That summer he followed his older brother onto the roof over the carport where Denny had gone to smoke purloined cigarettes without fear of being caught. He'd climb through the open window and shimmy across the gently sloped peak to light up in the August evenings, the days already closing early, the sun setting one minute sooner each night. Wiley caught him just before Labor Day, the soles of his sneakers framed by the curtains, and through threats and cajolery, he was allowed to join his big brother, but Denny swore he'd kill him if he breathed a word.
Through late summer and into the autumn, they sat on the roof every clear evening after supper. Under the stars, the brothers’ conversations drifted in a desultory way from the fate of the hometown Pirates that season to the petty tyrannies of their father and the depthless mysteries of their mother. Four years older and in high school, Denny controlled the flow of their colloquies, seeking never to ruin the ambience of cigarettes in the blackening evening. He'd blow smoke rings and philosophize on the virtues of the Stones versus the Beatles, Dylan acoustic or electric, and whether Hendrix improved “All Along the Watchtower.” Or the strategies for getting the girls to go all the way—though Wiley understood his brother's monologues to be theoretical rather than experiential. Acolyte on the roof, he was shunned everywhere else by his brother, ignored or picked upon, so that he came to regard these stolen moments together as the only authentic and genuine part of his life. When the subject of politics arose, he listened intently. Denny explained, weeks before the ‘68 election, that while Humphrey might take the North, George Wallace would win enough votes in the South to give the presidency to Nixon. “Crackers will have their day.”
“What do you mean, crackers?”
“White people who don't like Negroes. Didn't you know George Wallace is an old-line segregationist? Ever see those pictures of a firehose blasting a bunch of people, just knocking ‘em over into the street? Doesn't like black folk mixing with whites. I'm not sure our old man wouldn't vote for Wallace, if he knew the union would never find out.”
Wiley considered the possibility for the first time. The notion that his father might have a political life seemed preposterous, but, the more he thought of it, Denny's judgment appeared right. He was, after all, a high school boy.
“You don't think it's a coincidence, do you? That the people trying to change all that, they're shot dead. JFK and Malcolm X and Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy. All shot dead.” He blew a cloud of smoke into the dark sky. “Don't you know the fix is on, man? That the whole scene is rigged?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I'm talking about CIA, man, the Mafia, the FBI. They're watching us all. You don't think it's some whacko with a rifle all by himself, do you? Come right up to the president and bang? No way. You gotta read the real papers, and you'll see. There was more than one gunman at each of those assassinations. All a big conspiracy. Don't you think it's odd that first King, then Kennedy—just when he's on the brink? Keep the black man down, keep the poor man down. Keep the fodder going for Vietnam. Poor boys in body bags.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“Wish I was, partner. Wish I was. Things gotta change, man. You ever hear of the Black Panthers? You thought the riots were bad, wait till the revolution comes.”
“The revolution?”
“When the black man and the poor man and every man who has been beaten down will rise up. Going to be wild, and you don't want to be on the wrong side of that war, let me tell you.” Tossing the lit cigarette over the side, Denny watched the glowing ember sink into the neighbor's yard. “Tell you what, though. If you're going to wake the tiger, you better find yourself a long stick.”
A kind of anger raced through his limbs, and he felt emboldened by the sudden thrill of this new sensation. At eleven years old, Wiley began planning for the revolution.
6
Nose to nose with the stolen car, the police cruiser glistened, and a Virginia Commonwealth trooper stood, his booted foot resting on their bumper, as he scanned the woods and deserted country road for some sign of the driver. Blinking, Wiley emerged from between the pines and with one hand waved a friendly hello as he fastened his belt buckle with the other. The policeman did not return his greeting but scrutinized the boy as he climbed the sloping ditch, stopping at the top to pull his long hair into a ponytail and square his shoulders. “Looks like you caught us,” Wiley said.
“This here your car?” He dropped his foot and removed his stiff-brimmed hat, revealing a docked circle in his crewcut hair. Not much older than Wiley, he looked puzzled by the circumstance.
“We had to take a break. Call of nature.” Beneath Wiley's feet, the carpet of pine needles felt soft and slippery through his old sneakers. He began to wonder if the policeman had already searched the Pinto. “Sure, this is my car. Well, my brother's actually. Listen, I'm with my sister. She was desperate. Isn't against the law to use the bathroom, is it?”