"Yeah, thanks. Catch you later," Joshua muttered, continuing on his way, still trying to read and walk.

"I told you, you would like it," the man repeated again, this time louder.

Joshua stopped, turned around, and looked at the man, who held his hands up, as if saying, Hey, what can I tell you? Then, the man said, "I think its gonna get bad."

"It already is," Joshua said to himself.

By the time he arrived at the office, Joshua had read most of the article. Apparently, the white teenagers had been looking for trouble, hiding and waiting for a black youth they believed had been dating a neighborhood girl. The victim, Yusuf Hawkins, had been in the neighborhood with three friends, reportedly to look at a used car. He was shot twice in the chest, and died shortly thereafter in the hospital. The police had already rounded up four suspects and were actively searching for others.

The article was provocative, comparing this incident to another racial fracas back in 1986, in Howard Beach, Queens, in which a black youth had been killed in oncoming traffic, while being chased by a gang of Italian teens. Already, politicians were out in full force, criticizing the Koch administration for not having been able to gain a handle on racially motivated crime. It was, after all, an election year.

Joshua knew this was going to be a field day for Thompson and Williams, who had been in the forefront of the string of protests that had followed the Howard Beach slaying. He had gotten used to seeing their faces on TV, and would, once again, in just a matter of hours. He dropped the paper on his desk, opened his briefcase, and began organizing himself for the morning. Mrs. Sawyer came into his office with a thick handful of phone messages.

"These are all from today?" he asked. "We're open barely an hour."

"The phone hasn't stopped. It's that Bensonhurst thing."

"What does Bensonhurst have to do with us? We have enough of our own problems."

"Mr. Eubanks," she said with her usual austerity, "you are a member of the community board, a leader in the community..." She stopped herself, seeing that he wasn't listening, and in a most uncharacteristic manner, said, "Look, Joshua, you're a player." She placed the stack of messages on his desk, and added, "So play!"

She marched out of his office, leaving him flabbergasted. He looked at the stack of messages. The top one was from Marcus Sterling, and was marked, "URGENT!" He wasn't in the mood to talk to Marcus just yet, so he looked at some of the others. There were a few from members of the community board and the commerce a.s.sociation, some from local newspapers, radio stations, and even one from a CBS-TV reporter.

He got about halfway through, when he landed on one from none other than Alvin Thompson, and another from Reverend Jerome Williams. He would never have expected a call from either of them again, not for any reason. The waters were indeed stirring.

Then, at the bottom of the pile, no doubt strategically placed by his dutiful secretary, was the one he was looking for, his daily message from Rachel, stating the usual "when you get a chance." He picked up the phone, and dialed her number.

She came on the line sounding strong and upbeat.

"How are you?" he asked.

"Today's a good day, so far," she answered.

She had concluded her chemotherapy treatments six months earlier, and was still regaining her strength. The lung operation had been successful, and so far the cancer hadn't reappeared. No one knew anything about the future.

"That's great," he said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

"What's wrong?"

"Wrong? What makes you think something's wrong?"

"I can always tell from your voice."

He knew she was certain to learn about it eventually. "Have you seen the paper this morning?"

"Not yet. Why?"

He proceeded to fill her in.

"Joshua, it's a terrible thing, but Bensonhurst is on the other side of Brooklyn. I really don't think anything's going to happen here."

"Rachel, this place is a seething cauldron, just waiting for a chance to explode. It has been for years. Things on the community board have been bad, tensions are higher than ever."

She was silent for a moment. "You're really worried."

"More than you can imagine."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I have about a million phone messages from the press, other board members, you name it. Seems a lot of folks share my concerns. And get this, both Thompson and Williams called."

"Oh boy."

"Oh boy's right. Look, glad you're feeling good, sorry to spoil your day. I'll try and stop by later tonight. Right now, I'm going to see what I can do to avert another world war."

The meeting had been called for seven-thirty, and went till past two in the morning. It was held in Jerome Williams' storefront church which, due to the pastor's fire, brimstone, and all-around dynamism, had become one of the most well-attended in the area. In fact, the congregation had recently started looking for a bigger building.

And they needed one. The place held, at maximum, slightly under a hundred people, though the usual crowds were almost twice that. The fire marshal had apparently been turning a blind eye.

It was Joshua's first time inside, and he immediately noticed the peeling wallpaper, worn linoleum floors, and rickety pews. Yet, there was a distinct aura of sanct.i.ty. It reminded him, ironically, of the synagogue in which he used to work.

All eight black members of the community board were present, several members of the clergy, as well as a few key members of the various block and commerce a.s.sociations in the neighborhood. In total, about thirty who could potentially sway the sentiments of thousands. Marcus Sterling, the senior official, chaired; Jerome, the host, sat by his side, and Thompson was right up there with them.

For the most part, there was a lot of bantering about perceived injustices in their neighborhood. As Joshua had feared, the Bensonhurst incident was being used as an excuse to rile up the locals. He sat, watched, and listened to calls for protests in the streets, boycotts of Italian owned businesses, and lots of yelling. One board member, the one who had called Joshua a "Jew lover," even suggested boycotting Jewish and Korean owned businesses, while others applauded.

Joshua finally raised his hand, and was recognized by Marcus Sterling. "Yes, Joshua Eubanks, we are anxious to have your input." The room quieted. Just as Joshua was about to begin, he saw Thompson lean over and whisper something in Jerome's ear.

"Mr. Chairman, I've been sitting here for over four hours, listening to my colleagues voice concerns that are both legitimate and troubling. There is, no doubt, tremendous need for change and development in our community, and there are many here this evening who labor tirelessly toward that end. But tonight, tonight we have gathered for a different purpose. We haven't gathered for our own needs, but rather for the needs of the family of Yusuf Hawkins and the other young men who were with him. We must support those families, and yes, we must protest the injustice, but we shouldn't do anything that would detract from that cause.

"Mr. Chairman, we here in this room are the leaders of a large community. The decisions we make, and the tenor of those decisions, can have a profound influence. We must forever be diligent and mindful of that fact.

"I fear, Mr. Chairman, that protesting on our streets, addressing our issues, will only serve to detract from this great tragedy; namely, the racial attack that occurred in Bensonhurst, not in Crown Heights. And I also fear that such protests would lead to needless, useless violence. We owe it to Yusuf Hawkins to not allow his memory or his cause to become confused. For too long, we have attacked our own neighborhoods in battles that should have been waged on other fronts. We have protested in, burnt, and looted our own streets, and where has it ever gotten us? Where?

"I agree we must respond, but we must respond with clarity of purpose and objective. We must respond in a way that sets an example, not in a way that further fuels the flames of hatred..."

He was about finished when Thompson jumped out of his seat, and yelled, "Tell me, Mr. Eubanks, will you go to Bensonhurst to protest?"

Joshua had antic.i.p.ated this. "Yes," he yelled back. "I will go to Bensonhurst, and I will protest against violence and hatred! But I will not partic.i.p.ate in violence or hatred, neither in Bensonhurst, and certainly not here!"

The room was quiet for a few seconds. Then came the responses to Joshua. The discussion went back and forth for a long while, until a somewhat less than unanimous decision was reached. Joshua won; there would be no official protests in Crown Heights. Everyone would encourage friends and neighbors to join the already scheduled protests in Bensonhurst. The problems in Crown Heights would be tabled "for now."

At the conclusion of the meeting, Thompson approached Joshua. "So, Mr. Eubanks, you shall be joining us on the streets after all," he said gleefully, as if victory was actually his.

"Yes I will," Joshua answered firmly, cloaking any hint of ambivalence. "By the way," he added, "it won't be the first time. I was at the march to city hall the day after Arthur Miller died."

"Were you now?" he asked, his grin sobered.

"Indeed. You know, Professor, there are times a man must stand up for what he believes."

"Yes, seems I taught you something, didn't I?"

"More than you know."

Joshua was about to leave, when Jerome caught up with him. "Did you get my phone message?" he asked.

"Yes," Joshua said, appearing embarra.s.sed at not having returned the call. "I had so many messages about this meeting, I didn't think it was necessary to..."

"It wasn't only about the meeting." His expression was somber.

Joshua looked at him curiously.

"It was also about Celeste."

"Celeste?"

"I heard from her recently, and thought you might want to know."

"Know what?"

Jerome's eyes watered. "She has AIDS," he answered.

"AIDS? My G.o.d!"

Joshua suddenly felt connected to Jerome in a way that he would have sworn had died long ago. Jerome was telling him because there was no one else who would understand. "Where is she?" he asked.

"She wouldn't say. I think she's still on the streets." Jerome took a handkerchief from his back pocket to wipe his eyes. "I think she'll call again; she sounded in a bad way."

"Call me if she does, please!"

"I will."

Joshua placed his hand on his old friend's arm. "Jerome, you know my feelings for Celeste. If there's anything you or she needs, I'm there."

Jerome looked into Joshua's eyes. "Let's just get through this Bensonhurst mess, then we'll see."

"Good." Joshua released Jerome's arm and held out his hand for Jerome to shake. Jerome took it, as always, but this time Joshua sensed something beyond mere civility, something more akin to desperation. Or maybe even forgiveness.

They marched, three hundred strong, through the streets of Bensonhurst, only to be jeered by an equal number of white spectators, many holding up watermelons and chanting obscenities. It reminded Joshua of the protests in the deep south during the sixties, scenes he had watched on film, distant events and places in which he had never imagined finding himself. Yet here he was, almost thirty years later, inextricably tied to this legacy of indignity and defilement, wondering if he could ever have truly escaped it.

There were more protests over the following weeks, smaller in number, targeting the Brooklyn courts and City Hall. The Koch administration came under attack from black leaders, contending that the mayor had a longstanding history of insensitivity to the minority community, and had demonstrated a lack of leadership in quelling racial conflicts.

On November 7, 1989, David d.i.n.kins defeated Rudolph Giuliani, and became the first black mayor of New York City. Pundits speculated that the election came on the heels of the Bensonhurst incident, bringing flocks of minorities and liberals to the voting booths to right some recent wrongs. They finally achieved victory; the largest city in the world now had a black man in City Hall. There was great jubilation in the community. The Hawkins incident was at rest, at least for a while.

Six months later, when the trials began, the protests and marches returned, and Thompson and Williams were once again grabbing headlines. Joshua observed their adventures through the press, seeing mostly youthful protestors struggling to balance rage with the struggle for dignity. And while he stayed away from the frontlines, he somehow always saw himself in the pictures.

Eventually, only one of a total of eight defendants was convicted of second degree murder, and sentenced to thirty-two years to life imprisonment. Two others were acquitted of murder and manslaughter, but found guilty of lesser charges and also sentenced to prison. Another two were acquitted of all major charges, but found guilty to lesser charges and sentenced to probation and community service. The remaining three were acquitted of all charges.

The jubilation was over.

CHAPTER 61.

A spring day, the beginning of May, 1991. Rachel Weissman exited her apartment building and sauntered down the block, absorbing the scents of budding trees and early flowers. It was good to be up and about.

Aside from a recent backache keeping her from work for the past two days, she had been maintaining her health. It had been almost three years since the nodule in her lung had been removed. The radiation and chemotherapy had been extensive, and as horrible a memory as it was, she was determined to put it behind her. Her subsequent checkups, most recently five months ago, had all been promising. No signs of metastases. Still, no one would guarantee she was out of the woods.

But she was out of the house, and the sky was bright. Two days in bed with her back was more than enough for her. She still had some mild discomfort, but the muscle relaxant Dr. Schiffman had prescribed seemed to be doing the trick. Rachel loved these early morning walks to the dress shop. Nothing was going to spoil her day. Years earlier, she hadn't realized how precious a simple walk could be.

She arrived at the store, and immediately got busy. She had been working on the inventory the afternoon of her last day in the store, and wondered for a moment where she had left the notebook. She tried to think, but couldn't remember. "Have either of you seen the inventory book," she asked her boss, Mrs. Rosenberg, and the other woman who worked with her.

"Sure, it's right here," her boss said, opening a drawer under the counter. "Exactly where you put it yesterday."

Rachel felt funny for an instant; how could I have forgotten that? "It must be spring fever," she said, feigning a smile.

Chava Sims peeked through the window of Rosenberg's dress shop and found what she was looking for. Inside, a.s.sisting a customer with a fitting, was the woman. Chava had seen her many times before, on the avenue and in the synagogue, but had never actually spoken with her. Now, that was going to change.

For years, Chava had endured rumors of her husband's interest in this woman. For years, she had tried to ignore them, or forget. But not today. She just had to learn more about what it was that so enthralled her husband.

Chava grew anxious at the sight of Rachel, and for a moment considered turning back. But she couldn't. She had obsessed over this for weeks, and was going to go through with it. She grasped her pocketbook tightly, took a deep breath, and entered the store.

The bell above the door rang as she entered. It was noontime and Rachel was alone while the others were at lunch. She turned toward the door to see who it was, and thought the face familiar. She offered her saleswoman smile, and held up a finger, indicating she would be right over. Just then, it hit her: the face belonged to the wife of Pinchas Sims. She felt a lump in her throat, turned to glance at the woman once again, and their eyes met.

Rachel nervously finished with the fitting. "Looks great," she said to the woman who was trying on the dress.

"You think so?" the woman asked.

"Stunning," Rachel replied.

"Okay, I'll take it," the woman said.

Chava was browsing through the racks. She hadn't come to buy, but one never knew for certain, especially with such nice things and a healthy bank account.

"I'll be right with you," Rachel called to Chava as she rang up the cash register.

"You're really sure?" the woman asked again.

"Positive. It's to die for; your husband's going to love it."

Rachel bagged the dress, handed the woman back her credit card, and a.s.sured her that everything was returnable. The woman thanked Rachel and went on her way, leaving Rachel and Chava alone in the store. Rachel walked over to Chava, trying to conceal her uneasiness. "Is there anything I can help you with?" she asked.

"No, not really. I'm just looking." Chava was equally uncomfortable; she hadn't really planned on what to say.

"Okay, well I'll be over there," Rachel said, pointing to the register. "If you need me, just call."