“I don’t know why you even bothered,” Melinda flipped her hair and Nash scowled.
“You said to meet you after school,” Nash repeated what he’d said three times. “We were going to walk to my house, do our homework, and go to a movie.”
“That was before I saw you,” Melinda said.
Nash looked behind him.
“Right now?” Nash asked.
“At the Fifteenth Street Bridge,” Melinda crossed her arms. “My mom said, ‘Isn’t that Nash?’ and I saw you.”
“Looking over the bridge?” Nash asked.
“With that girl,” Melinda said.
“What girl?” Nash asked. “My brother Charlie was helping the police with something and . . .”
“And what’s all this with your brother Charlie?” Melinda shook her head. “You don’t have a brother. I checked.”
“With who?” Nash asked.
“With everybody,” Melinda said. “You only have a sister—Noelle. That’s all. One sister.”
“My dad . . .”
“Sure, go ahead, blame your lies on your dad,” Melinda said.
Nash squinted at Melinda.
“What?” Melinda asked.
“What what?”
“Why did you look at me like that?” Melinda asked.
“Because I don’t know what’s going on. You seem to know what’s going on, but for whatever reason, you aren’t telling me.”
“Hmpft,” Melinda turned slightly away from him.
“What’s going on?” Nash asked.
“I saw you and that girl,” Melinda said.
“What girl?” Nash asked.
“I don’t know what girl,” Melinda said. “Are there more than one? What? Are there ten girls? Twenty? What’s wrong with you?”
“What girl did you see me with?” Nash asked. “My sister Sissy? Noelle? One of Sissy’s friends? Noelle’s friends? Uh . . .”
“Oh,” Melinda said. “She’s one of Noelle’s friends?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about so it could be any girl,” Nash said.
“There are lots of girls?” Melinda gaped at Nash. Her face went bright red and tears sprang from her eyes.
“In the world? Yes, there are lots of girls,” Nash said.
“I don’t want to go out with you anymore,” Melinda said.
She spun in place and stomped off in the direction of her house. Stunned, Nash watched her go. She walked two blocks before meeting a group of her girlfriends. The girls’ angry and accusing faces turned to glare at Nash. Still not sure what he’d done, Nash blushed bright red. The girls flipped their hair in unison and walked toward Melinda’s house. Nash stared at them until they turned the corner. He began the slow walk home. Alone.
~~~~~~~~
Thursday afternoon—4:45 p.m.
Bumpy opened the exam room door and went out into the hall. He scowled. Usually his wife, and nurse, Dionne was waiting here to tell him which exam room to go to next. Dionne was nowhere to be found.
He looked in his office. He glanced in the kitchen.
He looked at his watch. He hadn’t left work before seven in more than twenty years. Hard working people needed doctors who could see them early and late.
Hearing voices, he went toward the front of the office. Dionne was standing in the doorway to the waiting room. He came up behind her and put his hands on her hips.
She looked up and scowled at him.
“What did I do?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“There he is,” a woman’s voice came from the lobby. “You go on. You go on and tell Dr. Bumpy what you did. Go on.”
A medium sized woman dragged her glaring son from a chair and pushed him toward the door. Bumpy glanced into the waiting room.
The chairs were filled with boys and young men. Dressed in low riding jeans that put their boxer shorts on display and jackets two sizes too big, none of the boys looked up at him. Their mothers circled around the room like sharks. He could almost taste the anger in the room.
“Uh huh,” another woman said. “You ain’t going to talk to Doctor Bumpy before he does.”
The woman kicked the chair out from under her son. He fell on the ground.
“Get yourself up,” the woman said.
“Scum like them deserve to slither on the ground,” another woman said.
The mothers started kicking the chairs out from under their sons.
“Whoa!” Bumpy said. “Stop. Everyone stop. Stop.”
He grabbed a tiny woman who was kicking her son’s chair over and over again in an attempt to knock it out from under him. When she looked up at him, he saw her rage and heartbreak. He nodded in acknowledgement and let her go. The moment he did, she started kicking the chair again. Dionne went to her and hugged her. The mother started to weep.
“What’s going on?” Bumpy asked.
“This creature used my money to purchase videos of poor girls being raped . . .” The mother kicked her son. “ . . . and beaten . . . and . . . who knows what else. The Denver Police said to bring them in to the police station, but Dr. Bumpy said if this creature ever got in trouble to bring him to talk to you first.”
“Mmm hmm,” the mothers made a sound in general agreement.
“What are you going to say, Dr. Bumpy?” the mother said.
“Should we just kill them now?” another mother asked.
“Once a rapist, always a rapist,” a mother near the corner of the room said.
“I d’n’t rape nobody,” one brave boy’s voice cried out in the middle of this.
“You did just the same,” his mother said.
“Just the same,” the mothers agreed.
“And I want you to know, Dr. Bumpy,” a mother near the door to the street said. “Most of the girls are white girls, but it don’t matter to me. These are precious children of God’s being violated and abused by scum.”
The woman swallowed hard before turning to her son.
“I did not struggle and suffer to bring this boy into this world so he could get his jollies watching any girl—white, black, or purple—get abused like that.”
Like a fish out of water, the mother gasped for breath.
“Mmm hmm,” the other mothers agreed.
“I know that in other cities, they cover it up and say ‘not my good son—it’s the girls fault.’ But I won’t do that. My son has done wrong and I won’t stand by and blame some poor defenseless girl for his trouble. He’s going to jail.”
“I won’t either,” a mother near the middle of the room said.
“No way,” a mother near the front said.
“Then that settles it,” a mother near the door grabbed her son’s jacket and dragged him to his feet. “You’re going to jail.”
The mothers started hauling their boys toward the door.
“Stop!” Bumpy said.
The women stopped moving.
“You remember my friend Seth O’Malley,” Bumpy said. “He came by this afternoon to speak to me about this very situation.”
“And what did he say?” a large woman near the center of the room said.
“He said that what they mostly want is information,” Bumpy said. “They want to know who sold the videos, how much they paid, and when. This is a big deal, ladies. The FBI and Department of Homeland Security are involved. No one is going to sweep this under the carpet.”
“I ain’t gon’ say nothin’” a boy near the front said.
“Me neither,” the boys mumbled around him.
His mother picked him up by the back of his collar and carried him to Bumpy. She dropped the boy at his feet.
“You can castrate him now,” his mother said.
“Castrate?” the boy scooted back from Bumpy.
“That’s right,” his mother said. “You’re my son and I say, castrate him.”
“Cut it off,” another mother said. The women nodded in agreement. The boys squirmed in their seats.
�
��Gentlemen!” Bumpy pointed to the back. “Now!”
Chapter Two Hundred and Forty
Sons
The boys scurried through the door to the exam rooms.
“You can keep him,” a mother called from the hallway.
“You got that right,” the other mothers agreed.
Bumpy pointed to the largest examination room at the end of the hallway. A grim line of young men shuffled and squeezed into the room. Bumpy went in after them and closed the door. The boys sat next to each other on the exam table. A few sat in the chairs and others sat on the floor.
Not one dared looked up at him.
“Any of you involved in this thing?” Bumpy asked. “You’d better tell me now because if I find out later, it’s going to be bad for you.”
The boys pointed to a boy named Solomon. Despite his regal name, the boy was a simpleton. Solomon was a sweet kid who volunteered at the library twice a week after school and worked on the sign team at Lipson Construction the rest of the week. He spent his nights and weekends keeping up in school by sheer force of will and his mother’s dedication. It was unlikely the boy even knew what they were talking about. Bumpy scowled at the boy; Solomon gave him a bright smile.
“Why?” Bumpy asked.
“Don’ really know,” the boy said. “It’s kind a fun. We get high and . . .”
Bumpy shook his head and looked away.
“Dallon, would you show the video to Solomon?” Bumpy asked.
The boy sitting next to Solomon took out his phone and played the video. Solomon closed his eyes after the first few seconds. Bumpy touched Dallon’s arm and he took the phone away. Bumpy turned to the rest of the boys.
“What about the rest of you? You don’t need me to tell you that it’s sick and wrong to watch those videos. Real men can’t take the violence and cruelty. And you know, just having the video means you’re involved in a sex crime.”
“Not me!” the boy closest to him yelled. The others nodded in agreement.
“What’s it going to be?” Bumpy asked. “You going to do the right thing and help find the scum responsible for these assaults?”
“You mean like him?” A boy near the middle of the room pointed at Solomon. He hadn’t opened his eyes yet.
“Don’ do that, man,” Dallon said.
“Everybody knows he’s involved,” another boy said. “Setting the girls up with his sweetness and knocking them down for his bros.”
“Come on,” Dallon said. “How’s he gonna . . .?”
Bumpy looked from Dallon to the other two boys. Bumpy put his hand on Solomon’s shoulder.
“You were invited to go with them?” Bumpy asked.
Solomon nodded.
“Did you go?” Bumpy asked.
“Don’ have time,” Solomon shook his head. “Have to help the library and my team needs me.”
“I threw up when I saw it,” Dallon said. “Twice. I couldn’t sleep for a week after the second video.”
“Me too,” a young man in the corner said. “I like the girl in the video I got. Wanted to take her out but now . . .”
“Now what?” Bumpy asked.
“She’s not in school anymore,” the young man said.
“Happened to me too,” a boy near the back said. “There’s this girl in my math class. She was out for a month or whatever. When she came back, she wouldn’t even look at me. Come to find out, she’s in one of these videos.”
“So they’re beating and violating your women,” Bumpy said. “I don’t think I need to tell you what I’d do to anyone who hurt Dionne or LaTonya.”
The threat in Bumpy’s words hung in the room like a sword.
“Real men don’t watch crap like this,” Bumpy said. “They don’t hurt, rape, maim, or beat on their women.”
“Lots of men beat their women,” a middle school boy near the wall said.
“Those aren’t men,” Bumpy said. “They’re cowards who never learned to deal with their own demons. Think about it—they’d rather take their anger out on someone they love than deal with their own darkness. That’s no man in my book.”
Bumpy saw the boys heads move slightly up and down.
“How ‘bout you all?” Bumpy asked. “You going to be cowards or are you going to start acting like men?”
The boys stared at the ground.
“What’s the hold up here?” Bumpy asked. “Your big fat egos in the way?”
“I don’t want to go to jail,” a handsome boy sitting against the wall said. “I’ve worked my ass off to get into college. Momma and I . . . we have a plan. I’m going into the Army so they’ll pay for medical school. I already signed a contract. I’ve got two months and . . .”
“You’d rather be a coward?” Bumpy asked.
“I’m no coward, I . . .” The boy looked up at him. “It would kill my mom.”
“She’s going to kill you now,” Bumpy said.
“What do they want from us?” a tall boy sitting near Bumpy asked.
“They need you to get over your ego to see that you screwed up by not reporting this,” Bumpy said.
“Who we gonna tell?” a boy with an orange mohawk asked. “I tried to tell my counselor. I thought he was cool, but he . . . Uh uh, no way.”
“They got everyone on the payroll. We talk and we go down,” the tall boy sitting near Bumpy said. “You should see what they’re planning for this kid they call On-Line.”
Bumpy swallowed hard.
“I heard they going to do his sister,” another boy said. The boys nodded.
“That’s my friend Sissy!” Solomon said. “She’s on my team at work. They can’t do that, can they Dr. Wilson? Are they going to hurt my friend?”
“And make you take the fall for it,” Bumpy said. He looked at the boys in the room. “Are you going to let that happen?”
“I ain’t going to sign my sisters and mom up for getting raped because I squealed,” said a large football player taking up an entire corner of the room. “No way, no how.”
“But you’ll consign other girls to this fate?” Bumpy asked.
“Who we gonna tell?” the boy with the orange mohawk asked again. “They got to everyone.”
“I can take care of the who,” Bumpy said. “My question is: are you the type of men who own up to your mistakes and take what’s coming to you? Because this moment, this very one, is the moment when your entire life will be decided. Own up to your mistakes, take your lumps, you’ll be just fine. But lie about it? Cover it up? Let this poor boy take the rap?”
Bumpy shook his head.
“God have mercy on your soul,” Bumpy said. “Because this train is coming and one way or another, it’s going to run you down.”
~~~~~~~~
Thursday night—10:15 p.m.
“What are you doing up?” Aden asked Nash as he entered the apartment.
Nash was sitting on the couch staring off into space. His laptop was closed and sitting next to him on the couch. Nash looked up at Aden, shook his head, and went back to staring into space. Aden picked up the computer, set it on the coffee table, and sat down next to Nash. He waited to see if Nash would respond.
“Are you okay?” Aden asked.
Nash shook his head. Aden felt woefully unprepared. He wished Sandy were here, because she always knew the right thing to say, or Jacob, who seemed to connect so easily with the kids. Nash glanced up at him.
“What’s going on?” Aden put his arm around Nash. They sat like that for a few minutes before Nash leaned into his father.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Nash said.
“Usually when you can’t sleep, you’re up playing games with your friends on Facebook,” Aden said.
Nash looked at the laptop and back at his father. Aden pulled on his tie and slipped off his shoes.
“Hard day?” Nash asked.
“Long,” Aden said. “Confusing.”
Nash nodded.
“Sandy told me what happened with Melinda,” Aden said.
<
br /> “Really?” Nash shrugged. “I don’t have any idea what happened with Melinda. What did she say?”
Aden smiled.
“I really don’t need the ‘relationships are hard’ speech,” Nash said. “I need to know what happened.”
“Sandy said Melinda saw you on the Fifteenth Street Bridge the night you were out with everyone,” Aden said. “She said that Melinda didn’t know why you were there and that made her feel uncomfortable. She’d talked to you earlier that night and you hadn’t mentioned it.”
“Didn’t know we were going,” Nash said. “I was going to tell her all about it when I saw her today.”
Aden nodded.
“She told me she never wants to see me again, or something like that,” Nash said. “She and all of my friends unfriended me on Facebook. Every single person who knows me and knows her unfriended me. She’s blocked me so I can’t even see what she said to make everyone hate me.”
Unsure what all the unfriending meant, Aden looked at Nash. His son’s eyes held the stunned look of someone who’d experienced something horrible.
“So you’re right, Dad,” Nash said. “I’d play games but I don’t have any friends anymore.”
“Not even Teddy?” Aden asked.
“Teddy doesn’t count,” Nash said.
“Why?”
“He’s like a brother,” Nash said. “I mean, she wouldn’t even listen to me. It’s like her mind was already made up and she knew everything.”
“She’s been invited to a dance by another boy,” Aden said.
“Why didn’t she just say that?” Nash’s voice was angry and loud. Sandy peeked out of their bedroom. Seeing Aden, she smiled and closed the door.
“Maybe she didn’t know how,” Aden said.
Nash sniffed. Aden looked over to see a tear roll down Nash’s face.
“I felt so connected, popular. For the first time in my life, I was popular,” Nash said. “I mean, these kids are cool, rich, and . . .”
Aden waited to see if Nash would say more.
“Before you ask, I don’t want to be like them,” Nash said. “But when I think about it, I have been like them. I’ve spent so much time on the computer that I haven’t really been here and . . . Ms. Valerie left today and I haven’t seen her in months. Mike too. And Charlie’s going through this big thing. You heard that Bumpy said that Sissy’s going to get attacked.”
Silt, Denver Cereal Volume 8 Page 21
