“Uh-uh, uh-uh,” Granny said, and hefted herself off toward her room.
I’d spent the morning frying chicken. It waited on the table, on a platter, under cloth. When I saw the dust cloud, I pulled the potato salad from the icebox and started slicing the bread. I fired up the oven to warm the crumble.
The cars slithered through the avocado trees like a slick black snake. Three cars.
Engines cut. Doors popped open like the snake had grown legs. Fourteen men emerged, stretching their limbs.
I’d expected them to be men, I guess, but they were boys, mostly. Not much older than me. A couple looked downright scrawny.
They carried sacks of things, loose totes stuffed with perhaps a few clothes each. Some cradled armfuls of worn-looking books. I counted five canvas duffel bags bulging with guns. One guy bent into the trunk and came up with an armload of paper grocery sacks. I opened the kitchen screen door.
“I’ve brought the groceries,” he said, with a spreading, tilted grin. He was taller than me, but not by much. He wore a jaunty, rough-sewn cap of olive green. His eyes were dark and alive with energy. They seemed to smile even more than his mouth did. “Where would you like them, miss?”
My cheeks warmed. “I’m Sandy.”
“Where would you like them, Miss Sandy?” He was teasing me now.
My mouth twitched open ’cause it couldn’t help itself. I hoped my teeth looked as clean and strong as his.
“Right here on the counter is fine.”
He hefted the sacks into place. “All right, then.” He brushed his hands off on his pants. “I’m Bobby.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. That’s what you were supposed to say, I thought. It had been a right long while since I’d met anyone for the first time. Everyone around town had been here for years.
It was strange to be alone with a boy in the kitchen. He looked around like he was seeing something special. I guess it was all new to him, the way he was new to me. He glanced at the stove, then me. The icebox, then me. The sink and counter and the bags he’d laid down, and me.
Finally he said, “Uh, well, those are the groceries, then.”
“Where?” I said, ’cause I felt like being funny. I’m not usually funny, at least outside of my head.
He smiled again. Teeth and lips and a tongue that darted out for a quick teasing second.
“Yo, Bobby,” someone called. “We’re going out back.”
“See you,” he said.
“Tell them there’s lunch. When you want it.” I wanted him to turn around. And he did.
“Sure thing.” He pounded the door frame as he slid away. “Smells right good in here too.”
As I moved to unpack the groceries, I felt wide awake and sort of tingly. Across my chest and down my legs, a blush over my whole body. I waited for it to go away, but it didn’t.
4.
The Panthers gathered around our dining table. Laughing and chattering, clinking silverware against dishes, lip-smacking and groaning about my home cooking.
We didn’t have fifteen chairs, so some of them stood. Others sat along the baseboards, balancing plates on their knees. I guess I should have dusted down there. Daddy sat at the head of the table. I lingered in the doorway. Granny stayed in the living room, rocking in her chair, arms crossed in a huff. You could hear it in the rhythm of the runners on the floor: These young’uns. They don’t know.
The guys fell into companionable silence, finger-licking the chicken from its bones. The calm became something almost spiritual. When they were done, one by one, they resumed laughing and chatting and the room came alive again.
For the first time, I noticed how quiet our house is, most of the time. Dinner is usually a quiet, grunting affair, where Daddy swiftly shovels food into his mouth before retreating to the barn for the evening. And there is always something left over, which is what Granny and I eat for lunch the next day.
The Panthers scraped the plates clean.
5.
Watching through the hinges on the open barn door, I could stand in shadows and no one would see me. Oil lamplight washed over their faces, drawing them glowing then dark.
Torry read pages out loud from a book called The Wretched of the Earth. He folded the book and asked the group, “So what does Fanon mean when he talks about exploitation?”
“He’s talking about how we used to be slaves, and even though people say we got free, we’re still trapped.”
“Things are supposed to be different now, but the system’s still stacked against us.”
“How so?” Torry asked. He had a certain kind of voice on, like a teacher in the classroom. He knew the answer, but he wanted someone else to say.
“Guys like us do all the work but get paid very little,” said El. “Meanwhile those rich white guys sit back and reap most of the profits.”
“We can work full-time, or two jobs, even, and still barely be able to make rent, or keep the heat on, or keep the pantry full.”