We Are Called to Rise

by Laura McBride

  Sharlene screams. Mark yells.

  “You slutty, shitting bitch! You fucking bitch!”

  And there are more sounds, of struggle, of body on body, of pain.

  I take Rodney by the hand, he shakes violently, and without a sound, Rodney picks up his blanket, and I take two pillows, and we slip into Sharlene’s closet. This is where we go when we are afraid, when Sharlene comes home too late, when something bad happens on the strip of concrete outside our apartment door. In the back of the closet, where the roof slants too low for Sharlene to stand, and where she has stashed winter clothes she rarely wears, Rodney and I keep our own stash. My old black bear. A bent postcard from Stanley, who was one of Sharlene’s boyfriends, the only one that ever wrote to us. Two decks of casino cards, with a hole in the middle of each one. Rodney’s plate with the picture of Elvis on it.

  I curl into my usual spot, but Rodney puts the extra pillow in his and settles into my lap. We often sit like this for the worst bits, Rodney’s soft blond hair against my cheek, my arm wrapped across his small body. Having Rodney changes everything. His warm body relaxes me, and I can feel his shaking start to slow, soften, almost stop. But it is harder this time, since it is not just that Mark has hit Sharlene or that they are yelling. No, they are still fighting: their bodies crashing into furniture, into the walls.

  Thunk. Thunk.

  Rodney wiggles out of my lap and stands up at the other end of the closet. When he comes back, he has the gun he told me about, the one in Mark’s brown bag, the one he found when he was playing in the closet alone. He hands it to me, and I take it. I have never seen a gun, much less held one. It is heavy. And cold.

  Thunk.

  Rodney shivers in front of me, eyes on mine.

  So quickly, before I can be afraid, I take the gun and go out to the living room where Sharlene and Mark are fighting. I aim the gun in the direction of Mark, not sure how to hold it. It is much too large for my hands.

  “Stop!”

  “What the fuck?”

  “Stop hurting her.”

  I can feel Rodney behind me, his chin against my back.

  “Give me that gun, you little shit.”

  Mark lunges at me. And then fast, faster that I can think, Sharlene is there, tugging the gun from my hands, throwing me and Rodney backward onto the floor, and Mark is grabbing at Sharlene, and they are struggling, struggling for the gun. But Sharlene wrenches away, aims the gun straight at Mark—it is not too big for her hands—screams at him to get out, get out, get out.

  And Mark’s voice is soft now—he is calling her a crazy, stupid bitch—but I can hear the uncertainty, the fear, in his voice, and he backs away toward the door, and Sharlene is screaming, “Get out! Get out!” And then Mark lunges toward her. And the gun goes off. There are two sounds, the bullet pings off something and then hits something else, but it does not hit anyone—not Mark, not me, not Rodney. Mark flees.

  Sharlene stands there, a stunned look on her face. There is total silence.

  Then the sound of a siren.

  And Sharlene sinks to the floor, crying harder than I have ever seen her cry.

  “I could have killed him. I wanted to kill him.”

  She is bleating like an animal and moaning, and she has not looked at me or Rodney at all. She does not know that the ping, the ricochet, did not send the bullet our way. She didn’t look.

  “I could have killed him.”

  Rodney stares at me, eyes wide. He is perfectly quiet.

  When the officer walks in, hand on the grip of his gun, our door is wide open, and we are just like that: Sharlene murmuring and crying, and Rodney and I, motionless, silent, stunned.

  “Ma’am. Ma’am. What happened here? What’s going on here?”

  And then Sharlene is trying to stand up, and she motions to the gun on the floor where she has dropped it, and she is muttering, “I almost killed him, I could have killed him.”

  By the time the policemen leave, there are two of them, they have taken the gun, they are telling Sharlene that they will find Mark, that she might want to think about moving to another place, getting away from this guy, that she has two kids to look out for, that next time they might have to take the kids, send us to Utah for foster care, that a gun is a really serious thing, and if someone had been shot, they wouldn’t be able to do much, to protect her, to protect the kids. They say they will stop in every now and then to see how she is doing.

  And Rodney? He goes to sleep. One of the police officers gives him a chocolate lollipop, and he eats it, eyes wide, watching the policemen. And when the candy is gone, when he has eaten the stick into a gluey white pulp, he falls asleep, in the middle of the upturned chair, the broken lamp, the police officers talking to our mother, one with his arm around her shoulders.

  I don’t take a lollipop. I don’t say anything.

  Not to the policeman. Not to Sharlene.

  She never looked at Rodney and me. She never looked to see where the bullet went.

  I REMEMBER THIS. I DO

  not want to remember it. I have spent my life not remembering it. But I can’t stop it now, now that I have talked with Rodney, now that Rodney knew, right away, that it was Nate who shot the woman with the ice-cream truck. I remember it, I remember it all. I remember the closet, I remember the crying. I still hear two other children, crying, crying, as their mother falls to the street in front of them.

  Because I need to do something, because I learned a long time ago that remembering, by itself, is a path to hell, I do what I should have done years ago—should have done when Emily was still a baby, should never have allowed in the first place.

  I go upstairs, and I take that gun out of my dresser, and the bullets out of the closet. How many times have I thought nervously about that gun since I first discovered it in my drawer five months ago? How many times have I wondered if someone would find it, if someone would use it? How many times have I tamped those thoughts down, not wanting to remember, not wanting to have this very memory that I have now had?

  I am not sure how to dispose of a gun. But I don’t want this gun to be used ever, so I put it in the toilet, thinking that the water will rust its parts and make it useless. It looks bizarre there, a gun in a toilet, and just for a second, I laugh. I try to remind myself that this is not funny, but the laugh releases something. I wish Rodney were here to see this: a gun in a toilet, his fifty-three-year-old sister gingerly placing it there. And then it comes to me in a rush. The six-year-old girl who picked up that gun, carried it out of the closet, aimed it at a violent man, was brave. She was wildly, brilliantly brave. I’ve never thought of that day with anything but shame—the shame of a child whose mother did not look—but right now, staring at that gun in the toilet, something like elation comes over me.

  I suppose I’ve always seen that day the way I saw it when I was six.

  And now I see the six-year-old.

  I sit there, shivering in a cold bathroom, staring at a gun in a toilet, knowing that my son’s life is coming apart, and I feel, well, whole. Avis Eileen Briggs. No one in this world cared if that little girl lived or died; almost no one in this world would have known one way or the other. But look what she did. Look who she was. Look who I was.

  I’M SURE BULLETS COUNT AS

  a hazardous waste, but I decide that I don’t care. I tie them into a trash bag tightly, and then I put that bag inside a bag of kitchen waste, and then I put the kitchen waste in the middle of the largest garbage can. It’s possible that they will be found, but I doubt it.

  Before I leave the house, I will get the gun out of the toilet. I’ll hide it the same way I hid the bullets. It won’t be the worst thing to make it into a landfill.

  23

  * * *

  Roberta

  SOMETIMES BEING A CASA is scary. The weeks of training don’t seem like much when I’m walking into a b
ombed-out shell of a house off Owens by myself. I carry Mace for the dogs, but what do you carry for the slurring, blank-eyed drug addict who doesn’t want you to talk to her two-year-old child? What do you carry for the mentally ill brother, or the old man in the corner yelling about the gooks? Of course, I don’t have to make those sorts of visits. A lot of CASAs don’t. It’s just that I know my recommendations can upend a child’s whole world. I like to be sure.

  I’ve volunteered as a Court Appointed Special Advocate for thirteen years, so I can generally choose which families I work with. As soon as I read the reports of the shooting, as soon as I heard that the children had been there, that the father was going crazy, as soon as I read the same newspaper articles everyone else did, I knew I would request the case. Those children would end up in foster care, at least for a while, and they would almost certainly be assigned a CASA, even though we were shorthanded. I wanted to be that CASA. I’m as afraid of making a mistake as anyone else, but if there’s one thing thirteen years have taught me, it’s that I’d rather live knowing I made a mistake than wondering if I could have made a difference if I’d tried.

  The way I see it, nothing in life is a rehearsal. It’s not preparation for anything else. There’s no getting ready for it. There’s no waiting for the real part to begin. Not ever. Not even for the smallest child. This is it. And if you wait too long to figure that out, to figure out that we are the ones making the world, we are the ones to whom all the problems—and all the possibilities for grace—now fall, then you lose everything. Your only shot at this world.

  I get that this one small life is all we have for whatever it is that we are going to do. And I want in.

  LOU WAS FINE WITH MY

  request. She said she had expected it, and that even though Bernie might also want the Ahmeti children, one of his current cases was in too precarious a situation for his attention to be divided.

  So that was that, and now we waited. It would take a while, even after the children were placed in foster care, for the CASA request to be made. I got ready. I tracked down a contact at Catholic Refugee Services, because I saw that the Ahmetis had originally been sent to Las Vegas through them. I looked up the family’s address and searched the school district website for information about the elementary school that Bashkim probably attended. I even found a couple of listings for Albanian cultural organizations, just in case the Ahmetis were involved with one. And then I called my nephew, who works at LVPD.

  “Ari, it’s Roberta. I was wondering if we could get together, talk about that shooting, this week?”

  “Hi, Roberta. I thought you might call. Have you got the case already?”

  “No. It hasn’t come in, but it will. Can you talk?”

  “Yeah, a little. I’m headed out of town for a week, so we can talk now and meet when I get back if you want. Let me shut my door.”

  “So, Ari, do you know anything about this guy? What’s going to happen?”

  “What’s going to happen? Nothing. There’ll be an investigation. He’ll be cleared. That’ll be it from our end.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so.”

  “The thing is, the cop’s a local kid. His dad’s Jim Gisselberg, from MGM Resorts. That’s how he got on the force so fast, though he would have made it anyway. Served three tours in Iraq.”

  “Iraq?”

  “Yeah. Army. Special Forces.”

  “So is that the story? He was trigger happy? He’s got anger issues? What happened?”

  “Roberta, I can’t tell you much about that. I mean, everybody’s talking. He’s a popular guy, but there are a couple of people who have had doubts. He’s gotten pretty drunk off duty, and he can get wild. He’s been with guys from the force, so they’ve stopped him from doing anything too crazy. I mean, he just barely got out of the service, and he was a cop. Right into the academy, right into a patrol. So who knows?”

  “Ari, why does LVPD do this? Why so fast?”

  “I told you. He’s got a dad. He’s a war hero. He’s a local Vegas kid. He tests well. Look at it from our side: he’s a great hire.”

  “Yeah? Do you know him yourself? What do you think?”

  “I’ve talked to him. Our paths cross. But I’ve never had a drink with him. I don’t work with cops on the beat anymore. So he’s just a big, buff-looking guy. I talked with his wife at the Christmas party. She seemed nice. I really don’t know anything more.”

  “Okay. Yeah. What about the dad? Sadik Ahmeti. What are they saying about him?”

  “Oh, well, nobody here’s going to have a kind word for that guy. He’s a nut job. No trouble with the law, though. Got citizenship last spring. Hasn’t paid some parking tickets. Obviously didn’t pay up on his truck registration. This is the kind of stuff we know about him. He was a political prisoner in Albania. Probably made him paranoid. That’s the last guy that a cop wants to meet on a bad day.”

  “It doesn’t sound like he’s going to be in any shape to take those kids. And the paper says that there are no relatives in this country.”

  “I read that too. You know the other cop that was there, Nate Gisselberg’s partner, nobody’s heard from him all week. They’re both on leave, until everything gets settled, but Corey—the guy’s name is Corey Stout—he didn’t even come in to pick up his check. Nate’s dropped in every day, wanting to talk, wanting to hear what’s being said, but I got the feeling Corey is in a bad way over this. He’s a really nice guy, solid, honest. And he’s got three little kids. I’m guessing that he’s taking it hard.”

  “Poor guy. Wrong partner.”

  “Yeah, maybe. How are you, Roberta? Still trying to save the world? Still working so hard?”

  “Come on, Ari. What else is there to do? Save the world. See a movie. Go to bed.”

  “Yeah, and when was the last time you saw a movie? How about Marty? How’s he holding up?”

  “Marty? He’s great. Maybe he’d like me to slow down a bit. Who knows? But he’s great. Listen, Ari, have a really good time next week. You and Melissa have earned it.”

  “Thanks, Roberta.”

  AFTER THAT CALL, I START

  making a list with the names of everyone I might want to meet in the Ahmeti case. There would be a caseworker, of course, and if we were lucky, both kids would get the same foster family. But maybe not. The system’s never been more crowded. When the economy’s tough, kids come into our system like we’re offering dessert. Parents bolt, or overdose, or beat the hell out of anyone that seems weaker. And the kids just pour in. So who else? The dad. His lawyer. He’ll certainly have a lawyer, sooner or later. Not much money, so probably no lawyer for the children. That makes my job easier. See, if a child has a lawyer, that lawyer has to argue for what the child wants. But my job is to argue for what the child needs. And they’re not always the same. So it’s easier for me if there isn’t a lawyer.

  Who else? The principal at Bashkim’s school. His teacher. Maybe a school counselor. No relatives. My friend at Catholic Refugee Services said the Ahmetis were pretty much on their own at this point but that there was one caseworker who had stayed in touch. I’d go to the apartment complex where they lived, too. See if there were any neighbors who knew the family. Also, the kids might have a pediatrician. I’d made the mistake of not tracking down a pediatrician before. And, of course, the CPS caseworker would probably order a counseling workup on both kids, so I would want to talk to that counselor too.

  It’s a long list, and as I meet these people, the list will get longer. That’s why I wanted to be the Ahmetis’ CASA, because not every CASA will be this thorough. Some of them don’t know they can meet with anyone they want, whether or not the caseworker recommends it, and some of them think too many meetings just muddy the issues. Me, I want to know everything. I want to meet every person myself. And when it comes time to make a decision, I want to know that I did everything I could to make sure that the recommendat
ions I make to the judge are the recommendations I would want a CASA to make for my own child.

  24

  * * *

  Avis

  THE DAY AFTER THE shooting, I call before coming over. Lauren sounds tired and afraid, and when I say I will be there in an hour, she says she is going to see her mom. I had forgotten that her parents were in town. I don’t want to imagine what they are thinking—it is too much right now—so I say I will see her later and that she can call me, and to tell Nate I am coming.

  When I arrive, I see Nate’s motorcycle through the bars of the back gate. It looks as if he has been tinkering with it again. The house is very quiet, as is the street. Nobody is out, though it’s going to be a beautiful day: bright, and just barely cool, with the sound of sparrows in the trees and a mockingbird somewhere down low.

  I feel suddenly tired. Aware of all the ways that this moment might not have come to be. I ring the bell.

  It seems like minutes before Nate answers.

  “Mom,” Nate says. His voice sounds strained. I wonder if it surprises him to push out the word so uncomfortably.

  “Hi, Nate.”

  I reach up to hug him, and we embrace uncomfortably.

  “Come in, Mom. I’ve been waiting for you to come. You could have come when Dad was here.”

  He walks toward the kitchen, and I follow. I can smell coffee, and that will be a good way to begin.

  “Do you want a cup?”

  “Yes. I’ll get it. Do you want more?”

  “No.”

  We sit down then, at the table I brought them months ago. I wonder if Nate remembers that I came the day he was on suspension. Knowing what I know, I wonder what happened after I left, after Lauren had blurted out why he was home, after Nate had looked at her that way.

  I’m glad we’re alone.