to go back home.”
“People were shootin’ at us at home, Alvin,” Money said.
“I’m afraid,” Lee Otis said, putting it out there in plain language, making us all address it. And no one could.
“Why are we really going to Chicago, Benny?” Alvin asked. “You can get married in New York.”
“We don’t have a gig in New York,” I said.
“Maybe we should stop singing. Stop performing,” Alvin said. “Just for a while.” This was not the Alvin I knew.
“No. We can’t do that,” I said. “We stop . . . and it’s over.”
We grew quiet again, staring out our windows and not seeing anything but our own worries.
“When’s it going to end?” Esther asked softly. I don’t think she expected an answer, but Money gave her one.
“It isn’t ever going to end. I’ve been saying it, but nobody wants to listen to Money,” he complained.
“I don’t understand. We stop . . . and it’s over? Don’t we want it to be over?” Lee Otis pressed.
“Why are you pushing so hard, Benny?” Esther asked, joining the chorus. “At least . . . wait until you’re healed.”
“Because the bigger we make ourselves . . . the bigger I make you . . . the safer you are,” I said. I’d said it so many times it had become a mantra, but I didn’t believe it anymore, and neither did they.
“I don’t think this is about us, Lament,” Money said. “This is about you.”
I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see. And I suddenly couldn’t control my emotions.
“I need you to pull over again, Money,” I demanded, hoarse.
“You gonna be sick again?” Money said, flabbergasted.
“Benny?” Esther said, touching my leg. I pulled away and she drew back like I’d slapped her. I was cracking, the water starting to stream out my swollen eyes and drip out my bandaged nose. I didn’t want to shatter all over her.
“Please just pull over. Let me out.”
Money chugged to a stop, stalling the car with a giant lurch. I climbed out and staggered for the trees that lined the road. They all waited at first, letting me go, convinced I just needed to expel the bile in my stomach like I’d done before. But I kept going, weaving in and out of the trees that shivered in the cold air, reminding me that there was no cover to be found. No cover. No end. No good choices.
“Benny?” Esther was running behind me, Alvin, Lee Otis, and Money trailing behind her, their blurred figures dancing between the trees, blotches of color in a white-and-black landscape. My car was just a dark, misshapen smudge behind them.
I collapsed onto a fallen tree, my heavy head bowed, and dug in my pocket for Pop’s handkerchief. I mopped at my wet face, but it hurt, even though the handkerchief was soft with wear and time. It was my favorite one because Pop had had it the longest. If it still smelled like him, I couldn’t tell. My nose was too swollen and my senses too dulled.
“Benny?” Esther called.
I couldn’t answer.
She hovered for a moment, her brothers behind her, and then they joined me on the log, the five of us sitting in a long row facing a forest of endless trees. And I cried. For a long time, I cried. I had no keys to comfort me and no music to numb my pain. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t stop. I cried for my father and for myself. I cried for poor Carla Perez and Maude Alexander and my Baby Ruth who sat beside me with her hands in her lap, afraid to touch me as I came undone. I was all she had, and I was not up to the task.
“Should we pray?” Alvin asked gently.
Nobody said anything.
“I’ll pray,” he insisted.
Alvin prayed almost as long as I cried, but he prayed aloud, and he prayed for me. He prayed for Bo Johnson too and thanked God for him. It was then that Esther looped her hand through my arm and hung on, and I knew then that Money had shared the story of Bo’s appearance and involvement in my rescue, shouldering that burden for me. I was relieved that I would not have to tell them.
“Violence is not the answer. We know that, Lord. But we are grateful for our lives and the life of our brother Benny,” Alvin said.
When he ended, my tears had slowed, and I added my voice to the amen.
“What is the answer, Alvin?” I asked,