The Boiling Season by Christopher Hebert

succession, somewhere very close by.
    â€œThe doors,” the priest shouted, “someone get the doors.” There was scrambling in the back, and first the metal gate and then the wooden inner doors slammed shut, sealing out most of the light.
    â€œO God,” the priest spoke, lowering his head, “Who knowest us to be set in the midst of such great perils, that by reason of the weakness of our nature we cannot stand upright, grant us such health of mind and body, that those evils which we suffer for our sins we may overcome through Thine assistance. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
    Around me spilled an echo of Amen s, some whispered, some shouted. For once my father’s was among the quietest.
    In the end, it appeared that the priest’s prayer fell upon a more sympathetic ear than my father’s. We waited a few more minutes locked inside the church, until it seemed the danger had passed. The same men who had closed the doors went back and opened them, and a few at a time, the congregation crept outside.
    On both sides of the street it was the same—faces peeking out of doorways, peering down from rooftops. The body in the street belonged to a young man. He lay facedown on the ground, shirtless, his gray pants already stained purple. The blood ran in veiny streams from his head, following whatever depressions it found in the dirt. I could not believe how much of it there was. It appeared he had been blindfolded, but the cloth had slipped down and I could see his eyes. I recognized him instantly. His name was Thierry. I knew him from the neighborhood, but not well. I had seen him more than once with Paul, and thinking of Paul, I looked around for him. He would know what to do. But neither Paul nor his mother were there.
    A sobbing woman rushed forward, Thierry’s sister, I thought, though I could not be sure. She was screaming, but it was impossible to make any sense of it. Perhaps there was no particular sense, just rage and sorrow. Another woman came forward and took her by the arm. By then the crowd had pulled closer, and all around me people were shouting about what they had and had not seen. Two men with a gun. Maybe more. Someone claimed it was the police. Or the army. Or thugs. They had dragged Thierry out. No one seemed to know why. What did it matter, really? There was no possible explanation that would give anyone even a sliver of relief. How could this be anything but madness?
    â€œDo you see?” I said, turning to my father. “Now do you see what I mean?”
    From a nearby house a sheet was produced, and an old woman came forward to drape it over the body. My father knelt down and crossed himself. It was as if I had not spoken.
    We walked back to his shop in silence. The silence was almost more than I could bear, but out of respect for my father and for Thierry I knew I should say nothing more. What could I have said that all that blood had not said already? This was no longer a place for civilized people. How could my father not understand why I had to leave?
    M me Freeman hired a car to come out to the Marcuses’ house to get me. The morning she arrived, the Senator was in his study, not to be disturbed. Mme Marcus was out shopping. I had reminded them the night before that I would be leaving, and I could not help taking their absence now as a sign that they were not yet prepared to forgive me for abandoning them. Most of all, I regretted not having a chance to thank them for all they had done.
    It took me just a few minutes to collect my few possessions, and then Mme Freeman and I were on our way out of the city, following a route I was surprised to find I remembered perfectly. Mme Freeman seemed different now, more distant and distracted, and I wondered if she was having second thoughts about me. Seemingly to break the silence, she began asking questions; she wanted to know about my family, and as best I could in my limited English I told her about my father