Guilty By Association

by Pat Simmons

  The deal he got for it alone was worth the trip to St. Louis. The “as-is” sign planted in the windshield was his clue that the owner was fed up with it. Calculating the vehicle’s worth, Kidd made an inquiry, then tinkered with it for less than an hour. Once he diagnosed the problem, he haggled over a fair price, an amount that was a bargain for the buyer.

  Parke had been amazed at Kidd’s mechanical know-how when he completed the repairs and parts replacement in no time. A good wash and wax made it appear new. The new Jamieson in town not only had technical skills, but intellect—whether Parke respected and accepted that or not.

  Kidd shifted to refocus on the present. After strapping himself in, he leaned against the head rest and closed his eyes to regain mental control. “You don’t know me, Parke,” he whispered. Taking a quick assessment of his current situation, he considered the fact that he was still in St. Louis, wasn’t he? He took a crummy job to appease his cousin, didn’t he? And he was living in another man’s house. “I would say that makes me a saint!” Kidd concluded.

  After this latest stint, it was doubtful they would even like each other. He and Parke didn’t make a love connection in Boston, but they remained civil. Ever since Parke had picked him up from Lambert Airport in St. Louis, they had been bumping heads. Their newfound relationship was going downhill fast. Parke was going to learn he couldn’t run this Jamieson.

  Kidd might not get on his knees and pray every morning like Parke’s household, but he knew how to thank Jesus for one day at a time. As a matter of fact, he was a card-carrying member of the Lukewarm Club. He wasn’t hot for Jesus, nor was he opposed to Him. Again, his mother didn’t rear any heathens.

  On any other morning, his Maxima offered pure driving pleasure, as he drove the short fifteen-minute distance to Garden Chateau. After the morning’s argument with Parke, he really couldn’t stomach the place. He’d already stayed two days longer than he would have.

  This was not going to be a good day. He turned into the complex and parked in a random space. Kidd punched his steering wheel after he turned off the ignition. He didn’t even get the chance to finish his bowl of cereal. Parke ruined his breakfast. He loved Corn Chex. Taking a deep breath, he got out and stalked up the walkway to the building’s entrance, grunting his greetings to anybody he passed on the way to his office.

  Behind his closed office door, Kidd flopped in his chair and gazed at the ceiling. “God, my prayer for today is, why am I being punished? Living with Parke is torment and working here is insanity. What did I do to deserve this?”

  Kidd didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t get one. Instead, he regrouped for the second time that morning. Instinctively, he scanned the list of residents’ requests for appointments with him. The myriad of names blurred before his eyes; it was all too overwhelming. Although the facility was very nice and odors were kept at a minimum, he was still surrounded by older people who freaked him out.

  That ice-blasting assembly position he worked at the factory for one day was starting to look like a dream job compared to this. Huffing, Kidd stood and grabbed his clipboard and pen. He might as well make himself look busy. Maybe, he could walk off his steam. He pasted on a dazzling smile and strolled down the corridor, entering the first room and checking off the name.

  “Good morning, Mr. Johnson.” The thought of shaking hands with the man was out of the question, so Kidd didn’t go through that motion for the fear of contracting something.

  “It’s Johnston,” the man snapped. “Can’t you read?” Thin white hands with blue veins snaking through them gripped the wheels of his wheelchair. “’Bout time you got here, boy. I need to go to the bathroom.”

  Kidd stiffened. Oh no, he didn’t. “What did you say to me, Mr. Johnson?” he asked, this time purposely mispronouncing the man’s name. Pressing down hard on his clipboard, he broke the pen in two. All the while, he was hoping wax had clogged his hearing. Otherwise, the man was asking for trouble.

  “I’m not gonna tell you anymore, boy. My name is Johnston, and I need to use the bathroom!”

  “Humph. That’s what I thought you said. Have a good soaking on me. Nobody’s stopping you. I haven’t been a boy since I was ten.” Kidd twirled to exit and nearly slammed into Eva, who stood speechless with a horrified look on her face.

  “He started it,” Kidd stated with a tilt of his head, as he moved past her and exited the room.

  He hated that Eva probably heard the ugly side of him. But coming from any man, “boy” would always be a derogatory word to a Black man. To keep from getting arrested and tainting the Jamieson name anymore than he had, Kidd made a notation on the chart next to the man’s name. He scratched out the “t” in Johnston as a reminder to steer clear of his room or be ready to face jail time. At thirty-one, he had never been in jail—although he had come close a few times with rowdy friends. Nothing was worth him going now.

  Although Garden Chateau was paying him a good salary for a job he didn’t like or want, no amount of money could compensate him for humiliation.

  I give grace to the humble. God spoke from 1 Peter 5:5.

  The words sped by him like lightning. What? Kidd frowned and glanced around. Nobody else seemed to be looking for the owner of the voice. Was that God? If so, it was the second time he felt some type of spiritual intervention since he came to St. Louis. Kidd shook himself and moved on.

  Every other resident he met after that incident—Black or White—wasn’t nearly as belligerent as Mr. Johnston. A couple of residents were comedians, including Miss Nora who was reciting her third joke when he waved good-bye and made a hasty exit. A Black man wearing faded brown jogging pants and a long-sleeved white T-shirt steadied himself using a bamboo cane and the wall. He couldn’t have been older than fifty, if that. Kidd felt pity toward him. Why was he here with these old folks? Kidd wondered.

  The man seemed relieved to see him. “Do you mind helping me to the bathroom?”

  What is it with these people? Kidd thought. Did the staff give them too much to drink? He panicked. He peeped around the corner, searching the halls to see if someone was coming to the man’s rescue—anybody, but him. While Kidd contemplated what to do, the resident shuffled away.

  The man was within feet of his destination when he had an accident. Kidd groaned. “Come on, dude.” Turning up his nose, he frowned. “Clean up in aisle …” looking around for a locator wall plate, “Hall C,” he shouted to anyone who would listen.

  “Kidd, this is not Kmart,” Eva hissed, rushing out of a room at the same time a nurse’s aide hurried to assist the man. “This is a group effort. We all pitch in to help.” She went into a utility closet and grabbed a sponge mop.

  “What are you getting ready to do with that?”

  “Didn’t you just yell aisle cleanup?” Eva scowled.

  “Yeah, for the custodian.”

  She gritted her teeth. “Well, for the moment, I’m the acting custodian until Larry can get around here. In a few minutes, we’ll start to bring residents this way toward the dining room for lunch. If this isn’t cleaned up immediately, you may see more than your share of hip fractures. We can’t have our residents slipping and falling.”

  “You really take this job too seriously.” He shrugged and walked away.

  As he predicted, the day got worse. There was a pending food fight during lunch when three sets of elderly women saved Kidd a seat at their tables. They all waved frantically to get his attention. One lady grabbed his arm with a death grip as he strolled by. That prompted someone else to pitch a corn muffin at the offender.

  Kidd escaped, but without eating. For the remainder of the afternoon, he sought out hiding places from the residents. It was definitely going to be his last day. An hour before it was time for him to clock out, his stomach growled. Spying the halls to make sure the coast was clear, he headed to the kitchen, as if he was running for a field goal. The aroma of dinner was permeating the air. He opened the door to the kitchen and stuck his head inside.
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br />   “Hello,” his voice echoed. A gray-haired woman with an apron loosely tied around her waist poked her head from behind a corner. Kidd cranked up the charm. “I missed lunch. Do you think I can get a sandwich?”

  “You’re Kidd, right? The new kid on the block. Get it?” she mused.

  “Yes, madam. Actually, I get that pun all the time.” He quickly stepped inside and took one last peep before closing the door.

  She chuckled. “I reckon so. What do you have a taste for, baby?”

  “I’ll take any kind of meat and cheese between two slices of bread. Bless you.” Kidd knew when to turn on his spirituality too.

  “Coming right up, handsome.” She opened the door to a wide, stainless steel, walk-in refrigerator. Pulling out a couple of containers and condiment jars, she made a sub sandwich before his eyes and wrapped it with a napkin. Lastly, she plucked a miniature juice carton off the shelf. “There, baby. Now get out of my kitchen. I’ve got folks to feed.”

  “Are you Miss Gertie?”

  Her hands landed on her hips, as her nostrils flared. “Do I look like Gertrude?” She cranked her neck. “Don’t mention that woman’s name to me. Every time she’s here, she rearranges my things. I’m Miss Mary, younger and better looking.”

  Nodding, Kidd winked. “Well, thank you, Miss Mary.” Cracking the door, he looked both ways. He didn’t want any witnesses to follow him outside to the pond, or whatever they called it.

  He hustled his way to the familiar bench and collapsed. “There’s got to be a better purpose in my life.” Kidd shook his head in disappointment, mumbled a few words over his food, and tore off a hefty bite. Immediately, he spit it into his napkin. “Blah.” It was horrible. How could a person mess up a sandwich? His little seven-year-old cousin could probably do better than this. “Yep. It definitely couldn’t compare to Miss Gertie’s hoagies.” He reached for the carton of juice to wash away the nasty residue.

  “If I were a man, I would beat you down.”

  Kidd flinched and glared over his shoulder at the threat—Eva. He was about to smile, but one arched brow accenting her game face indicated it wouldn’t help.

  “Considering my lovely opponent, I’m a lover, baby, not a fighter.” What possessed him to say something so cocky? Blame it on the counterfeit sandwich.

  Eva laughed. “You would first have to love yourself, which you don’t seem to do! Then you could love others. I’m still trying to convince myself that those mean-spirited words actually came out of your mouth to Mr. Johnston—”

  “Wait one minute, Eva. I don’t need to defend myself. But did you not hear what the old man said to me? Those are fighting words. I’m not apologizing for that one.”

  “You’re an imposter. This is our job, Kevin. We are here for the residents because we want to be. What a loser. When you first walked through those doors, I thought you were a blessing in disguise. Well, it didn’t take long for you to come out of your costume. This whole ‘fighting words’ thing is thuggish.”

  Kidd sucked in his breath, as if she had delivered an uppercut.

  “I was in your corner, Kevin. I was pulling for you. I expected you to succeed, but now another Black man bites the dust.” She turned and stomped away. Then, swirling around, she snapped, “God doesn’t like ugly, and today you looked horrible.”

  Chapter Seven

  Later that evening, sequestered behind the closed doors of her two-bedroom condo, Eva was slumped in her favorite overstuffed chair. Glancing around her living room flustered about her earlier behavior, she could have earned the first runner-up spot if there was a contest for the poster child of those famous airline commercials “Wanna Get Away?”

  At first, she was too embarrassed by her actions to call Dawn or her sister, but her only sibling knew her better than anyone. So far, they had been on the phone for more than a half hour.

  I’ve lost my mind, Eva thought while her sister was talking. When it was her turn to speak, she confided, “I just can’t believe I turned ‘pre-nursezilla’ on the man. What was I thinking?” She rubbed the same patch of hair until her scalp became sore.

  “That’s exactly what I want to know. That man could’ve hurt you. I don’t care if he thinks he’s a kid, or whatever.” Her twin, Angela, didn’t back down. The tongue-lashing had been going on for—she blinked to read the time on her wall clock—forty-five minutes.

  Standing at five-foot-six, Angela and Eva were identical twins. At times, their mother could barely tell them apart. They had brownish-streaked hair, light-brown eyes with the clarity of a new marble, and skin that was fair, but just dark enough to camouflage freckles.

  They both could turn heads.

  But their personalities were distinguishable. Eva had no problem dining solo to savor exceptional food in solitude. On the other hand, Angela was a chatterbox from the time she placed her order, during the meal, and after paying the check. It was no surprise when Angela’s food was often room temperature by the time she started to eat it.

  “I was definitely having an ‘out-of-body-and-out-of-mind’ experience. I just couldn’t believe my ears. I was shocked to hear such an exchange—and with a resident no less. It caught me off guard.”

  “Put yourself in his shoes,” Angela scolded. She tried to be the voice of reason when Eva made an error, but Angela chased wisdom away when it was time for her to exercise good judgment.

  “From what you told me, it sounds like that resident provoked your coworker. How did you expect him to react when an old geezer called him ‘boy’? That’s slavery terminology—a word we think is obsolete until it resurfaces without warning.” She paused. “And you know, I’m not chummy with senior citizens either, unless they’re related to us. My only exception is the yearly pre–Mother’s Day project I do with you. Besides that, I’m not visiting.”

  “Come on, Angela. I’m not talking about being chummy. I’m talking about simple cordiality, regardless of sex, creed, race—or age.”

  Angela sighed. “God gave you a specific gift for geriatrics. Some gifts aren’t meant to be shared—although we know God freely gives—check your Bible on that one. What I mean is, everyone doesn’t share your passion. Besides, this man isn’t your responsibility. If he doesn’t do his job, let the powers that be deal with him.”

  Eva nodded, admitting her sister was right. Still, she wanted to have the final say. “All that sounds good, Angela, but forget about my passion. A person doesn’t retaliate against ignorance. I’ve heard derogatory comments from residents—and some have come from people who aren’t as old as Mr. Johnston. That doesn’t give me ammunition or an excuse for rudeness. I just ignore them and keep doing my job. That’s called being professional.”

  Eva didn’t believe in living in the past. Her blessings were in the future. Yes, sometimes their words were hurtful, but who was going to stand up and be a Christian?

  Her sister wasn’t letting up either. “No, that’s called you being desensitized.” Eva imagined Angela was wagging her finger at the phone. “Everybody doesn’t ‘get over’ everything easily, especially a Black man—I don’t care how intelligent he is. Plus, if he isn’t a practicing Christian, then his reaction was strictly textbook. And speaking of being a Christian, it appears you missed the mark today, sister. You got mad at your coworker for putting some old man in his place, and what do you do—”

  Eva groaned. “Turn around and act the same way.” Forget having the last word. Angela snagged that spot. Still, Eva was looking for some justification, even if it was a dot of being right. “Angel, you should have heard him. He sounded deadly.”

  “Did you interrupt a murder in progress?”

  Now her twin was grating on her nerves. This is where their shared compatibility ended. Angela always wanted to be right, and Eva refused to be wrong. “Are you kidding? Not if Mr. Johnston had anything to say about it. He may be weak in his body, but he has spit, kicked, and yelled when the mood hit him.”

  “Hmm, violent nature. Does he have a touch
of Alzheimer’s?”

  “Nope. His mind is sharp.”

  “Then he meant what he said. Case closed.” Angela’s line clicked as if on cue. “Hold on.”

  Eva thought about disconnecting and letting Angela return to dead air. Her sister was trying to back her into a corner. It was definitely time to go and put something together for dinner.

  Pushing up from her cozy position in her chair, Eva stood and stretched. The sun was setting, but faint rays of light sneaked through her miniblinds. It was just enough illumination to provide a path to the light switch on the wall.

  With the skylights beaming in her kitchen, Eva still contemplated hanging up on her sister. She was simply looking for support to justify her bout of out-of-control behavior toward Kidd. She wanted Angela to be outraged by his actions; instead, Eva got a spanking.

  “Sorry. I’m back,” Angela said, breathless as if she had run a marathon around the house. “The bottom line with this Kidd guy is to pray for him … and for you to apologize.”

  Eva dreaded the thought. She didn’t mind apologizing, but to him? “I guess so; since I started it, it’s up to me to end it.” She opened her refrigerator and grabbed a bowl of leftover chicken salad.

  “Yep. Listen, Lance will be here any minute and I want to be ready. Are you sure you don’t want to tag along with us to his cousin’s fiftieth birthday party? It’ll be fun.”

  Eva had had enough of Angela tonight. She’d rather sulk in silence, but couldn’t. “Sorry. I’ve got a date with Watson and his Theory of Nursing textbook for an upcoming test.”

  This was her second semester in St. Louis University’s nursing program. The fall semester had been difficult, but she survived. Now the spring session was making her question her choice to return to school at twenty-seven. After all, her first degree in business landed her two dead-end jobs. Although she really wanted to obtain a second degree, the course work was a struggle.