What They Found Page 6

  “I said I would, but my heart was still down. Since our school only won four games all year the clippings weren’t that impressive. I knew that and so did Mr. Pearl. So even though that white woman was smiling and being nice I knew she was going to forget about me as soon as she left the park,” Keisha said. “So Mr. Pearl went over to one of the older guys standing on the sidelines and told him what the situation was. Then he called me over and told me to get in the game.”

  “With the boys?” Abeni asked.

  “These weren’t just some boys,” Keisha said. “Big Sal was there, Brian Addison was there, Jo-Jo Greene, and Footsy from a Hundred and Forty-seventh Street. You know, if my game is correct I can play with regular boys, but this was a coaches’ tournament and there were a bunch of down dudes in the action.”

  “What did you do, honey?” Mama Evans asked.

  “I jumped on in. Yo, it wasn’t going to be easy but it’s ball, right?”

  Mama Evans nodded.

  “So, it’s me and Footsy—we’re the silver team—at guard so everything is jumping off cool. Michael is on the gold team. I’m on the point and Footsy’s playing shooting guard. We play off a few picks and I’m feeding the big men underneath and we’re getting a lead. Footsy is helping me out on D and nobody is too anxious to go around me anyway because Big Sal is on my team and he’s patrolling the lane big-time. So, I’m doing okay, relaxing into the set, and not only that, I’m having fun because boys are serious about their ball all the time.”

  “And this coach is watching?” Abeni said.

  “Steady scoping!” Keisha said. “Then Brian—he’s playing for the gold team—he peeps that I’m feeding off and he starts sagging and clogging up the lane so I have to start taking shots. Hey, I can shoot, so right away I hit a couple of outside shots and then the crowd starts getting in on the action because I’m a woman. They’re saying things like ‘Yo, she’s busting you guys!’ Footsy is digging it and he sets up a screen for me and when his man switches late I pop another outside shot. That’s when Michael says he’s going to hold me.”

  “Uh-oh, here comes trouble,” Mrs. Danforth said.

  “Please, ma’am, will you keep your head down?” Abeni asked Mrs. Danforth, gently pushing the older woman’s head forward as she soaped the back of her neck.

  “Abeni, you ever see Michael play?”

  “No, I’m not into sports.”

  “Well, he’s okay. He’s not Footsy, and he’s not Brian Addison, but he’s okay. He’s fast and he can get down on a fast break so he scores a lot when his team gets a turnover or a rebound. But when he plays defense he stands too straight. I tried to tell him that but he don’t want to listen to me. He’s one of these dudes who’s good but don’t want to work his game.”

  “Lot of men like that,” Abeni said.

  “Uh-huh. So he comes out on me and he’s smiling. You know, I don’t like people smiling at my game. You know what I mean? My game is not a joke so don’t be showing your teeth. He’s my old man—at least he was my old man—but he still had to show me some respect on the court. So he comes to me and fakes like he’s going to snatch the ball and I guess I’m supposed to panic or something. I see how straight he’s standing and how casual he’s trying to look and I give him a head fake and go for his right shoulder.”

  “You hit him?” Mrs. Danforth asked.

  “No, I just dipped my shoulder and went under his. You know, you get your shoulder past his shoulder and you go! So I cut across the lane. Brian thought I was going to pass and he cut off Big Sal so I was free for the layup. Then the crowd really went wild.”

  “Michael got mad.” Abeni folded her arms.

  “Mad? The fool started cussing and stuff. He come down the court and tried to post me low, which was stupid because, like I said, Big Sal done peed all over that inside paint. That was his territory and you better not step in it. So Michael is mad but he was still trying to nonchalant it on defense.”

  “And you weren’t going to let that work!” Mama Evans said.

  “My mama gave birth to a real girl and not some lame, you know what I’m saying?” Keisha had her hand on her hip. “So I went after Michael big-time just to reclaim my propers. First, I ran him into a pick at the top of the key and left him standing there looking stupid. I heard somebody telling him to fight through the picks, so the next time I had the pill I just pointed to the left and he looked for the pick and came straight up to slide by and I faked left and went past his left shoulder. He grabbed my T-shirt from behind but I pulled away, drew Brian over, and laid a pass behind my back to Footsy that was so sweet I wanted to run home and look for the instant replay on television.”

  “It was on television?” Mrs. Danforth asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Keisha said. “But that’s what I was thinking. Michael’s team called a time out and started strate-gizing. All the dudes in the stands started signifying and carrying on when the Golds came out and they had Brian guard me. That’s a whole lot of respect because he’s six foot eight and quick as a snake.

  “The rest of the game was sweet. I only hit one more shot and one time I went up and Brian got my shot and pinned it against the boards but that wasn’t a big deal,” Keisha said. “Brian is liable to pin anybody. And by that time they had Michael sitting on the sideline.”

  “Please don’t tell me he was still mad after the game?” Abeni was finishing up Mrs. Danforth.

  “After the game Mr. Pearl took me over to the coach, who said she was going to write to the school for my records. ‘If your academics are decent you’ll be hearing from me,’ she said.

  “My academics are right in the middle but Frederick Douglass has a good rep so I was hopeful,” Keisha said. “No way my moms can send me to college on what she makes. Anyway, last week I got the notice by telephone and a telegram.”

  “Baby, you got a scholarship?” Mama Evans wiped her hands and put her arms around Keisha. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Yeah! Now, I’m going to a mostly white school down in Tennessee, and I need some advice about how to keep my hair nice in case they don’t have stores around there to buy the stuff I use.”

  “Girl, you are going to college!” Mama Evans said. “Anything you need for your hair you just let me know and I’ll send it to you free of charge. And baby, Harlem is wonderful but they got black people everywhere in this country. You’ll find some sisters down there who will definitely hook you up. Now go on and tell me more about this boy who’s sitting on the sidelines pouting.”

  “So I ran into him on a Hundred and Forty-fifth Street and I told him—I said, ‘Look, Michael, you were trying to be all cool and everything like I didn’t even have a game! How you going to look me in the face and disrespect my ability?’ ”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he would play me one-on-one any day in the week and burn me like I was a blunt at a roti-cue!”

  “And what did you say?” Abeni asked.

  “Well, you know me, girl. I really can’t stand no shouting man and I can’t stand no pouting man. So when a brother starts shouting and pouting at the same time I got to remind him of his place. So I did.”

  “You go, girl!”

  “But Keisha, you said you needed some advice?” Mama Evans asked.

  “About getting my hair together in Tennessee?”

  “We got that straight,” Mama Evans said. “But you also said you might need a good lawyer?”

  “Michael said he was going to sue me,” Keisha said.

  “For beating him on the basketball court?” Abeni asked.

  “No, ma’am, for hitting him on a Hundred and Forty-fifth Street,” Keisha said. “I said I had to put him in his place. But when I started telling him about his stupid self—”

  “Like you were supposed to—” Abeni said.

  “He had the nerve to put his hand over my mouth. So I hit him. Mama Evans, I swear I didn’t know his boys were checking us out. If I had known that I would have waited
until we got off the block. I offered to help him up, but he told me not to put my hands on him and I would be hearing from his lawyer.”

  “Girl, you must of put a hurting on that man,” Abeni said. “What did you hit him with?”

  “An overhand right. He was standing too straight again. I still love him, though,” Keisha said. “He’s just hardheaded and got some kinks in his game. Other than that he’s good people.”

  “Keisha, you pick out anything you want from here to take with you to Tennessee,” Mama Evans said. “It’s on the shop. You go on down there and make us proud. And don’t worry about Michael. His ego’s just been bruised a little. He’ll get over it.”

  “Mama Evans, you are just wonderful.” Keisha hugged Mama Evans, waved to Abeni and Mrs. Danforth, and left.

  “I don’t think that boy is going to get over being knocked down in the street,” Mrs. Danforth said.

  “I guess not,” Mama Evans said. “Some men are just funny that way.”

  jump

  at the

  sun

  I had slept badly, waking every few minutes to check the time. When I did sleep I dreamt of being lost in a large bus terminal, running from gate to gate trying to find my bus to somewhere. I was exhausted when morning finally came. I told myself that the strain of the last few weeks would soon be over, one way or the other. I was exhausted as I sat up. My head felt heavy in my hands and I wanted to lie down again, to sleep.

  Snatches of conversation, all about the case, repeated themselves in my head. What had Frank Havens said? Oh, yes, that there was an outside chance that Donald would get probation.

  “We made a good case for it,” he said. His voice was high and tense. “Once we had Donald in the rehabilitation program things started to look up. The judge can see he’s working on his case.”

  My brother was eighteen, two years younger than me, but somehow he seemed older. Our parents had spent the last few years trying to keep him out of trouble, watching in vain as he slid from small problems into the drug scene and, finally, an arrest for armed robbery.

  Mama pushed the door open and held up a mug of coffee. I smiled.

  “How you doing?” I asked.

  “I’m scared,” Mama said, sitting next to me on the bed. The sunlight through the venetian blinds fell in diagonals across her lap. “You can never tell about these things. He can get as much as twelve years. I can’t imagine him being in jail for that long.”

  “We’ll go into the courtroom today as a family,” I said. “And we’ll show the judge he has support. Mr. Havens said that sometimes the judge will allow the family to speak.”

  Mama rubbed my hands and said that she had to get dressed. “Donald went to Barbara’s house to get his suit.”

  That was a good sign. Just last night he had been surly and going on about how the Man wasn’t going to cut him a break because he was black and he didn’t need to dress for the occasion. I had grown as angry as he was. Our folks had been putting up with him for the past few years, getting him out of trouble, begging people not to prosecute him for the petty crimes he committed. They had put up all of their savings to get him out on bail when he was arrested on the stickup charge.

  Donald and a friend, Kwame Brown, had borrowed a gun and stuck up a gas station in Brooklyn. Kwame was the driver. When Donald ran back to the car with the money Kwame had panicked and taken off even before Donald was into the car. He had fallen on the sidewalk, and the gun had discharged. Luckily no one had been hurt. Kwame had been stopped two blocks down the road for speeding and had been arrested when the report of the robbery was sent out over the police network. Donald was arrested when he got to Barbara’s, his girlfriend’s, house. The robbery had netted them less than fifty dollars and now he was facing a possible twelve-year sentence. Kwame was pleading not guilty but Donald’s lawyer thought that Donald would do best copping a plea and not putting the state through the trial.

  “They have him on videotape,” he had said with a shrug.

  This wasn’t the life I had imagined for myself, or for my brother. There had been a time when Donald had played high school basketball and was hoping for an athletic scholarship. We were going to be the first ones in our family to finish college and had made glorious plans for all the great things we were going to do with the stacks of money we made. Those days seemed so far away.

  The sentencing was scheduled for eleven and we waited in the crowded corridor with several other defendants, their families, and a handful of lawyers. The court clerk came out and called people in as their cases came up.

  “Where is he?” Mr. Havens looked at Mama.

  I took out my cell and dialed his number.

  “Yeah, who’s this?” Donald’s voice was deep, and raspy.

  “It’s Brenda,” I said. “Where are you? Your case is coming up soon!”

  “I ain’t figured what I’m going to do,” he said.

  “You haven’t …” I handed the phone to the lawyer. He looked at me and turned away with the phone cradled to the side of his face.

  Mama grabbed my hand. Her eyes were panic-filled. I looked over at Daddy, uncomfortable in his blue double-breasted suit, and watched him turn quickly and fix his eyes on a portrait of some ex-mayor.

  They were both beaten down. Numb. There had been too many times of getting up in the middle of the night to go to station houses or hospitals or wherever Donald turned up, too many prayers for God’s saving grace and too many loans to pay lawyers.

  Mr. Havens gave me the cell phone back and said that he had to speak to the court clerk. He went through the heavy wooden doors and Mama asked me what was happening.

  “Donald is playing some kind of game, I guess. He said he didn’t know what he was going to do.”

  “Didn’t Mr. Havens tell him that he might get probation?” Mama asked.

  “He knows that but he also knows he might go to jail,” I said, immediately sorry I had made the remark. Mama didn’t need truth, she needed compassion. “I think Mr. Havens is in there trying to get it straightened out now.”

  She was crying. I knew she would cry.

  Mr. Havens came out and beckoned to us. “The judge is going to sentence him now,” he said. “He’s somewhere downtown. Said he’s not coming. Nothing I can do except ask for mercy.”

  The court clerk called for my brother, pronouncing his name carefully and making a big show of looking at all the black men standing behind the wooden railing. Mr. Havens stepped forward and said that he represented Donald.

  “Your Honor, Donald Griffin, unfortunately, is addicted to drugs and the family has been working with him trying to get him the medical attention he needs to beat this thing. This is a hardworking family, Judge. The father works for the city, the mother works, and his sister works and goes to college.

  “He has been accepted into a rehabilitation program as the papers indicate. This is basically a good kid who’s caught up in the drug scene.”

  “You also telling me he didn’t show up today?” The judge, a roundish black man with rimless glasses, looked over toward us.

  “Sir, Donald Griffin’s family is here and would like to speak on his behalf—”

  “Where is your client, Counselor?” the judge demanded.

  “Right now he’s sick and confused, Your Honor,” Mr. Havens said. “I think he’s having detox problems.”

  “He’s got more problems than that,” the judge said. “I’m going to give him a provisional sentence of thirty-six months and I’m going to suspend it for thirty days. If he doesn’t show up within that time you’re going to have to deal with his detox problems on your appeal. Next case!”

  Mama tried to say something to the judge, but couldn’t get the words out. Mr. Havens put his arm around her as we left the courtroom. He signaled me to stay behind when he left them at the train station.

  “Look, Brenda, I can’t stay with this case,” he said. “Your parents don’t have the money to pay me, and I can’t afford to stay without
pay. There are some good public defenders and I’ll talk to a couple to see if one of them will take the case.”

  “You think he’s going to end up in jail?”

  His head bobbed from side to side as he searched for an answer. “I hope not.”

  He told me that Donald’s not showing up forfeited the two thousand dollars my parents had put up for his bail. I wanted to go find my brother and beat his face in.

  I asked myself, as I had a thousand times, what had gone wrong. It seemed that we had been doing well as a family, had been chugging along with clear goals and a straight path. I believed in the goals we’d set and the paths. I was going to be an accountant and he was going to be a physical therapist. That was how life was supposed to work for us.

  I got home and Mama was sitting in the living room with the lights off. I turned them on and asked if she wanted me to make coffee.

  “Did he call you?” Her voice was merely a whisper.

  “No.”

  “I should have told him to stay here last night,” she said.

  “Mama, what Donald does is on him,” I said. “It’s not what you should have done.”

  “Your father’s angry. I wish he wouldn’t be angry.”

  “He has a right,” I said.

  Mama looked up quickly. I knew she wanted to see what I was feeling, if I was angry with my brother, too. The truth was that I couldn’t be angry with him because I didn’t know what was going on in his life. Disappointed. I was deeply disappointed. Whatever my brother did tore at the fabric of our family. Dragged it down. Made it bleed. I called him twice without getting an answer. The first time I left a message. The second time I cut the phone off when it clicked to the message mode.

  We had all grown old in the last year. Mama’s smooth brown face had begun to wrinkle, and little lines extending from the corners of her mouth had ruined her famous smile. Now I asked her to try to get some rest and she said she would.