by Ben Sciacca
Jim stood up and walked over to Malik. He took the can from his hand and studied it before shaking his head. “‘Vienna sausages.’ No. I’ve never had these. What do you call them, again?”
“Vie-yeenas.”
“Vie-yeenas?” Jim imitated cautiously.
Malik nodded.
“Okay,” Jim said with a shrug. “Do they taste good? Actually, I don’t really care. I could eat almost anything right now.”
Malik nodded, peeled back the tab on the can, and extracted a sausage. Jim eyed the small piece of meat in Malik’s hand. A curious clear liquid was drizzling off it back into the can. Malik popped it into his mouth and chewed. He nodded his head up and down. “Yes sir!” he chirped with a rapturous look on his face.
“That good, huh?” Jim said with squinted eyes. “What’s the weird jelly stuff those things are swimming in?”
Malik shrugged. “Dunno. It’s good though. You better snag you one or I’ll crush this whole can.” He popped another sausage in his mouth.
Jim looked at Malik, at the can, back at Malik, and then slowly pulled a sausage from the can. He jiggled it over the can, trying to shake as much liquid off it as possible. Malik watched excitedly as Jim placed the sausage in his mouth and slowly chewed. “Good, isn’t it?” Malik asked hopefully.
“It’s food I guess,” Jim said glumly. “A little bit slimy and salty for me.”
Malik frowned and shook his head. “Maybe it would taste better if you could dip it in some hummus? That’s cool if you don’t like ’em. Means there’s more for me then.”
Jim sighed and opened the cupboard. He was disappointed to see three more cans of the canned meat and nothing else. Reluctantly he grabbed one and opened it.
“There you go!” Malik said. “Get you some.”
“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” Jim mumbled. He took his can and walked back toward the fire.
“Hey!” Malik hollered after him. “Don’t throw those Viennas in the fire, man! I know you’re tired, but don’t do nothin’ crazy.”
Jim leaned down and snatched a stick off the floor near the log pile. Squeamishly he removed another sausage and pierced it on the end of the thin branch. Malik watched curiously as Jim held the stick over the coal bed and slowly rotated it. The tiny sausage quickly browned and wilted over the heat. After a minute Jim pulled it from the coals and blew on it before popping it into his mouth. He smiled. “Much better,” he said. He pulled another sausage from the can and repeated the process.
Malik walked briskly over to the fireplace and stood next to Jim. “Yo. That ain’t a bad idea. I’m gonna heat up my sausage over here too.”
Jim glanced up with a curious grin on his face. Malik looked at him strangely for a moment before shaking his head and bursting into laughter.
“You’re hilarious, dude. You know what I mean.”
The two of them sat side by side, leaning over the coals, heating their breakfast. The aromatic smell of roasted meat filled the cabin as each sausage filled their stomachs.
“I can’t believe Thanksgiving is in two days,” Jim said wistfully. He leaned back from the fire and wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb.
“Yeah, me neither,” Malik replied. He popped another sausage into his mouth.
“You guys have some family traditions?” Jim asked.
Malik chewed for a moment and gave a slight shrug. “I guess. As long as I can remember, we’ve always had Thanksgiving at my grandma’s. She usually does most of the cookin’. My mom, her sister LeKeisha, my Uncle Keith, and his son, Camron, usually drop by. They typically bring some kinda fixin’ with them.”
“What’s your favorite part of the meal?”
“Outside of the turkey, it’s hard not to like my grandma’s greens. And my Uncle Keith makes some pretty good chitlins.”
“Chitlins, huh?” Jim cocked his head to the side. “For Thanksgiving? I’ve never heard of that one before.”
“Throw some hot sauce on them and you’re good to go,” Malik said with a slight nod. “Hot sauce on your greens too—delicious!”
“Never heard of hot sauce at Thanksgiving, either.”
“Not everybody eats hummus,” Malik mumbled.
“All right. Enough with the hummus jokes,” Jim said. “That’s not the only thing white folks eat.”
“Yeah? But did y’all have some at Thanksgiving last year?”
Jim cleared his throat. “I don’t remember . . . maybe as an appetizer or something . . . I’ve never had chitlins before. Are they really good?”
Malik nodded. “Yeah man. They’re good if they’re done right. My Uncle Keith used to make them on some special occasions. He said he had some kinda secret ingredient. But after the accident two years ago, he stopped makin’ them, so—”
“Accident?”
Malik stared out the window of Aunt LeKeisha’s car. The rain thudded loudly on the roof.
“Come on, people!” his aunt shouted. She laid on the horn. “How come everybody forgets how to drive when it storms?” Cars crawled slowly down the road. Malik leaned forward in his seat. Through the torrential sheets of water he could see the hospital lights up ahead. His aunt cursed and laid on the horn again.
“Be calm, LeKeisha,” Malik’s grandma said. “You’re gonna cause another accident.” She placed her hand softly on her daughter’s knee.
Malik sucked in his lips and winced. His head throbbed. It had been throbbing ever since his mom answered their phone, shrieked, and collapsed onto the couch with her face in her hands. No matter how many times he asked what was wrong, she continued to sit there, shaking her head with her legs trembling. She stayed that way until his aunt pulled up to the house. “Come on, baby,” she had said to him, frowning at his mom as she took his hand. “Uncle Keith is in the hospital. Leave your mama here. We gotta go.”
Finally they reached the hospital. With quick and deliberate steps, they rushed down the bright white hallways until they found Uncle Keith’s room. LeKeisha barged in, nearly knocking a nurse to the ground. Malik’s grandmother whispered a prayer and entered slowly. But Malik felt his feet freeze. He wanted to go no further. Fear paralyzed him.
“Oh my God!” his aunt bellowed. “Keith! Keith!”
A voice from behind Malik spoke assuredly. “It’s okay, son.” He turned to see the weary face of a doctor. He tried to muster a half-smile. The doctor placed his hand on Malik’s elbow and drew him into the room.
Malik lost his breath as he spotted his uncle hooked up to a variety of machines. He was unconscious, and his face was shrouded in bloodied bandages. Malik’s grandmother was already at Keith’s bedside, holding his hand as tears streamed down her face. Aunt LeKeisha continued to cry out his name. Malik just stood there in the middle of the room, staring at his uncle’s motionless frame.
“Hello,” the doctor said. “I’m Dr. Carlson.” His voice captured everyone’s attention. “Mr. Thompson was hit by a drunk driver leaving campus this evening.”
“Drunk driver?” LeKeisha’s face twisted with contempt. “A drunk driver did this to him?” The doctor nodded.
“Is he going to live?” Malik’s grandmother asked cautiously.
The doctor nodded. “We think so. But his injuries are severe. He has a concussion, three cracked ribs, and . . . it’s unknown if he’ll have use of his legs again.”
Malik’s eyes widened, and he felt his stomach twist. “You mean,” his grandmother asked, “he ain’t gonna walk again?”
Dr. Carlson grimaced. “It’s doubtful. The damage to his spine is substantial.”
“What about the other driver?” LeKeisha retorted. “I hope he’s laid up in a bed here too. Or maybe he’s dead?”
“LeKeisha!” her mother shouted.
“No, Mama. I want to know if this drunk piece of trash is okay too!”
“He’s with the police,” the doctor said. “His injuries were superficial.”
“Oh my God!” LeKeisha roared. “I hope the
y lock his sorry—”
“Look,” Dr. Carlson interrupted. “Mr. Thompson is going to need all of you. His life is going to be very different now, and the support of his family is absolutely crucial. Is he married? Does he have any kids?”
Malik’s aunt threw herself down in a chair and just stared out the window as the rain continued to fall in thick sheets. His grandmother shook her head. “No. He’s divorced, and his ex-wife lives in Tennessee somewhere. His son isn’t around now either. We’re all he has right now.”
“Well,” Dr. Carlson replied plainly, “he’s going to need all of you to be strong.”
Jim frowned. “I’m sorry to hear about your Uncle Keith. What’s he up to now?”
Malik shrugged. “He’s a strong man. He got out of the hospital, did a lot of rehab, and he’s back wheeling himself around in the classroom at the college where he works.”
“Does he still come to see you?”
“He can’t drive. Grandma doesn’t have a car, and no one else from my family is really willin’ to make the trip out there to get him. So no, not really.”
“Did anything ever happen to the guy who hit him?” Jim asked.
“Not really,” Malik replied. “He was some college kid driving back to his dorm from a frat party. My uncle was working late and was on his way home. The kid hit my uncle going thirty-five miles over the speed limit. His dad is a big-shot lawyer or something. I think they worked it out for him to do community service or something. But that’s about it. He snatched my uncle’s legs from him—and pretty much snatched my uncle from my family too.”
“Did you mention a cousin?” Jim queried.
Malik nodded. “Yeah. Camron.”
Jim waited a moment, then prodded further. “What’s up with him?”
“He’s still got one more year on his sentence. He’s Uncle Keith’s only son—been locked up for two years for possession. He was busted a second time for weed.”
“Dealing drugs, huh?”
“Nah,” Malik continued. “Camron’s no dealer. He smokes the stuff on occasion. One day he got pulled over for some bull, and they found weed on him. Because he was within a thousand feet of a school or whatever, they locked him away for three years. He’s never dealt drugs in his life—but that ain’t what the prosecution said.” Malik shook his head. “It’s funny now that I think about it. Some college boy got drunk and leaves my uncle in a wheelchair, and the courts tell him he needs to pick up trash for a few weeks to make up for his mistakes. Camron hasn’t hurt a fly but just has some weed in his pocket on the wrong day, and they lock him up for three years. I guess that’s how the system works though, right?”
“When you put it like that,” Jim said thoughtfully, “it’s not right. A drunken kid speeding in a car is far more dangerous than someone with weed in his pocket. I’m not saying weed in any circumstance is okay, but there’s no way your cousin deserves a harsher consequence than the kid who hit your uncle. The punishment should suit the crime.”
“I usually just get mad about it all, man,” Malik said, pursing his lips. “You got police choking a dude to death for selling cigarettes. You got police shootin’ unarmed kids and leaving their bodies in the streets. But no one pays for it—no one is accountable except the ones lyin’ dead on the concrete. Then you got white boys drivin’ around drunk in their daddy’s Benz and white folks sniffin’ coke up in the burbs, and nobody cares about that for real. But a young black kid like Camron with weed in his pocket? Shoot! He’s the menace to society. We got to get his dangerous butt off of the streets and lock him up! If life is a game, then the game is rigged, man! Uncle Keith said it’s like trying to play basketball and foulin’ out of the game with the first foul. But then some of these white folks out here get seven or eight fouls!” Malik dropped his head. “My dad fouled out. My cousin Ricky fouled out. No sayin’ what Camron will do once he gets out, but unless there’s some kind of miracle, he’s probably fouled out already. Me too! You think anyone is gonna believe I’m innocent . . . that circumstances last night forced me to do what I did?” Malik looked desperately at Jim to say something, but he said nothing. “No!” Malik cried. “No one would believe a word I said, because I’m already who they think I am.” Malik held his hand up and started lifting his fingers one at a time. “I’m black. Male. Hood. Dangerous.” He looked at Jim. “Maybe now you’re startin’ to understand why I don’t have a lot of hope for my situation.”
Jim was quiet for a moment. “What about your uncle,” he finally asked. “Has he lost hope?”
“Uncle Keith used to hope. He said a broken system could be fixed if everyone could just admit that it was broken and then work together to make it right. He always had this belief deep inside of him that anything that is broken can be restored. But when he lost his legs, and when the system that he hoped could be fixed took his son, it kinda snatched his hope as well. Uncle Keith isn’t the type to fold, but he doesn’t have much left to play with, either.”
Jim sniffed and tightened his lips. He stared absently into the dying coals of the fire. From outside the cabin, they noticed a crunching noise in the distance, coming closer.
Malik sprang from his seat and raced to the window. He pulled back the tattered curtain to peer outside. With a desperate movement he pulled his gun from out of the back of his pants.
“What’s wrong?” Jim asked as he slowly rose from his chair.
Malik stood transfixed, staring out the window. He spoke in a frightened whisper. “Someone is coming.”
19
THE INTRUDER
11:12 a.m., Tuesday before Thanksgiving
JIM STOOD NEXT TO MALIK at the window and watched as a rusted green pickup truck approached the cabin. Thick gray exhaust puffed from the pipe in the back, rolling atop the glistening ice in an ominous cloud.
Malik stood like a statue—aside from the gun that shook in his hand. This was the first sign of life either of them had seen in over twelve hours, but Jim did not like the look of this truck. He, too, felt his stomach tightening.
“Ah, man.” Malik looked at the two stickers on the truck’s sagging rear bumper. “Trump and the Confederate flag . . . This ain’t good at all.”
“Look,” Jim said loudly. “We just need to stay calm. You need to put that gun up, Malik. Whoever this is will not respond well if they see you carrying a gun.”
The truck rumbled closer and parked about fifty yards away from the cabin. The windshield of the vehicle was cracked, and through it they could see the silhouette of the driver. An eternity seemed to pass as they waited for something to happen. The man remained in his truck while it sputtered loudly, continuing to unleash gray smog that refused to dissipate in the frigid morning air.
“What’s he waitin’ on?” Malik whispered. “Why’s he just sittin’ there? How’d he know we were here?”
“He probably saw the smoke from the fire,” Jim replied. “Maybe I should go out there and talk to him.”
“No. You crazy?” Malik said. “We need to stay right here.”
Finally the driver-side door opened. An older man in camouflage stepped slowly out of the truck and into the icy snow. A long, silvery beard hung down on his chest. With his gloved hands he gave his bright orange stocking cap a tug. He reached into his truck and pulled out a hunting rifle and placed it on his shoulder. A large, spotted dog bounded out of the vehicle, panting excitedly.
Malik’s eyes widened even more, and he trembled noticeably as the man and his dog approached the cabin. Jim looked at Malik and then out of the window again. “Listen, Malik,” he said calmly, “you need to go and hide. Go hide in the bathroom or something.” Uncertainty darted in Jim’s eyes. “I’ll think of something.”
Malik replied tersely. “You’ll probably just hand me over to this dude or let his dog get me. I ain’t about to let that happen.”
“Listen!” Jim barked. “Do you trust me or that man out there more? I realize this feels like a lose-lose, but you need to trust me. We�
��re both trespassing right now, and this man may not take too kindly to that.”
Malik looked at Jim with desperation in his eyes. He didn’t know whom he could trust at the moment, but somehow the last sixteen hours with Jim mattered. He took a step back from the window and hurried to the bathroom. He looked at Jim one more time before pulling the door shut, just as a loud knock shook the door of the cabin.
Jim swallowed. His legs felt heavy as he plodded toward the front door. He didn’t know why he was afraid—he hadn’t done anything wrong, other than try to stay alive. Surely this visitor would understand that a man would need shelter on a cold night like the last one. But at the same time, Jim didn’t like the look of this man. He wasn’t sure that he would help at all. He grabbed the handle and slowly pulled open the door. “Morning,” Jim said as confidently as he could.
Malik sat on the toilet lid, the 9mm trained in front of him. He leaned forward, trying to hear the conversation.
The man at the door had a craggy and weather-beaten face. His eyes were dark and partially concealed behind large, unruly eyebrows. His dog sat on its haunches, its head cocked sideways. “You a friend of Bert’s?” the old man asked, shrugging slightly to adjust the rifle on his shoulder.
Jim shook his head. “No. I don’t know Bert.”
“Well,” the old man replied. “This is his cabin. Why you in Bert’s cabin?”
“I got lost last night and found this hunting camp,” Jim said. “I didn’t want to die of cold, so I decided to crash here and stay warm.”
The old man leaned forward, trying to peer inside. “I saw you drive in last night. You drive a fancy-boy car, son. What are you and your fancy-boy car doing way out here, anyways?”
Jim thought quickly. “I’m an insurance adjustor. I have a client out here somewhere with roof damage. The weather turned nasty last night, and I got turned around. The GPS isn’t all that useful out here. When I saw the sign for the hunting camp, I thanked the Lord—I was doubting whether or not I’d make it home. I’m hoping to get out of here today if I can. Do I need to leave Bert a check or something for the firewood I used?”