“I’ll be right back,” she said.
She returned with the missing guard. He entered the room behind her, looking disturbed about being disturbed. “Hands,” he said, then uncuffed first my hands and next my feet. He didn’t leave. He stood staring and stuck like he planned to stay.
“Turn around,” the “not a nurse” ordered him. He turned halfway and said to me, “Don’t try anything stupid.”
“Undress,” she said to me in a friendlier tone. I did. She had ordered the guard to turn away, but she didn’t turn or look away. She watched and waited, her eyes widening when she saw my jeans drop down. She grabbed the gown and rushed it over my head as if she was protecting me from her eyes seeing my bare body that she’d already seen and as though she somehow believed she was protecting me from the guard as well.
“Done,” she said to the guard.
“Hands,” he said to me. My hands and feet were cuffed again. He left. She stayed.
“You do me a favor. I’ll do you a favor,” she said oddly. “Just like we just did before with the olive oil and the nail clip.” I just looked at her. “There’s another nurse’s assistant that works the overnight with me. Her name is Rhonda. She’s a rotten egg. I hate her guts. Me and her the only two nurse’s assistants who work this wing late night. The real nurses never do anything but sit on their butts at the nurses’ station talking bad about people, even talking bad about the patients. Well, anyway, you don’t talk to Rhonda. Just ig her. That’s the favor.” Her stare now was stern. “While I run your clothes down to our little staff laundry room.” She exhaled like she was content with her offer and her request.
“What happened to the guard that was standing outside my room?” I flipped the topic from her nonsense girl gossip even though I could feel she was serious about it.
“He back at the nurses’ station playing with the nurses like he do every night.” Her explanation was helpful and lowered my suspicion some. “He not s’pose to do that. But he do,” she added. “It’s one of them nurses he likes for real, but both of them is married to someone else. So when they be at work, they act like they married to each other,” she reported.
“How come you don’t got no draws? That’s nasty,” she said.
“Draws?”
“Boxers or briefs or something to cover that thang up.” She said it straight out like it wasn’t an insult or an embarrassment for me, and as though she could still see something that she wasn’t supposed to see, but already saw. “That’s something else I can get for you,” she said proudly.
“No thank you. I don’t wear used boxers,” I told her calmly.
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” she said. From jailbird to beggar, I thought to myself. She smiled and then laughed. “No psych!” she said like we had a joke between us. “I wouldn’t bring you no used draws. That’s filthy!” Then she turned serious.
“I’m clean,” she said with emphasis. “Even though I gotta change dirty bedsheets and empty and clean bedpans and all the icky work, I wash my hands all the time. The hospital soap makes them ashy. That’s why they were like dat before. But I gotta keep them clean. I don’t want to catch no germs in here and bring some disease home to my family,” she overexplained. But her mentioning her family made her more human to me.
“You’re good now. Do the same thing tomorrow,” I said, acknowledging her freshly oiled hands.
“You gon’ be gone by tomorrow night when I get here. I already know dat.” She said it as though she was sad about my leaving. Like she caught feelings in five minutes of meeting me. Then her face changed in an instant like she had a bright idea. “Why you asked me about that cop? You plan on escaping or something?”
“Nah,” I said immediately. I didn’t need her sounding no alarms.
“Good, ’cause I’ll be right back with your clothes, and you would look real stupid hopping around the streets of Brooklyn in a hospital gown, no draws, and handcuffs.” She laughed. I didn’t.
“Watch out for Rhonda. She’ll come around here ’cause she nosy and ’cause she s’pose to check on the patients like I do. She lightskinned-did. She look clean, but she the dirtiest one. Most of the patients get fooled by her. Thinks she’s nice and I’m mean. Ha! Really it’s the other way around. She be charging the patients for every little thing they ask her for but can’t get for themselves or ain’t s’pose to have in the first place. She not s’pose to do dat. Don’t you go asking her for no draws. I’ll bring you some new ones free of charge. Rhonda don’t do nothing for free. But she do anything for money, even put her mouth where it ain’t s’pose to be for twenty dollars. And, for fifty dollars . . .”
“I need my clothes back—try and hurry.” I interrupted her to stop her from gossiping to me like I’m one of her girlfriends, and to get her ass moving. She left.
* * *
The pretty nurse’s assistant who looked clean but was “the dirtiest one” showed up. I heard her key turn in the keyhole of my locked but unguarded hospital room. I saw that she wasn’t the ashy one. She was holding a metal bowl, which by the way she held it was filled up with some liquid.
“I came to change your bandages and wash your body,” she said like it wasn’t nothing. I wasn’t supposed to speak to her, which I thought was nonsense, but I’d made an agreement so I didn’t. She yanked the sheet that was over me as I was lying down on the hospital bed. My hospital gown had shifted, while I was asleep and my joint was out, and she was staring at it. I turned to my side to break her stare.
“We can start on the backside if you prefer,” she said. Her hands were soft, not rough. She used both of them to gently push me into the facedown position. I cooperated because I like the touch of feminine fingers. Her fingertips grazed me as she cut the bandages from behind and let them fall to my side. The warm washcloth landed on the back of my neck first. In small circular motions, she washed my neck and eased down to my back, stroking with a bit more friction. The warm cloth and warm water felt good and more than that, I could hear her breathing while she worked on rubbing me clean. I could hear the cloth of her uniform. That aroused me, naturally. When she paused to soak the cloth and wring it out and then suds it again, she said, “You have a beautiful body, even from the back.” I didn’t say nothing. She returned with the warm cloth and was now washing my behind. With her bare hand, she cleaned the harder-to-reach area and accidentally touched the back of my balls. She withdrew her hand and walked away.
I liked the sound of the water. I could hear her emptying it into the small sink and refilling the metal bowl. She was back now, gently scrubbing my thighs and then my calves. When she cleaned the cloth again, she returned and scrubbed the soles of my feet. A sensation shot through my body and I got more solid than steel.
“Turn,” she said softly. I wouldn’t. Couldn’t get my joint to lay down. She touched my sides to roll me over, like she was used to rolling patients and shifting their positions in the hospital bed all night. I turned myself slowly, knowing she couldn’t turn me without my cooperation. As she saw my joint, I saw that she was topless. She put the cloth down. We were both staring at each other. She dipped her hands in the water and gently gripped on my joint. She got so aroused, instead of cleaning me with the washcloth, she was using her hand, caressing my joint with ease with the moisture of the water mixed with a few suds. She grabbed my balls, massaging them softly, and carefully, like a woman preparing meatballs, shaping them, touching them, holding them warmly.
She must have known I wasn’t going to go in her. I reminded myself, She’s the dirtiest one.
She leaned over, her titties dangling like dough. She put her two lips on the tip of my joint and began slowly swishing it around in her mouth. Oh it was warm, her lips moving down, my joint moving in her mouth. Then slowly she pulled her lips back up towards the tip. My joint, laying on her tongue, easing back and forth. Her hand caressing my balls. She began licking it, like it tasted good, then sucking it, like she could not get enough. When her lips were halfwa
y down my joint, my tip touching the back of her throat, she began easing all the way up with great lip suction. Her titties were pressed against my leg and her butt was up in the air. When she pulled her lips back so that only the head remained in her mouth, she tightened her soft lips around it and then sucked real hard once. I busted off in her mouth. She swallowed it.
* * *
“What you doing on the floor?” the ashy nurse asked me. “And why did you switch off the lights if you were gonna be sitting on the floor? And why is this up against the door? I almost tripped on it when I came in. And why you got your pillow underneath the sheets like you was in your bed when you wasn’t? You playing some kind of freaky game? I thought I could trust you.” She said it like me and her had some type of real relationship going on.
I stood up from where I had been seated in the dark with my back pressed against the wall. I realized I must have fallen asleep in that position. I got down there to be ready to leap to attack if anyone showed up in my room besides one of the night nurses. I had seen the same strange black male face peering into my locked hospital room twice while she was gone.
Damn! I thought to myself. That was a crazy dream. I had it, enjoyed while I was in it, but didn’t want to be responsible for it. That was Jordan Mann, not me. I smiled. Day seven in captivity, and I’m already having wet dreams like before I became a married man who has a beautiful and erotic wife and sexed and made love to her whenever I was moved to do so. A young man, who loved and married and lived with one, and then two beautiful badass women.
My hospital gown had a wet spot when I looked down. I played it off like it wasn’t there. “You never slept on the floor?” was all I said to her interrogation.
“Only when I had to. Not when I had a bed right there just for me, like you do,” she replied.
“Thank you for my clothes,” I told her. She handed them to me. They were warm and cleaned, and below the short folded pile was a pair of new boxers, still wrapped in the plastic.
“I’m sorry,” she said, handing them to me.
“For what?” I asked her.
“For taking so long,” she said. “Did Rhonda come?” she asked, her voice more timid than before.
“Nah,” I said.
“Good. You’re my patient. I’ll take care of you.” She picked up the tray and left.
* * *
The second nurse’s assistant showed up right before the break of dawn, this time not in a dream, but in real life. She wasn’t topless. She was “lightskinned-did.” She wasn’t pretty. She didn’t look clean to me. She looked ran through, slick and stupid at the same time. She was measuring me up while I was reading her.
“I got a note for you,” she said. I could see the folded paper in her right palm.
“From who?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” she said. “Guy in the hallway been creeping around. I could’ve called security on him but that’s not what I do. He been trying all night to get me for my key. I told him no ’cause that’s just fucking up my business. He gon’ get me fired.”
“The note?” I asked her.
“Twenty dollars.” She put a price on it and put her hand on her hip after announcing it.
“You can keep it. I wasn’t expecting no mail in here. And you don’t look like a mailman, either,” I told her.
“I got slapped over this bullshit,” she said.
“Slapped and paid,” I said, letting her know I knew her hustle. She was trying to get paid twice off of the same errand. The door opened. The slim, previously ashy nurse entered.
“Rhonda, why you in here?”
“Why you asking!” she screeched on the ashy nurse. “Do you own him? Is this your room and your bed? Do you own the whole goddamned hospital?” She spit with venom.
“I took care of everything in here. There’s more to do in the other rooms,” the ashy nurse said in a scolding tone, opening the door and holding it open as though she had rank over Rhonda.
“You first,” Rhonda told her.
“I’ll be back,” the slim nurse said to me. Rhonda exited the room, walking behind the slim ashy nurse. As she did, she flicked the note to the floor.
Seconds later I picked it up. I unfolded it. It said one word: REDVERSE.
I don’t know if he was trying to strike some fear in my heart. If he was, he was wasting his time. I don’t know him. I don’t fear him. I don’t fear those cops he’s in business with. Fear only Allah.
I washed and prayed the Fajr prayer in cuffs. It took some maneuvering and double the amount of time that it normally takes. But, what a man wants to do, he finds a way to get it done and handles whatever discomforts may come along with it.
Sunrise, not sleeping, thinking sincerely. I like my lawyer. I had a feeling about her. I thank Allah for her. I respect her mind. Thought she was one of the smartest women I ever met. Together, last night, without either of us revealing openly what we were actually saying and doing, we plotted a course of action for my defense. She had allowed me to read each of the newspaper articles written about me without my input, interview, or cooperation. She taught me about the process, the meaning of each step, making it clear that each step was critical and crucial and life-altering. She was passionate about representing me. I knew it might include a boost for her career since my case seemed so important to the New York senator, the district attorney’s office, and especially the press, the police, and other authorities. I didn’t mind if legally defending me made her richer or more famous or whatever. Her presence was worth whatever earnings or notoriety she could squeeze out of it. She was willing to place herself in the center of all of this confusion, which she called a “fercockle,” whatever that meant. She would fight against false accusations, police crimes, and filth for her own reasons. She was willing to write the judge, to stand up as my representative in the court at the arraignment. She wasn’t worried about pissing off the cops, detectives, prosecution, politicians, and her co-workers in the legal system where she worked every day. She sent me to the hospital with the full intent to document the police brutalities. She was honest enough to tell me that she could not guarantee it would all work out her way or how much time it would take, but that however it worked out, it would be the absolute best option I would ever get. She confided in me that her father is a judge. She has two brothers, one doctor, one lawyer, but she’s “closest” to her dead sister, who had been murdered at age six. She was angry that her father’s position and prestige could not protect her sister and angry that she remained behind alive. She said her dead twin saved her life when she tried to join her by killing herself. Her sister promised her that if she stayed alive, she would stay with her even though it would be their secret, and no one else would understand.
I didn’t try to figure it out. Her purpose for me was legal defense. Besides, I am a Muslim man who believes that believers will always be tested in this life. And, while being tested, no matter how difficult life gets, it is senseless to try and abandon faith. Allah is everywhere. At the same time, Allah is just. At the same time, Allah is above comprehension.
If I didn’t know better, I would think that my life was in my lawyer’s hands. But I know better. Whatever Allah wills, whatever Allah allows will be done, nothing more or less.
And whether Ayn Eliana Aaronson, Esquire, was assigned by her job or if she chose herself to represent me, I believe it was because that is what was supposed to happen. She might think it was all her idea. I believe otherwise.
Ayn had a calm and clever and scholarly way of speaking and questioning, signaling and profiling me without saying directly that that was what she was doing. Even her suggestions, strategies, and conclusions were not spoken aloud, plainly and straight out.
If I had not already met the most intelligent and cleverest woman in the world, I might not have ever caught on to the double and triple meanings and behaviors and suggestions of my attorney. However, meeting my second wife’s aunt prepared me in some necessary, peculiar, and urgent wa
y for this difficult battle I face. Her name is Aunt Tasha.
15. AUNT TASHA • A Reflection
Her blue phone rang. We all heard it. It was impossible not to hear it. Chiasa had the ringer on maximum volume so that she would never miss her father’s phone call, no matter which room she was in at our house, even if she was in the shower. We were each at the front door just about to leave and all very conscious of making good time.
Akemi, feeling impatient, was standing high in her Valentino Rockstud black sling-back pumps. The subtle tapping of the tip of her gorgeous heels was the only indication that she did not like that Chiasa was holding everyone up. My first wife had an appointment with the director of the Museum of Modern Art. He’d called her as a favor to a VIP donor to the museum. The donor wanted to meet the brilliant sixteen-years-young Akemi to discuss the possibility of privately commissioning her artwork that the museum had featured months ago. She wanted me to escort her. Of course I would, as well as carry her huge portfolio of original drawings and paintings.
Chiasa had dashed to her room and caught the call before there could be a third ring. “Daddy!” we could all hear her say in an excited tone. I smiled and Umma laughed. Akemi watched me closely with her shapely, expressive eyes. Those eyes were like sensors that captured images that her fingers would later sketch and draw from memory. But more than that, her eyes were sensors that recorded feelings as well. This is why her artwork has soul and movement. You could look at it and feel like you saw her art breathing. Her drawings and paintings of nature seemed to capture the light of the sky and a glimpse of the beauty that Allah created in trees and flowers, mountains and oceans and waterfalls. Akemi was so highly skilled that she could draw something simple, like a chair. When you look at the drawing, you would feel as though you knew the last person who sat in that chair, their size and weight as well as what era the chair came from and how long it had been around.
She had her hair pulled back in a tight bun hidden beneath a mean black fedora. It was her style, and she knocked me out. I was content that she was covered. Her black summer linen skirt and beautiful white linen blouse made her look like a wealthy princess.