“He’s not here,” I said.
Buddy grabbed the shoulder of one of the older men in the circle. “Do you know which one of these boys is Winston?” he asked.
“Ain’t no idea,” the man said, and returned to his singing.
Buddy cupped his hands around his mouth in a megaphone. “Hey, Win!” he shouted toward the circle. “Win!”
I spotted Win, way too close to us. If only he’d been on the other side of the circle, he would stand a chance, but hearing his name, he stopped singing. Looked toward us.
“Ha!” Buddy shouted. “Son of a bitch!” He raced toward Win, who was cornered between the crowd and the brick building. Before Win had a chance to run, Buddy was on him, pulling him out of the circle, pummeling him, punching his stomach, his face, knocking off his glasses. I was next to them in a heartbeat, trying to grab Buddy’s arms, pull him away, but my brother was enraged. Rather than fight back, Win dropped to the ground. He didn’t dare try to defend himself. The do-nothing cops were just waiting for a Black person to get out of line. Buddy kicked him. “You ever come near my sister again, I’ll make sure she’s the last girl you ever touch!” He angrily grabbed my arm. I thought he was going to twist it. Break it. But he let me go, fury still in his face, and took off, disappearing around the side of the building.
I dropped to the ground next to Win. He was dazed, his chin, his nose, his forehead bleeding. Blood was in his eyes, and he reached blindly for my hand. I thought of what Buddy had said about my father losing customers and my mother losing friends. That was not my fault. Not my business. My business was the bruised and beautiful man in front of me, hurt by my own kin.
* * *
I thought Greg should take Win to the hospital. The wound on his forehead was bleeding badly and he seemed dazed, looking through me instead of at me. I worried his cheekbone might be broken. Maybe his nose, too, the way it was gushing blood. But Greg wanted to take him back to the school. He and Chip and I managed to get him to Greg’s car and lay him across the back seat. Chip got in with him and pressed a handkerchief to the worst of his wounds. I tried to get in the front seat to go with them, but Greg barked at me.
“No! If you want to help, get Curry to take you back to the school,” he said. “Get the first-aid supplies ready. If you want to help, that’s what you can do.”
So I rode back to the school with Curry, thinking, At least Greg isn’t sending me back to the Charleses’ house. At least he’s letting me help.
Greg beat us to the school and by the time Curry and I rushed in, he and Chip were settling Win on the couch in the lounge. I ran to where Greg kept the first-aid supplies and soon he and Chip were dressing the wounds while I sat on a chair next to Win. He squeezed my hand and winced in pain. Greg made him some concoction to drink, and Win drank it down quickly, wincing at the taste or the burn, I didn’t know which.
“Don’t you think he should go to the hospital?” I asked Greg quietly as Win’s eyelids fell shut.
Greg shook his head. He sat back in his chair, hands on his knees. “Once, a few years ago,” he said quietly, his eyes on Win, “a civil rights worker I knew was beaten like this at a protest. We took him to the hospital and his attackers were waiting for him in the bushes outside the hospital doors. They jumped all of us. That fella didn’t make it.”
“My brother wouldn’t—”
“Your brother wouldn’t what, Ellie?” Greg said, anger in his voice now. “Hurt a fly? Well look what he did here.” He nodded at Win. “I don’t want him calling his friends to meet him at the hospital to finish what he started. All right? Win’ll be safer here.”
I didn’t know what Greg gave Win in that drink, but whatever it was knocked him out and I was glad he was no longer in pain. I started to get to my feet, but Greg reached over, his hand on my arm to keep me seated.
“You’re going to have to leave Flint, Ellie,” he said.
“No. Please, Greg! Let me stay.”
“I might be able to find you a place in one of the other counties outside North Carolina. I know they lost a few volunteers in Virginia, so maybe—”
“No,” I said again. “Don’t make me leave.”
Greg gazed at me, his face serious. He nodded toward Win. “I know you love him,” he said. “And I know he loves you. He told me as much. But all you can bring him is trouble. He has a good head on his shoulders, but he’s human. We’re all human. We fall in love, we lose all sense of reason.”
“I’ll end it with him,” I promised, wondering if the words were a lie even as I said them.
“You’ll tell him it’s over and he’ll talk you out of it,” Greg said. “I was young once. I know how this plays out.”
I didn’t know what to say. How to fix this. How to get what I wanted without hurting anyone.
“Curry can take you back to the Charleses’ house now and then drive you home to Round Hill in the morning,” Greg said. When I didn’t respond, he added, “If you love him, Ellie, you’ll leave him.”
I felt my eyes burn. I looked down at Win again. The face I loved, bandaged and battered. Blood was seeping through the gauze taped to his chin. I knew in my heart Greg was right. How many more beatings would he have to endure to be with me?
I looked up at Greg. “I’ll go,” I said.
Chapter 39
Curry and I barely spoke on the drive from Flint to Round Hill in the morning. He suggested I ride in the back, but I refused. I smoked one of his cigarettes, exhaling with a vengeance. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so despondent. I felt as though I was losing everything that mattered. Win, yes, of course. But all my new friends, too. The power of the protests. The song circles. The people who invited me into their homes for lemonade and conversation. The children who held my hand on the dirt road as Win and I canvassed. I wasn’t just moving from one town to another. I was moving from one world to another, and I wasn’t ready to make that move. Not at all.
“Truck,” Curry said as a black pickup headed toward us.
I crouched down, thinking, This is the last time I’ll ever have to do this. Even that made me sad.
I stayed low in the seat as we drove through Round Hill. It was late Saturday morning and people were out and about downtown. It was best that Curry and I weren’t seen together.
Curry turned onto Hockley Street.
“That’s my house,” I said.
“I guessed that,” he said, “seein’ as it’s the only one.”
Both our car and Buddy’s truck were gone and I was relieved. Wherever Buddy was, I hoped he was repenting for his behavior last night. I still couldn’t believe his rage. I’d seen him angry before, yes, but brutal? Never.
I dared to give Curry a quick hug, then gathered my things out of the middle seat and headed for the house.
Inside, I breathed in the familiar scent. Our house always smelled like a mix of citrus and mildew to me. It wasn’t unpleasant at all. It was home. The house seemed so big and we were so wealthy. I hadn’t known how well we lived. How we wanted for nothing. How much of our comfort came from generations of having control over our lives? From being able to vote people who would help us into office? I dropped my things on the floor of my bedroom, flopped down on my bed, and looked up at the ceiling. I had to find a way to keep this part of me alive—the part that had been awakened to another side of America.