Heart of Cole

by Micheal Maxwell

“It kind of feels good just to relax a bit, don’t you think?”

  “Relax? Who got time to relax? I need ta git home and fix dinner. My old man be mad as hell, his supper ain’t on when he walks through the door.” The woman was getting angrier by the second.

  “Maybe waiting would be a good lesson.”

  “You crackers think you know everythin’ ‘bout everythin’.

  “Just because I’m white doesn’t mean I don’t see things like they are.”

  “So, what you sayin’? You feel my pain? Ha! That’s rich.”

  “I’m just saying it matters the way people are treated. It sounds like your husband doesn’t appreciate you. That’s all I was trying to say.”

  “So now you know all about my old man. What you need to know is that white folks never understand what it is to be Black in America. To me, Black lives matter more than all that cracker we-all-created-equal bullshit I had to swallow knowin’ ain’t nobody believes it.”

  “Forget it. I was just trying to be nice.”

  “Why, so you can go home to yours, and tell how you talked to a real Black woman today? Will that make your Obama-lovin’ family feel like they helpin’? Let me tell you somethin’: Obama ain’t black, and he ain’t helped us a damn.”

  “Fine, I’ll shut up.”

  The woman didn’t respond. She just stared straight ahead with her chin held up in an unnaturally stretched position. She mumbled something under breath and moved the shopping bag from her lap.

  The cold steel shaft of the ice pick made the killer smile. Her three fingers tapped the handle like a trumpeter’s big solo. With movements smooth and fluid, she slipped the ice pick out of her pocket and held it tight.

  Glancing to the left, then to the right, there was no bus, no cars, and no pedestrians. The stop light up the block was red, and traffic was still. With the speed of a cobra’s strike, she slammed the ice pick into the woman’s heart. The shaft sank so deep, her fist hit the woman’s chest with a thud. It felt good. It felt solid. She loved the sound, the feel, the rush of burying the shaft deep into the heart of the woman. So much in fact, in less than a moment, she removed the ice pick, and thrust it even harder into the woman.

  “Wrong. Your Black life doesn’t matter, at least not to me. Let’s see how your old man likes going without dinner, permanently.” The killer mocked and chuckled. The thin black woman’s head fell back against the Plexiglas wall of the bus stop cover. Her muscles relaxed and she looked calm. Her stress and anger was all gone.

  “Well, well, here comes the bus,” the killer said, standing. Feeling elated, and with a sense of accomplishment, she turned and walked up the street toward the oncoming bus.

  Chapter Seven

  A pair of well-dressed Chinese women in their late forties sat on a sunny bench on the edge of Buena Vista Park. They chatted, laughed, and ate their lunch from bright white Styrofoam containers. They slipped in and out and back and forth from Chinese to English.

  The killer ate a banana and watched the women with a combination of envy and disdain. “Nothing is that funny,” she said.

  The two benches sat at slightly off at parallel angles. The killer was to the right and slightly behind the pair of women. As she watched she quietly grasped a brand new ice pick and slowly withdrew it from her jacket pocket. It was a constant source of amusement that she could go through her day and no one notice the nine inch tool in her pocket.

  “I think I can do them both,” the killer spoke aloud, knowing the women couldn’t hear her. “The little one is nearest. Top of the head would be the only way. Bam, bam, one after the other. A second hit if they move. Shouldn’t though, no one else has.”

  She watched the women closely. They were so involved in their conversation that they were unaware of her existence. The park was fairly busy during lunch hour. But as it was nearly one o’clock, the office workers, and couples meeting for lunch, were beginning to thin out. The women didn’t pay any attention to people passing by. They just laughed, giggled, and continued talking.

  I need to get moving, the killer thought. I have things to do. I’ll wait for a few more stragglers. She sat scanning the park and watching people pick up their trash, lunch bags, and water bottles.

  “Mind if I join you?” A man’s voice broke into the killer’s thoughts.

  Hell yes, I mind, the killer thought, but she didn’t speak. She quickly put the ice pick back in her pocket.

  “Beautiful day isn’t it.” The man took a seat on the bench. “I was watching you eyeball those two over there. I thought I’d come over and see what was so interesting. I was kind of lonesome over there by myself anyways.”

  “They’re so noisy. I couldn’t help it.”

  “I’m kind of the un-appointed mayor of the park.”

  The man was relatively clean. At least he didn’t stink. The killer judged him to be at least sixty, but it was hard to tell with street people. He wore a pair of green plaid dress slacks, a gold polyester shirt and a brown knit tie. If it were 1975 he would be right in style. As it is, he looked like the mannequin in a thrift shop. His hair was mousey gray and greasy. He wore a pair of high-top lace-up climbing boots. At one time he might have been good looking, but the ravages of alcohol and life on the street, were written on his face in deep creases and scars.

  The killer didn’t respond to the man. She was about to stand when he suddenly grabbed the back of her neck. His grip was like a clamp suddenly ratcheting down on her muscles.

  “Let go of me!” the killer groaned.

  “My other hand’s got a knife in it, so don’t move. Why, looky there, your friends are leaving.”

  The killer tried to scream, but his grip was so painful she was finding it hard to breath.

  “If you settle down, I’ll let up. If you try to run, I’ll gut you like a fish. M’I clear?” He eased his grip slightly.

  “OK, OK.”

  “I just want to have a little chat. Other people ‘round here have always got somebody to have a little talk with. Not me, I try to be friendly but people act like I got leprosy. I don’t. I got needs. Everybody’s got needs. Am I so gross or hideous to look at? I bathe, my clothes are clean. I just need someone to talk to, maybe fall in love with. Is that so terrible? Shouldn’t I have that chance?” The man’s voice was a harsh whisper and his breath smelled of alcohol. “So I decided since you were alone, and I was alone, that we needed each other. Now, you gonna sit still and let us get to know each other?”

  “Sure, no problem. Just let go,” the killer said, trying to sound calm.

  “Alright then…” the man slowly let go of her neck, but left his hand resting on her shoulder. “Let’s start over. Hello, what’s a pretty little lady like you doing here?”

  “I like to come here at lunch,” she replied softly.

  “I love this park. The trees are like old friends to me. I always love it when the city guys come and mow the lawn. The smell of cut grass reminds me of home. Do you like the smell of cut grass?”

  “Yes. And the flowers are nice this time of year, too.”

  “If we get to be friends I could bring you flowers. I think flowers are romantic. You don’t have a boyfriend or anything do you?”

  “No, not right now.”

  “That’s good, that’s good. Now, you say something to me. Say something like people do.” The man’s voice rose with anticipation of a conversation.

  “Have you been to the flower show at Moscone Center? I was there last year and I’m really looking forward to it.” The killer’s voice quaked in fear, but her words were just what the man craved.

  “Perhaps we can go together. We could go and then take a stroll afterwards.”

  “We just might do that. I do have some obligations coming up so I’ll have to check the dates.” The killer tried to sound like the woman of his fantasy.

  “You see, we are getting along real well. I had a girl back home. Sheila was her name. We were going to get married…had to, if you know what I mea
n. I didn’t mind. I loved her like the stars above.”

  “She must be lovely.”

  “You think I’m making it up,” the man said angrily. “I’m not! She got killed in a wreck comin’ home from work. She died, her and my child inside her. You need to think before you speak.”

  “I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”

  “Let’s start over. That’s a pretty jacket you have on.”

  “Thank you. I like your tie. I think knit ties are very handsome.”

  The man let his hand slip from her shoulder. He sat quietly just looking ahead. “People should consider what a person’s been through before they judge them. I used to have a job at the Safeway stocking shelves. The young guys always made fun of me. They weren’t considerate like you.”

  “You’re right. People are too quick to judge others.”

  “Can I kiss you?”

  “Not yet. We just met. Maybe later, when we get to know each other better,” she said softly.

  The killer crossed her legs and scooted slightly away from the man as she changed positions. He looked straight ahead. Suddenly he seemed miles away. She moved as slowly as she could. She was afraid to speak for fear of him noticing the distance that was growing between them.

  “I’m leaving this city soon. I’m going back home. You’ll like it there. I’ve decided we should go together.”

  “How long has it been since you were there?” She took the opportunity to slide a slight bit further away.

  “Thirty-seven years, I think. I am not so good with dates any more. July sixteen, I remember and April twelve. Those are good dates.”

  “I like February tenth,” the killer replied.

  She slipped her hand gently into her pocket. Her friend, the ice pick, was cool and confident.

  “I’ve been thinking about that kiss,” she said. “You’re a bit older than the guys I usually go for, but why let that get in the way of love, right? Like they say, age is just a number.”

  The man smiled. “I’m ready any time. It is up to you. This is me being considerate. Do you like it?”

  “I think I’m ready. But you have to close your eyes. I’m kind of shy.”

  The man closed his eyes and puckered his lips. The killer almost laughed, as she drove the ice pick into his chest.

  “Wha, what are you…”

  She withdrew the shaft from his chest and stood. Without hesitation she drove the spike through the top of his head and rotated it three times.

  “Say hello to Sheila, asshole.”

  The killer took the man’s tie and wiped the shaft of the ice pick clean of his blood. She got to the sidewalk as the Muni bus approached the Buena Vista stop. The doors opened and she got in unnoticed. Through the grimy window she looked back and saw the man in the green plaid pants dozing on the bench, dreaming of his Sheila.

  Lindsey Frost was the only person in the breakroom when Cole arrived. She was staring off into space and didn’t notice him until he was nearly to the table.

  “Getting anything done?”

  “Not much,” Lindsey replied.

  Cole pulled out a chair and seated himself across from Lindsey. On the table was a biology book, a history text, and a spiral notebook. The books were closed the notebook was open.

  “Finished the biology?” Cole inquired.

  “Huh-uh,” Lindsey said without looking at Cole.

  “History?”

  “Huh-uh”

  “Well, this is supposed to be a time to get your homework done, and then get some tutoring in writing.”

  “I know.”

  “How ‘bout I help you with your homework. Kind of get you started?”

  “Whatever.”

  “I have a better one. Whatever seems to be the problem?”

  “School sucks. I hate it. They don’t do anything important. I hate the stuck-up kids, the know-it-all teachers, and all those bitches in the office that are always just…trying to help. I don’t need it. I know how to write, and I know what I want to do. They are in the way.” Lindsey’s eyes blazed with rage.

  This was a side of the girl Cole hadn’t seen. He didn’t like it.

  “So our deal’s off?” Cole pushed back his chair and stood up.

  “I didn’t say that.” Lindsey was taken back by Cole preparing to leave.

  “Let’s see, and I quote, I don’t need it…they’re in the way, end quote. Sounds like you’ve made up your mind. That’s your right. Come back and see me when you get published.” Cole turned and started for the door.

  “Wait! Where are you going?” Lindsey cried out.

  “Back to work. That’s what they pay me for. Not babysitting.”

  “I didn’t say I was quitting. I said it sucked and I hated it. There is a difference.”

  Cole turned and walked back to his chair. He grasped the back with both hands. This feral kid was showing her true colors and they weren’t going to be easy to take. He looked at her for a long moment. Cole hated to be conned. Lindsey Frost was a con-artist from the ground up. She smiled a smile as beguiling as any demon. Two can play this game, he thought.

  “There are two things in this world I hate,” Cole began. “A thief, and a liar. If you expect to continue in my good graces, and as a work-experience intern, you better not turn out to be either one, a thief or a liar. You got me?”

  “Yeah.” Lindsey said with a shrug.

  “You have a great opportunity here, if you are really serious about being a writer. You got a chance to have a safe home life with Hanna. This test coming up on Saturday, if you do well you can write your own ticket. Thing is, kiddo, it’s entirely up to you. This time last week I didn’t know your name, next week it could be the same way.”

  Cole scooted this chair closer and rested is elbows on the table. He interlaced his fingers and paused long enough to gather his thoughts. “You looked like you needed a helping hand. I reached out and so did Hanna, but if you are unwilling to make some changes in your attitude, attendance at school, and grades, you’re showing us you don’t want help. Take, is not something to strive for, but give, is. As I see it, you got it backwards. We’re willing to help, but you have to be worthy of our efforts. That make sense?”

  “Yeah, but you don’t get it. I know what I want. The teachers don’t know or care. There are three thousand kids at that school. Teachers just do their thing, period after period, day after day. They hate that place as much as I do. The difference is I have the freedom to do something else. For them, it’s a life sentence. If being a writer means being trapped in a cage, I’ll find another way.

  “I appreciate what you and Hanna are trying to do for me, “Lindsey continued. “Really I do. But, I know what I can do, how to live, eat, sleep and survive. I’ve been doing it since I was ten. You talk about take? Ain’t nobody ever given me anything, I take what, and when, I need to. You talk about liars and thieves? I can read. The people running for president are all liars and they must be thieves, because their only job is politics and that doesn’t pay millions. Even I know that.” Lindsey stared up at Cole. “So let’s get this clear: What is it you want from me?”

  “Respect, and a lot of hard work.”

  “What’s in it for me?” Lindsey didn’t flinch. “I want to be a writer. You said you’d teach me. School is bullshit. I’ve never had a father, and the mother I have sucks, professionally. Hanna is a nice lady, but I don’t want another mom.”

  “So what are you saying? You done? You quit? What?” Cole pressed.

  “I’m saying I will do my best to comply with your rules,” Lindsey answered without smile or the least hint of sincerity.

  “And the test? Are you going to blow that off? It is worth thousands, and a prep school like that on you transcript will get into some amazing colleges. Probably scholarships too. I’ve never had a chance like that. Ever.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Lindsey’s noncommittal, who cares, attitude frustrated Cole almost beyond is limits. Cole never de
alt with a teenager on a long-term basis before. He didn’t like what little exposure he was privy to. He saw talent in Lindsey’s writing. Her ability to write clouded his view of who she was. He should have realized when they went to the hell hole she called home that nothing good could come out of it. Hanna played the maternal nurturing card. Cole was a sucker for a good rags-to-riches, pulled-up-by-their-own-bootstraps, against-all-odds story. He built a career on telling those stories. But he wasn’t part of them.

  If Cole Sage was anything, it was certainly not a hand holder, babysitter, enabler, or co-dependent. His work ethic and moral compass were unfaltering, and unwavering. More often than not he was let down and disappointed by people who had received his trust. It seemed very few people could or would do what they say, when they say, and get the job done to the best of their ability.

  Cole was aware of his faults. He spoke to soon, often wishing for an immediate retraction. When he felt he was right, he would fight to the death for his position, alienating co-workers and management alike.

  His attributes by far outweighed his faults. Cole Sage was generous, compassionate, loyal to a fault, and a man of his word. Truthfulness seems to have fallen out of favor in modern day America, but since rededicating his life to the faith of his youth, keeping the Ten Commandments seemed a sacred bond between him and the Almighty. He probably wouldn’t have felt he needed church, or religion, in his life as much as he did, until he met Kelly.

  Her faith, that of her son, and most of all his daughter Erin, made Cole feel there was a hole in his soul, God shaped and needing to be filled. He wasn’t preachy in any way, shape or form, few knew he attended regular services. His faith was his own and seemed to grow as time went by.

  His desire to help Lindsey Frost perhaps came from the knowledge of how a life can be lifted from the darkness. He wanted to set a good example for her. He could be a mentor to her. He would do everything he could for her, but only if she was willing to comply with their agreement.

  Cole looked at Lindsey and thought of Anthony Perez. A harder case you would be hard pressed to find, but he reached out to Cole. He wanted what Cole had, an education, and a career in journalism. Their friendship was a treasure. Cole looked at him as the son he would have wanted. What was the difference? Was Anthony older, wiser, wanting to change? Lindsey, during their short relation, had never given Cole a reason to want to help her…other than her talent.