Hero
Page 15
“Damn. So he’s innocent?” Detective Lennon asked, that confident self-satisfied smirk slipping from his face, shoulders sagging, clearly disappointed not to be the one to put Big Mike Simmons on death row.
“Hell, he’s a hero and so is she. She shot the right woman apparently. Saved all of their lives.”
“What made her do it? What, is she just crazy or somethin’?”
“Let’s go ask her. See if we can get a confession.”
* * *
Natsinet knew the minute the three detectives walked into her room that they’d figured it out. They stared at her as they entered, without speaking, their minds working overtime, trying to reconcile what they now knew about her with the fragile-looking woman before them. They circled her bed, keeping their distance as if they were afraid she would strike.
“So, what did that old bitch tell you about me?”
“She told us quite a bit, but we’re more interested in hearing what you have to say,” Detective Hendrix said.
“Are you White?”
“No.” Detective Hendrix replied, “I’m Black.”
“But you’re half White aren’t you?”
“My mother is Italian. I grew up in South Philly.”
“Do you speak Italian?”
“Fluently.”
“You should just tell people that you’re Sicilian. They tend to be a bit darker than Italians and your skin is pretty light, almost White. You could pass.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because you know. You see it everyday. You know what it means to be one of them. You see the welfare mothers and the crack whores and the gangbangers and the illegitimate kids and the deadbeat fathers. You see how people look at you when they realize that you’re not really White. How the position that was open just an hour ago when you called for directions on the phone is suddenly filled when they see your Black ass walk through the door. How they suddenly don’t have anymore apartments for rent in that building, or houses for sale in that neighborhood. How all the tables at that nice restaurant you’ve always wanted to try are now reserved except maybe for the one in the back by the kitchen, or next to the bathroom that nobody else wants. How they want to make sure you know how much that outfit or that jewelry or that purse or those sunglasses cost before you try it on, or how security makes it a point to be right behind you no matter where you go in the store or how many other customers there are. How that patrol car follows you for blocks wondering what the hell you’re doing in such a nice car or in such a nice neighborhood, just waiting for an excuse to stop you and search your car. You know all about that don’t you? You know what it’s like to be a nigger. So why the fuck would you want to be one?”
Detective Hendrix could feel his temper rising. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The hatred in the woman’s voice was staggering, even more so because she was talking about her own people. The detective felt embarrassed in front of his two White colleagues though he tried his best not to show it, wishing he was darker so that they wouldn’t be able to see him blush. He knew he must have been bright red from both anger and embarrassment. He stepped closer to the bed until he was standing directly above Natsinet. He leaned down to look her directly in her eyes. His jaws muscles clenched and veins stood out prominently in his neck as he struggled to speak in a calm measured voice.
“Yeah, I know what all of that feels like. But I also know what it feels like to be part of the proud heritage that helped to build this country. To be part of the culture that gave the world Blues and Jazz and Rock & Roll and R&B and Soul and Funk and even Hip Hop. I know what it’s like to be part of a people that came to this country in chains and now sits in all levels of government and business, lecturing about freedom and democracy all over the globe, dominating sports, and even carving out a place in the entertainment world. We have become one of the most emulated cultures on earth. I know what it’s like to be part of a people that came from nothing, with the entire world against us and fought our way up against all manner of adversity to become heroes to some of the same people that owned our ancestors. I know that pride. Let me ask you something Ms Zenawi, do you know how you tell which members of a species have the strongest genes?”
Natsinet glared at the Detective without speaking.
“You find the ones who have the greatest handicaps but are functioning at the same level as the ones who are not handicapped. The wolf with one leg that still runs and hunts with the pack. The blind bird that can still fly. The monkey with one arm that can still climb. Well, that’s us. That’s our people. We’ve been handicapped for generations, denied adequate education, adequate housing, equal opportunity for employment and advancement, yet we’re still here and we’re prospering. I know that pride. Adelle Smith knows that pride. But you don’t, do you?”
“No. Because I’m not Black. I’m not one of you. I am Eritrean. My people were never slaves. They were never conquered. My family are businessmen, politicians, doctors, lawyers…”
“And security guards?”
“What?”
“Security guards. That’s what your father did for a living right? He worked security at a construction site at night. He sat in a trailer all night watching out for any crackheads that might want to sneak onto the construction site to steal the copper wire and piping out of the buildings before they were framed and sheet-rocked. Real prestigious job, there. I mean, I know he was a doctor back in his own country, but in America, he was just a rent-a-cop. Adelle told me all about it. That’s why you went crazy, because you were ashamed of him. Because your mother’s family rejected him… and you.”
Natsinet lunged for the detective, digging her nails into his face, trying to claw his eyes out. Detective Hendrix screamed as her nails dug rivulets in his forehead and eyelids that immediately welled with blood. He grabbed her wrists and struggled to wrench her hands free from his face. Detectives Swinson and Lennon raced to his side and tried to pull her hands free as well.
“I’ll fucking kill you! You don’t know me! You don’t know my father! You fucking nigger!”
“Arrrhhh! Get her the fuck off of me! My eyes! She trying to scratch out my eyes!”
She disappeared beneath the detectives who were now punching at her to try to get her to let go of Detective Hendrix. One of his eyelids had been nearly torn off and the white of his cheekbone was visible through one of the deep avulsions she had carved in his cheek, the skin raked back, peeled away in jagged strips the way one would peel an orange.
When she finally let go, she had much of the detective’s eyelids beneath her bloodied fingernails and his gun clenched in her hands, her finger on the trigger aiming it at the three Detectives.
Detective Carl Hendrix fell to the floor, clutching his vandalized face, blood spurting out between his fingers. The other two detectives backed away slowly, reaching for their weapons.
“Now just calm down and nobody has to get hurt here,” Detective Lennon said.
“That’s where you’re fucking wrong.”
She pointed the gun at Detective Hendrix and pulled the trigger, putting a hole in his chest before her own body began to dance and spasm. Blossoming with holes like roses blooming in sudden explosions of red as Swinson and Lennon emptied their guns into her.
Epilogue
Tonya looked up at the sky. The wind caressed her face as it came rustling through the trees. Sunlight warmed her skin. She looked over at Big Mike. She was proud of the way he’d cleaned himself up. He now owned his own barbershop and, to her knowledge, it was totally legit, no drugs, no guns, just hair care products. He looked good in his dark suit and tie, like a regular businessman.
Tonya’s husband Gerald stood beside her as he had the entire time she’d been in the hospital, never leaving her side, rushing from her room to her mother’s room to pass information back and forth, keeping her apprised of her mother’s condition and her mother apprised of hers. Even after her mother had had another stroke and Tonya herself h
ad come down with an infection after the surgery, he’d never left either of their sides until they’d had to literally force him out of the door to go home and get some rest. Then he’d be back the very next day. She loved him more than she ever felt she’d be able to tell him.
Her cousin Jerome was there too. Her Aunt Betty. Her Uncle Jake. Members of her family she hadn’t seen since she was a young girl. Members of the local church, community leaders and activists, and of course the news media, though they were careful to keep a respectful distance.
Tonya smiled up at the sun again. The weather was perfect. Eighty degrees with a breeze. If it were like this all year none of them could have afforded to live there. The pastor was preaching but she could hardly hear a word he said. She didn’t want to hear. It didn’t matter. She knew all she needed to know about her mother. She had saved her life.
All her life she’d heard people tell her what a hero her mother was, how she’d changed their lives. They’d quote to her from speeches her mother had given or articles she’d written. They’d give examples from episodes in her mother’s life when she’d stood up for freedom, stood up for all of them, examples they’d tried to emulate in their own lives. She’d grown tired of hearing it. When she’d awakened in the hospital, alive, and learned that her mother had saved her, she’d finally understood why all those people had been so affected by her mother. It was because Adelle Smith never laid down. She was a fighter. She never quit. It didn’t matter what was against her. She always kept fighting. And even when that crazy ass nurse had stabbed Tonya in the chest, she’d somehow known that her mother would save her. As Tonya had begun to lose consciousness, bleeding out on the living room floor, she’d never once doubted that she’d be okay. In her entire life she’d never had any reason to doubt that her mother would always be there for her. And when she woke up and heard that her mother had shot Natsinet, she hadn’t been surprised.
The only surprise had come after she’d gotten out of surgery and her mother had come to her bedside and held her hand and whispered to her.
“Thank you for saving my life. You’re my hero.”
“But Mom…you saved me.”
“I just pulled a trigger. You put yourself between that knife and me. You almost died for me. Thank you.”
That had been the most startling thing to her. That she could be her mother’s hero. That she could be anyone’s hero.
“We all have a bit of the heroic in us, Tonya. That’s all our people really need. You be my hero and I’ll be yours. We don’t need some Black Messiah to come and lead us all to freedom. There ain’t never gonna be another Malcolm X or another Martin Luther King. We’ve got to do it ourselves, together. No one of us can do it alone. Not even your poor old mother. We just have to find that bit of the heroic in ourselves. That’s all it takes.”
The next day her mother went into cardiac arrest. Blood clots in her legs had traveled to her brain and caused another stroke which, in turn, had led to a massive myocardial infarction. It was the first time in Tonya’s life that she had known her mother would no longer be there to protect her. She only hoped that she would be strong enough to do her mother’s memory proud.
Soon after she left the hospital Tonya quit her job and started her own non-profit organization. She went back to her neighborhood to teach teenagers and young adults about business and finance, show them how to apply for grants and loans for college and how to start their own businesses. It wasn’t terribly profitable, but it fulfilled her. It was something she knew her mother would have been proud of. Her first project had been to help turn Big Mike around. It was her influence that helped to get him a business loan and Big Mike’s influence had pushed most of the drugs out of the neighborhood. Only a few blocks away, but enough to drastically reduce the amount of violence in the neighborhood. She only wished her mother had been there to see it all.
Tonya looked over at the small headstone.
Adelle Smith
1939 to 2008
A tear weeped from the corner of her eye as she read the last line on the headstone.
Our Hero.
Tonya walked back to the waiting limousine before the preacher had finished his eulogy. She didn’t want to remember her mother through anyone else’s eyes but her own. And she already knew the memory she wanted to hold of her mother. Our Hero. That was all anyone really needed to say about Adelle Smith. That said it all.
Copyright
First Digital Edition
December 2009
Published by
Bloodletting Press
3732 Havenhurst Ct.
Modesto, CA 95355
www.bloodletting-press.com
bloodlettingpress@yahoo.com
Hero © 2009, 2008 by J. F. Gonzalez & Wrath James White
Cover Artwork © 2009, 2008 by Alan M. Clark
All Rights Reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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