“Fights, huh?” Alistair says, eyes widening with interest. Sadie and Sean come in from the other room to listen.
“Fact of the matter is, I was a scrawny kid. The only thing I had going for me was my mouth. Sometimes, fighting words spewed forth.”
“Did you ever win a fight?”
“Never won. Never lost.”
Never won, never lost. Delightfully dangerous. My head is spinning with paradoxes.
“How can you never win and never lose at the same time?” Jaesang asks.
“Let me tell you about the mighty Joe Mancuso. He was big, strong, and bearded, while the rest of us only dreamed of shadows on our upper lips. One time we got into an epic fight. I forget what started it, probably something I said, but the rules were if you wanted the fight to be over, you had to say uncle. Joe had me pinned to the ground with his big knees on my chest and my blood on his fist. ‘Say uncle,’ he barked. ‘Say it or I’ll hit you again.’ I shook my head. He hit me again. ‘Say uncle now,’ he said, along with some other words you don’t need to hear. I shook my head. He hit me again. This went on for, oh, half an hour at least. Bands of boys from the neighborhood, Jewish boys, Italians, Irish, all the kids whose parents were hard at work, gathered around us to see if Kalman would break down and say the word. But I never did. Finally, Joe began to tremble. He climbed off me and sat there in the alley, and in front of all those other boys, he wept.
“Imagine big, bearded Joe, king of the alley, laid flat by his own heaving sobs.
“I got up, wiped the blood from my mouth, and crawled over to him.
“‘Why, Joe?’ I said, putting my hand on his shoulder. ‘Why the hell are you crying?’
“‘Because you won’t say uncle,’ he said. ‘And if you won’t say uncle, how can I ever win?’
“I haven’t thought about Joe Mancuso in a long time. But somebody,” he says, looking over at Sadie, “made me think of him the other day.”
Mr. Kalman puts out the light, and we all head off to bed. I don’t need the Guided Meditation Lady to help me fall asleep. I just think about the scrawny little boy who wouldn’t say uncle.
Tomorrow, I hope, neither will we.
22
Warren v. Board of Education
Sadie is the first one up. She walks past Jaesang, Alistair, and me in the sitting room and opens the door to Mr. Kalman’s room, where he’s still asleep in the king-size bed.
She’s already dressed in her fancy Supreme Court clothes. She holds a large envelope in her hand.
Through the open door I hear her say, “I typed up your notes.”
Mr. Kalman sits up and blinks away sleep.
“I’m worried about Justice Cohen,” Sadie starts in. “Both her brothers are teachers. On CNN this morning they showed a big crowd of teachers against us.”
“Is there coffee?” Mr. Kalman asks.
I get up and brew a pot in the suite’s mini-kitchen. As soon as it’s ready, I take a cup to Mr. Kalman, who’s busy picking out clothes for his return appearance at the Supreme Court. I see him hesitate between a blue tie and an orange one.
I hand him his coffee and point to the orange one.
“I think you’ll be able to swing Justice Fitzgerald,” Sadie says. “Sean found out that the Supreme Court of Canada gave one family the right to refuse homework.”
Mr. Kalman sips the coffee, nods, and smiles at me as if to say, Nicely brewed, Sam.
Then he opens a small box on the table and pulls out a pair of silver cufflinks, which he introduces as “my lucky pair.”
“Did you wear them last time?” I ask.
“No, those I gave away.”
Mr. Kalman heads toward the bathroom. Sadie follows him, still talking. “And Sam was reading the Bill of Rights yesterday. He wanted to know what counts as excessive fines. As in, excessive fines shall not be imposed? And I said they mean money, and he said—tell him what you said, Sam.”
“It could also mean time, couldn’t it? Because with all the time we spend on homework, it feels like an excessive fine.”
“Think you could use that?”
Mr. Kalman stops and turns around. “Sadie,” he says, “I appreciate the help, but at the moment you’re infringing on one of my Fourth Amendment rights.”
“Which one?” she asks.
“Privacy.”
And he shuts the bathroom door.
Downstairs in the buffet line, there’s a traffic jam of trays. Alistair is waiting for his fourth waffle, and Catalina, a strict vegetarian, is making the omelet chef swear on his entire line of maternal ancestors that no ham touched the pan. Eventually the rest of us catch up, but with so many choices—bagels, bear claws, French toast, bacon, cereal, and those omelets with the infinite add-ins—I’m just not that hungry. Neither is Sadie. There’s a single croissant on her tray. I think we’re both too nervous to eat.
Mom has saved a big table, and just as we’re sitting down to it, Mr. Kalman steps into the dining room looking very convincing, I’ve got to say, in a blue suit and orange tie.
“Mr. Kalman,” Mom says, “you look like you’re on your way to court.”
“That’s exactly where I’m headed. There’s a briefing with the clerk in twenty minutes.”
Sadie shoves a bite of croissant into her mouth, takes a quick sip of juice, and springs up. Mr. Kalman looks at Sadie and seems sorry to have to tell her, “For attorneys only. You have to be a member of the Supreme Court Bar to come to the briefing.”
I guess he remembers the rules, after all.
“I’ll see you all up there, though. Ten o’clock sharp.”
Sadie sighs and sinks back down. But then Mr. Kalman calls her over. He pulls her off to the side, and I lean back in my chair.
Not snooping, just stretching.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have time to shop,” he says.
He tucks some folded-up money into her
