Authors: Grace F. Edwards
“My folks are gone now but if I learned anything from them, it was the power of faith and a dream and I’m here to tell you it finally paid off. The only family I have is here. And as far as I’m concerned, it’s alive and well so I have no intention of letting two men—two dead men—send me back to square one. No way.”
He paused and went over to the wall and touched the Bearden collage, correcting a slight misalignment.
“Nice collection,” I murmured.
“Yes it is. These pieces were a gift, a very generous gift.”
He did not turn around and I knew Gary had loaned them. Now that he was dead, the loan had become a gift.
He finally sat down and we both glanced at the cassette and reached the same conclusion.
“That’s a copy,” I said.
“Oh.”
He leaned across the desk and handed me the tape. “Mali, I can’t ask you to keep quiet about this.”
“No. You can’t,” I said, rising from my chair and not at all impressed with his personal history. The power of faith and a dream was one thing, but what about integrity? What about all those strict rules applied to the kids? Shouldn’t they apply to the adults also? It was a neatly wrapped speech but as far as I was concerned, it was neatly wrapped bullshit. He was acting as if he’d cornered the market on hard times, but everyone I knew caught hell coming up in Harlem. It was our national anthem.
At the door, I turned at the sound of his voice.
“Well, listen … Give me a couple of days. To think about what to do. We can work around this. Perhaps change dates, move the tour up, think about beefing up the group’s security or something. I don’t know. I just
need the time. This has been … this has been one hell of a surprise.”
His flush had faded entirely, and except for his eyebrows, he seemed to have regained his composure. He was again the administrator in charge.
“Fair enough,” I whispered, hoping that Tad would be back by the time I got home. I closed Lloyd’s door and walked past his frosty secretary, who did not even bother to look up.
T
he news had been a shock to Lloyd, but it had been more than that for me. Outside the rehearsal hall, I tried to decide what to do. Go home or go for a walk. I needed to clear my head and at Malcolm X Boulevard, I turned and headed downtown, walking slowly, with no particular destination.
I looked in the windows of Liberation, the small crowded bookstore I’d visited many times, sometimes dropping in just to chat with the two sisters. I didn’t go in now because I needed to concentrate on other things. Erskin’s voice, so vibrant and strong on the tape, competed with my memory of his vacant eyes and I needed to come to terms with those conflicting images.
The breeze brought the late afternoon strollers and the usual mobile vendors to the avenue. Stoops were jammed and young girls in front jumped double Dutch, skipping into the ropes, spinning around with braids flying and arms pinned to their sides. Someone called the beat: “Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack, all dressed in black,
black, black, with silver buttons, buttons, buttons, all down her back, back, back …” Then the ropers changed, switching from double Dutch to double orange and the pace quickened. “Asked my mother for fifteen cents, to see the elephant jump the fence. Jumped so high, touched the sky. Never came back till fourth a July.”
Sneakers and sandals cleared the ropes, slapping the hot concrete fast and serious. A tight knot of onlookers clapped to the beat and I wanted to join the girls, just for a second, to lose myself in the slapping rhythm and recapture some of their innocence.
At 116th Street, I walked past the mosque and waved to the bow-tied brothers, several of whom I’d held serious conversations with years ago in their restaurant.
“
As-Salaam Alaikum
, Sister Mali. You’re looking well.”
“
Wa-Alaikum-Salaam
, Brother John. Thank you.”
I bought a bean pie and a newspaper and continued my walk.
At 110th Street, I sat on the grass facing the lake but my mood did not change and I still had no appetite, despite the pie. I wondered if I had done the right thing speaking to Lloyd so quickly. Why couldn’t I have waited for Tad? But who knows when he’s coming back? Had I expected Lloyd to do what? See things my way?
And there was Gary, setting up a deal and violating a trust and not giving a damn about anything. Just like he’d done on Wall Street, only this was worse. The children had meant nothing to him. Nothing. He had worked his scene like a cold hawk, yet when I saw him, he’d been shaken to the bone.
On the tape, he said he’d take the word to Johnnie and get things rolling. Used Johnnie’s name a lot. But I wonder if Johnnie actually knew what was going down. Maybe someone else strong-armed Mark with the idea of using the kids. Using them in exchange for something.
And when Mark couldn’t make it work, they took him out. So when I saw him, he hadn’t been shaken by Erskin’s murder so much as he’d been paralyzed by the fear of his own.
I gave the pie to a homeless man and left the park, heading back the way I had come.
It had been a mistake to try to talk to Lloyd. His program was his life and he intended to do what it took to protect it. Asking me to wait was just a stall.
Heading home, threading my way among the strollers, skaters, and bike riders, I tried to ignore the uneasy feeling that floated out of the humid evening to wrap around me like a cloak.
Night had not quite fallen when I turned into the block and the delicate moment between daylight and streetlight had bathed houses and trees alike in a grainy monochrome. This was the best time of day for me and I’d soon be out walking with Ruffin in quiet solitude.
I climbed the steps and touched the knob and the door swung open even as I fumbled in my bag for the key. I stood there, wondering if I had forgotten to lock it. In all these years, that had never happened, not for me, my sister, my father, or my mother.
In the foyer, I felt my heart race when I reached for the light switch and nothing happened.
“Dad?”
No answer, but that thin, empty-house echo was not there. Another wall light in the hallway leading to the living room was also out.
… Try another lamp, one in the living room, then go check the box downstairs …
I made my way into the living room, searching in the dark.
… Where the hell was the lamp that should have been on the table near the sofa?
My hand fanned the air and I had a fleeting thought that I might have wandered into the wrong house but in all the years I’d lived here, sometimes staggering home less than sober after a night of parties, I’d never done that. Drunk or not, I at least knew where I lived.
I had left the front door open but the streetlight stretched no farther into the room. I kept feeling for the chairs, the bar, the coffee table. Once I reached the sofa, the largest thing in the room, I’d get my bearings.
Instead, I stumbled across something soft. I bent down, touched a form, and backtracked to the foyer to snatch the large flashlight from the ledge above the door. When I snapped it on, I took several steps back.
This … is … not …
The large beam swept the living room and I didn’t recognize it.
Dad! No … This isn’t … it can’t be …
He lay sprawled on the carpet near the bottom of the stairs.
… This isn’t my dog. This isn’t …
Ruffin lay near the fireplace where the sofa should have been.
The light beam caught the overturned furniture, the smashed mirrors, the dark stains streaking the walls, and then wavered. I dropped it and ran screaming next door to Dr. Thomas.
T
he Harlem Hospital emergency room was a war zone. People in various stages of trauma were strapped to gurneys, or slumped in chairs, while others leaned against the walls. The corridors were crowded and every chair and bench was occupied.
Someone with a clipboard and lots of pencils approached, and words like coverage and insurance filtered through to me. I must have answered because eventually the clipboard and pencils floated away, to fasten on someone else.
I moved to a corner and sat on the floor to wait. Dr. Thomas had eased Dad quickly through triage and had gone upstairs with him directly to surgery. I could do nothing but wait and watch the movement curling around me.
A young man was brought in by two others, placed on the floor near me, and abandoned, simply left on his own. His eyes were swollen shut and his tongue protruded, spilling a purple-streaked spittle. He made no
sound, and except for the slow rise of his stained sweatshirt, it was hard to tell he was even alive.
A long time ago, all this would have been part of a night’s work: complete a form, file the report, and return to the beat to look for, or at least try to prevent, the next crisis. Now Dad was here and we were in crisis, and there were no reports for me to file.
An overworked nurse and intern stooped over the man, checking his vital signs, deciding whether he was serious enough to move to the head of the line.
The doors to the corridor moved back and forth, each swing bringing in another wave of people. Screaming children pressed against frightened mothers—women who had, by their expression, moved beyond fatigue years ago.
Everyone, those who could speak, talked at once, competing with the sound system, demanding attention. Now. Those who could not speak seemed to sit in dumb amazement, not understanding what had brought them here in the first place.
I closed my eyes to shut out, if not the sound, then at least this vision. But I again saw my living room and door and stairs against the red of my closed lids. A bright red once Dr. Thomas had gotten the lights on. A bright red once the police had come.
“
Did your father have any enemies?
”
A red so radiant it blinded when Dad was placed in the neck restraint and lifted to the stretcher. In the ambulance, I knelt near the stretcher.
“
Did you have any enemies?
”
I don’t know who asked this question and I did not try to answer. We have enemies the day we are born. I leaned near my father’s ear, wiped away the crisp flecks of dried blood, and whispered so that no one but him could hear
.
“
Daddy? Listen. You remember what the old folks
said? If you go in squawkin’, you’ll come out walkin’. Remember? Remember?
”
There was more red when Dr. Thomas’s twin sons had taken Ruffin, barely breathing, wrapping him in a blanket like an oversize broken toy to rush away and be fixed.
Red color thick and dense and turning brown where it had sprayed the walls and clotted there and turning black where it soaked through the carpets.
I could not keep my eyes closed, not even to pray.
Straight ahead, a woman sat in a chair gripping a towel to her left arm. Her gray braids were a bright contrast against her walnut skin. She cried as a small boy rubbed her shoulders and tried to hold the towel in place. Blood had soaked through it to her print dress and I gazed at the fabric. The large pink flower turned dark before prayer came.
Dear Lord! Please. He’s an old man. Don’t let him go out like this. He’s my father and all I have. All I have. Let me … keep him a little longer. Just a little longer …
When Dr. Thomas approached, his tall, spare frame slowly threading through the crowd, his careful expression told me nothing until he touched my shoulder.
“Mali?” He whispered as if he wanted to wake me from a dream. He pushed his glasses back on his nose and I saw the fine features were wet with perspiration. “He’s still in surgery. I came down to let you know. And to see how you’re doing.”
“So, no one knows anything?”
“Not yet. But be strong, girl. I don’t have to tell you that it’s not over till it’s over. Stay strong. I’ll be back soon as they tell me something.”
Five and a half hours later he tapped my shoulder and I jerked awake. The lady in the print dress and her little boy were gone, and most of the casualties had been processed and replaced by a new wave.
“Jeffrey’s in intensive care. Surgery’s over.” And without waiting for me to ask, he continued, “Concussion, severe. Compound fracture of the right upper arm, fractured right lower jaw, and there’re some contusions on his chest and upper back. He’s in serious but stable condition.”
Serious but stable … serious but stable …
I was able to step into his room for five minutes and saw a fighter, mangled and swollen, with tubes spreading like a web. A fighter, serious but stable.
I placed my fingers lightly on his chest, afraid to touch him for fear of bruising him more.
“Dad, I’m sorry. This is my fault. I’m sorry …”
In that brief second, his lids flickered. He did not open his eyes but he knew I was there.
“I’m going to take care of everything, Dad. Everything. Don’t you worry.”
S
itting at 4
A.M.
in the living room of a house I hardly recognize, I listen to the noises of the lock being repaired, furniture being uprighted, and the remaining pictures being taken from the walls and stacked in a corner and I try to make sense of the note one of the twins has pressed into my hand.
“This was on the mantel. Propped there so you could see it. And knowing about your lawsuit, we didn’t think you’d want the cops to find it.”
BACK OFF. OR WE’LL BE BACK
.
I let the note slip to the floor and Dr. Thomas picked it up and read it.
“Mali, do you have any idea who did this? Any idea at all?”
I raised my hands and let them fall to my lap. “I have a lot of ideas but nothing solid, nothing I could—”
“Okay, you’re spending the night with us. There’s no way you’re going to stay in here by yourself. No way.”
“But it’s nearly morning. I’ll be all right …”
“No. No way. You’ve got to stay out of here until this … whatever it is … is resolved. If you don’t want to stay with us, then stay with another friend. Anywhere until you decide what to do about this situation.”