1977 Chicago
It happened one day in the early summer of 1977. As Mom parked the car between two cherry trees, I looked out the window at the buildings from the back seat. It was just as my mother had described it when she told us where we were going to be living. There were two brick apartment buildings facing each other, with a long courtyard between them. The sidewalk was covered in a blanket of cherry blossoms, which gave it a dream-like quality. When we got out of the car, Mom handed me one of the many boxes that we had been packing for the past several days. This one had my little sister’s big metal spinning top balanced precariously near the edge of the box.
I started down the paved walkway in the middle of the courtyard. Two girls were jumping onto hand-drawn chalk hopscotch squares to the left of me, and two boys were playing marbles to my right.
“There! On the left. See it? That’s ours!” declared Mom, as she pointed to a large window on the second floor of one of the buildings. All the kids immediately stopped what they were doing and stared as I followed Mom, desperately trying not to drop the box I had been holding.
“Oh look,” Mom exclaimed. “It has a window!” I looked up to where she was pointing, nearly tripping over a twig on the walkway.
“Wait!” squealed Tink, my youngest sister, as she struggled to catch up to us. She was always trying to catch up to us.
“Hey down there! How’re you doin’?” shouted a disembodied voice. “Up here!” it directed. I carefully examined all the second-floor windows, but still couldn’t determine the source of the voice. “Hey man, you’re gonna drop that box.”
I finally saw that the voice was coming from a boy who was descending a twisted oak tree toward the back of the courtyard. He appeared to be about my age, maybe ten or eleven, but small for his age. He sauntered over to me. “Here, let me help you with that, dude.” He took Tink’s top out of the box. “I’m Imani. What’s your name?” he asked warmly.
“Max,” I told him. “We’re just...”
Imani’s face lit up. “Oh yeah! You guys are the new folks moving in. Mrs. Radcliffe told me. She’s the landlady. You won’t like her.”
“Yeah, I think we’re moving into that place up there,” I said, pointing to the big window on the second floor.
“Oh no! Really? I guess they were finally able to clean up all the blood,” he said, widening his eyes.
I froze. “What?”
“Didn’t anybody tell you? Of course they didn’t. Old man Jensen killed his old lady up there. Then they took him away,” Imani reported. “Man, he sure put up a fight. But it was weird, ‘cuz he was fighting and laughing at the same time!”
Shocked, I took a step back. He continued, “Seriously, dude, he was still all bloody and everything. Yeah, that was some weird shit.” Imani flashed a big bright smile, the first of many that I would see from him.
“For real?” I asked. “Are you messing with me?”
“Yeah man, I am!” he admitted. “You should’ve seen the look on your face!” Imani threw back his head and let loose with a big laugh that seemed out of place, given his small frame. “Old man Jensen just couldn’t pay his rent ‘cuz he was drunk all the time. Mrs. Radcliffe wasn’t havin’ none of that, so she kicked him out.” At that moment, I heard my mom calling me from upstairs, interrupting my first encounter with Imani.
After a couple of weeks, we kids had formed our own little community in the courtyard between the two-story brick apartment buildings. The buildings faced each other, and the paved walkway between them was flanked by two large expanses of lawn. On one side, the parents would sit on lawn chairs and gossip about the neighbors, while the kids were usually playing marbles, jacks, Twister, or jumping rope. During the summer, that was where we would unroll the Slip ‘N Slide. Boy, was that fun!
On the other side of the courtyard was the old twisted oak tree that Imani and I would climb, where we could say things that we didn’t want anybody else to hear. We always told each other that we were going to build a fort up there, but it never happened. Next to the tree was where I spent most of my time working on my bike. At the front part of the courtyard, near the sidewalk, is where Tink set up her lemonade stand.
At best, memories of childhood feel warm and innocent, but even at their most painful, the passage of time has a way of softening the edges.
At one time, we were a complete family unit. Then, after my father left us for “some bimbo”, according to Mom, we were each affected quite differently. For my mother, it was particularly difficult. She didn’t smile or laugh for months after my dad left. In hindsight, I can see that she was overwhelmed raising two kids by herself. Since Mom would often lose her temper at us, we learned to tread lightly around her. Many nights, I could hear her crying behind the closed door of her bedroom.
Mom would often tell me that I was the man of the house, which terrified me. One morning Mom came into the kitchen while Tink and I were eating our Cheerios and reminded me once again, “Max, you’re the man of the house now.” I was eleven. “Maybe you can mow lawns in the neighborhood or even get a paper route,” she said as she left the kitchen. I felt like I could never live up to her expectations.
Tink, whose real name was Tracy, got her nickname because she was small for her age. Her bright smile and twinkling blue eyes perfectly complemented her blonde hair and round face with full pink cheeks. Tink was dressed in high-waisted jeans and one of her favorite worn-out shirts, displaying a horse motif.
Tink must have seen my eyes welling up. She hopped down from her chair, walked over to me, tugged at my sleeve, and gave me a Popeye wink. “Max, you’re the biggest, strongest, bestest man in the whole world! You’re like Superman!” she announced, her little hand patting my back.
About six months later, as I was getting ready for school, we heard a knock on the front door. Mom called loudly from the shower telling me to answer it. It was Mrs. Radcliffe, the landlady...again. She was already yelling as I opened the door, accusing Mom of leaving cigarette butts on the lawn. I told her that my mother didn't smoke, but she continued yelling. It was strange, because she wasn't even looking at me during her rant, but was instead staring off into space. When she finished, she stormed off.
Mom emerged from the shower, rubbing her wet hair with a towel. "What the hell did she want this time?" she asked. I quickly filled her in on the cigarette butt "scandal", to which to she rolled her eyes and told me to get ready for school.
On the drive to school that morning, Mom said that Imani’s mother, Mrs. Robbins, had told her that the previous week, Mrs. Radcliffe had entered our apartment when we weren’t home, and had turned on the stove and the lights. She told me that the landlady had threatened to raise our rent because we were running up her utility bills.
That’s when I decided to "Eddie Haskell" Mrs. Radcliffe to try to get on her good side...if she had one. I did so with mixed results:
"Oh, good afternoon, Mrs. Radcliffe. Your hair looks very nice!" That allowed us to put out the Slip 'N Slide on the lawn that summer.
"Gosh, Mrs. Radcliffe, I can see by how much your five cats adore you that you are quite an animal lover!" That one got her to change her mind about calling the local shelter to take away our neighbor's bulldog Bruno, who had been pooping in the courtyard.
"Gee Mrs. Radcliffe, I'm sure you have the biggest and best collection of ceramic frogs in the entire state of Illinois!"
Mrs. Radcliffe hurried into her apartment through the screen door, and just as quickly emerged with two plates of pie. She handed me a plate and motioned for me to sit on one of her lounge chairs. These were the same chairs that she would never let anyone even come near. We kids never wanted to sit on them anyway, because we knew that when we perspired, the vinyl cushions would stick to our butts. As I ate my pie, she told me in detail how she had "met" each of her frogs, all forty of them. This torture was worth it because it allowed me to get permission for Tink to set up her little lemonade stand on the courtyard lawn near the sidewalk.
"Well, I've got to get going, Mrs. R," I lied. "I promised my mother that I would wash the windows after cleaning my room. Thanks for the pie!"
A typical weekend or summer day included fearlessly climbing trees, climbing fences, and creating secret hideouts. We only stopped for a while when one of our parents served lunch in their apartment or at the picnic table in the courtyard. We ate bologna sandwiches and drank Tang. We laughed at booger and fart jokes, and dreamed of what we would be when we grew up.
Many activities awaited us in the courtyard. Sometimes we would use Silly Putty to lift the ink from the comics in the Sunday paper. Maybe we would watch with fascination as a Slinky came down the stairs. Or perhaps, if we could get all the neighborhood kids together, we would play hide-n-seek, red rover, tag, or red light/green light. Whether we rode our bikes or slipped and slid on the Slip 'N Slide, all that we needed to know was that we had to be home by the time the streetlights came on at dusk.
It was a typical Sunday in late June. Like most Sundays, we helped Tink set up her lemonade stand, constructed from an old wooden card table. With all her might, Tink hauled down the stairs the orange plastic pitcher, Dixie cups, and of course, her money cigar box. Mom arrived, filled the pitcher with lemonade, and then pointed her index finger at Imani and me. “Keep an eye on my little girl,” she warned. “Mommy! I'm four years old, you know,” Tink protested. Somewhat reassured, Mom left for her weekend job.
Since this was her day, Tink had put five barrettes in her hair – some pink and some gold – which barely contained the disorganized mess of golden curls. She stood self-assured in her bare feet, a miniature budding businesswoman. The last, but perhaps most important task was setting up the makeshift sign announcing, in big hand-printed letters, “Lemonade, 25¢”.
I was working on my bike, removing the old seat from my Stingray and preparing to replace it with a new one I had purchased with the money that I saved up over the past year. Imani was nearby playing marbles. Tink was sitting in a small white plastic chair in front of her stand, waiting for her customers to arrive. A couple of little girls from across the street asked Tink if she would join them in playing with Barbie dolls. Tink insisted that she was too busy, and that she thought Barbies were stupid anyway. I went upstairs to our apartment and returned with my new red banana seat with a white racing stripe.
I took the last step down from the stairway and turned toward the courtyard. I looked up to see Tink starting to cross the street with a glass of lemonade in her little hand, not noticing a pickup truck speeding toward her. I felt frozen in time, paralyzed. Out of nowhere, I saw Imani run into the street after Tink. With the unexpected strength of a superhero, he flung his small body in front of the truck and pushed Tink out of harm's way. I immediately heard the sound of screeching brakes and a sickening thud. My heart sank as I ran into the street to see what had just happened. Tink had been hurled across the street onto a neighbor's lawn. She was crying but safe in the neighbor's arms. Imani's lifeless form was lying halfway under the truck. My eyes filled with tears, as I sat down beside him and put my arms tightly around him as only a brother could.
"Imani, please wake up! Please wake up!" I pleaded through the tears. "Imani, please wake up!"
Soon, Imani's mother came running from her apartment and noticed her son lying crumpled and bloody in the street. She slowly bent down and embraced him. Together, in the middle of the street, we shared a pain that would last forever.
I heard sirens in the distance, which were presumably coming to help my friend. I knew it would be too late, since Imani's body was already limp and becoming cold. However, I couldn't leave him. Mom returned home from work just as the ambulance arrived. When she realized what had happened, she ran to us in shock with tears in her eyes. Tink was shivering uncontrollably as the neighbor handed her to my mother. Mom motioned for me to let go of Imani, so that the emergency crew could lift him into the ambulance. As I got up, I leaned over and whispered in
his ear, "I love you, Imani. Thank you for saving Tink." After Imani's mother joined her son in the ambulance, the driver closed the rear doors. As they sped away, the siren was so loud that it hurt my ears. At that moment I felt Mom's arms tighten around me. I never saw Imani again after
holding him that day. I couldn't cry. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. To do so would be admitting, in a way, that life could go on without him. I wanted everything to pause so I could acknowledge the loss, so I could make sense of what had happened. I was alive and Imani was dead. What had I done to deserve to live? Imani gave his life to save another.
Many years have passed since Imani pushed Tink out of the way of a truck that fateful Sunday, changing our lives in an instant. I have since made it my mission to tell the world what Imani did that day.
Time can both romanticize the ordinary and smooth the rough edges of childhood. Having said that, the memories are mine. I am their archivist, their custodian, their conservator. When I'm feeling nostalgic, they come in waves, and a surge of snapshots floods my brain.
Now I'm once again parked between two cherry trees, just a few feet away from where I lost my childhood friend. He was a real-life hero. I'm just Max, and he was The Mighty Imani.
Characters available to buy:
Adult Max...................................$50Child Max...................................$35Imani...........................................$25Tink.............................................$25Carol (Max and Tink's mother)...$45Mrs. Radcliff...............................$50
No comments:
Post a Comment