Boys Life

them.
    I had seen this picture before, somewhere.
    Mom and the Lady were talking, standing over by the slave-spun pottery. I stared at the picture, and I remembered. I had seen this in the copy of Life magazine Mom was about to throw out.
    I turned my head to the left about six inches.
    And there they were.
    The four black girls of my recurring dream.
    Under individual pictures, their names were etched on brass plaques. Denise McNair. Carole Robinson. Cynthia Wesley. Addie Mae Collins.
    They were smiling, unaware of what the future held.
    “Ma’am?” I said. “Ma’am?”
    “What is it, Cory?” Mom asked.
    I looked at the Lady. “Who are these girls, ma’am?” My voice trembled.
    She came over beside me, and she told me about the dynamite time bomb that had killed those girls in the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham on September 15, 1963.
    “Oh… no,” I whispered.
    I heard the voice of Gerald Hargison, muffled behind a mask as he held a wooden box in his arms: They won’t know what hit ’em until they’re tap-dancin’ in hell.
    And Biggun Blaylock, saying: I threw in an extra. For good luck.
    I swallowed hard. The eyes of the four dead girls were watching me.
    I said, “I think I know.”
    Mom and I left the recreation center about an hour later. Dad was joining us to go to the candlelight service at church tonight. After all, it was Christmas Eve.
    “Hello, Pumpkin! Merry Christmas to you, Sunflower! Come right in, Wild Bill!”
    I heard Dr. Lezander before I saw him. He was standing there in the church doorway, wearing a red vest with his gray suit and a red-and-green-striped bow tie. He had a Santa Claus pin on his lapel, and when he smiled, light sparkled off his silver front tooth.
    My heart started beating very hard, and moisture sprang to my palms. “Merry Christmas, Calico!” he said to my mother for no apparent reason. He grasped my father’s hand and shook it. “How are you, Midas?” And then his gaze fell on me, and he put his hand on my shoulder. “And a very happy holiday to you, too, Six-Guns!”
    “Thank you, Birdman,” I said.
    I saw it then.
    His mouth was very, very smart. It kept smiling. But his eyes flinched, almost imperceptibly. Something hard and stony came into them, banishing the Christmas light. And then it was gone again, and the whole thing had been perhaps two seconds. “What are you trying to do, Cory?” His hand wouldn’t let me go. “Take my job?”
    “No sir,” I answered, my cleverness squeezed away by Dr. Lezander’s increasing pressure. He held my gaze for a second longer, and in that second I knew fear. Then his fingers relaxed and left my shoulder and he was looking at the family who entered behind me. “Come on in, Muffin! Merry Yuletide, Daniel Boone!”
    “Tom! Come on and hurry it up, boy!”
    We knew who that was, of course. Granddaddy Jaybird, Grandmomma Sarah, Grand Austin, and Nana Alice were there in a pew waiting for us. Grand Austin, as usual, looked thoroughly miserable. The Jaybird was on his feet, waving and hollering and making the same kind of ass out of himself here at Christmas as he had at Easter, proving that he was a fool for all seasons. But when he looked at me he said, “Hello, young man” and I saw in his eyes that I was growing up.
    During the candlelight service, while Miss Blue Glass played “Silent Night” on the piano and the organ across from her indeed remained silent, I watched the Lezanders, who were sitting five pews ahead of us. I saw Dr. Lezander turn his bald head and look around, pretending to be quickly scanning the congregation. I knew better. Our eyes met, just briefly. He wore an icy smile. Then he leaned toward his wife and whispered in her ear, but she remained perfectly motionless.
    I imagined he might have been answering the question: Who Knows? What he whispered to horse-faced Veronica, there between the “darkness flies” and the “all is light,” might well have been: Cory Mackenson knows.
    Who are you? I thought as I watched him during Reverend Lovoy’s Christmas prayer. Who are you really, behind that mask you wear?
    We lit our candles, and the church was bathed in flickering light. Then Reverend Lovoy wished us a happy and healthy holiday season, said for us to keep the spirit of Christmas first and foremost in our hearts, and the service came to a close. Dad, Mom, and I went home; tomorrow belonged to the grandparents, but Christmas Eve was ours.
    Our dinner this year