The Fight for Kidsboro (52 page)

A crowd of people was gathered on the edge of town, and I ran over to see what was going on. Joey, the African-American preacher at Kidsboro Community Church, was on the ground in the middle of a two-layered circle of people. I could barely see him through their legs.

“What's going on?” I asked whoever might be listening.

“Joey's been blinded!” came the reply from an unknown source.

“What?” I scrambled in between the bodies and made it to the center where James, the doctor, was trying to look at Joey's eye, while Joey was covering it with his hand. There Was blood on the top of Joey's shirt and on the back of his hand.

“What happened?” I demanded.

“He was hit in the eye by a rock,” said James, the expert at the scene.

“It's not my eye,” Joey said, without looking up. “It's my forehead.”

“Let me see, Joey,” I said, kneeling down.

“I'll move my hand if he promises not to touch me,” Joey said, pointing to James.

“Step back, James,” I said.

“I took a first aid course!” James shouted. “I know what I'm doing!”

“Just step back.”

James rolled his eyes and moved back six inches on his haunches. Joey lifted his hand. The crowd pressed in to get a closer look. There was a gash above his left eye. It had bled some but was stopped for now.

“Does anybody have a tissue or something?”

“I've got bandages!” James yelled before anyone else could even process the question. He opened his black doctor bag, and, for the first time in his medical career, he was able to use something from it for a real medical purpose. In two seconds he'd found a package of sterile gauze and flipped it to me.

I carefully opened the package and gave the gauze to Joey. “Just press this against the wound. It may need stitches. We should get you to a doctor.” Looking up I said, “Somebody go to Whit's End and call his mom.”

I heard someone run off. “Come on, Joey.” I helped him up. He swayed a little bit when he got to his feet, as if he were dizzy, so I didn't push him too fast.

“Okay, how was he hit with a rock?” I asked the crowd.

“Slingshot,” said Scott, who I now noticed was part of the crowd.

I felt my face get hot. “Whose?”

“Ben's.”

“It was an accident,” I heard Ben say. “It got away from me.”

“This is not a designated slingshot area.”

“It was
shot
from one,” he said. “It just didn't
land
in one.”

“That's no excuse,” Pete, the lawyer said. He stepped to the front of the crowd. “This is an outrage. Joey, you need to sue this man!” he said, pointing to Ben.

“We don't need this, Pete,” I said.

“Joey's gonna need stitches. He's entitled to damages.”

“Stop it!”

Pete turned to Joey. “You could sue this pea brain for all he's worth.”

“Hey!” shouted Ben. “Get outta here.”

“I'm not going anywhere, Ben. And I would suggest you get your own lawyer.”

Ben made a swim move past two bodies in front of him and came at Pete. Pete dropped his briefcase and lifted his arms to defend himself. Ben pushed him, sending Pete sprawling to the ground.

“Stop!” I shouted.

“Come on, Pete,” Ben yelled. “You want to sue somebody? How much do you think you can get if I break both your arms?” The crowd egged both of them on.

Pete didn't get up. “Oh, real smart. Pushing me in front of 15 witnesses. I could take you for everything.”

Ben moved to kick him, and I stepped in front. “Ben!” Scott and I grabbed him and pulled him back. He Wasn't a very big guy, so It wasn't terribly difficult to get him away from the scene.

“That's it!” I shouted. “Ben, go home and take your slingshot with you. Pete, no one's suing anybody. You can go home too. Everybody, mind your own business. I'm taking Joey to Whit's End now.”

I turned to Joey, who didn't seem to be taking any of this in. “You okay?” He nodded. “Ready to go?” He nodded again.

I put my arm around him and led him away. As we walked away, I turned around briefly. The crowd had not dispersed. They just stared at the two of us. I couldn't tell if they were concerned for Joey, or if they blamed me for the whole thing happening in the first place.

We met Joey's mother at Whit's End. Mr. Whittaker looked at the wound and kept pressure on it until he was ready to go. Then Joey's mom took him to the doctor.

When I got back into town, there was still an uneasy buzz in the air. The walls of a strong city were beginning to crumble, and it felt like it was only the beginning.

I picked up a copy of the
Kidsboro Chronicle
, which had just come out, and skimmed through the first few pages. There Was a lot about the changes the city council had made, as well as the effects of the changes. Jill had written the articles and usually she was very fair in her writing. But there was an edge to these, as if she disagreed with every decision that had been handed down. I knew this couldn't be true, though, because she had been involved in those decisions herself.

I turned the page and discovered that I wasn't imagining things. The headline on the editorial page was “Mayor and City Council Give In to Special Interests,” by Jill Segler. What? Give in?

In the article, she took responsibility for herself in saying that she was a member of the city council, and she'd made a mistake when she allowed the budget to pass. But she kept referring to it as “the mayor's proposal” and “the mayor's budget plan.” One line that particularly bothered me was, “The mayor's budget plan ignored the true needs of the city in order to please a few people.” She went on to criticize “the mayor's decision to hire an assistant that he doesn't need.”

I couldn't read on. I threw the paper down and stormed over to the newspaper office. I pushed open the door without knocking. Jill was sitting at her desk.

“What are you doing?” I asked harshly.

“You think you're the first political leader to get criticized in the press?” she replied calmly.

“But those things you wrote—”

“Were all true.”

“Mine was not the only vote in the city council.”

“I messed up too, but it's your name on the budget proposal.”

“You're on the city council. You're supposed to back me up.”

“I have to print the truth. There's no loyalty in journalism.”

“What kind of a motto is that?”

“I have a responsibility to my readers to print the truth. We caved in to all those groups. Slingshots? Vegetables? Why are we paying for these things? And why do you need an assistant?”

“You're a supporter of the group that wanted me to create more government jobs for girls. You wanted me to hire an assistant!”

“But why did you listen to me?”

I was all ready with my next response, but her question caught me by surprise. All I could come up with was a quiet “What?”

“You used to be strong. You used to stand up to people. You didn't care about popularity or making everybody happy. You did what you thought was best. I don't know what happened to you, but you'd better find your spine or this town is going down the tubes.”

I was quieter, but no less angry. “You didn't have to vote for this proposal. I wrote it, and I handed it to you. This town is just as much your responsibility as it is mine. If I'm going down, you're going with me. I'm writing a rebuttal to your article, and I expect you to print it.”

I didn't wait for her to respond. I left, slamming the door behind me. Smoke was coming out my ears. She was irresponsible, thoughtless, reckless, wishy-washy …

And right.

I was still going to write my rebuttal, even though in my heart, I knew Jill's article was accurate. I just wanted to deflect some of the blame off of me.

I sat down at my desk and pulled out a pencil and my notebook. Lauren had noticed me walking by and poked her head in. “Do you need me for anything?”

“No, thanks.”

“You want me to take dictation?”

“No, I'll just write this one by myself.” I wondered if she had read the article and wanted to make sure that I still felt like I needed her. Not that her actions were any different than they had been in the weeks before. She had been a faithful, helpful employee.

She backed out of my office, and I got down to writing. Halfway through my first sentence, I suddenly became distracted. There was a feeling in the air that was so strong it forced me to stand up. My stomach dropped like the time I woke up and thought I heard someone breaking into the house. There was an intruder nearby. Obviously, he wasn't inside right then. It was a small clubhouse and there was nowhere for anyone to hide. But there was a presence there, and I could almost feel it choking me. It was a sense … or a smell … or …

I backed up against the wall, suddenly needing air desperately. I had to prop myself up with the desk as I anxiously moved for the door. I lunged out. Lauren was sitting at a desk outside my door. I was gasping.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“I … I'm just going for a walk.” But walking wouldn't do the trick. After a few steps, I found myself running. I headed straight for home, the feeling of dread melting away with every stride. I ran out of breath, not from running, but from this strange horror that had overtaken me. I slowed down and caught my breath. The feeling was gone. I wasn't being strangled any more, and I felt like I could breathe again.

Was I going crazy?

I went home. It was much earlier than usual for me to go home for the day, but I didn't want to be anywhere near my clubhouse. I figured I would go up to my room and read for a while. I'd get lost in another world for an hour or two, and I'd forget the one I had just run from.

“Mom?” I called out when I opened the back door and went into the kitchen. She didn't answer, and I remembered that she'd had an afternoon meeting at work. I opened the refrigerator and pulled out some orange juice. As I reached for a glass, I felt a draft. I was suddenly very aware of sounds outside—birds, cars driving by on the street. I peered into the living room and saw that a window was open. Strange, I thought, since the air conditioning was on. The thin drapes were billowing in the wind. I closed the window.

As soon as the wood of the window touched the wood of the sill, I felt it again—the same presence I'd felt in my clubhouse. The cup dropped from my hand as my entire body went numb.

It finally hit me which sense was being heightened—the sense of smell. There was a familiar scent in the air: the smell of dread and fear and a time I wanted to forget. I managed to move my legs enough to maneuver past the dining room table and toward the stairs. I was walking in slow motion, dreading each step but desperately wanting to know who or what was there in my house, alone with me.

I heard and saw nothing. But the smell was getting stronger. It sickened me but also drew me. I walked on, my eyes darting but my head not moving, for fear that I would make a noise and awaken something I wanted to remain asleep. As I started up the stairs, something caught my eye. On an end table by the couch was a set of keys. Not my mom's keys, not my keys … but a set of keys with a picture-frame keychain on it. Taking a closer look, I saw that in the picture frame was a photo of me—when I was seven.