The principal called Baba and Nene yesterday from school, and told them about the letter from Specialist Luis Rodriguez-Reyes, and my nene came and picked me up right then. Luckily, my baba was taking a nap with Tirana, because it would not have been good if he had come to get me.
The principal was waiting with me outside when Nene drove up. She seemed sort of surprised at our ice-cream truck, and I think she wanted to talk to Nene awhile in the parking lot, but Nene wouldn’t talk. She was in a hurry to get me home, probably before Baba woke up. All the principal could get Nene to do was agree to come back to school this morning at seven thirty so we could talk about what happened. So I knew all night that I was having an RPC, which was even worse than Baba and Nene screaming and crying in our apartment.
Baba kept saying that he didn’t want his son around any military, and who did the school think it was to make his son write to a soldier? And Nene kept trying to tell Baba that it was different in America, and that it was the soldier who was the problem, not the school, but Baba didn’t agree. He got angrier and angrier, and usually Nene just shuts up and tries not to get hit, but she was yelling back, and Tirana was crying so loud that she was hiccupping and coughing, and until today’s RPC, yesterday was the worst day of my life.
MRS. MONAGHAN IS NOT WEARING
her red shoes, and she is not wearing regular school clothes either. She has on a blue suit, and her hair is not so curly, and she looks older. The principal always dresses like that. They are waiting for us at the office. When the principal tries to shake my baba’s hand, he makes a noise at her and doesn’t put his hand out, so I know it is going to be as bad as I thought. Nene shakes the principal’s hand, and Mrs. Monaghan’s, but Nene looks like she is going to fall down, so I don’t think she’ll be able to stop Baba this time.
Baba is upset, so his English isn’t very good either.
“No right this school has! My son is my son. And he does not write soldiers. In America, you think soldier is hero. In Albania, soldier is snake. My son does not write soldier.”
Mrs. Monaghan and the principal look surprised.
I don’t know if they have ever met someone who thinks like my baba about soldiers. He thinks like that about policemen too. It’s because of being in prison, but Mrs. Monaghan and the principal don’t know that, and maybe they would not even care if they did.
“Mr. Ahmeti,” says the principal. “We have not met before. I am Dr. Moore, and I am terribly sorry about what happened to your son yesterday.”
“I not care if you’re sorry,” says Baba. He stands up. “Sorry mean nothing. You are stupid, and this teacher is stupid, and your stupid hurt my son.”
Nene tries to get Baba to sit down. She says, “Sadik, please listen, please sit down” in Albanian, which I understand, but I don’t think Mrs. Monaghan or the principal does, and Baba pretends like he does not hear her either.
“I want money!” yells Baba. “You pay me for hurt my son.”
Mrs. Monaghan looks at me. I turn away, because I can’t stand it here and because I knew that an RPC was the worst thing that could ever happen to me.
“Mr. Ahmeti!” says Dr. Moore, very loud. “This is not a shakedown. We are here to discuss what happened to your son, to apologize to you, and to find a solution. We are not going to pay you money for this.”
She looks mad, especially when Baba slams his hand down on her desk.
“I am American,” Baba says. “I have rights. I get lawyer.”
Mrs. Monaghan has not said a word. She looks sick too.
Dr. Moore stands up and tells my baba to leave. She asks Nene to stay if she can, but she tells Baba he will have to wait outside. She doesn’t know what a bad thing she did, telling Nene to stay when Baba has to go. Nene can’t stay if Baba has to go.
Then Dr. Moore tells Mrs. Monaghan to take me out of the room and away from the office. That’s a mistake too, because Mrs. Monaghan and I have to obey, but Baba does not believe that a principal can send his son somewhere when he is there.
I see that Baba is very angry, and I am afraid that he will hurt Dr. Moore. She is speaking to her radio now and asking someone to come to the office to escort a parent away.
That’s when my nene says her worst thing. The thing she says when she is really upset.
“For love of Allah,” Nene wails. “Just kill me and my children if this is how life will be.”
Now Mrs. Monaghan and Dr. Moore really look shocked. Then Baba yells at Nene.
“Allah? Allah? You expect Allah to care, Arjeta? Stupid woman. Nobody cares.”
Mrs. Monaghan has her hand on my shoulder, and when Dr. Moore looks at her, she leads me out of the office. I go, because Baba and Nene are too mad to notice, and I would rather be with Mrs. Monaghan. I see the security man walking toward the office as we go out, and I wonder what Baba will say when he sees his uniform. Baba doesn’t know that the school has its own police officer. For a second, I am afraid that I will never be allowed to come to school again, but thinking that makes me almost throw up, and because I cannot throw up on Mrs. Monaghan again, I just make the thought go out of my head. I pretend that I am in a movie, and I walk toward Mrs. Monaghan’s classroom with my movie face on.
6
Luis
FOR A MOMENT,
I
don’t know that my eyes are closed. I think I have been blinded, or perhaps that I am dead, because all I see is white light. I can’t make out anything but light, and I am straining to see, aching everywhere, wondering where I am. And then I start to orient. I am lying down, maybe in a bed. I hurt. I have never hurt this much in my life. The light is so bright, I am afraid to open my eyes. It’s my head that hurts. My head feels as if it has been stretched from the inside, it feels three times its normal size, the pain is intense.
A black frame forms around the blinding light and grows inward. As the light shrinks, so does the pain. It is getting darker and now going black. The black is a relief.
THIS TIME, I REALIZE I
am in a bed, unmoving, before I notice whether I can see or not. My eyes are still closed. If there is any light, it is gray. It is neither bright nor black. Everything feels muted. I don’t know if I can open my eyes, but I choose not to. I sink into the gray.
“SPECIALIST RODRIGUEZ.”
The voice is very distant, but there is something about those words—
specialist
,
rodriguez
—that means something to me. I struggle to piece it together—
specialist, rodriguez
—but the sense that they are meaningful, that they are words, starts to fade. Where am I? Who am I? Let me go away.
“I THOUGHT HE WAS GOING
to wake up an hour ago. There was something in his face, like he might be listening.”
“Has he opened his eyes?”
“No, I haven’t seen him open his eyes.”
SOMEONE IS NEAR ME. THERE
is pressure on me, somewhere. I think someone is holding my hand, and then I think,
what is a hand?
What is someone?
And I slip backward again.
THIS TIME, THERE IS DEFINITELY
someone near me. Someone is moving me, lifting my arm, doing something to me.
“Specialist Rodriguez. Do you hear me? We are just going to change your position a little. We need to move you a little, so you will be more comfortable. Can you hear me, Specialist Rodriguez?”
Can I hear her?
I don’t know. I want something to stop. I want that gray. There is something behind me. I can’t quite figure it out. Where I am. What I want. What should stop. Something should stop.
“Specialist Rodriguez. Good. We hear you. Can you hear me?”
WHAT I HEAR IS THE
deafening crack of an explosion, very close, on the left. “Sam!” I yell. “Sam!” Another explosion. This one farther off. Sam was to my left. Where is he? There’s smoke and dirt everywhere, and I hear what I think must be Sam moaning, choking.
I stumble to the left, find Sam with my feet before my eyes, drop to the ground. He’s hurt bad. I don’t see his face. For a moment, I think his head has been twisted around, so that the back of his head is looking up at me from above his chest, but then I realize that the top of his face, part of his head, is gone. I am looking at his mouth, part of his nose.
Somehow I don’t recoil. I drop my face next to that mouth, and I say, “Sam, Sam, man, I’m here. I’ll get you out.”
And I do. I get Sam out. I get his body out.
I am not even hurt.
SO WHERE AM I NOW?
Why is someone moving me? Why can’t I open my eyes? Are my eyes open?
SAM AND I ARE ASSIGNED
duty on a Humvee. There is a driver, me, and a gunner, Sam. Sam says, “Are you even American, Rodriguez? Is the Army how you’re getting your green card?”
“Fuck off,” I say.
SAM AND I HAVE DONE
ninety-one live runs. Nobody’s done ninety-one. Nobody’s done fifty. Sam and I have done ninety-one, and we are something like gods at Kalsu.
“Bring my friend, the spic, a beer!” yells Sam. “He just drove through a damn ambush, and we’re the only two standing.”
“Yeah, give my redneck motherfucker partner two beers. He’s a heat-seeking laser,” I say.
THIS DOESN’T MAKE SENSE. IS
Sam talking? Am I? Where’s his head? Where’s his damn face? I didn’t get hurt. I didn’t get a scratch. So where am I? Who’s touching me? Why can’t I wake up?
“SPECIALIST RODRIGUEZ. I’M DR. GHOSH.
I think you can hear me. If you can hear me, will you open your eyes?”
I can hear him, but I can’t open my eyes.
“Specialist, I’d like to call you Luis. Is that okay?”
I don’t feel my body. I don’t know where I am. Is he a doctor?
“You’re in the hospital, Luis. You were shot. Do you remember that?”
I can’t remember that. Who shot me?
“I know this is hard, Luis, but I think you can hear me. And I think you can wake up. I want you to wake up.”
Who shot me?
“SPECIALIST LUIS. IT’S DR. GHOSH
again. I hope you can hear me. I would like to talk to you, Luis. Can you wake up?”
“LUIS, THIS IS DR. GHOSH.
The nurse tells me you have been making a lot of noise. I think you can wake up, Luis. I am right here. You can wake up with me here.”
“SPECIALIST LUIS. DR. GHOSH AGAIN.
I am going to keep coming. Every day. Twice a day. I want you to wake up. I want to be here with you. I can help you, Luis.”
If he can help me, why doesn’t he wake me up? Am I asleep? I can hear other voices. I am in a hospital, I think, but I don’t know where and I don’t know why. I got Sam out. I wasn’t hurt. Why am I in a hospital?
And that kid. Who’s the kid? There’s a kid somewhere.
There’s something wrong about that kid. There’s something wrong. I have to get out of here.
“SPECIALIST LUIS. THE NURSES CALLED
me. What kid, Specialist Luis? What kid?”
PLEASE STOP TALKING ABOUT THE
kid. There’s something about that kid. I hurt the kid. I killed the kid. When did I kill a kid? I didn’t kill a kid. The kid killed Sam. No, I killed the kid. Who killed Sam?
I got him out. Where was his face? Did he hear me?
“SPECIALIST LUIS. I THINK YOU
can hear me. Please, open your eyes.”
I can’t hear you.
“SPECIALIST LUIS, THE BOY IS
all right. The boy is okay. Luis, I want you to wake up.”
And I do. I wake up.
I am in a room, with a lot of light. There’s a lot more light than I was expecting. And there is a man, looking at me. I close my eyes.
“Specialist Luis, welcome back. Welcome back, Specialist Luis.”
And I sleep.
HE IS THERE WHEN I
wake up. Dr. Ghosh. The man. What kind of name is Ghosh? Sam would know. I look at him without moving. I wonder if my body can move. I wonder if I have a body. I should be worried about this, but I am not. For someone who is just waking up, I am really tired.
“Luis, I am Dr. Arjun Ghosh. You can call me Arjun if you like. I am very glad that you decided to wake up. We’re all very glad that you’re here.”
That’s nice. They’re glad I’m here. Wherever here is. Whoever they are. I think I might have smiled, but I can’t tell, because I still don’t feel any connection to my body. It seems to me that Dr. Ghosh is seated next to me, and that he has a hand on my arm, but I don’t actually feel this. I know this, but I can’t feel my arm, and I am not sure if I have a body.
“Luis, I know you must feel very strange. You’ve been asleep for a while, and you are also on medication, but whatever you are feeling, I want you to know that there is going to be someone in the room with you. You are not going to be alone.”
That’s nice.
Why would there be someone in the room with me?
My head hurts. It really hurts.
THIS TIME, WHEN I WAKE
up, I know that I am awake, and I know that I have been dreaming. It was a nightmare, and I am sweating, panicked, but I can’t remember anything about it. Was it loud? Was there a kid?
My breathing is rapid, and someone puts a hand on my head.
“Specialist Rodriguez. It’s okay. You’re in a hospital. You’ve had a dream. You’re okay.”
She sounds nice, this hand. I close my eyes, and her touch grows heavy, and I feel myself slipping back to sleep.
IT IS LIGHT AGAIN. I
have been lying here awake a long time, but I keep my eyes shut, because there is someone in the room, and I don’t want to talk to whoever it is. I have started to remember. I know who shot me. I still can’t remember the kid. There is a kid, though. There’s something about a kid.
7
Roberta
A FAT SOUTHWEST AIRLINES
jet lumbers impossibly close to the windshield of my car. McCarran Airport sits right in the middle of town, a few blocks from some of the largest casinos in the world, a mere roadway width from the parking lot at the new Town Square shopping mall, or from the office complexes on Sunset Road. It startles me that I could count the rivets on the wing of a commercial jet while driving down a road with the signs from a US Post Office, a Sonic Burger, and the Hy-Bar window company competing for my attention.
It’s the light-blocking mass of a Boeing 737 balancing in the air above your head that startles, though the roar of the jets in your ears lasts longer. The sky is a living thing when one is a desert dweller, stretched out, vast and imposing, with its constant dance of cloud and color, the visual equivalent of a movie soundtrack to one’s life. But, of course, in Vegas, the sky is not just a matter of wind and dust and water and light, but also of planes. The ponderous passenger kind, roaring in and out of town, nine hundred flights a day, forty million people a year, diving into the center of the beast and flashing back out again, but also military jets, whistling in, four high-flying, perfectly matched arrows, bullets set to a ballet score, speeding around the Sheep Range Mountains north of town.
For me, the belly of a jet blocking my long range view of the road makes me think of homeless kids—of Lester and Molly and Dawan, all kids I’ve worked with, all kids who spent a portion of their teenage years sleeping on the flat roofs of the Park 2000 office complex, conveniently located in the airport’s flight path, shielded from the prying beams of police helicopters, which aren’t allowed to fly there. Homeless teens feel safer on the low roofs, which they scramble onto easily enough but which pose a physical challenge to their older, less mentally stable comrades. It’s the modern equivalent of a hilltop accessible from only one direction. Early in the morning, I used to park my car in a discreet spot, waiting for a kid to descend, to arise at the edge of a roof, slip off a corner tile, grab hold of the largest oleander branch, and dance down the bush to the ground, where I would be waiting, coffee and a McDonald’s bacon-egg-and-cheese McMuffin in hand. The first sound out of the kid’s mouth—
hello
or
hi Robbie, who are you
or
get out of here
—whatever it was, would blast forth, their hearing muffled by the roar of all those jets all night long.
Molly and Dawan and Lester. I wonder if any of them knew each other. I can’t remember now how close in time they were. Molly shared her food with the feral cats that lived in the small courtyards off a few of the offices, and Lester kept his guitar stashed in an unlocked delivery box meant for pharmaceutical samples, which worked for quite a while, but then one day it was gone, and Lester never knew how or where. And Dawan. Well, Dawan is one of the kids I try not to think too much about.
I met him first in the wash, where Marty and I used to walk the dogs on weekend mornings. I don’t usually meet kids on my own. I’m assigned a case as a CASA volunteer, or I take on a custody matter pro bono, or maybe I get involved with someone through the Las Vegas Homeless Youth project. But Dawan I met without any of these buffers; Dawan I met because I noted the tramped-down area in front of the salt cedar bush he had turned into his home, because Rebel whined and sniffed and would not leave the area, and because I spotted the handle of a red metal cup deep within the brush.
“Hello,” I called.
Marty stopped, already well ahead of me, and looked back quizzically.
“Hello, is someone there?”
Silence.
Of course, it could have been anyone. Any tramp. An adult passing through. I had no way to know it was a fourteen-year-old boy. But I had just gone to a seminar on homeless youth, and one of the speakers had talked about the wash, about how dangerous it would become for any teens living there as soon as a summer monsoon hit. Of course, floods in Las Vegas are always dangerous. When I was in middle school, someone’s aunt washed away in her car. The water had come right over the road, and she had driven into it, not knowing there was a dip just there, not knowing that what looked like a slick of water across the surface was a powerful four-foot-deep rush. Those kinds of accidents aren’t as common anymore, now that the county has spent twenty years building channels and walls and retention basins that sluice the water right through town. But all that effort has made the washes more dangerous: the water runs faster, and we are less accustomed to its power, so storm after storm, we lose a child who has the delightful inspiration to try to float in the sudden stream, or an unsuspecting nature lover, who perhaps hears nothing before he is swooshed away with the uprooted trees and the abandoned sofas.
That must have been what was in my mind when I called hello again, when I shook the branches near the tramped-down entrance, when I said that I had something to give him. I didn’t have anything, of course, except a bottle of water and a rolled-up twenty in my pant cuff, but I wanted to see who was there,
if
someone was there.
It took a while. Marty gave up, whistled Rebel to his side, and said he’d meet me up top, near the train tracks, when I was ready. So I didn’t have Marty or the dogs when the salt cedar started to shake, which was the first time it occurred to me that I should have asked Marty to stay, I should have kept Rebel with me. But when Dawan crawled out, slithering beneath what I had somehow thought was going to open like a door—a skinny, scratched, sunburned adolescent—my heart nearly stopped. His lips were dry and cracked, his eyes bloodshot. I could see a long, dirty cut high on his shoulder, near his neck.
“I got a knife,” he said.
I should have been scared, but mostly I was shocked. He needed water, he needed a doctor. I couldn’t believe how close I had come to walking past that bush.
I handed him the bottle of water, and his hands shook as he tried to pull the plastic off the lid. I motioned for him to give the bottle back to me so that I could help him, and the look in his eyes, just for an instant, when he thought I was going to take back the water, when something in him would have surrendered it, the politeness of a child to an adult, that look comes back to me at night, in the middle of night, in the middle of certain dreams.
“I’ll open it for you. I’ve got more. I’ve got food.”
He tensed up then, afraid, but he needed the water. He wasn’t about to leave that water bottle.
As fast as I could, slower than I’ve ever known I could be, I opened the bottle, and he drank the water down. When it was gone, he looked at me, looked around me, looking for what I had promised: more water, food.
“My husband’s got our pack. He’s just up top. I’ll call him.”
He wanted to resist, I know he did, but he was too weak. I’ve thought about that since. The only time anyone was going to catch Dawan Jessup, the only chance anyone ever had to get him into some kind of system, was the day I found him, invisible but for the handle of a red cup in a salt cedar bush.
Marty didn’t hear me calling, but Dawan waited there. I’ll never know why, now that I know how hard he was to find, how impossible it was ever going to be to keep him. I raced to the top, to the tracks, and found Marty. The dogs beat us there, barking and leaping, happy to be sent back into the wash, and by the time Marty and I arrived, Dawan was standing, knife in hand, staring a startled Rebel down.
I whistled to Rebel, to Tank. They ran behind me, bumping into my legs, confused and frightened by Dawan.
“It’s okay, son,” said Marty. “We’re not going to hurt you. The dogs won’t hurt you.”
Dawan did not relax. He stood, a scrawny savage, willing himself a foot taller than he was.
“Do you want a sandwich? I’ve got two here.”
Marty handed Dawan the food, and the boy looked back, unsure whether to eat it right there or to take it into his now-discovered hideout.
“I’m Roberta. And this is Marty. What’s your name?”
He looked at me.
Then he sat down on a large rock, washed there in some summer storm, and opened the sandwich Marty had given him.
We waited.
“Dawan.”
And that was how it started. The four years of Dawan, the four years of trying and fighting and defending and hoping. Somehow Marty and I got him to an emergency room that day, and from there he went to Child Haven, and from there to a foster home, and then another, and then another. Somewhere in there he left, and I didn’t hear from him for a while, but then one morning, Dawan was the teen dancing down the oleander bush, snatching up the McMuffin, calling out
Hi Robbie
in a too-loud voice.
I’ll never forget the thrill of seeing Dawan that morning. Of finding out he was alive, of thinking that I had another chance.
I’ll never forget that thrill, nor the call, three months later, from Child Protective Services: Roberta, we thought you’d want to know.
Some things, you don’t want to know.
Some things, you always knew.