This Way Home Page 14

  Elijah [starting to crack]: Okay. I’ll spell it out for you. This guy, Money, shot my friend in the back. That’s what makes him dangerous. Get it now? [Standing up, voice rising.] I mean, why are you wasting time talking to us? Why aren’t you out looking for Money?

  Tillman: Because we’ve got some more questions—

  Michael slammed his fist on the desk; the massive metal slab—that must have dated back to the Second World War—shuddered from the impact. “Enough. We told you what we know. Now we’re going home.”

  “Leave your phones with us,” said Tillman. “We need to look at all your calls and texts.”

  “I don’t have it with me,” said Michael.

  “Go home and get it,” said Stacey.

  Elijah fished his from his back pocket, noticing for the first time that he’d cracked the casing from squeezing it so hard. It clattered onto the metal desk.

  The two boys met their worried, grief-stricken mothers in the waiting room, along with Mrs. Buchanan, who hadn’t wanted to be alone. They took a minivan cab home; several blocks from Elijah’s house, Dylan’s mother looked out the window and said, “He’s not dead, you know.”

  “I’m sorry, dear.” Elijah’s mother covered the woman’s hands with her own. “I’m so very sorry.”

  “It’s a mistake,” said Mrs. Buchanan. “He’s coming home later. He always comes home. I’m going to leave the door unlocked and make his favorite meal for dinner. And he’s going to come home.”

  “What was his favorite meal?” asked Elijah’s mother.

  “Lasagna and garlic bread. That was his favorite.” And then the spell was broken. Mrs. Buchanan let the tears come. “He’s gone, isn’t he?”

  The cabdriver pulled up in front of Elijah’s house and had the decency not to interrupt. After a few minutes that seemed like an eternity, Mrs. Henderson touched Elijah’s mother on the arm and said, “Go on home with Elijah. I’ll take care of her.”

  —

  ELIJAH PACED THE KITCHEN, unable to look at his mother. It was three a.m.

  “Tell me this has nothing to do with that gang,” she said.

  “I don’t know, Mom. It probably does.” He wanted to punch holes in the walls. He wanted to go back to Banks’s house and tear down his shed but this time use his bare hands and not ropes and a winch. What else could he destroy? Not what, but who.

  His mother covered her face with her hands and then took a deep breath. “Son, we’ve got to leave this place.”

  “What?” He wanted to finish his last thought, about who he could destroy. Because there was someone, wasn’t there? Someone who drove a black Mercedes and carried a small silver gun in the front pocket of his hoodie. Elijah wondered how badly he could beat Money without going to jail. Could he beat him within an inch of his life, or possibly all the way? He was surprised at how comfortable the idea felt. It wasn’t at all scary.

  “We have to get out of here.” She talked more to herself than him. “I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore; it’s like I’m acting out a role from someone else’s life.” She pulled her address book from a drawer and flipped the pages. “As soon as I make arrangements, we’re moving, Elijah. You’ll have to finish your senior year in a new school.”

  “Hold on, Mom.” Her words were beginning to filter through the newly forming blossom of rage. He didn’t want to talk and plan. What if he calmed down? What would he be left with, a dead friend and a lump of guilt metastasizing inside him like a tumor?

  “I can’t even begin to think about my responsibility in this right now,” she said. “Because first we’re going to get somewhere safe. Do you understand?”

  Elijah wanted to say no, that he couldn’t think about moving right now. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, and that running away wasn’t the answer. He was supposed to do something. Get out there and find Money. Even Banks would agree; after all, what was the point of all his crazy chores and lessons? Think, find the enemy’s weak point, and then act; that was what he needed to do.

  But there was something about his mother’s voice…steely but brittle. He thought about Mrs. Buchanan, and the strange, flat way she’d talked. It’s a mistake. He’s coming home later. He always comes home. That was how a mother spoke after she’d lost her son.

  Elijah went to his room and tried not to scream or smash his fists against his bedroom wall. He did sets of push-ups until his arms gave out and he collapsed. He lay like that for a long time, soaked in sweat, his tears collecting on the hardwood floor, until sleep claimed him.

  MICHAEL CAME BY the next morning, and they walked to the bank to cash the check from the tournament. They used three hundred of it to buy suits for Dylan’s funeral—charcoal with light pinstripes, a trio of black buttons, inexpensive but not tacky. They also bought new white shirts and ties, all picked from the clearance rack at Burlington. Another fifty got them a new NCAA replica ball—since Dylan’s had been confiscated as evidence.

  At the food court, Elijah stared at his Coke, of which he hadn’t taken a sip. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “Me neither,” said Michael. “I can’t sleep. Every time I try, I see him. You know, wearing them big baggy clothes and flashing that crazy grin. Pissed off at me because I bagged on his X-Men comics.”

  Elijah knew it was something he was supposed to smile at, but his smiles were gone. “I keep going over all the stuff that’s happened in the last month. It’s like, if I can only figure out what I could have done differently…”

  “What? Like not taking them stupid shoes?” Michael put a massive hand over his eyes and held it there. “That was me, remember? I got those shoes. If it wasn’t for me, Dylan would be running around right now in his broke old Adidas. I might as well have pulled the trigger.”

  Elijah watched his friend cry silently. He made no move to stop him or correct his damning words. He didn’t agree, but it would have taken too much effort to dissuade him, and he was tired. So he said nothing.

  When Michael removed his hand and wiped his nose, he looked like a different person. Older. Serious. He didn’t have his usual confidence and swagger, and his eyes were heavy and sad. “What are we supposed to do now?”

  “Right now we’ve got to help Dylan’s mother plan a funeral so we can say goodbye to our friend.”

  “Okay, man. I’ll try. You just tell me what to do, and I’ll try to do it.”

  —

  AN HOUR LATER, they stood with their packages outside Mrs. Buchanan’s house. Michael had gone silent; he shifted nervously on his big feet, rivulets of sweat running down the sides of his face. “I can’t do this, man. I’m sorry.”

  Elijah grabbed him firmly by the shoulder, steadying him.

  Michael looked down. “I just can’t do it. I got to go.”

  “You have to do this. Dylan would do it for you, and you know it.”

  Michael lowered his head onto Elijah’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around his friend. Elijah hugged him back, feeling very much like they were hanging on for dear life. After what seemed like a long time, Michael broke free and shuffled away, muttering.

  “I’m sorry,” said Michael. “I gotta get out of here.”

  “Don’t do this, man,” said Elijah. “It’s not right. You can’t just walk away.”

  Mrs. Buchanan opened the door while dabbing at her streaking makeup with a tissue.

  “Hello, Mrs. Buchanan,” Elijah said.

  “Do you want to come in?” She held the door open for him and then said, in a voice that was almost a whisper, “I’m sorry for the things I said yesterday. In the cab. I know he’s dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Elijah.

  “I just thought, Dylan was always out at school or playing basketball. Maybe it was a mistake and he was still out playing, and sooner or later, he’d come home.”

  Elijah nodded. “He loved you.”

  “He did. Dylan had such a kind heart. He was never angry like his brother, Marvin.”

  “H
ow is Marvin taking it?” asked Elijah.

  “He says he’s fine, but I don’t ever really know what it’s like for him in that place. I think he tells me things are fine so it will be easier for me. All you boys are like that. You don’t want to upset us, but then look what happens.”

  She said more, and Elijah tried to listen attentively. But really he was thinking of how strange it was to hear his friend talked about in the past tense. One day had elapsed, and it was Dylan used to…

  “It’s my fault.” She looked away from him, at a spot on the far wall. “For making him take off that jersey. I should have known there’d be some kind of payback. That’s one thing I learned from Marvin’s troubles—there’s always payback. You know that, don’t you, Elijah?”

  Elijah looked into her eyes and saw no trace of anger, only sadness. He nodded because he didn’t trust himself to speak.

  “He always looked up to you, you know,” she said. “He wanted to be like you.”

  Elijah said he was sorry, but try as he might, he couldn’t explain why. Because to do that would have required him to go beyond the senselessness of her son’s death and into the realm of culpability. Because he had put Dylan in danger. If he’d accepted the shoes and jerseys (and whatever strings had come along with them), his friend would be alive. Gang affiliated, maybe, but alive.

  At the door, Mrs. Buchanan’s hug was tentative, as though she might be able to stave off the funeral if only Elijah would stay a little longer. “I’m so glad you came. It means a lot to me.”

  “I have to go,” he said. “My mother’s waiting for me.”

  “Thank her for the flowers,” she said. “And the food that she brought over. Tell her it was sweet but that I haven’t been able to eat.”

  On his way out the door, he handed her an envelope with the remaining Hoops money, more than two and a half thousand dollars. “This is to help with the funeral costs.”

  “I’ll give it to Dylan’s father; he’s taking care of the funeral arrangements.” She kissed him on his check. “Thank you for being Dylan’s friend. He loved you and Michael. He really did. You boys meant the world to him.”

  THE FUNERAL WAS UNBEARABLE, an endless succession of sweating, nicely dressed people, none of whom seemed to have known Dylan well at all. Or at least, that was how it seemed from the things they said in the church. He was a good brother. He was a dedicated student. A proud member of the church. Elijah wanted to go up and set the record straight, but for whom? He had a feeling that the false words were exactly the ones people wanted to hear. Needed to hear. So they could put the whole thing into a category and move on. Get into their cars and say, He was such a good boy. What a tragedy! So sad. But it wasn’t that straightforward, and Mrs. Buchanan’s words weighed heavily on him: There’s always payback. You know that, don’t you?

  Later, after he’d kissed and hugged and said goodbye to countless mothers, aunts, and cousins, Elijah wandered through his neighborhood, sweating through his suit. More words echoed in his head. He loved you and Michael. You meant the world to him.

  He looked at the perfect front yards he’d passed so many times before, but they looked different now. False. Their promise of safety and happiness was an illusion, because good kids like Dylan, and Ray Shiver, had been sacrificed. And for what?

  He stopped in front of a remote-control dune buggy that a kid had forgotten on his front sidewalk. For some inexplicable reason, Elijah was tempted to step on it. Smash it to bits. He raised his leg but hesitated.

  What are you doing? You need to get a grip.

  He stepped over the toy and began jogging toward Banks’s house. Four days had passed since he’d last been there, but the driveway was exactly as he’d left it, half-covered in pavers. The remaining pallets were untouched, as was the pile of mason’s sand. He nudged the sand with his toe, wondering if he’d get to finish the job before moving. He wanted to, if for no other reason than to see what it looked like.

  Elijah took off his jacket and thumped some pavers to the ground in a loose circle before he got down on his knees. The sand’s heat worked through his thin dress pants. He laid down the pavers and tapped them into place with the mallet. He dropped another ten from the pallet and increased his pace, until his shirt and pants were soaked through with sweat.

  In between sets, he carried the few remaining concrete chunks into the backyard. He strained under their weight until his breathing became short. His pants were torn from the jagged edges of the concrete blocks. His shirt stuck to his skin except for where he had rolled the sleeves up; in these spots his forearms were laced with cuts and abrasions, which he didn’t feel or notice.

  “Hey,” said Banks, half hanging out the back screen door. “What are you doing?”

  “What’s it look like?” Elijah picked up the last chunk. It was far too big and heavy to carry, which is why he’d left it in the first place. He staggered under the weight, and dropped it.

  Banks jammed his feet into a pair of sneakers. “It looks like you’re acting a little nuts. And why are you wearing a suit? Hey, I’m talking to you.”

  “I’ve been at church.” It occurred to him that Banks didn’t know about Dylan.

  “Good for you,” said Banks. “Maybe you should go back to church and talk to Pastor Fredericks.”

  Elijah said nothing.

  Banks tried a different approach. “You said you needed two days off for your tournament. Do you know how many days you missed?”

  Elijah shook his head.

  “Four,” said Banks. “That means you broke our deal. We’re done.”

  “Fine.” Elijah knelt in the sand next to the giant chunk. He levered it up against his thighs and staggered another ten feet before dropping it again.

  “Hey.” Banks moved a little closer and put a hand on his shoulder. “There’s no second or third chances in my world.”

  “I said fine. I’m just going to move this last piece.” Elijah grunted and strained, sliding the piece up his thighs and back into a carrying position. He made it three steps before dropping it.

  “Go home,” said Banks. “You want to cripple yourself, do it someplace else.”

  Elijah got down on his knees and tried to position the piece for another lift. “Just leave me alone.” Concrete dust stuck to the sweat on his arms, legs, and back.

  “Listen,” said Banks. “I know you’ve got some problems…”

  Problems. His friend was dead, and his other friend was involved with the gang that had killed him. He didn’t know what to do or who to turn to, and his mother was threatening to move them to another state. He was dangerously close to tears, but there was no way he was going to let Banks see him cry. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “That’s right,” said Banks. “I don’t know anything about you or anyone else. I didn’t ask for this. I told your mother I was no good with kids, that I’d make a lousy mentor, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “Mentor? Who needs a mentor? I came here to work. To help you.” Elijah pulled himself to sitting, arms resting on his knees. Heat came off him in waves, and he felt like he might explode. He stood up and hustled away, down the half-finished driveway. Kerri called after him once, carrying his jacket, but he kept running.

  —

  HE DECIDED IT was time for action, because a fire was burning inside him. But what should he do? His mother couldn’t help him; her answer was to move away and pretend like nothing had happened. Start over again. Elijah understood her reasons, but he couldn’t pretend. Just like he couldn’t pretend anymore that his father was going to come back. It was time for him to grow up and take action. But how?

  Find the breaking point, and then push.

  What was Money’s breaking point? Arrogance, maybe. But you couldn’t push on arrogance; it wasn’t a tangible thing, like the corner studs of a dilapidated old shed. Banks couldn’t help him. All he wanted to do was hide out and drink his crappy lime beer and smoke cigars. Screw him, Elijah thought.


  But maybe Banks did know a thing or two. Because he had jacked up that thug at the diner. It was like he’d known exactly what to do, and then had gone and done it. No thinking. No worrying. No deliberating or second-guessing. That’s how Elijah wanted to solve his problems with Money and BSN.

  Think. There’s got to be a weak point.

  He thought back to his second meeting with Money. You wouldn’t want to disrespect me because I have a gun? That told him a lot about Money. He respected the gun. Which meant that he also feared it. So there it was, whether Elijah liked it or not. He needed to get a gun. That was how the world worked. It was what he had to do in order to protect his mother and avenge his friend.

  Harold’s words echoed in his head: If you want to get a piece for protection, I can hook you up.

  ELIJAH’S LAST STOP of the day was at Joe’s Texas Hots. He made a quick attempt at smoothing his clothes and stepped in line behind a young family with two boys. The parents were trying to place their order, but the littlest one wasn’t cooperating. “Do you want a hot dog? Do you want french fries? Lemonade? Take that pacifier out and use your words.” The boy shook his head at every question, eyes wide with his own obstinacy. His older brother, who couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old, held a small blue rubber basketball with a red Hawks logo on it. He stood off by himself, trying to spin it on his finger; the ball got away from him and bounced into Elijah’s feet.

  Elijah picked it up. The ball was so small, he could almost hide it inside his palm. Without thinking, he spun it onto his finger and gave it a couple of swipes to speed it up. It became a blue-and-red blur. Elijah felt the father’s eyes on him, watching him closely, judging him. It was a protective thing, Elijah knew. A good thing. He wanted to pull the man aside and say, Keep doing that….Don’t ever stop watching out for him. Don’t stop trying to keep him safe, because someday he’s going to need your help, and you’ve got to be there, or else…But he said nothing. Instead, he knelt down on the tile floor and called the boy over.