All that week Sam spent every free moment in the school library. Leon was coming over for the interview on Friday night, and Sam wanted to be prepared. If he was going to tell this story right, he had to put it in perspective, establish the wider context, dig beneath the surface to the truth that was rooted in history. He needed to go back to the beginning—to slavery and emancipation. Who were Leon’s people? How, when, and why did they get from Africa to Virginia to New York? He knew what people would be thinking: Leon—Tutu—they were nobodies. A grocery bagger and a maid. Who cared about their life stories? Who cared about anyone’s story? That was Sam’s job: to make people care. A century after the Civil War, was there a place for a young black man in America aside from prison or the army? If Leon had a future, the only way to grasp it was to look at his past—his whole past. Take nothing for granted. Examine every source. Don’t be blinded by the glint of illusion. Isn’t that what his AP history teacher, Miss Koestler, kept drumming into their skulls? Facts are fluid—you’re never going to nail them down—so don’t try. Gather as many sources as you can and squeeze them until something emerges. Start at the beginning—which in Leon’s case meant enslaved forebears on the Northern Neck of Virginia, where (as Tutu had told him and the history books confirmed) three of the first five presidents had been born on plantations worked by her and Leon’s enslaved ancestors. If he found out how those plantation presidents treated their slaves and what happened to them and their offspring after emancipation, he’d have the start of Leon’s American story.
That was the first problem: there was nothing. Sam scoured the school library for books about the founders’ slaves—and came up empty. In the half dozen biographies of the first president, the only mention of slaves was the provision in Washington’s will freeing them. One biography devoted a paragraph to Washington’s trusty valet Billy Lee, the only slave named outright in the president’s will. That was it. Sam tried to summon Tutu’s quadruple great-grandmother from the grainy photos of Mount Vernon—but he gave up. To judge by the histories and biographies, the slaves of the founders were an invisible army who did all the work without being seen, heard, recorded, or remembered. It was like black people had never really existed in America until they were emancipated. Lots of stuff in the library about the Emancipation Proclamation and the Thirteenth Amendment—“Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude shall exist within the United States”—but between the Civil War and the civil rights movement, there was a total void in black history except for a single biography of George Washington Carver. Books about the civil rights movement were segregated in their own little nook. They even had The Autobiography of Malcolm X—Kim’s favorite book. So Sam grabbed it off the shelf and settled in to read the story of how a two-bit Harlem dope pusher transformed himself into the father of Black Power. He read Martin Luther King Jr.’s “Letter from Birmingham Jail” and the “I Have a Dream” speech that he vaguely remembered watching on television when he was eleven (his parents had asked Tutu to come watch with them but she wouldn’t). He asked the librarian to help him dig up newspaper articles about the church bombing in Birmingham, Alabama, that same year—1963. It all came back to him as he ran his eyes down the blurry columns of microfilm from The New York Times: Tutu had been preparing their dinner that September Sunday when the news crackled onto her transistor radio that four little black girls had been killed after a bomb blew up their church that morning. Sam rushed into the kitchen when he heard the cry—and there stood Tutu, frozen between the sink and the stove with both hands over her mouth and tears streaming down her face. She shook her head—once—when he asked her what was wrong. The radio played on and on, repeating the story a hundred times. Tutu listened in silence to every word, and Sam listened beside her, trying to take it in. When she served the five of them their dinner, she turned up the volume so they could all hear it perfectly from behind the swinging kitchen door. And no one said a word. They just ate the food Tutu put on their plates and listened to the news reports out of Birmingham until even Sam had memorized those four girls’ names: Addie Mae Collins, Cynthia Wesley, Carole Robertson, Denise McNair.
This was history. He and Tutu had lived through it together, each sealed in a separate bubble. Never once had they talked about it—any of it—not then, not after.
Sam read and took notes until the librarian shut off the lights and threw him out—then he trudged the mile to the station and caught the train back to the city. In the suffocating car, mostly empty at this hour, he made a running list headed “Questions for Leon.” He decided he’d start with a point where their lives intersected: He’d recount everything he remembered about the Sunday of the Birmingham church bombing and then he’d ask Leon where he was that day, how and when he heard the news, how he reacted, how the people around him took it. Personal, political, particular. Better than just launching in with “So, man, tell me about yourself. Start from the beginning and go up to the present. Be specific. Start.” Right? Question #2: Who do you like better, the Mets or the Yankees? #3: Who inspires you more—Dr. King or Malcolm X? #4: Do you have a girlfriend? #5: Any advice for what to do when your girlfriend quits talking to you? #6: Do you know anything about your enslaved ancestors?
Sam erased, crossed out, rewrote, reshuffled the questions so many times that by the end he couldn’t read a single word.
leon showed up on friday evening at six thirty—half an hour late. “No subway service below Fourteenth Street,” he apologized at the door. “Some kind of mess-up in the Village.” Dressed in a white starched shirt, blue tie, shiny gray suit, he looked like a traveling Bible salesman. As soon as he cast an eye around Richard’s tenement living room—which Sam had stayed up half the night before to clean—he slipped off the jacket and folded it neatly on the back of a chair. What had he been expecting—the penthouse suite?
When they got through the awkward shuffle by the door, Sam pulled out a chair for Leon at the decontaminated plastic table, sat down opposite, and cleared his throat. “So.” He flipped open a steno pad. “Right.” Clicked open his ballpoint pen. “Should we get started?”
Leon nodded, breathing shallowly through his nose. Did the place really smell that bad?
Sam unfolded the illegible list of questions and, glancing briefly at the erasure blots and arrows, launched into his memories of the Birmingham church bombing. Leon, silent and motionless, heard him out to the end. “So my first question is—what do you remember about that day? How old were you? Where were you when the news came on?”
Leon stared at Sam for the count of two then dropped his eyes. “You’re saying this happened in sixty-three? I was thirteen, maybe fourteen. Can’t say I remember much about that time. It was right before I came north with Granny.”
“You never listened to the news? Civil rights—Dr. King—all of that?”
Leon shook his head.
“Where were you—on Mars?”
A crease dented Leon’s smooth brow. “Nah, I was still in Virginia.”
“With your . . .” He was about to say “mother” but he wasn’t going to make that mistake twice. “Folks,” he finished lamely.
“Look, man. I didn’t come here to talk about that.” Sam could tell from the strangled voice that he’d pissed Leon off. “That’s not part of the story, okay?”
That’s totally the story! Sam wanted to yell. But he just mumbled, “Okay,” and flipped through his notes. “So you lived in Virginia till you were fourteen? Northern Neck, right?” Leon nodded. Sam forged ahead, “You study much local history before you left? You know, George Washington, Mary Ball? Tutu told me her grandparents were slaves, which means your great-great-grandparents were slaves. Ever hear anything about whose slaves they were?”
“Nobody talks about that stuff.” The crease in Leon’s brow deepened. “What’s the point?”
“The point?” Sam was incredulous. “It’s our history—that’s the point. If no one talks about it—”
“Our history?” Leon’s mouth twisted. “I don’t know squat about your history—but it’s not the same as mine. You don’t want to hear my story—all you care about is what’s already in your head.” His eyes went hard. “The noble Negro standing up to injustice. That’s not me. I’m not my race, Sam—I’m a person.” Sam shrank before the anger. “A person you can’t see and never will. The truth? To you, I’m nothing unless you can put on a label on it. Grandson of slaves. Victim of racism. What do you know about it? You’re just using me to make yourself feel better. Just like Granny told me. You say you wanna write my story—but it’s just gonna end up being about you.”
Sam flushed. This was going seriously off the rails. “Whoa—sorry—I didn’t mean—”
But before he could finish the sentence, the door opened and Richard came strolling in. He wasn’t supposed to be here yet. He’d promised to make himself scarce until eight thirty so Sam could interview Leon in peace—but when was the last time Richard kept his side of a bargain? He looked like he’d just been to a beauty salon—clean shaven, clear-eyed, hair combed, smelling of aftershave. After shaking hands with Leon, Richard plunked himself in a chair next to Sam, tilted it back with his hands behind his head, and amped up the killer grin. “Sam here tells me you’re a pretty cool dude.” He had? “So what’s the coolest thing you’ve ever done?” Why hadn’t he thought of that?
“Um.” Pause. “Well. This is kind of embarrassing.” A little smile was twitching at the corners of Leon’s mouth. “But a couple years ago—on a dare—I auditioned for Hair—you know, the musical?”
“No way.” Richard started humming the chorus to “Aquarius.” “You like that kind of music?”
“No way!” Leon was grinning now. “It was a dare, right? I had no idea you had to take off your clothes and stuff. Granny would have killed me if I got the part.”
“Which you didn’t?”
“Correct. But they really liked the way I sang. You could totally do backup for the Four Tops. Those were the exact words of the . . . whatchacallit?”
“Casting director.”
“Right.”
Sam sat there chewing the cap of his pen, while Richard and Leon started riffing back and forth about music. Every group or singer that Leon mentioned—from Mahalia Jackson to the Jackson 5—Richard had either met, hung out with, or knew every song they ever recorded. Helps to have a record producer for a father. They took turns pinpointing the album on which soul stars like Ray Charles, Aretha, Stevie Wonder, and Etta James pivoted from gospel to R&B. Then they started swapping favorites—“I Was Made to Love Her,” “I Heard It through the Grapevine,” “Hallelujah I Love Her So”—and soon they were singing bits, alternating lead and backup. Sam, now furiously taking notes, didn’t know whether to be grateful or incensed at how Richard was hijacking the interview.
As if on cue, the two of them quit singing at the exact same moment and burst out laughing. “Wow.” Leon’s eyes were shining. “You sure know a lot about our music considering that you’re—”
“A white boy,” Richard finished for him. “Yeah, well, my father’s Irv Rines, the record producer. Heard of him?”
“Irv Rines is your father? I’d give anything to meet that man. My number one dream . . .” And he was off and running about how he was born to be a back-up singer because he could hit every note of every song—“It’s true,” Sam interjected, “I heard him”—harmonize in any genre, memorize a song the first time he heard it. He told them about meeting the Rabbi and how he was going to make a demo tape as soon as he scraped together the money.
“This is incredible,” Richard practically crooned. “How come you didn’t say anything about this, Sam I Am? I work part-time in my dad’s studio,” Richard barreled on. Yeah, like two hours a week. “I’m sure I could arrange for you to come down and meet Dad. Gosh, once you have your demo, who knows . . . ?”
“I can’t believe this,” Leon murmured, his eyes liquid. Then he pulled up short. “Your daddy—he’s Jewish, right? Miss G at the church said to get with the Jewish producers.”
Richard shot him a quizzical look. “One hundred percent certified Semite. If you ask nicely, he’ll sing you ‘Hava Nagila.’” Richard started singing in Hebrew and clapping along—Sam was cringing—and by the second verse Leon joined in on harmony. “Jesus, Leon,” Richard beamed, “you could front for a bar mitzvah band.”
“Let’s get back to the story,” Sam interrupted, racking his brain for what to say next. Two pairs of eyes were trained on his face: okay, Mr. Cub Reporter. “Everybody’s got a story, right?” Blank stares. “Boy meets girl—boys loses girl. Boy works hard, studies law, goes to Washington and becomes president—”
“Or crook,” Richard put in.
“Or both,” Sam added. “Or: boy grows up poor and lonely, moves to the city, gets a job. . . .”
“Meets a famous record producer and becomes a star,” Richard finished Sam’s sentence, winking at Leon.
“Now that’s a story I like. But that’s not my story.” Leon fell quiet for a moment. “Not yet, anyway. I guess I grew up poor—but I never thought of it that way. When Daddy was alive there was always plenty to eat—fish and crabs off his boat—tomatoes and beans in the summer. You white folks are always wanting to pity us—unless you’re hating on us—but one’s as bad as the other. We look after our own, know what I mean?” Sam nodded, at a loss for what to say. Leon continued, “My story has a hero but it’s not me—it’s Granny. No offense, Sam, but my granny busts her butt at your house six days a week to give me what I have. Without her—and our church—I’d be nothing. Worse than nothing.”
“Yeah, but without our messed-up system you wouldn’t need Tutu—or church,” Sam said. “You’d be out on your own—”
“But that’s where you’re wrong,” Leon cut him off. “Even if I was rich as Solomon, I’d still go to church with Granny every Sunday. If you can’t get with the Lord, you can’t get anywhere.”
Sam chewed the cap of his Bic pen. “Okay—lemme ask you something else.” He tried to ignore Leon’s sigh. “Right now your dream is to be a singer. But what about before you left Virginia? Back when you were fourteen, what did you wanna be when you grew up?”
“I know what I wanted to be,” Richard butted in. “A fireman! Sliding down those poles. Driving a big shiny red engine.”
“Leon?”
Another sigh. “Fourteen? Truthfully, I didn’t want be anything. I wanted to be nothing. I just wanted not to be me.” Two silent beats. “What about you, Sam?”
He breathed out hard. “I wanted to be Richard.” Which got him a little “awww” and a punch on the shoulder.
“And now?”
“Hey, who’s interviewing who?”
“And now?”
Another silence. “Kinda like you at fourteen.”
“What? With a friend like him?” He nodded to Richard, which got Leon a shoulder punch.
Leon put his jacket back on, shook hands, and headed for the door. “Got a driving job later on,” he explained. “Friend of Granny’s coming up from Baltimore on the bus. I’m supposed to pick her up at Port Authority.”
“You’re a cabdriver?” Richard asked.
“Gypsy cab, I guess you call it.” Leon’s eyes came to rest on Sam. “If any of you ever need a ride anyplace . . .” He fished a couple of cards from his pocket. “Morris Carter. Taxi Driver. 24-hour cab service” was embossed in big black letters; but Leon had penned a line through “Morris” and written his own name in, along with Tutu’s phone number. Sam slipped the card into the back pocket of his jeans; Richard laid his on the plastic table.
Sam followed Leon out the door onto the landing. “Is Tutu still mad at me?”
Leon shook his head. “Seems like Granny’s mad at everyone these days.” His mouth twitched for a second. “Do me a favor, would you? If you talk to her, don’t mention the article. Better yet, don’t even tell her you saw me.”
Sam raised his right hand. “Scout’s honor.” Luckily, Leon had no idea how bad he was at lying.