The Summer We Came to Life

Chapter

29





(Not in the Transcript)

October 21, 1967, Stop the Draft Week March on the Pentagon. Lynette wore a red tunic over red pants. She stood at the edge of the reflecting pool in front of the Lincoln Memorial, a few steps apart from Cornell and his two friends from Howard—Joyce and Teddy. People milled about around them now that the speeches had ended. They were about to march across the Memorial Bridge to the Pentagon. Lynette took Cornell’s hand while he joked about happenings from school, all stories she didn’t know. Lynette kept trying to peek at Joyce, at her impossibly perfect Afro, her cool earrings, and her striking cheekbones. But each time she sneaked a glance, Joyce, without so much as taking a breath from her flirty banter with the boys, flicked her eyes over to Lynette’s and sent a jolt of ferocity straight down to Lynette’s boots.

Though not a single identifiable harsh word had been spoken to Lynette, she knew they hated her. Cornell only reinforced this impression by not including her. Lynette looked around to distract herself. There weren’t many other Afro-Americans, she noticed. This was explained two seconds later when Cornell apologized for insisting on this rally instead of others close to Howard. Joyce and Teddy looked around, too. They were wired and fidgety.

“Whatever, man. You know? How else you gonna storm the goddamned Pentagon, man, and not get shot by the pigs, but with a bunch of white people, right?” Teddy said with a thin laugh like greasy water.

Cornell laughed. “You know it, brother.” But when his eyes caught Lynette’s, they held an apology and something else Lynette hesitated to identify. Sadness? Lynette started to dread the next time they would be alone.

“So, then let’s go, my brothers,” Joyce said, and snapped her fingers. She strutted off in front of them, wagging her perfect ass. Lynette was definitely jealous. And Lynette Allison had had few occasions for female jealousy in her past. And she certainly hadn’t ever been the shy, quiet type. What was her problem? Why was she so intimidated?

It took them over an hour to walk the two miles across the bridge and down the service road to the Pentagon. The whole time, Lynette tried desperately to relate to Joyce, to the point that she could tell Cornell was embarrassed. Lynette almost wanted to cry. Why was it so freaking difficult? It seemed like everything that came out of her mouth was wrong. Somehow colonial or imperialistic or typical or just plain naive. And Joyce was smart as hell, witty and armed at the teeth. Cornell walked silently beside Lynette and squeezed her hand behind their backs in support. Or warning. She couldn’t tell. She found it distracting, though, as she tried to follow Joyce’s discursive comments about oppression in Third World countries. All the other people around them, mostly young teenagers and college students, were in a festive, charged mood. Multicolored signs for peace bobbed above their heads like a fruit basket spilled down a river. People bumped into them from every side, but few tried to talk to them. One look at the foursome could ascertain the vibe, Lynette decided.

Just as Lynette felt a third blister form on her heel, they reached the Pentagon. They weren’t at the front of the pack, so they pushed along with the accelerating herd past the parking lot entrance to the front of the building.

Then, from one second to the next, it was chaos. People pushed and shoved and shouted in every direction.

“Watch it!” Joyce snapped at anyone who would listen.

Lynette was dumbfounded. For a second, she tried to take it all in—the noise, the heat of the bodies, the faces blurring past.

“Lynette,” Cornell said in her ear. “Lynette, hold on to me.”

Lynette looked back. Cornell caught her eye and smiled, licked his lips like he always did when he was nervous. He tugged on her hand and guided her past two guys arguing about how to best break through the ropes and ranks of soldiers. Then Lynette heard panicked screams and curses fly through the air. Kids were trying to scramble past the soldiers standing guard. She looked around frantically for Joyce and Teddy but couldn’t see past the wall of immediate faces. She was getting pushed from every direction. Then a hippie guy with bushy sideburns ran past Lynette on her left, knocking her hand out of Cornell’s grip. She fell backward onto a guy who said, “Keep going. You can do it, doll,” and shoved her forward. She struggled to stay upright and jumped up to see if she could spot Cornell. She saw him being swept away into a section of people trying to storm a side door. Lynette screamed his name so loud the girl next to her said “Ouch!” and cupped her ear. Lynette’s eyes burned so bad she could barely keep them open (was that tear gas? My God), as she continued to push against the current of bodies. People trampled over her feet and Lynette tripped and went down again. A kid in a poncho pulled her to her feet. Lynette could make out a new sound now—a dull thumping sound, followed by cries of pain. The police were beating people. Their victims screamed and cursed and whimpered. Somebody started singing, “‘O Beautiful for spacious skies—’”

Dammit, Lynette realized, this is not working. She thrust her arms in front of her and started screaming. “Move! Get out of my way. F*ck off!” She plowed into the crowd sideways and worked her way to the front lines. It was like walking into an anthill. As an ant. Teeming masses of frantic people clutched at Lynette’s clothes and hair.

“Cornell. Cornell!” she screamed again and again. Many people fell to the ground after being beaten back. As Lynette tried to see over the shoulders of the guys in front of her, something lunged at her shins from the ground.

Cornell crawled out from the forest of legs and collapsed on Lynette’s shoes. His head was bleeding. Red rivulets ran down his face and onto the ground.

“Oh my God!” Lynette yelped and bent over, nearly getting plowed down in the process. “Cornell, stand up! Get up. Come on, baby. Now!” Cornell was in a daze. He couldn’t make eye contact. Lynette was afraid he had a concussion or worse. She pulled on his shirt. He didn’t move, just wrapped his arms tighter around her legs while people trampled over his body.

“Help me!” Lynette said to the biggest guy nearby. “Help me get him up!”

The guy turned and looked down on Cornell. He sported a buzz cut and a skeptical look. “Whatcha ’spect me to do, ma’am?”

Oh shit, Lynette thought, a Southern Marine. “He’s my friend. Just a friend. But we gotta help him, right?”

The guy looked into Lynette’s eyes and smiled as he strong-armed a clear circle around Cornell. He hoisted him onto his shoulder and carried him through the crowd away from the Pentagon. He dumped Cornell on the outskirts of the mob and saluted Lynette. Then he disappeared.

Cornell seemed to be coming around. He touched his hand to his head and then looked at it. She thought he might pass out. Lynette almost smiled. Cornell was such a baby about blood. It was why his dad had settled for his son becoming a lawyer instead of a doctor. Lynette sat down behind Cornell to prop him up in her arms, and reached into his pants’ pocket for the handkerchief he always carried.

As she raised the cloth to his head, he caught her wrist. “You know why they hit me, right?”

Lynette looked into his eyes. They were perfectly clear now, shimmering like fireballs. “Shh, baby, rest a second and then we’re going to the hospital,” Lynette said, and pressed the cloth to his wound.

Cornell winced. Then he caught her eyes again. “They hit me because I’m colored.” A tear very slowly wound its way down Cornell’s bloody cheek. “I wasn’t trying to do nothing bad. They hit me because of my skin.”

Long before the tear reached his chin, two twin tears sprang up in Lynette’s sky-blue eyes. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t know if it was true. She didn’t know what to say if it was true. What she did know was that her best friend, the man she loved, believed that it was. Lynette kissed Cornell three times along the trail of his tear. She tasted the blood on her lips, which made her tears run stronger. Sweat, blood and tears. We’re made of exactly the same stuff, Lynette thought. Why does it have to be this hard? She put her arms securely around Cornell’s shoulders and pulled him into her chest. His head rested on her collarbone and she put her chin on the back of his head, careful not to get too close to the wound.

“At least you always wear red,” Cornell said as he lifted his head up to show her the blood on her tunic.

“Yuck,” Lynette said, but she laughed gratefully. He put his head back on her chest and Lynette looked at the people and police milling about. Most of the protesters were crossing back over the bridge, retreating.

“I love you, Cornell. For the rest of my life. Summers, winters, chaos or calm. I’ll love you no matter what this crazy world thinks. Or does. I will love you no matter what’s ahead of us.”