The Shooting

by James Boice

  He and his wife read the autopsy report alone, on Clayton’s bed. The first shot struck Clayton in the shoulder. He was standing facing Fisher right inside Fisher’s door. The bullet broke his left shoulder and severed the muscle, tendons, and nerves there but missed the major veins and arteries. The force of the bullet knocked him back against the door. It would have woken him up as well, his father thinks, reading the report. He must have been so scared. He must have screamed from fear and pain. So he was screaming when Fisher fired the next shot, which missed, the bullet hitting the door beside Clayton’s head, and he was still screaming as Fisher fired a third time, striking Clayton this time in the groin. The fourth bullet was to his stomach, opening it up. The force of the bullet’s entry also ruptured his liver and intestine and bowel. His abdomen would have instantly filled with blood and waste, including his mother’s fit-fit and fatira he had eaten for breakfast earlier that day. This entry wound would have been intensely painful and extremely traumatic, and he would have died slowly over the course of an hour if not for the next gunshot wound. This entered him through the back, just beside the left shoulder blade, suggesting he had curled up on the floor into a fetal position to protect himself. It continued past his fourth vertebra and shattered his left clavicle, which in turn severed his left subclavian artery and, mercifully, finally killed him. It is reasonable to conclude, according to the autopsy report, that when Fisher fired the sixth and final bullet, which struck Clayton at the back of his neck and severed his brain stem, he was no longer screaming and no longer feeling pain.

  —I could not have saved him, his father says. —There was nothing I could have done. He was gone. He is gone. He is never coming back.

  They come out from Clayton’s room. Jenny is still there. She says, —See? Now do you believe in me? Now can we be friends again? Because now that I’ve done something for you, I hope you will do something for me. The grand jury is expected to announce their decision any day. And any day the New York State Assembly is going to vote on the ammo tax. You are at the center of this very, very important time. Your responsibility to your culture is you must do 60 Minutes and you must do it now.

  —It is exploitation.

  —Would you rather nothing at all changes in this country after what happened to Clayton?

  —No, he says, —of course not.

  —Because that’s what’s going to happen if you do not do this. I wish there was another way. I really do. I’ve done so much to help you. I really think it’s time for you to pay me back a little and help yourself a bit.

  It is remarkable how quickly 60 Minutes can be there at the hotel suite once Jenny makes the call. A crew of four arrive in the suite, including the reporter who will be conducting the interview, a white woman named Lesley Stahl who is kind and pleasant but carries herself with the insincere remove of some of the residents of his building. He looks into the sly, fleshy angles of her face caked with makeup as she wets her throat with Fiji water and peers over her reading glasses at notes while the camera operator sets up klieg lights and white umbrellas to reflect the light, and he cannot shake the vision of Lesley Stahl reaching into a snack bowl set there for her on the side table and taking a pinch of the human flesh it is filled with and idly munching it while she prepares.

  Jenny is knelt down between him and his wife as they sit on the sofa and wait. —Remember, she is saying very intensely, —we need rage. We need tears. We need j’accuse! Understand? Sweetie, she says, touching his wife’s knee, —you are the mother who has lost your baby, your world ripped away by white male gun culture. We need you to bleed, baby, bleed! Bleed for Momma! You’ll do the talking, right? The mother is more compelling than the father. But, Dad, you’ll look quietly grieved, yeah? Remember, you came all this way to America to have its so-called freedom destroy your son. And remember, most of all: the ammo tax. Always bring it back to the ammo tax! Stress the science, the data. Here are the numbers, this sheet of paper. A little cheat sheet. Keep it down out of the camera’s view. Refer to it. Ammo tax, ammo tax, ammo tax, right? Don’t do the usual shit, the one day at a time, tragedy, blah, blah, blah, right? And whatever you do, don’t fucking forgive him.

  He is wearing a suit. He has a suit but this is not his suit. This suit is one somebody from RSA brought him. It is in his size. How did they know his size? They seemed to have it at the ready. He prefers his own suit. Jenny does not like his own suit. She saw it at the memorial service. It is not the newest suit and it is too small, he bought it fifteen years ago when he first arrived here. He needed a suit to wear to job interviews and government offices. The suit was all he could afford but it is a very good suit, it says Ralph Lauren inside it, but if it is in fact Ralph Lauren or if someone just sewed the label in something from Kmart, he does not know. But he paid zero dollars and zero cents for it. And it is good also because of how he bought it. It was a dry cleaner selling clothes out of his van parked on a curb in the Bowery. Things customers had never picked up. He took the suit off the rack, first one he tried, and it fit perfectly. He admired himself in the reflection of the storefront window there. You’re an American, he told himself.

  The dry cleaner selling it, some kind of Hispanic, was leaning against the van, watching. Looks good on you, bro.

  How much?

  For you? Hundred bucks.

  The handyman laughed, started taking off the jacket. He did not have a hundred anything.

  The man said, Well, now, hold on, I might be able to do eighty.

  The handyman was supposed to be buying groceries. He pulled the money he was supposed to use from his pocket. Twenty dollars. It was all the money they had. Showed it to the man. The man stuck his tongue between his lips and made a fart noise. The handyman saw something on the tongue. Stepped toward him, scowling intently at the man’s mouth. The man was scared. Backed away.

  What are you doing, bro?

  Show, the handyman said. The man tried to climb inside his van, but the handyman took him by the shoulder and spun him back around, pinned him to the vehicle. Show me, he said, prying at the man’s mouth.

  Leave me alone! Help!

  The handyman ignored all the people stopping to look and pried the man’s jaws apart, reached inside for his tongue. The man bit him but he did not care. He pinched the tongue between his thumb and finger and pulled it out so he could see it. The man was shrieking. People were hurrying by, pretending not to see.

  The handyman studied the tongue and said, How long? He let go of the man’s tongue, the man turned and spat, cowering against his van. How long? he said again.

  Shit, I don’t know, bro, it’s just a normal average-sized tongue!

  Not how long tongue, how long tongue look like this?

  How long it look like what?

  You disease. You die. You hospital.

  Fuck up outta here, bro, the man said. Gimme my goddamn suit and fuck up outta here!

  The handyman ignored him, stepped out into the street where by chance an FDNY ambulance was passing. Stopped it. Made the paramedics look at the man’s tongue and they understood at once. They hurried the man into the ambulance, despite his protests, and tore off with sirens ablaze. Stayed with the dry cleaner’s van and merchandise, selling clothes for whatever amount was written on the price tags.

  Late into the night, a young man who looked like the dry cleaner showed up. Bro, he said, you saved my dad’s life. Gave the young man all the money he had made. Nah, keep it, bro. The handyman removed the suit to give it back but the son stopped him. Keep it. Take it, take anything else you want, man, on us. Dad wants your name too and where you live. He says you and him are friends for life. You ain’t never paying for dry cleaning in this town again, bro.

  Manuel and his son, Julio, still do the family’s dry cleaning free of charge. The two of them were over after Clayton died, that first day. Brought soup every day after from the good soup place. That is his suit. Jenny says it does not fit. Jenny says it makes him look like he just got out of prison
. She says to wear this suit instead. This one, this is not his suit. He feels like a different man in this suit. He does not want to be a different man.

  It is very hot under the lights. They position the cameras farther away and Lesley Stahl much closer than he expected, Lesley Stahl’s knees touch his and his wife’s, he can smell coffee on her breath and see red lines in the whites of her eyes. He feels cornered in a broken elevator. He feels buried in light. Rescued and attacked—it feels like both. Off camera stands Jenny, a shadow he can hardly see but he feels her. Lesley Stahl asks: —What kind of boy was Clayton? He realizes the interview has begun, the cameras are recording. —What happened that night? Do you feel race played a part? What did you teach Clayton about guns? What is it about us, why do we shoot each other at such alarming rates compared to other first world nations? What can be done about it?

  His wife does the talking. —We are just taking it one day at a time, she says. A current of electricity goes through him from the feet up. He smiles. His woman. He puts his hand over his mouth to cover his smile. Behind the camera he can see Jenny putting her hands to her head in frustration. Then Lesley Stahl asks about the ammo tax vote and the New York State Legislature. His wife, his beautiful goddamn brilliant wife, says gently, —What do we care about tax?

  Jenny steps out of the shadows to where they can see her and her furious, bug-eyed face.

  His wife ignores her, says, —Tax have nothing to do with us. Tax doesn’t stop Clayton death. Law doesn’t stop Clayton death. Only thing that stop Clayton death? Faith. Faith. If there was faith in Fisher’s heart? Clayton alive. If there was trust in Fisher’s heart? Clayton alive. If there was bravery in Fisher’s heart? Clayton alive.

  Lesley Stahl kind of smiles and says, —But we can’t pass laws putting faith into people’s hearts.

  His wife says, —So law cannot help us, so we do not care about law. We care about life. We have faith in life, we trust in people, this is how we live, we live armed with nothing but faith and trust, we think if more people live armed with nothing but faith and trust, and without fear, then this country we give everything to, this country we love, will stop killing its children.

  Off camera Jenny is pantomiming tearing her hair out of her head, is cupping her hands around her lips and screaming silently, What the fuck?

  He ignores her and leans forward to say to Lesley Stahl, —Law? Government? Politics? 60 Minutes? Just part of a myth. A myth put a gun in Fisher hand and a myth put us on TV now—it is all the same myth. The same myth. Myth is no solution because myth is the problem. The only solution is life. A gun takes no courage. Political movement, political protest? It takes no courage. To live open and unarmed, always—that takes courage. That is the only treatment for this disease.

  His wife squeezes his hand, a secret between them.

  —One more thing? he says. —We forgive Mr. Fisher. We forgive hims.

  After the interview, Jenny leaves without speaking to them. The mood is very tense. None of the other RSA people will even look at them except for Becky, who says only, —You shouldn’t have done that. You set her back. You wasted her time.

  They walk home through their city, finished with Jenny and her cause. No more. Now to move forward. They go home, put on Clayton’s music, his shoes, lie in his bed, pray, not knowing what they are praying to but that it is the only thing they can pray to. They beg it for stronger faith in it, whatever it is. Then they hold their breath and wait for what will come.

  The interview airs that Sunday night, following the NFL. Their friends gather in the common room on the second floor to watch, but he and she do not care about the interview, they do not watch.

  Nor do they hear from Jenny. It is a relief. What peace, being alone, away from her and her followers and her meetings and her actions. They go through Clayton’s things. —We will be able to give some of this away, he says.

  She says, —I did not think it would ever be possible but now it does.

  —Not now though.

  —Not now, no. But soon.

  There is a knock on the door. He answers it. Lucien the doorman. He is very upset. —Are you watching? he says. He comes in, goes to their television, turns it on.

  Fox News. A blond woman with tanned flesh and white shiny teeth and money-green eyes shouts at them, —Breaking news just in to our studio at this hour: Department of Homeland Security officials are investigating reports that the parents of Clayton Kabede, that African American teenager shot to death in New York City last week while breaking into his neighbor’s house? They have been living in the US illegally on forged documentation for over FIF-TEEN YEARS.

  He laughs, makes a dismissive gesture at it with his hand. —It’s not true. They lie.

  Calls Jenny. —Welcome to the war, honey, she says in the midst of what sounds like a protest. She says to sit tight and she will be right over.

  She never comes.

  Later that day Howard arrives, alone. Says Jenny is busy. Howard sits in the straight-backed chair given them a few weeks ago by a tenant who was redecorating. Clayton helped bring it downstairs. Damn, Clayton had said, this is a nice-ass chair. Can’t imagine what it’s like to have so much money you can just give away chairs like this, like it’s nothing.

  The handyman felt irritated by that. It make no difference, he said. A man not loser just because humble job and little money.

  I know that, Dad. Damn. What’s the matter? But he did not know what the matter was. He could not say. But he did know, didn’t he?

  Remembers Clayton lounging in the chair sideways, his long legs draped over the arm, watching his zombie shows. He imagines Howard sitting like that now, as the middle-aged attorney puts down his cup of tea and leans forward in the chair. —It appears the opposition feels threatened enough by you, he says, —to have called DHS with an anonymous tip. Some functionary there without enough real work to do took them seriously enough to pull your papers and take a closer look.

  He feels his heart shrivel. His wife looks at him. He does not look back at her because he knows it is bad and he has no solution. Nonetheless he says, —It okay, I fix it. Is it money? Maybe we can borrow it.

  Howard says, —I’m afraid it’s the rare problem money won’t solve. It’s very serious. Look, I don’t know where you got those papers or who you got them from, and I don’t want to know, but—

  —We earned them. We deserve them. People believed in us, his wife interrupts.

  Howard ignores her. —All I know is I have seen them and they are in fact inauthentic. You are, I’m afraid, unlawfully present in the United States of America.

  —No, no, no, she whispers, looking at her husband who does not look at her, cannot.

  —What does that mean? he says, though he knows what it means. It means they must leave the country. They cannot live in it.

  And that is exactly what Howard says.

  She stands up but does not go anywhere or say anything. She just stares down at Howard in silence.

  Howard says, —We’ll appeal of course, but it’s a long shot, this is pretty cut and dry. Especially because, well, put it this way: it’s a different story if you have a child.

  He hates Howard.

  —Where will we go? she says.

  —You’ll be returned to your home country

  She sits back down.

  —God no, he whispers, —we’ll be killed. He is holding her hand but it is wet and cold. Puts his arm around her.

  —I cannot breathe, she says.

  He is choking too. His chest constricting.

  —It’s not necessarily permanent, Howard says. —You will be allowed to apply for a visa from your home country.

  —It not home, he chokes out.

  —We’ll put in for expedition, Howard continues, ignoring him, —and if we’re approved, which I’m confident we will be, considering your high profile and all the noise Jenny will make on your behalf, there have been cases where people in dangerous countries have had residency papers
in their hands in as short a time as one year. Howard stares off in a way that chills his stomach and pulls his chest even tighter. —Thing is though, and I’ll have to partner up with an attorney with more immigration law experience to confirm this, but the problem is that you came here. Once someone is found to be illegally present, it triggers a bar from reentry for a mandatory minimum length of time. You should not have come here.

  —How long? the handyman says, staring at the spot on the carpet where Clayton spilled something when he was ten and tried to clean it with laundry detergent, leaving a pale discoloration that made the handyman so angry because it was a new carpet—how was he angry about that? Why did he care? What is a carpet?

  —For what it’s worth, rest assured that Jenny is out there right now raising real hell for you, putting heavy, heavy pressure on officials to get them to approve a waiver.

  This has the thud of dishonesty to it. —How long? Tell me the truth.

  —Well, the law says ten years, but—

  —Ten years? he interrupts.

  She says, —I would rather die.

  He corrects her. —We will die.

  —I’m sorry, Howard says, —it’s sickening. We will do what we can. But to spare the police coming here and arresting you, I’ve told them you’ll turn yourselves in in the morning. Now having said that. Howard shifts in his chair, loosens his tie. —Jenny knows people who are willing to help. In fact, I think they represent your only option right now.

  —Good, who, how?

  —They can get you out of here to a safe haven. Iceland.

  —But we don’t want Iceland. We are Americans. America is our country.

  —Well, America says otherwise, doesn’t it? Look, these people Jenny knows, they can get you everything you need for a good life in Iceland. You’ll have a job, a place to live. You’ll have authentic papers. Full health care. Support in your retirement. This is a very good opportunity. Tomorrow morning I’ll be out front in a cab to take you down to the courthouse to turn yourselves in and go before the judge, who, 99.9 percent, will have you removed back to where you came from. But there will be another car too, also waiting out front tomorrow morning. I urge you very strongly to get into that one. Do you understand me?