I wondered how long I would lie on the camping mat in the windy city. I did not sleep but had strange dreams. I stared numbly at the wall. I read my copy of Little House in the Big Woods for fifth-grade reading group. Diamond picked the book out, and I was supposed to make up questions. Diamond told me they had to be hard questions.
Outside, there were festivities in Lafayette Park. There was live music and young men reciting poetry. Children danced. Outside, there were messiahs and leaders and priestesses with wide eyes. The Black Panthers marched.
But inside there was dark. There was rest. There was a thin blanket that was my nest. There were coffee cups, books, heat, and quiet. I could hear the sirens and yelling through my walls—but inside I did not even have a phone.
The day before I was at Meadows crouched on the floor—that same gleaming, golden hardwood floor. The dust and the rat piss. I held on tightly to the six-year-old with dry, scaly patches of skin on his scalp. “It’s okay,” I whispered with my arms holding tight, rocking as his skinny hands searched for mine. The lights were off. It was black. We heard snuffles and scared murmurs. Tall, bossy Diamond huddled close beside me with giant tears running down her cheeks. I couldn’t hold them all.
Eighty-seven children had never been so quiet.
Eighty-seven children and one me. I wanted to put my arms around them all before they tried to scamper out the open door. I slammed it shut. I hoped the thick brick walls would protect us. I hoped the thick brick walls would grow and expand suddenly—to become miles in width—to save us all forever.
It was forty-five minutes until the police came. I pictured the men with guns running the halls—searching for me and my silent children. Every ghetto has its king. Each Cota Street has its own Jimmy James. We all paid homage in different ways. I didn’t want the young eyes to see the dead man splayed out on the concrete of the playground—his body filled with holes. Or the Caprice that sped away. The three quick shots in the afternoon. How the blood soaked into the hot blacktop.
Trinise and Marvin were both sorry they had left me alone. They had their reasons.
Trinise: home with a sore throat. Marvin: a visit with Patrice.
I told the principal I was taking a few days off. He shrugged and nodded. He dusted his books with his back to me. “That’s fine, Ms. Vera. We will see you soon.” He didn’t expect me to come back.
I was eighty-seven years old that night in my bathtub. One year for each child who was caught in the crossfire. It was easy and simple to lie down in my bed. I swam through a thick fog. I escaped. I called for the Man from Angel Road in my dreams. I brushed against him in the night. But somehow, I could no longer remember his face. His voice was either screams or whispers.
When I came back I asked Trinise and Marvin if news reporters had come to Meadows after the shooting. They shrugged. I did not tell them how I disliked news reporters. And that I would escape them at all costs.
Trinise told me, “No one came here, Vera. They never do.”