The Innocents

rubber bullets, not lead.
She looked around and then glimpsed back at her dead husband and the obliterated shop. Clenching her teeth, she sniffled and stopped herself from crying. But it was not the isolation that brought tears to her eye. As soon as she had delivered successfully, all by herself no less, her courage had quadrupled. If she was able to give birth alone, then she could fight the devil himself.
No, what pricked her eye was the smell of tear gas, burning tires, and gunpowder. Utter chaos hung thick in the air, and her gritty newborn was breathing it all in. In a flash, Iris had an epiphany. She knew what to name her tough blue-eyed angel, a name that would never let her forget what kind of hell they had both survived this day.
Iris gently brought the baby’s face close to her lips. “You and I are gonna brave this big bad world together.” She kissed his soft cheek and whispered, “Ryatt.”

Chapter 2
September 18, 1977. 03:27 P.M.
 
Iris watched Ryatt heaving himself out of the pool, his broad and chiseled shoulders gleaming in the afternoon sun. He took off after another boy, screaming, “Nick!” As the jubilant child rounded the corner, his left leg glided sideways, threatening him with a headfirst plunge into the turquoise water, making Iris skip a heartbeat. But he recovered effortlessly, giggled, and resumed the chase.
“Y’all don’t be running now!” shouted Loraine, Nick’s mom, who sat beside Iris. Loraine wore a leopard skin coat over a pink tank top. It hovered a few inches above the hem of vivid blue bell bottom pants which were squeezing the doughy postpartum belly that she never really cared to tame. Iris had on a well-ironed beige shirt dress. Indifference to trendy clothes wasn’t the only thing distinguishing Iris from her friend. While Loraine slouched on a poolside chair, Iris sat with her back straight, her clasped hands resting together in front on her lap. Her ramrod posture was however a stark contrast to the kind smile that always reached her eyes, one real and one glass.
As the boys sprinted the last stretch and halted before their moms, they shook water off their bodies like wet puppies. Iris took out a towel from the bag and dried the panting Ryatt off. Loraine did the same to Nick, who was a year older than Ryatt but smaller.
Ryatt and Nick were having a serious dialogue about who superseded who, Batman or Superman, as they all ambled to the parking lot. Iris sauntered to her decrepit Plymouth, while Loraine got into the shiny Chevrolet that belonged to her drug-dealing soulmate.
Iris pinched her key and twisted it in the ignition, and the car coughed before jerking to a stop. Grunting, Iris leaned out of the window. “Mind giving me a boost?”
“Not this again,” Loraine replied and proffered a contrived exasperation. “You have to change that old piece of shit, darling.”
“I know, I know, I will.” Iris pressed the clutch and put the car in gear as she pulled her head back into the car. “As soon as I buy insurance.”
Loraine shook her head in what Iris assumed was pity but could easily pass for disdain as she drove the Chevrolet forward. Iris didn’t wince when the front bumper of the Chevrolet scraped against the rear of the Plymouth’s; she never did after the second time. She got used to the minutiae of being poor.
Iris had opened a new business with the money her late mom had borrowed from a local loan shark. She was behind in paying her dues, knowing full well this was not something she should let grow. But what else could she do other than work her back off? Iris had already sold everything in her house, even the bed and the couch, to keep pace with the speeding interest rate that only the Mafia could justify. They didn’t even own a fridge as she had sold it last month along with her husband’s old rifle that he had loved so dearly.
Loraine pushed her for several yards and then braked while the Plymouth continued to roll over the tarmac smoothly, until Iris released the clutch. The car jolted and skidded before roaring back to life. With the wet sniffle of a geriatric, of course. As she drove onwards, she put an arm out and waved to Loraine who honked an adieu in return.
Iris cruised down the M-3, colloquially known as Gratiot Avenue. The radio was playing The Beatles, her favorite band, and Ryatt hummed along. Seemed like he was having a hard time leaving his eyes be, squeezing the eyelids shut and opening them rather than blinking effortlessly. Must be the chlorine.
Then the DJ talked at length about a new space probe the Carter administration had pelted through the skies. Named Voyager 1, it had been launched into the unending void a couple of weeks earlier.
Iris shook her head, definitely not in pity but in disdain. She loathed technology. Gone were the days where you could just lie back and enjoy a nice book on a quiet Sunday afternoon without the prattling of a radio or a TV. Nostalgia was not the only reason why she hated technology though; her justification was more practical. Because of technology, people in Detroit were losing their jobs. Motor city didn’t need the manpower it did back in the 1920s. The war and the Great Depression had only made it worse, what with the factories abandoning the city for the suburbs. Combine that with the climbing crime rate and a slowly growing drug problem, you got what the papers not-so-colorfully named ‘White Exodus’.
But Iris couldn’t leave the inner city. It was all she knew. Though it transmuted into a place that was gaining notoriety for violence, Iris would never give up on it. Home was not something you could forsake, even though it was sick.