The Shooting (22 page)

Driver say, —What's a boy your age doing out this time of night? but he ain't even trying to talk about it. Driver ain't got no idea. Words cannot explain. He put his head back and look out the window, thinking of her legs, how her thighs felt. That warmth opening up all of a sudden and him going in that first moment. Then he see his momma. And he look around and he see all sort of dudes with machine guns, and he see his pops tied up in a chair screaming and his momma bloody and she crying, and there blood all over him and he holding Stephen's gun in his hand and he down by that pond shooting it with them and a spirit comes out of that pond and it his dad. His real dad. And it coming toward him and Clayton shooting at it, but the bullets ain't doing nothing and the spirit crawls inside him and next thing he know, cabdriver yelling at him: —Wake up! Wake up!

He wake up. He ain't in the car no more, he outside. Everything is orange and concrete and cars fly past. The cabdriver standing in
front of him, he terrified, he has his hands on Clayton's shoulders and he screaming: —Wake up!
Wake up!

—What? What happened?

Driver see he awake and say, —
Gah-damn!
You damn near gave me a heart attack!

—Where am I?

—You in the
Holland Tunnel, son! Gah-damn!
We stopped in traffic and you start screaming and banging on the window. Next thing I know you out the gah-damn car, walking down the middle of the Holland gah-damn Tunnel.

—I was sleepwalking.

—No shit
you were motherfucking sleepwalking.
Gah-damn.

—I'm sorry.

—You need a hospital or something?

—No, no, just take me home, man. I'm sorry.

—You ain't gonna jump out again on me?

—Nuh-uh.

—You lucky traffic don't move but three miles an hour in here. You lucky we weren't on the West Side Highway or somewhere. Try that on the West Side Highway, you're roadkill, son. Happened last
week
to a guy.

—I'm okay.

—You gonna stay awake?

—Yeah. I'm awake, I'm awake.

Cab pull up behind his building. Clayton pay him, giving all of it, all his savings. Driver take it all, just snatch it like it pennies, shoving it into his pocket.

—You got a condition or something? driver say.

—Yeah.

—Gotta be careful.

—I know.

—Take care of yourself.

—I will.

—Can't never be too careful.

Clayton get out, cab drive off. He fish for his key, unlock the building's back door, slip inside, then go through the basement and
inside his apartment. He know his mom awake in her room, listening for him to come in. That feel good. She'll be relieved hearing him come home. Now she'll finally let herself sleep. In the morning they'll talk about everything. It don't hurt so much now, after Stacey. Nothing hurt now, because of her. Now he only thinking about his momma, what they did to her, and he feel sick, he feel guilty, but he also feel so proud of her. He got so much love for her. Dumb ass feeling sorry for himself. When his dad told him, what he shoulda done was run and hugged her and never let go.

He got so much love in his life. Maybe it don't matter who your father is, where you come from. Maybe he gotta learn that. Maybe that the most important thing: not your past, but how you deal with your past. If you don't deal with it right, your past can be death, it can be prison. For real. There so much to learn.
I'm so young,
he thinks. Can't wait to learn. Wanna learn it all. Wanna be a good man, have a good life.

Can't wait to kiss my momma in the morning, my pops. Can't wait to call Stacey, hear her voice. Wonder what she look like right now, sleeping. Pretty as hell, no doubt. Damn, he wish he were there with her.
Remember last night?
he'll say when he call her.
Remember what?
she'll say, teasing him. He'll laugh.
The band,
he'll say. And she'll say,
Oh yeah, they were great, they were the best part of the night.
Then her voice will get soft and whispery and she'll say,
Of course I remember, Clayton. I'll always remember.
He go to his bedroom, falling onto his bed atop his sheets in his hoodie and his Jordans. He out before he know what hit him.

(Sheeple V&VI)

 

A girl is ignored. Old teacher was good. But this new teacher—the girl can tell this new teacher just gives no kind of shit. She just yells at them, tells them to sit still and shut up and do what it says to do in the book.

Fuck the book. Nothing to work for and be excited about. The girl tries to read the newspaper but the words don't come right, they are in some kind of different language, the words that are supposed to be at the end are at the beginning, and the words that are supposed to be first are second and sometimes third. It takes her half an hour just to understand a single sentence. Better when someone reads it out loud to her, but who is she going to ask to do that, her teacher? She'd just say, —We ain't readin' da newspaper, we readin'
da book,
now do what you told and read
da book.
So she does not read the newspaper. And she does not read
da book
either.

Nothing is simple in her life or makes any kind of sense. She doesn't understand why shit is the way it is. Why does no one she knows have a job except her teacher? What is the point of learning what's in
da book
when there is nothing out there but jail and drugs and alcohol and death? Nothing makes sense but boys. Boys make sense because you got it and they want it. You make it look a little better, you stick it in their faces a little then take it away from them,
they want it even more. They notice you and ask you things and try to make you laugh, if they want it.

This boy from the block want it, he's wanted it since she turned eleven years old. He isn't a boy, more like a man. He buys her candy and soda, and he has a sister, he says, who does hair and maybe she'll do hers for free. And this man has a spot in the basement of this building he can get into whenever he wants. It's scary down there and she doesn't like him, but she wants her hair done. And it feel like she can't say no to his attention. It's like she cannot tear herself away. And no one else gives a fuck about her. So she starts going to this spot with him almost every day. Gets pregnant. Tells him. He looks mad at first but then he says it's okay, don't worry about it, no problem, we'll handle it. And she feels better. Few nights later he wants her to meet him at a different spot, way out in the park where there's nobody else, and she goes. He takes out a gun and puts it in her mouth and pulls the trigger.

She thinks,
I'm dead.
He is saying, —Shit, shit, and trying to fix his gun. The gun
jammed.
He says he was just kidding around but she runs away and he doesn't chase after her. She tells no one anything. Gives birth to the baby. They say, —What do you want to name him? She says the first name that comes into her head: Kenny. Quits school, gets a job. The job is being talent in a gentlemen's club in the Meatpacking District making all kinds of money. The lady who runs it says she makes movies, maybe she will put her in one. Are they porno? No, they're not porno, they're real movies. Holds on to that, when dancing gets too tiresome and too fucked up. Real movies. I'll be in a movie. One day, one day.

Years go by. Still dancing. A second baby—Gabriella. She's seven now. Kenny's fifteen. She has moved them into the project in Chelsea. Getting in was like winning the lottery. Works while they sleep, is home while they're awake. Kenny's father has been locked up for something she had nothing to do with, but he gets out and she hears he's looking for her. She gets a gun from a security guy at the club. Kenny can't read the way she couldn't read at his age, but his best friend, Clayton, who's a sweet good kid, sits with him and helps him, and Clayton's momma talks to the school Clayton
goes to, arranges for Kenny to take an admissions test, and Clayton helps him study so hard for it and he gets in, with full scholarship. Clayton gets killed, shot by a white man for no reason. They make a movie about it. Lady at the club knows them, says they're using real people in it to make it more authentic, puts her in touch and they like her, they want what she's got, and put her in the movie playing Clayton's momma. This definitely ain't a porno—it blows
up
and everyone recognizes her and now she's an actress, she gets a role on a TV show, she's making drug dealer money, she moves Kenny and Gabriella out of the project into a white-people building with a doorman next to the park. She pays for Kenny's college and can put Gabriella into a good school with teachers who recognize her brilliance and talent and who pay attention. Gabriella grows up with everything in the world to be excited about.

 

Weighs four pounds at birth, almost dies. Mother has no insurance, can't afford the checkups she needs while pregnant. While Momma's out working, Kenny feeds her, changes her, sits with her around the clock until she can breathe without machines. She's seven now and Kenny's fifteen. Kenny's at school, Momma's out doing nails at this salon, latest stab at getting legit because she feels like she needs to quit the club. Kenny's dad has been in prison, but he's out now and comes up banging on the door, calling Momma's name. Gabriella tiptoes up to the door to listen, careful to do it to the side so he can't see her toes under the door. He is trying to twist the knob.

—Open the door, Gabriella, he says.

How does he know her name?

—Open the door, he says.

She does not open the door. Calls her momma on the phone—no answer. Calls Kenny—no answer. Calls Ms. Debby across the hall—no answer. Her momma has a gun under her mattress, thinks she doesn't know about it. It's so heavy. Points it at the door holding it with both hands.
Please, God
, she prays,
please, God, make me disappear, make me a ray of sunshine so I can vanish.
Like a magic wand, when she points the gun at the door the knocking stops. Then Kenny's daddy is talking to somebody else outside in the hall. She knows the other voice. It's God, answering her prayer. Kenny's dad is mumbling
something and she can hear him leaving. Then there is knocking again, but this time it is the one with the good voice, the God voice.

—Hey, nerd, God says, —you in there?

She puts the gun back, opens the door. Clayton. He comes inside, closes the door. How did he know? She wraps her arms around him and he says, —What's going on? Who was that? She is crying. He strokes her head and says, —Shh, everything's okay, you're safe, I'm here. Next time it happens call the police, do you understand?

She says, —What are you doing here?

He says he is on his free period from school and Kenny didn't show up today, so he's checking up on him to make sure he isn't sleeping or playing video games. Then he says, —Why aren't
you
in school?

She shrugs, says her momma don't make her go.

He says, —No, you gotta go. You gotta go every day.

She says, —Do you go every day?

—Yeah.

—Then I'll go every day too.

Sometimes he stays over in Kenny's room and she gets to hang around them for hours, sometimes all night, listening to them talk about things and people she does not know, and asking,
What? Huh?
Who
said that?
What
happened?
What's
so funny?
until Kenny yells at her to go sleep on the couch and leave them alone, but Clayton always says,
Aw, Kenny, it's cool, let her stay.
He is so nice and smart and works so hard and never lies, he is what she wants to be when she grows up. If she is like Clayton, she knows, she will fall in love with a boy like Clayton and not a boy like Kenny's daddy. And she will not have to work the way her momma works. She will have nothing to be afraid of, like Clayton has nothing to be afraid of.

He says now, squatting down in front of her, hands on her shoulders, —You promise, Gabriella? You promise to go to school every day and do all your work and pay close attention so you can get out of here one day?

And she says, —I do.

He laughs. —I do? Are we married now or something?

She says, —Yes.

Goes to school every day. Then one night Clayton stays over with Kenny and in the morning kisses her head good-bye.

—Bye, dweeb, he says.

—Bye, dork, she says.

Last time she ever sees him. He leaves and never comes back. They take him. It's how she first learns about death. Keeps going to school, for Clayton. Straight A's, perfect attendance, like Clayton. Turns thirteen, starts looking like a woman, men want what she's got, but they are not like Clayton so she does not care about them, their attention means nothing, they can go ahead and want it but they'll never get it. Gets into college, meets a man like Clayton, they fall in love, he becomes a pediatric neurosurgeon, she becomes a public junior high school teacher in Brownsville, Brooklyn, looking for little Gabriellas she can be a Clayton to.

7

THE HANDYMAN

She was shouting, —How could you let him go? How could you? It is your fault! Why did you tell him? Why then, why in that way? Her voice was rich and throaty. It tore through the ceiling up into the apartment of the young woman upstairs. Certainly the young woman was listening.

He said quietly, —Because he was disappointed in me.

—He was not, she said.

—He was. I could see it. I felt like he needed to know the truth.

—No one needs to know the truth, she said.

He said, —He needed to know where he came from. So he knows who he is.

—So he knows who
you
are, she said, —or who you
were.

—That's not it.

—It was pride.

—No, not at all. He was standing with arms crossed, speaking as softly as he could, wondering if she was right. He hoped his speaking softly might influence her to do the same, for she was really shouting very loudly. She was going into the bedroom, taking off her shirt, pulling on another one. She was taking off her pajama pants, putting on jeans. She was sitting on the edge of the bed pulling shoes on to her feet.

—What are you doing? he said.

—I am going to go get him.

—He just wants to be alone, let him be alone.

—Too bad. It does not matter what he wants. He does not know what he wants. He needs us. He needs to be with us. We cannot let him wander around alone out there late at night.

—He will be with his friends. His friends will be there for him. He will lean on them and have fun and take his mind off everything, and when he comes home he will have blown off his steam. The shock will have worn off. And in the morning, we will talk about it. Really talk about it. He will understand.

She said, —But I am afraid. He's not answering his phone.

—Of course he's not, he does not want to talk to us right now. That's all it means. He knows how to take care of himself. He is very smart. He grew up in this city, remember? And this city is not what it was when we first came here. It was very dangerous then. Now it is nothing but rich white people. Which is good. It is safe.

He went to his wife, put his arms around her and kissed her on the forehead. The scent of her hair made him feel much better. As it always had. He was acting very calm but only because she was very anxious, because that is how he is with her—her counterbalance, and she his—but in truth he was just as anxious as she. They could not both be this way, one had to be calm. And her hair made him feel more like the way he was pretending to be. Her hair has always done this to him. On the bus that night so long ago, with Clayton already forming inside her, as they cowered under the coats and luggage of those cheerful rich kids on holiday risking their lives to hide them, as he cleaned her after the monsters, as he sutured her, all along the way since, he had stolen greedily luxurious scents of her hair. It had been all that kept him alive for her and, he did not know then nor could he have known, for Clayton.

—He will be fine, he said again.

—The things you tell yourself, she said.

—We have to tell ourselves things.

—Stories? Lies?

—Whatever you want to call them.

She agreed to wait until midnight. They lay in bed waiting. It was a standoff. Again and again he felt her about to speak then not speak, doing it only so he would suffer the tension it created, letting him writhe in it. Her way. To enhance the effect she changed position again and again, huffing and puffing, muttering angry little things at the mattress, kicking the sheets off, pulling them back over her shoulders. She wanted him to say,
What is it, what do you want to say?
This would allow her to uncork. And he would know she is right and it would make him angry at himself and his mistake, which would be painful, and when he gets hurt he gets mean, so he would then snap at her.
Well,
he would say,
what the hell are you doing about it, besides lying there huffing and puffing? How is that helping anything?
And this would make her so mad she would not say anything. That is how he knows she is really angry. Then she would kick the sheets off one last time and, muttering about him now, get out of bed and put her clothes on. He would do the same.
Fine,
he would say,
we are getting up and putting our clothes on, let's get up and put our damned clothes on!

Now he would be as angry as she was, a hurt man who knows he has made mistakes and the problems are his fault and now is responsible for fixing them. But there would be no good way to fix them. So he would fix them using the only tools at hand, which are meanness, impatience, childish ham-handed grunting apeness. Of course those tools do not fix anything. He would not let that stop him. He would be mean to her, mean to the unfortunate cabdriver who would happen to pick them up and charge them a fortune to go to New Jersey. And, once they humiliate Clayton by ambushing him in front of all his friends, the only ones left tonight in the whole world whom he trusts, he would be mean to Clayton too. He would rip Clayton apart. He knows he would.
How dare you leave like that? Do you know how stupid that was, how dangerous it is out there?
He would rip her apart too.

He did not want to rip them apart. He did not want to be mean. Mean was not the way. It would fix none of the problems he had caused. So when she huffed and puffed and kicked the sheets off
only to pull them back on and made him feel like she might say something but never did, he did not ask her what. Instead he let her be. It was better to let things be.

Her vise grip tightened. The more he ignored her the greater the pressure she put on him, the more she pushed him. She kicked the sheets off herself with more hostility. Muttered a little louder. He rolled over onto his back. Looked up at the ceiling. He could not stand it anymore. He said, —What, goddammit, what do you have to say to me?

Before she could uncork, the front door opened. Then it closed again. And at once the home was warm with the presence of Clayton. They listened to him walk past their room, go into the bathroom, and close the door, turn on the water. They heard him pee. She was no longer tense. She lay still. He still heard her breathing heavily but it was not her huffing and puffing—she was asleep. He put his hand on her back and kissed her. She was very hot and damp. Buried his face in her hair and fell asleep with her, it came so easily now, all the worry dispelled like it had been nothing.

Knocking on the front door. He wakes. Sits up.

—Who's that? she says, rousing beside him.

—I don't know.

It is hard, rapid knocking. Banging.

—Don't answer it, she says.

He gets up, leaves the bedroom, goes to the door. The deadbolt is not turned. It is always turned at night. Clayton's bedroom light is off but his door is open, and he feels a vacancy in the bedroom and knows Clayton is not in bed.
It's happened again
, he thinks. His sleepwalking was very disturbing. It represented deep psychological trauma, in-born wounds that break the handyman's heart. The boy was conceived in horror and now lives his life in it. Through the door now, between the pounding knocks, a voice is yelling something. He opens the door. It's Lucien, the doorman. Clayton is not with him.

—Where is he? the handyman says.

Lucien says, —There's been a shooting.

He knows. He runs to the elevator, and when that does not come quickly enough he takes the stairs, two at a time, all the way to the top floor where he runs into the police with their guns out. They put their guns into his face.

—GET DOWN! GET THE FUCK DOWN! SHOW ME YOUR HANDS!

He does, they cuff him. He is coated in sweat. Past them, as they lift him to his feet by his arms, he can see through Fisher's door into his apartment and he can see a basketball sneaker and he can see blood.

—CLAYTON! he is screaming. —CLAYTON!

He is struggling to break free from the cops. His son. They wrestle him down the stairs. He fights them every step. They will have to break all his bones. All he can do is scream his son's name. It explodes off the stairwell walls. Then he is again in the basement, cuffed and escorted down through the basement hall to the rear exit of the building, and she is standing there, outside their apartment. He cannot tell her. But he does not need to—somehow she already knows. —No, no, no, she is saying. He feels the officer's grip on his right arm loosen and twists away, or tries to, to run back to the stairs and up to Clayton.

—Stop resisting! this cop squeals, a twenty-two-year-old white man.

—No! he says.

Something wet on his face and orange on the wall and then his face is burning, like the cop's fingers are shoved into his eyeballs, a fork stabbed deep into his tongue. He is set on fire. His fight is taken from him. They drag his burning limp body out the door. He is slobbering. He does not care about the pain. He could take more of it than this. Do they think this is all he can take? Outside he cannot see but hears voices and sirens.

—Let him go, that's his father! people are shouting.

Lucien's voice is saying to the cops, —He had nothing to do with it, it's his son!

—Stay here, bro, the cop shouts at him. He does. Water is poured over his head. The fire is extinguished. Hands are touching him,
trying to pull him away. His friends, his neighbors. Protecting him. —Why are you fighting me, bro? the cop voice says.

He does not care about the pain and he does not care about cops. The cops could nail his hands to a wooden cross and hoist it up and stab him in the ribs, and he still would not care about the cops.

—Clayton! he is screaming, throat still thick and raw from the fire.

—There he is! someone cries.

He thinks they mean Clayton. —Clayton! he says. He is blinking his eyes, can open them now, but everything is very blurry. Out the same rear door they brought him through they now bring Clayton. Thank God!

But it is not Clayton. It is a white wad of a human, a fat short chunk. The devil. Here is the devil. Here is the monster of the world, it is the monster of tonight, here are those monsters from that night and all nights. He opens the doors for monsters knocking at night and in rushes hell. The cops could not inflict real pain but now the real pain comes. He roars. The real pain begins at his feet—no, it starts in the dirt beneath the concrete he stands on, then rises through it into his feet, up calves to thighs, through groin, rips up into bowel and stomach unleashing shit and poison into his blood and then it keeps going, snaps his ribs one by one, slaughters his heart. It slaughters it. He collapses into the arms of his friends roaring in his handcuffs, even the cop now letting go of him as Fisher is shoved past into a police car and taken away. The handyman's wife then runs out the door and no one stops her as she chases the cruiser.

—Go, he says, —run.

She runs in silence, robe flapping behind her. He hopes she runs faster than anyone ever has and never stops running so it never gets her. He hopes she runs faster than hell.

But it gets her. No way it will not. It gets her at the hospital. At the hospital they expect to sit with their son while he recovers from the shooting. But you do not recover from a shooting. They tell them this, at the hospital. You do not recover. Not from this one. And that is when it gets her. It gets her worse than it got him. She turns to him and takes his head in her hands like she could bash it, and in her eyes is pleading, desperation.
Fix this
, her eyes says.
You fix things
,
so
fix this.
He can do nothing. All he can do is catch her when she loses consciousness. It is her only recourse in the face of hell, when it gets her. He helps them put her into a bed.

—Keep her this way, he tells them. —Give her what she needs to stay like this.

Everyone is very nice. He feels guilty that they are so nice. They give him water, tell him what to do. Ask him what they can do. He does not know what they can do, but they tell him what he must do now is talk to the police.

He talks to the police. Tells the police everything he knows, which is very little, and the police in return tell him nothing they know, which is very much. Their questions are designed to figure out what Clayton did to deserve this.
Did he get into fights, have trouble with anybody? Did he run with gangs? Did he have any sudden, unexplained income? What kinds of drugs did he do? How often did he go to school? Did you ever know him to carry a gun?
They keep asking about a gun:
He had a gun, right? Where'd he get it? Come on, what kind of gun? You
never
saw a gun? You'll be in big trouble if you knew your kid had a gun and didn't do anything about it. This is your one chance.
He is to answer these questions, he is to take these insane questions seriously. He is to tell them everything they want to know, and he does, but they are to answer none of his questions, they are to tell him nothing he wants to know. Realizes in the middle of the conversation with the police that he is wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but they are not his and he does not know whose they are and has no recollection of ever getting dressed. Whose clothes are these? Where did they come from?

And then the police allow him to stop answering their questions and he is told what he must do now is identify the body. The body. Someone from the hospital brings him into a room where there is someone on a table completely covered by a sheet. He focuses on this someone from the hospital instead of the someone under the sheet. She is a young woman, not much older than Clayton. She asks if he would like water. He has water. Can't she see it? It is in his hands. Can't she see? She asks if there's anything she can do. How is he supposed to know? He is not her boss, he is not a
doctor anymore—how is he supposed to know enough to tell her what to do? He hates being with someone who is only pretending to be somber, only approximating the display of pain. She is a barnacle. None of this means enough to her. It is insulting to think he would not see through such bad acting. She is quiet with her hands folded in front of her and speaks gently. —Mr. Kabede, is this your son? And she pulls back the sheet. How dare she pull it back? She does not know how his bedroom smells or what he likes to eat or about his stuffed turtle, which you had to make sure was in his crib with him or he would cry. She has never seen him cry. She has never loved him. How he hates this person, with fervor, without end.