Tears of a Tiger

by Sharon M. Draper

—I’m sorry. I really need to speak to Keisha. It’s important.

  —Andy, she’s asleep, and you should be too. You can’t call here after midnight on a school night and expect me to call her to the phone. I don’t care how important it is. Now you go get some rest and you can talk to her at school tomorrow, okay?

  —I’m sorry I bothered you, Mrs. Montgomery. Don’t even tell her I called. She’ll just have one more thing to be mad at me for.

  —Things always look brighter in the morning, Andy. I’m sure you two will be able to work out your differences. She really thinks a lot of you. Now get off this phone and let me get back to sleep!

  —Okay, Mrs. M. Good night, and thanks.

  —So what do I do now? My head is throbbin’. My mind is cloudy. My heart is bloody, and my soul is on ice. (I think I read that somewhere….) Nobody’s home. Nobody cares. Maybe I’ll try sleep. I wish I could sleep forever.

  “Have You

  Seen Andy?”

  Andy’s Friends

  at School

  APRIL 3

  In Homeroom

  —Grimes?

  —Here.

  —Hawkins?

  —Yeah.

  —Henderson?

  —Here.

  —Immerman

  —Over here.

  —Jackson?…Jackson?…Is Andy absent again?

  —Yeah, Mr. Whitfield. He’s got “senioritis,” a terrible disease.

  —I’d say that he might have a fatal disease. Students who catch “senioritis” have been known to develop serious complications and never graduate.

  —He’ll be here tomorrow. He has to. He owes me two dollars.

  —Good luck. Okay, let’s finish with attendance.

  —Johnson?

  —Here…

  —Keisha, have you seen Andy?

  —No, and I hope I never do again.

  —Come on, girl, you know it hurts.

  —Yeah, Rhonda. It hurts. I really liked him, you know, but it just got too complicated. He’s better off without me. He’s got to get himself together before he can get seriously involved with someone else. How’s Tyrone?

  —Oh, just great. We’re goin’ to the movies tomorrow. Do you want to come?

  —No. I’ll probably just catch a movie on cable. It’s kinda nice just to relax for a change and not worry about how I look or what I’ll wear or where we’re going. I’m just going to chill and enjoy my freedom.

  —Okay, but call me if you change your mind. Say, I’m going to drop off Andy’s chemistry homework to his house after school. Mr. Whitfield said he’d fail unless he got this assignment in. You wouldn’t want to go with me, would you?

  —No way, girl. Actually, if I saw him, I might break down and do something stupid like cry, or make up with him. I’m out of his life—at least for now.

  —Okay. I’ll call you later.

  Tigers Have It Rough

  Andy—at Home Alone

  APRIL 3

  10:00 A.M.

  —So what do I do now? Pray? Cry? Hide under the bed from the monsters that are inside of me? No, I’m just going to sit here and think. I’m goin’ to think about why I’m sittin’ here on my bed, holdin’ my dad’s huntin’ rifle, feelin’ how smooth and cool it feels. He likes to hunt—some killer instinct left over from his ancestors who ran around in loincloths in the Congo. Ha! What would they think if they could see him in his three-piece suit, spear in hand, crouchin’ low to stalk a tiger?

  Tigers have it rough these days. Instead of roamin’ the jungle, hiding from hunters in three-piece loincloths, they are put in concrete cages with bars of steel. Even in the modern zoos, where it looks like the tigers ought to e happy because they are given fifteen or twenty feet of real grass, if you look really hard, you can see tiny little electrical wires. The tiger, who might think he’s equal to all those tigers in the jungle that his mama told him about, is quickly reminded to stay in his place. He soon learns that he’ll never get out of there.

  I’ve always hated this bedspread. It’s lumpy and when you sit on it, little tufts of the material stick to your clothes. See, it’s already started—tiny little bits of lint all over my slacks. And it always slides off my bed in the middle of the night, just when I’m sleeping too hard to know it’s gone. I just have this vague feelin’ I’m cold, or dreamin’ of being cold, or somethin’.

  I’m a little cold now—now that I think about it—cold inside, like there’s nothin’ there, or like my guts are frozen. I remember once when I was little I got this same frozen-gut feelin’. I was in a department store with Mama and we were on the escalator—goin’ down. I remember feelin’ slightly dizzy as I looked behind us at where we’d been, the steps rollin’ smoothly. When we got to the bottom, the shoestring of my new red tennis shoes got caught and the steps kept rollin’, pullin’ me and my foot with them. Mama screamed, and I guess I was scared, because I just felt frozen—like I was watchin’ myself on TV—as the movin’ steps gradually gobbled my shoestring and pulled my foot toward its teeth. Some dude ran over to the escalator and pushed the emergency button. Mama pulled me loose, and then smacked me for being careless. I never even cried. I just felt like I wasn’t really there—like now, sittin’ here on my bed, wishin’ that I was nowhere at all.

  It’s not that I want to die—it’s just that I can’t stand the pain of livin’ anymore. I just want the hurt and pain inside to go away. It’s like a monster in my gut—eatin’ me up from the inside out. Actually, I feel like the only thing that’s keepin’ me from going crazy is this terrible, terrible pain.

  There’s nobody home—everybody’s gone for the day. I left for school, but halfway there I forgot where I was going, or why. So I came back here, to sit on my lumpy, linty bedspread, wishin’ I had never been born, strokin’ the smooth, cool barrel of my father’s shotgun. It is very, very quiet.

  I’m sorry for all I’ve done—so sorry,…so very, very sor—

  Facts Without Feelings

  Official Police Report

  APRIL 3 8:30 P.M.

  OFFICIAL POLICE REPORT

  YOUTH INVESTIGATIVE DIVISION

  DATE: April 3

  TIME: 1820

  INVESTIGATING OFFICER: Casey

  SUBJECT: Andrew Jackson—male—black, age 17

  ADDRESS: 2929 Ridgemont Lane

  FINDING: Suicide

  DISPOSITION: Deceased

  SUMMARY REPORT:

  On the morning of April 3, the above-named student left for school, but a neighbor reported seeing him return home about one hour later. He never reported to school. His friends had expressed concern because of Andrew’s recent extreme fits of depression. A friend, Rhonda Jeffries, arrived at the house at 4:05 to bring Andrew some missed schoolwork. Andrew’s mother, who was just getting home from picking up her younger son from school, had not been aware that her son had not gone to school. The younger child, Monty, age six, noticed blood on the ceiling. Mrs. Jackson went to her son’s bedroom where Andrew’s body was found with a fatal gunshot wound to the head. Police and life squad were summoned at 4:11. Andrew was pronounced dead at the scene.

  Feelings On Display

  Grief Counselor at School

  APRIL 4 9:00 A.M.

  —Good morning, class. my name is Mrs. Sweet and I’m a member of the suicide prevention/grief counseling team that has been brought in to help you through this crisis. We want you to feel free to express your emotions—so cry if you want to, or ask us questions—whatever you need to do to get through this.

  —If you work for the suicide prevention team, you didn’t do a very good job, did you?

  —You sound bitter, young man. Your name is?…

  —Tyrone. Andy was my friend. Where was you last month when me and B.J. was lookin’ for somebody to help him? You got posters and emergency phone numbers for suicide prevention hot lines posted all over the building today. Where was you last week? What good does it do now?

  —You have a point, Tyrone. Your counselo
rs here at school know these numbers and should have had them available for you.

  —When we went to see the counselor, all we got was bad breath and bad advice.

  —There is no way that your counselor could have seen the future. I’m sure she would have suggested our number had she known the severity of Andy’s problems.

  —Yeah, sure. Tell me anythin’.

  —Is there anyone else who would like to express their feelings? Anger is a perfectly normal emotion.

  —Yes? Your name?

  —B.J.

  —B.J.?…uh…that stands for?…

  —It stands for B.J. Mrs. Sweet, we’ve had two kids die in our class this school year. We had some people here from your office when Robbie died too. It didn’t do no good then neither. They’re still dead. And I’m afraid I’ll be next. I’m just plain scared.

  —As we get older, we all learn that death is a part of life. If we let these tragedies become growth experiences, if we learn from them, then we have in some way triumphed over the fear and anger and sorrow that death brings.

  —That sounds like somethin’ you got outta a book. That don’t cover how I feel. Andy left without sayin’ good-bye and I don’t know why. He had friends that cared about him that he didn’t ask for help. I feel like he punched me in the gut and I can’t hit back.

  —I understand. Does anyone else have anything to say? No one? I see. Sometimes it’s hard to speak such personal emotions out loud. I have an idea. Suppose you could write a letter to Andy. Don’t tell me what’s on your mind, talk to him. Tell him what you wanted to say, what you wish you had said, what you want to say now. If you write it down, that might help you sort out your feelings.

  —This is stupid.

  —If you don’t want to participate in this activity, that’s perfectly acceptable. But for those of you who do, let’s see if it helps.

  Anger and Pain

  Letters to Andy

  from His Friends

  APRIL 8–12

  Dear Andy,

  Well, this stupid counselor woman said to write this dumb letter to you. I don’t see what for. It’s supposed to make us feel better. But how can we feel better if we still don’t understand why? Hey, man, life ain’t perfect, but it’s life! Remember right after the accident when we realized we wasn’t going to die? In spite of all that noise and fire and death, we looked at each other, and real quicklike, we smiled. You know why? Cause we were alive. And we were glad. Of course we felt horrible because Rob was dead. I will never, never forget him, or that terrible night. And we felt guilty too—guilty that it was our stupid behavior that caused it, and guilty that we had lived and he had died. I been able to deal with the guilt—day by day it gets easier to handle. But you—you never got out from under the blame you put on yourself.

  We didn’t die in that accident for a reason. B.J. says it’s because the Lord needed Robbie up there and he needed us down here. (I guess you know B.J.’s gotten real religious lately.) I don’t know about all that—all I know is that if there was some special reason why we didn’t die in that crash, then you just blew it.

  Robbie’s death was an accident. Somehow I can deal with that, but what you did—it just don’t make no sense to me. You’re making everything so rough for the rest of us. Rhonda and Keisha—they cry every time you look at them; and me and B.J. try to hang together, but nothing is fun anymore. I probably never will figure all this out. I know my life will never be the same. But I also know that dying don’t fix nothing. It just makes things worse. I don’t know what I’m here for, but I’m here to stay, and I got the guts to keep on living and find out why.

  I’ll miss you, Andy, and I’ll never forget you, but when me and Rhonda is married and got six kids, you won’t be there. And when B.J. is preaching to a church with 5,000 people, you won’t be there. And when Keisha is a famous fashion designer with a Ph.D. in chemistry, with all kinds of fine-looking dudes around her, you still won’t be there.

  So later, brother. Say hello to Romeo and Juliet for me. Tell them I think they were stupid too. They didn’t get to go to the Senior Prom either.

  Your main man,

  Tyrone

  Dear Andy,

  You know what really pisses me off? You! You’re a coward and a sellout! You decided to end your life, without saying good-bye to anybody, without asking anyone for help. You deserted your friends and family—the people who love you the most. Suicide is the coward’s way out. Brave men face their problems. So what does that make you? I don’t want to face my problems either. So what does that make me?

  Do you know what courage is? I guess you don’t. Do you know that the courage it took at that moment—to actually blow yourself away—was more than enough courage to keep on living? It takes courage for me to get out of bed every morning, to put up with my stepfather’s beatings, with my house that stinks of pee, with my face that looks at me in the mirror each morning and reminds me that the scar is still there. But I smile back at my face and I grab a bag of potato chips and my basketball and I head out for school. Because I have courage. I’ll be here next week. Where will you be?

  I hate you for leaving me here. I hate you for making me feel like this. I hate you for making me cry. And I hate you for making me face death again so soon.

  Gerald

  Dear Andrew,

  You don’t know me very well. You probably don’t know me at all. I was in your English class this year. I sat on the other side of the room, near the door. I’m the one with the torn book bag and the nondesigner jeans. I used to sit there and watch you—cracking jokes with the teacher, charming the girls with that freaky smile, and laughing when you flunked one of those pop quizzes. And I envied you. Oh yes, I envied your easy, careless ways. Sure, I got good grades. (You once stood up and led the whole class in a cheer for me because I was the only one who got a perfect score on the Macbeth test—I know you don’t remember that—I’m one of those kids who’s easily forgotten—but I’ll never forget it.) I wanted to be like you—popular and likable and well known. I never realized the price you were paying for that mask you were wearing. I’m glad I found out—I like myself a lot better now.

  Marcus

  Dear Andy,

  I have some questions for you. Everyone has been asking why—why did you do it? Why now? Why didn’t you ask for help? But I’ve got some harder questions for you.

  What were you thinking while sitting in your bedroom with that shotgun? Who did you think would find you? Did you have someone particular in mind? Your dad? Your mom? How about your little brother, Monty? He’s six years old. Did you think what an effect this would have on the rest of his life? Did you think about the blood?—on your bed, the wall, the floor? Did you know the blood dripped through the floorboards through the ceiling of the living room? That’s how they first discovered what you had done. Monty asked your mom why there was blood on the ceiling.

  I’m not through with you. Your mom found you, or what was left of you. Did you think about her? Could you feel her pain as she walked into your room, and saw your body draped across your bed, a gun still clutched in your hand, and shattered segments of your head spread across a room which looked as if it had been painted with blood? Do you know what blood smells like, Andy? Your mom does. She’ll never forget it. Part of her died that day too.

  And so did I. I was there. I had come to bring your chemistry homework because you weren’t at school. When she screamed, I ran upstairs. From that point, it’s like a terrible videotape that keeps rewinding, that won’t erase. The blood, the screams, the tears, the frantic call to 911, the ambulance, the police, the body bag. Then the numbness, more tears, the disbelief, and the questions. Then more tears, the wake, the funeral, and the pain—the pain that will not go away.

  So, tell me, What were you thinking?

  Rhonda

  Dear Andy,

  You can’t be dead. But I went to your funeral. I felt your coffin. It was warm and woody, but you couldn’t have been in it. I
wanted to open it, to knock and call out your name, but I didn’t dare. I went to the cemetery. I kept thinking, Everybody here is dead…they’re all dead! Thousands and thousands of dead people—people who would never come back. And then I really did call out your name, and I finally cried. I wept for you—because you weren’t supposed to be with all these dead people, because you can’t, you just can’t be dead.

  So, I guess the pain is over for you now. You have moved to the place where there is no pain, and I guess that’s good. But the pain left by your absence is like a wound in our hearts that will not heal. Nobody understands why you decided to end your life when you had so much to live for. So you’re out of it and we have to stay here, feeling your pain as well as our own. It really isn’t fair, you know.

  Some people say (and don’t get me wrong—you know how often I go to church), well, they say that killing yourself is a sin and you’ll go to hell for it because you took a life that had been given by God, and you can never ask for forgiveness for that. But I can’t bear that thought, so in your case I hope God is forgiving. I hope God understands that your heart was good, but your pain was so powerful. (Of course, with that smart mouth of yours, God may be sorry and kick you out!)

  I love you. Take care. Wait for me….

  Love,

  Keisha

  “Lord, Please Forgive Him.”

  B.J.’s Prayer for Andy

  APRIL 28

  —Dear Lord, there’s a dude named Andy who’s on his way up there, at least I hope he’s headed in Your direction. He’s not a bad kid—just young and very, very stupid. Will stupidity keep him out of heaven?

  He suffered a lot down here. He never could talk to his folks and he stayed tied up in knots. He felt so very guilty for Robbie’s death. I think it’s because he never learned to pray. He never learned the power and hope that comes from Your forgiveness. I know that’s what kept me sane.