40
“Please,” Malcolm said. “I just want to talk to you. That’s all. Don’t make me shoot you.” He heard himself talking and almost laughed. They sounded like lines from a movie. This moment was unreal as if he’d slipped through the veil between what was real and what wasn’t, watching himself play out a scene from a bad movie with corny lines and terrible actors. Davies placed the phone back in its cradle and sat down, deliberately, as if afraid to disturb the springs in the chair. He clasped his hands between his wide knees and eyed Malcolm warily. “What you want?” He assessed Malcolm, weighing whether or not he would fire the gun.
“What right did you have to take her life?” Malcolm said, hands gripping the weapon. He lowered it slightly, but kept his finger on the trigger, knowing the safety was still in place. He remained standing.
“I got a right to defend myself.” Davies’ eyes drifted to the floor, his lips opened and closed like a fish until he said, “Didn’t know I was shooting a girl. Honest to God.” He made eye contact with Malcolm, who could see the man’s hands were also shaking, ever so slightly. “I swear to God,” he said again. He pressed his lips together, thin lips that disappeared into a straight line on his face. Malcolm gripped the gun tighter. He was no fool.
“You shot her twice,” he said, his anger expanding, his judgment, his authority pushing through his chest. “She was looking for help and you opened the door and shot her in the chest.”
Davies nodded, short jerky movements of his head. “I know that now. But I got a right to defend myself and the court says I was within my right.”
“Within your right?” Malcolm moved closer, leaning over Davies who flinched. “You said you didn’t even know what was outside.”
“It coulda been an intruder. We’ve had breakins here. My neighbor—”
“That’s bullshit. You don’t fire a gun unless you know exactly what you’re aiming at. And you admitted you didn’t know. You just fired.” Davies said nothing. Malcolm was on the verge of losing all control and louder he demanded, “Why?” Again Davies flinched; his silence pricked at Malcolm’s fury and he repeated his question, “Why?”
“You’re right. I didn’t even look,” the man said, dropping his gaze to the rug. “I just opened the door and fired. It was s’posed to be a warning shot. I just saw a figure in front of me.” Davies looked up at Malcolm. “I don’t know why I fired again. It just happened. Wasn’t till she was on the ground I realized it was a girl.”
Malcolm leaned away repulsed and confused. “Shit like that doesn’t just happen. What the fuck were you so afraid of? That was my little girl!”
“There’s folks out there. They wanna take what you got. They come into this country and take over. We gotta take it all back.”
“Take what back?”
“Our way of life. Our traditions.”
“Like what?”
Davies fell silent and Malcolm returned to his seat on the couch, resting the gun on his knee. “You want to go back to owning slaves? You really think that’s a better way of life?”
“It would be for me.”
The man’s response stunned Malcolm; he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or scream.
“You really think you would own slaves?” Malcolm snorted. “The big hot shot slave-owner, ordering other people around. That’s who you think you would be?”
This little man in his tiny run-down house thought his life would be better working for a slave master. Malcolm surveyed the room. There was nothing here to steal, yet this man was convinced immigrants were taking over, that if white men like him didn’t stop people of color, all his rights would be taken away. But it was white men in power who were sucking him and people like him dry, smiling in their faces, telling them the government’s got their backs—as long as they vote them into office. Malcolm didn’t understand why this man couldn’t see that the men he’d voted for didn’t care if he had running water, if he could afford to pay his electric bills, or if he lived in a safe neighborhood. They just wanted his vote.
“You really think your right to own a gun helps you pay your bills? Helps you get the food you need and healthcare when you’re sick?”
“It’s my right to own a gun.”
“Sure it is. And as long as you’re focused on that, your leaders keep getting richer while you keep getting poorer.”
Nothing Malcolm could say would change Davies’ thoughts about the world he lived in. This man would die believing his rights were being trampled on because African Americans and immigrants were squeezing him out of jobs and homes. Malcolm placed the handgun on the coffee table.
“You can have this.” He emptied his pocket of the bullets and dropped them next to the gun. They tinkled softly as they rolled across the wooden surface. He stood up and walked toward the door. This man may never go to jail, he thought, but he was already stuck in a hell that death would never give him. Malcolm walked back to his car without looking back.
41
Cass pulled up on the opposite side of the street and Ghana stepped off the curb, ignoring the no-walk sign. A car horn blew and she stopped as a minivan sped by her. Inside Cass’s Toyota, Ghana called Ryan again. She had been obsessively dialing his number since calling Cass, listening to his voice on the answering message, hoping he was not one of the beaten officers. This time, he answered. His live voice said, “Ghana, I can’t talk. I’m okay. I’ll call you back.” Then silence. She stared at the phone, at his picture. “Oh, fuck! Thank you. Thank you.” Her body slackened in the seat and she rested her head back holding the phone in her lap.
“Where are we going?” Cass said, as a cop frantically waved his arm for her to move on. She pulled into the flow of traffic and drove north. “What hospital?”
“Just take me home. He’s okay. Let’s just go home.”
Cass maneuvered through slow-moving traffic and Ghana felt her breathing begin to calm. He was okay. He hadn’t answered because he was working. Not because he was in the ambulance. He was okay. Her hands were still shaking and she clasped them together.
“You know I love you,” said Cass, breaking the silence, “but girlfriend, this traffic is shit on a Saturday and you have me out here just to take you home? You need to tell me what the hell happened because I couldn’t make out one word you were saying on the phone except that Ryan was in an ambulance.”
Ghana inhaled deeply but still couldn’t speak.
“I gave up a damn good parking spot, too, right outside my door.” Cass chuckled. “You got two seconds to start talking or I’m dropping you off at the next corner.” She patted her hand on Ghana’s knee. “You said he’s okay. C’mon, talk to me.”
Tears filled her eyes again and Ghana covered her face with her hands.
“Hey, c’mon now,” said Cass. “I’m just teasing you. Just trying to lighten the tension. You said he’s okay, right?”
“This whole thing is so fucked up, I can’t even get my head around it.” Ghana recounted what happened, telling Cass about the kid she saw, his nasty comment as he passed by, the viciousness of the boys’ actions, the shock at seeing them purposely attack the cops. “Those cops didn’t do anything to them.” She took a breath. “That isn’t what this movement is supposed to be about. It’s not an eye for an eye. It just doesn’t work that way.” After a moment, she said, “I kept thinking, please don’t make it be Ryan. I was so afraid it was him.”
“Well, it wasn’t.”
Her mind swirled with the events of the morning, the cheering and chanting, the signs, the speeches, and then the violence toward these two police officers. “We just spent the morning marching for peace.” She looked at her friend who was frowning at the car in front of them. “What do we do, Cass? What do we do to get rid of the poison in the air?”
“Maybe we need more violence. I’m not saying I want Ryan to be hurt, but maybe we need an all-out war before anything will actually change.”
“An all-out war? Cass, you’re crazy.”
> “Yeah, a civil war for real freedom, real change.”
“And who do you think would win that one?”
Cass found a parking spot a block away from Ryan’s apartment and they walked slowly through the busy afternoon. Young and old occupied with their lives, shopping, running errands, oblivious to the chaos on the other side of the city.
“It’s not a war we need,” said Ghana. “We need to vote. We need politicians willing to make real change. Someone needs to step up.”
Cass laughed. “You thinking of running for office?”
“Hell, no. Not me.”
“Well, that’s where the real problem lies.”
Puzzled, Ghana cocked her head at Cass, who said, “The right people don’t run for office. And the system is so screwed up that even when the right people do get elected, they can’t be effective.”
Ghana wiped her wet cheeks. She had no desire to be a politician but she could speak out, write letters, and encourage others to do the same. People couldn’t keep their heads buried in sand. Not anymore.
Cass didn’t stay long, just until she was comfortable leaving Ghana alone. When she’d gone, Ghana called Ryan’s mother to make sure she knew he was okay; Mrs. Evans screeched through the house to her husband and thanked God and Ghana repeatedly. Ghana’s belief in a god had never quite blossomed into more than a fascination of good and evil represented by angels and demons. Life should be lived every day instead of spent waiting for something better to come after death. Just keep on keeping on, as Malawi would say.
Ghana passed the evening flipping from one news channel to another and taking calls from family and friends asking about Ryan—news reports didn’t reveal the identities of the cops who were attacked, though they did mention that one was white, the other black, one suffered a severe concussion, the other several cracked ribs and a broken shoulder. But they were alive. Five of the six suspects had been caught and arrested, all teenage boys, three black, two Latino.
Ryan finally came home shortly after midnight and she hovered awkwardly between the sitting room and the foyer. His anger was palpable in the slow, stiff way he walked through the apartment, taking off his gun belt, his shirt, his vest, opening the refrigerator and staring for several minutes then slamming it closed and standing hopelessly, hands gripping the counter, eyes closed. She wanted to talk but knew to wait, to let him mentally make the shift from work to home.
Without a word, Ghana cared for him in the best way she knew how. Walking around him, she pulled from the fridge bread, sliced roast beef, cheese and mayo. She cut the sandwich in half and placed it on a small plate then popped the cap off the last bottle of beer. She carried the beer and the plate to the sitting room and set them on the coffee table, settled onto the couch and waited. She could hear him inhale and then the soft tread of his bare feet coming to sit next to her. In one motion, he folded himself into her, his head snuggling into her neck, his face damp from tears, his body heavy against her. She felt his anger and frustration begin to thaw and wrapped her arms around him, stroking his hair, kissing his head.
For a long time, they sat in silence, their bodies softening into one another. She was sorry; sorry that race was still a polarizing issue, that she had vented her anger at him simply because he was a white police officer. Sorry his fellow officers were attacked because they represented them. That her sister was killed because she represented us. Everyone representing something negative to someone else, an oppressive force or an evil, invasive force. There should be no us versus them. The world should simply be us. One humanity.
After a while, still no words passing between them, Ryan leaned forward and ate the sandwich, gulped some beer and offered her the bottle. She took a sip and they shared the rest. A car alarm went off somewhere in the distance and the cry of a fire truck, heavy on the street below, gave Ghana goose bumps. Finally, he offered her a half-smile and said, “I can’t be without you, Ghana.” He looked at the floor. “I heard a lot of shit today about black and white, but those kids didn’t care. All they saw was blue and that, for them, was the enemy. There’s a lot of asshole cops out there doing fucked up shit, but—” He turned to her. “Ghana, there are a helluva lot more good cops doing what’s right for people no matter what color their skin. We’re not perfect, I know that, but we don’t deserve this anymore than black folks deserve the violence against them.”
She nodded repeatedly, feeling the hairs rising along her arms and neck.
“I’m just trying to do the right thing,” he continued. “Just trying to do my job with the training and skills I’ve got. But—” He inhaled, long and deep. “I can’t do it without you.”
Ghana kept nodding, her throat thick and constricted, awed by his declaration.
“Baby,” he said, gently tugging at her shirt, pulling her close and engulfing her in a hug. “I just can’t.”
She leaned into him, pressing her face against his chest, as if his sturdiness would give her the strength to find words. Finally, she said, “I’m so sorry,” but he stopped her, saying she shouldn’t be. She pulled back and looked at his face. “But I am. For creating this rift between us. For letting the outside affect what we have right here.”
“Shh,” he said and pushed her back into the cushions then laid his head on her chest, his arm protectively around her waist. In a moment, his breathing was heavy. She should wake him and get him to bed, she thought, but instead simply snuggled him closer to her.
42
The night was quiet then the A/C unit chugged on, filling the motel room with cold air and a deafening whir, until it shuddered to a sudden silence. Malcolm was on the floor, his back leaning against the bed, drinking one shot of bourbon after another, waiting for the next onslaught of noisy cold air. He had stopped by the liquor store on his way back from Davies’ house and stared at the bottle for a long time before cracking the seal. He was crying now, blubbering like one of his daughters when they were little. Wiping his nose on his sleeve, he considered getting tissues but couldn’t find the motivation to move. He was a fool for having come to Florida, thinking he could storm in and kill the man who murdered his daughter. He poured another glass to half full.
He knew she was here with him. He wasn’t into all that mumbo-jumbo stuff, angels and spirits, but in the still moments when the A/C was off, he felt her here. Maybe it was the alcohol. He looked at the bottle. Nah! She was with him, guiding him, stopping him from completely losing it.
“You need to visit your mother,” he said aloud to the room, to his invisible daughter. “Bring her back from the edge.”
Beautiful Bet. She had been his heart. Lured him in, her hook catching in the middle of his chest, though she hadn’t been aware of what she was doing at the time. At least he didn’t think so. He spotted her in the deli near campus. She often sat there in the afternoon with her nose in a book or scribbling in a sketchpad. He started dropping in whenever he was free, hoping to see her, buying a bologna or salami sandwich he often didn’t eat. Took him about three weeks before he summoned the courage to approach her. What he said exactly, he couldn’t remember, but she had looked at him with that same look she gave him when not the least bit interested in what he was saying. Why are you wasting my time, her eyes said, and he had almost curled into a ball on the floor. Instead he turned and walked out of the deli. He saw her again a week later and sat at the same table, across from her. Without saying a word, he pulled out a book and read silently until she asked, “Can I help you?”
“No.” He glanced at her, then went back to reading.
After a while, she got up and left. Another week passed before he saw her again. This time he was already seated in the deli eating a salami-and-cheese sandwich when she walked in. He saw her look around and hesitate before coming over. He pretended not to notice when she sat down next to him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her body and smell the floral fragrance of her perfume.
“Hi,” she said. Her voice timid and uncertain.
> He raised his eyebrows at her and continued eating without speaking.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
He took a moment to swallow and wipe his mouth with a napkin. “Malcolm Walker,” he said and offered her his hand. She shook it firmly. “I’m Elizabeth Ellis. My close friends call me Bet.”
“Well, I’m going to call you Bet and hope we become close friends.”
She smiled at him, a broad toothy grin, and he knew she would be his wife.
Ever since that day, he couldn’t remember a time he hadn’t wanted to be with her. Even when he found the love letter from Teddy. Hurt and angry, he hadn’t spoken to her for several days, but despite his pain, he never imagined himself without her.
Her gloom and rage frustrated him and he wished he could take her pain away. Wished he wasn’t repulsed by her grief. Wished he had the power to bring Malawi back. His daughter wouldn’t want this. Wouldn’t want them to give up. He took a sip of warm bourbon, savoring it in his mouth before swallowing. The A/C chugged and cold air hit his face.
For the first time in his life, he didn’t want to go back to her.
43
The moment was surreal, sitting in her lawyer’s office talking about her rights and what she could expect to get, as if her marriage had simply been a collection of assets. Kenya kept thinking how it wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Malawi's Sisters Page 20
