Philadelphia Fire. John Edgar Wideman

afternoons the action came to Clark. Court up at Sixty-ninth and Haverford packed and people cruise by Clark, get it on here instead of lining up for winners at Sixty-ninth. Knuckleheads tore down one rim at Forty-seventh and Kingsessing, couldn’t run full court there, so Clark be it. The Big Time. Joint rocking. They all be out here.

      Nothing like it. Cudjoe can’t help smiling as he thinks of himself in the thick of the action. Pushing past the point of breaking but you don’t break, a sweet second wind gets you over and it’s easy then, past breaking or not breaking. Doing your thing and nothing can touch you. Past turning back. You’re out there. Doing it. Legs and heart and mind and breath working hard together. You forget everything you know and play. The wall you can’t move, that stops you and makes you cry when you beat your head against it, is suddenly full of holes. A velvet-stepped ladder tames the air. You can rise over the wall or glide through it. Do both at once. Unveil moves you didn’t know you owned. You don’t remember the wall till you’re past it, over on the other side and a guy runs up to you and sticks out his palm and you slap skin low, high, higher, and the winos, junkies, bullshitters and signifiers jamming the sidelines holler amen like they just seen Black Jesus.

      Cudjoe watches bodies flash past. A sound track explodes with crowd noise. The court’s full, then just as abruptly empty again. Seconds pass quietly as the camera pans splitting wooden backboards. Droopy rims. Asphalt cracked with dry riverbeds and tributaries. A view of the empty court shot through interlocking squares of chain-link fencing to suggest how things might look from the steel-meshed window of a prison cell. Inside looking out or outside looking in. Then the court’s full again. Music blasting. Players grunting, panting, squeak of sneakers, cheers from the sidelines, thud of strong bodies every shade of black and brown and ivory colliding, tangling, flying. Cudjoe inserts himself into his film, a solitary figure, narrow shoulders framed by the emptiness of the court that is quiet again. A man caught up in reverie, shuttling at warp speed between times and places, a then and a now. Cudjoe is an actor embarrassed by the cliché shot, a director who can’t resist filming it this way. Camera whirs behind his back, inside his skull. Court full, then empty. Sooty clouds, right on time, roll in from the west.

      He senses Margaret Jones behind him, moving closer. Coming the long way round, under the canopy of trees, then into a band of light where her body blurs, disintegrates, her steps slower as warmth drops on her shoulders. Her eyes are fixed on his back, sure now it’s him. Measuring, assessing the pose he’s held too long now, but won’t alter because he wants her to find him this way, wants her to shorten the distance between them, do some of the work to bring them together. He hopes she’s wondering what he’s thinking, that she’ll realize she doesn’t know everything about him. She reaches the trail worn through the grass alongside the far wing of the three-sided fence. He must not turn around too soon. He’ll break the spell, she’ll disappear. She’s wearing an intricately wrapped turban, a robe with swirls of bold color. A few more paces will free her image from the disciplined strands of wire. He pivots abruptly and finds no one there. His timing’s off. He’s scared her away. Would she have been there if he’d held out just an instant longer? Too late now, charm’s broken. Back across Chester Avenue a woman sitting apart from the others smokes a cigarette on the stone wall enclosing monkey bars and slides.

      Nkisa used to bring Simba here. I brought my kids, Billy and Karen, when they were little ones. Wasn’t nothing so great about the park. This dinky playground stuff been here forever and half of it been busted forever but I liked the walk down from Fifty-ninth and liked getting out the house. Somebody different to talk to. Other women stuck at home like me with little babies. So once in a while I’d truck all the way down here to Clark with one in the stroller and one holding my hand.

      Ten years or so ago.

      About that.

      Well, I might have seen you then. I lived on Osage. Spent half my life in the park. Played a lot of ball here.

      They still play. Or call themselves playing. More drinking and snorting and smoking reefer than ball playing. A rowdy bunch now.

      Used to be good hoop.

      I wouldn’t know anything about that, but I’d skin Billy or Karen alive if I caught them hanging around here. Pimpmobiles and dopemobiles. Sell you anything you big enough to ask for. And if I know what they’re doing, the cops got to know. You think the police do anything about it? Hell no. Not till one these little white chicks slinking around here ODs and turns up dead, then they’ll come down on that corner like gangbusters.

      So the park’s not what it used to be.

      What is? Tell me if you know what is.

      You might have run into my wife and boys here.

      You have children?

      Yes. Two boys. Probably about the age of your lads. They live with their mother now.

      She stares at him as if none of this is news.

      Thanks for meeting me this morning.

      We been through all that once, ain’t we? Started off with that polite, nicey-nice do. Don’t need to go back to that again. I’m here. You’re here. Got my reasons. I’m sure you have yours. You might want to take back some of that thank-you when you hear what I have to say. The boy’s gone.

      Gone? Gone where?

      Nobody knows. Just disappeared.

      Are you sure?

      Sure as I’m sitting here.

      Gone.

      Like a turkey through the corn. My friends haven’t seen him for a week. Finally got him to where he’d play with other kids. Had him a few little buddies come by every day and seemed like he was getting better. Simba even talked some with the kids. Grown-ups thought he’d forgot how. Said they saw him smile for the first time too, when he was around other kids. My friends who were keeping him said they’d let Simba go off and play with his gang because he was improving. Being around other kids doing him a world of good. He learned to ride a bike. Buddies taught him and one day he rode off nobody ain’t seen him since.

      Have they tried to find him?

      What do you think, mister? They was taking care of the child. They nursed him, put up with his craziness. A little wild animal for weeks after the fire. They loved him back from craziness and now they scared to death somebody’s done something else to hurt him. Trying every way they know how to find him. But nobody knows nothing. Had a lawyer who lives in the neighborhood check downtown. If the cops know something, they’re not talking. Seems like that poor boy rode his bike right off the end of the earth.

      Jesus.

      That’s what I say. This whole ugly business keeps getting worse. People murdered and burnt up is bad enough, but it won’t stop there. Can’t stop it seems. Worked so hard to make Simba better and now he disappears. Don’t make sense. Something going on that’s deep-down bad. Something nasty and ugly that’s bound to get worse.

      Will your friends talk to me?

      Best for you to stay away from my friends. I sic you on them they won’t be my friends anymore. They’re upset. And got a right to be. Ain’t hardly a time for strangers to come around asking questions. Too many questions already. People want answers.

      If somebody doesn’t keep asking questions, how will the boy be found?

      Don’t you worry about that. Folks don’t need any interference right now in what they’re trying to do. What I’m saying is leave it be. Butt out. Whatever’s going on, people around here can handle it. They got to. No choice. This where they live. We’re not looking for help from you or nobody else. Help is what started this mess. Somebody called himself helping is the one lit the fire.

      * * *

      What starts the action, two young bloods shooting around. Gradually six or seven others saunter onto the court. If you’re listening for it, drumming of the ball on asphalt carries for blocks. The game’s one on one on one. Every man for himself. You keep the pill as long as you can score. Make a shot from the field with somebody guarding you