Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale Part 2

The first punch came from the tall red-head, a perfectly solid shot to Joshua's left eye. The next thing Joshua knew he was tasting blood and holding his eye with both hands. Then the kid he pushed kicked him in the stomach. Joshua keeled over, only to receive another blow to the back of his head.

He was hurt, and for the first time, a little scared. He seemed almost as helpless as Jerome would have been. He took a deep breath, ignored his fear, and focused on his anger. He straightened himself, and went for the tall one first, the one his instincts told him was the leader.

Joshua lunged at the tall one and took him to the ground. Their bodies. .h.i.t the concrete hard, but neither seemed to feel the pain. The others stood over them and took turns kicking Joshua. But Joshua stayed on top of the tall one, pounding incessantly on his face. One of the others even tried to pull him off, but it was to no avail; Joshua just kept punching. The tall one was hurt, and wasn't even hitting back anymore.

The next thing Joshua knew, the kicking from the others ceased. Something had distracted them. He looked up and saw that Jerome had come to help, and was now fending off the others. Joshua got up, leaving the tall one lying listless on the ground, and watched his friend in action. Jerome wasn't being very successful, but his efforts were impressive. The others hadn't managed to get him down on the ground; they were just surrounding him, landing punches and kicks to his body. Jerome's eyes were closed and his arms were flailing in all directions. He wasn't able to see where his fists landed, but managed to get in a few licks.

Joshua stepped in, pulling two of the Irish kids away from Jerome. The other two saw this and hesitated. They looked over to their leader-still on the ground, his head in a pool of his own blood-and stopped.

"I'm gonna kill you both, you f.u.c.king n.i.g.g.e.r b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!" the thin black haired kid yelled.

"Oh yeah!" Jerome reacted confidently, "come on, let's do it right now!" he continued as he began to lunge forward.

Joshua held out his arm to block Jerome's way, and said, "Let's go."

The black haired kid cringed, while his friends stood frozen, frightened, eyes fixed upon Joshua and Jerome "Come on, we're out of here now," Joshua added, pulling Jerome away.

The Irish kids stepped aside to let them pa.s.s, murmuring to one another about revenge as their victors walked on. Half a block up, Joshua turned around. The tall red-head was still on the ground, curled up in a fetal position, his friends gathered around him. A voice screamed out, "f.u.c.king n.i.g.g.e.rs," the echo of which could be heard for blocks. Joshua noticed Jerome's triumphant expression and, despite his own wounds, was pleased with his friend's bravado.

CHAPTER 4.

The Hewlett-Woodmere public school district was reputed as one of the finest in the country, with unmatched acceptance rates to Ivy League colleges. In the sixties, the student population was mostly upper middle cla.s.s and Jewish, with a handful of Italian and Irish kids from the lower income areas of Gibson and South Valley Stream. Despite all this, the only child of Alfred Sims was enrolled in the Hewlett Bay Academy, a posh private school for the wealthy and privileged.

"No son of mine is going to have a 'public' education!" Alfred insisted to Evelyn.

"But the public schools here are excellent," she argued.

"Not excellent enough!" And that was the final word. His was always the final word. There was no reasoning with him once he made up his mind. Evelyn knew this, and had grown to hate it. Over the years, she had grown to hate many things.

They fought often, about almost everything. Sometimes it was just words, sometimes things were thrown, and sometimes Alfred disappeared for a night or two. All the while, young Paul watched and listened.

Over the years Evelyn grew miserable yet, among her litany of resentments was never even a suspicion of Alfred's infidelity. She was far too vain to allow for that, so she convinced herself that his problem was impotence rather than disinterest. The outlet for her frustration found expression through compulsivity, incessantly cleaning, wiping, and straightening things. She did this early every morning before Loretta came to clean, and again late at night, after Loretta had gone. The house was never tidy enough.

When she wasn't cleaning, Evelyn Sims was spending money. Clothes, jewelry, shoes, handbags, cosmetics. There was always plenty of money and it seemed to ease her pain.

Paul was also angry with his father, mostly for not being around. As for his mother, who was always around, there was plenty of antipathy left for her as well. In as much as Evelyn failed to control her husband, she would more than make up for it with her son.

"I've told you a thousand times to put your colored socks on the left side of the drawer and your white ones on the right!"

"Is this the way to make your bed? Don't you ever listen? The sheet is too loose and there are lumps in the blanket. Now you won't watch any TV for a week, and then we'll see how well you'll listen."

"What's the matter with you? You do things just to annoy me! You're just like your father, always trying to find a way to upset me. I'm telling you for the last time, you better wipe the shower door dry when you're done in there. If I see any soap sc.u.m, you'll stay in the house for a month."

Paul grew up understanding that he could never please his mother, no matter how he tried. With his father, however, things were different. Paul knew exactly what Alfred wanted of him-Alfred, who never took him to ball games, fis.h.i.+ng, bowling, and never did any of the things that fathers usually do. All Alfred cared about was Paul's school-work, so that became all Paul cared about.

"There will be plenty of time for other things," Alfred often told him. "For now, you must concentrate on your studies."

So that was it: school, making his bed perfectly, putting his socks on the proper side of the drawer, and was.h.i.+ng the soap sc.u.m off the shower door. The life of Paul Sims.

Burying himself in books became his escape, his only hope for his father's love and attention. And when it didn't work, he tried harder, until he became ensnarled in a vicious cycle, growing more introverted and isolated with time.

For Alfred, everything seemed perfect. But Evelyn, as caught up as she was in her own misery, seemed to know better. As did Paul's teachers, who eventually began calling and requesting conferences.

"Paul is a highly intelligent young man, but has difficulty getting along with other children," the school psychologist told Alfred and Evelyn when Paul was in the sixth grade. "Is there something going on at home that's bothering him?"

At home? What could possibly be going on in the perfect home? Alfred was distressed. A glitch in the master plan.

"This has been going on for years. As you know, his grades have been perfect, but otherwise he has a lot of difficulties. He has no friends here, and I would guess that he has no friends outside of school either." The psychologist was being kind in using the term "difficulties." Neither Alfred nor Evelyn argued, for they knew it was true. "I think some counseling is in order," the psychologist suggested, "individual to begin with, and maybe the entire family at some point."

Alfred responded with a bewildered look. My boy, seeing some shrink about problems at home? Never! "I'm sorry doctor... what did you say your name was?"

"Goldman," the man replied calmly.

"Frankly, Doctor Goldman, I don't see what the problem is. My son is a brilliant young man who chooses not to waste his time flipping baseball cards or playing knock-hockey with other kids. He enjoys his school work, he's good at it, and that's what he wants to do. In fact, I personally think it's a good thing. I've always encouraged him to concentrate on his school-work. That's why he does it. He's not going to get into law or medical school by winning popularity contests."

Though Evelyn sat silently, Goldman wasn't convinced that she agreed wholeheartedly with her husband. A heavy-set, balding man in his late forties, Goldman was a seasoned professional and had been on staff at Hewlett Bay for almost twenty years. Dealing with parents like Alfred Sims was second nature to him. He wasn't going to push. He knew he wouldn't win. And above all, he knew that sooner or later, one way or another, Paul would wind up in his office.

Weeks pa.s.sed and nothing changed. Mrs. Robinson, Paul's teacher, reported to Doctor Goldman that Paul was still keeping to himself, and still carrying a distressed expression that seemed to mar his otherwise pleasant features. Paul was often told he was a handsome young man, tall, dark, with masculine features much like his father's, but with his mother's blue eyes. He never saw himself as resembling his father in any way, but possessing his mother's eyes was another matter. He could easily accept that, for her eyes were the saddest he'd ever seen unless, of course, he was looking in the mirror, which he didn't often do.

Doctor Goldman looked at Mrs. Robinson with a knowing grin, and said, "Yes, it seems Paul Sims' problems are far from solved."

Mrs. Robinson called home and appealed to Evelyn to allow Paul to see Dr. Goldman. "I know he has a problem," Evelyn admitted, feeling her guilt as the words escaped her mouth. True, she was unhappy; true, she frequently took it out on Paul. But she was also his mother, and she hated herself for the way she treated him. She struggled to be better, but she was so desperate, so out of control. "I'll see what I can do," she said, realizing that she had to do something.

The following week, Evelyn enrolled Paul in the Cub Scouts. She bought him one of those blue and yellow uniforms, and he began attending meetings. When Alfred heard about this, his response was surprisingly positive. He even praised Evelyn for her ingenuity-something he'd never done before. "What a clever idea," he said. "It will definitely do the trick. They'll teach him how to be a man, and when he gets older he can become a Boy Scout, maybe even a full fledged Eagle Scout." The only problem was Paul. He didn't enjoy being with the other kids, and didn't care much for pledges and tying knots. After three meetings, he refused to return.

But Evelyn was still determined. Her next idea was to sign him up for Little League. This time, Alfred was less enthusiastic, not because he objected to baseball, but because he knew Paul wouldn't take to it.

It wasn't that Paul was a bad athlete; on the contrary, he was fairly well coordinated. He simply had no fervor for sports, or anything that entailed being with other kids. In his first game, he was put in right field, dropped a fly ball that practically landed in his mitt, struck out twice, and was tagged out at first on what should have easily been a double. Luckily, Alfred wasn't present to watch his only son, and his name, be humiliated. On the other hand, had he been there, things might have turned out differently. That first game was Paul's last.

A few months later, Evelyn convinced Alfred to send Paul to sleep-away camp. Paul went, and phoned home every night for two weeks straight, begging them to come and take him home, until his wish was granted. The camp director recommended counseling.

By this time, Alfred became convinced that his son did indeed have problems, but counseling was still out of the question. Evelyn didn't argue. She, too, couldn't bear the thought of the neighborhood gossips getting wind of her child seeing a shrink. As a last ditched effort, they decided to get Paul piano lessons, figuring that a musical instrument might give him an outlet for his feelings, raise his self esteem, and perhaps expand his interests.

Paul's piano teacher was a large German woman with flat grey hair and chronic halitosis. After a few lessons, it seemed that the only thing Paul could do correctly was to look straight ahead at the music sheet, and the only reason he did that was to avoid the fraulein's breath. His fingers, however, seldom managed to land on the proper keys. Exasperated, the teacher began slapping his hands, for which she was summarily dismissed by the lady of the house.

Alfred and Evelyn blamed one another, and nothing changed. Alfred remained aloof and absent; Evelyn, compulsive and overbearing. And Paul? There were yet some surprises to come from him.

CHAPTER 5.

Joshua was barely twelve when he first noticed Celeste as something more than his best friend's younger sister. She was eleven. Among the five black girls in her cla.s.s at school, there were two with whom she was close friends. For years the three of them were inseparable, but recently she had taken to hanging out with Jerome and Joshua. Joshua didn't object.

Jerome felt otherwise. He sensed her attraction to Joshua and didn't know how to handle it. He didn't want her hanging around boys, especially his best friend.

"What's that you got there on your lips?" Jerome exclaimed one day as Celeste came out of her bedroom. It was the first time she'd worn lipstick. "If Mama saw you look like that, she'd make your lips so fat, you'd need a ton of that stuff to cover 'em."

"Well, she don't see me, and you ain't gonna tell her!" Celeste responded, while throwing a devilish smile Joshua's way.

Joshua responded with a nod and a wink. She looked good, he thought, she always looked good. And the lipstick was just the touch needed for her high cheek bones and large chestnut eyes. It made her perfect.

It was the middle of July. The three of them had been spending most summer days together, watching TV, playing handball in the park, and doing nothing. Just a few months earlier she was in pigtails. Now, her full wavy hair fell down below her nicely developing b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and skimpy shorts revealed her shapely long legs. Joshua was stricken.

He'd known Celeste and Jerome for three years now. In that time, he'd managed to stay out of trouble. Jerome had also come into his own. Since that fight with the Irish kids, no one messed with him.

Another change that had taken place was the influx of more black families into the neighborhood. Three more had moved into their building alone. Even Dubrow's Cafeteria, formerly an exclusively white establishment on the corner of Utica and Eastern Parkway, was showing more color at its tables. And black teenagers were now regularly seen strutting their stuff on the basketball courts in Lincoln Terrace Park.

"You boys wanna go out to the park now?" Celeste asked, again throwing Joshua a cutesy grin.

"We ain't gonna go nowhere till you take that there s.h.i.+t off your face!" Jerome said. His heavy body shook when he was angry.

"Well I guess I'm gonna go alone," she replied.

"I said... you ain't going nowhere!"

"Yea, well what you gonna do, beat me?"

He was wordless and stunned. She had mentioned the one thing he would never, could never, do. Not to her.

"Well, are you coming?" she asked Joshua as she walked out the door.

"She shouldn't go alone," Joshua said defensively, holding his palms up as he followed after her.

Jerome didn't move.

Celeste and Joshua left the building and were about to cross the street toward the park. It was the end of July, a hot and sticky Brooklyn summer day. Joshua stepped off the sidewalk and Celeste grabbed his hand to hold him back. He looked at her, bewildered.

"I don't really feel like another boring day in that stupid park," she said.

Joshua didn't reply; he suspected something was up.

"How 'bout we go someplace else?"

"Like where?" There was an underpinning of sarcasm in his tone. He was not in an adventurous mood.

"I say we go take a look at your old neighborhood. I ain't never been there."

"And you ain't never gonna be, neither!"

"You know you sound like my big fat brother and mean old father when you talk that way. I know you're not like them, but you sure are tryin' to be. So why don't you be the nice boy I know you can be, and take me where I wanna go."

"Why there?"

"See where you came from. I hear you talking all the time, how different it is from around these parts, and I wanna see what all your fussing's about."

"And you just gotta do something you know you ain't supposed to be doing."

"And what if I do?" she asked.

"First the lipstick, then this. What's next?"

"I don't know. I'll just have to think of something, won't I, now?" She took his hand and led him in the direction of Eastern Parkway.

"Now, wait just a minute!" he said, resisting her tug. "It's dangerous over there. I ain't going!"

They stopped and stared at each other for a moment.

"I'm surprised to see you're chicken," she said. "I thought you were more man than that," she said as she released his hand and started walking away.

"Wait!" He caught up to her. "This ain't right, but if you're going, I'm going," he said, his reluctance still apparent.

She took his hand again. He would have gone anywhere so long as she did that. "It just ain't right," he repeated as they went.

"That's why it's so much fun."

They walked to Eastern Parkway, then west one block to Utica Avenue. When they came to Utica, they crossed the Parkway and continued north. The north side of Eastern Parkway was much blacker than where they lived. Most of the shops along Utica Avenue, between St. Marks Place and Pacific Street, had black proprietors, and most of the people on the street spoke with island accents. At one point, Celeste started mimicking some of them under her breath. Joshua hit her lightly on the arm, and said, "You better stop that before someone hears you!"

"And what're they gonna do if they hear me?"

He looked at her the same way Jerome had in the house.

It was a few more blocks to Atlantic Avenue. "You still wanna do this?" he asked, hoping for a change of heart. He pointed to the other side of the Avenue. "You see, over there's a whole different breed of people. Not like these here polite island types. The folks over there are bad, through and through, mean and crazy."

"But you ain't mean and crazy, and you're from there," she pointed out.

"Just tell me one thing," he asked as they were about to cross. "Why you have to do this? You know if your daddy finds out, he's gonna beat me worse than he beats you."

"I ain't afraid of him. He don't scare me! He's gonna beat me no matter what I do, so what difference does it make? Now I wanna do this, and I wanna to do it with you." She knew that last part was all she needed to say to turn him into putty, and strangely enough, he knew it too.

They crossed the avenue, continued one block to Fulton Street, and another block west to Stuyvesant Avenue. Then they walked up Stuyvesant, deeper into his old neighborhood. The buildings began to look like tenements: broken windows, dilapidated fire escapes, and graffiti filled walls. Celeste seemed astonished.

"I think people are looking at us," she observed.

Joshua had noticed the same thing a few blocks earlier. It was obvious that they didn't belong. He was confident that no one had recognized him yet, but it was only a matter of time. Something bad was bound to happen; he just knew it. He had to take care of her and protect her, and he was starting to realize that this was probably something he would always have to do.

They had approached the intersection of Stuyvesant and Monroe Street when Joshua recognized someone standing on the corner. It was Bones, one of Big Bob's henchmen. He had earned his name from being so thin, his skeleton practically protruded through his flesh. But he wasn't brittle; on the contrary, he was a mean, tall creature, easily more than six feet, with a square face and long sideburns covering most of an old scar from a childhood knife-fight. He stood there alone, as if waiting for someone, dressed in one of his usual outfits-white linen suit, straw hat, and alligator boots.

Joshua quickly turned his face to the window of a grocery store, thinking that if Bones was here, Big Bob wouldn't be far. He tried to hide his fear from Celeste.