The Hummingbird War Page 14

  “I don’t care. I want to listen to what people say to each other when they’re tired and anxious and the truth seeps out of their pores. What are their dreams?”

  Matthew sat on the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands. “I don’t know if anyone can understand some else’s dreams. It’s hard enough to understand your own.”

  “But you can’t let that stop you from dreaming,” I said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Wednesday afternoon we ran into Matthew’s friend, Gerry, in Lincoln Park. Matthew spoke with reverence each time he mentioned this man who made things happen with political sleight of hand; one day organizing a protest of thousands, then slipping into obscurity for days, weeks. I was skeptical of his old friends, but when Gerry shook Matthew’s hand, looked him in the eye, and held his breath when he asked if there had been any word about his brother, I knew he was a caring man. Like Rodney. And then he asked if we’d seen Bill and Amelia.

  “Yeah, they showed up pounding on our door Sunday morning,” Matthew said. He ran his hand through his hair, as if he were exasperated all over again just at the thought of them.

  “Bill’s been intoxicated one way or another since he rolled into town,” Gerry said. “And Amelia’s drunk on the power of being the national secretary of the SDS. She say anything to you about the Seattle office?”

  “No, why?” Matthew asked.

  “She told me she’s kicking you out. In her opinion you’re too soft.”

  “Matthew’s the strongest man I know,” I said. I didn’t understand how anyone could not love him, not believe in him.

  “Diane, I think she’s looking for someone who will kick ass the way she wants it done,” Gerry said.

  Matthew held back a laugh. “She’s a violent revolutionary now.”

  “That’s her shtick. That woman seems more pissed off every time I see her.” Gerry pushed his long hair behind his ears, slid his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. “But she seems particularly pissed off at you, Matt. Such a shiksa.” He looked at me and said, “Watch out for her.”

  “Got to get down to Grant Park. Come by this meeting later tonight and we’ll talk,” Gerry handed Matthew a folded piece of paper. “You know, Matt, we’re organizing an office in D.C. to help families of POWs and MIAs. I think you’d be a good choice to head it up. Think about it.” He gave us the peace sign as he turned and folded into the dusty blur of people.

  “You can’t leave the SDS,” I said. My eyes were wide with fear, but Matthew’s response was somewhere between a smirk and a frown.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  He pulled me through the crowd, and I jogged to keep up with him.

  “You’re not going to quit, are you? Or let her fire you?”

  “She can’t fire me. And I won’t quit.” He took my hand and squeezed it. “But you might have to do a lot of the work I used to do.”

  “By myself? I’m not sure I can.”

  “I know you can. We’re partners, remember?” he said. “Come on, it’s time to get to Grant Park.”

  “Finally.”

  We trudged along block after block up Michigan Avenue, and the park came into view after we crossed the bridge at the Chicago River. Grant Park was bounded on the south end by the Field Museum of Natural History and on the east by the great lake, just like in the tourist guides I’d memorized. The granite face of the business center to the west peered down on us, a rock-hard fortress of intractability.

  We passed a sign for a street named Washington. Then Madison, Monroe, and Adams. Picking our way through drifting people, we stepped sideways and backwards like a folk dance. Commotion from the south end of the street grew louder as instability was kicked up by thousands of tired feet. It pulsed through the crowds who swayed backwards and pushed forwards like a sea surge. It was in the smell of the bitter, metallic trace of tear gas in the air and the tinge of sweat brought by fear that should have been foreign to such pleasant places as parks and lakes. Two blocks away, the elevated train rumbled past, grimy windows filled with apprehensive faces flickering in the theatre of a narrow, filthy alley. The streetlights came on, and the weighty air crackled overhead like the sky before a thunderstorm.

  When the foot traffic on the avenue grew impenetrable, we wove our way into the park through breaks in the crowd. A few blocks south of us, rows upon rows of policemen spanned the width of Michigan Avenue in front of the Hilton Hotel, its name brightly lit as if it were the spark ready to ignite the powder keg. “Matthew,” I tugged on his shirt and pointed in the direction of the formation. “Look at that.”

  “Let’s stay as far away from them as we can,” he said, grabbing my hand.

  “But where are we going?”

  “To find the news people. Look for cameramen and guys with microphones. Vans from NBC or CBS.”

  “You want to tell them about the movement, don’t you? It’s a way to get the word to the people who couldn’t be here.” I waited, but he didn’t answer me or even nod his head in agreement. “Isn’t that why you want to find the television reporters?” I couldn’t catch a full breath of the muggy night as I ran to keep up with his longer steps.

  But I knew he was thinking about his brother. The day he’d come back from his trip at the beginning of the month and had seemed so distant, he must have come to the realization that he had to take drastic means to save his brother’s life. He couldn’t seem to forgive himself for his capture, as if he were to blame and wouldn’t stop trying to find him, even if he had to go to the moon to rescue him. But I’d done it, too. I’d felt an inexplicable sense of guilt for surviving when Bobby had died.

  “I want to get the word about Maxwell out to the biggest audience we can,” he said.

  From behind us screams filled the air.

  “What’s happening?” I asked, trying to stand on my tiptoes to peer over the crowd.

  He turned around. “Don’t let go of my hand. We’ll work our way to the other end of the park.”

  The sound of something like a gunshot echoed from above, and the vinegary stench of teargas rained down on us. “But I thought we came here to support the protest. Do you want to run away because it’s a little dangerous?”

  He pulled on my arm. “It’s not just a little dangerous. I can’t let you get hurt.”

  “But the movement. How will we…get people to listen if…we don’t speak up?” I asked, coughing between painful breaths.

  He stopped and turned to face me. “Damn the movement. I’m not here to start another war.”

  I flinched at the unfamiliar sound of his anger, but he held my hand tighter as the beating of my heart became louder than the uproar bearing down on us.

  “Getting beaten in a riot won’t solve…anything…find a reporter.” His voice was hoarse, his eyes red. “Get the word out about Max. People around the world…are watching tonight. The North Vietnamese government…watching… my chance.” The crowd behind us was moving with a force like water over a broken dam. There was no choice but to move north, back towards were we’d come from.

  I looked behind us. Police with helmets and face masks and shields were lifting their sticks in the air and bringing them down on the people in their path. “My God, the police are beating those people,” I shouted. I remembered Rodney calling Mayor Daley the devil — the devil who’d set his own backyard on fire with hate.

  “Let’s get the hell away…you think getting your head split open…help end the war?” His face dripped sweat.

  I turned to look back at the scene unfolding behind us, and Matthew pulled me forward again. People were pushing and shoving, some tripping and falling to the ground. Women screamed and men cursed, a trail of filthy shoes, torn pieces of clothing, a snowstorm of dirty papers marked our route. A chant had begun in the distance and was getting louder, moving like a Chinese dragon above the crowd. I slowed down to listen: the whole world is watching.

  A woman with a protest sign ran towards us, exploding through the crowd. T
he whole world is watching. She stopped and ripped the flimsy sign off its wooden spike and lifted the bare stake high over her head. I thought it seemed odd to hold a piece of wood like that, so still and deliberate when she should be running away. I rubbed at my burning eyes. The whole world is watching. Her long, white-blonde hair fell across her face in what looked like ribbons through my tears, but her pale eyes glinted blue, glacial ice. It was Amelia holding the thick, wooden stake. Amelia who’d called me a little girl. Amelia drunk on the power of her SDS position. Amelia who couldn’t forgive Matthew for not wanting her.

  The crowd parted as she lunged and swung the stake down towards us. The air passed overhead like the swoop of a hawk as Matthew pulled me under him and covered me with his arms. She raised the piece of wood again, and a shock like a hammer splitting wood rattled my bones. Matthew fell to the ground, taking me with him. The chanting mob thundered above us.

  When I looked up she was gone. “What happened?”I asked Matthew.

  Blood ran from the top of his head and soaked his hair. He didn’t respond when I shook him by the shoulder.

  “Come on, stand up. I’ll help you,” I shouted. But he didn’t move or open his eyes and blood covered my hands, my clothes. Faceless bodies passed us in a blur of legs and arms, shouts and screams. They pushed by us and tripped on him, swore at us for getting in their way. I stood up, my feet straddling his body to protect him, and reached out towards people who were moving past us. “Help me. He’s hurt.” I swung my arms, tried to force them to stop, but they swerved and countered and made it past us without looking back. Panic rose inside me like water filling my lungs.

  Two tall black men moved towards us, and I was about to pull in my shoulders like a defeated crab to let them pass when I saw the crossed guns on their belts. Like the one I had seen on Rodney: the man who had scared me to death, the man I was told I could trust with my life.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, “Do you know Superman?” They slowed down and looked at me. “Superman?” I shouted again.

  One of them stopped and grabbed the other by the arm.

  “What you talkin’ ‘bout, woman?” one of them asked.

  “Rodney Jefferson. Do you know him?”

  “Yeah, I know him. How you know that dude?”

  “He’s our friend.”

  “Your friend? You lyin’.”

  “We know him,” I stood up and reached out for his arm, my feet unsteady as if I were on a moving boat. I couldn’t let them know how scared I was. “I know about his brother.”

  “What about his brother?” He put his hands on his hips. People swerved around him.

  “Tyrone Jefferson. He died in Vietnam. He was Special Forces.” My words came faster and faster, riding an electrical current of lucid thought.

  The two men looked at each other and then looked back at the advancing line of police. “What you want?”

  “Help me get him to a hospital.”

  “How’d it happen?” One of them asked as they bent down to grab Matthew under his arms. “The cops ain’t even got this far.”

  “One of the protestors hit him.”

  “Shit. That ain’t right.”

  The two men lifted Matthew to his feet, and the taller one stooped down and heaved him onto his shoulder. One pushed through the crowd while the other carried Matthew and I followed. When we got to a wide avenue the crowd thinned, and I spotted a reporter speaking into a microphone with an NBC emblem while a cameraman filmed him. He was wearing a jacket and tie and a pair of plaid Bermuda shorts the viewers would never see.

  “Come with me,” I said, grabbing the man who was carrying Matthew by the arm. I pushed past a sawhorse barricade, tripping over thick cables. “I need…your help,” I said to the reporter. I was panting and sweat had glued my hair to the sides of my face.

  “We’re in the middle of filming here,” he said, motioning to the cameraman with his finger across his throat. “What the hell makes you think…?”

  “This is more important.” I stared into his eyes. I’d never stared down anyone before, but if I made him uncomfortable or angry, I didn’t care.

  “Says you.” He looked at me as if I were crazy.

  “Listen. I will give you the best story of the night if you give us a ride.” I pointed at the van behind him as I plowed through my mind to find a reason why this man should care about anything I had to say.

  “What makes you think you’ve got any story I want? Some beaten up protestor? They’re a dime a dozen, lady. Look around.”

  “He’s General Bluestone’s son.”

  “You are nuts,” he said, turning his head to look in the other direction for a better, a real story. He started to walk away, motioning to his cameraman to follow him.

  I ran after him, grabbed his arm, and waved at the two men to follow me. “No. I can prove it.” I motioned to the man carrying Matthew to lay him on the ground, and I pushed my hand into Matthew’s pocket and pulled out his wallet. “Look, here’s his ID.” I pushed the driver’s license in his face.

  He looked at the license and shook his head. “So what. Just because he’s got the same last name doesn’t mean he’s related to the general.”

  I reached into his pocket again and pulled out his gold pen. “Would he carry this around if he weren’t the general’s son?” I showed him the pen with the engraved inscription.

  “Maybe he is, but how do I know I’ll get a good story?” he asked.

  “You have my word. Please give us a ride to the hospital.” I kept my eyes on his, never flinching, even though I thought I might crack a filling if I clenched my jaw any tighter.

  “What’s this guy to you, anyway?” the reporter asked.

  I hesitated. I didn’t know how to explain to someone what he meant to me. I reached down and wiped the blood away from his eyes. “We’re partners,” I answered. Matthew’s skin was cold and pale. Someone had dropped a large American flag on the ground, and people were walking on it. I picked it up and wrapped it around Matthew’s shoulders.

  “Partner? I guess nobody gets married anymore do they? Okay, put him in the back of the van, and we’ll take him to Northwestern Hospital. Maybe half a mile that way. And don’t even think about running away on me, lady. You owe me your story.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “On three. One, two, three.” The nurses lifted Matthew out of the van with the precision of Motown choreography and laid him on a gurney. I followed on their heels, holding the crumpled flag tight to my chest, the sliding doors whooshing closed behind us. The pressure in my heart pounded against my eardrums, beating out the passing seconds. Hurry up. Hurry up. Hurry up.

  I ran up alongside the gurney and grabbed Matthew’s hand.

  The doctor shouted, “Broken nose, laceration of the scalp, possible subdural hematoma. Need someone to suture. Let’s have a tetanus shot ready. Who’s on call in neurology? Lady, you’ve got to leave now.” They wheeled him inside a room full of bright lights and mysterious machines, and the swinging doors closed, sweeping the air out of my lungs.

  I was powerless, in a vacuum between the scary world of the dark city streets and the more terrifying scene in the luminous emergency room. I hadn’t been anywhere near a hospital since my mother died, but I still remembered the unsettling odor of disinfectant in the air, the whisper of the nurses’ soft-soled shoes as they ran down the corridor on that night fourteen years ago.

  My father had left me alone in the waiting room. Instead of being at her side to say good bye, I’d fallen asleep on a wooden bench, a creased and worn copy of Black Beauty for my pillow. I had woken to a dawn the color of bruises, still dreaming of the old horse who would take me to a place where I could be whole again. But, Black Beauty never came for me. Instead my father stood before me, his pain even darker than my own. I covered my ears when he tried to tell me she was gone.

  I walked towards the emergency room doors, fighting the wash of the memory of my mother’s death across m
y heart, and saw the news van at the curb. The reporter was still standing just outside the door waiting for me to give him his story, the last thing I wanted to do. The automatic doors opened, and I walked back into the stifling, warm night, swallowed the air as thick as oil. My arms and legs ached. I looked down at the dried blood on my shirt, the dark red stains under my fingernails. The distant sounds of police warnings dispersed through megaphones drifted across the city like retreating thunder.

  “I owe you, don’t I?” I croaked with my spent voice. “What happened to the two men who came with us from the park?”

  “Those guys took off after they wheeled Bluestone inside,” the reporter said without looking up, reading the notes he held in his hand.

  “I never got a chance to thank them.”

  “Well, you’ve got your chance to thank me. Coffee?” He passed me a paper cup. “He okay?” he asked, nodding towards the hospital doors.

  “He has to be,” I said, and took the hot cup from him just to feel the warmth in my fingers. The night was balmy, but my hands felt like ice.

  “You’re going to give me the interview you promised. And it better be good. I want to talk to Bluestone, too.”

  “He’ll talk to you…later.” I couldn’t let myself think for a second he wouldn’t be all right. “I can tell you why we came here.”

  “Let’s get the camera going. By the way, this isn’t live. We have no feed, but it’ll make the news by 6 tomorrow morning. That is, if it’s good. What’s your name? Where are you from?”

  “My name is Diane Hayes. We’re from the University of Washington SDS office.” I’d never spoken in front of a camera before, but I knew the message I wanted to give, and I knew what Matthew would have said if he had been there.

  The reporter gave a hand signal to his cameraman and adjusted his headset. “Good morning, Frank. It’s after midnight here in Chicago, and I’m speaking to one of the protestors from tonight’s rally in Grant Park, Diane Hayes from the University of Washington’s SDS office. Miss Hayes was here with Matthew Bluestone, the youngest son of army general, David Bluestone. The general’s son was beaten in Grant Park tonight and was taken to Northwestern University Hospital.” He pushed the microphone in front of my face. “Miss Hayes, you’ve told me that Mr. Bluestone had a message for the press, and you’d like to speak for him.”