Part 2 — The Corner Of Fifth Street
The banquet hall went so quiet that I could hear the ice settling in Uncle Ronnies glass. Thirty people stood in a half circle at the far end of the room, and not one of them looked at the buffet. They were all looking at my father.
The young man in the blue graduation gown took a step forward. He was maybe thirty, with a nervous smile and a medal on a ribbon in his right hand. He said, Mr. Morris, my name is Darnell Price. I was eight years old the morning you saved me.
My dad did not say a word. He had stood on the corner of Fifth Street and Grant Avenue for twenty three years in an orange vest, holding a stop sign for other peoples children. He had never once expected anyone to remember a single face.
Darnell held up the faded newspaper clipping. The headline said, Crossing Guard Hurt Pushing Two Children Clear Of Runaway Truck. Beneath it was a grainy photograph of my father on a stretcher, still gripping his stop sign with one hand.
The truck in that story had belonged to Uncle Ronnies dealership. A delivery driver ran the red light at the corner on a rainy Tuesday in 2001, and Dad shoved two kids to safety and took the full impact himself. His left leg had never been quite right since.
Dad never sued. Ronnies insurance covered the surgery and the rehab, and the family quietly agreed it was an accident. But for twenty three years, Ronnie had told that story at every holiday as though he were the one who had been generous, and Dad the one who owed him thanks.
My father never needed anyone to remember what he did; he only needed the children to get home that morning, and they did.
Darnell explained why they were late. The second child that morning was his little cousin, Keisha, who now stood beside him, a nurse in blue scrubs, holding her own toddler. Their families had searched for the crossing guard for years, but the school had changed its name and the old records were gone.
Then last month, Keishas church choir sang at a funeral in Gary. The program listed a part time custodian named Morris, and her mother recognized the name. She wrote down the church, asked around, and learned about the retirement party from a flyer in the dealership window.
The thirty people were parents, grandparents and siblings of the two children. Some were holding babies, children that would not exist, Darnell said, if a man had not stepped into the street on a rainy morning. He said, Every person in this room is here because you were standing on that corner.
My mother, who had been holding Dads hand since the first insult, let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. She squeezed him tighter. Dad looked down at his shoes, as he always does when he is overwhelmed, and his chin trembled.
Uncle Ronnie was standing at the front of the room with his champagne glass still raised. He had not been able to lower it. His face had gone the color of a pressed napkin. The dealership friends who had laughed at the stop sign joke were studying the carpet.
Darnell handed my father the medal. He said, This is for you, from the city council, the school district and every family in this hall. It says, For Extraordinary Courage. They also voted to rename the crosswalk where you stood.
Dad turned the medal over in his hands. For the first time that night, he spoke. His voice was quiet. He said, I only did what anyone would do. Darnell shook his head and said, No sir. Anyone would not.
Then Darnell reached into his gown and pulled out one more envelope, thick and cream colored, with a return address I did not recognize and my fathers name in careful handwriting. He said, Mr. Morris, there is one more thing, and it concerns the man who hosted this party.