Every Time a Rainbow Dies

  Rita Williams-Garcia

  Every Time a Rainbow Dies

  For Michelle Renee and Elizabeth Mark

  Contents

  One

  From on top of Brooklyn, Thulani watched the sun bed…

  Two

  Thulani walked fast. Then he ran, down blocks, across avenues,…

  Three

  With the exception of one recurring event, every Wednesday was…

  Four

  A hot one is what the DJ on the radio…

  Five

  The sun peeled open his eyes as he lay in…

  Six

  Don’t run, don’t run, don’t run, is what his heart…

  Seven

  Every morning after he set his birds free, Thulani walked…

  Eight

  For three days Thulani knew the peace of a quiet…

  Nine

  Thulani wanted to tell someone other than his birds about…

  Ten

  Thulani set the alarm for six o’clock and stared at…

  Eleven

  Thulani rode the train back to Brooklyn and pictured Ysa’s…

  Twelve

  “You waste my water,” Yong Moon said.

  Thirteen

  He made sure he caught her eye in homeroom and…

  Fourteen

  “Shouldn’t his family do this?”

  Fifteen

  Ysa caught him aiming the camera lens at her and…

  Sixteen

  Thulani left his camera on his dresser and went to…

  Seventeen

  “It’s Saturday, Thulani. You don’t have to be to work…

  Eighteen

  “Are you all right?”

  Nineteen

  “I will be gone a month,” he told Mr. Moon.

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Rita Williams-Garcia

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  ONE

  From on top of Brooklyn, Thulani watched the sun bed the clouds, waiting, as he always did, for his birds to return. He woke each morning with one thought: freeing his birds. Their cooing pulled him from sleep, called him up the attic steps and onto the roof of his brownstone. Each and every time it gave him a thrill to unlatch the door of the dovecote he had built and find himself besieged by fourteen pigeons, each a variation of white: snowy, spotted, dingy, or wing-stained. Every morning without fail he dropped cereal or seeds on the asphalt roof, recalled the meanderings of dreams better told to birds than people, then watched them fly off toward Prospect Park. As sure as he knew the view from the rooftop, he knew his birds would always return to him.

  Thulani looked out into the graying predusk. Below him, in their apartment, his sister-in-law, Shakira, rubbed her belly, waiting for her husband to come in from work. On the street city buses became scarce, leaving Eastern Parkway to gypsy cabs and vans. Store owners locked up their shops, and street vendors packed up their tables. The day was coming to a close.

  Thulani gazed down upon a couple who stopped to kiss. He watched how the man held the woman’s head with both hands as she pulled herself into him. Even if they had felt his eyes, they would not have cared. From above them he could see that the world around the two did not exist.

  Caught up in this couple, their kiss, and thinking about what drew people to be entwined so, Thulani was suddenly surprised by a legion of wings flapping about him.

  One by one, five rock doves descended on him, their pink feet touching down on his arms and shoulders; the nine other birds stopped at his feet.

  Of his birds, he loved Yoli and Dija best, two of three snowy hens he found as squabs on his roof. Yoli was the first to recognize him as a “mother,” and Dija followed her lead. Their sister, Esme, however, was indifferent to his attention. Of all his birds, she would be the one to run off with another flock.

  His treasured cocks, Bruno and Tai-Chi, were brothers with identical black wing stains whom Thulani could easily tell apart. Bruno was bold, a leader, and Tai-Chi, the graceful one, was proud of his wingspan. Both birds had become his when they followed Esme to the rooftop one evening, but they had eventually mated with her sisters.

  These were the only birds he had bothered to name. The three hens, the cocks, and their brood were simply “my birds.” Truer friends did not exist. In the two years since Thulani had become owner and caretaker of his flock, there had been no discord, no change in routine, and, in spite of Esme’s iffiness, no defections. His birds needed him to free them in the morning; he needed them to return before nightfall. Only when they died would they leave him.

  In an act of dominance Bruno hopped from Thulani’s shoulder to his head. Thulani grabbed Bruno’s feet and carefully pried the bird’s talons from his dreadlocks. “Stop showing off for Yoli. I know she’s yours.”

  He threw Bruno up to the sky, then flung the others perched on his arms airborne as well. This was how his birds began their chasing game—running, hopping, and flying in circles around the roof. Each bird aimed for Thulani, to land on his shoulders, arms, or head.

  Bruno wanted his head, but Thulani swerved, missing those pink feet. He twisted, turned, waved his arms, and ducked. He could not shake Bruno or Tai-Chi, nor could he resist his hens.

  When he tired or they tired, or when Shakira yelled up from the apartment window, “Cut the mischief!” he unlatched the door of the dovecote so they could roost.

  “Home,” he said in response to their cooing and flapping. “Home.”

  On his word they gathered to be let into the dovecote, an improvement on the avocado crate from Yong Moon’s Fresh Fruits. The crate had served Yoli, Dija, and Esme as squabs but would not do as the three sisters grew into voluptuous hens that attracted other birds to the rooftop. In shop class he had made a bigger home with a lock and a swinging door. He had enjoyed building the dovecote and was at ease with a hammer.

  “Home, Dija; home, Yoli; home, Bruno,” he coaxed, until all hopped into the dovecote to roost.

  Only one hen, Esme, lingered. Esme refused to breed, which went against the very nature of a hen. He’d watch his cocks do the mating dance, puff their necks, bob their heads in and out, and hop to one side, only to be spurned by Esme, who took the role of coquette too far, never allowing any to catch her. Even though Esme had attracted many male pigeons, a mourning dove, and a seagull, Yoli and Dija were responsible for increasing the brood.

  “Home, Esme.”

  The lone hen stood her ground.

  Thulani made kissing noises at her. This wouldn’t do. He knelt and held out his hand filled with seeds, which caused a stir in the dovecote. Still, Esme showed no interest. She preferred to roost under the ledge where she and her sisters had been found, although the dovecote was kept clean and the water bowls were filled.

  “Don’t make me come and get you.”

  Esme tried to hop away. Thulani seized her, his thumb firmly planted against her beating heart. He grabbed her body before her wings could open. “It’s better when you cooperate,” he said, and dropped her into the box, then flipped the latch.

  The July air began to cool. Thulani sat on the tarred roof next to his birds, his baggy T-shirt pulled over raised knees. Each pair, Yoli and Bruno, Dija and Tai-Chi, and others settled wing to wing. Even Esme recovered from the indignation of having been handled and joined in the low cooing.

  “I will build a bigger home,” he told his brood. “I will, I will, I will.”

  Lulled by the calm of murmuring birds, Thulani stayed on his roof well past midnight on summer nights like this. It was his refuge from Truman and Shakira and their desire to “man him up” for all his sixteen years. Here on his roof he
had the waning sun, a cooling breeze, his birds, and eventually, when night pulled down, a place to lay his head. Now that his birds had cooed themselves to sleep, he put on his earphones to pipe in the old-style reggae his mother used to blast and his father once sang. With this music, the pattern of stars, the peace within him, he closed his eyes and hung in the summer cool. Only then could he indulge himself in a dream where his head lay in the lap of a girl he did not know, just to smell her, feel the scratch of her long nails against his neck and chest, look into her eyes.

  During the time he dreamed of her, he learned what he could not do. He could not fix on her face too strongly, for she would turn into other things. He could not imagine them elsewhere, say, in his bed, for the bed would smother them, or at school, for she would be swallowed by the crowd. She and he could be together only on his roof, his head in her lap as her nails drew patterns over his body. As long as he knew this, she would stay with him and he would have a place to rest his—

  A scream.

  Where from?

  His dream girl fled. His eyes popped open, and his hand flew up against the dovecote. He removed the earphones and set aside the cassette player. Was it a cat trying to get at his birds? No. A cat couldn’t climb up to the roof. And the scream was human.

  He checked his birds. They were shaken, but more so from his hand banging the cage.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

  There. Again. The scream.

  Thulani was now on his feet, crouching low. He crept to the edge of the roof and looked down in the direction of the alley. In the dark he could see the Dumpster. Three figures were on the ground, eclipsed but not completely hidden by the Dumpster. He moved to the far right side to get a better angle. He saw them, out in the open, across the street in the alley. One guy, his pants down to his ankles, was on top of a woman. The other guy knelt by her head, holding her down while the first guy pumped her with his body.

  Thulani stayed low, crouching and watching. When the one on top struck her, Thulani flinched to avoid the blow.

  Move. Do something.

  Vans passed by. A woman who had to have seen crossed the street.

  Do something. Something.

  The guy stopped pumping her. The other guy repositioned himself, maybe to hold her down better. Then the one on top, doing it, raised his arm and punched her in the face.

  Thulani sprang tall. “Hey, you!”

  The two guys stood and looked to the roof.

  Thulani left his birds and The Wailers. He ran through the roof door, down the attic steps in a leap, down two flights of steps—“THULANI!”—past the blob that was his sister-in-law, and out in the street in a matter of seconds, his heart bursting through his chest. They had a knife to slice him up, a gun to shoot him full of lead. What did he have? One hundred and forty pounds of almost man, heart thumping through his chest, lungs pressing against his ribs.

  He shot down the block, across the street, and into the alley. Die or be beaten, he had to do what he could for her.

  His heart and lungs oozed out of his ears, but he was ready to face them. When he got there, to his relief the two had fled. He was alone in the alley, except for her.

  He approached her carefully. She was alive but not fully conscious. He could also see that she wasn’t a woman, but a girl, like any girl he’d go to school with.

  They had left her with her legs still open and no clothes on, except for ripped panties at her ankles. Her top, bright and pink with skinny straps, had been torn from her body. Her plum-colored nipples were sticking out. Her vagina, a crushed rose, was fully exposed, its petals dripping blood. Her face had been messed up. One eye was swollen shut, and her lip was busted.

  Although he had been with her for only ten or fifteen seconds, it seemed longer. He didn’t know what to do next. Should he leave her? Get help? Cover her? What? What?

  Finally he knelt over the girl, realizing he’d have to touch her.

  Maybe she felt him breathing. He was breathing awfully hard. She stirred, although her eyes remained closed. When he tried to touch her shoulder, to let her know he was there, she thrashed about like something wild, discovering the power of her legs.

  “I’m not them! I’m not them! They’re gone,” he said, tolerating her open palm slaps. “They’re gone.”

  This would not calm her. Still with eyes shut, she reached out for a piece of him, just to hit him.

  “I’m not them!” he repeated loudly. Finally her arms died in the air, and her legs lost their power. “Look, girl. I live right there. My sister-in-law can tend to you.”

  “No-no-noooo!” She flung her arms in the direction of his voice. Her eyes were still closed.

  Had she come out of the house like this? A top and no clothes?

  He took off his oversize T-shirt, a shirt he wouldn’t let Shakira borrow.

  The girl was in no shape to help herself. He would have to touch her, sit her up, put the shirt on her, if she’d let him. Or if he could get past her bruises, her gashes, her blood, her belly, her titties. He wanted to turn away, but he could not avert his eyes.

  She struggled to raise herself. He lifted her into a sitting position, shoulders first. As he anticipated, she fought him. He did his best to slip the T-shirt over her head and guide her arms into the holes, while she wrenched her torso and spun her arms out and cursed him.

  He had held frightened squabs but had never handled anything as delicate as this girl. He wanted to be gentle as he helped her to her feet, but she fought everything he did for her.

  He didn’t know what to do with her panties. One side was ripped completely. She could not bend to pull them up. When he tried to pull them up over her thighs, she screamed at him in words he didn’t understand. He let them drop to the ground.

  Her legs were weak. One foot turned in, and both legs shook. He knew that she would fall with her first step and that she would hit him if he tried to help her. He grabbed her arm anyway. She slapped his hand, as he knew she would.

  He refused to let go.

  “I know you’re hurting, girl, but don’t hit me. Don’t hit me. I’m not them.”

  She took two steps, then paused. He reached out to give her balance. She hit him again, in spite of what he had told her. What could he do but bear her blows?

  When they reached the end of the block, she stopped, then leaned into him, allowing him to support her. She opened her one good eye as best she could and looked around.

  “Where you live? I’ll take you.”

  “No. I’m fine.” Her accent was thick. “I can go.”

  “Can’t leave you, girl.”

  Since she wasn’t talking, all he could do was let her guide them at her pace, taking ten minutes to complete each city block. Anyone still on stoops stared as they passed. He saw heads behind shaded windows, and he wondered what they thought with their mouths and eyes wide open.

  When they turned on Franklin Avenue, the girl kept saying, “Okay, okay.” He figured they were near her house. She turned to him and said sharply, “Now, go!” and pushed him away.

  He wouldn’t leave her alone and said, “You go in first; then I’ll go.” Before she could protest, the door opened. A woman too old to be her mother stood in the crack of the door before opening it wide. She snatched the girl inside, screamed in what he thought was Creole, and slammed the door.

  He feared for the girl. He stood and waited for a sign that she would be all right.

  The scolding ended with a slap. Then another. He pressed himself to the door. The girl was sobbing and trying to explain. He had to get her out of there. Take her to the hospital, the police, or his house. He had to do something. He banged on the door.

  “Girl? Girl, you all right in there?”

  There was no answer.

  Thulani was set to charge through the door when it swung open. The old woman came at him, yelling obscenities and waving his T-shirt as if it were a torch. He backed away, and she threw it at his chest.

  The g
irl’s voice pleaded in words he did not understand. She was telling the woman that he was not one of them.

  It didn’t matter. The old woman, still brandishing her fist, only knew what she saw. He with his filthy clothes on the girl’s beaten-down body. Blood on her face, down her legs. He standing before her as if he had a right to be there.

  Thulani backed away until he was running, in which direction it didn’t matter. To the heads that looked out of windows, and to those who ventured outside to catch the action, he was guilty.

  TWO

  Thulani walked fast. Then he ran, down blocks, across avenues, even if they took him farther away from Eastern Parkway. Away from his house. His rooftop. His birds. He simply ran, stopping twice to mop his face, around his eyes with the T-shirt, the one the old woman had thrown at him, the one he had struggled to put on the raped girl’s body. It didn’t help. Wiping would not stop the pictures that played before him. Running could not put any bit of it behind him. Everywhere he turned masks followed him, vivid and distorted. He ran and ran but couldn’t shake those sounds, those pictures. The scream, birds fluttering, the punch, one guy on top of her, the other holding her down, another punch—he still ducked—blood streaming from a busted lip, a closed eye, purple and swollen, plum-colored nipples, opened legs, the crushed rose, more blood, arms whirling, hands slapping, mad-crazy eyes of the old woman.

  When he thought he would scream or lose his mind, he heard his mother’s voice say, “Still yourself.”

  Thulani slowed to a trot, then a brisk walk, and none too soon. Up ahead he made out the distinct crawl of a blue-and-white in the next block. Spending his days on his rooftop did not make him ignorant of the streets below. He had seen enough to know how to carry himself and was determined to pass without being stopped by cops looking for a suspect.