‘You in a hurry or something?’ Reggie asked when he got closer.
‘No, why?’
‘I-I-I-I dunno.’
‘Daddio will get real mad if you don’t get yourself home.’
‘Uh-huh,’ Reggie mumbled, irritated. He didn’t like being fobbed off.
Reggie and he had been pals since the start of first grade. They always walked home together after school. One day Reggie was crossing the street when a shiny blue Cadillac hit him. Jerome saw how Reggie’s small body was catapulted about six feet in the air, how his face hit the curb. He lay motionless and limp on the sidewalk. A trickle of blood zigzagged over the gray concrete slabs. Jerome went over to him, but as he approached Reggie leapt up and tore off without a word. The car drove on. Jerome stood stock-still on the sidewalk. He couldn’t move. He’d thought Reggie was dead. How could he manage to run off so fast?
The next day at school Reggie had a Band-Aid on his left cheek.
Jerome tried to ignore him, but at recess the boy came up to him.
‘Th-thanks,’ he said.
It was the first time Jerome heard another child stutter. He laughed. ‘You made out of elastic, or what?’ he asked.
Only much later did Jerome learn that Reggie had been terrified that his mother would give him a hiding for coming home late. Fear of his mother’s open hand had given his wounded body wings. He wasn’t allowed to hang around on the street. He lived with his mother, his brother and sister, and his grandparents on Bailey Court, a few blocks from Jerome.
That was how they became friends. Jerome liked going over to Reggie’s. Everything about Reggie’s home life was the opposite of Jerome’s. There was always enough to eat, nobody fought, and Daddio Bellamy helped Reggie with his homework when his mother was at work. Mammio Bellamy told Jerome he was always welcome and could stay as long as he liked. She knew his family.
But recently Jerome’s stuttering friend was starting to get on his nerves. Reggie stuck to him like white on rice. He was becoming Jerome’s shadow. Jerome had the feeling his friend wanted something from him, but he didn’t know what. A while back Reggie had suddenly started in about his father. The whole neighborhood knew George Watson was a drunkard. Why should Jerome care? As though he was supposed to be interested that the bastard left his kid in the lurch yet again. Reggie should just quit his bellyaching.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Jerome said.
‘Can I go with you?’
‘You don’t want to.’
‘Wha-what d’you mean, I don’t want to?’
Jerome chortled condescendingly. ‘Go on now.’ He looked into Reggie’s crestfallen face. He hated it when Reggie gave him that look. Should he take him along after all? He could have him stand lookout. But Reggie was such a greenhorn. He’d get the fright of his life. And his mother would give him a real walloping when she found out he’d been hanging around in the city.
‘I gotta work, man.’
‘You like it?’
‘Like what?’
‘Wh-what you do.’
Jerome laughed. ‘You can come with me another time, okay? See you tomorrow.’ And with huge strides, Jerome bolted off.
At home he went to the shed to fetch his shoeshine box, with its brushes, cloths, and polish. He didn’t feel like going inside. Through the window he could see the outline of his mother’s small frame. She was standing in the middle of the room. He heard the little ones calling and laughing and hollering. He was just about to leave when he heard the high-pitched squeak of the front door. Sandra ambled outside and sat down on the stoop. Her face folded into a frown, she followed his every move.
‘Is Daddy inside?’ Jerome asked.
She shook her head.
‘Tell Mama I’ll be back later, will you?’
She nodded.
Jerome was anxious to get moving. He had promised Dora he would be on time. Sandra kept staring at him with her big, questioning eyes.
‘Cat got your tongue?’
‘Nah,’ Sandra said.
‘I’ve got to go. You keep an eye on Mama?’
‘You’re supposed to stay here,’ Sandra said.
‘Oh yeah? And who’s gonna put food on the table?’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘Okay then.’ Jerome planted a kiss on her forehead and hurried off. He went to the end of the street, over the bridge. He heard the water plash against the rocks. The sun was fierce on his neck. His hands in his pockets, he hiked up his trousers and took a deep breath of the hot, dusty, late-summer air. He thought of Dora, saw her long red braids, her pale face full of orange freckles. He had seen her for the first time a few weeks ago, one Saturday afternoon in a bar on Exchange Street where he always went to polish shoes. It was a narrow, smoky joint frequented by real lowlifes. He had never seen any children there except the other shoeshine boys who tried to steal his customers. Dora was sitting on a banquette against the wall. She was small and skinny. She stared blankly into space, aimlessly fiddling with the seam of her faded yellow dress.
He was done working. Out of the corner of his eye he kept looking over at the girl, wondering who her parents were, what she was doing in the bar. He never knew white people allowed their children to hang around in bars like this. When he approached her table she spoke to him.
‘What’s your name?’ Her voice was clear and high.
‘Jerome,’ he answered.
‘Mine’s Dora. I’m ten. How old are you?’
‘Eleven.’ He was surprised by his own honesty. He looked at the girl. She was so pale that you could almost see through her.
‘Let’s go outside,’ Dora said.
‘What about your parents?’
She nodded toward a woman who lay with her head on the bar. Asleep, apparently, because her arms hung loosely alongside her body.
‘Don’t you have a father?’
She pursed her lips and stared at him.
‘Okay with me,’ Jerome mumbled. He shrugged.
‘That’s my father.’ She pointed to a big, balding man with a red face. He was leaning against the worn wood-paneled wall, a glass of bourbon in his hand, smoking a cigarette. He didn’t even notice his daughter pointing at him.
‘Well, come on then.’ She hopped off her seat and led him outside. It was almost like she was weightless. Her braids bounced upward with every step she took.
‘I know a place,’ she whispered in his ear.
Outside they blinked against the bright sunlight and crossed a barren field behind the bar. Dora was always a few steps ahead. She started skipping, then broke into a run. Jerome followed, dragging his heavy shoeshine kit. He forgot everything else, kept his eyes fixed on the strange translucent girl darting out ahead of him.
And then she stopped. ‘Here it is.’ She pointed to a hollow in the ground, surrounded by bushes; further up there was a patch of trees. ‘Nice and shady,’ she said. She nestled in the hollow. ‘Come on.’
Jerome set his kit on the dusty ground and sat down next to her. The girl appeared to know exactly what she was doing.
‘I always come here when I want to be alone,’ she said.
‘Uh-huh,’ Jerome said, nodding timidly.
‘Nobody