Mrs. Fisher glanced back and said, “Adam, stop trying to frighten your sister.” Then to Cindy, “Your baby isn’t going to starve, baby girl.” Then to her husband, “Let’s hope we find a restaurant soon,” she said softly.

“Before we starve,” Adam muttered. His parents didn’t respond, but Cindy kissed her doll on the cheek and held it tighter.

“I’ll try Stokley’s,” Mr. Fisher said suddenly. “I’m in the mood for barbeque anyway. And there are other restaurants in the same area, just in case.”

Mrs. Fisher simply nodded.

The drive continued without comment, and when they finally arrived at Stokley’s Pit Barbeque, everyone remained silent, even after Mr. Fisher parked and switched off the ignition. For a moment, everyone sat still, studying the surroundings, but not really. It was as if they were each alone with their own thoughts, their own recollection of the day’s events, as the aroma of Stokley’s specially made ribs and chicken seeped inside the car.

Adam broke the silence. “If we can’t eat here, can we just go home?” A quick silence, and then he added, “I’d imagine that going home would be perfectly normal, considering”—he sighed and rolled his eyes—“the type of city we’re in.”

After his parents glanced at each other, Cindy said, “But . . . we’re gonna go to the park . . . aren’t we, Mommy?”

Mrs. Fisher turned and opened her mouth to speak, but for the first time today, words didn’t come. Hesitation, caused by the thought of raising her daughter’s hopes to dizzying heights, only to watch helplessly as they came crashing down by the end of the day.

“Yes,” Mr. Fisher said. “We are going to the park, sweetheart, I promise.” He placed a gentle hand on Mrs. Fisher’s shoulder and looked into her beautiful blue eyes. “I promise.”

Mrs. Fisher offered Cindy a brief smile, and Cindy smiled back, but Adam saw the unmistakable uncertainty of his mom’s twitching lips. So he folded his arms again and turned to his window, thoroughly convinced of his parents’ insanity.

His dad opened his door and accepted the box lid and dice from his mom, then reached in the back to unbuckle Cindy’s car seat. “Let’s go, darling,” he said, his face contorting with the usual efforts to free his daughter from her wretched restraints. “It’s . . . your turn . . . to roll.”

Adam touched his dad’s hand. “You probably should let her stay in the seat, Dad. What if the place turns out to be another gas station?”

Mr. Fisher looked at his son with narrowing eyes, knowing that Adam was only trying to be difficult. Nevertheless, the truth in his words was undeniable. “Fine,” he said, the edge in his tone sharp and dangerous. “Then we’ll go again, but this time, be more alert. You’re heavy.”

“But it’s my turn, Daddy!” Cindy cried, her mouth sinking to her chin. “You said it was my turn . . . and I could do—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he said, “but Adam and I will have to do the restaurants today. You can do the parks—all of them.”

Adam’s eyebrows jumped halfway up his forehead. Restaurants? As in plural? Today? As in there will be more days like this? Suddenly, Adam was struck with the urge to whimper along with his baby sister, even cuddle with her stupid doll. Whimper and cuddle and cry.

Cindy, however, started smiling again. “All the parks, Daddy? Many, many parks?”

Mr. Fisher chuckled. “Well, as many as it takes.”

Mrs. Fisher folded her arms, and the gesture didn’t go unnoticed, by her husband nor her son. “Just hurry,” she said. “All this talk of starving has my stomach grumbling.”

Adam followed his dad to the restaurant entrance, where they paused and studied the dice. They were poised like two pirates with a tattered map, ignoring everyone who entered and exited Stokley’s. They stood a few paces from the door, just beyond that distance that gave strangers the option of being courteous by holding it open.

“Do you want to do the honors?” Mr. Fisher asked.

Adam frowned and shook his head. “You do it. I’m done for the day.”

Mr. Fisher grabbed the dice without pause—of course, Adam knew it was false conviction—and he rolled both dice, which totaled seven.

They both froze.

Customers came and went, taking extra notice of the man and boy staring at a shoebox lid.

“We can eat,” Adam finally said, his voice laced with doubt.

Mr. Fisher glanced at the car. Mrs. Fisher was already in the driver’s seat. He turned back to Adam and said, “Yes, we can eat.” Still, he didn’t move. Another glance at the car and he added, “We’ll have to be careful of our manners, I suppose.” Then back to Adam, “Very careful.”

Adam gave his first genuine smile of the day, but when his dad turned to collect the rest of the family, Adam didn’t budge, and his frown returned.

Just inside the entrance, the Fisher family waited patiently to be acknowledged by the maitre d’, who was discussing the menu with three middle-aged women who could’ve been sisters. Adam stepped forward a bit to look around, where he received a sharp rap on the back of his head.

“Ow!” he said, grabbing his head and turning to his dad. “What was that for?”

His mother smiled anxiously at the dozen or so seated stares, then whispered through her teeth, “It’s not appropriate to stare, Adam.”

Keep your eyes to yourself,” whispered Mr. Fisher.

The maitre d’ smiled down at the giggling little Cindy and her doll, and then turned her smile on the rest of the family. Frowning again, Adam felt that the maitre d’ was about to laugh.

“Welcome to Stokley’s Pit Barbeque,” she said. “How many in your party?”

Still rubbing his head, Adam smirked and said, “Yeah, right.” He looked at his dad, frown intact. “She said ‘welcome,’ Dad.” Then to his mom, “But we know better, don’t we?”

“Adam . . .”

“Just we four,” Mr. Fisher answered, “uh . . . please, ma’am—thank you.”

Adam snickered. This was getting to be too much.

They followed the maitre d’ to a round table for six.

“You sure you want to waste the extra chairs on us?” Adam asked snidely. “We don’t wanna have to get up later.” He glanced at his dad and added, “Ma’am,” followed by more snickering.

The maitre d’ shrugged and simply said, “It’s okay.” She produced the menus and added, “Your server will be with you in a moment.”

“My baby needs a chair,” Cindy announced, then plopped her doll in a chair, flat on its back.

Adam didn’t watch the maitre d’ leave; he was too busy enjoying the snarling faces of his parents, who, he now realized, were unwilling to cause a big scene. Oh no. A big scene could prove dangerous on a day like today. When he smiled at them, they took their seats and hid their faces behind menus.

Adam snickered again.

“What’s funny, Adam?” Cindy asked, holding her kids menu upside down. “Why you’re laughing?”

Adam leaned over and whispered, “I’m trying to hide how afraid I am.”

“Afraid?”

“Yes.”

Cindy lowered her voice. “Why are you . . . afraid of?”

Adam stole a glance around the restaurant, then leaned closer and said, “Every person in here who looks at us is very, very, very mean.” Mrs. Fisher peered over her menu, but Adam ignored her. “They don’t like us, Cindy,” he continued. “The mean people who look at us don’t want us here. They want us to leave.” His eyes widened. “They probably want to beat us up, too.”

“Adam . . .” his dad warned behind his menu.

“Dad, Cindy should know the full extent of our predicament, right? It’s not right to keep her in the dark.”

Mr. Fisher took a deep, irritated breath and returned to his menu.

Adam returned to Cindy. “So remember, Cindy, these people are mean.”

Cindy’s eyes nervously scanned her immediate surrounding. An elderly woman, who shared a booth with a young woman, was watching Cindy with interest. When she smiled and waved a wrinkled hand, little Cindy responded in kind. “No! You go away, mean old lady!” She grabbed her doll and dumped it into her lap. “You not hurting my baby!”

As the Fishers frantically worked on quieting their daughter, Adam glanced at the woman who continued smiling, then he buried his face inside his menu, giggling and gasping for air.

“Adam, that’s enough,” Mr. Fisher snapped.

“Dad, I didn’t do anything,” he pleaded. “It’s Cindy.” Then he whispered, “Dad, she’s gonna get us killed. You’ve got to do something.”

Mrs. Fisher touched Cindy on the shoulder. “Baby girl, you have to sit quietly, okay?”

Cindy’s lips quivered. “But . . . Mom, the bad mean . . . she want to get my baby . . .”

“No one’s going to get your baby, baby girl,” Mrs. Fisher assured. “Not if you sit quietly.”

Cindy glanced about and spotted more people, bad mean people, watching her. So she wrapped her doll inside her kids menu and rocked it gently. “You not gonna get my baby,” she muttered, shaking her head at everyone eyeballing her. “You not.”

Their server interrupted the moment. “Hello, I’m Betty, and I’ll be your server today.”

When Adam looked up to see that she was African-American, he leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Oh, this just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?” Then a thought occurred to him, so he leaned forward and said, “Dad, you know she’s not really black, right?”

“Adam!” his mom snapped. “That is definitely enough, do you hear me?”

“Dad, rolled a seven, Mom,” he said with outstretched arms. “She can’t be black.”

Mrs. Fisher maintained her gritted smile. “You say ‘African-American’ or nothing at all. And she is too . . . that.”

Mr. Fisher smiled at Betty. A nervous, sweaty smile, his face the combined colors of fire engine and candy apple. “Ma’am, we apologize for our children’s behavior—”

“Especially our son’s,” Mrs. Fisher tossed in with a scowl fixed on Adam.

Betty smiled good-naturedly and shrugged. “That’s alright. I understand.”

Adam looked at her, grinning. “You do?”

Betty paused for a moment, considering the boy’s weird grin, then threw a hand on a hip. “Actually, no, come to think of it.” She looked from Adam to his parents then back to Adam. “If I’m not black, then what am I?”

“She not black,” Cindy said. “Mommy, she a brown lady.” Then Cindy hid her face behind her doll and added, “A mean, bad, brown lady who looking at me now . . .”

Mr. Fisher slapped his menu on the table. “Okay, that’s it, enough, no more; this is not gonna happen like this. A quick time out, please.” He turned to Mrs. Fisher. “We should let Betty know what’s going on before she thinks we’re the nuttiest family she’s ever brought a plate of ribs to.”

Mrs. Fisher nodded, smiling with embarrassment. “Agreed.”

“I’ll explain it,” Adam offered. “You see, Betty, only my parents are nuts.”

“That’s enough out of you, young man,” his mother warned.

Mr. Fisher forced a chuckle that came close to a cough. “Betty, we’re home-schoolers.”

“Home-schoolers?”

“Yes.” Another coughing chuckle. “You see, our son doesn’t attend a school. We teach him at home, and this week, we started a unit on the Civil Rights era, and we . . .” He paused, suddenly realizing he should be mindful of his words. The last thing he wanted to do was say something stupid like “your people” or “the whites.” He took a deep breath and said, “Today, we wanted to give ourselves a small slice of that sort of inequality, that sort of treatment.”

“A slice?” Adam grumbled, placing his chin on the table. “More like a big, fat chunk. And we probably end up with the whole loaf before the day ends.”

“Adam . . .”

 

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