13
W
hen Mom, Isaiah, Javier, and I got to our house, I could feel the jagged reality of what had happened settle in my chest. We had almost heard a confession, and someone had stopped it. Actually, no, not someone, something. The weight of racism had let its momentum fall against that small gathering, and if we weren’t careful, we’d all be crushed.
“Who do you think hired him?” Mom asked as she slid her feet under Isaiah’s thigh on the sofa, a cup of chamomile tea in her hand.
“Who knows? The Citizen’s Council? One of their wives, maybe?” He took a sip of his beer and leaned back. “I guess it doesn’t really matter.”
“Now what?” Javier said.
I wanted to rally and say something like, “Now, now we fight!” and lead us forth to battle like Nat Turner. But all I could see in my mind was
