Greer transferred Bernie and Kevin to Michigan Avenue for the noon-to-midnight. Tension had been mounting since the Democrats defeated their own peace plank. When the protestors in Grant Park heard the news, the American flag near the band shell was lowered to half-mast, which triggered a push by police. When someone raised a red shirt on the flagpole, the police moved in again. A group of youth marshals lined up to try and hold back the two sides, but the police broke through, attacking with clubs, Mace, and tear gas.
As darkness fell, demonstration leaders put out an order to gather at the downtown Hilton. Protestors poured out of Grant Park onto Lake Shore Drive, trying to cross one of the bridges back to Michigan. The Balbo and Congress bridges were sealed off by guardsmen with machine guns and grenades, but the Jackson Street Bridge was passable. The crowd surged across.
The heat had lost its edge, and it was a beautiful summer night, the kind of night that begged for a ride in a convertible. When they were teenagers, Kevin’s brother had yearned for their neighbor’s yellow T-Bird. He’d made Kevin walk past their neighbor’s driveway ten times a day with him to ogle it. He never recovered when it was sold to someone from Wisconsin.
‘‘Hey, Dougherty. Look alive!’’ Kevin jerked his head up. Bernie’s scowl was so fierce his bushy eyebrows had merged into a straight line. About thirty cops, including Kevin and Bernie, were forming a barricade. Behind the police line were guardsmen with bayonets on their rifles. A wave of kids broke toward them. When the kids reached the cops, they kept pushing. The cops pushed back. Kevin heard pops as canisters of tear gas were released. The kids covered their noses and mouths.
‘‘Don’t let them through!’’ Bernie yelled. Kevin could barely hear him above the din. He twisted around. Bernie’s riot stick was poised high above his head. He watched as Bernie swung, heard the thwack as it connected with a solid mass. A young boy in front of them dropped. Bernie raised his club again. Another thwack. The boy fell over sideways, shielding his head with his arms.
The police line wobbled and broke into knots of cops and kids, each side trying to advance. Kevin caught a whiff of cordite. Had some guardsman fired a rifle? The peppery smell of tear gas thickened the air. His throat was parched, and he could barely catch his breath. He threw on his gas mask, but it felt like a brick. He tore it off and let it dangle by the strap around his neck. Around him were screams, grunts, curses. An ambulance wailed as it raced down Congress. Its flashing lights punctuated the dark with theatrical, strobe-like bursts.
Somehow Kevin and Bernie became separated, and a young girl suddenly appeared in front of Kevin. She was wearing a white fluffy blouse and jeans, and her hair was tied back with a bandana. She looked like Maggie. Young people streamed past, but she lingered as if she had all the time in the world. She stared at him, challenging him with her eyes. Then she slowly held up two fingers in a V sign.
Kevin swallowed. A copper he didn’t know jabbed her with his club. ‘‘You! Get back! Go back home to your parents!’’
She stumbled forward and lost her balance. Kevin caught her and helped her up. She wiped her hands on her jeans, her eyes darting from the other cop to Kevin. She didn’t seem to be hurt. She disappeared back into the crowd. Kevin was relieved.
A few yards away a group of cops and kids were shoving and shouting at each other. Rocks flew through the air.
‘‘Traitors!’’ An angry voice that sounded like Bernie rose above the melee. His outburst was followed by more pops. As the tear gas canisters burst, a chorus of screams rose. The protestors tried to scatter, but they were surrounded by cops and guardsmen, and there was nowhere to go. The cops closed in and began making arrests.
Coughing from the gas, Kevin moved in. He was only a few feet away when the girl with the long hair and peasant blouse appeared again. This time she was accompanied by a slender boy with glasses. He was wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. The girl’s bandana was wet and was tied around her nose and mouth. She was carrying a poster of a yellow sunflower with the words WAR IS NOT HEALTHY FOR CHILDREN AND OTHER LIVING THINGS.
The boy looked Kevin over. He and the girl exchanged nods. ‘‘What are you doing, copper man?’’ His eyes looked glassy.
Kevin kept his mouth shut.
‘‘You don’t want this blood on your hands. She told me how you helped her up. Come with us. You can, you know.’’ The boy held out his hand as if he expected Kevin to take it.
Wisps of tear gas hovered over the sidewalk. Kevin tightened his grip on his club. He stared at the kids. The girl looked more and more like Maggie.
Suddenly, Bernie’s voice came at them from behind. ‘‘Kevin. No! Don’t even look at ’em!’’
Kevin looked away.
‘‘Don’t listen to him, man!’’ The boy’s voice rose above Bernie’s. ‘‘You’re not one of the pigs. You don’t agree with this war, I can tell. Come with us.’’
Kevin looked down.
‘‘Get back, you little creep!’’ Bernie moved to Kevin’s side and hoisted his club.
The boy stood his ground. ‘‘You know you don’t belong with’’-he waved a hand-‘‘him.’’
A commander in a white shirt at the edge of the barricade yelled through a megaphone, ‘‘Clear the streets. Do you hear me, men? Clear the streets. Now!’’
Someone else shouted, ‘‘All right. Grab your gear. Let’s go!’’
A line of police pressed forward, but the boy and girl remained where they were. Everything fell away except the sound of the boy’s voice. In an odd way it felt as silent as the cemetery behind the church.
‘‘Time’s running out, man,’’ the boy said, his hand half covering his mouth. ‘‘How can you defend the law when you know it’s wrong?’’
Bernie’s voice slammed into them like a hard fist. ‘‘Kev, don’t let him talk to you like that.’’
Kevin spun around. Bernie’s face was purple with rage. Brandishing his riot stick, he swung it down at the boy’s head. The boy jumped, but the club dealt a glancing blow to his temple. The boy collapsed.
‘‘Bernie, no!’’ Kevin seized Bernie’s arm.
Bernie snatched his arm away. ‘‘Do your job, Dougherty.’’ He pointed to the kids with his club. ‘‘They are the enemy!’’
The girl turned to Kevin with a desperate cry. ‘‘Make him stop!’’
Kevin strained to see her face in the semidark. ‘‘Go. Now. Get lost!’’
‘‘No! Help me get him up!’’ She knelt beside the boy.
‘‘What are you waiting for, Dougherty?’’ Bernie’s voice shot out, raw and brutal. He clubbed the boy again. The boy lay curled on his side on the ground, moaning. Blood gushed from his head. His glasses were smashed.
‘‘Do something!’’ the girl screamed at Kevin. ‘‘Please!’’
Her anguish seemed to throw Bernie into a frenzy. His eyes were slits of fury. He raised his stick over his head.
Kevin froze. Everything slowed down. Images of Maggie floated through his mind. She could be in the crowd. Maybe Father Connor. Even his mother. He thought about Mike. And his father. What Bernie was doing. What his duty was. His duty was to serve and protect.
The moment of clarity came so sharply it hurt. His chest tightened, and his hands clenched into fists. For the first time-maybe in his entire twenty-three years-he knew what that duty meant.
‘‘Dougherty.’’ Bernie kept at him, his voice raspy. ‘‘Either you do it, or I will!’’