To June, Vincie said, “What the fuck?”
“Wasn’t me.”
It wasn’t me either, I said. Just cover him.
But we didn’t need to cover him. He had all kinds of coverage. Flanked by three Israelites, Berman went to cover him, threw his body on top of him, knelt on his back, took his hair in his fist, pushed his face in the floor.
We did need to cover him.
Vincie launched a washer, nicked Berman’s shoulder, Berman turned around.
I got on the megaphone. BENJI’S WITH US! NAKAMOOK’S US!
“What the fuck!” Vincie said.
They made a mistake.
“What kind—”
Stop shooting. They made a mistake.
And Berman and the Israelites showed us their hands, to shrug or surrender — there was no way to tell. Vincie’s gun was still raised and I stepped in front of him, embracing him hard til Berman and his three raced back to the battle and vanished inside it.
A mistake, I said.
“Okay,” Vincie said.
Let’s end this, I said.
“Okay,” Vincie said.
There was little left to end. The Five took turns bracing Baxter and smacking him, while Brooklyn, in front of him, proferred the earstud. Except for that, and Main Man singing, and the prisoners attempting to un-knot their bindings, all action was north of the northern sideline.
I put my last nib inside Seamus’s armpit, blew the wire-rimmed specs off a teacher with a nickel, and by the time I reloaded another projectile — a tiny black wingnut — there was no one to shoot.
Israelites cheered, high-fived, banged fists.
Ronrico yelled, “We damage we!” and got echoed.
Fat-lipped and wan, Baxter swallowed the rhinestone.
I aimed at the clock, I fired at the clock.
Jelly found Benji and sat down beside him.
“Eliyahu,” the Five said. “Brooklyn.” “Hey Brooklyn.”
“Yeah?” Brooklyn said.
Chucketa-cracketa, cracketa-chuck. Some glass from the clockface fell to the floor.
“Look.” “Brooklyn, look at him.”
“What?” Brooklyn said.
You see that? I said.
“Yeah,” June said.
I did that for you.
“Thanks,” June said.
Jelly cradled Benji’s broken hand in her lap.
Something was buzzing.
“Hey,” June said. “I think that’s your—”
Yeah.
The screen of the buzzing phone read WOLF.
I pressed the green button.
Yeah? I said.
Ben-Wa said, “Gurion.”
Yeah? I said.
“Sirens,” he said.
21 THE VERBOSITY OF HOPE
Friday, November 17, 2006
10:49 a.m.–12:09 p.m.
No kids in black hats?
“None,” said Ben-Wa.
How loud are the sirens?
“How loud?” he said.
How far away are they?
“They’re not in front.”
Sirens in the distance, you’re saying.
“I am.”
Lock down the entrance. No one comes in.
The Side and the Israelites continued to celebrate, blowing out bulbs with projectiles and yelling, lifting our fallen and embracing each other. We in the bleachers went down to the sideline. Thirty-odd bodies were sprawled on the floor. Except for Desormie’s, all of them breathed. I ordered the Five to bring Boystar forward, then ordered forward the five remaining cameramen. Three worked for New Thing, two for the news. One of the news ones was wearing a chai.
You get the scoop, I said. Tell me your name.
“Ori,” he said.
Ori gets the scoop, I said to the cameramen. Leave us your cameras and you’ll get them back later.
One of them hesitated. June shot his lens out.
You’ve still got the footage. You want to keep the footage?
He laid down his camera. The Flunky took it under the bleachers with the others.
Boystar was saying something. “Please,” he was saying, and sniffling blood.
I almost forgot about you, I said.
“Just—”
Pinker shook him and he ceased to speak.
I gave Glassman the nutmeg I’d pocketed earlier.
Feed him, I said.
“Gur—”
The Levinson choked him til he opened his mouth.
I pointed at Desormie and said to the cameramen: Pick up that corpse and bring it to me. Do anything other than what I tell you, and my friends over here will end this kid.
“We’ll kill him,” said Shpritzy. “We’ll kill him with our hands.” “His life’s in your hands.” “We’ll kill his whole body.” “We’ll kill him to death.”
His molars destroyed, Boystar chewed like a dog.
I took up the soundgun and made an announcement: EVERYONE LISTEN. THE WAR’S NOT OVER. EVACUATE ANYONE WHO ISN’T MY BROTHER. PUT THEM ALL OUT THROUGH THE PUSHBAR DOOR. VINCIE PORTITE’S IN CHARGE WHILE I’M GONE. NO ONE ELSE.
“Where are you going?” shouted seven random Israelites.
I’M — I turned off the soundgun. I’m going up front, I said.
“Why?” they all said, and just as they said it, the cameramen returned. They dropped Desormie’s body on the sideline and stretched.
I’m going up front to protect us, I said. No time for more questions, now.
They stopped asking questions, started clearing the gym out.
I took aside Vincie and gave him the soundgun.
Get this to Scott and stay close to Benji. Don’t let him go after Berman.
“Who’s Berman?”
The one who accidentally shot him.
“Got it. But I don’t think Benji’s in shape to fight anyway.”
I looked between the shoulders of soldiers at Benji. He was leaning on Jelly and the southwall, sitting, his jawmuscles bulging, his eyes pointed high, his busted hand darkening fast on his lap. Beside himself with pain or anger or both, he seemed to be melting and hardening at once.
I said, Watch Benji. And lock the door when the bodies are cleared.
I gave him Floyd’s keyring.
“Don’t the firemen have some kind of universal key?”
I don’t know, I said. Maybe? Guard the door, too.
“How about I jam it.”
With what?
“Cross the mikestand through the pushbar like an X so it wedges and—”
Yeah, I said, do that, that’s good, and watch Benji.
Vincie took off.
Desormie’s silver whistle was laying on his eyeball.
Pick him back up, I said to the cameramen.
They followed me and June to the northeast exit, and the Five and the Ashley surrounding Boystar — who they clutched at four points: the wrists and the neck and the hair — followed them. Ori walked backwards in front of us, filming. Main Man, finally amplified, sang, “Let’s go down the waterfall,” and we entered the pipeline and headed east.
As we walked, I gave the Look of The End to Ori’s lens, said, Hear O Israel, listen up the rest of you, I’m Gurion ben-Judah and I’ve got an army. Today’s a new holiday. We’ll name it later. I’ve taken prisoners, mostly kids. As a show of good will, in honor of our holiday, I’ve already released some out the back door. The rest of the prisoners are safe and secure, but there’s spotters in here on every entrance, and Adonai is on our side, so don’t come within fifty yards of the school, or prisoners will suffer the fate of Desormie, atop whose corpse you’ve found this recording. My first demand is the last great Jew. I want you to get Philip Roth on the phone. I’ll call 911 in thirty minutes. Make sure they can patch me through to Roth. Am Yisrael chai, good yontif, we damage. Cut now, Ori.
Ori turned the camera off.
“You,” whispered June, “just sounded like a crazy.”