“Pipe down, prom queen. We were just having a little fun.” Patty released her grip on Sophia. “She doesn’t need you coming to her rescue every time she gets a little paper cut.”
As soon as Patty released her arms, Sophia shoved Patty into the locker with a loud thud. “You’re fucking sick,” she said. “I should beatyour ass.” Sophia pointed her finger in Patty’s face and bared her teeth. Rage surged through her, and she felt like she could choke Patty with her bare hands.
“That’s what animals do,” Patty hissed back. “Go ahead, and you’ll be out of this school and back in the mud so fast your head will spin.” Patty flashed her teeth, and Sophia wanted to punch each one from her mouth and watch her bleed.
“Come on, Sophia, she’s not worth the aggravation,” Margaret said. It took all of Sophia’s strength to back away. Her long-sleeve T-shirt was on the floor. She slipped it over her head and put on her shorts. The air in the locker room was thick.
Margaret put her hands on her hips. “Get out there and start layup drills. Coach will be here in five minutes, and I don’t want him to know about any of this. We have a game to play tomorrow. Get your heads into it. Now go.” She pointed to the door.
Sophia pushed past them. Feeling humiliated and more displaced than ever before.
Part4
I swear to the Lord / I still can’t see / Why Democracy means / Everybody but me.
—LANGSTON HUGHES
CHAPTER 35Philadelphia, PA, July 1952
OZZIE
As Ozzie stepped his spit-shined shoes onto the platform at the Reading Station in Philadelphia, it struck him like a blow to the chest that he could no longer conjure up Katja’s soap and slobber scent. It had been one year, seven months, and four days since he had seen her last, and as Ozzie threw his B4 bag over his shoulder, he could acutely feel the hole she had left in his heart. Sometimes the hole whistled, other times it ached, and today as he walked down the platform it burned, because the forgetting felt like pouring alcohol on an open wound. Katja turned three in two months, and Ozzie didn’t know the road back to her.
The train station’s waiting area overflowed with men clutching briefcases, travelers checking timetables, and families reuniting. Ozzie crossed the station in his formal uniform, his garrison cap pulled to his temples, despite the way the hat made his head sweat. His uniform lent him an air of importance that he knew was infectious. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted three women dressed in summer blouses admiring him.
There was no one at the station to meet him in the middle of the day. Uncle Millard was the only family member with a car anyhow, and shortly after Ozzie had arrived in Germany, he had moved up to Harlem with a woman named Tootsie.
Ozzie exited onto Twelfth Street to the sounds of horns honking and a stubby man with a pushcart shouting, “Peanuts, get your fresh peeee-nuuutts.”
The pavement and cars were damp, and as Ozzie walked west, he could smell that he had just missed a summer rainstorm. He paused to take in the familiar thirty-seven-foot bronze statue of William Penn atop City Hall. He walked past Gimbels and Wanamaker’s department stores, still with mannequins dressed in patriotic red, white, and blue for the Fourth of July. Ozzie had missed his neighborhood block party by three days.
Ozzie continued down the steps into the cave of the subway station just as the southbound train rattled to a stop. He sat next to the window and noticed appreciative glances from two teenage boys with thick hair, wearing white sneakers with red laces. One even saluted him. Yes, he had served his country well. Ozzie got off the subway at Tasker and Morris. When he didn’t see the Tasker Street bus, he decided to walk.
At the square where he used to play basketball with his friends, four teenage boys in cutoff shorts were playing two-on-two basketball, and he could hear the shit talk between them.
When he turned onto Ringgold Street, the pavement was meticulously swept and all the front steps were scrubbed clean, but the block looked smaller than he had remembered it. Had the street shrunk, or was it that he had grown bigger? On the corner, Ms. Millie’s front door was open, and he could hear the soaps she listened to through her screen door. Pigeons pecked the curb for insects as a light breeze caressed the back of his neck. He was home.
“Ozzie, that you?” his mother, Nettie, called from the kitchen.
“Mama.” He dropped his bag and gobbled up the distance between them. They met in the small space between the front room and the dining room, and she smashed herself into his chest.
“Glad you made it home in one piece, son. Let me look at you.” She touched his collar. “Dressed sharp as a tack. Just as handsome as the day you was born.”
The fragrance of butter, cinnamon, nutmeg, and something else sweet wafted from the kitchen.
“What you cooking smelling all good?”
“My son’s favorite dessert.” She beamed.
“Sweet-potato pie?” His mouth watered.
“Even though it’s way too hot to be in the house with the oven on, I done it for you.” She put her arms around his waist and hugged him again, and he kissed the top of her head. “Gotta let it cool some. Come on back and sit awhile. Fixed some fresh lemonade for you and saved you a few pieces of fried chicken.” Nettie turned, placed the food on a plate, and slid it across the wooden table to Ozzie.
He bit into the crispy skin and moaned. “Don’t nobody make it like you, Mama,” he said.
She smiled. “What can I say?”
Ozzie took another bite and then asked, “Where’s everybody?”
