We Are Called to Rise

by Laura McBride

  Nene is praying. Baba tells her to shut up. But she doesn’t. She keeps praying. I think about that a lot later. How Nene was praying. She was praying, so where was God?

  The police officer raps on Baba’s window. Baba rolls it down, but it takes him a minute, because he is shaking and the handle for the window is kind of hard to roll down anyway, and the police officer raps a second time, like he is already mad.

  “Sir, I need your driver’s license. And your registration and insurance, please.”

  The police officer doesn’t sound mad, really, just sort of stern. Like Mrs. Monaghan.

  Baba doesn’t react right.

  “I’m American citizen,” he says. “I’m American.”

  “I just need your license and your registration, sir.”

  “You can’t stop me for nothing,” Baba says. “You have to have a reason.”

  The police officer steps slightly away from Baba’s window. Stands up straight. He waits a second before he speaks. I can hear Nene breathing. I try to take a breath, because for some reason, I can’t tell if I am breathing too much or not at all.

  “Sir, I am going to ask you to step out of the vehicle. Your brake light is out. And I want you to get out of the vehicle. Now.”

  Baba starts to protest, and I am just begging him with my mind to get out of the truck. Nene doesn’t say anything, and Tirana is still asleep, which is amazing. I notice again that Baba and Nene don’t have their seat belts on, and I wonder if they can get a ticket for this too. Baba’s back is shaking, so I think that he is afraid, because of the prison and the police officer in Albania, but in America, the police officer will not understand that, and I am just about to speak, to tell the police officer to wait a minute, but he says, “Sir, you have children in the backseat. I don’t want this to get ugly. Now please get out of your vehicle.”

  He sounds real firm but not as mad as before, and that is enough for Baba. He fumbles with the door, and then he sort of stumbles out. The police officer tells him to face the truck, to spread his legs, and to place his palms on the door frame. Baba does, but he is still shaking, and this makes the truck shake, so that Nene and I can feel it. It is almost like having Baba’s heart beat in my chest.

  “Ma’am,” says the police officer. “Could you please open your glove compartment and hand me your insurance and registration?”

  Nene should just do this right away. Even I know that. Every kid in Mrs. Monaghan’s class knows that. But Nene doesn’t do it right away. Instead, she says, “We can’t pay a ticket. We don’t have any money. We can’t get a ticket. Do you see my children? We have to feed these children.”

  Nene’s voice is high and squeaky, and it wakes Tirana up. She starts to cry, but in a sleepy way. The police officer is getting annoyed.

  “Ma’am, hand me your registration and insurance now.”

  I shush Tirana and make a fish face to try to get her to stop crying. Nene opens up the glove box and starts pulling out all the stuff that is in there. I think the police officer is probably getting more annoyed, but he is smart enough not to talk to Nene for a minute. Unfortunately, Baba does talk to Nene, even though he is standing against the door frame, and any kid would know he should probably be quiet right then.

  “This is your fault, Arjeta. I can’t pay everything. All the bills you get. Doctor. Medicine. Gas bill. I can’t pay it. You are killing me.”

  Nene stops looking for the registration and says something to Baba in Albanian, which I don’t catch, and then the police officer says, “Shut up. Stop talking. Ma’am, you have fifteen seconds.”

  I don’t know what is going to happen in fifteen seconds. My heart is pounding, and my head is banging, and I am starting to see funny in the backseat. But Nene finds the papers. She can’t hand them to the police officer through the window because Baba is standing against that door, so she gets out, and she walks them to him. Tirana holds out her arms and says, “Nene, Nene.” I put my fingers in my ears and try to get Tirana to look at me. I should smile at Tirana when I do this, but I am having a hard time controlling my face. Nene walks toward the police officer with the registration.

  “Stay back, ma’am.”

  Nene is surprised.

  “Step back to the other side of the vehicle, ma’am.”

  That’s when I see there is another police officer. He must have been in the car waiting, but now he is standing a little bit away from all of us. He is staring at Nene, and his look scares me. I don’t think, I just open the door and slip out. I want to run to Nene, but I hesitate, and I stand next to the truck for a minute. Nobody seems to notice that I have gotten out. Nene walks away from the police officer, closer to me, but she still hasn’t noticed that I am out of the truck.

  “Sir, this registration expired three weeks ago. Do you have your new registration?”

  Baba starts yelling.

  “It’s not my fault. I did not have the money. She takes all the money. She and these kids, and I did not have any money to pay this registration!”

  Baba’s voice is screechy, and his English is getting confused, and I am not even sure that the police officer knows he is speaking English because it sounds a lot like Albanian.

  Then Nene starts. She is yelling at Baba and the police officer at the same time, all mixed up.

  “You want that I should let our baby die of fever? What are we supposed to eat? Ice-cream cones? We cannot get a ticket. We have no money for a ticket. Would you put us in the street? What do you want me to do? Not feed our children?”

  Nene’s English is fine, but she is getting louder, and she is very upset. She loves me and Tirana so much, and she is afraid of Baba and afraid of the police, and even I know that she sounds crazy to these Americans.

  And I want to tell them that she is not crazy, and that if they would just stop talking a minute, if they would just wait a minute, then Baba and Nene will be able to calm down. I am trying to figure out a way to tell the police officers this, and I don’t know how, so I just run out and grab hold of my nene at the waist. I am crying, though I am trying not to, and the police officer says, “Stop. You cannot get out of the vehicle. Tell your son to get back in the vehicle, ma’am.”

  And maybe Nene is trying to push me back to the truck, and maybe I am clinging to her. I don’t remember. I don’t remember all of that. But I see the second police officer move his feet apart, and I see him reach for his gun. He is behind the first police officer. I don’t think the first police officer even knows he is there yet, and my nene, she sees the second police officer too. She starts wailing, in Albanian. I think it was Albanian, but maybe it was just wailing. And Nene’s cries make Baba start wailing. They are both so loud, and they don’t know how Albanian sounds in America, and I don’t know what to do. I keep staring at the second police officer because he has a gun, and he is staring at us.

  I pull at Nene. I try to get her to come back to the truck with me. I can hear Tirana crying. But Nene is pushing me away. She pulls her ice-cream scoop out of her jacket, and she waves it, and says, “For the love of Allah, just kill me and my children!”

  And like that, the second police officer, the one behind, I see him lift his gun, and he aims it at my nene, and I am trying to yell, but nothing comes out of my throat, and then I see his finger move, and I think, “He is going to shoot my nene!” And then his finger is done moving, and I didn’t hear anything, so I think that he did not shoot her, that it is not a real gun, but then I feel Nene jerk, and sort of slump, and her breath comes out like a puff. She isn’t yelling anymore.

  “What the hell!” The first police officer is yelling at the second.

  “What the hell are you doing? Put that weapon away. What the hell did you do?”

  And the second police officer is just sort of standing there, like he doesn’t know where he is, and he says, “She has a knife. She was going to kill her kid.”
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  And the first police officer says, “What knife?”

  And then Baba looks at me, and at Nene, and maybe he realizes, just then, that the gun has been fired. I didn’t even hear it, but Baba looks at us, and he realizes, and he lets out this scream, and he just screams and screams.

  And then the second police officer is handcuffing Baba, and the first police officer is looking at me and Nene, and I am holding on to Nene, and she has this funny look on her face, but she is standing, and I am thinking “Was she shot?” and I think that the first police officer is trying to figure this out too, and then Nene just makes this funny sound, and sort of sinks, right out of my arms, and sits on the curb, with her head down.

  “Ma’am,” says the police officer. “Ma’am, are you okay?”

  And the second police officer yells something at Baba, and I hear Baba get banged against the truck, and then the first police officer says, “Nate, put him in the squad car. Go easy. I don’t know what’s happening over here.”

  And he comes over to me and to Nene, and he lifts Nene’s face, and I see his face, and the way his cheeks suck in, and I scream, and I hold Nene, and I hear him on his radio, calling for an ambulance.

  22

  * * *

  Avis

  I CLICK ON THE television to see if the cable has been turned off or not. The instant I see the banner going across the bottom, I know. “Las Vegas police officer shoots woman at traffic stop.” I sink to my knees, gripping the remote as if it could change time, as if I could turn off the TV, and with the force of the no inside me, turn time back, back an hour, back two hours—how long would we need, to start over, and for this not to be true?

  There is no other information. The banner runs below a Channel 10 special about Nevada’s wild horses, which was taped months ago, and even though it is almost evening, I cannot find local news on any station. I know that I should call Lauren, or Jim. I know that I should do something, confirm something, but already, I know.

  I knew when Nate wrecked the car.

  I knew when he was pulling Lauren’s head back with her hair.

  I knew when I heard him tell Jim that he and the guys had pounded shots after work in a dive off Boulder Highway.

  I knew when he stepped off the plane the last time. I knew the instant I hugged him, that little course of energy through his body, that slight shiver.

  THE PHONE RINGS. FINALLY STOPS.

  Starts again.

  I don’t recognize the number, and I don’t answer it. Has a name already been announced?

  I turn on the laptop and see that there is already a short story in the Las Vegas Sun. Just the minimum. No names yet. But the woman is dead. And my God, she was driving an ice-cream truck. At Pecos and Hacienda, not three miles from me. Worse, there were two children present. No more details.

  The six-thirty news leads with the story. A routine traffic stop escalates to a shooting. There are preliminary reports that the woman had a knife, that she was threatening to kill her own son, that she did not speak English. The woman’s husband and children were inconsolable. The father is in temporary custody, the children have been sent to Child Haven. There will be more later. Channel 8 will provide more details as they learn them.

  I check the phone then. Lauren called at 5:51. Jim at 5:58.

  I hesitate, not sure who I should call first, and then dial Jim’s number.

  “Avis, where are you? Have you seen the news?”

  “Yes, I’ve seen the news.”

  “Nate was the officer who shot the woman.”

  “Yes, I imagined so.”

  “You imagined so? Really, Avis?”

  I hear the anger in his voice. Should I hide that I knew? What good would that do? There’s a pause, and I can’t think of what to say, so I don’t fill it.

  “Nate’s at the station. He’ll probably be there awhile. His phone’s not on, and Lauren’s pretty upset. Darcy and I are headed over there right now.”

  Darcy. Did he tell me to warn me, or so that I would not come?

  “I can leave now. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “Um, sure, yeah. You should probably be there.”

  This will be the first time that Jim and I and Darcy have been together with the kids.

  “Maybe it’s better if you and Darcy go now. I can go later, or when Nate comes home. I can go tomorrow.”

  It is Jim’s turn to be silent.

  “Jim?”

  “Yes.”

  “We knew Nate wasn’t right. I knew he wasn’t right. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I can’t talk about that now, Avis. You don’t even know what happened. Already, you’re blaming Nate. If he needs a good lawyer, we’ll get him one.”

  If he needs a good lawyer.

  “Darcy knows a lot about public relations. About how you handle this sort of thing. She can help.”

  Darcy. Public relations.

  “Jim, call me when you know something more. If Lauren knows something. I’ll be right here.”

  I don’t wait for his answer. I know that I am close to losing control.

  ABOUT EIGHT THIRTY, THERE IS

  a new banner on the bottom of the screen: “Witness disputes that woman had knife, and says she was ‘clutching child.’”

  At ten, there is a statement from the chief of police. They are investigating the events that led up to the shooting. The officers involved have been placed on administrative leave pending an investigation. The department extends its condolences to the family of the deceased, particularly her children.

  The phone rings again. It’s Jim.

  “Nate’s still not home, but he called Lauren. Apparently the woman had some sort of mental illness. She freaked out when they stopped her. Started yelling about Allah. Nate thought she was going to kill her son.”

  For a moment, I am hopeful. Maybe Nate hasn’t done anything. Maybe it is Nate who has been saved. Maybe my son was almost killed this evening, and he was not. He is still alive.

  “The partner’s a problem. A witness heard him asking Nate why he took the shot. Where the knife was.”

  And I fold. Maybe Nate is innocent, and damn me if his own mother didn’t believe him, but I have seen Nate’s hand twisted cruelly in Lauren’s hair, I have seen Nate rushing toward Rodney, and I know that my son is not himself. Something has happened to him, and now something has happened to someone else.

  “Avis. Pull yourself together. I don’t know what you’ve been doing all night, but we’re still a family. Nate needs you, and you’re going to have to get it together.”

  We’re still a family.

  “Avis, are you there? What are you doing?”

  I don’t know what I am doing. I never knew what I was doing. I just jumped in and tried, no manual, I tried as hard as I could, and for the second time in my son’s life, I missed the important cue. The first time, a boy was paralyzed. The second time, a mother has been killed. It wasn’t because I didn’t care, it wasn’t because I was lazy, it isn’t because my son is a bad man. Nate is a good man.

  “Avis? Avis?!”

  I hear Jim’s voice, and just as clearly, in just as ordinary a way, I hear two children crying. I hear Rodney and I, huddled in the closet, crying, while our mom’s head is banged, once, twice, three times, against a wall. And I hear two other children, I can’t see them, but I hear them, they are crying for their mother. They are terrified, and I hear the sound of the shot, and then I hear them crying.

  Should I explain this to Jim? That my mind is playing tricks on me and that I can hear children crying while he is speaking? There was a time when he would have understood.

  Instead, I tell him that I will be at Nate and Lauren’s house tomorrow. I tell him that I am sorry, sorry for everything, I ask him to tell Lauren I love her, and then I hang up.

  Imme
diately, the phone rings.

  It’s Rodney. Did he hear the crying too?

  “Avis. It’s Rodney.”

  His voice is thick. He’s been drinking, of course. But he knows. Just like me, he knew as soon as he saw the story.

  “Was it Nato?”

  “Yes.”

  I hear Rodney’s shivery, shallow breathing. He always has a hard time breathing, and when he drinks, it’s worse.

  “Avis?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you remember Mark?”

  “Yes.”

  Again, the breathing. I am fighting to breathe too. Thinking of Rodney. He’ll be sitting in the dark, just the television on, his lunch plate still on the coffee table, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s within reach.

  “Mark was a vet. Do you remember that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember that time Mom said she wanted to go to Italy? She wanted to dance with an Italian man?”

  I want Rodney to stop. I remember the time, I remember what Mark said, I remember what happened.

  “Rodney, I remember. Please, I remember.”

  “Our Nato’s not Mark, Avis. He’s not Mark.”

  “No, he’s not Mark, Rodney.”

  There’s no sense trying to talk to Rodney. He’s too drunk, and there’re things he won’t talk about anyway, but I wish I could talk to him. If there’s anyone in the world who could understand what I feel tonight, it’s Rodney.

  SHARLENE SAID IT AGAIN.

  “Fifty dollars. The guy gave me fifty dollars! He just peeled one off the top of the stack. Said he could take me to dinner later too.”

  This time Mark does not even bother to curse at her, to scream. There is just this roar of his body flying across the room, and my mother’s yelp, and then the sound of both of them slamming to the floor.