Summer of Smoke: A Thing of Beauty I

Summer of Smoke

A Thing of Beauty I

Edward Bloor

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 by Edward Bloor.

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction set against a backdrop of real events. Any similarities between the characters and real people are unintended and coincidental.

Prologue

I did two brave things as a teenager, and here they are: (1) I attended Central High, a mostly black school, in Trenton, New Jersey, for two days; (2) I played on the freshman soccer team at Holy Spirit High.

I include Holy Spirit because we were a white, suburban team playing in a black city at a time when black cities were about to explode. New York and Los Angeles had exploded in 1964 and 1965; Detroit and Newark followed in 1966 and 1967, all leading up to 1968, the summer of smoke. That was the period after Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated; when all hell broke loose across the United States. Over one hundred twenty-five cities were ripped apart by rioting, arson, and murder. Local police forces were overwhelmed. United States military forces were called in to shoot and kill our own citizens in a desperate effort to regain control.

In Trenton, New Jersey, the downtown businesses were broken into, looted, and destroyed. The white business owners, almost without exception, closed up shop. They cashed their insurance checks and fled to the suburbs, never to return.

In an astonishingly short period of time, Trenton disappeared as a significant American city. The city where Washington crossed the Delaware and turned the tide of the Revolution in 1776; the city that served as the nation’s capital in 1784 and 1799; the city where great industries had flourished—especially the American pottery industry—was reduced to a burned-out shell. Only a few government buildings remained, with only a handful of stores and restaurants open to serve government workers at lunchtime. Otherwise, Trenton was reduced to being a state capital without a single hotel, or a single movie theatre, or a single industry.

This is the story of what happened to me, and to my family, and to my friends in Trenton, New Jersey, in 1968.

In my fourteenth year.

In the summer of smoke.

CHAPTER 1

I’ll start with one day. In fact, I’ll start with one hour of one day, because it was so tumultuous. It was Monday, September 4, 1967. Labor Day. The end of summer vacation. The day had dawned with a misty rain, so Danny Felice and I were killing time, playing a board game called The Game of Life.

Danny was a small, wiry boy. He had his mother’s thin face and nose, as well as her sunny disposition. People were attracted to him. His father, on the other hand, was short and stocky and really mean. People were scared of him, with good reason.

I was thin then, too, but not small. My mom always said I look like my dad before he got sick. My dad was of English descent, going back several generations, which is something he was proud of.

Danny and I were idling on the wooden porch of our house on Garfield Avenue, my new home in the city. I remember Danny looking out at the street and commenting, I wish I could live in Trenton.

That surprised me, since I had hated the idea of moving there. My whole family had. I answered, I don’t. I want to go back to Nottingham.

Danny spun the game dial lazily and moved his piece. So why don’t you?

Why don’t I? Uh, let’s see: My father lost his job? He had a heart attack? We couldn’t pay our mortgage? Should I go on?

No. Sorry. None of my business. But why don’t you like it here?

It’s…Well, it’s a black city.

So what?

So what? Have you ever lived in a black city?

Danny shrugged. No.

Do you know any black people?

He looked at me. Yeah. Two or three.

That surprised me. I answered, I only know one—Mr. Jefferson. He’s the guy who did the shipping and receiving at the store. Until last week.

At your parents’ store?

Yeah. I guess it’s my parents’ store now. I always called him ‘Mr. Jefferson,’ and he always called me ‘young Mr. Porter.’

That’s weird.

Is it? I just figured that’s how black people talk.

Danny picked up his game piece, a little red car, and popped it into his mouth. If it had been anyone else, I would have thought that unusual. He popped it back out, wiped it on his shirt, and tossed it into the box, announcing, That’s it. Game’s over.

It is?

Yeah. I’m bored.

Okay. Who won?

Nobody! Everybody lost. He pointed to the game pieces. Do you see these little plastic people? They’re all dead. It’s tragic really. He folded the board so that the pieces and playing cards all slid into the center; then he dumped them into the box. "That’s how The Game of Life ends, James, with everybody dead."

I retrieved my car from the box and started pulling out the little plastic pieces, suggesting, Let’s put these back right so—

Danny interrupted me, finishing my sentence. So the next players won’t have to!

I frowned, at myself; at my own goody-goodyness. Yeah. That’s right.

Danny shook his head. Look at you, James! You’re such a good guy. A good little blue guy, with a little green car, and a little pink wife, and a blue son, and a pink daughter. God!

So? What’s wrong with that?

Please. Everything? Come on. Is that what you really want?

Yes.

Danny stared at me in wonder. Then, reluctantly, he helped me sort out the pieces. He held up the red car. I’m never going to have a car. Ever. They pollute the planet. And why do I have to have this little plastic wife and these little plastic kids? I’m never going to have a wife and kids. They overpopulate the planet.

You’re not?

No.

How do you know that?

I know because I don’t want them. He held up his own little stick figure. "Why do I even have to have a me?"

Huh?

"Why do I have to play this game at all? I never asked to be here. My parents engaged in some sex act, and produced me, and now they’re yelling at me like it’s my fault! Like I’m not playing the game right. A game that I never wanted to play in the first place!"

I think you might be taking this a little too seriously. Maybe we should play something else. How about backgammon?

Danny’s nose crinkled. No. What else do you have?

Chess?

No.

Parcheesi? Sorry?

No and no again. Board games bore me. Danny hopped up and pointed toward downtown. "It’s stopped raining! Let’s go play some basketball. We could play HORSE. Or DONKEY. Or if that’s too many letters for you, we could play ASS."

No we can’t. There are no baskets around here.

They have a basket behind Haven House, in the courtyard.

I closed up the game box and slid it toward the front door. I asked him. What’s Haven House?

What is it? It’s…like…a refuge.

Yeah? Like a wildlife refuge? Like in Africa?

Kind of. But it’s for humans. Humans who don’t fit in, or who don’t have parents, or who are in trouble of some kind.

Is it a Catholic place?

Sort of. It was founded by a priest, but it’s light on religion. It’s more of a safe house.

I pointed at my front door. This is a safe house, too. Let’s just stay here. I stood to go inside, but Danny went the other way, stepping off the porch and out into the street. I held out my hands, puzzled. What are you doing?

Danny took off walking. He called, Come on, James! Get to know your city a little.

Against my better judgment, I jumped off the porch and fell in step beside him. We took a right on Greenwood Avenue, heading toward downtown. Danny said, I like cities because they’re large. They’re…cosmopolitan. People are more accepting of others.

I replied, Are you kidding? Not this city!

The words were barely out of my mouth when a long red car rolled up next to us with its radio blaring. Suddenly, the driver hit the brakes, the front and back doors on the right side flew open, and two teenage Italian guys hopped out. They were dressed alike in sleeveless white shirts, what everybody called guinea-tees. One guy stood in front of us, blocking our path, while the other one cut off our escape from behind.

The one in front called to the one in the rear, I think we found ourselves a couple of homos here. The red car, which I could now see was a Cadillac, crept forward. There was a younger, chubbier guy at the wheel. He had on a gray Central High t-shirt. He was glancing into the rearview mirror. The front guy leaned closer to me and demanded to know, Am I right? We found some homos here, didn’t we? He threw up his hands, causing me to flinch. Or did you boys want to fight? He leaned even closer, and cocked his ear. No? What’s that you say? No? Because homos won’t fight?

I was frozen in fear, but Danny responded calmly. Actually, that’s not true. Mohammad Ali is refusing to fight in Vietnam, and he’s no homo. Here he’s the greatest fighter in the world, and he's refusing to fight. Danny then stepped left, into the street, and stared down at the car’s rear license plate. He called over to me as if he were dictating a list, Red Cadillac de Ville. New Jersey license plate ATS One Thirty.

The guy in front abandoned me and confronted Danny. Oh yeah. Yeah! We got a definite homo over here!

But the one at the wheel interrupted him nervously. Hey! They got my license number!

Yeah? So what?

So this is my old man’s car. I’m not even supposed to be out in it. I can’t be getting into trouble with the cops.

The front guy pulled back his right arm and held it there, poised to throw a punch. Then he started it forward, stopping just an inch from Danny’s nose, but Danny never flinched. He didn’t even blink. It was like he was looking somewhere else.

The driver yelled, Come on, man! Forget them! I’m holding up traffic!

The front guy, frustrated now, took two steps back. He spat a long wad of saliva that landed between my black Converse sneakers; then he spat the words: Yeah. Forget you! He and the other guy dove into the open doors of the Cadillac. As soon as the doors slammed, they all sped away.

Oh my God, Danny! I panted. Let’s get out of here. Let’s run back to my house.

But Danny could not have been calmer. What for? They’re gone now.

Yeah? Well, there’s lots more where they came from.

I know. Chambersburg’s full of them. Danny changed voices and started talking comically, moronically: Yes, I come from da Burg, with my Daddy’s crappy old Cadillac with a little silver curb scraper on the tire, and a little twirly knob on the steering wheel, and a pine tree air freshener hanging on the mirror.

They could be circling around the block right now.

He dismissed that thought with a wave. They could be, but they’re not. Anyway, we’re almost there.

Danny turned right onto Chambers Street, and I hurried along behind him. Almost immediately, I saw two big guys coming toward us on the sidewalk. Two big black guys. And they, too, were looking for trouble.

Danny moved over to give them space to pass, but that didn’t matter. One black guy lowered his shoulder and rammed right into him, knocking Danny backwards and onto the ground. The second guy bumped me hard, his left shoulder driving into mine. It was hard enough to knock me off the sidewalk, but I stayed on my feet. Then the two of them just kept on walking, stopping about ten yards further down next to an old green car.

Danny jumped up and called after them, Excuse me!

The one who had knocked him down opened the driver's side door and growled, Yeah. I’ll excuse you, you little white punk.

Danny dusted himself off, shook his head, and laughed. He acknowledged, "Okay. I see why you might be a little worried about moving into the city. But honest, we’re really almost there now."

We turned away from our attackers and hurried on to our destination—a red brick building with a matching wall running around to the back. A sign over the front door announced, in black cursive letters: Haven House. Danny turned toward Greenwood and commented, matter-of-factly, You know, the kid who bumped you, the taller one, looked like Sidney Poitier.

He did?

"Yeah. His face at least. Do you know who I mean? He was that guy in Lilies of the Field?"

Yeah.

I’ve seen that kid here, at Haven House. I don’t know the other one. He looked a little like him, so they could be brothers. Maybe brothers with a different father? One of those deals?

Uh huh. Can we get inside please?

Oh yeah. Sure.

But before we reached the door, a white-and-black City of Trenton police cruiser pulled up next to us. The cop at the wheel rolled down the window and called, Hey! Aren’t you Danny Felice? Danny nodded nervously. You’re Joe’s kid?

He answered softly, Yes.

What just happened here?

Danny shook his head. Nothing.

Nothing? I saw something. Did you get knocked down by those tootsoons?

Uh no. Not really. We were just messing around, and I fell.

The cop stared at him for a moment in disbelief. Then he grunted, rolled the window up, and pulled away.

Danny seemed to forget about this encounter immediately, too. He turned, pointed at the sign, and stated the obvious. Behold, James: Haven House! He added, It just opened three months ago. It’s a fine place to work and play.

I said, Great. Let’s go in.

But Danny wasn’t finished narrating. He held my arm with one hand and made a flourish with the other, taking in the large building and the wall. It has two floors of rooms—some for meeting; some for sleeping—and a large community room, currently being used for art projects. It also has a basketball court in the back, which is perfect for us, since it’s new, and no one has bent the rim dunking on it.

Danny was about to open the glass door when another City of Trenton police car, with two officers in it, screeched to a halt across the street. This time Danny’s father, Officer Joe Felice, was at the wheel. He rolled down the window and snapped, Danny! James! Get in the goddamn car!

Danny exhaled loudly and whispered, Oh no, but he did obey. He crossed the street and climbed in first, sitting behind his dad’s partner, Officer Don Keffel.

I followed and sat behind Officer Felice. He had his hat off, and I could see his jaw muscles working angrily as he growled into the rearview mirror. I just heard what happened here. You can’t back down to the tootsoons on the street. You understand, boys? We’re gonna go find them now.

Danny pleaded, Why? It was nothing.

Don’t tell me it was nothing. It was an assault.

Well…Isn’t this only going to make it worse?

The car’s radio squawked out some numbers. Then we heard the voice of the first cop who had stopped us. Joe, I got one of them.

Officer Felice snatched the microphone from its holder. Where?

In front of the RKO Lincoln. I’ll hold him here.

We’re on our way.

Officer Felice flipped a switch, and the patrol car’s flashing lights and siren came on. We executed a rapid U-turn and shot down State Street, not stopping for traffic lights; driving other cars to the curb. Officer Felice took the right turn at Warren Street at high speed, causing Danny to slide over into me. Then we screeched to a halt before the double movie theatres--the RKO Lincoln and the RKO Trent.

The two police officers hopped out of the car, while Danny and I remained inside. Danny whispered to me, Let’s make a run for it.

Are you kidding?

No.

"That would not be a good idea."

Danny pointed outside. And this is?

Officer Keffel took up a position to the left of the tall black boy, who looked terrified. Keffel, Danny’s father, and the first cop now had the boy surrounded. Officer Felice demanded to know, What’s your name?

The boy’s eyes flicked from cop to cop to cop. He answered, Raymond Combs, sir.

How do you spell that last name?

C-O-M-B-S.

Officer Keffel, write that down. What’s your address?

Locust Street, sir. Number one eighty-four.

Write that down, too. What are you doing out here, Raymond Combs?

My job, sir. I work—

Officer Felice cut him off. He sounded incredulous. You work? Where?

Here, sir.

You work here? At the RKO Lincoln?

Yes, sir. And the RKO Trent.

Doing what?

I put up the letters on the marquee.

You do? He shot a look at Keffel, who smiled. What else do you do?

I clean up.

Oh, I see. So you’re a janitor.

Yes, sir.

Full time?

No, sir.

I see. You’re a part-time janitor. He turned to the car and pointed at us. Do you recognize those boys?

Raymond Combs answered reluctantly. Yes, sir.

Did you assault one or both of those boys on Chambers Street?

No, sir.

Officer Felice took a step closer. Did you make bodily contact with one or both of them for any reason?

Yes, sir.

What was that reason?

Raymond Combs, stammered, It was…It was just a bump.

Officer Felice looked at his partner and then at the other cop. What? Why would you do that?

It was just a bump to say ‘We are here.’

You are here?

Yes, sir.

What the hell does that mean?

Just that, sir. That’s all I know about it.

What about the guy with you? Does he know more about it?

I think so, sir.

Who was that?

My brother Roebling.

Roebling Combs?

Yes, sir.

Same address?

Yes.

All right. We’re going to ride over there now and talk to him. Maybe he can explain to me more about ‘bump’ and ‘we are here’ and all that.

Officer Felice handcuffed Raymond Combs and led him to the patrol car door. He made him duck his head and sit inside, next to me. We took off, with the lights flashing and the siren wailing, on a short, very uncomfortable ride to Locust Street. Danny, Raymond Combs, and I all sat staring straight ahead, like three crash dummies.

The patrol car slowed to a crawl in front of a row of houses. Number one eighty-four was about halfway up the block. It was two stories high, with a three-step, concrete stoop out front.

Officer Felice left the lights flashing. He jumped out, circled to the back door, and opened it. He walked Raymond over to the stoop, leaving him at street level as he stepped up and rapped on the door. He shouted, Police! After a few seconds, he turned back and asked, Is anybody home?

Raymond shifted uncomfortably. No, sir.

Where is Roebling?

I don’t know, sir.

Where’s your mother?

At work, sir.

Work? Where?

The beauty shop.

And your father?

Don’t know, sir.

You don’t know your father?

Don’t know where he is.

Does he live here?

No.

Officer Felice stepped down and led Raymond back to the open car door. He leaned in and asked Danny and me, Okay. What should we do with him, boys? Cuff his feet, too, and toss him in the river? Danny Felice? What should we do? Danny looked away. Officer Felice tried, How about you, James Porter?

I was frightened, but I did speak up. I think we should let him go, sir. He didn’t mean anything by it.

Officer Felice looked disappointed. He shook his head. He held his hands out to his partner as if to say, ‘What do we do now?’ He unlocked Raymond’s handcuffs and told him, "You take a good look at these two boys. Remember their faces, and their names. That’s Danny Felice, and that’s James Porter. From this day forward, whenever you see them coming down the sidewalk, you are to cross over to the other side of the street.