Every Time a Rainbow Dies Read Free Page B

into a pair of baggy Bermuda shorts, then went out onto his roof to be with his birds. Instead of sharing last night’s dreams with them, he asked aloud, “What should I do about her? It’s Wednesday.”
    For the past five weeks since that night, he had spotted her, the raped girl, coming down Eastern Parkway every Wednesday at eleven-twenty, by the bank clock. The first time he saw her, he felt a strong urge to get to the street, just as he had done that night. Unfortunately, like that night, he couldn’t move. He simply let her pass and watched her until she slipped into what had to beNostrand Avenue. Then he’d stay on his roof and listen to music, stare at cloud formations, or design bigger dovecotes in his head, until the bank clock showed one-fifteen and she returned from wherever she went.
    He knew she would be passing through.
    He looked to his birds for advice, resolved to take any hint as a sign and act upon it. Yoli and Dija cooed sympathetically, but this told him nothing. Tai-Chi demonstrated the graceful art of diving for last night’s pizza crust but was cut off by Bruno, who swooped down and snatched it.
    â€œWhat, you crazy?” he asked Bruno. “I’d scare her.”
    The fact remained, Bruno had the pizza crust.
    Thulani turned to Esme, who, as usual, was off to herself. “Hey, Es-may, hey, Esemaay. Hey, girl.”
    Esme hopped away.
    â€œDon’t be like that. Tell me what to do, what to say, you being a woman.”
    Esme did not want to be bothered. She perched on the antenna.
    Thulani waved her off. His birds could not help him, and he had detained them long enough. He watched them fly away under Bruno’s lead, banking right, left, and out of sight.
    It was early yet. He had time before she would appear. He went inside to take breakfast. His brother,Truman, had come in from his shift and was off to bed. This left him with Shakira, who was stirring a pot of thick, lumpy, whole-grain porridge. She ate these concoctions whether she liked them or not for the sake of her unborn child. Natural foods were better for the baby, according to Shakira. He grabbed a bowl, his box of Cap’n Crunch, or “processed sugar,” and sat at the table.
    â€œCorrect me if I’m mistaken,” Shakira began, “but I did not sleep with you last night.”
    Thulani grunted at her, rather than say the “Good morning, sistah dear,” she wanted. He watched her pour the glop into a bowl and thought, Vile. She read his face well but joined him at the table nonetheless. He would be content to eat in silence, although Shakira would never let him get away without conversation, sitting face-to-face. She swallowed a spoonful of her porridge, took a moment to clear her mouth, then asked, “Ya have plans?”
    He never took this to be a serious question. She always asked this, and his answer was always the same: “Naw” or a head shake.
    â€œYa let this whole summer go by, no work, no studies, no friends.”
    â€œSo.”
    â€œYou’re not a child, Thulani. Ya should be planning. Doing. Thinking about college.”
    He poured more milk and cereal into his bowl.
    â€œYa drink too much cow’s milk.” With Shakira it was always some new thing she got hold of from books and magazines. She had come to their house touting goat’s milk as “the righteous milk.” Then it was soy milk. Now rice milk.
    He knew what to do in this situation. “Could you be looved?,” a favorite of his father’s. His music was there in his head when he needed to drown out Shakira. “Don’t let them change you.” He crunched loud, bobbing his head while she talked on. At this point The Wailers were much too mellow. He switched to Shabba.
    Shakira had to know he had left her, although this did not discourage her. After nearly three years of Shakira in the house he knew her litany cold: He was too much into himself. He