“A couple of months,” Ross replied in a low voice. He kept distance between himself and the woman, who suddenly surprised him with an angry stare.
“Why you here... on Hexter Street?”
“Bitch, I already told you why! Another undercover cop to bust us for sellin’ drugs... again.” The dark man who spoke appeared from out of nowhere, followed by five other men. He was tall and muscular, with a dull bald head. His eyes reflected all the evil violence that he had ever brought his enemies. Gaudy platinum-and-diamond jewelry adorned his ears, wrists, fingers, and neck.
He and his five followers quickly surrounded Ross’s wheelchair. The woman rose, giggling, and joined the group.
She set me up, Ross thought, as he stared at the powerfully built guys. If they think I’m a cop, they must have plans to kill me!
As though the leader had read Ross’s mind, he suddenly punched the man in the chair. Blood spilled from Ross’s nostrils, and he gasped as the black man continued, hammering his seated victim with iron fists. Ross was helpless to avoid the blows. All he could do was sit there in intense pain, eyes closed, hearing the gang’s wild laughter and wondering if they would kill him.
But then he heard the sounds of a speeding car and gunshots. He opened his swollen eyes to see a blur of everyone running for cover, except the man who had led the attack on him—who now lay on the ground in front of Ross’s wheelchair. He’s shot! Ross thought. And then he feared that someone would try to kill him too.
The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was the sound of approaching sirens echoing in the distance.
“That’s what brought me here,” Dr. Taylor said, taking Ross’s hand into his own and gently squeezing it. The attentive physician was thirty-something, with deep-set brown eyes that clearly showed his concern over Ross’s condition. He wore his professional white coat over a plain red T-shirt and white jeans.
“Maggie was hysterical when she called and told me what had happened to you.”
Ross heard a woman singing about the goodness of God somewhere outside the room and frowned as he stared at Dr. Taylor.
“It’s okay,” Dr. Taylor said. “That’s Ms. Maggie Turner. You’ll meet her soon.”
Ross withdrew his hand from the other man, looking at him as if he had spoken a foreign language. He used his arms to pull himself up into a sitting position and then fell back against the fluffy pillows, looking for the first time at the small, practically bare room. Directly in front of him, below a brown-curtained window, was a wooden dresser so wide that it stretched almost from one wall to the other. To his left, beside the bed, was a raggedy stereo speaker-turned-nightstand; its top held a tall lamp with a ripped tan shade and a black digital alarm clock. Ross had to squint to focus, but finally he could read the glowing red numbers and discovered that it was 12:30 a.m.
Ross looked puzzled as he glanced up at the doctor. “This is not my home. Where am I?” he asked in a weak voice.
His heart skipped a fearful beat when a short, thin, brown-skinned woman burst through the door balancing a large soup bowl in her hands and hymning. Her graying hair was worn back, reaching a little below her shoulders. She had large brown eyes and deep dimples in her cheeks. A white waist apron protected her long black-and-white checkered dress.
When she saw him, she grinned, her deep dimples caving even further into her cheeks. “Bless your heart, you up!”
Ross stared at the black woman, who stopped at the side of the bed across from the doctor. His hands quickly became fists at his sides, as he remembered the young woman who had approached him outside on Hexter Street. “Where am I?” he repeated, more strongly this time, glaring back at Dr. Taylor for an explanation.
The doctor held up his hands to calm Ross. “You’re upstairs, just above your apartment.” He gave a nod at the woman, fingering a loose strand of his neck-length dark hair behind his ear, as he continued, “Maggie and her grandson, Tracie, are your neighbors. Last night, after your run-in with the gang, they brought you from outside and hid you here in their home.”
I would rather have died, Ross thought, staring at the woman as if he had a bitter taste in his mouth. Then his thoughts unexpectedly turned toward the song he had heard her singing. Who was this God that he—and so many others—learned to worship by faith but never saw? And though he was raised to believe that white people were God’s favorite, he now wondered how true that really was. Was it possible that God could actually be more faithful to blacks than whites? After all, they were once slaves, and yet a violent war gave them their freedom. Today, they were almost as civilized as any distinguished white lady or gentleman. Were You responsible for their freedom? Ross shouted at God within. Never—You’re our God!
In a sudden shift of time, Ross was a nine-year-old again, and he clearly heard the voice of his father, Benjamin. A slight, muscular man, Benjamin had close-cropped red hair, like Ross’s, and serious brown eyes. He and Ross were taking a long afternoon walk along Main Street, the ill-maintained road where they lived.
Benjamin was a self-made preacher, and his wife, Gloria, the first lady of his church. The church’s congregation consisted of about twenty-five lower-middle-class white families, who lived in a predominantly black neighborhood but refused to associate with the black community. Neither Benjamin nor Gloria worked regular jobs but made their living from the congregation’s offerings and other meager donations.
“Son, I’m from deep in the South, where you either really like blacks or really hate ’em. I don’t like niggers, but my Ma and Pa do. Once, they even told me our white God made us all—all races—equal.”
Ross stopped walking and looked up at his father with a frown. “But didn’t He? I have a white history teacher who pretty much believes the same thing.”
Benjamin looked alarmed, shaking his head. “Nonsense! When I was a little older than you, I met a nice group of people who was in the Ku Klux Klan. They convinced me that, although we’re 100 percent American, blacks get treated better than we do. The Ku Klux Klan was very united and wasn’t afraid to harm or kill any nigger who tried to live as good as whites.”
Benjamin squinted down at Ross’s sudden, shocked change of expression. The youth was obviously horrified to hear the extent of the Ku Klux Klan’s hatred for the black race. There was much for him to learn about life. And it was Benjamin’s God-given responsibility, as the head of the household, to train Ross early in the way that he should go; so said the Good Book.
“Satan’s brainwashed the government, and that’s somethin’ God don’t like. The Almighty Himself chose Moses to lead us from the evil ways of Pharaoh to become rulers over the Earth, and He chose the Ku Klux Klan to guide us the same way Moses did.”
Benjamin then explained that his parents had warned him to stay away from the Ku Klux Klan. “But God ordered me to keep my eyes open and snitch on not only the troublemakin’ blacks but also the successful blacks—the most horrible blacks—to the local Ku Klux Klansmen.”
“Really? Were you a member?” Ross looked happily surprised. The responsibility God had bestowed on his father sounded very important and gave Ross a strong sense of family pride.
Benjamin smiled. “Wish to God I could’ve been. The Ku Klux Klan always wore angel-like robes and hoods when they went on missions. Sometimes they even rode horses!” He pretended to ride a horse as he started circling around Ross. Then he stopped and picked up his son. “But by the time I was old enough to join the Ku Klux Klan, I had married your mother, and we moved up here. God had chosen me to minister His Holy Word to the Northern whites, the first people in this country who thought niggers were more than slaves.”
Despite the important conversation, which one day would have meaning to him, Ross’s young life was too bleak for him to notice any differences between whites and blacks. Kept inside, in close sight of overprotective parents, he spent most of his time helping to run the church or staring out windows, envious of the happy black children playing in the neighb
orhood.
Now, Maggie’s happy face sank. She wanted to run right back out the door and hide from Ross’s cold stare. The last time a white person had looked at her with such hatred, she’d been a young woman. She could tell that this man did not like blacks, and she wondered if perhaps Tracie and she should have left him outside to die. No, Maggie girl, God don’t like ugly thoughts, she silently reminded herself. For she was a Christian, and was it not her duty to help those who were in need—including her enemies? Jesus had died on a cross as a symbol of his extraordinary love for the entire human race, not only his followers but also the people who had despised him.
Her mind went back to how Tracie and she had teamed together, caring for the stranger immediately after lugging him into their home. They had stopped the blood running from his nose, and then Maggie washed and bandaged the cuts on his face. You definitely needed us, and God saw fit for us to help you, Maggie thought, as she stood eyeing Ross. Because if He hadn’t given us the courage to risk our lives for your white behind, that gang might have killed you. She had a strong feeling that God had intentionally made their paths cross, and she would at least reach out and try to make the infuriated young man understand that they had only wanted to help him.
Maggie took a deep breath, turned, and carefully lowered the warm bowl of soup onto the top of the stereo speaker. Resting her hands on her hips, she turned back to Ross and smiled, as she looked him over from bottom to top. He was dressed in brown slacks, which the doctor had rolled up to his knees, and a bloodstained, wrinkled beige dress shirt. Ross, who could be no more than thirty years old, had short, disheveled hair. Its flame-red color matched the hot, glowing rage in his emerald-green eyes.
Maggie suddenly lost control, hating Ross for hating her, and God was far from her heart as she blurted, “We should have left your ungrateful behind outside to die...!”
“Why didn’t you?” Ross snapped, leaning toward Maggie. “The police were coming!” He had not asked for their help. He didn’t owe them anything.
Maggie bowed slightly, meeting Ross’s hard stare. “Because... if you had told the cops what happened to you, them men would have come back and killed you. I WANTED TO PREVENT THAT!”
Maggie held her gaze. Ross had never met a black person as honest and compassionate, and he meekly looked down into the bowl of soup sitting on the speaker. He could tell that Maggie somehow cared for him, a stranger who had desperately needed help, and he had some mild respect for her, despite his deeply embedded hatred for her race.
Then Ross asked, “What kind of soup is that?” He had not eaten for what seemed like an eternity. When his stomach growled at the delicious smell, he knew that he could not resist eating—no matter where the food came from.
“Chicken noodle,” Maggie replied with a sigh, standing up straight and removing her hands from her hips. She was furious at herself—Christians were supposed to be ever kind and understanding—for starting an argument with the stranger. Of course, she had spoken in anger when she rebuked him with, “We should have left your ungrateful behind outside to die...!” But she did not know of his bad experiences; and besides, God was the only One to judge whether someone should live or die. He had evidently wanted this man to stick around and be a part of their lives, for Tracie and she had risked their own lives to save him. And here he was, sitting in Tracie’s bed.
Maggie said, “Please forgive me... don’t usually act that way.” She quickly turned around and hurried for the door, heading to her room. She must ask God to forgive her for thinking evil thoughts and for having expressed them. But how could she ever forget what it was like to be spit on or beat like an animal while marching down long streets, protesting for equal rights? She would also never forget the long list of names she had been called throughout the 1940s, ’50s, and ’60s: ape, alligator, possum, coon, nigger... and worse! Things had calmed by the 1970s, and were still more or less controlled today. However, Maggie was trembling as she approached the doorway, trying to fight back the roaring, burning hatred inside that had started so long ago.
Dr. Taylor called out, “Please stay, Maggie, I believe you may be able to help us.” He walked over to the other side of the bed, picking up the bowl of soup from the stereo speaker and handing it to Ross, all the while in awe as he played out in his mind what had just occurred between Ross and Maggie. It was the first time he had detected the slightest hint of truth in all of the slanderous news stories that had focused on Ross’s past. And he did not approve of it at all.
The youngest of five proud children of one of the first white men ever to record beautiful songs of soul, Dr. Taylor was brought up around black fans, recording executives, and other celebrities. He had gone to school with black children and had oftentimes spent weekends at their homes. Today, he lived in a small racially mixed community with his beautiful black fiancée and their newborn daughter. Blacks were perfectly decent people, and Dr. Taylor would have left Ross there alone if he had not cooled his temper.
Now Dr. Taylor remembered how Maggie had contacted him last night. He had just finished his work at the hospital and was walking out of his office when the loud ring of the telephone stopped him. “Dr. Taylor, Ross Crass needs you,” an excited Maggie had blurted out, not even giving him a chance to say hello. She went on, explaining how she had heard gunshots while sitting in her living room watching television and ran to the window to see a white man sitting in a wheelchair, unable to get to safety.
Maggie had said, “It’s very dangerous for a white person to be in this neighborhood anyhow, and I knew the only way to save the man was for me and my grandson to go out and fetch him.”
Dr. Taylor then sped over to Hexter Street, where Maggie’s grandson, Tracie, was waiting outside for him as planned. When he saw Ross, his former patient was in a deep sleep and shining clean, with little bandages sticking all over his face. He had laughed at the comical appearance of Ross as he removed the bandages, which were not really necessary. But he knew that Maggie and Tracie had meant well. He also thought they were the kindest people he had ever met. In fact, he believed the grandmother-and-grandson team would be wonderful in helping Ross in his recovery—which was why the doctor had asked Maggie to stay in the room.
When Maggie returned to Ross’s bedside, Dr. Taylor and she stood side by side, staring down at Ross, who was busy devouring the delicious soup.
Maggie chuckled. “There’s more if you like.”
At first, Ross did not appear to hear the woman, as he closed his eyes, savoring a spoonful of scrumptious soft noodles and chunky chicken. Then, with a happy smile, he replied, “No, thanks, I’m fine.”
Maggie looked with a new, serious expression at the doctor. “How can I help?”
But when Dr. Taylor answered, he was looking at Ross. “How much do you already know about spinal cord injury? Have you done any research since leaving the hospital?”
Ross shook his head, gulping down spoonful after spoonful of the rich soup, as he continued to listen to the doctor.
“Well, one thing you may already know is that the spinal cord is made up of nerve tissue that runs from your brain—all the way down to here,” Dr. Taylor said, turning and pointing to his lower back. “The nerve tissue allows us to both control our muscles and have sensation. The amount of sensory loss depends on exactly where an individual is injured. For example, if someone is injured around the neck, he or she is at risk of losing feeling in both arms and legs, and all the rest of his or her body up to that level—or even their life. That person is what we call a quadriplegic.”
He continued, “In your case, Ross, the injury happened around here.” Dr. Taylor placed his finger at the middle of his back. “This location is known to neurologists as T-6. Anyone who receives an injury around here, like yourself, is called a paraplegic and will most likely only lose control and sensation in the legs.” He turned back to Ross. “Recovering from any disability is normally a hard, time-consuming—sometimes even impossible—task. Many are perma
nently confined to a wheelchair after an injury to the spinal cord. However, there are two kinds of injuries, which will determine if a paraplegic or quadriplegic will ever walk again: complete and incomplete. Complete cord injury can never be repaired; the nerves are too severely damaged, or possibly even severed. There’s far greater hope for someone with incomplete cord injury, someone like you, where the damage isn’t as bad as a complete cord injury.”
Ross swallowed and frowned. He could only remember some of this being explained to him while he was recovering in the hospital; but at that time, he had been in too much pain to hear what anyone was saying. “What does that mean?”
Dr. Taylor grinned. “From the impressive results I received this morning, it apparently means you’re a very lucky T-6, incomplete-cord-injury paraplegic!”
Ross sighed and Maggie held his trembling hand, sharing his relief. Neither person had completely comprehended the doctor’s neurological terminology, but “very lucky” were two words that gave them both a lot of hope.
Dr. Taylor pulled out a needle from the pocket of his work coat and held it in the air for Ross and Maggie to see. Then he pricked the sole of Ross’s foot with the needle. “Feel that?” the doctor asked.
Ross beamed as he felt a tiny tingle on the bottom of his left foot, and Maggie’s happy dark eyes shone when she saw Ross’s toes twitch. “Oh, my God—YES—I felt that!” Ross exclaimed.
Dr. Taylor said, “The Man Upstairs must really love you, because many paraplegics aren’t as fortunate as you. Furthermore, I’m confident that you will walk again one day.”
Ross nervously handed Maggie the half-empty bowl of soup, thinking, I will walk again! The delightful news had somehow satisfied his incredible hunger for food. Then, in another unexpected shift of focus, he thought of how his life had dramatically changed course in the brief time since he had met Maggie. And for the first time ever, as Ross looked at her now, tearfully happy to know that he would walk again, he was startled to find himself mildly questioning the way he felt about black people.
A CHANGE OF HEART: Book 1 of the Hartford Series Page 2