“Don’t do that again, Tala.”
“Let me go. And don’t ever call me ‘girl’ again.”
“Or else what? You gonna ‘out-clever’ me, I suppose?”
Prez released her and she snatched her arm away, spun on her heel, and quickly walked away, rubbing her wrist as she went. Prez realized he had held her wrist too tightly and that she would probably have a bruise. He looked down at his shin; blood was beginning to trickle down his leg. He watched her walking away, her buttocks swishing hypnotically with her every step. Her hair, a mass of shaggy tufts that stood out everywhere, reflected many different shades of dark auburn and brown as it bobbed and bounced around on top of her head. As she passed the statue of Lincoln and the freed slave, she turned to look back at Prez. Was that a smile he saw? He wanted to run after her and hold her body tight to his, to tell her that he wanted to lie with her.
“Hey, Prez,” said one of his boys, “don’t bleed all over the grass, now.”
“Yeah, man,” said another, “she’s gone now, so it’s alright for you to cry, man.”
“I know, man,” said someone else, “that shit musta hurt like hell.”
“Huh, Prez? Getting kicked in the shins? That shit hurts, man. Don’t it?”
“Hey, Prez. Man, what the fuck? Oh-oh, y’all. Somebody better run across town and tell that sweet little Miss Deb that some way-out girlie done come over here and kicked Prez in the shins and it went straight to his heart. Lookit that dude just watching her. Prez, what the fuck, man?”
Prez strolled over to the water fountain, took the bandana he had tied around his neck, wet it, and dabbed at the blood trickling down his leg.
“I’m just concerned that this red shit gonna git all over my sneakers, ya know.” Prez said it too loudly. He rinsed out his bandana, folded it and tied it around his forehead. He adjusted the waistband to his gym shorts. He reached down and pulled up his socks, reached down further to touch the ground as if he were stretching. Then gave a big yawn accompanied by a big wide arm stretch and said, “Hey y’all, let’s head over to the ball court and shoot some.”
The guys looked at each other, looked down at Prez’s shin, down which another little trickle of blood was starting, looked at each other again, and burst out laughing.
As they walked from the park, Sticks came running up from the back of the pack.
“Hey Prez, man, why you figure the same cop car’s been checking us out the whole time we been in this park?”
“Cool out, Sticks. They’re just driving around the park. We gonna have to send you back home to your mama for another ass-whipping if you don’t be cool.”
“No Prez, something’s not cool, man. That same cop car’s been circling around the park ever since we got here. Y’all just ain’t been payin’ attention.”
“And you’re sure it’s the same car, huh?”
“Yeah, Prez,” said Sticks. “I smell those cop cars even before I see ’em. They bother me, man.”
“Damn, Dee Cee,” said Prez, “don’t get too worked up about no car cruisin’ around the block. I mean, if they was really after your ass, they’d have come into the park by now to get you.”
“I don’t think that car is cruising, Prez,” said Tons. “I think they looking at us, man.”
“Okay,” said Prez. “Y’all cool out for a minute, now. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s something. Hold up right here. Let’s just stop for a minute and sit in the grass. Don’t anybody even look over there at ’em. Brennie-Man! I said don’t look! C’mon, we gonna sit right here for a bit. They’ll see that we ain’t doin’ nothing and they’ll go away.”
But the cops didn’t go away.
25
D.C. General Hosptial, Later that evening
“How bad is Brennie-Man, Mama?” Prez spoke through gritted teeth as he fought against the excruciating pain in his leg. “Ma, is he going to be alright?” This was far worse than getting kicked in the shin by Tala. He could feel his face wet and hot and taste the salty tears. His leg felt as though it was weighed down with a huge, throbbing ball of pain so heavy Prez couldn’t imagine ever walking on it again.
“Where is Brennie-Man? Somebody tell me how he is!” He noticed his mother had left the hospital room, although he couldn’t remember her leaving. Nor could he remember the arrival of his grandmother and his uncles. “Where’s Gussie?” he asked.
“He’s with your aunt,” offered Uncle Cadgie.
“My baby,” sniffled a red-eyed Denie. “They almost killed you, too.”
Prez forgot his leg for a split second as he looked in awe at his grandma. He hadn’t thought the woman had a tear in her, much less the great gushing that covered her face. Did she know something he didn’t know? Was he hurt much worse than he thought? And what did she mean by “they almost killed him too”?
“Uncle Cadge, it’s only my leg, right?”
“Yeah, just your leg.”
Prez panicked and realized he had not actually seen his leg. He was under hospital bedsheets. Did he still have his leg, or had the cops shot it off? In a flurry of motion, he leapt off the bed, causing the IV needle to dislodge from his arm, and knocked the whole IV contraption over onto the floor. He was patting frantically for his leg. When he realized it was still there, the strength ebbed out of him and he began toppling over. His Uncle Troy caught him. As his Uncles Roland and Cadgie tried to clean up and right what Prez had knocked over, his Uncle Troy placed him back upon the bed. The door opened ever so gently and a familiar face peeped in.
“Hi, folks, it’s just me.” It was Doctor Cardoza. “The nurse will get everything back in order here; I see we’ve had a little accident. Is everything alright, Preston?” Before Prez could answer, the doctor said, “Well, splendid. May I have a word with your family? Thank you. May we speak outside, if you don’t mind? Actually, I’d like you to come down the hall to my office. We should have a bit of privacy away from the rather large ears of our friendly police. And don’t you worry, Preston, Nurse Agnes will stay right here with you until we get back.”
As the doctor was leaving the room with Prez’s family, Prez noticed the uniformed white cops stationed on either side of his door. The part of him that would have normally submitted to fear and panic was quickly flushed away by the mighty cosmic infusion of centuries of slave insurrectionists whose blood Prez could feel heating up his veins, swelling his head, and fomenting a righteous contempt in place of fear and dread. As the door closed, he caught the eye of Nurse Agnes. Surely, she lived out in the white suburbs, probably where the two cops came from, Prez thought. Prez looked hard at her, wondering, if she were a man, whether she would also be a cop. She noticed his intense gaze, and with sad eyes smiled ever so slightly at Prez.
“They wanted to come in here and take you out, take you down to the police station, but Doctor Cardoza wouldn’t let them. He said that if you died in their custody, they could be charged for denying you medical treatment. That was a pretty smart move on the doctor’s part, don’t you think?” She got close to Preston and whispered in his ear, “Especially since you’ve only got what’s known as a flesh wound.” Prez looked at her quizzically. “You either got hit with a bullet fragment that ricocheted, or some pavement or rocks the bullets kicked up. Shhh!”
“What about my friend?” asked Prez. “Is he in another room?”
Her eyes became much sadder. “Someone else will tell you about your friend. Here, sit up.” After reattaching the IV, she placed a pillow under his leg. Then she took the chair beside Prez’s bed, turned it, and sat nervously watching the door.
The painkiller in the IV made Prez drowsy. He didn’t notice Nurse Agnes jump in reaction to the door opening. Nor had he heard his family re-enter with the doctor. All he remembered was speaking to his mother with a voice that didn’t seem to come from him.
“The ceiling is spinning, Mama. Or maybe I dr
eamed it. And my ears are ringing and humming. And I feel very hot. But maybe I’m dreaming it all up. Maybe I’m really not awake.”
Mattie looked at the doctor, who looked at the nurse, who shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. Denie came over and whispered something to Mattie who said in reply, “Yes, I thought about that, too. But how could he remember that? He was only three years old.”
“It’s the painkillers making him quite drowsy and perhaps a bit delusional, but please check his temperature again, will you?” asked Doctor Cardoza of the nurse. “Do you know what he’s talking about, Mrs. Downs?”
“Well, yes. But this is so strange. When he was a baby he had a bad ear infection that resulted in his having a very high temperature for a couple of days. I’d come into the bedroom sometimes and he’d be lying there in the crib with his eyes wide open looking up at the ceiling and making circular motions with his little arms. We thought it was so cute at the time. Then we realized, for him the ceiling was spinning. He was so feverish he was delirious.”
“He probably suffered some sort of auditory damage as a result. Are you aware of that? Has he ever had a hearing test?” asked Doctor Cardoza.
They all stood around the hospital bed as Prez pointed to the ceiling, making circular motions.
“It’s going around and round. Just like when I was a baby. I can see it going around, even though I know it’s really not. Even if I close my eyes, it’ll still be spinning, even though it’s not. It will stop when it stops. Just like my leg. It’ll stop hurting when it stops. Please, don’t give me any more painkillers.”
The nurse looked at the doctor, who looked at Mattie, who looked at her mother-in-law and her brothers-in-law. Then Mattie looked back at the doctor and nodded. Doctor Cardoza nodded at the nurse and she removed the IV from Prez’s arm.
“Well, Preston,” said Doctor Cardoza, “if the pain gets to be too much, you just let us know. A chunk of your flesh was torn away. It could get quite painful as it starts to heal. You just let us know if you need anything.”
“How long will I have to stay here? I want to go home.”
Suddenly there were a lot of other voices outside in the corridor. There was shouting and some obvious scuffling with bodies being pushed against the door of Prez’s hospital room. As Prez’s family began to nervously take up positions in front of him, the door burst open, giving everyone a start. Prez sat bolt upright in his hospital bed upon hearing a voice he knew well.
“You’re not a doctor. You’re not family. You can’t go in that room,” said the slenderer of the two police officers stationed outside.
“I am his lawyer, sir, attorney Eddie Flowers, senior partner and lead civil rights attorney for Flowers Fellows & Fischi. You certainly know my firm. Be advised that your presence in front of the hospital room of young Mr. Downs may be in serious violation of his civil rights, since he has been neither charged with, nor arrested for anything.
“Sir, you look confused. Is there a superior of yours around with whom you can consult to help you through this? Sir, do you wish to arrest either myself or young Mr. Downs? We shall take your silence for a negative response, then. Please step aside.”
As attorney Eddie Flowers led his entourage into Prez’s hospital room, he turned to an assistant and asked that the two officers be given his business cards. One card said: Flowers Fellows & Fischl Law Firm. And in fine print: Civil rights, criminal, constitutional law. The other card, which the two officers gazed at longest, said: MASTER FLOWERS, Instructor. In fine print: Aikido, Shaolin Kung fu. The address was on Massachusetts Avenue, right in the heart of Embassy Row.
26
D.C. General Hospital
Attorney Eddie Flowers watched as the two police officers disappeared through the big swinging doors at the end of the hospital corridor, then turned and asked of Doctor Cardoza, “Can young Mr. Downs go home, or must he remain in hospital?”
“There isn’t any medical reason to keep him here. His injuries are well dressed and his mother can apply a new dressing as needed. I can explain it all to her. Certainly, his wound will make any attempt at walking very painful for a couple of weeks, which is why I’m going to request that he be confined to bed for a couple of days. But certainly, he can go home.”
“Please, forgive me, Doctor Cardoza, but you have alternately referred to young Mr. Downs as having sustained an injury, and a wound. As a lawyer who will be representing the family, should the need arise, of course, I need to know whether in your professional opinion, Mr. Downs sustained an injury, which may be characterized as unintentional, or whether he has sustained a wound, which, due to the circumstances of this case, is the result of an intentional act?”
“Mr. Downs was wounded. Bullet and concrete fragments were removed from his leg.”
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know.” Turning to a nurse, Doctor Cardoza issued an instruction that sent her scurrying off.
“Can we count on you to testify to these facts in a court of law if such becomes necessary?”
“Why yes, of course. Without hesitation.”
“Thank you, kind sir. Shall we take young Mr. Downs home now?”
“Mama, Uncle Cadgie, come here.” Prez himself was somehow forgotten in all the activity and his voice startled everyone.
“What is it, little man?” asked his Uncle Cadgie. His mother simply looked down at the floor. She knew what it was. And as the others studied the expression on her face, they knew as well.
“Where is Brennie-Man?” Prez studied the faces of the adults. Only his Uncle Cadgie and Master Flowers would not look away from his stare. Their eyes were angry and sad at the same time. “Where are my clothes?” Prez had gotten up from the pillow, swung his throbbing leg over the side of the bed and sat up so abruptly that he nearly knocked the IV stand over again. “Can I please have my clothes? I want to get up.”
“Alright, Preston, just a minute,” said his mother. “We’ll take you home in a minute.”
“I don’t want to go home. I mean I do, but first there’s something I have to do. Can I please have my clothes? Uncle Cadgie . . .”
Prez motioned for his uncle to come near. His uncle listened then turned and said, “Mattie, please, let the boy have his clothes. Where are they? Can he get dressed now?” At that he went over to the door and held it as he motioned for everyone to leave so that Prez could have some privacy. Cadgie then pulled Doctor Cardoza aside and made a request that caused the doctor’s eyebrows to rise in alarm. But the more Cadgie spoke to him, the more relaxed the doctor became. Finally, he nodded okay and left the room.
Denie put her arm around Mattie’s shoulder as they exited. They both had tears flowing down their faces; tears of sadness, and tears of fear. They were scared for their Little Preston. He was in the midst of a very difficult rite of passage. They knew that the remnants of his childhood had been yanked viciously from him and that he would never be the same again. Moreover, they knew that black children’s stymied childhoods migrated directly to an all-too-often-tragic adulthood. There could be no greater fear for a mother and grandmother than that their man-child would be hurled straight into premature manhood in the belly of the American beast. Whichever turned out to be worse—the violent physical threats of an oppressive American system, or the interwoven racism which was just as brutal—chances were that the man-child in rebellion would not survive to adulthood. He’d be lucky to live long enough to get a driver’s license, much less attain voting age. And it was always the brightest and strongest who met such a fate: bright enough to see through the veils of subterfuge that hid the reality of American apartheid, and strong enough to try and stand up for the truth.
“What do you think is taking that boy so long to get dressed?” Denie inquired of Mattie.
“I don’t know. Maybe his leg hurts him too much. Maybe I should go in and see.”
Just as
she was about to go in the doctor came out followed by Cadgie who held the door for Prez. Prez took a deep breath and limped down the corridor to the elevator door. The doctor pushed the button marked M. When the door opened Prez whispered something to his uncle. He quickly turned and quietly told Mattie and Denie that Prez wanted them to wait there. In the morgue he stood beside the doctor who pulled the white sheet from his friend’s face.
“He looks peaceful like he’s sleeping,” said Prez. “Where did they shoot him?”
The doctor looked to Prez’s uncle for assistance.
“Can’t you just tell us, doc?” asked Cadgie.
“Alright. Your friend sustained two posterior entrance wounds from—”
“No, doc, not medical mumbo-jumbo, please.”
“That’s alright,” said Prez. “I already know he was shot in the back. I want to see.”
“But why, Preston Junior?”
“I need to see what they did to my friend. I need to know what they did to him so I’ll never forget. I need to see.”
“No, Preston Junior. You’re about to make a big mistake. You don’t need to see the work of evil to remember it. Once you look the devil in the face your own soul is damaged for the rest of your life. Brendon is dead and you can’t bring him back. You said he looks peaceful. Don’t you think that is what he would want for you?”
“You’re right, Uncle Cadgie.”
In the elevator going back up Prez told his uncle what happened.
“We had been in the park. We crossed Thirteenth Street and the cops turned on their sirens and lights and started chasing us for no reason. We were trying to get to the laneway behind where Mr. Richardson’s drugstore used to be. Then they started shooting. I was way out in front; then I remembered Brennie-Man wasn’t too fast. He was always last, you know, bringing up the rear. So I cut back to go get him. I figured if I ran with him, I could make him go faster. But just when I turned around towards him his eyes got real wide and he stumbled and fell flat on his face. I didn’t realize he had been shot. So, I started shouting, ‘C’mon, Brennie-Man! Get up! Get up and run, man!’ But he didn’t get up. And just as I was about to go over and get him, two cops ran over. One kicked Brennie-Man real hard in his ribs. The other cop, with the shotgun, leaned over Brennie-Man and shot him in the back! He shot him while he was already down on his face. I mean, where the hell was Brennie-Man gonna go? So, I started yelling at them to stop shooting Brennie-Man. That’s when they realized I was there and they started shooting at me. I took off and was halfway down the laneway when I fell flat on my face. My leg just came out from under me. I looked down and my leg was bloody. I got up, though, and ran to Tons’ house. His mother brought me to the hospital. They murdered Brennie-Man for no reason. We weren’t doing anything. Nothing at all, Uncle Cadgie, I swear!”
Exile Blues Page 15