I was in the middle of saying Okay, okay, okay, okay when I had to cut our conversation short. I was being summoned out into the hallway to speak with some guy dressed in slacks and a button-down who was waiting for me there. He was a small man with wispy hair and a gawky way of talking. He informed me that his name was Dr. Elias and asked me if I was aware of where I was and why I’d been taken into custody. Then he asked if I was aware of the gravity of the situation.
I nodded yes.
He asked me if now was a good time to talk.
I nodded yes.
He said, Good. He told the guard that I wouldn’t require restraints, and the two of them escorted me through the maze of narrow concrete passageways and reinforced doors into a small, cramped office on a different floor. The guard left us alone. The doctor asked that I kindly make myself comfortable. He glanced over the contents of the manila folder in his hand and raised his eyebrows with a glance up.
Claremont Prep, eh? Not bad.
He turned back to the folder, glanced over it quickly, then put it aside. He looked at me squarely and said that on the surface, my case suggested a deep, highly suppressed underlying pathology, and that it was his job to discover the nature of those problems, which he was going to do by means of an evaluation. When I told him that I felt fine, he said that whether a single evaluation would be sufficient or more would be needed, he couldn’t say as yet. In any case, I was not to worry. Although it was true that the state of New York paid his salary, he was basically working for me. He was merely to be the conduit to the state court’s juvenile penal system of the important information I was to provide him and which he would evaluate so that the courts could determine the best possible course forward.
As in, what to do with me?
Correct—Hubert, is it? Yes. Correct, Hubert. An appropriate course of action, you might say. If that helps you understand it better.
Dr. Elias said that he needed specific information and insight to best serve me. He really wanted to make sure that I got it right the first time. There would be no second time. He took great pains to make that clear. He kept coming back to it—that if I wasn’t careful, I would only end up hurting myself; that the only person who had anything to lose here was me. He took a tape recorder from his drawer and set it atop his desk and asked if his recording our conversation made me feel anxious. I shook my head no.
There was no need for me to worry, I was assured. He wasn’t trying to make me anxious. He merely needed to record our conversation so as to accurately document my responses for the state. They would be submitted as evidence. Then he said that he wanted to talk to me a little about that, too. He would be asking me some difficult questions, but it was very important that I open up to him—that I not hold anything back. Concealing information from him would only risk hurting things for me down the road. I was to take the time that I needed with every question and answer as honestly and frankly as possible. And under no circumstances was I to fear that there might be negative repercussions to any of my answers. That was the best way that he could help me. If I didn’t, well, that invited unnecessary risks.
I sat up.
Unnecessary risks? Before you go turning that thing on, mister—what’s the worst that can happen? I mean, what are we talking here, exactly?
Well, Dr. Elias equivocated. That’s a tough question, honestly. And not really for me to say. But speaking to you as one human being to another, in the worst case, that could mean being taken away from your mother.
Wha—?
Yes. Unfortunately or fortunately, whatever your opinion, the court retains the legal right to do so. If they determine that course of action appropriate, it is not only their prerogative but their obligation to do so—for example, if they thought that doing so would protect you.
When I asked Dr. Elias where they would put me, he said that he didn’t know. Could be anywhere.
You mean, like another family?
Literally anywhere, Hubert. A family, a facility, an institution—impossible to say. Could be anywhere. A place like this. Even jail. Impossible to say.
Dr. Elias assured me that if I were cooperative, it didn’t have to be that way. But first, he needed to talk to me about a few things. He looked at his watch and said that we should get on with it because the sooner he could turn his evaluation over to the juvenile court the better. The family of the boy I’d poisoned would no doubt have the option to press charges, and stalling wouldn’t help me any. The sooner we got down to brass tacks, the sooner he could provide useful information to the courts and the sooner we could be on our way to resolving this matter. Ideally, soon enough to potentially sway them from pressing charges.
Charges?
Dr. Elias nodded yes. But this information will only help your case. Which is what I’m trying to impart to you. It’s very unusual that something gets discovered in cases like this that can hurt the defendant. I simply can’t imagine what that would be. That’s why you need to be open with me. If nothing else, it demonstrates that you’re being cooperative. And that’s a good thing, right? So this is our first order of business. Are you ready?
When I said, Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Hold on with the tape recorder and asked what the charges were, Dr. Elias hesitated. He wasn’t sure.
It really hinges on whether that boy survives or not. Now, as I understand it, he’s still in critical condition. But my information is several hours old already. He might be changing by the minute, for all we know. I am not receiving updates as to his condition. That is not for me to do. That is for someone else to do. Right now my job is to help you—which is why this is an extremely delicate situation. So we’re going to just have to wait and see. Right now no one can really say. But if he dies, it could very well end up being aggravated manslaughter.
I was sure I hadn’t heard right. Manslaugh—?
He nodded, gravely.
For God’s sake! I was just trying to teach him a lesson!
The door opened. The doctor tried to wave the orderly off, but he remained by the door.
It’s not my job to get into legal matters with you, Hubert. All I can tell you is that the prosecutor will decide what charges to seek, and a judge will decide the case, Hubert, based on evidence provided by the prosecution, the defense, and me. Now, I can tell you procedural information and am perfectly happy to do so, but none of that is going to help you right now. Right now, we have got to focus on the nuts and bolts. Our interview will be given to the prosecution at the point of arraignment to help them determine if they desire to seek charges. If they do, it will be used by the judge and jury in the prosecution of the case. That is all I can say right now.
But if he’s okay—then it’s all okay, right?
Possibly. But it’s entirely possible, on the other hand—well, it’s conceivable that they could pursue attempted manslaughter.
I wasn’t trying to kill him! I just wanted him to know what it fuckin’ felt like! Why can’t anyone understand that?
Calm down, son. Listen, Hubert. Now we’re getting way off track. I know that this is a lot to have to take in. You have no criminal record. And that’s good—very good—in a case like this. I’ve spoken with your mother, and she sounds like a decent woman. And she’s assured me that I will have your full cooperation. So I think this is going to all get straightened out. That’s my honest-to-God prognosis at this point. That’s what I told her. But it is in no way guaranteed. And you would be in gross misapprehension of the situation to think that it was. And I would be in gross dereliction of my professional responsibilities to lead you to believe that it was. Things can and do go wrong. The unexpected does happen. Happens all the time, in fact. Now, I think you’ll agree that what you did was not normal. Can we agree that that’s not who you want to be? Am I right? Because otherwise they’re going to think you’ve gone off the deep end. And trust me, you don’t want some overcaffeinated prosecutor thinking that you’re in some kind of tailspin. Because he will lock you up and throw away
the key because you are evidently a threat to everyone around you. Am I making myself clear? At the end of the day, if they are not confident that you are redeemable, this is where you will end up. Capisce? Okay. C’mon. You look like a good Italian boy. We’ll get this all sorted out, eh? So let’s get to work. I’m sure your mother’s worried sick about you. And we can’t have any more of that. Agreed? Good. In the meantime, let’s just pray for that boy. What’s his name?
Ariel J. Zukowski.
Because I understand that he is not doing so hot right now. And if he dies—and even if he lives—they may just try to take you away from your mother.
• • •
ONE DAY THE world seemed to be my oyster, and the next I was in a cold cell, listening to a man farther down the corridor shout out that it was lights out. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Yet, even if I hadn’t been able to see it, there had to have been some sort of a progression. I kept telling myself that. I just had to be able to see it—but all I could make out was the dark outline of the ceiling. It was the great irony of my life that the things that I knew least of all were the things that were closest to me. After that first evaluation, Dr. Elias concluded that I would likely require others, because, as he put it, some of my problems were like a basketball that was pressed so close to my face that I couldn’t even tell that it was a ball. So yes, I guess you could say that Dr. Elias helped me see that all this time, my deepest problems were akin to a basketball that was being shoved in my face.
Then one day, a pudgy administrator with a stud in his right ear came into the lounge and announced that patient number 67184-Y had been cleared for release. I looked down on my shirt. That was me. My mother had completed my discharge papers and was waiting for me downstairs. I was free to go. He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. As if the past several days had been a cruel joke, like I could have walked out of there at any time.
Mom was waiting for me outside. I expected her to go ballistic, I really did. But she just undid her scarf and hugged me tight, like she did the day she finally got around to telling me the truth about Toby.
XXXIII
MOM WAS SITTING IN FRONT of Mister McGovern, boohooing about all the hours she puts in uptown at the Blumenthals’ just to pay the token amount that Claremont asks of us. Mister McGovern reached across his desk and handed her a box of tissues. I slumped in the seat beside her with the dawning realization that I might not have what it takes to be a Claremont boy, after all.
Mister McGovern got up and went to the window. He gazed out at the orange, red, and yellow canopies lining the street.
We’re proud of our tradition of celebrating our differences here at Claremont, Missus Fairchild. We really are.
I know that, sir.
Is there maybe something going on at home that I should know about?
No, sir.
I wished that I had some hard-knock story that would make sense to Mister McGovern—like how Mom was strung out on bennies and Dad was rotting out on Rikers. You know? Like many of the kids I’d come across out on Randall’s Island. I dunno. I guess that maybe I just felt that no matter what you put in front of some people, that’s all they want to see. What can I say? Maybe I have no excuse. Maybe I should have wiped my face dry and sucked in my gut and salvaged what little self-respect I had left, because maybe it’s true that kids like me have all the benefits of being colored and none of the real costs. The fact is, most of my friends at Claremont assume I’m a wannabe. Not so much because I want to be something that I’m not as because the reality of what I am just doesn’t make any sense to them.
Mister McGovern turned from the window.
It’s a big world out there, Missus Fairchild. And believe me, your boy, Huey, here—he can practically write his own ticket. Go to any damned school he wants. Why, they’re all but begging for kids like him these days. So don’t get me wrong. I’m thankful to have had him.
Mister McGovern nudged his square-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose and sat atop the corner of his desk.
But Ariel didn’t do anything wrong. And here he’s got a collapsed lung to show for his kindness, Missus Fairchild. Because he didn’t have to help Huey with his schoolwork like he did. He didn’t have to do that. But he did it anyway. Did it out of the kindness of his heart. I went to visit him again last night, and the poor kid still can’t even breathe on his own. He was lying there blinking like he had a fruit fly stuck in his eye. His face is swelled up so bad he looks like one of the Muppets. Broke my heart. The doctor told him not to exert himself. Then he told me one more minute and he’d have been brain-dead. Can you believe that? What Huey did to him—it’s disturbing. And I had to explain to Missus Zukowski how something like that could happen at a place like this. My heart goes out to Huey, with whatever problems he has. It really does. But I cannot allow for someone to be present at this school who is a risk to other youngsters. I’m willing to go to bat for him, but only up to a point. There are limits to how far I can go, Missus Fairchild. These families pay good money for me to keep their children safe. Does that make sense to you? I hope it does.
I pitched forward in my seat. Have mercy on me, sir. I’m begging you. You gotta understand! A kid like Zuk being my knight in shining armor only made me feel worse! I won’t last a day in some graffiti-covered public school filled with hooligans, where the latrines don’t work because the kids shit in them. Where kids hardly ever show up, and when they do it’s just to shoot spitballs at the teachers and torment people like me. They’ll make mincemeat of me. I can be the Claremont boy you want me to be, sir. Just give me another chance. I’ll prove it. Let me show that I will rise again, sir! Like a soaring phoenix, I will represent the triumph of the modern colored man over history. I can do it. I know I can. Just give me another chance! Please!
You’re a good kid, Huey. And I like you. I really do. You’re an important part of this school, son. You know that, don’t you? Well, if you don’t, I’m telling you now. We’re going to hate to lose you. We really are. As we say, there are no second-class citizens at Claremont. You know that.
I do, sir. I know that.
Huey, would you mind giving us a moment in private?
Mister McGovern opened the door and called in Missus Zukowski. She stopped me in the doorway and wagged her finger in my face and said that this was all my fault. There was a special place in hell reserved for people like me. Not to mention a world of other kids out there who should be so fortunate. It was only because I was colored that they let me attend Claremont with her son.
• • •
MOM LIT A cigarette, took a long, deep drag, and pulled me in close on our way down the front steps.
He’s a nice man. You’re lucky. He likes you and believes in you. I can tell. God knows why, because you’ve given him such little reason to. Lucky for you he thinks you just lack a father figure. He said he understands about your father—knows how hard that must be, to have an estranged father. But you’re not the only one, Huey. He said several of the other boys here have estranged fathers, too, and struggle with the exact same issues as you.
I looked up. Dad wasn’t estranged. Unreliable, maybe. Negligent, certainly. Absent, temporarily. But not estranged.
Anyway, he recommended that I contact the Big Brothers Association. Apparently they’ve got something set up where they provide father figures to boys like you. They come highly recommended—someone to take you out for an ice cream every now and again. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I said we’re open to giving it a try. And that we’re going to pay a little visit to Ariel tonight.
Tonight?
Tonight. You’re going to bring him some of my chicken soup. And maybe some chocolate and flowers. And you’re going to apologize. I told Missus Zukowski that I’d figure out some way for you to get over to the hospital every night to bring him a home-cooked meal until he bounces back. Told her how much the Blumenthals love my cooking. She said that wasn’t necessary, but I insisted. It’s t
he least we can do. And on top of that, you’re to write down some thoughts about why you’re so angry all the time. For the judge. Oh, Missus Zukowski agreed to drop the charges, all right, but I said you’d do it anyway. To show your heart’s in the right place.
What about school?
Mandatory two weeks’ academic probation. Regular counseling. And a fifty-page essay exploring the root causes of shame as a source of anger and a lack of personal accountability and a depleted sense of self-worth. If it goes over a little, that’s okay, too.
Fifty pages? Are you crazy? That’s a book!
I walked on ahead, feeling a little light-headed. I stood on the corner at Ninety-Seventh and Madison and closed my eyes. I pretended for a second that I was back home. Funny how something so far away can feel so close, and something so close can feel like a million miles away. All the honking cars zipping past in the rightmost lane, with their door handles zinging past inches away from me, put an end to that. Mom came up from behind and reminded me just how lucky I was. I shrugged. She warned me not to take the second chance I’d been given for granted.
I nodded. I guess. But fifty pages?
Mom’s breaths were visible puffs of vapor. She clapped her hands for warmth and sighed. She knew how hard it had been leaving Dad. Said that had been the hardest thing she’d ever done.
I looked up, surprised. Really?
You think that was easy for me? I loved your father, Huey. I loved him very, very much. You probably don’t know it, but people didn’t even want us living together. We defied them and did it anyway. It wasn’t easy. Our love for each other drove all of that. We’d be married now if they’d have let us. But there was not a courthouse in the state that would recognize us as husband and wife. Seems crazy now, huh? I held out hope for as long as I could, but in the end it was clear that his loyalty was to his parents. I guess I just thought that he would change. Come to find out that all that time, he’d been expecting the same thing of me. Who knows? Maybe it’s good we never married.
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