T. Johnson - Welcome to Braggsville

But as they grew close, I thought, How could they hurt a hanged man? Then the big one snatched the whip from Candice and started cracking it in the air. He laughed and cracked it again. Another one grabbed the whip and did the same thing. We went on like this for several minutes, until another one grabbed it, and not being content to slap the air, started to whip me.

In the struggle to avoid the lashes, I must have snapped the hook, leaving all my weight to be supported by the noose, or maybe the harness caught my neck. What did I think as those troops continued to stream down that hill — their crushed gray hats so similar to the hipster style now popular in San Fran and New York? This would be a hit in the Castro.

A relationship is like a road trip: You get bugs splattered on the windshield. By the time you see them, it’s too late, but you still keep going. It’s like starting out on patrol: once you strap on the battle rattle and mount up, you ride until it’s tits up, Daron’s father often said. Under Daron’s mother’s scowl, he would then bluster through an explanation of — and cobble together a synonym for — Tango Uniform, in other words, Tits Up, in other words, Toes Up, in other words, On Its Back, in other words, You stay in the transport unless absolutely necessary to leave, and even then you seek nearby cover and concentrate on protecting your squadmates in the vehicle. But after his mom left, he would say, Son, ride till it’s tits up and you’ll do all right.

He’d first offered this wisdom after the Davenports once again made the long September school shopping trip to and from the outlet mall in aggressive silence. He’d gassed the shocks on the driveway curb, and terminated the journey not with his usual request — Permission to dock, Commander — which D’aron always granted, but instead ended with the strained plastic ratcheting of the emergency brake. On that trip, D’aron realized what he’d long suspected: He was the source of his father’s stress, as was the another-one his mother was apparently crazy to even mention. What he’d done wrong D’aron could not say, and it was years before he understood that, A credit card is not the same as money, or, Women work all the time now, or, A part-time job can’t carry a full-time life. Until those ragged perceptions coalesced into a nameable fear, the uncertainty kept D’aron in the car at every rest stop, afraid to be left behind — with the another-one his mother was apparently crazy to even mention. (The only thing missing on those trips, he once joked while possessed by alien technology, was the wet throstle sound of the compressor pumping its Freon-filled, single-chambered heart.)

That deepest of fears, being left behind, even amplified as it had been in the mind of his child self — aka Little Mays — took new form on the return drive from the hospital morgue to Sheriff’s and Sheriff’s to the house, a journey during which neither the Davenports nor Daron’s friends even cut eyes at each other, scanning their respective sides of the road like grunts on security detail. Except Daron, again riding bitch, had no place to look except down, or at the backs of his parents’ heads, or at the gearshift, where his mother’s satiny hand lay draped over his father’s own fine diamond wrinkles, a reminder it was not their quarrel. They’d spoken only when necessary — not at all — angling over knees and elbows to retrieve ultimately unneeded items from the glove box, center console, seat pocket. Candice shrunk herself into the corner, as did Charlie, only their legs touched, and even that felt a reluctant concession to a need Daron couldn’t name, a need that nettled his chest as it desperately uncoiled, a need that also shamed them into contracting, shamed them into withdrawing that contact when they passed Lou’s and Candice gasped, or when the wire-haired pizza delivery driver pulled abreast of them on Main Street, or when they turned the corner where Louis had made the bingo wings comment on the way home from Lou’s — only yesterday! — a comment that Daron at last understood, watching Miss Ursula tax her rickety aluminum glider, hands interlaced behind her head like a stoic coach, the sagging skin under her triceps wavering like a bag of goldfish, but offering no wave. His mind flitted between Louis, mostly the first day they had met, how long it had taken to crack code word Lenny Bruce Lee, and his father, whom he expected to strike him at any moment. His father, though, was acting strange, tres bizarre: each time he caught Daron’s eye in the rearview mirror, he looked away, which he never did, but not before registering a certain surprise and relief — was it? — to see Daron still there.

Once more Mary Jo, Bobby, Kevin, Dennis, Raymond, Lucille, Frankie, Coddles, Lyle, John, Andy, Miss Ursula, Jim, Lonnie, Postmaster Jones, William, Travis, Todd, Tony, Dennis M. .. On the ride home from Sheriff’s office, everyone was again on porches or at windows. Daron didn’t call out their names this time, and this time no one waved. Where do the black people live? In the front yards! It was funny. (I guess that’s better than the back of the bus, Louis had later added. Daron had thought that funny, too.) Louis’s absence was always noticeable. Though skinny, he’d filled space like a fat man on a crowded elevator, except a welcome addition, not someone who provoked strangers to regard each other with situational solidarity. He had, in fact, induced people to regard each other with suspicion, to question the known. Louis would have made this funny — no, not funny but comic, and in doing so would have made it real, would have made it possible to express what they felt — aloud. When anxiety threatened to smother them, when the 4 Little Indians had nearly succumbed to the block and tackle of cluck and cackle in the entry line at Six Flags, Louis spurred them on, and relieved the tension of waiting forty-five minutes to enter the park (just to wait what they knew would be another fifty-five to ride Medusa) by interviewing Mary-Kate and Ashley, the honorifics he’d bestowed upon Candice’s prosthetic protestants.

As soon as his father eased up the driveway, Candice was out of the car and limping toward the house. Charlie, always more patient and self-controlled, waited for the car to come to a complete stop and called after her, carrying her crutches. Before Daron could chase after them, both his father and mother twisted around to face him. In the space between their heads, he could see Charlie helping Candice into the house; he could only watch as Candice shambled along with one hand on a crutch and the other on Charlie’s shoulder, only watch as she took slow steps steadied by Charlie’s arm around her waist, only watch as Charlie’s fingers grazed that slice of honeydew between her belt and her shirt. He wanted to be the one to help her.

It’s a terrible thing that’s happened, son. It’s terrible to lose your friend like that. It wasn’t a good idea, either. It was dumb as shitting on your own shoe, to be sure, but that’s for later.

I know you must feel terrible, baby. His mother’s face, like his father’s, was a mixture of grief and something else — relief? — two looks that stung his cheeks and fell Daron ill, queasy, as had the smell in the coroner’s office, as had the smell of bacon in the kitchen that morning. It opened a space in him that he didn’t want to explore, so he continued scooting toward the car door.

What we need you to understand today — his father reached into the backseat to take a good handful of Daron’s jaw and swung it to face him — what you have to know is that you are alive and you need to keep on trucking, and you couldn’t have saved him. Maybe if you woulda went along to Old Man Donner’s things woulda gone differently because people would recognize you, but maybe not. And unless you plan to be everywhere for everybody, you can’t save everyone. That’s the first thing you learn under fire. And you are fixing to be under fire, son. Stay strong. Don’t give me that look. I know what you’re feeling, D’aron. I know it too well. That’s why I was glad when you went to school. Got it?