Fear and Courage

Chapter 1-2

Three hours later, after doing the chores and playing poker with her, he hugged her goodbye. She leaned on her cane with obvious effort.

“How much do I owe you?” She coughed, having trouble catching her breath again.

“A dollar.” Brian felt sorry for her.

“We both know that’s too little.”

“Why do I need money when I have friends like you? A dollar, please.”

Opening her purse, Mrs. Guardino retrieved ten silver dollars and plopped them in his hand, then kissed it.

Brian checked them out. “And this is too much, and they’re old, over fifty years.”

She smiled and curled his fingers around the coins. “There’s a special place in heaven for people like you. It don’t matter that you’re black.” She looked him in the eye. “Or that you’re gay. God loves all of us.”

That made him feel warm inside, and he couldn’t contain a deep smile. “You know?”

“Yes, dear. For a few years. I waited for you to say it, but I’m close to dying and my time is limited.”

He threw himself into a hug with her.

Her parting words were, “Stay away from 8th Street.”

A short time later, Brian’s peddling kept time with his churning thoughts, his friend’s wrinkled face filling his mind. She still wore a hint of beauty, and more than likely, had been pretty once. The coins rattling in his pocket would’ve helped treat her to an afternoon at a beauty salon.

The images in his mind changed the closer he got to home. With any luck, Jim would be outside. shirtless and in cutoffs. Oh, man. Gotta stop thinking about that sexy man before I cream my pants. Again, tonight while in the shower, he’d likely jack off to visions of Jim—Jim’s hands on his body instead of his own.

Maybe…maybe the time had come to confess to Jim. After all, Mrs. Guardino accepted him. Yeah, no more waiting. He nodded and vowed to come out to Jim today.

Tell the truth and let the chips fall where they may.

Oh, crap! He should’ve paid better attention. How’d he wind up on 8th Street?

He saw Robby McNamara, his two brothers, and a few other kids playing baseball in the quiet street. Brian moved to the sidewalk to give them a wide berth.

Robby, a year older and a foot taller than Brian’s five-foot, four-inch slender body, dropped his glove and raced to the sidewalk. He grabbed Brian’s handlebars, nearly toppling him to the ground.

In his southern drawl, he said, “Well, well, we got us a black boy riding in a white neighborhood.” The other boys gathered around.

Brian’s guts gurgled and his heart pounded. “Leave me alone.”

“Why are you in our neighborhood? Did someone hire you as a butler?”

The kids laughed.

With as deep a voice as he could command, Brian said, “This is public property.”

The next second, someone grabbed Brian around the waist and yanked him off his bike and onto a lawn. “Oof!”

Brian squirmed free and jumped to his feet as Robby punched. Brian blocked with his arm and took a deflected blow to his cheek. Everyone laughed, but Brian wouldn’t give the satisfaction of rubbing it.

“This is America and everyone has equal rights. President Johnson said so and signed the Civil Rights Act of 1964.”

Robby slapped Brian’s face, and it hurt. Again, Brian didn’t flinch, but he figured he’d have a mark tomorrow.

“Ah, we got us a black history teacher. Pay attention, boys.”

Steve, Robby’s younger brother, threw a few punches to Brian’s torso. The others boys watched, some silently, a few egging the brothers on.

“Get that n****r!”

“Kick his ass!”

The oldest McNamara brother, Justus, tall and thick with a visible mustache, stood behind the others and watched in silence, wearing a frown.

Brian blocked the flurry from Steve until Robby got in on it again, then Brian got it from two sides. Though winded, he kept fighting.

A leg shot out. Down Brian went. He flipped onto his back, lashing out with both legs, keeping the boys at bay. His heart pounded. Oh, God. He should have never come here. Bile seared his throat.

Someone landed a kick from behind to his neck and shoulder.

The boys paused to laugh. Brian shot to his feet and ran toward his bike, held by Justus.

Justus, almost imperceptibly, nudged the bike toward him. Brian jumped on it and pedaled hard to get home, leaving behind the laughter and catcalls. When he looked back to see if they were chasing him, Justus shook his lowered head and walked off. The big and quiet brother had gotten left back in school twice and had never given Brian grief. He was the varsity baseball star and able to hit balls out of the park. He could throw to home plate from the outfield on a fly with accuracy and consistency. Justice was cool. Brian began to calm.

Robby shrieked, “That’s your second warning. The meat wagon will come for your sorry ass, darkie.”

Brian thought back to that day in April when Robby had pushed Brian around for being on his street.

What did Mahatma Gandhi do in times like this? Brian was convinced violence did not quell violence, and there had been six of them. He’d have gotten his ass kicked worse if he’d tried to fight back.

Now, to head home and face his father.