Chapter 2

“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 nigger!”

“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 hisstreet.

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. 2

At home on 5thStreet, Brian stashed his bike in the separate cluttered garage and joined his dad on the street, where he washed his “baby,” a twenty-year-old Kenworth truck tractor. It had a windshield ding and a few scratches and tiny dents here and there, but the paint was in good shape, and it was his dad’s pride and joy.

Sweat rolled off his large head. “Have a good ride?”

“I guess.”

“You guess? Something happen?” He obviously saw the grass-stained clothes and frowned.

Brian didn’t want to go into it and got a sponge from the soapy pail.

His dad dumped the wheel brush into the bucket. “What happened? Were you with one of your girlfriends? If so, you damn well better remember to use a hood on your manhood each and every time you do it.” He winked and dropped his hand on Brian’s neck, giving a squeeze. “Now, tell your old man the truth. What happened?”

“I was at Mrs. Guardino’s and then was riding around and ran into Robby McNamara and his little gang, is all.”

“Did they hurt you?” Dad’s huge frame blocked the sun.

“Not really.”

“That means ‘yes.’”

“He punched me once, but I sort of blocked it.”

“And?”

“He said I was a black boy in a white neighborhood. They slapped, punched, and kicked me and knocked me down.”

“How many?”

“Two McNamara boys and one other kid actually hit me. Others, including Justus, watched.”

Dad’s eyes grew big and his mouth flattened. He took a deep breath and grabbed some gum from his pocket, unwrapped several pieces, then shoved them in his mouth—his substitute for cigarettes

“Don’t get mad, Dad. I just won’t go on that street. I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.”

Dad’s Southern twang grew more noticeable when he got mad. “Don’t you everbe sorry for being who you are or going where you have a right to be.” With his brows knitted and the corners of his mouth pulled down, he picked up the wheel brush and went back to washing. Brian worked the front of the rig.

When they finished, the truck gleamed in the strong sunlight. Brian loved being in and near the vehicle, and he treasured the times he went on runs with his dad around the San Francisco Bay area.

Everywhere they went, or almost everywhere, his dad was respected for his driving skills. One time when a new driver had held up traffic because he couldn’t get a trailer backed into a tight alley in San Francisco, it had resulted in shouts, swearing, and honking. Dad had run over, pulling Brian with him. He’d jumped on the running board of the other truck and offered to get the rig where it should be. The stressed young driver had slid over to let Dad in, who backed into the loading dock in a minute, giving a verbal tutorial to the driver and Brian. The car drivers had waved and shouted thanks, and Brian’s heart had swelled with pride.