like a stagehand hiding a prop.
Mrs. Morgan, exhausted from the day, slept soundly. If she noticed an unfamiliar cadence of footsteps crossing the floorboards
that night, she took it as a dream sound, not a robber.
Nick took the safe and the keys to the stables. Out in the dark, Ruth was waiting. Together, they freed eight sharecroppers—my great-aunts, cousins, even the pianist—and fled to Langston City, Oklahoma.
Through their shared rebellion, Grandpa Nick and Grandma Ruth built a life. They bought a house. They started a paper. They
had my father and Auntie. Except for Auntie Lorraine, those souls were long gone from this world. But I could feel them pumping
through me now, driving me forward. Their struggles would not be in vain.
It was cold the morning we gathered to march. The air was crisp after days of rain, as if the skies themselves had wept over
this dark turn in West Egg’s story.
But the protest flyers on the streetlamps didn’t wash off. Even the fall winds couldn’t blow them away.
We bunched together and formed a crowd of moving heat. People from all over the city came. Jay, Zihan, Daisy, Auntie, and
I were side by side with some folks I didn’t recognize—organizers who kept track of the city’s injustices.
The streets were wet with rainwater—slick and dangerous to walk on—but we walked on them anyway. As we moved through Harlem,
heading south, business owners held out whatever they could offer from their eateries.
Meat cooked on grills, sending smoky aromas into the sky. There were open-air cookouts, a family passing out pieces of catfish
on plates, hush puppies in tiny cups.
Mr. Kirby had his door propped open, and he was dancing like a youth behind his grill, which he rarely took control of.
Today was free sandwich day! The afternoon workers ran out trays of his world-famous fried chicken, along with sandwiches, and they offered cola bottles for a single penny.
Even if every business in Harlem shut down, we’d fill ourselves up!
Vinny came ready to march, in a three-piece suit and a clean hat, like a musician at a swank Black-and-tan! He brought a new
tuba with him, and as we took off, he played “The Memphis Blues.” The park drummers banged along to his tune. I’d never seen
him as happy as he was with backup supporting his music and a crowd to jive along to it.
The tune formed an upbeat backing track to our advancement out of our neighborhood. Imagine my surprise when we found non-Colored
immigrants coming out on their apartment balconies, screaming along with us, and clapping to the music!
One woman waved a flag with bold red, white, and blue stripes, marked with a single red star in a triangle. Another flag caught
my attention—red, green, and white—and yet another, green with a gold harp symbol. These non-American flags fluttered above
us like kites, dancing between our heads and the open sky, reminding me that this march was bigger than the Blue House, bigger
than West Egg. What we were really fighting for was the idea that everyone—not just Negroes—deserved a fair chance.
We entered the business district, and all through the big city, cars honked, some with approval and some with frustration
that we were blocking the roads.
The rowdier Blue boys veered into the sidewalks to do their own thing, to make more noise, to be louder than the machines.
“Make way!” they screamed, and one boy started to bat down a Whites Only sign. Some shop owners stopped what they were doing to come out and see what was happening to their neighbors’ business. If
they had intolerant signs up, they went to take them down.
We’d only just gotten started when cops approached on horses in the distance. Two police cars blinked their lights, and together
with the horses, they blocked the street up ahead, forming a menacing shadow against the skyline.
They began to advance. We pressed forward anyway as uncertain conversations broke out among us, everybody growing nervous
of what could come next. The sound of hooves hitting the pavement grew louder, a thundering beat of impending doom that echoed
the panic in my chest.
Then, a chant sprung out from the crowd, louder than anything. A one-man song.
“Stop the hate!” the man screamed, making everyone turn to look. “End the fear! Everyone is welcome here!”
I’d seen that man before—Megaphone Melvin! That’s what Uncle called him! His only job seemed to be standing by the corner
of our house in his striped shirt and beret, performing poetry. But Megaphone Melvin, even without his megaphone, had the
strongest voice among our troop. Today, he was a force to be reckoned with.
The crowd repeated his song, all together. “Stop the hate! End the fear! Everyone is welcome here!”
The police grew more urgent at the sounds. They parked their horses and dismounted, hands going to their waists, where they removed their sticks. As they walked toward us, I shrank back, wanting to retreat. But no one else was doing that, so I couldn’t either.
“Equal rights, every race!” Melvin screamed. “Abolish hate, put love in place!”
And I screamed it out in unison with everyone else, my voice adding a low register to a cry that swept the city like an ocean
breeze.
As everyone continued forward, I shuffled through the crowd to find Daisy and Auntie Lorraine. So many people had joined us
by then that I’d been separated from who I started with, and pretty soon, things could get bad.
Jay was still nearby. He called my name—“Nick!”—as I drifted away because I’d spotted Auntie Lorraine through the moving drapes
of people passing by.
The cops ran into our crowd before I could reach her. The violence started instantly when one man snatched the sign out of
my auntie’s hand and grabbed her with force by the wrist.
“No!” The sight shocked my system, paralyzing me right in the middle of foot traffic. Someone bumped into me, throwing my
body into the chest of a cop.
This cop was so offended by our collision he grabbed me by the arms and threw me to the cobble. My chin smashed the curb.
“Don’t move!” he commanded.
The mist of the street’s fire hydrants seemed to rush through my eyes, causing tears to burst through my vision. The man put his knee in my back. My back arched up, forming cushion around the man’s knee, but my bones against the ground still felt like they’d snap at any minute.
“Get off him!” Jay screamed, and the pressure released.
The world was blurry as I gained my bearings. I turned over to find Jay pulling the policeman backward until the cop gained
the advantage and threw Jay into the side of a car.
I used the curb to find my way up, not believing my eyes. Another cop swung his baton into the back of Jay’s head. The hit
made his eyes rotate in their sockets.
“No!” I clambered for Jay as he fell sideways and hit the pavement.
The first cop intercepted me before I could reach him. He spun me around and pushed me to the side of the road. There, he
slammed me on my stomach, harder this time.
The front of my mouth caught a draft. Where I landed, my limbs almost spilled into a sewer drain built into the curb. Arms
pinned behind me and my collarbones on the pavement, I took a breath in.
Ah, the sickly stench of the world beneath Harlem! The melting trash and toilet water and rotten food salting the underground
streets, where the rats and raccoons lived.
What’s that world like? Do they fight each other there too? I started to laugh at the visual of a congressional board of pests.
I surrender to the bottom of the earth! It might comfort me to roll into the underground, salt the earth with a root system—a root system that never stopped growing before calling it quits!
My head was against the ground, but I could get enough leverage in the cop’s grip to crane my neck around and look back at
the street.
Goodbye, beautiful city! The next moment may find me crunched into the fetal position and chucked into the sewer. All I could see was Jay, through
a twisted, sideways angle. He had found a standing position, and the sun framed his perfect form. He still looked dizzy, unable
to process his emotions, desperation red like a fever on his face as the fighting in the background waged on.
A police officer snapped handcuffs on his wrists, treating him like just another citizen, not rich, nor important. Our eyes
held each other, even as my face was smashed into the cobblestone. Muffled in my ears were the rushing feet of New York’s
best fighters.
I felt close enough to Jay now to almost hear his thoughts. I knew he was thinking, How did I end up here?
Because you met me, I sent back, through our mental connection—I was convinced he could hear my thoughts too.
The cop pulled Jay through the streets, until they disappeared behind the chaos, and a thought passed through our brains at
the same time.
What now?