I look down at my uniform. "Because I was in the middle of a shift when the principal's office called me to say my son was going to be expelled."
"Suspended..."
I round on him. "You do not get to speak right now. And you most definitely do not get to correct me." We step out of the school, into a day that bites like the start of winter. "You want to tell me why you hit Bryce?"
"I thought I don't get to speak."
"Don't you back-talk me. What were you thinking, Edison?"
Edison looks away from me. "You know someone named Tyla? You work with her."
I picture a thin girl with bad acne. "Skinny?"
"Yeah. I've never talked to her before in my life. Today she came up at lunch and said she knew you from McDonald's, and Bryce thought it was hilarious that my mother got a job there."
"You should have ignored him," I reply. "Bryce wouldn't know how to do a good honest day's work if you held a gun to his head."
"He started talking smack about you."
"I told you, he's not worth the energy of paying attention."
Edison clenches his jaw. "Bryce said, 'Why is yo mama like a Big Mac? Because she's full of fat and only worth a buck.' "
All the air rushes from my lungs. I start toward the front door of the school. "I'm going to give that principal a piece of my mind."
My son grabs my arm. "No! Jesus, I'm already the punch line for everyone's jokes. Don't make it worse!" He shakes his head. "I'm so sick of this. I hate this fucking school and its fucking scholarships and its fucking fakeness."
I don't even tell Edison to watch his mouth. I can't breathe.
All my life I have promised Edison that if you work hard, and do well, you will earn your place. I've said that we are not impostors; that what we strive for and get, we deserve. What I neglected to tell him was that at any moment, these achievements might still be yanked away.
It is amazing how you can look in a mirror your whole life and think you are seeing yourself clearly. And then one day, you peel off a filmy gray layer of hypocrisy, and you realize you've never truly seen yourself at all.
I am struggling to find the correct response here: to tell Edison that he was right in his actions, but that he could beat up every boy in that school and it would not make a difference in the long run. I am struggling to find a way to make him believe that in spite of this, we have to put one foot in front of the other every day and pray it will be better the next time the sun rises. That if our legacy is not entitlement, it must be hope.
Because if it's not, then we become the shiftless, the wandering, the conquered. We become what they think we are.
--
EDISON AND I take the bus home in silence. As we turn the corner of our block, I tell him he's grounded. "For how long?" he asks.
"A week," I say.
He scowls. "This isn't even going on my record."
"How many times I tell you that if you want to be taken seriously, you gotta be twice as good as everyone else?"
"Or maybe I could punch more white people," Edison says. "Principal took me pretty seriously for doing that."
My mouth tightens. "Two weeks," I say.
He storms away, taking the porch stairs in one leap, pushing through the front door, nearly knocking down a woman standing in front of it, holding a large cardboard box.
Kennedy.
I'm so angry about Edison's suspension that I've completely forgotten we have picked this afternoon to review the State's discovery. "Is this a bad time?" Kennedy asks delicately. "We can reschedule..."
I feel a flush rise from my collar to my cheeks. "No. This is fine--something...unexpected...came up. I'm sorry you had to hear that; my son is not usually so rude." I hold the door open so that she can enter my house. "It gets harder when you can't give them a swat on the behind anymore because they're bigger than you are."
She looks shocked, but covers it quickly with a polite smile.
As I take her coat to hang up, I glance at the couch and single armchair, the tiny kitchen, and try to see it through her eyes. "Would you like something to drink?"
"Water would be great."
I go to the kitchen to fill a glass--it's only steps away from her, separated by a counter--while Kennedy glances at the photographs on the mantel. Edison's latest school photo is there, as well as one of us on the Mall in Washington, D.C., and the picture of Wesley and me on our wedding day.
She begins to unpack the box of files she lugged inside as I sit down on the couch. Edison is in his bedroom, stewing. "I've had a look through the discovery," Kennedy begins, "but this is where I really need your help. It's the baby's chart. I can read legalese, but I'm not fluent in medical."
I open the file, my shoulders stiffening when I turn the photocopied page of Marie's Post-it note. "It's all accurate--height, weight, Apgar scores, eyes and thighs--"
"What?"
"An antibiotic eye ointment and a vitamin K shot. It's standard for newborns."
Kennedy reaches across me and points to a number. "What's that mean?"
"The baby's blood sugar was low. He hadn't nursed. The mom had gestational diabetes, so that wasn't particularly surprising."
"Is that your handwriting?" she asks.
"No, I wasn't the delivery nurse. That was Lucille; I took over for her after her shift ended." I flip the page. "This is the newborn assessment--the form I filled out. Temperature of ninety-eight point one," I read, "nothing concerning about his hair whorls or fontanels; Accu-Chek at fifty-two--his sugar was improving. His lungs were clear. No bruising or abnormal shaping of the skull. Length nineteen point five inches, head circumference thirteen point five inches." I shrug. "The exam was perfectly fine, except for a possible heart murmur. You can see where I noted it in the file and flagged the pediatric cardiology team."
"What did the cardiologist say?"
"He never got a chance to diagnose it. The baby died before that." I frown. "Where are the results of the heel stick?"
"What's that?"
"Routine testing."
"I'll subpoena it," Kennedy says absently. She starts tossing around papers and files until she finds one labeled with the seal of the medical examiner. "Ah, look at this...Cause of death: hypoglycemia leading to hypoglycemic seizure leading to respiratory arrest and cardiac arrest," Kennedy says. "Cardiac arrest? As in: a congenital heart defect?"
She hands me the report. "Well, I was right, for what it's worth," I say. "The baby had a grade-one patent ductus."
"Is that life-threatening?"
"No. It usually closes up by itself the first year of life."
"Usually," she repeats. "But not always."
I shake my head, confused. "We can't say the baby was sick if he wasn't."
"The defense doesn't have the burden of proof. We can say anything--that the baby was exposed to Ebola, that a distant cousin of his died of heart disease, that he was the first kid to be born with a chromosomal abnormality inconsistent with life--we just have to lay out a trail of bread crumbs for the jury and hope they're hungry enough to follow."
I sift through the medical file again until I find the photocopy of the Post-it note. "We could always show them this."
"That does not create doubt," Kennedy says flatly. "That, in fact, makes the jury think you might have a reason for being pissed off in the first place. Let it go, Ruth. What really matters here? The pain from just a little bruise to your ego? Or the guillotine hanging over your head?"
My hand tightens on the paper, and I feel the sting of a paper cut. "It was not a little bruise to my ego."
"Great. Then we're in agreement. You want to win this case? Help me find a medical issue that shows the baby might still have died, even if you'd taken every single measure possible to save it."
I almost tell her, then. I almost say that I tried to resuscitate that child. But then I would have to admit that I had lied to Kennedy in the first place, when here I stand, telling her it's wrong to lie about a cardiac anomaly
. So instead, I stick my finger in my mouth and suck at the wound. In the kitchen, I find a box of Band-Aids and carry them back to the table, wrap one around my middle finger.
This is not a case about a heart murmur. She knows it, and I know it.
I look down at my kitchen table, and run my thumbnail against the grain of the wood. "You ever make your little girl peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?"
"What?" Kennedy glances up. "Yes. Sure."
"Edison, he was a picky eater when he was little. Sometimes he decided he didn't want the jelly, and I'd have to try to scrape it off. But you know, you can't ever really take the jelly off a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, once it's there. You can still taste it."
My lawyer is looking at me as if I've lost my mind.
"You told me this lawsuit isn't about race. But that's what started it. And it doesn't matter if you can convince the jury I'm the reincarnation of Florence Nightingale--you can't take away the fact that I am Black. The truth is, if I looked like you, this would not be happening to me."
Something shutters in her eyes. "First," Kennedy says evenly, "you might very well have been indicted no matter what race you were. Grieving parents and hospitals that are trying to keep their insurance premiums from going through the roof create a perfect recipe for finding a fall guy. Second, I am not disagreeing with you. There are definite racial overtones in this case. But in my professional opinion, bringing them up in court is more likely to hinder than to help you secure an acquittal, and I don't think that's a risk you should take just to make yourself feel better about a perceived slight."
"A perceived slight," I say. I turn the words over in my mouth, running my tongue across the sharp edges. "A perceived slight." I lift my chin and stare at Kennedy. "What do you think about being white?"
She shakes her head, her face blank. "I don't think about being white. I told you the first time we sat down--I don't see color."
"Not all of us have that privilege." I reach for the Band-Aids and shake them across all her charts and folders and files. "Flesh color," I read on the box. "Tell me, which one of these is flesh color? My flesh color?"
Two bright spots bloom on Kennedy's cheeks. "You can't blame me for that."
"Can't I?"
She straightens her spine. "I am not a racist, Ruth. And I understand that you're upset, but it's a little unfair of you to take it out on me, when I'm just trying to do my best--my professional best--to help you. For God's sake, if I'm walking down a street and a Black man is coming toward me and I realize I'm going the wrong way, I keep going the wrong direction instead of turning around so he won't automatically think I'm afraid of him."
"That's overcompensating, and that's just as bad," I say. "You say you don't see color...but that's all you see. You're so hyperaware of it, and of trying to look like you aren't prejudiced, you can't even understand that when you say race doesn't matter all I hear is you dismissing what I've felt, what I've lived, what it's like to be put down because of the color of my skin."
I don't know which one of us is more surprised by my outburst. Kennedy, for being confronted by a client she thought was grateful to bask in the glow of her professional advice, or I, for letting loose a beast that must have been hiding inside me all these years. It had been lurking, just waiting for something to shake my unshakable optimism, and free it.
Tight-lipped, Kennedy nods. "You're right. I don't know what it's like to be Black. But I do know what it's like to be in a courtroom. If you bring up race in court, you will lose. Juries like clarity. They like being able to say, Because A, therefore B. Sprinkle racism over that, and everything gets cloudy." She starts gathering up her files and reports, jamming them back in her briefcase. "I'm not trying to make it seem like your feelings don't matter to me, or that I don't believe racism is real. I'm just trying to get you acquitted."
Doubt is like frostbite, shivering at the edges of my mind.
"Maybe we both need to cool down," Kennedy says diplomatically. She gets to her feet and walks to the door. "I promise you, Ruth. We can win this case, without bringing any of that up."
After the door closes behind her, I sit, my hands folded in my lap. How, I think, is that winning?
I pick at the edge of the Band-Aid on my finger. Then I walk to the vase on the shelf near the television. I pull out the manila envelope and rummage through the checks until I find what I'm looking for.
Wallace Mercy's business card.
FRANCIS LIKES TO OPEN UP his home to guys in the Movement every other Sunday afternoon. Once the crews stopped roaming the streets looking for people to mess up, we hardly ever saw each other. You can reach a lot of people through the World Wide Web, but it's a cold, impersonal community. Francis recognizes that, which is why twice a month the street is packed with cars with license plates from as far away as New Jersey and New Hampshire, enjoying an afternoon of hospitality. I'll put on the football game for the guys, and the women congregate in the kitchen with Brit, organizing the potluck dishes and trading gossip like baseball cards. Francis takes it upon himself to entertain the older kids with colorful lectures. You can stand at a distance and almost see words blazing from his mouth, like he is a dragon, as the boys sit mesmerized at his feet.
It's been almost three months since we've had a Sunday session. We haven't seen these people since Davis's funeral. To be honest, I haven't really thought about it, since I'm still stumbling through the days like a zombie. But when Francis tells me to post an invitation on Lonewolf.org, I do it. You just don't say no to Francis.
And so, the house is full again. The tone, though, is a little different. Everyone wants to seek me out, ask how I'm doing. Brit is in our bedroom with a headache; she didn't even want to pretend to be social.
But Francis is still the happy host, pulling the caps off beers and complimenting the ladies on their haircuts or blue-eyed babies or the deliciousness of their brownies. He finds me sitting by myself near the garage, where I've gone to dump a bag of trash. "People seem to be having a good time," he says.
I nod. "People like free beer."
"It's only free if you're not me," Francis replies, and then he looks at me shrewdly. "Everything all right?" he asks, and by everything he means Brit. When I shrug, he purses his lips. "You know, when Brit's mama left, I didn't understand why I was still here. Thought about checking out, if you know what I mean. I was taking care of my six-month-old, and I still couldn't find the will to stick around. And then one day, I just got it: the reason we lose people we care about is so we're more grateful for the ones we still have. It's the only possible explanation. Otherwise, God's a sorry son of a bitch."
He claps me on the back and walks into the tiny fenced backyard. The young teens who've been dragged here by their parents are suddenly alert, awakened to his magnetism. He sits down on a stump and starts his version of Sunday School. "Who likes mysteries?" There is nodding, a general buzz of assent. "Good. Who can tell me who Israel is?"
"That's a pretty crappy mystery," someone mutters and is elbowed by the boy beside him.
Another boy calls out, "A country filled with Jews."
"Raise your hand," Francis says. "And I didn't ask what Israel is. I asked who."
A kid who's just getting fuzz over his upper lip waves and is pointed to. "Jacob. He started being called that after he fought the angel at Peniel."
"And we have a winner," Francis says. "Israel went on to have twelve sons--that's where the twelve tribes of Israel come from, you follow..."
I walk back into the kitchen, where a few women are talking. One of them is holding a baby who's fussing. "All's I know is she doesn't sleep through the night anymore and I'm so tired I actually walked out the front door in my pajamas yesterday headed to work before I realized what I was doing."
"I'm telling you," one girl says. "I used whiskey, rubbed on the gums."
"Can't start them too early," says an older woman, and everyone laughs.
Then they see me standing there, and the conv
ersation drops like a stone from a cliff. "Turk," says the older woman. I don't know her name, but I recognize her face; she's been here before. "Didn't see you come in."
I don't respond. My eyes are glued to the baby, who is red-faced, waving her fists. She is crying so hard she can't catch her breath.
My arms are reaching out before I can stop myself. "Can I...?"
The women glance at each other, and then the baby's mother places her into my arms. I can't get over how light the baby is, rigid arms and legs kicking as she shrieks. "Shh," I say, patting her. "Quiet, now."
I rub my hand on her back. I let her curl like a comma over my shoulder. Her cries become hiccups. "Look at you, the Baby Whisperer," her mother says, smiling.
This is how it could have been.
This is how it should have been.
Suddenly I realize that the ladies are not looking at the baby anymore. They are staring at something behind me. I turn around, the baby fast asleep, tiny bubbles of spit on the seam of her lips.
"Jesus," Brit says, an accusation. She turns and runs out of the kitchen. I hear the door to the bedroom slam behind her. "Excuse me," I say, trying to juggle the baby back to her mother as gently and as quickly as possible. Then I run to Brit.
She's lying on our bed, facing away from me. "I fucking hate them. I hate them for being in my house."
"Brit. They're just trying to be nice."
"That's what I hate the most," she says, her voice a blade. "I hate the way they look at me."
"That's not what--"
"All I wanted was a fucking drink of water from my own sink. Is that too much to ask?"
"I'll get you water..."
"That's not the point, Turk."
"What is the point?" I whisper.
Brit rolls over. Her eyes are swimming with tears. "Exactly," she says, and she starts to cry, just as hard as that baby was crying, but even after I gather her into my arms and hold her tight and rub her back she doesn't stop.
It feels just as foreign to be soothing Brit while she sobs as it was for me to cradle an infant. This is not the woman I married. I wonder if I buried that fierce spirit along with the body of my son.
We stay there, in the cocoon of the bedroom, long after the sun sets and the cars drive away and the house is empty again.
--
THE NEXT NIGHT we are all sitting in the living room watching television. My laptop is open; I'm writing a post for Lonewolf.org about something that happened in Cincinnati. Brit brings me a beer and curls up against me, the first contact she's initiated since, well, I can't even remember. "What are you working on?" she asks, craning her neck so that she can read what's on my screen.