Guardian by Julius Lester

invite them to the house. They have big grins on their faces.
    Everybody else’s parents and grandparents are there, because he sees every kid from school. There are always bonfires under that tree every November before the homecoming football game, and this almost feels like that. Only thing missing are the cheerleaders, but they are there, just not in uniforms.
    He sees the choir director from church, all the choir members, the Junior Choir, and the ushers.
    Ansel’s eyes wander away from the crowd to the road leading into Davis. He is not sure, but way up the street he thinks he sees Miz Davis, Little Willie, and Little Willie’s mother standing next to a car.
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    Now that death is at hand, Big Willie is surprised that all the confusion that ordinarily occupies his mind has disappeared. He does not want to die, and yet, considering his life, he hopes death will free him from the evil he witnessed, the evil that robbed him of his mind, the evil that will soon take his life.
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    The people staring at Willie are uneasy because he is not begging them for his life, not crying tears ofremorse, not acting like a nigger is supposed to act who raped a white girl, the pastor’s daughter.
    â€œYou proud of what you did, nigger?” someone calls out.
    â€œI ain’t done nothing,” Willie yells back. His voice has never been stronger, his words never more clear. “It was young Mistah Zeph done this. And y’all know it.”
    The crowd is hushed, not knowing how to react to a nigger who dares accuse a white man. Yet all eyes shift to where Zeph the Third stands next to his father. Cap’n Davis is not tall like his son, but short and thin. Perhaps it is his unprepossessing physique he compensates for by a remorseless attachment to power, a compulsive need to dominate the life of every man, woman, and child in the town that bears his surname.
    He knows what his son has done. He does not disapprove. No one could be allowed to stand in the way of anything a Davis wanted, not even if it was the pastor’s daughter. But the next day he will take his son to New Orleans or maybe Memphis. Cap’n Davis has uncles in both places with whom Zeph the Third could stay for a year or so.
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    Bert taps Ansel on the shoulder. “I’m going to open up the store,” he whispers. “Hot night like this, that bonfire making things hotter, people are thirsty. Come on!”
    Bert then turns to the man next to him. “Spread the word through the crowd. I’m going to open the store. I figure folks might appreciate a cold bottle of soda pop.”
    The man grins. “I’ll tell folks. Save a root beer for me.”
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    It could be the annual Fourth of July picnic. Not only were people drinking sodas, Cap’n Davis had brought some cases of moonshine whiskey into town, and Zeph the Third was selling them from the back of the truck. The only thing missing was a pig roasting, but a nigger would do.
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    Little children ride on the shoulders of their fathers so they can see better. Men stand with their arms around the waists of their wives or girlfriends. Somehow, Fred Fuller, the photographer from Shireville, got the word, and he is there with his camera and plenty of film and flash bulbs.
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    Ansel sits in the darkness behind the store. From inside he hears loud voices and laughter. He knows he should be helping his father, but he does not move.
    Whether he looks into the darkness toward the field and the creek behind, or whether he closes his eyes, all he can see is Mary Susan’s body. All he can hear is her voice calling out to him that she was sorry. She wanted to apologize, to make up, and he wouldn’t let her.
    If he had, maybe she would have been at the store with him instead of at church. He knew she had gone there to ask God to turn his heart away from anger and spite.
    Ansel’s entire body feels like it is in flames, and the flames will never die