Protectors

by Kris Nelscott

  Pammy folded the pages and sighed, still making this a show.

  “Trust me,” she said to Alice, “I’m not going to teach any of these young people in any of my classes. And I’ll take your advice and Olive’s under advisement. I’ll rethink the policy change on men.”

  “Thank you,” Alice said.

  Pammy put the folded pages in her purse.

  “No,” she said quietly. “Thank you. You and Olive have helped me more than you know.”

  She turned toward the door. Then Alice said, louder than before, “You be careful, Pammy. You have no idea what these kids can do.”

  Pammy stopped, wondering if it was only the kids. After all, the shootings, the gas attacks, the tanks—none of that had been the kids. No wonder the police were keeping that poor girl’s death quiet. No wonder they worried that they would be blamed for it.

  Given the place Berkeley had become, the police themselves were probably the most obvious suspects.

  “I will be careful,” Pammy said, knowing she was taking the statement a little differently than Alice had meant it. “I promise.”

  35

  Val

  I didn’t get a lot of sleep, but for the first time in almost a year, I didn’t need it. I actually had energy when I woke up. I was looking forward to the day.

  That was new, at least for this me. The old me, the pre-crater me, she used to wake up happy and ready to face the world. But that attitude had vanished after the Grand Nefertiti Ball.

  I was feeling good because I was useful again.

  I folded the recopied notes and put them in my purse. Then I grabbed some extra clothes, put on my sneakers, and headed to the gym.

  I bounced as I walked, heading through knots of students on their way to summer school classes, and past restaurants filled with young people who thought a cup of coffee gave them the right to sit all day.

  The sky was overcast, and the air had a bit of a bite to it. I hadn’t brought a sweater, and I wished I had. This was July, and it wasn’t even seventy degrees.

  I really wasn’t in Chicago any longer.

  Then I turned onto Pammy’s street.

  A bright orange Chevelle stopped in front of the gym, and a woman got out. As I walked closer, I realized it was the bouffant woman from my class. She carried a macramé purse, and she wore shorts, despite the cool weather.

  She had the kind of legs I always envied, long and just muscular enough, the kind that looked good in heels and showed off well in miniskirts.

  I sighed. Clearly I had been running later than I expected. I had wanted time to talk to Pammy before class. Maybe we would take it anyway, particularly if Eagle was there.

  But as I stepped inside, blinking against the harsh light of the overhead fluorescents, I didn’t seen Pammy at all. Jill stood in front of the counter, a clipboard in hand, her short brown hair slightly mussed. She was in deep conversation with a woman I didn’t recognize.

  I glanced around the gym, searching for Pammy. A couple of young women were looking through the t-shirts. One woman with actual muscles was on the mat that looked a bit like a boxing ring to me, although when Pammy had given me the tour, she hadn’t called it that. The woman was wearing boxing gloves, though, holding them up near her face and then bringing them down. She kept looking to one side, as if she were expecting someone else.

  Another muscular woman was trying on football helmets. I hadn’t realized the gym had any helmets at all, not that it seemed worthwhile. The helmets kept sliding on the woman’s head, as if she were a child wearing her father’s hat.

  No one stood near the kitchen. Another woman from my class held the locker room door open for Joan, the woman I had befriended the day before. I suddenly realized that felt like days and days ago.

  Jill handed the clipboard to the woman she was talking to and waved her hand toward a folding chair someone had set up near the far wall. As the woman walked to it, I headed to Jill.

  “Hi,” I said, suddenly feeling awkward. This was the woman who had automatically assumed I couldn’t afford my lunch on Sunday. I had automatically assumed she held that opinion because of my skin color.

  “Oh, hi!” she said in a fake-cheerful voice that most people reserved for young children or crazy people. “You came back.”

  My lips moved in a smile—or an approximation of a smile. I was used to this kind of reaction from certain types of white people. They liked to think they were being supportive, when really, they were being patronizing.

  “Is Pammy in the kitchen?” I asked.

  “She had an errand,” Jill said in that same fake-cheerful voice. “She asked me to handle things until she gets back.”

  Pammy had said she was going to talk to the admissions office that morning. But I couldn’t quite believe it would take hours. After all, half the class was here already, and it looked like another class had just ended.

  Jill swung her arm upward and ostentatiously looked at her watch. “I hope she gets back before your class starts. I can teach it,” she sighed as she spoke those words, “but I prefer not to.”

  Then she let her arm fall. Her gaze met mine. A slight frown had formed between her thin eyebrows.

  I braced myself, although for what, I did not know.

  “You are continuing with the class, right?” Jill’s tone was the same, but she had moved from fake cheerfulness to fake concern. “I mean it is difficult at first, but—”

  “I have no intention of dropping the class,” I said before I could stop myself. Usually I remained silent when white people treated me like Jill had—like someone who needed to be treated gently or I would break or, I don’t know, lose my temper and attack her or something.

  I hadn’t heard that voice out of myself, ever. Not even when the Dean at the University of Chicago Medical School told me that he didn’t want me to enroll, even though I had tested better than anyone else who had applied.

  Jill heard the sharpness in my voice and leaned back just a little. She was afraid of me, then.

  “Oh, well, yes, of course. I didn’t think so, but one, well, you know.” She smiled at me awkwardly, then sidled away from me, and looked for someone else to talk with. She glanced at me, then nodded, and hurried toward the young women still looking at t-shirts.

  “Ignore her,” someone said beside me. “She’s a piece of work.”

  I turned, half expecting Joan. Instead it was bouffant woman. I had to look up to see her eyes. I was surprised to realize that they were brown. I had expected blue or green.

  She extended a well-manicured hand. “Marilyn Bakewell.”

  I took her hand. It was dry, and surprisingly, had calluses on the palm. “Valentina Wilson.”

  “And before you ask,” Marilyn said, “I’m as new to class as you are. Unfortunately, I’ve known Jill since college.”

  Marilyn didn’t lower her voice like I would have. But Jill didn’t seem to notice. She was deep in conversation, holding up one of the t-shirts in front of the young women as if they were trying on fancy dresses for prom instead of picking out shirts with iron-on stickers.

  “Unfortunately?” I asked.

  Marilyn grinned at me. It was a conspiratorial look, like we were in something together.

  “That’s not entirely fair,” she said. “Jill tries. Which is more than can be said for me.”

  I don’t know, I wanted to say. You don’t treat me like an imbecile.

  “To be fair,” Marilyn continued, “Jill is the one who told me about the gym. And believe me, I needed it. Jack LaLanne can only take you so far. And I cheat when I do it.”

  “Cheat?” I felt like I was in some kind of surreal conversation from one of those movies that depicted drug trips. Half of what she said didn’t entirely make sense.

  “Oh, you know. Do a push-up and touch your nose to the ground. I bend my elbows a half inch and call it good.”

  “I wish I could do it that well,” I said.

  “I have an advantage,” she said. “I u
sed to be a cheerleader for the Cal Bears, one hundred years ago. Some muscles never go away.”

  She clapped me on the back hard enough to make me take a step forward and grinned. “I’ll be you were one of the brainy ones I cheated off of in class.”

  My cheeks heated. At least she wasn’t treating me like Jill had.

  “I’m afraid not,” I said. “I went to school in the Midwest. It must have been some other brainy black girl.”

  “And here I was thinking of the tiny smart ones,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “It’s so easy to see over your heads.”

  I laughed in spite of myself.

  “I’m going to go get ready, particularly if Jill has to teach this thing,” Marilyn said. “I have to keep reminding myself to take this baby weight off somehow or I’ll end up as round as my mom. You want me to grab you a jump rope?”

  “Please,” I said, smiling. I hadn’t expected to like her. Now, I felt a little embarrassed that I had called her “bouffant woman” in my head. “I have to put my purse in the locker room.”

  My smile faded just a little as I said that. I really wanted to talk to Pammy and Eagle right away. I didn’t like to think about those lists, waiting to be seen.

  I turned and headed toward the locker room. Two more women from my class came out, one tugging on the hem of a too-tight shirt.

  I went inside. The locker room was steamy as if someone had taken a recent shower. Underneath that smell was the smell of bleach. A pile of blankets was neatly folded in a far corner. I hadn’t seen those yesterday. Odd that Pammy would keep blankets here.

  I set my purse near the shoe box with my regular shoes, the box I had deliberately left behind the day before. I checked the clasp on the purse. It was closed, but I leaned the top of the purse into the box anyway, so I could tell if someone messed with it.

  I left the locker room, and almost ran into Pammy. She smelled faintly of sweat. Her shirt was slightly crooked as if she had just put it on.

  “Pammy,” I said. “Can we talk?”

  She looked at me, and for a moment, I thought she didn’t recognize me. Then her eyes focused.

  “Is Eagle here yet?” she asked.

  “I haven’t seen her,” I said.

  “She’s not in back, and I don’t want to have this conversation twice.”

  My stomach clenched. “What conversation, exactly?”

  Pammy half-shook her head. “Sorry. I—um…it’s been a hard morning. Strange morning.”

  She glanced at the mats. Most of the class was already standing on the center mat, their jump ropes beside them. Joan was watching me over her shoulder. Jill had moved away from the t-shirts. One of the young women had a shirt draped over her arms.

  “Let’s talk after class,” Pammy said. “I’ll call Eagle if she’s not here by then.”

  Pammy headed away from me before I could reply. I thought of those lists folded neatly in my purse, and I felt a stab of worry, like a surge of adrenaline.

  Had I done all that work for nothing? Had I misunderstood our joint purpose? Pammy was almost rude, and I hadn’t expected that.

  I trudged toward the mat. Jill gave me another fake smile. But up front, Marilyn stood, smiling a real smile, an extra jump rope extended in one hand. She indicated a spot beside her.

  I took the rope, thanked her, and said gently, “I promised Joan,” and headed toward my spot in the back.

  I wasn’t exactly sure what I had promised Joan. I just knew I didn’t want to be at the front of the class, next to a very nice former cheerleader who could do almost everything Pammy assigned.

  Besides, I didn’t want to keep staring at Pammy, wondering what she had been thinking when she put me off, wondering why she hadn’t quite recognized me, wondering what exactly had happened this morning.

  Of course, as I took my place beside Joan, I wondered anyway. Standing in a different position on the mat would make no difference.

  I was dithering, feeling insecure and frightened, whipping myself up into some kind of lather—over what? What three other women thought?

  I was back to the woman who had left Chicago, the woman who was afraid of her own shadow.

  I didn’t like that woman, and I didn’t like how easy it was to tip the confident woman back into her.

  I made myself take a deep breath and focus on the class itself.

  I was here to learn how to be strong. So I would be strong.

  No matter what it took.

  36

  Eagle

  Three more fruitless hospital calls. Two more people asking what had changed at Berkeley’s Department of Public Health because Ethel hadn’t called them instead.

  Eagle certainly hoped Ethel was enjoying her fictitious vacation—and she hoped that Ethel would get a real vacation before she needed to call these hospitals again.

  Everyone that Eagle had talked with was friendly and willing to help. The person at the other hospital sounded annoyed that she had to do any work at all on a Tuesday morning. Eagle could hear the snick of a cigarette lighter as the woman talked, the pauses in her sentences followed by the drag and smack of someone smoking as she spoke. Chain-smoking, judging by the snick of that lighter.

  The names meant nothing, the records held no information on any of them, and Eagle was beginning to worry that she would have to call the morgues next.

  The thought unnerved her. She stood up, splashing her latest cup of coffee on her notes. She grabbed a towel off the sideboard and blotted the legal paper so the ink wouldn’t run and lose some of her precious notes.

  Particularly the name and phone number of the girl who had gotten beat up.

  Eagle tossed the towel in the sink, then sat back down and copied the name and phone number onto a different sheet of paper, just to be safe. The number belonged to the girl’s parents, not the girl, but if she had been as badly injured as Monica DeSouza had said, then she might still be at home.

  Eagle picked up the coffee cup and put it by the sink. She had had enough for one morning.

  Then she picked up the phone, and almost without thinking, dialed the girl’s phone number.

  A woman answered, and Eagle’s heart leapt. Maybe she would get to talk to one of the names on her list after all.

  “Kelly MacGivers?” she asked.

  There was a slight pause and then the woman said cautiously, “This is Carla MacGivers. May I help you?”

  Eagle checked her notes. They distinctly said Kelly MacGivers. “I need to speak with Kelly, please.”

  “I am her mother,” Carla MacGivers said. “I can answer any questions you might have.”

  “Thank you,” Eagle said, “but I have business with Kelly.”

  “I’m afraid she’s not here,” Carla MacGivers said. “May I give her a message?”

  “How may I reach her?” Eagle asked.

  “Who is this?” Carla MacGivers asked.

  “My name is Gertrude Anderson.” Eagle couldn’t think of a new name on such short notice. “I’m calling from San Francisco General Hospital.”

  “Yes?” There was a hint of panic in Carla MacGivers’ voice now.

  “Can you put me in touch with Kelly, please,” Eagle said.

  “Whatever you can say to her you can say to me,” Carla MacGivers said.

  Eagle half-smiled. If her mother had ever said that, Eagle would have gone down her mother’s throat.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Eagle said. “I’m calling from Billing and Records. I’m afraid I must deal with Miss MacGivers directly. There are confidentiality issues at play.”

  “I’m not sure if you have her birth records in front of you,” Carla MacGivers said, “but Kelly’s only nineteen. If this is something official, then you must deal with me.”

  “She stayed with us over a month ago,” Eagle said, “and we have some follow-up questions. I don’t have her birth records in front of me, so I’m afraid I must insist that I speak to her directly.”

  “Give me your number, and I’l
l make sure she reaches you,” Carla MacGivers said.

  Eagle nearly sighed aloud with frustration. She wasn’t going to get past this woman. “At least give me her mailing address, so that I can reach her there.”

  “Certainly.” Carla MacGivers sounded less panicked now. “Do you have a pen ready?”

  What kind of question was that? Of course Eagle had a pen ready. She was the one who had asked for the information.

  “Yes, of course,” she said with the infinite patience of someone who dealt with stupid people all day long.

  “Good,” Carla MacGivers said. “Here is her mailing address.”

  And then she rattled off the same address that DeSouza had given Eagle earlier.

  “That’s the address we have on file,” Eagle said. “However, several bills we have sent have come back stamped no such address. I need the real address, ma’am, or at least, I need a phone number where I can reach Miss MacGivers.”

  “That is our real address,” Carla MacGivers snapped. “I don’t know why you’re getting the bills back. You’ve already charged us an arm and a leg for her treatment. Are you using one of those fancy code things?”

  “A zip code, ma’am?”

  “Yes,” Carla MacGivers snapped. “In my experience, those things never work. Leave it off, mail us the bill again, and I’ll make certain we pay it.”

  And then she hung up.

  Eagle pulled the phone away from her ear, looking at the receiver as if it had betrayed her. That was odd. And it really didn’t answer any questions for her. Except that the family was being very protective of Kelly, which was understandable, given the nature of her injuries.

  Eagle hung up the receiver, then put her hands on the small of her back. She had been sitting too long. She glanced at the clock on the stove.

  Pammy’s beginner’s class would end soon. Eagle was supposed to meet Val and Pammy after that class. Eagle had been thinking of blowing off the meeting, at least until she had more information, but now she was feeling restless.