Free Tell Me How Long the Train's Been Gone by James Baldwin

breathless narration where the good girl is murdered by the Indians and the hero vows revenge, we were hurrying down the long block which led east to our house, when we heard the brakes of a car and were blinded by bright lights and were pushed up against a wall.
    â€œTurn around,” said a voice. “And keep your hands in the air.”
    It may seem funny, I don’t know, but I felt, at once, as though Caleb and I had conjured up a movie; that if I had not been describing a movie to him, we would not have suddenly found ourselves in the middle of one. Or was it the end? For I had never been so frightened in my life before.
    We did as we were told. I felt the grainy brick beneath my fingers. A hand patted me all over my body, front and back, every touch humiliating, every touch obscene. Beside me, I heard Caleb catch his breath.
    â€œTurn around,” the voices said.
    The great lights of the police car had gone out; I could see the car at the curb, the doors open. I thought I could see, across the street, a colored man, in the shadows, staring, but I could not be sure. I did not dare tolook at Caleb, for I felt that this would, somehow, be used against us. I stared at the two policemen, young, white, tight-lipped, and self-important. They turned a flashlight first on Caleb, then on me.
    â€œWhere you boys going?”
    â€œHome,” Caleb said. I could hear his breathing. “We live in the next block,” and he gave the address.
    The flashlight had gone out and I could see their faces. I memorized their faces.
    â€œWhere’ve you been?”
    I trembled. I did not know of whom the question had been asked. I did not know what to answer.
    Now I heard the effort Caleb was making not to surrender either to rage or panic. “We just took my girl to the subway station. We were at the movies.” And then, forced out of him, weary, dry, and bitter, “This here’s my brother. I got to get him home. He ain’t but ten years old.”
    â€œWhat movie did you see?”
    And Caleb told them. I marveled at his memory. But I also knew that the show had let out about an hour or so before. I feared that the policemen might also know this. But they didn’t, of course, know: such knowledge is beneath them.
    â€œYou got any identification?”
    â€œMy brother doesn’t. I do.”
    â€œLet’s see it.”
    Caleb took out his wallet and handed it over. I could see that his hands were trembling. I watched the white faces. I memorized each mole, scar, pimple, nostril hair; I memorized the eyes, the contemptuous eyes. I wished that I were God. And then I hated God.
    They looked at his wallet, looked at us, handed itback. “Get on home,” one of them said, the one with the mole. They got into their car and drove off.
    â€œThanks,” Caleb said. “Thanks, you white cock-sucking dog-shit miserable white mother-fuckers. Thanks, all you scum-bag Christians.” His accent was now as irredeemably of the islands as was the accent of our father. I had never heard this sound in his voice before. He raised his face to the sky. “Thanks, good Jesus Christ. Thanks for letting us go home. I mean, I know you didn’t have to do it. You
could
have let us just get our brains beat out. Remind me, O lord, to put a extra large nickel in the plate next Sunday.” And then, suddenly, he looked down at me and laughed and hugged me. “Come on, let’s get home before the bastard changes his mind. Little Leo. Were you scared?”
    â€œYes,” I said. “Were you?”
    â€œDamn right, I was scared. But—
goddamn!
—they must have seen that
you
weren’t but ten years old.”
    â€œYou didn’t
act
scared,” I said.
    And this was the truth. But I also felt, I don’t know how, nor do I really know why, that I couldn’t let him feel, even for a moment, that I did not adore him, that I did not respect him, love him and admire