Curt was up before dawn the next morning. Popped in a tape of Living Color just to have some noise going, but all he could think about was the walkout. He pulled out the coming weekend’s parlays and puzzled over the Rams-Niners game. The Rams were 5-1 and home, but San Fran owned them no matter the records....
The videotape had stopped and the sun was well up when the house quivered—Frank’s Chevy rolling up the gravel drive. Curt listened to him fumbling with his hundred-key collection outside the kitchen door a minute later. Frank’s key ring was the size of a bangle; its weight made his jeans sag as it hung from his belt.
“Old man!” Frank called, easing the door closed behind him by leaning against it. Something rattled in his lungs as he spoke. He gave a harumph and a yellow blob landed in the sink. He ran water to rinse his mess into the pipes.
“You’re usually struggling with snooze bar about this time of morning.” Not bothering to unload his keys or peel off his shoes, Frank unfolded himself into the chair beneath the front window, legs crossed at the ankles. His knees popped in unison.
“Couldn’t sleep no longer.” Springer had a seven-hundred pound woman on his show, a huge lady who couldn’t get out of her own bed. Must be nice.
“What’s up?” Frank asked, briefly closing his work-reddened eyes. “Something on your mind?”
“Nothing,” Curt lied. “Mama’s gonna be home this afternoon?”
Frank’s face scrunched as if he’d smelled something rotten. This time it was he who pretended to watch television. “So t’would seem...”
For once, Curt was glad Cynthia was out of town. She was one of those mothers who kept her ear to the vine. As long as a telephone was in the house, the mama connection was better than any newspaper or TV. Cynthia would have known about the Step already. Curt breathed quiet relief, imagining her questions—by this time of the morning he would have been neck-deep in interrogation.
A knock at the kitchen door. Eddie. He never knocked like a normal person; he just punched at doors once, hard enough to break glass.
Curt’s hand was on the doorknob when Frank called, “Eat you some breakfast, boy.” Frank followed him into the kitchen. “It’s not but seven-twenty. Have some raisin bran cereal, some juice. Eddie, you had breakfast yet?”
Eddie flicked his Newport away.
“Dad—”
“He be aight,” Eddie said. “That big butt of his’ll keep him alive till lunch. Kinda like the fat in a camel hump.”
Ricky strolled in, pants hanging off of his hips, reciting lyrics to a song Curt had never heard. As soon as he saw Eddie, he cut himself off. “What’s up at Norman with that walk-out?”
“What do you know?” said Eddie.
“I heard niggas gone walk out of class ’cause of some ole bullsh—”
“Think about what comes out of your mouth, Ricky,” Frank said. “At least when I’m close enough to hear.”
Ricky curled his lips and opened the refrigerator.
“What is he talking about?” Frank asked Eddie. He turned to Curt and Curt looked down.
“Some stupid protest,” Curt said, zipping his jacket up and down. “Sponsored by the Uptight Negro Coalition.”
“It ain’t stupid,” said Eddie. “You better step, too, boy.”
“Nope.”
“Get with it, man.”
“Step where?” Frank said.
“Go on before you miss your bus,” Curt told Ricky. Ricky totally disregarded him, teeth working into a slice of cold sausage-and-pepperoni.
“Two girls got in a fight at school and the white girl didn’t get in trouble and the black girl did,” said Eddie.
“That’s right,” Curt said, “tell him the movie version.”
Frank walked to the sink, spat, rinsed. “So you all are going to what? Walk out of class today?”
“Not all,” said Curt.
“Why aren’t you going to do it?” Frank asked him.
Curt raised his eyebrows.
“Probably because of that wench he’s slobbin’,” Ricky said, smiling, knowing that Curt wouldn’t touch him with Frank standing there.
“That ain’t why, you fuh—” Curt remembered Frank just in time. “—li’l jughead.”
“Uh huh.” Ricky pulled his booksack straps over both shoulders and stepped over to the kitchen door. “Uh huh ...” Curt stomped at him as if to chase, and Ricky escaped, a hook of pizza crust hanging from his mouth. “Get at you later Richard!” Curt yelled.
Frank was watching Curt. “Half the fools walking out don’t even know what they’re doing,” Curt said. “They don’t care about why. Just hopping the train, y’know?”
“So? Still,” said Eddie.
“What the hell is a walkout gonna do, Ed?”
“Roger and Mimi n’ them say we should find out.”
“You listening to that guy now, too?”
“Well,” said Frank, “let me know what happens.” Curt grabbed Frank from behind and hugged him on impulse. Frank laughed, surprised, and squeezed Curt’s hands. No more questions, no Cynthia-like speeches, no why you didn’t tell me before. Frank rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I’m about to fall out, boys, so—good night.”
Before he could leave the room, hasty footsteps pounded up to the door. Ricky burst inside a moment later. The three of them stared at him, not speaking. Ricky’s eyes seemed to be looking everywhere at once, embarrassed. “I, ah, missed the bus,” he said. “Daddy, can you run me to school?”
“We got you,” said Eddie, tossing his car keys into the air, “come on.”
Curt held up his fists. “Yea. But this is the tax you got to pay.”
“I got a tax for all of you,” said Frank, his hands buried in the cupboards. He pulled down three bowls. “Eat.”
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