Lightning's Run

By Gabriel Goodman

Hiram's father forbids violence. It's against their family's beliefs. Even so, Hiram has been sneaking out to the Woodrat Club, where bareknuckle fighters compete and shady deals go down. Tired of beatings from a local bully, Hiram wants to learn how to box. He finds a willing teacher in Lightning, one of the Woodrat's finest fighters.

Hiram, a Jewish immigrant, and Lightning, a former slave, soon form an unlikely friendship. But Lightning has troubles of his own. When a man from Lightning's past appears in New York, will Hiram's new boxing skills be enough to help his friend?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jan 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781467740128

Gabriel Goodman

Gabriel Goodman is a writer living in St. Paul. He has written for previous Darby Creek series, including the Surviving Southside series and the Bareknuckle series.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

I tense up, knowing that if Leah doesn’t stop staring at me, I’m sunk.

She’s standing at the far end of the Sabbath table, holding hands with our brother, Ezra. He’s only six, one year younger than Leah. But Ezra knows not to look directly at me. His eyes never leave the small loaf of freshly baked challah at the table’s center. He’s smart.

That, or he’s hungry.

But Leah stares, her eyes pleading. She knows she should tell our parents what she learned. But Leah loves me, and she won’t. Instead, she tries to guilt me into confessing. She thinks if she stares long enough, I’ll blurt out everything when Papa comes in.

It just might work.

The room is almost dark as the sun sets behind the gray buildings across the street. Mama makes her grand entrance from the bedroom, carrying the candlesticks she smuggled in from the old country when we immigrated a year ago. They’re made of brass and as wide as my forearm. She plants one on either side of the challah and takes Leah’s hand.

She doesn’t see Leah staring. Good.

I close my eyes and enjoy the rare silence. On any given night, we can hear our neighbors on all sides through the tenement’s walls, walls so thin they might as well not exist. Only at sundown on Friday do things get quiet. As everyone prepares for Sabbath.

Papa tells anyone who’ll listen that we live in a two-room apartment. People think we’re rich, since everyone else we know crowds their entire family into a single room. None of us contradicts Papa by pointing out the bedroom he shares with Mama is a large closet.

Our luxury won’t last long. Last week, we got a letter from the old country. Mama’s two brothers and their families will be coming to America by the end of the year. And just as Uncle Mordechai helped us when we arrived, we’ll be helping them. Which means our already small tenement will get even smaller.

Papa enters, clutching his prayer shawl tightly against his shoulders. He’s sturdy like a farmer, which he was until 1873, when we moved to New York. Here, he works as a mason with his brother, the man who helped us immigrate. But on Friday nights, he isn’t a farmer or a mason. He is the closest we have to a rabbi.

Papa hands Ezra and me small, round yarmulkes, which we place on our heads. Then he takes his place next to Mama and produces a small box of matches from his pocket. He looks at each of us and smiles. For a second, I think he sees the look on Leah’s face. He follows her gaze to me and squints. My heart beats against my ribs. It’s all over.

Hiram, Papa says to me, striking a match. Will you start?

I swallow. Does he know? Is he really trying to get me to spill my guts? I don’t have time to worry about it. As he lights the first candle, I pray.

"Baruch atah Adonai Elohenu melech ha-olam…" I chant softly. The others join me. I keep one eye on Papa. If he even glances my way, I’ll break. But he’s staring deeply into the flame. Mama’s eyes are hidden behind her hands as she prays.

As we finish, Papa adds, May we all know peace in this, our new home. Then he and Mama each tear off a chunk of the challah. They pass the pieces to Leah and Ezra, who pass one to me. Leah finally stops staring as she helps Mama bring dinner to the table. My secret is safe.

Sabbath dinner is the same every week. I love it. Papa and I talk about our work with Uncle Mordechai. I make bricks; he and Papa lay them. Mama, who pickles vegetables and sells them on the street corner, tells us she completely sold out of her wares this week, a first. When dinner is done, Mama and Leah go into the bedroom so Ezra, Papa, and I can discuss the Torah. But I’m distracted. And it’s all I can do