King Martin Luther - The Martin Luther King Mitzvah

Contents

The Martin Luther King Mitzvah

Mathew Tekulsky

Fitzroy Books

Copyright 2018 Mathew Tekulsky. All rights reserved.

Published by Fitzroyk Books

an imprint of

Regal House Publishing, LLC

Raleigh, NC 27612

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN -13 (paperback): 978-1-947548-08-4

ISBN -13 (hardback): 978-1-947548-46-6

ISBN -13 (epub): 978-1-947548-09-1

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018939692

Interior design by Lafayette & Greene

Cover design by Lafayette & Greene

lafayetteandgreene.com

Cover image by AlohaHawaii/Shutterstock

Cover image by Lightfield Studios/Shutterstock

Fitzroy Books

fitzroybooks.com

Regal House Publishing, LLC

https://regalhousepublishing.com

To my parents, Patience Fish Tekulsky and Joseph D. Tekulsky;

and to my grandfather, Leo Fish, the real Grappa

Chapter One

I was twelve years old and in seventh grade when I started following Sally Fletcher home from school. She had the prettiest sandy-blonde ponytail I had ever seen and it swayed back and forth as she strolled ahead of me by half a block. I kept a safe distance just in case she turned around, and I tried to act nonchalant, as if I were just another kid on his way home from school. If she did look back in my direction, I figured I could always walk up a driveway or, if need be, duck behind a bush. However, I lived for each moment that she turned her head just far enough so that I could enjoy the beauty of her profile one last time before she turned up Willow Avenue to her house. We both lived in the historic section of Beachmont that was called the Manor, the area closest to the water where Colonial, Tudor, and Victorian houses lined the streets along the shores of the Long Island Sound in this Westchester suburb.

Sally had an angelic face, with a warm, friendly smile, a pair of intense blue eyes, and a slightly upturned nose. She took after Michelle Phillips from The Mamas and the Papas, and was just as beautiful. I was ecstatic when I discovered that we were in the same seventh grade class. I spent hours, when I should have been listening to the teacher, writing Sally Fletcher over and over on my pad, sometimes with her full name and sometimes with just her first.

Sally was twelve, like me, and she was a hippie girl. She loved to wear long, flowing white dresses and always had a flower in her hair. Sally was also an artist, and I loved to pass by Miss Palmers art class in school and take a look at Sallys latest painting, usually something psychedelic in the style of a Peter Max poster. I was convinced that one glorious day Sally would notice me, and as a kid with my first crush, I could dream, couldnt I? And dream I did as I followed Sally home on these after-school walks.

Sally and her older brother, Peter, lived in a house at the end of Willow Avenue, overlooking Willow Park, where a basketball court had been fashioned out of a concrete rectangle at the end of the baseball field. Every afternoon, I dribbled my basketball to the park and began shooting baskets, hoping that Sally would see me sinking fifteen-footers; but when I passed her in the hallways at school, rubbing up against her shoulder as if by accident, she never mentioned my basketball skills. I was quite sure that Sally was altogether unaware of my existence. But fortunately, when you are twelve, there are other things besides girlsthings like Little League baseball, the creek, and the clubhouse that Jimmy Robbins and I built in the rushes. Jimmy and I spent many hours in that clubhouse, smoking cigarettes that he had stolen from his mothers cigarette case. Even when I was relaxing in the clubhouse, however, I couldnt entirely escape thoughts of Sally, knowing that she lived so close by.

All of the kids at school thought that Jimmy Robbins was a little slow, and I had overheard Mr. Roberts telling Principal Phillips about Jimmys difficulty with his homework, but that never bothered me. Sure, he had a hard time reading the books in Mr. Roberts English class, but thats just because he had some kind of thing in his brain where he mixed up the words. Jimmy was actually very smart; he used to make balsa wood airplane models from the First World War; the Sopwith Camel was a particular favorite. The written instructions for this model consisted of lines and arrows and diagrams of every part of that plane, from the wings to the landing gear, and I couldnt believe Jimmy could figure out how to put this thing together, but he didnot once, but again, and again until a whole fleet of them hung from the ceiling of his bedroom. He was like an engineer kid but because he couldnt read quickly, a lot of people just assumed he was dumb. He was my friend, and I think he appreciated the fact that I thought of him as normal. But that didnt stop the tough guys at school from calling Jimmy stupid, and they even called me an idiot when I stuck up for Jimmy. That didnt keep me from palling around with him, though.

On my walks home from school, there was only one thing that could distract me from the rhythmic bob of Sally Fletchers ponytail, and that was Gladys McKinleys house on the corner of Beach Avenue. Gladys McKinley was a great writer, and on every one of these walks home, I looked up the long driveway at her big house, hoping for a glimpse of her. I knew that she had once written childrens books, and I had even checked some of her books out from the school library. One was about a young girl, an amateur sleuth kind of like the Hardy Boys, who figured out the mystery of the missing cat food (the raccoon got it). I remembered running my hands along the spine of Where Did Whiskers Dinner Go? and imagining that someday my own name would be on the cover of a book that people would check out of the Beachmont Public Library. I couldnt imagine anything better than being a famous writer, but now, Gladys had given all of that up and she didnt want to be disturbed. She was a recluse.

The first time I encountered her was one chilly day in October, when I found myself walking down Beach
Avenue alone. I missed Sallys bouncy ponytail, but there had been no sign of her when I left school. As I passed Gladys McKinleys house, I sneaked up her driveway to try and catch a glimpse into her front porch. I got as far as the front step before I heard a womans voice shouting, Go away! I dont know who you are, but go away!

I scampered down the driveway and onto Beach Avenue just as Sally Fletcher walked past. She nodded at me and my heart plummeted into my stomach; my fear of being pursued by Gladys was suddenly replaced by my terror at having to confront Sally Fletcher. Here she was, just inches away from me, and I could clearly see her deep blue eyes. I tried to think of something to say, but I just stood there with my mouth wide open.

What are you doing? Sally asked, her cheeks flushed from the crisp air. Dont you know shes a nutcase?

I hadnt really thought about it that way, but I was tempted to agree with Sally just because she was so pretty.

Maybe, I said. I was just curious. I guess I want to be a writer too.

Do you want to carry my books? Sally asked.

Okay, I said as nonchalantly as I could.

When we got to Sallys house, she said, Stay away from that old woman. I hear she eats little boys. Then, breaking into a wholehearted laugh, Sally skipped up her front steps and into her house, her ponytail disappearing behind her.