When they reached Seidler’s Field they entered through the Garfield Avenue gate by the concession stand, which was crowded with kids waiting to buy ice cream and sodas.  Loud music from WNJR, a soul station in Newark, blared from the radio inside the stand.  Mr. Russo noticed that it wasn’t just the Black kids who responded to the song’s rhythm, for the Italian kids jiggled and bopped and nodded their heads, too.

As they cut across the softball field he saw the maintenance crew setting up the bleachers along what would be the sidelines for the football field used by the semi-pro team that played there each fall.  Above the fading sound of the soul music he could hear echoing off the handball wall the rhythmic thudding of basketballs on asphalt and the high-pitched ring from the metal nets as the balls swished through.  He glanced back at the courts where he saw several pick-up games in progress.  The afternoon continued to be hot, so the players wore little in the way of clothing beyond gym shorts and sneakers.  Their lean, muscular bodies glistened with sweat in the late afternoon sunlight as they ran, leaped, blocked, shot, and dribble-danced across the courts.  They were mostly Black and Italian adolescent boys.  Some teams were mixed, others were drawn along racial lines.  The games were played hard and fast with little talking but a lot of fancy hand slapping when shots were made.

Suddenly one of the games erupted into violence as two boys, one Italian and one Black, started shoving each other, yelling “Get offa me, nigger,” and “Don’t worry, greaseball, I slide right offa you.”  A burly man in a Recreation Department polo shirt blew a whistle loudly, making a piercing sound.  He gave the time-out sign, then pointed toward the gates.  The two antagonists parted sullenly, their teammates saying, “C’mon, man, they jus playin.  Nothin serious.  Let us get on wid the game.”  But the man wouldn’t relent, and the two boys headed off in opposite directions across the field.

Next to the basketball courts there was a handball wall that was rarely used except for graffiti.  Every spring the maintenance crew would paint the wall white again, creating a perfect new canvas for budding spray-can artists who eagerly scaled the locked gates after dark to make their aesthetic statement in crude or clever caricature and sloganeering. Mr. Russo squinted now to read a slogan that caught his eye: “If voting could change the system, they’d outlaw it.”  He snorted his contempt, then wondered if perhaps it could be true.  Naw, not in America, he thought.  He noticed that most of the other words were racist epithets or the standard obscenities.  Some of the spray-paint drawings were complex, colorful designs, while others, attempts at erotic art, were poorly drawn sexual body parts—the pictographs of modern America.

Beyond the handball wall was a playground for younger children that took up the entire corner of Seidler’s Field along Netherwood Avenue.  Mr. Russo could see kids of all colors playing together on the swings, the merry-go-round, the slides, the see-saws.  Prominently placed in the playground was an Air Force fighter jet permanently grounded on concrete pillars.  Kids swarmed all over it, fighting to sit in the cockpit where they could work the controls, bombing imaginary targets, wiping out whole cities.

During the Vietnam War my brother Joey had tried to organize a vigil against the presence of the jet on the playground.  Joey said, “Besides war itself, what could be more obscene than encouraging kids to play at war?”  The issue split the local peace coalition, with most members seeing the draft board and recruiting offices as more immediate targets for protest.  Joey ended up demonstrating alone at Seidler’s.  For three days he walked in a circle around the jet with a sign that read “War Is No Game.”  He talked to every kid that would listen to him, but he said he wasn’t very successful at keeping them off the jet.  “It’s too seductive a toy for them to refuse, and they couldn’t understand that playing at killing is wrong.  To them it’s like any other game they play—it’s just a game.  They don’t realize that they’re being groomed for the real thing.  It’s diabolical.  It really is.”

Mr. Russo watched now as kids jumped from the wings, pretending to parachute.  He was trying to remember if the jet were there when Carl was a boy.

“C’mon, Mr. Russo, we gonna be late.”  Kenya tugged gently at his hand, and they continued into the outfield and then across the Little League diamond, which was set in front of the Recreation Center.

The Rec Center was a large building with a half-dozen doors in the front that now were open, allowing Kenya and Mr. Russo a clear view of the gymnasium inside.  It had a stage that they could see was still empty, so they knew they were in time.  In front of the stage and filling the entire gym was a crowd of children sitting on the floor awaiting the start of the storytelling.  Their chatter, laughter, and shouts rose up in a wall of cacophonous sound that echoed and re-echoed in the cavernous building, creating an incessant roar like a pounding surf.

That roar rushed through the open doors and washed over Kenya and Mr. Russo, making him pause at the steps to the building.  When he looked inside he saw the children, wave upon wave of them, talking, laughing, throwing things at one another, their heads darting every which way, eager to see and hear everything at once, afraid to miss a single comment or taunt.  Of course some kids sat quietly, even demurely, tiny rock outcroppings in this seething sea; but they were by far the minority, and even they could be drawn instantaneously into the tumult.

It was too much for Mr. Russo, too much energy, unbridled and unchecked, too much life, raw and real.  He let go of Kenya’s hand and turned to walk away.  As he did so he saw out of the corner of his eye the largest woman he had ever seen.  She was coming out of the gym and heading toward them through an open doorway.  She was so big that Mr. Russo doubted she could fit through without turning sideways.  He was amazed at how quickly she moved.  Unlike most of the heaviest people he’d known, she didn’t waddle but walked gracefully, even lithely, nearly prancing in her hurry to catch them.

This was Marjorie Patterson, the director of the Rec Center for nearly twenty-five years.  All day long her name was in the air and on the lips of every child there:

“Hey Miz Marjorie, look at me!  Look at me!”

“Miz Marjorie, would you play knock-hockey wid me?”

“Tell Robert to stop spitting, Miz Marjorie!”

“Miz Marjorie, I don feel too good . . . .”

All day long Miss Marjorie was in and out of the lives of each and every kid who came through the Rec Center doors:  watching, guarding, challenging, nurturing, teaching, correcting, praising, listening, and hugging, especially hugging.  I remember Christine once saying, “You haven’t been hugged till you been hugged by Miss Marjorie. She doesn’t just hug you, she enfolds you!”  But some of the other Italian kids, especially the boys, stayed away:  “I ain’t lettin that fat nigger near me.”  Miss Marjorie knew what they said, and though it wounded her deeply, both infuriating and hurting her, she just kept on hugging.  “I won’t allow bigotry to deny me or my children the healing gift of human touch.”

Miss Marjorie tended to wear low-hanging, jangly earrings and to dress in brilliant colors, wearing deep-toned turbans and multi-colored robes of rich cloth imported from Africa.  During the winter months she always wore a bright orange coat she purchased in a store rarely frequented by Black patrons.  When the White salesperson saw her try it on she commented, “You’re the first person to try on that coat that looks attractive in it.”  Miss Marjorie just laughed and said, “Of course.  Have you ever seen a pumpkin lying on black earth?  Looks good, doesn’t it?”

It’s true that Miss Marjorie was a big woman.  In fact she was so huge in physical size that people stared at her wherever she went.  Even in posh restaurants where people are expected to be circumspect, everyone turned to stare when Miss Marjorie walked into the dining room.  They couldn’t help themselves, that’s how big she was.  But Miss Marjorie didn’t mind.  She would smile politely back at everyone, nodding pleasantly and even saying hello to people rudely gawking at her.  All the while she would be saying to herself, “Go ahead and look, honeys, cause it’s all me . . . and it’s all paid for!”

That afternoon Miss Marjorie saw Kenya and Mr. Russo approach the Center, but before she could get through the crowd to welcome them, she saw Mr. Russo freeze then turn away.  Hurriedly she approached the doorway, and as she walked through she shouted at him, “Stop!”

He stopped, her girth alone insuring as much.  Then slowly he turned to see what she wanted.

“I know you,” she said, a warm smile spreading across her face.  She walked down the steps to stand in front of him.  “You’re Mr. Russo.  You were the janitor at my school when I was a child.  You don’t remember me, I’m sure, but you made a difference in my life that I have never forgotten.  When I was in the third grade I stopped eating my lunch.  Every day my mother would pack me a good, sustaining meal, and every day I would throw it away because I was so ashamed of being fat.  At lunchtime you always stood by the trash barrels, and I was aware that you saw me throw my food away untouched.  Finally one day you took me aside.  ‘What’s your name?’ you asked.  I was terrified but managed to mutter, ‘Marjorie.’

“You repeated it after me to make sure you’d gotten it right:  ‘Marjorie.’  When I nodded my head, you kept saying it over and over, pronouncing each syllable carefully and precisely:  ‘Marjorie, Marjorie, Marjorie.’  I guess you just liked the way it sounded, but to me it was as if I had never heard my name before you pronounced it.  You made it sound so round and full and operatic.  ‘It’s a big name,’ you said, ‘and it suits you because you are a big person.  It’s good to be big, shows a big heart and a big soul for loving all things.’  Again I nodded my head as if I knew that, but actually you were the very first person to suggest my body size was anything to be proud of.  Everyone else, especially the kids, teased me unmercifully.

“Then you said, ‘Where I grew up in the hill country of southern Italy we ate fast because there was so many of us in my family that before you knew it the food was all gone.  Food is the life we put into our bodies.  Don’t throw away your life, Marjorie.  Capisci?’  When I looked confused, you said, ‘That’s Italian for “do you understand?”’  I said I did, but it wasn’t until many years later that I really understood the gift you had given me.

“I have never forgotten you or your gift.  Come, the performance is about to begin.  Our storyteller is very talented, and I believe that this story is for you.”

So saying, she took hold of his arm while Kenya took hold of his hand and together they walked him up the stairs and into the gymnasium to the very edge of that wild ocean of children.  Like Moses parting the Red Sea, Miss Marjorie raised an arm and a way was made clear for the three of them to march into the center of the room.  A folding chair was brought and opened, and Mr. Russo was set down upon it like an aged and beloved monarch upon the royal throne.  Kenya sat down on the floor beside him, still holding onto his hand.  Miss Marjorie said, “I hope you enjoy the story.  As I said, I believe it is especially for you.”  Then she disappeared into the living sea, its human waters closing up behind her as she went.

Mr. Russo, who hadn’t said a word since leaving his porch on St. Mary’s Avenue, didn’t remember Marjorie as a girl, and he marveled that she had remembered the details of a conversation so long ago.  I guess she liked me, he thought, and he felt a sense of satisfaction about himself that he hadn’t experienced in a long time.  But then the roar of the room obliviated his private thoughts, and he stared about him in disbelief.  There he was, surrounded by all that unchanneled exuberance, with no retreat possible now that Miss Marjorie had gone.  Like his young neighbors he, too, began to dart his eyes about the room, pulled this way and that by the irresistible currents of the various goings-on.  He noticed some kids he recognized from walking past his house every day.  Some of them smiled or waved to him.  One even called out his name.  He also thought he saw some of the gang that had attacked him only an hour ago, but he wasn’t sure.  Besides, he thought, what could I do about it here, anyway?  It’s like a dream, this whole day is like a bad dream.  I can’t even believe it’s the same day.  Was it just this morning I was talkin with Sonny and then Susan James?  Seems like days ago.  And now what am I doin here?  How’d I get myself involved in all this?  I gotta get outta here . . . but how am I gonna manage that?

He was starting to feel desperate and trapped when his attention was caught by a wad of paper that had been thrown at someone up front.  It missed and landed on the stage at the base of the American flag.  Mr. Russo stared at the flag, caught as he always was by the strong emotions it evoked in him.

“I love that flag, always have, always will.”  He said it out loud, though of course no one, not even Kenya sitting right next to him, could hear him above the din.  As he continued to stare at the flag he felt the deep stirrings of what most people call patriotism.  Indeed, Mr. Russo was a patriot in the true meaning of that word, for he did love the flag, but not the thing itself.  No, what he cherished were the principles the flag represented.  After all these years he still marveled that he, Gaetano Nicola Russo, was deemed equal under law with anyone in the country, no matter how wealthy or high-born.  Oh he knew from his own experience as an immigrant that there was a class system in America, and he suspected that even now, after all his years of hard work, he was close to the bottom.  Still, it wasn’t and never would be as bad as Italy, where his family had been poor peasants in a society blatantly controlled by a wealthy, landed aristocracy.  No matter how home-sick he had grown, Mr. Russo, unlike many of his co-immigrants from Italy, had never considered repatriating.  From the moment he had set foot on Ellis Island the United States was his homeland, his only homeland.  Yes, Mr. Russo was a patriot.  Who, after all, had given more to his country than he?

Every Fourth of July and again on Veterans Day he was asked by the local veterans organizations to march in lieu of his children in the parade down Front Street.  Each year he had done so, waving a small American flag and carrying Carl’s framed medals.  When he had gotten too old to march, he had ridden in a convertible with its top down, the vehicle festooned with red-white-and-blue bunting.  He had enjoyed this even more than marching, for he got to throw to the crowd pieces of hard candy wrapped in red-white-and-blue cellophane.

Not only did he believe in the flag and the ideals it represented, he also believed in the authority of the government it signified.  When he had taken his oath of allegiance to become a citizen, it was a solemn and eternal vow to him, equal in weight to his marriage vow.  He had studied hard in preparing for his citizenship test, spending long hours sitting at the yellow enamel kitchen table.  He learned the basic structure and dynamics of American government, including the separation of powers, federalism, and the power of the president to make war.  So whenever a president, be it Roosevelt or Truman or Eisenhower or Kennedy or Johnson or Nixon, had demanded that Americans give up their sons to fight in other lands, Mr. Russo had listened and obeyed.  He had never doubted for a moment that it was the right, the honorable thing to do.

Now, sitting on the hard folding chair, surrounded by a sea of raucous, frenetic children, Mr. Russo was calmed and comforted by his flag.  As he continued to stare at it, he noticed walking from the wings of the stage a giant figure of a man.  He easily was seven feet tall, and his body was equally massive.  The giant slowly, calmly strode into the middle of the stage where Mr. Russo could see him better.  He was covered from head to heel in a thick robe that was the purplish-black color of ribbier grapes.  As he stood at center stage the giant gazed out over the audience, which had yet to notice him, and shook the cowl of his robe off his head.  In the spotlights focused on stage, his long, wild hair shone brightly.  Now Mr. Russo could more clearly see his face.  His features were large and protruding.  He wore a goatee and had an earring in one ear.  His skin was dark, but whether he was of Southern European or African descent Mr. Russo could not tell.  Moreover, there was an Asian slant to his features that further confounded Mr. Russo.  There were so many peoples mixed inside this giant human that Mr. Russo was forced to abandon the attempt to identify his racial and ethnic background.  “He’s a freak,” Mr. Russo said aloud to himself.

At that precise moment the giant looked directly at Mr. Russo and smiled, bowing his head slightly as some people do when receiving a gracious compliment.  Mr. Russo thought for a moment that the giant had heard him.  He was embarrassed and even ashamed of his indiscretion, but then he realized that there was no way he could have been heard above the roar of the boisterous crowd.  He was greatly relieved until he thought, But maybe he reads lips.

Just then the giant grabbed with both hands the center folds of his monkish robe and pulled it open, extending his arms fully to either side in a dramatic gesture.  Thus he revealed the inner lining of his robe, which was of black velvet.  Upon the velvet were stitched colorful planets and silver constellations, bright rainbows and shiny meteors, golden sunsets and glowing nebulae.  From a hidden pocket on the left side of the robe he withdrew a silver flute.  It was longer and wider than any flute Mr. Russo had ever seen, but it seemed appropriate that this giant person should have a giant flute.

Instead of playing it as Mr. Russo had expected, the giant began to wave the flute back and forth in front of him.  At first Mr. Russo couldn’t understand what he was doing.  Then he noticed that the bright white light from the spotlights was being caught by the shiny silver surface of the flute and projected back over the audience.  Slowly, one by one, the flashes caught the attention of the children, who were entranced by the shooting stars of light bouncing from the silver flute.  They settled down at once.

When the entire hall was completely still, so still that Mr. Russo could barely believe he was in the same place, the giant stopped waving the flute and spoke.  His voice was deep and resonant, filling the huge hall easily even though he spoke at a normal level.  “Good afternoon, my children.”

With one voice the now calm sea answered back, “Good afternoon, Storyteller.”

It was only then that Mr. Russo realized that this was in fact the storyteller he had been brought to see and hear.

“Today we are going to a land far away in time and place.  Our story begins in darkness, and to bring you there more fully I ask that you close your eyes and find the night inside yourself.”  Waving a hand in an hynoptic gesture, he said, “Close your eyes, my children, close your eyes . . .”

Mr. Russo was amazed to see all the children around him respond at once by closing their eyes.  They clearly trusted this giant storyteller who loomed above them with his stellar robe and star-bouncing flute.  Mr. Russo had no intention of closing his own eyes, but when he looked up on stage again, the storyteller was looking back directly at him, repeating “close your eyes, now” in a way that Mr. Russo felt compelled to follow.

No sooner had he closed his eyes than he heard the mellow, woody sound of the flute flowing from the stage and filling the hall.  The storyteller played his flute with much tremolo—that wavering, vibrating tone—sending the notes into the still air like droplets of sparkling water cascading over the audience, and into them, as well.  Mr. Russo could feel the music vibrating inside him.  At first he didn’t recognize the song, but then he knew it was a popular tune that Christine had played when he had stayed with her.  Now some of the older kids, especially the girls, started singing the words, and he thought he heard Marjorie’s voice join in: