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Josie enters the Bronx Zoo through the hidden alley-slim path. She begins to climb the hill to their sanctuary. In a while, she and Miles will head to the chapel where the rest of the family will gather. After the viewing, black-suited men will carry the coffin into the nave where the priest will offer words that reflect nothing real about her father. He hoped to transform his past into their great futures. How could he have known that his chances were minimal? If he’d stayed in the old country, he would’ve been poorer but maybe happier. At least he wouldn’t have had to adjust to the ways of strangers. Too late to reassure him that her life will be different, because isn’t that what he wanted?

It’s early; there are no visitors yet. The kiosks are shuttered, the cafeteria as well, tables upended, chairs piled in corners. In an hour or two, children from nearby schools will come and toss peanuts to the animals, missing the creatures by a mile. She never enjoyed the school trips to the zoo. Sad-eyed animals staring helplessly past fences or pacing paths that never lengthened, entering caves that never deepened. It shamed and terrified her.

The cloudless sky is unbearably blue, though it’s not a great day. Many inner cities are burning. Still no word from Melvin; he was gone all night.

Miles breaks through the nearby brush behind her. Together they follow a snaking path around clumps of bushes to reach the slate-smooth surface of their rock with its jagged edge that juts over the tree line. From that vantage point, they can see the rectangle of park, the scaffolding for a new motel on Southern Boulevard, and down into the neighborhood where she grew up. Up here, she’s lost to family while they’re within her sight, the anonymity sweet.

What if she and Miles remained on the sun-striped rock heating slowly beneath them till the funeral was done?

“Grandpa gone, it’s hard to believe.” His voice deep, soothingly familiar.

“So much I wanted to tell him that might’ve made him feel better about himself.”

“Like what?”

“He never understood his exploitation, or he wouldn’t have been so hard on himself.”

“He wasn’t a worker. He owned a pizza store.”

“There’s more than one kind of worker, Miles. He slaved in that factory for years before ending up on his feet for fifteen hours a day.”

“I’ll tell you something, my father is next to go.”

“Jesus, do you want to say more?”

“No.”

“I haven’t had any word from Melvin. It’s the first time he’s been away all night.”

“I heard from Lowell that a group of Black brothers plans to take over some Columbia buildings,” he says.

“Will Melvin be with them?”

“Don’t know. They’ll protest King’s death and university plans to build a gym in the midst of a third-world community.”

“Who told you this?”

“Lowell brought two brothers to crash on our floor last night.”

The men have met, she thinks bitterly. “I need to find Melvin. Will you come with me to Harlem?”

“We have a retreat. I’m leaving after the burial.”

“Retreats are for Catholics, not collectives. What’s going on?”

He shrugs. “Stuff.”

A few clouds wander into view.

“How well do you know the guys in your collective?”

“You keep asking me that,” he accuses, which annoys her because much of his education results from her activities.

“Anyone could be a provocateur.”

“Josie, that shit is spread around so we won’t trust each other.”

“Who are the people in your collective?” she persists.

“I can’t say.”

A weird loneliness enters her. “You can’t say? Who do you think you are? Fidel?” But she’s disappointed. He sounds like some of the movement men who hoard secrets like bonbons to distribute as favors.

“I swore to secrecy.”

A flock of birds flies so high she can barely see their shapes. “Miles, think everything through.” He always looked to her, curious to know her next steps. Now his collective seems to have more influence on him than anyone else, including her.

“Are you against serious action?” he asks.

“Not in principle, but white people aren’t uncomfortable enough to support violence. I’m not saying that’ll always be true. In Algeria people were miserable enough to appreciate any tactic. It’ll take longer here.” This isn’t the conversation she wants to be having now. They should be talking about her father, his grandfather.

“What constitutes miserable enough? A war in our name that never ends? Catastrophic bombing? Killing innocents? Burning children? Destruction of a country? Planeloads of body bags? The deep pockets of Dow Chemical? Prisons filled with Black people? Jailing of welfare mothers? Packaged lies on a daily basis? And now Dr. King? What, Josie, what more?” He’s not challenging her, just reciting the litany of horrors they all carry around.

“Violent actions would be bad before a majority of people are won over to our thinking.” But her words feel old and brittle; a mere tap would shatter their surface.

“Every revolution employs diverse tactics,” he says.

“If we up the ante right now, what will we accomplish?” she asks.

“End the war? How’s that for achievement?”

“You don’t know that. What about the new way of life we talk about nonstop?”

“That struggle goes on too,” but he sounds uninterested.

Climbing the steps to the apartment, her father’s stone-cold cheek is still on her lips. Except it wasn’t her father. It was a dressed-up body. And now more than ever she longs for his gentle warmth. About thirty people filled the church pews. Miles sat with his arm around Celia, who was sobbing. Terry held Johnny’s hand in her lap. Richie’s absence was palpable. Only she and her mother sat in mute pain, releasing none of their grief.

She fishes in her bag for the keys. Her plan is to change into jeans, then go up to 125th Street. Maybe someone at the Liberation Bookshop will have information about Melvin’s whereabouts.

Entering the apartment, she hears the shower. Then pounds on the locked bathroom door. “Melvin, it’s me.” In seconds, the door flies open, and his wet body wraps hers. “I know, baby, your father. I heard. Damn, damn, sorry. It’ll be okay. Real sorry.” So tight against him, she’s as wet as he is.

“Where’ve you been?” she mumbles, her face pressed to his chest.

He dances her back till they fall onto the bed. Then he rocks her, crooning, “Sweet honey, sweet baby,” her cheek nestled in his damp, soap-scented neck. She feels him getting hard, murmurs, “No,” needing to remain entwined, his whispered words soothing her agony as the late-day sun torches the room.

She’s still riding the edge of a floating sadness when her eyes open on the flickering shadows in the room from the neon lights below. The cloying scent of the funereal lilies is still with her. Except for Miles, they all went to Celia’s place after the burial. No one talked about her father. Instead they talked about the funeral. She didn’t stay long. Couldn’t. Worried about Melvin, she ached to go find him. And how much of the night will he share with her? He’s a talker but selective in what he communicates. When she says as much, he either shrugs or teases about her nonstop curiosity, depending on his mood. Still, she can’t help but wonder if he’d be more forthcoming if she were Black. When she starts thinking that way she does the only thing she can do, loves him even harder.

“Melvin?” she whispers, then slides an arm around his back.

Awake, he rolls over to face the ceiling.

“People are meeting up at the university at dawn,” he says more to himself.

My father just died, she wants to remind him.

“Not me, though. I’m done there.” His flippant tone unlike his usual grave self. “Can’t sleep. I’m getting some coffee.” He slips out of bed, fills the kettle, and washes some cups, his movements too energetic for this time of night. Is it excitement?

“What happened in Harlem last night?”

“Fire, broken glass, sirens, screams, shouts, curses, rage, and glee. People’s feelings ran the gamut from ‘I don’t give a shit about any of it’ to ‘This land is my land too.’ All of it taking place within barricades and TV lights and cameras everywhere as if Harlem itself was a movie set. I considered grabbing a few pots and pans but didn’t want to carry them around. The cops were swinging clubs like it was a golf course.”

A white woman there would’ve been an impediment to him. How many times will she have to stay behind? Suddenly anxious about what else she doesn’t know she slips out of bed to join him. In the predawn sky, only a sliver of light.

“Want some coffee?”

“Sure. It sounds like a repeat of last summer’s riots, people beaten, arrested and nothing going forward.”

“True. People’s anger needs to be focused into a force that makes a long-term difference.” He pours boiling water over the instant coffee.

“You weren’t running in the streets for all hours of the night. So what else was going on?”

He stares into the coffee cup, considering. His face wears an expression she doesn’t recognize. “Well, it’s the way it is, Josie, the way it has to be, baby. We’re going to open a Panther office on One Twenty-Fifth. That’s it. I’m part of the solution.”

“Columbia?”

“Not first on the list anymore. Doesn’t matter. Once the caucus takes over university buildings, my scholarship is blown. And that’s okay. I can finish my master’s whenever. Now, though, we have to find a storefront, get a newspaper out, programs started, politics sorted, including our relationship to white groups like SDS. So you asked and I’m telling. That’s what’s happening.” He takes a tentative sip of the coffee, stretches back his neck but doesn’t look at her.

“How long have you been sitting on this idea?” The wall calendar is still on January, a forest dark with pine trees.

“After running the streets for a while, I spent the rest of the night with a group of like-minded brothers and sisters.”

A stab of jealousy she will not give in to. “Care for my input?”

“Of course.” Although naked, he looks weirdly invulnerable.

“Liar.”

“Well, it’s this way, Josie. I mean, events create needs, which have to be dealt with. You say that all the time.”

“Melvin, once you begin work in Harlem, the cops will be all over you.”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“And you could get drafted.”

“No matter, I’m not going.”

“You sound so calm. Why?”

“Because I’m not you?”

“Wrong answer, smartass.”

“And the right one . . .?” he asks.

“Establishing an organization, programs, newspapers, lord, it’s postrevolutionary. It’s not going to be a breeze. Difficult tasks need extraordinary preparation to complete.” But what she wants to say and can’t is that she fears being left out of all of it.

“Look and listen, Josie. Black people are dying on a daily basis from too many events they have no control over, including this war. Whatever we do we need to do fast. Whatever parts succeed will be fantastic. Whatever fails won’t be worse than what exists. Get it?”

“Don’t be pissed. I’m not against your plan.” Something, though, is disturbing her breathing.