were probably white.”
“… Goes careening through a city and shooting at people, and it’s buried underneath the state fair and somebody’s award-winning turnips?” I skimmed the four-paragraph piece on page seventeen. “This says the police have located no suspects. That some of the witnesses have reported they were white guys, and there’s some suggesting they’re black! ”
“Read carefully. None of the witnesses said they could have been black. Apparently the police are just looking for black guys or white, either one. If they’re looking at all.”
I read the article again. “Nothing more than minor injuries. And property damage … It doesn’t say much about property damage. But that one streetlight shattered right on our heads, and—”
Our father walked in just then, still half asleep and groping for his second cup of coffee before the morning began. My brother and I exchanged glances, wondering what he’d heard of our conversation.
“Heads?” our father asked us.
“Would roll,” I said too quickly. “I was just telling Emerson here that it seems like heads would roll, you know, seeing as how some idiots went racing through town shooting at people.”
Our father shook his head, wearily. “No, they weren’t shooting at people. I was at the city editor’s desk last night when the report came in. Apparently, some unidentified guys in a car were just shooting out lights, having a bit too much to drink, causing a general disturbance. Not admirable behavior, I’ll grant you. But nothing murderous in its intent anyway.”
Em and I looked at each other.
“But,” my brother ventured, “it seems as if it might have been. I mean, shooting that close to where people …”
“And the property damage,” I added.
Our father glanced up from his coffee and narrowed his eyes, first at me, then at Em. “Well, aren’t you two the civic-minded pair this morning? The property damage was minimal. And in that part of town, the city might not even bother to fix the lights for a while. That’s the assumption. It’s generally viewed as a way of punishing a certain sector of the population for getting so far out of hand.”
“But they didn’t—!” I blurted.
“A regrettable attitude, I’ll grant you. But typical, and perhaps not just of the regressive South,” he said.
“But what if the damage was done by … by not the people who have to live with the damage?”
Our father looked up again from his coffee. “You’ll find, children, as you grow, that our justice system waits for facts until it proceeds. And lacking facts, or suspects in custody, this case of disturbing the peace and probably some sort of unlawful discharge of firearms will have to be dealt with by people more experienced with urban crime than you or I. But this part of downtown hasn’t exactly been known for its calm and quiet.”
Our father opened his briefcase and stuffed the newspaper into it. He would be out the door any moment.
“What if,” I began, “what if the guys shooting weren’t from there at all? What if they were white and what if—?”
Our father eyed me carefully as I’d seen him do his note cards when he was having trouble deciphering his own print. “Then this would be a racially motivated incident, possibly with intent to harm. And if not dealt with well, could escalate into more racial unrest.”
I stirred my drowned flakes.
“Shelby Lenoir?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Do you and Emerson have anything you’d like to tell me?”
“No, sir,” my brother said, “except …”
“Except have a good day,” I finished for him. And we both manufactured big, perky smiles for our father, a skill we’d learned from our momma.
_________
Throughout those next several days, while the heat raged unabated, we combed the newspapers. We drove some nights after dark to the Look, where we could see another downtown block blazing, abandoned buildings set fire by what the paper called “angry
“… Goes careening through a city and shooting at people, and it’s buried underneath the state fair and somebody’s award-winning turnips?” I skimmed the four-paragraph piece on page seventeen. “This says the police have located no suspects. That some of the witnesses have reported they were white guys, and there’s some suggesting they’re black! ”
“Read carefully. None of the witnesses said they could have been black. Apparently the police are just looking for black guys or white, either one. If they’re looking at all.”
I read the article again. “Nothing more than minor injuries. And property damage … It doesn’t say much about property damage. But that one streetlight shattered right on our heads, and—”
Our father walked in just then, still half asleep and groping for his second cup of coffee before the morning began. My brother and I exchanged glances, wondering what he’d heard of our conversation.
“Heads?” our father asked us.
“Would roll,” I said too quickly. “I was just telling Emerson here that it seems like heads would roll, you know, seeing as how some idiots went racing through town shooting at people.”
Our father shook his head, wearily. “No, they weren’t shooting at people. I was at the city editor’s desk last night when the report came in. Apparently, some unidentified guys in a car were just shooting out lights, having a bit too much to drink, causing a general disturbance. Not admirable behavior, I’ll grant you. But nothing murderous in its intent anyway.”
Em and I looked at each other.
“But,” my brother ventured, “it seems as if it might have been. I mean, shooting that close to where people …”
“And the property damage,” I added.
Our father glanced up from his coffee and narrowed his eyes, first at me, then at Em. “Well, aren’t you two the civic-minded pair this morning? The property damage was minimal. And in that part of town, the city might not even bother to fix the lights for a while. That’s the assumption. It’s generally viewed as a way of punishing a certain sector of the population for getting so far out of hand.”
“But they didn’t—!” I blurted.
“A regrettable attitude, I’ll grant you. But typical, and perhaps not just of the regressive South,” he said.
“But what if the damage was done by … by not the people who have to live with the damage?”
Our father looked up again from his coffee. “You’ll find, children, as you grow, that our justice system waits for facts until it proceeds. And lacking facts, or suspects in custody, this case of disturbing the peace and probably some sort of unlawful discharge of firearms will have to be dealt with by people more experienced with urban crime than you or I. But this part of downtown hasn’t exactly been known for its calm and quiet.”
Our father opened his briefcase and stuffed the newspaper into it. He would be out the door any moment.
“What if,” I began, “what if the guys shooting weren’t from there at all? What if they were white and what if—?”
Our father eyed me carefully as I’d seen him do his note cards when he was having trouble deciphering his own print. “Then this would be a racially motivated incident, possibly with intent to harm. And if not dealt with well, could escalate into more racial unrest.”
I stirred my drowned flakes.
“Shelby Lenoir?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Do you and Emerson have anything you’d like to tell me?”
“No, sir,” my brother said, “except …”
“Except have a good day,” I finished for him. And we both manufactured big, perky smiles for our father, a skill we’d learned from our momma.
_________
Throughout those next several days, while the heat raged unabated, we combed the newspapers. We drove some nights after dark to the Look, where we could see another downtown block blazing, abandoned buildings set fire by what the paper called “angry
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