Every Time a Rainbow Dies Read Online Free PDF Page A

the feel of his hair, the licorice chew stick in his mouth, the clomp-ca-lomp of his work boots, and his singing as he worked, became clear.
    When they first came to Brooklyn, Auntie Desna, who was not a relation but a woman from Mommy’s village, took them into her home on Bedford Avenue. In those early days Thulani stayed posted at the door, watching for those work boots to ca-lomp through the door. Either Mommy led him away from the door and said, “Daddy will follow,” or Truman would hit him for behaving like a baby.
    That summer Auntie Desna told them about the West Indian Day Parade. She promised them a good time, saying the parade “will bring you back home.” When Thulani saw and heard the familiar things, the men on stilts, the steel drums, the reggae, the dancers in mas, he was sure Daddy would come to him, as he always had, out of the green hills. Year after year Thulani searched the crowd to see if Daddy was out there, caught in the pushing and dancing. Many a time he tore himself from his mother or from Truman to go running after some dread-locked man, only to be disappointed. The last time he ranafter a stranger, Mommy grabbed him and shook him and said firmly—for she never meant to repeat herself—“I begged Daddy to come, but he wouldn’t leave. Once Daddy stuck in his safe place, he’ll not budge.”
    Daddy had sent money from time to time and occasionally a card for birthdays. He had even sent Thulani toy animals that he carved from scraps of wood. But Thulani could not remember the last time he had actually spoken to his father. And that was what he wanted. To hear his father’s voice.
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    Thulani looked down on the madness, determined to stay above it. The two times that he felt compelled to come down were both because of her, and he would never be so compelled again. Not after she had run from him when all he wanted was to…
    He wasn’t sure.
    He tried to let the girl go. Stop thinking about her. But everything about her opened questions in his mind. What could he do? Nothing. Not even if she went through life thinking he was someone she had to run from.
    He couldn’t blame her. He had followed her that Wednesday. He had paced his distance so he could enjoy the sway of her hips as she walked down the street. He had hidden himself in the church so he could watch her pray. When he worked up the courage to tapher and speak, she had caught him.
    He thought of writing her a letter to explain. Apologize. He thought if she read his words, she could hear his voice and know that he meant her no harm. It would be a deep letter. He would compose his thoughts. Find something that would reach her. Put her at ease, if that was possible. Then he would write neatly. Stick the letter in her mailbox and walk away.
    This sounded good until he realized that he did not know her name or where to begin. In his head he said,
    Girl,
    Dear Girl,
    Dear Girl Who Was Raped,
    I’m the one who helped you that night.
    I’m the one who you hit.
    I’m the one who followed you.
    No. Not a letter. He had to talk to her. Let her look into his eyes. See that he didn’t mean to frighten her. More important, he had to see himself in her eyes and know she didn’t think the worst of him.
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    â€œBird bwai!”
    It was Shakira. In his room, at his window, trespassing on his peace.
    â€œThulani, don’t make me come up there.”
    He sighed, feeling the weight of her on him. If she later complained of aches from the stair climbing, he wouldn’t hear the end of it from Truman. Before he could get up to answer her, she was standing in the doorway that led to the roof, her arms folded over her belly.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œTake down my table.”
    â€œDown where? In that?” He meant the carnival mob. “Not me.”
    â€œI’ve been working all summer on my tings,” she whined, a sure sign that she would tell Truman. “I