Nina Revoyr

by Wingshooters

  We appeared to be in a kind of reception room with a desk near the door and some upholstered chairs, a few nondescript paintings on the walls. There was also a desk and file cabinet against the far wall; the work and waiting must have occurred in the same space. Once inside, I was reminded of how small the building was, especially since it had been divided to make separate rooms.

  “She fell,” Mrs. Garrett told the two other people, as if that explained my presence. “I’m going to take her into Exam One.” And with that she led me into one of the subdivided rooms and sat me down on the raised exam table. I wondered what other people had thought when they found themselves alone with her. Were they nervous or uncomfortable, as they often seemed with me? Were they scared? Or were they perfectly all right? Did they avoid her eyes or shrink back as she approached? Did some people refuse her help altogether? I was sure they did; I was sure that some people would rather endure their pain and illness than subject themselves to her touch. And how did she deal with their reactions to her, the extra level of anxiety her patients might feel? Was she comforting and soothing? Was she annoyed?

  I tried to push these questions out of my mind and focus on what was happening. At Mrs. Garrett’s direction, I slid far enough back on the table that my leg was supported. She unlaced my boot carefully and eased it off of my foot. Then she rolled down the sock and I felt a flush of embarrassment at the ring of dirt just above where the sock had covered. But Mrs. Garrett didn’t seem to care. She cupped my heel gently and stood over my foot, examining it from every angle. And while my ankle did hurt—I could already see the purple gathering under the skin—I also liked the feel of her hands on my foot, administering their care.

  “You sprained it pretty badly,” she said, and her voice sounded clear and firm in the space of that small room. “But I don’t think you broke anything. So let’s put some ice on it and elevate it to hold down the swelling. I’ll give you some aspirin for the pain, and when it’s eased off a little, I’ll wrap it up for support and send you home.”

  I’d never sprained an ankle before, although I’ve done it plenty since, playing pickup basketball in California. And it’s so often the same ankle, with the swelling in exactly the same place, that I wonder if I’m just re-aggravating that original sprain, way back from my time in Wisconsin. But that day, despite the pain, despite the swelling that soon looked like a baseball growing out the side of my ankle, I was all right, I wasn’t scared, because Mrs. Garrett was there. And her ease and matter-of-factness as she pressed the ice against my foot, as she wrapped it all firmly in a tan Ace bandage, made me think that everything would be okay. She’d taken off her blue jacket when we got inside, and underneath it she wore a thin white coat with Garrett embroidered on the chest pocket, over long brown pants and a cream-colored turtleneck. Her skin looked very dark against the sweater and coat, and I watched her expression shift from concern to cautious optimism.

  She sat down in a chair in the corner and looked at me directly. “Why were you biking all the way out here, Michelle?”

  I shrugged and said the same thing I’d said the first time. “I bike out here all the time.”

  “But the last time I saw you the weather was still warm. Now the roads are all covered with snow.”

  I gave an exaggerated sigh, for what could I say? That I’d gone out there because I felt so bad about what was happening with her husband? Because I admired what she had done at the clinic and I just wanted to see her face? Because their standing up for Kevin Watson despite all the risks showed a concern that I desperately missed from my parents? Because I hadn’t heard from my father in over a month, and my mother much longer, and I didn’t know when I would? The truth was, I didn’t really know why I’d gone out there. Maybe this, what was happening, was reason enough.

  Mrs. Garrett must have known she wasn’t going to get an answer, because she sighed and looked out the open door. “Boy, you never know what you’re going to come across in this town,” she said. “There’s so much I didn’t expect here. Didn’t expect at all. And then you, today, falling off your bike and almost giving me a heart attack.”

  And now I looked across at her and knew why I had come. But because I didn’t have the language to tell her what I felt; because I couldn’t say “I believe you” or “I saw it, too” or “I know that you were right,” what I said was, “Kevin Watson goes to school with me.”

  Mrs. Garrett looked up at me sharply, but her voice was even when she spoke. “Yes, that’s right, he would, wouldn’t he? Yes, I suppose that makes sense.”

  “His dad used to come to our house,” I said, with an urgency beyond the meaning of the words. “Earl—his dad—used to come to our house. But … but … he doesn’t anymore. My grandmother doesn’t like him.”

  I turned away and looked at the counter with its containers of supplies—glass canisters with bandages and cotton balls, and flat pink tongue depressors.

  “He’s a good kid, Kevin,” I said, although I’d never thought such a thing until just that moment, and wouldn’t have put it that way if I had. “Kevin, I mean, he’s quiet and all, but he’s a real good kid.”

  When I looked over at Mrs. Garrett again, I was surprised to see that there were tears in her eyes. And then I felt the tears well up in my own eyes too, and when she said, “Yes, he’s a real good kid,” I couldn’t hold them and they spilled down my face. Then Mrs. Garrett stood up, crossed the room, and put her arms around me, holding me as she stood beside the table. My shoulder was against her stomach and I turned into her and cried, and it was Kevin, but it was Charlie too, and also my parents, because they had left me and I knew that they were never coming back. But all I could manage to say again was, “He’s a good kid,” and Mrs. Garrett held me more tightly against her and whispered, “Yes, and you are too.”

  I don’t know how long we stayed like that, but after a while I heard footsteps and then someone was standing in the door. It was the man I had seen when we first came in. He was middle-aged and of medium height, with receding brown hair, and I realized that he was the same man who’d come outside the first day I’d talked with Mrs. Garrett. “Betty, we’re getting ready to leave, and we should figure out what to do with Michelle.”

  I was surprised that he knew who I was, but I shouldn’t have been. Everyone did. In that town, I could never be anonymous.

  “All right, Del,” said Mrs. Garrett. “Well, her ankle’s sprained and her bike’s banged up, so I should probably drive her back. Joe’s in Chicago for his father’s hip replacement surgery, so I’m not in any hurry to get home.” She moved a little away from me, but with her hand still on my shoulder.

  He looked from her to me and back again and a muscle twitched in his cheek. “You better let me take her, Betty. Her grandfather …” He stopped and they were both silent for a moment, and I didn’t know what he was saying. And then it hit me like the gravel of the parking lot coming up to meet my hands as I fell: he didn’t think it was a good idea for her to take me home, because of how Charlie might react.

  Mrs. Garrett quickly pulled her hand off my shoulder as she realized this, too. “Oh,” she said, as if she’d been stung. And in that one syllable I heard all the feeling she’d probably been trying to hold down for months—the anger, the loss of patience, the resentment at the town that had made her feel so unwelcome. “Oh, sure, of course,” she said, sounding business-like, and colder. “Well, then I guess you should take her.”

  There was another awkward silence, and then she leaned down and put her hands on my shoulders and looked me in the face. “Dr. Gordon’s going to take you home, Michelle,” she said, her voice gentle again. “I’ve done as much as I can. Now you be careful and don’t ride your bike on these icy roads. And stay off of that ankle until it heals.”

  She touched my cheek and smiled at me, her face both sad and angry, and I wanted to say thank you. But all I managed was “Okay” and then the doctor came over, picking me up to carry me outside. His touch was rougher th
an hers, less comforting, and he jostled me as he walked.

  Mrs. Garrett opened the front door for us and then the door of his Ford sedan, and the doctor leaned down and placed me in the back. Then he loaded my bike into the trunk, got in, and started up the car, and I looked out the window at Mrs. Garrett in a panic—not because I was afraid he was going to do something bad, but because in the clinic I’d felt safe for a moment, and now I had to leave. I was going back out again, back into the world where nothing made sense and where no one—not even Charlie—could protect me. Then the car started and we were moving away, and Mrs. Garrett stood on the stairs in her warm blue coat, waving until we’d driven out of sight.

  The doctor tried to make conversation but I didn’t feel like talking, not even when he mentioned how much his father liked me and I realized that he was Darius Gordon’s son. It didn’t occur to me then that it was unusual for the chief administrator of the county clinic to be working at a satellite operation. And now I wonder: was he there to make sure that this new effort was getting off the ground successfully? Or was he there to protect Mrs. Garrett? At any rate, he took me home and carried me up the back steps, explaining to my worried grandmother (my grandfather was out) that I’d fallen on the road just out of town. I don’t know whether he made up this story for Mrs. Garrett’s sake or my own, but in the end, I didn’t think much about it.

  It was Mrs. Garrett I thought about, what she would go home and tell her husband when they talked on the phone that night. I wondered what she was thinking about as she held me, and who her own tears were for. Were they for Kevin, or me, or maybe herself, for what she and her husband were facing? I wondered what she’d do that evening, alone in their house—whether she’d read or watch TV, cook or finish up some work—and I felt a sharp and sudden longing to be in her company, to bask in her strength and the warmth of her presence. But one thing I was sure of was that I’d visit her at the clinic again. Despite her warnings about the icy road, despite my fall, I’d go out there because of how kind she was, because of the way she made me feel. I’d go out there because there was nowhere else to go.

  TEN

  It was only two days later that the final call came. The phone rang around seven o’clock that night, and my grandmother came out of the kitchen to answer it. After she said hello there was a period of silence. Then: “I’ll get him,” followed by, “Charlie, it’s Alice Watson.”

  Charlie got up from his couch and met her eyes. And from the look that passed between them, it was clear that things had taken an irreversible turn; that everything had come to a head. He walked into the dining room and took the receiver; as he listened, his expression grew dark. He asked, “When did they come?” and “Do you have enough?” and “Where is Kevin now?” He listened a little longer and said, “Sit tight, Alice. I’ll be right over.”

  He hung up the phone and sat down heavily at the dining room table. “They arrested Earl this afternoon,” he said, looking at no one in particular. “An ambulance came and took Kevin away, and then Ray’s men put Earl in jail.”

  My grandmother, who’d retreated to the kitchen doorway, made a tentative step forward. “What happened?”

  Charlie sighed and shrugged. “I don’t know, exactly. She said Earl and Kevin got into it pretty bad today. Earl pissed off and yelling and Kevin crying. Someone must have called about it—I’ll bet it was that nigger teacher again.” He scratched at a stain on the table and then smoothed it over with his fingers. “And next thing you know the police and the ambulance are there, and both Earl and Kevin are gone, and Alice has been calling around all afternoon, trying to figure out what to do.”

  The room was quiet as my grandmother digested this. In the silence, I heard the ticking of the clock. Then I remembered something, and although I didn’t normally speak up at such moments, my information seemed important.

  “It couldn’t have been him, Grandpa,” I said.

  He stared at me blankly.

  “It couldn’t have been Mr. Garrett. He’s not here, he’s in Chicago. He hasn’t been at school all week.”

  My grandfather continued to look at me, and it took a moment for this news to sink in. “Well, it must have been her, then. It must have been the wife. Either way, it doesn’t really matter.”

  We all stayed silent for a few more seconds. Then my grandmother asked, “So what now?”

  Charlie put both his hands on the table and curled them into fists. “Alice called her brother and her parents and put the money together for bail. So Earl’s on his way home, but no one knows where Kevin is. She called the clinic, but they’re not saying anything. They won’t even tell her if he’s there.” He sat still for a little longer and then he stood up. “Well, I guess I better go get my jacket.”

  My grandmother looked at him sharply. “Where are you going?”

  He turned back to her, surprised. “I’m going to Earl’s. Where do you think I’m going?”

  She leaned over the table and said in a firm, unfamiliar voice, “Charlie, he’s going to be all worked up. You think this is a good idea?”

  He looked at her as if he wasn’t sure who she was. “He’s my friend,” he said. “I need to help him. I need to help him get his son back.” And with that he brushed past her and hurried to their bedroom.

  I didn’t wait. Knowing that he wasn’t even thinking of me, knowing that my grandmother would forbid me if I asked, I grabbed my jacket, called the dog, and rushed out to the car. I jumped into the backseat with Brett right behind me, guessing that Charlie would be less likely to notice us if we were out of his immediate sight. Because there was no way I was going to miss what happened now, this night when Earl finally got what was coming to him. And my grandmother, perhaps distracted by her argument with Charlie, didn’t even see me leave the house.

  But I wish now that she had. There’ve been many times over the years when I wish she had stopped me and made me stay at home. Because maybe if she had stopped me I wouldn’t have seen what I saw. Maybe some of the things that happened that night wouldn’t have happened, or at least would have played out differently.

  When Charlie got into the driver’s seat, he threw a quick glance in my direction but didn’t say anything. Maybe he was so focused on what lay ahead that nothing could draw his mind from it. Maybe he thought the worst had already happened. Whatever the case, we drove out to Warren Road in silence, and as we approached, I saw the imposing size of Earl’s house again, the cold white façade, the porch that seemed more barrier than gathering place. And parked in the driveway was a Deerhorn police car, its lights still flashing, throwing rotating beams of red and blue against the house and out into the darkness.

  When I think back to that night, I remember things I couldn’t possibly have seen. That squad car, for example. For while I did see a squad car, it was—it must have been—the car that brought Earl back to his house after his family had posted bail. But what I remember is different. Different and so vivid that all the details I heard in the weeks to come, all the hushed conversations at home and at school, must have blended together with what I actually did see to create an invented memory. Because what I recall but couldn’t have witnessed are Earl’s angry, threatening shouts, his accusations that Kevin was trying to get him in trouble. What I recall is Kevin crying over and over again, “I’m sorry, Dad! I’m sorry!” I remember the sound of flesh striking flesh; of the sickening crunch of bone; of the high-pitched screams of both the boy and his mother, begging for her husband to stop. And I remember that this seemed to go on and on until finally the squad car was there, and three big policemen struck the door with their fists and dragged Earl out in handcuffs. I remember the ambulance too, the blue-smocked emergency workers bringing Kevin out, holding his arm gently against his side. I remember Alice Watson standing on the steps of her house, holding her head in her hands and sobbing. And I remember Jake circling the police car and cursing, until one of the policemen threatened to arrest him if he didn’t shut up and get his ass inside. />
  Later, much later, I would learn the extent of Kevin’s injuries—not just from that night, but from all of the nights, going farther back than anybody knew. I learned about the thick, raised scars that were not only on his back, but also on his buttocks and thighs. I learned about the fracture that night to his arm, the same arm from a few weeks earlier; but I also learned about the long-healed fractures of his fingers and collarbone, and a leg from when he was thrown against a wall. I heard about the cigarette burns to the insides of his arms, the times his father made him stand in the corner for hours, so long that he soiled his pants. And I heard, we all heard, about the great lengths to which Earl Watson had gone to conceal his abuse. He always closed the blinds before a beating began. He avoided hitting Kevin in the face. He never did more in public than raise his voice at his son, the same as any other father would do. And no matter how angry Earl got, no matter how drunk, he never failed to take these precautions. He never failed to do what he had to do to keep up the pretense of normality. He was never so out of control that he forgot to protect himself. He was never really out of control at all.

  But that night in December, I knew none of these things yet. What I saw was a squad car outside of a quiet house, and soon enough, Earl Watson got out. Ray Davis had been in the driver’s seat and now he got out too and they both looked back at Charlie. Then Charlie opened the door and stood to join them, not saying—he didn’t have to say—that I should stay behind. He approached his two friends slowly, as if conserving his energy to deal with whatever awaited him. And as he got closer, Earl looked at him with an expression I could see even by the light of the porch lamp. It wasn’t anger exactly, or at least not anger by itself. And it certainly wasn’t guilt or remorse. It was more like whatever Earl had kept wrapped so tightly had begun to pull loose, to come apart. His mouth was slightly open and his lips worked without sound. His face appeared pale, drained of blood. And his eyes, which I could see in the rotating arc of the police light, looked emptied out and black. Somehow this version of Earl was more frightening to me than the dour but talkative man I’d grown accustomed to. This version was not recognizable; there was no telling what he could do.