Victim

by Gary Kinder

  We found my father’s new apartment which was in total disarray as he was painting and decorating. The apartment was finally readied and my mother, sisters and brother arrived about two weeks later. Our house was one in a lower middle class neighborhood. However, seeing the interior of our house you’d never believe it’s the home of a lower middle class family. My mother and father was always very particular about the conditions in which their children lived. I will tell you that my home was a very cheery place to live as far as environment is concerned. The neighborhood itself was not that spectacular. It was not very clean but it was a lot safer than most. It was a good place to live.

  It was now time for those in the family who could to find jobs. As for my employers there were three. The Dept. of Social Services, the New York Telephone Co., and a fast-food outlet called Nathan’s. The job with the New York Department of Social Services I can’t remember too well. It was the first job I had when I came to this country. I don’t remember too much about the job except that I hated it. I think I had a janitor job there. I’m not sure.

  At the telephone company I was a service clerk and I wanted to be a switchman—so I was not happy at that job. As for Nathan’s, the fast-food outlet, I worked there for about 3 weeks because I was on strike at the telephone company. I worked the deep fryer and the ice-cream machine while I was there. I left the job because I felt humiliated in some way. It was more an embarrassment than anything else. I did not like the idea of being a servant to anyone, and that’s exactly what I was as a short-order cook. I hated the job so badly that I decided to break the picket lines and go back to work. I was not a union member anyway. During this time I was constantly hoping for something better. I thought that my education demanded a better job than I had at the telephone company. I wanted to do something more important. I have always had a vision of myself as an important person very well-off socially and financially; and well-liked by all who knew me.

  It may come as a surprise but I was never the friendly type. And I certainly was never outgoing or very sociable. All the friends I had could possibly be counted on my fingers. My activities were limited to the Park Circle Roller Skating Rink, and the Brooklyn Public Library at the corner of Eastern Parkway and Flatbush Avenue. I also spent a lot of time at the movies—I may even go so far as to say that I was a “film nut.”

  I ran around with some guys who could be characterized as “boys around town.” They were the regular know-it-all types. My sexual escapades—up until I met these guys—were nil, and as such I was mocked and jeered for a while. I have never and will never be party to a “gang-bang.” I think that sort of behaviour is deplorable and certainly tells much about the moral character and social dignity of the participants. But I was more-or-less forced into my first sexual encounter. I think the girl’s name was Lisa.

  I started to learn to drive because the urge to buy a car was becoming greater. It had now been about two years since I came to the country. I had to take the practical part of my driver’s test twice before I passed and got my driver’s license. I bought myself a car—two as a matter of fact. The first one was a 1963 Pontiac Bonneville—I had an accident because there was no brake fluid in the cylinders. That was no big loss because the car only cost me $150 plus registration and insurance. About 8 months later I found a super bargain in Pennsylvania. A 1969 Road Runner with a 383 high performance engine and a 4 speed transmission. It cost me all of $800. I later crashed the Road Runner while drag racing one Sunday night. It got away from me at about 110 mph. Nothing happened to me and then I got bored. Then I decided to join the Air Force for two reasons. The first was that promotion in the telephone company wasn’t about to come my way. Secondly I thought it would be nice to become a pilot.

  I entered active service with the United States Air Force in the first week of May 1973, and I was instantly disillusioned. Before I knew it I was on my way to Lackland Air Force Base for bootcamp. Lackland is in San Antonio. My head was shorn of all hair, even though I was promised that this would not be the case. I happen to be extremely self-conscious about my physical appearance—I was devastated by this incident.

  The 6 weeks of bootcamp I spent at Lackland AFB wasn’t so bad after all. But none-the-less I was dissatisfied because I found out I was not going to be a pilot but a helicopter mechanic. I then inquired how I could become a pilot. After being told of the 4 years of college plus 6 years mandatory Air Force enlistment—10 years was too long and I again became restless.

  While in San Antonio I managed to fall in love with a Mexican divorcee. I had planned to get married to her but I got cold feet and chickened out. I was then sent to Sheppard AFB in Wichita Falls, Texas for my tech school training. There I met and subsequently fell in love, again, with an Oriental girl. She was Japanese American. I was going to ask her to marry me but I couldn’t after what happened in San Antonio. I believe her name was Lisa.

  My tech school training was now completed and I graduated. I was assigned for OJT training at Hill AFB in Utah. OJT means on the job training. I was trying to exchange or sell my Hill Field orders but nobody wanted it so I was stuck with it and destiny.

  I came to Hill AFB in Sept. or October 1973. At Hill the routine was the same as tech school except that I ran my own life here. In my spare time I did not do much except play pool, visit the Airmen’s Club occasionally and read a lot. I did not indulge in any social events except to go to the movies. This is something that anyone in the Air Force who knew me can tell you. A lot of people on the base knew me but I don’t think that any of them can be classified as friends. I don’t remember how Andrews and I became friends or to be associated with each other but I’m willing to bet that it was because of music. That is the only thing we seem to have a common interest in.

  To explain my priorities and likes—let’s put it this way. I have always been obsessed with the idea of living easy. I have always wanted to improve my social stature, my intellectual ability and my financial position, but it has been my experience that most of the black servicemen seem to be content with their station in life. Their excuse for their passivity was always that “you can’t go far in this white man’s world.” I feel otherwise. It has also seemed to me that the average black serviceman likes to dress outlandishly—or in a scrappy manner; I try to keep myself presentable at all times. I dress conservative-mod, and I pick clothes with colours that compliment my skin colour. The guys with whom I was most familiar, including Andrews and Roberts, thought it hep to be one of the boys—doing a lot of drugs, boasting and chasing every available female in Utah, and being in the know as to what the latest top 10 songs were—on the Soul Charts. I got into photography, read a lot, played tennis and went to the movies a lot. I also prefer jazz to soul. They never spoke to me much about their parties because I was never interested, and besides I did not hang out with them. On one or two occasions Andrews told me about “dope parties” that he went to. I guess that’s why he overturned his van twice while speeding and once borrowed somebody’s car and wrecked it on the way back from a party. I was usually in bed by midnight. I spent a lot of time by myself because my priorities and likes differed drastically from what was considered hep by fellow servicemen. I couldn’t dance, never smoked and as a result, never met or became popular with the town’s girls.

  As an airman I was trained to be a helicopter mechanic. I worked on H-53 helicopters, the biggest helicopter I ever saw. But I was extremely dissatisfied with my position and as a result I was less than the model airman. I decided I didn’t like Utah or the Air Force anymore so I filed for an early discharge. I understand that it was approved by my immediate commanding officer and was supposed to be on the way to the base commander for final approval when I became involved with this case.

  As I look back on everything I believe everything that happened to me was supposed to happen. Maybe there is a lesson in it somewhere I am supposed to learn.

  RECOVERY

  That Labor Day afternoon, when Cortney’s family tol
d him about the death of his mother, Cortney wanted to hear more about her funeral. His father said that of course Cortney had been sick in the hospital and couldn’t go, but that there had been lots of people and pretty flowers, and the police had stopped traffic and given his mother a special escort to the cemetery. Crying, Cortney asked to see his mother’s grave. The four of them had then driven to the cemetery on the rise south of town, where Cortney stared for a while at the bronze plaque engraved with his mother’s name and the date of her death. Then his family had returned him to the ICU, Cortney seated in the wheelchair, still wearing his white tennis hat and still crying. When his family had gone, the nurse helped change his clothes and put him back to bed.

  “Cortney,” she said, “what’s wrong?”

  “They told me what happened to my mom,” he said. Then his face reddened and his lips began to quiver. “They killed my mom, and I hope they get killed, too.”

  For the rest of the evening Cortney was upset, an angry look often crossing his face until he finally fell asleep. When nurse Judy Baxter arrived for the midnight shift, Cortney was still asleep and remained sleeping till the early hours of the morning when she walked into his room again.

  “I don’t remember why I went in the room,” she said later, “but he was awake and I asked him how the fishing had been. I think they went out to the fish hatchery. It had been fun for him, and he was very glad to have gotten out of the hospital. He was so sick of it at that point. And I asked him how things had been with his family, and he said, They told me that my mom’s dead. Is that really true?’ And I said, ‘Cortney, yes. When you were shot, your mother was with you. She died that night.’

  “He didn’t say anything. He sat there. I was sitting on the side of his bed, and I remember holding his hand, and then he just started to cry. No sound, just tears and tears. He’d cried before, an angry kind of spoiled cry, but this was quiet, no sound, tears rolling down his cheeks, and just looking at me. And then he said something like: ‘Why? Why does this happen?’ And then he said, ‘Is that why she doesn’t come to see me?’ And then we talked about it for a few minutes. Then he said, ‘Did she die that night?’ and I said it again, yes, it had killed her right away, and she had not had to go through a lot of pain or any of the operations and hard times that Cortney had had to go through. That night was tearful. We talked about his mother for a while, and then he said: ‘They told me my mom is dead. Is that really true?’ And then we went through it all again.”

  After Cortney had been told many times of his mother’s death and had begun to accept that she was gone, hardly a shift went by that he did not say to one of the nurses in his slow speech, “Tell me about my mother.” Then he would say, “I miss my mother, I really miss my mother.”

  “After he was aware that his mother was dead,” said one of the nurses, “Cortney went through a grief period and he cried buckets of tears. He’d get to thinking about his mother, and tears would well up and he’d just sob and talk about her. Sometimes he’d call out: ‘Momma! Momma!’ you know, just crying in his sleep. It’d about break your heart, but when he’d wake up there was no comment at all. It was like as soon as he became conscious he’d block it off and that was it.”

  Cortney’s trips out of the hospital became more frequent now, especially for Sunday dinner when Gary, Claire, and sometimes Brett, Diane and baby Natalie, came to the house. Everyone would visit with Cortney; then while they ate, he would lie on the couch with his two IVs hanging from the steel tripod. Cortney’s meal was served when his father measured out the formula and injected it with a syringe into his gastrostomy tube.

  At first Cortney had seemed to look forward to his time away from the hospital, but after a few weeks passed, he appeared to be more uncomfortable each time he was brought home.

  After he had been out of the hospital for a little while the first times, why he was anxious to get back in the hospital, he felt more secure there than anyplace else. I’d bring him home for weekends. Not even that … I’d pick him up on Saturday morning and take him back on Saturday night, and then I’d pick him up on Sunday morning and take him back Sunday night. And I’d bring him home in the evenings sometimes after work. We’d just sit and watch TV or whatever he wanted to do. Sometimes we took him for a little ride, but it would tire him right out. And he wouldn’t be really interested in what was going on around him at all because of his own problems, you know. When I took him back Sunday night, he was glad to be in his own hospital bed. He was frightened more than anything, I think. I think he was frightened to be home, because he had gotten used to all the security of the hospital and everybody running in and out every few minutes. He was more comfortable there, and I guess I wouldn’t blame him. That’s where he had everything at his fingertips and knew that he was safe.

  Cortney’s progress in the hospital continued slowly but steadily. When his eyes were examined, he was unable to count fingers held before his wandering right eye, but at least the eye was projecting light. He still experienced periods of nausea and vomiting, but the perforation in his esophagus had sealed completely and he could swallow small amounts of juice, broth, and water. His weight had climbed back into the low 130s.

  As Cortney grew more alert, he also became more cognizant of his handicaps and pain. He learned that he was helpless. When the speech therapist placed a pen in his right hand, he could not move it without help from his left. If he felt the need to urinate or defecate, he had to ask a nurse either to bring him the bedpan or help him hobble to the toilet in his room. He could do nothing on his own. All of his muscles had atrophied and contracted. Whenever the physical therapist came to stretch them with range-of-motion exercises, the pain was so bad Cortney fought even being touched.

  On the twenty-fourth of September, five months after the murders, Cortney was finally transferred out of ICU to an acute care ward. When he left, the nurses talked about his chances of survival.

  “You don’t take odds on anybody around here that’s real ill like that,” said Annette Wilson. “Cortney was just too sick, there was just too much involved, and too many times he looked like he was going to die anytime. This was in September even. Some days it looked like we were making progress, other times it looked like we were just going downhill. Even when we released him, knowing he had an esophagus that was full of holes and a lot of other problems, most people here didn’t think that he would make it, that with these other surgeries and everything he had ahead of him he wouldn’t survive. Everybody said, ‘Well, he’s not going to live very long.’”

  The day after Cortney arrived on the acute care ward, he was given a tub bath, his hair was shampooed, and his father picked him up at five in the afternoon. A surprise party had been planned for him at home, and his father wanted him to look his best. It was Cortney’s seventeenth birthday.

  For the party eight of Cortney’s friends gathered at a neighbor’s house, then went as a group down to the Naisbitts’ and rang the doorbell. While they were waiting for Cortney to come to the door, they unrolled a big banner that said “Happy Birthday Cortney!”

  Dr. Naisbitt opened the door, winked at the kids, and said loudly, “Just a minute!” When the door opened again, Cortney was shuffling forward, his right hand tucked into his chest and his head bent low. Behind him his father was carrying the tripod which held two bottles with lines disappearing into Cortney’s pants and up the back of his shirt. When Cortney finally reached the door, all of his friends yelled, “Happy birthday!”

  Chris Southwick was standing in the back of the group, holding up one end of the banner. When he and Cortney were younger, they looked so much alike and were together so often they had frequently been mistaken for twins. But Chris had not seen Cortney in five months, since the day Cortney was shot.

  “I felt bad that I hadn’t visited him at the hospital,” Chris said later, “but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I think it was a fear of how he might look and how he might be. You know? I just had a fear of that. And also, I
wanted to remember Cortney as he had been. I didn’t want to see him all chewed up or shot up. I wanted to remember him and the times we had spent together when he was well and happy.”

  Now, Cortney stood right in front of Chris, and Chris finally had to look at him. Cortney was skinny and gaunt, his hair had turned brown, and his skin was pallid with an unnatural sheen to it. His face and neck appeared bloated, and his mouth seemed small and pursed. His right eye stared off to the side. Just above the top button of his shirt, a thick red scar showed at the base of his neck.

  “It wasn’t Cortney,” said Chris. “Not the Cortney I remembered. I didn’t even recognize him, he looked so different. He was so much littler, and he was just so ... so different looking. And it shocked me, you know. It hit me for the first time what he’d been through, and it really, really hit me hard. I couldn’t believe it. I remember him standing there, and he said, ‘Hi, Chris.’”

  “Why don’t you invite them in?” Byron said to Cortney.

  Cortney shuffled backward out of the way, and Chris, Kelly, and the rest of his friends walked past him back to the den. In a few minutes Cortney joined them, his father following slowly behind with the tripod.

  In the den Cortney sat at one end of the couch, propped up on pillows, and listened to the stories of what his friends had done over the summer; and about life at school, now that they had entered their junior year. When they asked him questions about the hospital, Cortney answered slowly, often licking his lips, sometimes trying to smile. But his attempt to smile looked more like a frown, wrinkles creasing his forehead and his mouth slightly open in a circle. He once tried to hold a glass of Coke in his hand, but he shook so badly he had to set it down.