God Is Dead Read Online Free Page A

So you duck down an alley and Keith tells you to climb this chain-link fence and he’ll pass you the food and you’ll cut through this backyard except you only get halfway up the fence before a cop grabs you by the seat of your pants and pulls you off.
    â€œThe cop slams you on the pavement and presses his boot on your neck. You smell dirt and mink oil. Pebbles bite the side of your face. You try to turn your head but the boot presses harder and the cop says, Just take it easy, boyo.
    â€œA second cop is talking to Keith. What are you jigs up to? You going to break into this place? And Keith, who is always getting into fights he can’t win because his mouth is a lot tougher than his fists, says Fuck you. Then you hear a sound like someone hitting a side of beef with a baseball bat, over and over, and Keith is crying, then screaming, then silent.
    â€œ Jesus Christ, says the cop whose boot is on your neck.
    â€œYou’re jerked to your feet and thrown face-first against the fence. The second cop presses against you from behind. His body is trembling. He hooks his fingers through the fence and leans close and whispers in your ear. Not a word to anyone, you fucking niglet. His breath is hot and moist on your cheek, and stinks like onions.
    â€œThey let you go. You run all the way home, and your mother wants to know what happened, what’s wrong, where’s Keith, where’s the food. But you don’t tell. Your father returns from work and asks you the same questions, and you don’t tell. A few days later the police come and sit at the kitchen table and drink your mother’s coffee and ask the same questions, but their voices are all too terribly familiar, and you don’t tell.
    â€œYou keep this secret your whole life. You do such a good job of keeping it that after a while it seems like maybe it didn’t happen at all, maybe it was a story someone else told you, or maybe just a dream.
    â€œHalf a century later, you’re flying to Senegal on a diplomatic mission one night, and you can’t sleep. You watch a movie. The movie gets you to thinking about how things haven’t changed a bit, despite the fact that you’re the most powerful black man in the history of the most powerful nation on earth. You haven’t thought about Keith for years, but you do now, and it all comes back to you as real as if it happened yesterday—the wet smack of the nightstick on his skull, the smell of oranges crushed on hot pavement. Real. It happened. It was not a dream.
    â€œAnd then you realize you’re the only black person on this plane.”
    Pause.
    â€œHow would you feel? How would you talk? How would you behave, you silver-spoon master-of-the-universe motherfucker?”
    Pause.
    â€œHypothetically speaking?”

    A motorcade of five army jeeps and one late-model Land Rover tore into the refugee camp at noon, kicking up dust and scattering children. Powell watched as the procession ground to a halt in front of the conference tent. Angry-looking men in dirty fatigues spilled from the jeeps, assault rifles in hand. Ismail emerged from the Land Rover, followed by his aide (who wore a clumsy makeshift splint on his right forearm), and finally a tall but crookbacked boy dressed only in tattered shorts and sandals.
    The three approached Powell. Ismail motioned to the boy. “Introduce yourself,” he said.
    â€œI am Thomas Mawien,” the boy said in belabored English. He looked at Ismail, then cast his eyes to the ground. “The brother of Sora.”
    â€œI know who you are, son.” Powell hugged the boy, then turned to lead him into the tent.
    â€œYou are satisfied, Mr. Powell?” Ismail called after them.
    â€œJust wait here,” Powell said.
    Inside was dark and cool. Motes of sand drifted on the air, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight from the open entryway. A doctor stood beside God’s cot, adjusting the flow of an IV