Insurrections (7 page)

Fillafil . . . Fillafil, she said as she made another pass.

What she saying? Falafel? Why she keep circling the playground, why don't she go somewhere? Casey asked. I bet you she gonna ask for money any minute now.

Well, damn, Casey, she your mother, you should give her some money, Kwayku said. At least pay for a shave.

She was nearly out of sight when Casey picked up a rock, medium-sized and irregularly shaped. Had some heft to it. He didn't mean to strike her when he threw it, only to scare her, but he did hit her, square in her head. She covered the bleeding spot with her hand.

Kwayku howled sharply, unable to contain his shock. Wayne gasped and Rich followed. Everyone silently watched one another. The woman's eyes widened as blood ran down her face. Kwayku snickered and then doubled over in laughter.

The woman stood frozen, and then she was in motion, running off into the street, and then she was gone. The boys spent a half hour replaying the event, changing it until it became a myth.

Man, that was fucked up, Wayne said.

Shut up, nigga, Kwayku said. You was laughing the hardest.

At the end of the half hour, they remembered the rock striking as a light thing, an inconvenience to the woman. They forgot the terror on her face. The sinking feeling of fear that wound through their chests. The blood. It became a scene in a slapstick comedy. They renamed her Lady MacBeard. Instead of shocked silence, the boys recalled laughter being stuck in their throats. It was all a kind of nothing, and in brief moments they remembered what they forgot.

When they were all done and Casey versus Lady MacBeard became little more than an elaborate story, they walked down the hill to Marcy's house to watch the Spice Channel as was their custom.

When she returned to work after maternity leave, Joan's scent would light up every corner of the library. She glowed lavender and purple and fuchsia and plum. Maybe it was from baby Phil. That's what her husband said as he stood and watched his wife and son from behind his ever-present cloud of smoke. There was no one at the time who didn't also radiate their own colors when they saw Joan. The librarians she assisted grinned when they spoke about her. The children in the reading room crowded around once a week as she sang songs and read them picture books. They cooed when she showed them the images and giggled at the different voices she put on for each character.

It was one of those facts lost between childhood memories, but Casey used to be there sometimes, infrequently really, sitting in the front row. Each time she read, she daydreamed one of the children was her Phil watching his mother read from a favorite storybook. One or two times Casey was Phil. And Wayne once was Phil. Every week a new Phil.

Joan loved that place. The smell of the books, for a time, gave her just the highest feeling.

A week of heavy rains kept the boys from venturing from their homes after school. The basketball court up the street from Marcy's house at Wildlands Forest Elementary sat beneath several inches of water. And even Marcy's basement, where Casey and his friends went to see naked people writhe about on the television screen, hosted a shallow pool of floodwater. Nothing major, just an irritation, but enough to keep guests out for a while. Then all that passed away and the boys went back to the basketball court.

The day of their return, a Tuesday, the court was dotted with puddles, and when the ball rolled into the grass, it became coated in muddy water. To clean it, Kwayku rolled it off his long black fingers high into the open air, and droplets of brown water went shooting off in all directions.

The atmosphere was damp and heavy with unfallen rain. Wispy gray
clouds hung low in the sky. Kwayku spent most of the day telling and retelling the tale of Casey's triumph, adding a flourish here, a detail there. Casey kept a grin on his face all day until Kwayku said: Man, why you want to do your mother like that?

She does look like his mom, doesn't she? Richard said.

The grin melted from Casey's face. She looks nothing like my mother, he thought.

When the four boys finished their basketball game, Kwayku and Richard found themselves victorious again, and Kwayku began his taunts by offering to do Marcy in various positions. Casey noticed Lady MacBeard circling the perimeter, her head bandaged. She walked slowly and ignored the boys, mumbling to herself and occasionally waving her arms for emphasis.

Kwayku pointed and said: Casey, your momma is looking for you.

Casey felt his thoughts darken. He threw a rock. It slapped the ground behind the woman with a thud, splashing onto the muddy earth. She walked on as if it never happened. Casey dug another from the dirt and lobbed it. It whizzed by her. He threw another and another and another until one slammed into her back. She stumbled forward and then stood still, her face frozen in confusion and horror. And then she ran.

Yeah, run, bitch, Kwayku said as he curled back his arm and hurled a stone at Lady MacBeard. It fell far short, as if he never meant to hit her at all.

Richard timidly collected a handful of rocks and tossed them at the fleeing woman, all of them flying far wide or far short. Wayne sighed and shook his head in disgust at his friend—really a neighbor his mother asked him to watch out for—before grabbing Richard and ordering him to cease. And like that, Richard stopped and looked up at his older friends as if waiting on directions.

Casey scratched at his neck, where sparse patches of hairs had started growing in. The boys threw the ball toward the hoop and, tiring of that, walked off to watch pornography at Marcy's house, speaking of the thing that was her ass the whole time.

The next day, just as Kwayku drained a perfect three-point shot past Casey's outstretched hand, Marcy showed up, points of sunlight shimmering against some of her stray blonde hairs. Casey smiled and waved at his girlfriend. Sweat covered his face. She smiled back, standing at the
edge of the court where the blacktop met the grass, swaying, saying nothing. She greeted Richard and Wayne and ignored Kwayku. He nodded at her as he threw the basketball at Casey's chest. It smacked into his torso. He gasped, letting the ball drop to the ground.

Your ball, Kwayku said with a growl.

Let me show you how to play, Casey said, tearing his shirt from his sweaty back and slapping the ball against the hard black playground court.

This fool want to take off his shirt when his girl show up, Kwayku said. Put the bird back in the cage.

Casey charged the basket, leaping off the ground and letting the ball rise from his fingers into the air. With little movement, Kwayku reached his ropy arm to the sky and slapped the ball to the earth.

Get that shit out of here, boy, Kwayku said. What you think this is?

Stop showing off and pass that shit! Wayne screamed.

Casey looked over at his girlfriend. Their eyes met and she grinned and shrugged. He looked away, pretending Marcy wasn't there even as he felt her eyes on him. She clapped and shouted Casey's name, which made him more conscious of his own existence, the physical space his body occupied.

Whatever, Kwayku, Casey said. Let's see you do that again.

Kwayku slapped down Casey's shots three more times. Richard, after each block, snatched the ball and tossed it into Kwakyu's waiting hands. In a single swift motion, Kwayku pulled up and each time released a perfectly placed shot that would have swished in the net had there been a net. And just as he released the ball, he dedicated each shot to Marcy, who accepted the honor by playfully blowing kisses in his direction. Before long, it was over for Casey and Wayne. Kwayku snatched his baseball cap from the ground and slapped it onto his head, declaring it his crown.

I'm the king of basketball! Kwayku shouted. And Richard is my deputy. Everybody address me as
Your Highness
. Forget that sucker, Marcy, you could be my queen.

No thanks,
Your Highness
, Marcy replied.

Casey strode to the edge of the court, ignoring Kwayku and Richard's trash talk, and put his arm around Marcy.

I don't need your sweat all over me, she said, pulling from him. Shoot, she mumbled. When I ask you to touch me . . . She sucked her teeth. Casey shot her a glance that was supposed to look angry but only appeared wounded and weak.

Kwayku bawled and clapped his hands. The massive things slapping together sounded like hooves clopping along the road. Yeah, Kwayku said, you stink. He laughed louder. Richard and Wayne joined him.

Damn, your girl dissed you, Kwayku said, his words riding waves of laughter.

Whatever, Casey mumbled.

Marcy, you know you don't really want to be with him, Kwayku said. Come holler at me.

Casey frowned. Marcy said nothing. She smiled, though.

You got a donkey, girl, he continued. Casey don't know how to ride that.

Shut up, Kwayku, Marcy said. Stop talking about my ass. You're just jealous 'cause Casey got this
donkey
and what you got?

Then there was quiet until Kwayku said: Hey, Rich, she told that nigga he stink. She said:
Get the hell off me, nigga! You stink!

She ain't say that, Casey said.

Man, everybody heard her, Richard said.

You and Richard, y'all need to stop instigating, Marcy replied. Casey know I said nothing like that.

The back-and-forth went on for several minutes. Lady MacBeard circled the playground slowly as if on a mission, though no one noticed.

Watch, Marcy gonna be laying up with me today, Kwayku said. Ain't that right, Marcy?

Whatever, she replied.

Can't stop talking shit, huh? Wayne asked.

What? I'm just saying, she know she want to, Kwayku replied.

Man, Kwayku, that's enough, Casey said.

Kwayku walked over to Casey, standing so close to him they traded body heat. He had nearly a foot on Casey. Kwayku's voice rumbled where everyone else's squeaked.

Who you talking to like that, boy? When Casey didn't respond, he said: Dog, I'll smack the shit out of your little ass. He paused. Just 'cause you can play some ball don't mean I won't smack you.

Casey looked down at the rocks on the ground. In the distance, Lady MacBeard made another circuit and Casey noticed her for the first time.

Watch, man, I'm gonna fuck your girl. What you think about that?

Again Casey didn't respond.

Man, that ain't a rhetorical question. I'm gonna stick my dick in that ass. What you gonna do?

Marcy was as still as a plastic doll, or rather a mannequin from a department store window. Richard and Wayne chuckled, yet they didn't smile.

Casey looked around at each eye. They were fixed on him, hungering for his reaction. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Huh? You forget how to talk?

Man, Casey said slowly and quietly. I don't care. Do what you want.

Kwayku, man, why don't you leave him alone? Wayne said.

Casey's my nigga. Kwayku smiled and put his arm around Casey. He know I'm just playing.

In the distance came an animal-like bleating. Fillafil Fillafil Fillafil, Lady MacBeard cried. Her voice echoed throughout the neighborhood.

Marcy and the boys looked at her. Kwayku's smile broadened, and he looked toward Casey.

Man, he said. I ain't even gonna say it.

The group walked slowly to Marcy's house, with only awkward asides cutting into the silence. Marcy was in front, her arms wrapped around her torso, speaking only when addressed and then replying with just one or two words.

She was on display as usual—one of the only white girls at District Central Senior High School, a member of one of the only completely lily white families in Cross River. And sometimes, she had told Casey on the Saturday after the heavy rains had passed, she hated being a star, hated the older guys speaking to her with unsaid words hidden behind their words, hated all the mistaken assumptions about who she was. Casey, timid and understated, was a change of pace from the world she, as an oddity, a display piece, was expected to inhabit. She told Casey this, except that when she said it she said: Casey, I like you 'cause you're so laid back, you're a thinker. Sometimes I want you to take action, though—be more assertive like, you know, those guys who be hanging out in the afternoon by the bus stop.

What do you mean? Casey asked. They were alone in her basement, yet they sat on opposite sides of the room. You want me to yell about how much I want to
hit that
when you walk by?

Grow up, Casey. You know that's not what I mean. But, you know,
you could grab my ass sometimes instead of waiting for me to make a move. Don't you want to do that? she asked, walking over to him. She pressed Casey's left hand to the soft cushion behind her.

They kissed and fondled for a while, and then he climbed the stairs with a dull ache burning beneath his waist. Casey described his pain to Marcy as the two made small talk by her front door, and she responded: It's your own fault. Then there hung a blank, lingering and torturous silence that he was learning to get used to.

Marcy, he felt, was slipping from him.

Three out of the four Christmases when Joan was employed by the Downtown Branch Library, she played Joan Santi Claus, handing out slim paperback picture books to smiling children who had spaces where their baby teeth once were. Casey, even as a teenager, still had his book. It was about an Italian witch with a magical cauldron that produced endless pasta. That's how everyone regarded Joan, as magical. Unruly hellions became docile and sweet in her presence. Even when she began to miss work and generally faded into her own world, children and librarians and parents all regarded her as the good witch. They couldn't help it; she inspired smiles and conversation. The good witch from
over there
on the Southside of Cross River. It's a shame what's happening to those neighborhoods
over there
, her coworkers would say. She just nodded when they said that. Nodded as if to a beat. Not like how her uncle and his friends nodded. She used to watch them and they'd make her promise to never lose control that way. That herr-on, Joan, her uncle would say and then shake his head and rub his swollen, scabby hands.