When The Corners Cried: A West Philadelphia Story

CHAPTER ONE The Bag on Chestnut Street West Philadelphia — October 1988 The first shot tore through the paper bag before Isaiah Mercer understood that somebody was shooting at them. Hot onions struck his wrist. One cheesesteak dropped against his sneaker. The other stayed caught in his fist as his older brother knocked him behind a parked car. “Stay down, Zay!” Isaiah hit the pavement hard enough to bite his tongue. Minutes earlier, his biggest problem had been whether their mother would smell the fried onions before they could explain why they were late. Now he lay beside a tire on Chestnut Street, trying to make himself smaller than his own heartbeat. Another shot cracked above him. Across the street, a woman abandoned her shopping cart and pulled a little boy into a doorway. A bottle shattered. Somebody shouted a name Isaiah could not make out. His brother Malik crouched beside him, one hand pressed against Isaiah’s shoulder. Malik’s jacket was open despite the cold. The gold chain Isaiah had admired all summer swung against the zipper. “You hit?” Malik asked. Isaiah shook his head. “Say it.” “No.” Malik looked toward the intersection at 62nd Street. Isaiah caught his sleeve. “Who is that?” “Keep your head down.” Then Malik stood. WHEN THE CORNERS CRIED 6