The Lightning Rule (22 page)

Sirens were caterwauling from somewhere in the distance, momentarily drowning out the chatter on the police band radio. The fervor over the previous night’s spate of fires had been supplanted by a new mayhem. Reports of snipers on rooftops were flooding into dispatch. Emmett was keeping a running list of the locations getting the heaviest fire so he could plot a safe course home.

“Raise the volume,” he said to Freddie.

“Newark police, hold your fire. State police, hold your fire,” commanded the dispatcher. “You’re shooting at each other. National Guardsmen, quit firing at the buildings. When the sparks fly, we think it’s snipers. Be sure of your targets.”

“They shootin’ at each other?” Freddie was astounded.

“Apparently.”

An ambulance driver came on next, responding to a request for assistance. “Request denied. We won’t come anywhere on South Orange Avenue east of Norfolk. Been there twice. Been shot at twice. Repeat. Request denied.

“How about the shotguns? Can we use shotguns?” someone from a patrol car was asking.

“Knock that off,” dispatch ordered. “Do not use any shotguns.”

“But they have ’em. They’re shooting at us and they have shotguns.”

The various forces had finally gotten on the same radio frequency, but that hadn’t lessened the number of misunderstandings. Listening to the confusion was nerve-racking. It made Emmett’s head throb.

“Can I turn it down now?” Freddie asked.

“Please do.”

Roadblocks were set up at short intervals along Broad Street. That forced the morass of traffic slowly onward like barges through locks in a canal. Few had heeded the curfew that prohibited driving. Newark rarely saw jams of that magnitude, except during the Christmas rush. The riot was the opposite of a holiday.

“Can’t we go around?”

“We can try.”

Emmett cut onto Raymond Boulevard. He planned to leapfrog the mesh of blockades at the center of the ward. A parade of old furniture was piled along the gutters. Ratty sofas were dumped beside broken chairs and stained mattresses, as if people were setting up house on the sidewalks.

“Lotta folks must be moving.”

“Not moving. Renovating. They got new furniture from looting stores.”

“See anything nice?”

“We don’t have time to shop right now, Freddie.”

“I was only askin’.”

Up ahead on Mulberry, two patrol cars and a jeep were pulled to either side of the street. The thoroughfare was choked to a single, narrow lane. There were no officers, troopers, or Guardsmen to be seen.

“The cops just left their cars right in the middle ’a the road?”

“Maybe they were called into one of these buildings on an emergency.”

“Can we fit through?”

“Yeah, we can fit. But I think we should back up, go another way.” Emmett felt as if he was riding into a trap.

“What for? Mulberry goes straight to McCarter Highway. That’s fastest.”

Against his instincts, Emmett cruised onward. Suddenly, a gunshot rang out, loud as a firecracker. He smashed the breaks, coming to a bucking halt in between the police cars.

“Okay, back up. Back up,” Freddie urged, diving under the dash.

Emmett was about to floor it when he noticed a mix of police officers and state troopers skittering around the cars parked at the curb. They hadn’t abandoned their vehicles to attend to some emergency indoors. They were taking cover behind them.

“We can’t stay here. We have to get out of this car.”

“No way. I ain’t movin’.”

A patrolman poked his revolver over the hood of a sedan and took a shot at the three-story apartment building on the right side of the street. The sniper immediately returned fire. One of the bullets glanced off the sidewalk, ricocheting into the rear windshield of Emmett’s car and shattering it.

“I’m outta here,” Freddie said.

Emmett dragged him out the driver’s-side door and forced him to the ground to take shelter by the rear tire.

The sniper let off another round. The muzzle flash flared in the darkness. Emmett tracked the shot and pinpointed the sniper’s position at the top floor of the building on the opposite side of the road. He saw somebody leaning out of a window onto the fire escape and taking aim.

“It’s so loud.” Freddie’s hands were clamped over his ears.

“That’s because it’s a rifle. You can go deaf from the noise.” Emmett checked his pistol. The barrel was full. “At the academy firing range, we’d put spent shells in our ears to plug them.”

“You got any ’a those shells on you?”

“I might in a minute.”

More bullets whizzed down, splashing the asphalt.

“Why don’t they shoot back at ’im?”

“I don’t know what the state troopers are carrying, but a service revolver fires six rounds. Most cops have another six to twenty-four bullets on their belts. My guess, they ran out of ammo and they’re waiting for backup.”

That was why the cars were stopped in the middle of the street. This was an ambush that had turned into a standoff.

“You gonna back ’em up?”

“The sniper has the upper hand. I move and he’ll pick me off. To him, we’re fish in a barrel.”

“Then that guy’s a fish too.” Freddie was pointing at a black man who was walking on their side of the street. The cigarette held in his fingers illuminated the swinging arc of his arm as he strolled along, unconcerned.

“Hey. Get down,” Emmett whispered. The man ignored him. “Get down. There’s a sniper.”

“He ain’t gonna shoot me. I’m a Negro. You-all the ones in trouble.”

A gunshot clapped. The man dropped midstride.

“He shot him,” Freddie said in awe.

Emmett ducked to look under the parked cars to see if the man’s chest was rising and falling. It wasn’t. Blood flowed from his torso. When Freddie tried to look too, Emmett wouldn’t let him. “Don’t. Trust me.”

“Psst. Hey. You a cop?” A patrolman was signaling Emmett from behind a nearby fender. With his jacket off, Emmett’s badge and gun were on display. “How many rounds you got left?”

“Six. I have more. Except I can’t get to them.” The extra box of shells was in the pocket of his jacket, which was in the car.

“I’ll cover you.”

Freddie was hunched against the hubcap. “Won’t the sniper see you?”

“He might.”

“Well? Weren’t you sayin’ something about fish in a barrel?”

“We need the ammo,” the officer pressed.

Even if Emmett made it into the car without being hit, the rifle could pierce the car’s roof. “What you need is to get into that apartment building.”

“We been trying. He’s got us pinned and dispatch won’t answer our calls.”

“How many are you?”

“Seven. Four cops. Three troopers.”

“Seven to one,” Freddie mumbled. “And he’s winning.”

“We’ve got to draw his fire somehow so your men can get inside.”

“He just shot that guy. I ain’t gonna stick my noggin out for target practice.”

“You won’t have to. Bring them behind those parked cars and go around the rear of mine. You can sneak in without being seen.” Emmett’s car bridged the gap between both sides of the street. “I’ll fire into the air, make him think I’m a bad shot. That should buy you time to make it inside.”

The patrolman slipped away to talk the idea over with the others, then reappeared. “Okay. We’ll do it.”

“Move fast. Remember, I only have six rounds.”

“No,” Freddie said. “That’s not all you got.”

From the waistband of his dungarees, he produced the Beretta Emmett had taken from Tomaso Amata when his car ran off the road. The kid had gone from packing a water pistol to carrying a real gun.

“Picked his pocket after all?”

“It was on the ground. Finders keepers.” Freddie handed the Beretta to him. “You mad?”

“I should be. Except you’re the only one with any bullets. Now, if he shoots in your direction, get under the car,” Emmett instructed, a weapon in each hand.

“Under the car. Got it.” Freddie tucked his knees to his chest, making himself compact, and put his fingers in his ears preemptively, anticipating the fire fight to come.

Single file, the patrolmen and troopers snaked along the gutter. The parked cars acted as a curtain, concealing them from sight. Emmett sneaked over to the jeep and crouched by the back tire. Firing directly at the building could cause another ricochet. He couldn’t risk hitting any windows in case there were people inside. Aiming high above the
roofline, he fired two shots from his revolver, then lunged toward the jeep’s front wheel.

The sniper responded in kind with two bullets to the rear of the jeep. The first blew out the tire with a howl. The second lodged in the chassis. His aim was alarmingly accurate.

Emmett took two more potshots. The replies hit the jeep’s hood as he was dashing for cover behind another car. He cranked off another pair of shots, emptying his .38, and the sniper tracked him to his next location. The bullets pinged against metal as Emmett knelt beside the door of a Buick. One of them broke through the car’s window, showering him with glass. He holstered his revolver and switched to the Beretta, priming for another exchange. More shots erupted, rapid-fire. The sound said they weren’t directed at Emmett or the street. He peeked over the Buick’s trunk. Multiple muzzle flashes illuminated the interior of an apartment. The patrolmen and troopers had gotten to the sniper and were swapping fire.

“Freddie, are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m deaf. But I’m okay.”

Staying low, Emmett hurried over to him. “If you were deaf, you wouldn’t have heard me ask if you were okay.” He got Freddie to his feet. “Come on. Let’s leave while we can.”

The police band radio was still on, the yammering voices competing with gunshots. Right as Emmett started the ignition there came a crash of breaking glass. The police and troopers were forcibly pushing a shirtless black man toward a three-story window. Then they shoved him out. Arms wheeling, the man dropped to the pavement like a sack of meal and landed with a sickening thud.

Freddie’s mouth fell open. “Did they just….”

Emmett shut off the radio. He couldn’t stomach listening anymore. He couldn’t stomach any of it anymore. “Yes. They did.” He gunned the engine and sped away.

After a few minutes, the morose silence got to be too much for Freddie. “Your repair bill’s gone up,” he said, motioning the broken rear windshield.

“Another fifty?”

“Try double. Doubt you’ll be able to collect off ’a the guy who did the damage.”

“I doubt I will.”

Emmett didn’t care about the windshield. He didn’t want to look back. The glass was fractured into thousands of tiny pieces, the fissures blurring the view, but the image of the shirtless man falling to his death would remain clear and unblurred in Emmett’s mind forever.

Porch lights were lit all along Emmett’s street. Such hot weather would normally have drawn neighbors out onto their stoops. Not that night. Residents were cloistering themselves inside, as if the madness of the riot was communicable, a plague they feared catching.

Edward opened the front door for Emmett and Freddie and spun aside to let them through. Tired as he was, Emmett couldn’t help noticing that Edward’s dexterity with the wheelchair was improving. It was the last thing he ever imagined his brother would be good at.

“We keepin’ the wagons circled or what?”

“No,” Emmett replied, too beleaguered to go into detail. “Not anymore.”

“Glad to hear it.” Edward didn’t push for an explanation. Emmett’s and Freddie’s faces told the story for them.

“See any tanks?” Edward asked.

“No, no tanks,” Freddie replied. What he had seen couldn’t compare. “Can I watch TV for a little?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Emmett told him.

In a show of kindness, Edward ceded full reign over the television dial. “It’s all yours.”

That put renewed bounce in Freddie’s step. He began flipping channels, his nose inches from the screen.

“Did Mrs. Poole go to sleep?”

Edward shook his head. “She’s in the kitchen. She’d had her fill of TV. I gave her one of Ma’s books.”

“That was nice of you.”

“What can I say? I’m a nice guy. This is the part where you say, ‘Yeah, Ed, you are a heck of a nice guy.’ And I answer, ‘Well, gosh, Marty. You’re swell for mentioning it.’” Edward wanted some credit for holding down the fort and rolling with the punches, literally.

“I’m getting a glass of water. You want one, Mr. Nice Guy?”

Thanks
was a word Emmett and his brother reserved only for sarcasm. His offer stood in as gratitude and an affirmation of Edward’s efforts.

“Sure. That’d be grand.”

Mrs. Poole was sitting at the kitchen table, reading a paperback romance Emmett didn’t recognize as his mother’s.

“Oh, you’re home. I didn’t hear you come in.”

She closed the book. On the cover was an illustration of a woman with windswept hair and a man in a dapper suit. A train station filled the background. Luggage was stacked at the woman’s feet to foreshadow an imminent departure. The couple was passionately locking eyes, love thriving on drama and upheaval.

“Is that any more interesting than the programs on TV?”

“A little. Me, I’m partial to these kinds of stories. They’re like fairy tales. Not too real.”

Life had been all too real for the past few days. Emmett could understand why Mrs. Poole would seek an escape.

“Can I fix you something to eat?”

“I promised Freddie hot dogs.”

“Did you tell him we don’t have no regular buns?”

“No, I saved that surprise.”

“I believe we’ve had enough surprises for today, don’t you, Mr. Emmett?”

More than enough for an eternity, he thought.

Together, the four of them ate their hot dogs on pumpernickel in front of the television watching
Green Acres.
Freddie was too hungry to complain about not having a proper bun. He complained about the show instead.

“This ’posed to be funny?”

“It’s grown-up humor,” Edward said.

“Then remind me not to grow up.”

The program ended with Eddie Albert and Eva Gabor gazing lovingly at each other the way the man and woman on the cover of the paperback romance did. No matter how much drama or upheaval came to pass, the endings on television were always tidy. Emmett had no illusions about the riot ending as neatly. He couldn’t help hoping though.

“If y’all will excuse me,” Mrs. Poole announced, “I’m going to sleep.”

The clock hadn’t struck eight, yet it felt like the wee hours of the morning. She said her good nights, then the three of them continued to watch TV until Freddie dozed off on the couch.

“You should take him upstairs,” Edward said.

Emmett was himself half asleep in their father’s lounge chair. He nudged Freddie’s arm. “Come on. Time for bed.”

Eyelids heavy, Freddie acquiesced. He let Emmett steer him up the stairs, crawled under the covers, and immediately drifted back to sleep. Freddie fit in his bed better than Emmett ever had. From the age of twelve on, his feet hung off the end of the mattress. Edward’s did too. Growing up, they had shared the same bedroom and the same bedtime, and they both wound up with cold feet because the sheets could never cover them from head to toe. Edward always fell asleep first. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he was out. Sleep didn’t come that easily to Emmett. For years, he wished that Edward would stay up and talk with him. He even tried keeping him awake, telling stories or knock-knock jokes. None of it worked. Eventually, Emmett gave up wishing and accepted that he and his brother were completely different, right down to how they slept.

“Why don’t you hit the sack yourself,” Edward said when Emmett came downstairs. “I’m gonna go sit on the porch. Give you some peace and quiet.”

“If I go to sleep, how are you going to get into bed?”

“I’m getting so I can do it myself. I been practicing.”

It was the sort of progress Emmett wasn’t sure if he should praise or pretend to ignore.

“Go on. Go to sleep, Marty. You look like hell.”

“Thanks.” There was the word, withheld entirely except as a wisecrack.

“What are brothers for?”

The screen door screeched opened and closed, the final coda of their conversation. Emmett unbuttoned his shirt and collapsed onto the couch, but sleep eluded him. He lay there, remembering.

In the summers of their youth, he and Edward would sneak over to the river to cool off. The water was the color of a dusty mirror. It reflected the sky as ashy white even when it was blue. Swimming there was prohibited. The City Health Department posted signs about the danger of pollution. He and Edward paid them no mind. They would do cherry bombs off the docks by Brill Street or swim out to the tugs pulling barges to catch the waves that formed in the boat’s wake and surf them back to shore. He and Edward had whiled away countless hours swimming and playing by the water, seeing who could skip stones the farthest and trying to catch the crabs rumored to have swum up from the bay, though they never did. The crabs may as well have been imaginary creatures from some boyish fantasy. The mere idea of them gave those hot days purpose, just as the Passaic gave them refuge from the heat. For Emmett, summer was synonymous with the river, and it was inextricably tangled with the memory of what happened one summer day when he was eleven and Edward was seven, a memory he kept hidden under the floorboards of his heart.

They had been following the river’s edge on a jaunt through a make-believe jungle, whacking the reeds that grew near the shoals with sticks, and venturing farther from home than they had before. At a crook in the river, they came upon a giant drainage pipe that jutted out from a craggy outcropping of rock and dirt. The corrugated metal pipe was four feet in diameter, too small for an adult, but tailor-made for them.

“Let’s pretend it’s a secret cave.”

“I don’t wanna,” Edward had whined, backing off from the pipe.

“Don’t be chicken.” Emmett climbed inside.

“What if something’s in there? Like rats?”

Unafraid, Emmett stomped on the floor and banged the pipe’s sides. “Nope. No rats.”

“But it’s dark.”

“There’s nothing to be scared of. I promise.”

Edward gave in. He took Emmett’s hand and crawled into the gullet of the pipe.

Sunlight glinted off the algae-slicked walls. Waterlogged leaves were piled thick as snowdrifts. Emmett took the lead, advancing into the pitch-black.

“Wait for me, Marty. I can’t see.”

“Hurry up. I found something.”

“What? What is it?” Edward’s plaintive voice quivered along the rippled metal.

A rusty mesh grate blocked one end of the pipe. The lower side of the grate was peeled aside. Trapped in the mesh tines was a black-and-white checkered soccer ball.

“It’s a treasure. We’ve gotta get it.”

“It’s a ball, Marty. I don’t care about a dumb ball.”

“You’re messing up the game. Just help me.”

They tried to pry the ball from the grate, but the tines were embedded in the foam.

“Do you hear that, Marty?” A hushed rumble rose from the depths of the pipe, like the echo of the ocean in a seashell. “It’s getting louder. Please. Let’s leave. I wanna go,” Edward begged.

“It’s your imagination. It’s nothing.”

Those were the last words Emmett spoke before the rush of water hit them. The torrent knocked him down, forcing water up his nose and under his eyelids as it thrust him through the pipe and dumped him into the shallows, close to shore. He burst up from under the water and shouted his brother’s name. Edward wasn’t in the river with him. Water continued to spew from the pipe. Emmett realized that Edward must have been holding on to the mesh grate. He was still inside.

Emmett slogged to shore and screamed his brother’s name over and over again. Because of the gushing water, it was impossible to get anywhere near the pipe’s spout. Finally, Edward’s body came pouring out with the deluge and splashed into the river. Emmett swam to him and dragged his body to the rocky beach. Edward’s face was a milky blue. Wet leaves clung to his arms. Emmett flipped him on his stomach and wailed on his back. It was all he could think to do. But Edward wouldn’t breathe. Emmett pleaded with him, and he pleaded with God to make his brother breathe.

“Don’t leave me, Edziu. Please don’t leave me.” Crying, Emmett rocked him and prayed. His eyes, nose, and throat burned from the water. He thought it was from praying so hard. He promised he would be good for the rest of his life if God gave Edward back to him. That was when a man in a rowboat appeared on the river, the answer to his prayers. Emmett flagged him and he rowed over, took Edward from Emmett’s arms, and carried him to the closest street where they stopped someone in a car who drove them to the hospital. The doctor’s were able to revive Edward. Emmett had bruised his brother’s rib cage beating on him, which forced the water from his lungs. Edward had been breathing shallowly since the beach. Emmett was too distraught to notice.

The trauma wiped the entire incident from Edward’s memory. He couldn’t recollect anything about the drainage pipe or almost drowning that day. All he recalled was swimming earlier that morning. Emmett had told his parents the truth about what happened. They chose not to tell Edward and made Emmett promise not to say anything either. Although part of him yearned to come clean, Emmett was afraid of what Edward would think, that he wouldn’t want him as a brother anymore, so Emmett honored his parents’ wishes. In spite of the pact, Emmett believed that Edward sensed there was something he wasn’t privy to, some family bond he had been excluded from, and he spent his days resenting Emmett, not for nearly killing him, but for having a secret he wouldn’t share.

Emmett had allowed his brother to hold on to his anger, to nurture it and indulge it until it twisted into what they had now. From the day of the accident forward, Emmett listened to Edward breathe in his
sleep, grateful for each inhale and exhale. It was a nightly reminder of what he had almost done to him.

The hinges on the screen door creaked and the door bumped the frame, sending a shiver through the silent house. Edward rolled in from the porch. Emmett pretended to be asleep. He heard Edward wrestle himself into bed, struggling to position his legs and get comfortable. Emmett wanted to help. He knew not to. Edward had to learn to take care of himself. Emmett had to let him learn. Edward’s breathing soon fell into a rhythm as steady as a metronome. Then, and only then, could Emmett sleep.