by Mark Oshiro
As she said it, she must have seen Moss’s face droop. She must have heard the gasps, the collective loss of breath in the crowd. “That’s cold,” someone said. Moss’s mouth dropped open, just slightly, and it was like his heart stopped. Like the world froze.
“Oh … oh my god, I’m sorry,” Sophia was saying, her hand up, “I was just repeating what he said and—”
Wanda stepped in front of Moss. “This interview is over,” she said, and she blocked Tyree for a moment, but the man switched off the light, lowered the camera, and gaped at his partner. He looked sick, his own mouth agape in horror.
Sophia put her face in her hands, and Moss felt like dropping to the ground. “I’m so sorry,” she said again. “I shouldn’t have hit you with that. It was senseless, and I can’t apologize enough.”
Moss’s head swirled. Think, think, he told himself. Get a grip, don’t let this derail you. He flipped through the Rolodex while he tried to fill his lungs with air, but they felt like concrete blocks in his chest. His mom was there, her hands on his face, caressing him, telling him that he was okay, that she wasn’t going to leave his side, that what he was doing was brave and courageous and that Morris would have been so proud of him.
He flipped the deck. That night in Mosswood Park. No, no, he thought about that all the time. The piraguas. No, no, it wasn’t right. The pupusas in the Mission. The Christmas bike.
“No, no, no,” he said, soft at first, then rising in volume. “I can’t. I can’t.”
“You can’t what, baby?” His mother ran her hands over his head, down the sides of his face.
The picnic at the lake. The first day of school. The bus rides to Fremont.
“No, no, no, no!” Moss shouted, and the panic pushed at his throat, burst out of his eyes, pressed at his heart. “Mama, I can’t remember. I can’t remember anything new.”
She stopped. She looked into his eyes, and Moss saw them examine his face. She was afraid. It terrified him.
Sophia backed away. She was still apologizing. Tyree pulled her into the crowd, and Moss saw the looks on their faces. Sadness. Pity.
They pitied him. He slumped down the pole, crumpled to the ground. He had never hated himself more.
32
“I messed up, didn’t I?”
He tossed the question at his mother, but she was already refusing it, her head shaking furiously from side to side.
“No, no, not at all, baby,” she said. She caressed him again. “You did incredible, Moss. It’s that reporter’s fault for surprising you like that.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” said Shamika, and she lowered herself down to sit on Moss’s right side. “You heard how the crowd reacted. They were surprised, too. It was a low blow.”
He continued to practice his breathing technique, and his heart rate finally started to subside from the painful thumping of the last few minutes. The crowd around him seemed to be giving him space for the moment, so he took the opportunity to direct a question toward his mother. “You think I did okay?”
“Yeah, definitely,” said Wanda, and she smiled at him. “Real good.”
“Reminded me of your mom there for a minute,” said Martin, and he was grinning, too. “She definitely rubbed off on you. Which reminds me.” He turned to Shamika, who handed him a paper bag. “This is for you.”
Moss took the bag and peered inside it. He reached in and pulled out its contents: a bottle of water, a bag of almonds, an apple, and an empty sports drink bottle.
“What’s this for?” Moss asked, holding up the empty container.
“Well,” said Martin, “I had a realization. You’re gonna be here for a while, right?”
Moss nodded. “I guess. It certainly looks like it.”
“Well, I figured that eventually, you’re going to need to … uh … well, you’re going to need to fill that empty bottle … with … um—”
“Damn, Martin, just say it!” Shamika shouted, then turned to Moss with a giant smile on her face. “You’re gonna have to take a mean piss eventually.”
“It just sounds so silly!” Martin said. “In my defense, I got the bottle. My work is done.”
“No, it’s not,” said Moss. “You gotta help form a wall around me if that’s the case. And someone’s gonna have to empty it.”
“I do not volunteer as tribute,” said Shamika. “I changed your diaper enough as a kid.”
Moss flushed. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”
“Your father was terrible at it,” said Wanda. “Shamika used to help a lot when the two of us got scheduled to work at the same time.”
He gaped at his mother. He had known that Shamika was a longtime friend, but he assumed that she had not gotten close to Wanda until after Morris had died. “I had no idea,” he said quietly. “Guess there’s a lot I don’t know.”
Martin whistled at that one. The others went silent; even his mother looked away from him.
“Ah, I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t trying to be passive-aggressive, Mama. It’s just been a long day. My brain isn’t running on a hundred percent.”
“It’s okay,” said Wanda. “And it looks like we’ve got a long night ahead of us, so it might be best to kill some of that time.” She breathed in deep. He watched her look at her two best friends. “So what do you want to know, Moss?”
He examined her face, saw that she looked at him without her usual defenses. She was vulnerable. Open. She meant it.
“You know there’s only one thing I really want to know,” he said.
“That’s my fault,” said Shamika. “Me and my big mouth.”
“What happened?” Moss asked. “Shamika said that this isn’t the first time our folks have gone up against the cops. Was she referring to us and Papa?”
“Well, sort of,” Wanda said. “In a roundabout way. There’s a reason I stopped organizing. Stopped going to rallies. Just got lost in work and you.”
“You talkin’ about the end of junior high? That time?”
“Not long before,” she admitted, and she pursed her lips. She took Moss’s hand in hers. “I’ve been ashamed to admit it, but I got scared. Real scared.”
“We all did,” said Martin, and he squatted down in front of Moss. “Trust when we say that for a time there, it seemed like there was a real ugly force in this city that was prepared to do anything to stay in power.”
“Okay, now you’re spooking me out,” said Moss, and he shivered from a combination of the cold and the unnerving sensation of fear that rattled through him. “What are you talking about?”
“I know this isn’t a surprise to you, but there’s a long, violent history of resistance against the police in this city,” said Wanda, and she squeezed his hand a little tighter. “Stretching all the way back to the Black Panthers. Probably further.”
“And obviously not just here,” said Martin. “All over the country.”
Wanda nodded in agreement. “But here, it’s an undeniable part of the fabric of Oakland. For as long as I can remember, there’s always been people here ready to check the police, to keep them in line, to remind them that they are servants of the public, not the other way around.”
“Doesn’t seem to have worked,” said Moss. “I mean, I’ve never known that to be the case.”
“Well, maybe not, but there were plenty of us who tried,” said Wanda. “Present party included. You know, that’s how I met your English teacher! Mrs. Torrance.”
“Oh!” Moss said. “Well, that explains that.”
“Oh, Moss, you shoulda seen some of the shit your mama used to get up to!” Shamika laughed. “Before you were born, she and Morris were huge in this community. Organizing rallies. Helping to protest every time the police shot and killed someone. She got arrested. A lot.”
“I kinda figured that one out,” said Moss. “I mean, I’ve heard so much about all the people arrested at protests that it only made sense that you had to have been at some point. But … it’s more than that, i
sn’t it?”
Wanda didn’t react at first. She sat still, her hand in Moss’s, and it chilled him. His mother was always so certain, so sure, and he then saw the doubt creep over her. Why doubt? Moss thought.
“It’s a lot more than that,” she said, and she was quiet. Small. His mother, who was always so bigger-than-life, now seemed to shrink before Moss. “I think you were four when it happened. Her name was…” She let the sentence expire and looked up to her friends.
“Sherelle,” said Martin softly. “I can’t even remember her last name. God, has it been that long?”
“Have there been that many of them that we can’t remember?” Shamika said. “Christ.”
“Mama,” said Moss. “Who was Sherelle?”
“She was shot down the street from our house,” said Wanda. “In a traffic stop. You know how it goes. The cops claimed that she had a weapon and brandished it, so they fired on her. She died there in her car. They wouldn’t even let the paramedics see her.”
“That’s awful,” said Moss.
“Yeah, and I saw the whole thing,” his mother said. “Because I filmed it all.”
“Oh no,” said Moss, the words spilling out of him like a ritual. He knew the rest of the story without her having to finish it. “What did they do to you?”
“Nothing at first,” she said. “They didn’t even know until a couple days later that anyone could dismantle their story. I gave the tape to the news after we found out … when we—”
His heart dropped. She had tears in her eyes. She looked up at Shamika, and Moss gazed at her. She was shaking her head. “Moss, she was just a couple months pregnant when they killed her.”
When he looked back at his mother, he saw her shudder, and he let go of her hand, pulled her closer, but she resisted. She pulled away from him. “No, not yet,” she said. “You have to hear it all before you decide anything.”
He hated how uncomfortable he felt. “What do you mean, Mama? Decide what? I don’t understand!”
Moss turned his attention to Martin and Shamika, but neither of them would make eye contact. They held their heads down, their gaze elsewhere. “Mama, what happened?”
She sniffled. “The department visited me. After the news broadcasts with my video, which showed that she never reached for any weapon, that she never did anything to warrant a display of force, that they just murdered her. It was like a month later.”
She stopped again. Moss had never seen her like this. She was never so reluctant to talk. What did this mean?
“I never got their names. No badges. Three of them showed up, told me that I had better be careful, that I had painted a target on my back, on my whole family.”
He felt it rise within him: that anger, that fury and rage that he tried so hard to control. “Mama, you did the right thing,” he said, desperate to push away the boiling in his blood. “Please don’t feel bad for it.”
“I saw one of them again, baby, years later. I didn’t recognize him at first.”
He was shaking his head. “I don’t get it.”
She looked to Martin, and he said what she had not been able to say. “She saw him outside Dawit’s shop. Standing over your father’s body.”
She wouldn’t look at him. He felt a horror grow within him, and he was crying openly when she started speaking again. “I didn’t know it at the time, but I recognized him that day outside Dawit’s,” she said. “And I can never prove it, not in a court of law, not even in the public eye. But I know in my heart why that man fired his gun that day.”
He looked upon the others in desperation. Martin wouldn’t bring his eyes to meet Moss, and Shamika’s mascara had started to run down her cheeks.
“How long until you were gonna tell me?” Moss said, and the words came out as daggers, rough and purposeful. “How long?”
“We didn’t know how,” said Martin. “How do you even start that conversation?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Moss shot back. “Maybe, ‘Hey, Moss, we just want you to know that the police are scarier than you already think they are’? Something like that?”
He made himself look at his mother. Her lips trembled, the tears fell. “Please,” she said, and she looked like a child about to beg forgiveness from a parent. “Please don’t hate me.”
He swallowed. “Mama, damn it, I could never hate you,” he said, and he wiped the wetness off his face. “I wouldn’t dream of blaming you for what happened to Papa. Ever.”
“Really?” Wanda said, the relief spreading across her features.
“I just wanted the truth,” he said. “I just want to know what I’m up against. And to not feel like I’m just some kid who has bit off more than he can chew.”
“Well, that’s probably always going to happen,” his mother said. “At least when you’re going up against such powerful people. But you’re right. You deserved to know the truth. It’s unfair. And I’m sorry.”
She didn’t resist when he pulled her in closer. He hugged her hard. “I’m sorry, too,” he said. “I had no idea that Papa’s death probably hurt you harder than I realized.”
“I know it’s irrational,” his mother said. “These two have been telling me that for years, and I still can’t believe them. But I feel responsible.”
“No,” said Moss. “That would be the man who pulled the trigger.”
“Amen,” said Martin.
“And I’m glad we’ve got that out of the way,” said Moss, and he motioned for Martin and Wanda to help him up. “Because I’ve got to pee something fierce.”
“Oooh, I am not gonna be here for this,” said Shamika, standing up. “Anyone want some coffee? There’s a shop up on 19th that’s open twenty-four hours.”
As people shouted out orders, Moss was helped up. He smiled at his mother, certain that he loved her more now than he did before. He refused any anger toward her; he rejected it because he could not be angry at the wrong person. He was now more determined than ever to get justice for Javier, for Reg and Shawna, for every person who had been harmed by the monsters who worked in the building behind him.
* * *
Martin said he would take one for the team, and so Moss watched him walk away with a nearly full bottle of urine to dump somewhere discreetly. The crowd had grown even larger, despite it being well past midnight. As people joined them, many came up to Moss to say hello, to shake his hand, to congratulate him for what he had accomplished. Some posed for selfies; a photographer for the Associated Press asked Moss for permission to snap a few photos, and then he thanked Moss for what he was doing, too.
It felt good. Surprising. He legs ached every so often, and the chain had started to dig into his waist. He was certainly uncomfortable, but the trade-off was already worth it. How are there so many people here? Moss thought. What’s it going to be like in the morning?
They arrived sometime after one. Moss didn’t recognize them at first, felt strange about how they lingered on the outside of the crowd. A black girl, her braids immaculate, two people cowering behind her. It was when Carlos poked his head around Chandra that Moss lit up. “Carlos?! Is that you?”
Carlos’s smile ignited a joy on his face. He rushed up to Moss, who was still standing, and he threw himself into a hug. It briefly knocked the wind out of him, but Carlos wouldn’t let go. He was crying now, his sobs muffled in Moss’s torso, and Moss just held him, saying nothing.
“Thank you,” Chandra said. “We didn’t want the world to forget Javier.”
“Or turn him into a reckless monster,” said Sam. “He was the farthest thing from that.” They turned away to wipe at their face.
“I’m sorry you lost your friend, too,” he said. “And I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to come to Eastside to tell you that myself.”
“’Sokay,” said Chandra. “You’ve kind of had a lot to deal with.”
“I’m working on something today, should be done soon cuz I’m not going to school tomorrow,” Carlos said. “Been working on it all weekend a
nd I’m heading over now to do more before morning. Just a li’l piece for Javier.”
“Little?” Sam laughed at that. “Boy, that piece is the entire side of a building.”
Carlos crinkled up his face. “It’s okay. I just hope you like it.”
Moss pulled the boy in for another hug. “I can’t wait to see it,” he said.
There was a commotion behind him, a rising chaos of voices and scuffling. Moss couldn’t see what was happening, so he asked his mother.
She frowned. “Someone’s coming,” she said. “From inside the building.”
He could see the crowd moving out of the way. A woman floated into his line of vision, and he watched her with concern. She looked a bit like Hayley, though she was taller, her hair lighter. Her attire was simple, all plain colors and straight lines, but she seemed frazzled. Unprepared. She must have just been woken up, Moss thought. She extended her hand to Moss, but he remained motionless.
“Johanna Thompson,” she said. “I wanted to introduce myself; I’m the communications manager for the Oakland Police Department.”
“Wait, what?” Moss said. “Isn’t that someone else?” He gazed over at the others. “Wasn’t it someone else at the church?”
“Rachel,” said Wanda. “Her name was Rachel.”
Johanna smiled, and Moss nearly burst into bitter laughter. She smiled exactly like Rachel did.
“Well, there’s been a bit of an internal change,” Johanna said, but Martin’s whoops drowned her out.
“Are you telling me they fired that last woman already?” Martin slapped his knee. “That is the funniest thing I have heard this whole year.”
“Well,” said Johanna, ignoring Martin and staring straight at Moss. “I’m here on behalf of the Oakland Police Department to help facilitate a fair exchange of ideas.”
“Ah,” said Wanda, who stepped closer to her son. “So, you’re here to craft a message.”
“No, no, not at all,” said Johanna. She smiled. Again. “Actually, I’m here because Moss’s protest has worked. We would like to talk to him.”