Outcast

by Lewis Ericson

  On his way back to the Inman Park transit station, Tirrell found a pawn shop. He went in and produced the amethyst in his pocket.

  “How much can I get for this?”

  The grouse proprietor behind the glass enclosure looked at Tirrell and examined the pendant. “The clasp is busted. Did you steal this?”

  Tirrell wiped his mouth. “No . . . Me and my girl got in a fight and she broke it pulling it off her neck.”

  “Uh huh,” the man grunted, doubting the validity of the story. “You got a receipt?”

  “Nah, man. I gave it to my girl as a gift. I don’t have the receipt anymore.”

  “I’ll give you ten dollars.”

  “Ten? C’mon, man. I paid three hundred. I got it from Tiffany’s.”

  “Where’s the receipt?”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Ten dollars. Take it or leave it.”

  “C’mon, bruh. Do me a solid. I really need the cash.”

  “I’m not runnin’ a charity.”

  The look in Tirrell’s eyes implored the man to reconsider. He rang the register open and handed him twenty dollars.

  “Get out of here before I change my mind.”

  Tirrell thanked the man and hustled to the exit. He vacillated between finding a dealer and continuing to his grandmother’s house. He chose the latter.

  “I’m glad you decided to come home,” Betty said enthusiastically, embracing him tightly.

  How many times had this scene played out whenever he found himself with no one else to turn to? She knew him better than anyone else. She loved him harder than anyone could.

  “You come over here and sit yourself down. I’m gonna fix you something to eat.”

  “I’m not really hungry,” he said.

  “Nonsense,” Betty insisted. “You are gonna sit down and eat and I’m not gonna take no for an answer.”

  “Let me just go get cleaned up, okay?”

  Tirrell went into the bathroom, closed the door, and braced himself on the ledge of the counter. He examined himself in the mirror. He looked haggard. He knew that Betty saw it, too. He opened the linen closet and pulled out a towel to wash his hands and face. It wasn’t much of an improvement, but he felt better.

  The mouthwatering aroma of pork chops and fried corn caused his stomach to grumble, indicating that he was a lot hungrier than he thought. He sat down to a heaping plate of love, and ate until he could feel the pressure in his stomach. When he finished he discovered that Betty had gone into his old room and changed the sheets and made the bed for him.

  “How’s work?” he said, forcing conversation as he helped her put away the food and clean the kitchen.

  “It’s fine. I had somebody quit on me last week, though. If you’re lookin’ for a job I could talk to the head of housekeeping and put in a good word for you.” She smiled and winked.

  “I just might take you up on that,” he responded.

  When the dishes were dried and put away Betty went into the living room and turned on the television. She sat down in her favorite chair and scanned the channels until she came across a movie she’d wanted to see.

  Tirrell went to his room and hid the CD on an upper shelf in his closet inside a shoebox. He then joined his grandmother and sat down on the sofa to watch with her.

  “I can find somethin’ else,” Betty said.

  “No, this is cool,” Tirrell responded, noting how much Sanaa Lathan reminded him of Alex.

  It wasn’t long before he drifted off to sleep. A truck backfiring jarred him awake.

  “Tirrell, why don’t you go on and get in the bed.”

  He didn’t argue. He was exhausted. It would be the first non-drug-induced sleep he’d had in several days.

  The next morning, after Betty went off to work, Tirrell found himself back downtown, peering through the window of the building he’d stumbled into a few nights prior. He saw an elderly man sweeping the floor.

  The man poked his head out the door. “You lookin’ for somebody?”

  “Yeah, I was here the other night and there was some kind of group thing goin’ on.”

  “Oh, you mean the NA meetin’?”

  “NA?”

  “Narcotics Anonymous,” the man clarified.

  Tirrell swallowed nervously. “Yeah. There was this black dude. He was about this tall. He had a gray patch in the middle of his ’fro.”

  “You must be talkin’ about Charlie Preston.”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s him.”

  “He works at The Mission over there off Ivan Allen. They come here two or three times a week for them meetin’s.”

  Tirrell nodded. “Thanks.”

  He walked up Marietta Street and crossed over Luckie Street until he found The Mission. He wasn’t sure why he felt compelled to do it—something in him just knew that he had to. When he got to the door he was directed where to find Mr. Preston.

  After a few minutes the man came out from the back office. “Can I help you?” His eyes were piercing, but kind. His voice was deep with a resonating Southern drawl.

  “I uh . . .”

  “You’re the young man from the other night, ain’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What brings you in here?”

  “I’m not exactly sure.”

  “You do know what this place is, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, you are lookin’ for that kind of help after all?”

  “I don’t have a drug problem. I was maybe thinkin’ . . . I’m not really sure what I was thinkin’.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Kev . . . Tirrell.” He sighed. “Shit, this is crazy. I don’t know what the hell I came here for. Sorry I bothered you.”

  “Tirrell, wait,” the man said. “Here. Take my number. Call me if you figure out what it is you’re lookin’ for, or even if you just wanna talk.”

  The man gave Tirrell his card with the name and address of The Mission on the front of it and his phone number written on the back.

  Once outside, Tirrell felt like his lungs had opened up and he could breathe again. “This is crazy. I’m not an addict. I’m not like the rest of those dudes.” He tossed the man’s card in the street, pulled a cigarette from his pocket, and kept walking. He returned a few seconds later to retrieve it.

  23

  Another week passed and there had been no backlash from Alex or Bobby. Tirrell was nervous, given the fact that they hadn’t called again or sought him out. He was sure they weren’t going to let this go. And if they’d gotten Xavier Rivera involved there was undoubtedly a lot more to worry about. He questioned the wisdom of keeping Kevin in the dark. He was, after all, in the DA’s office and could marshal the entire police force to protect Betty and the rest of the family if he had to.

  “Hey, Kev . . . it’s me, Tirrell. I know you don’t wanna hear this, but somethin’s happened. I may have gotten us all in some really deep shit. I could use your help, man. This is serious. Please call me back as soon as you get this message.”

  Kevin clicked his phone off and shook his head. He didn’t want anything to ruin the evening that he and Pat had planned, especially not Tirrell.

  “Noonie, you sure you don’t mind taking care of Micah?”

  “No, baby. You and Pat go on and enjoy your concert. Don’t worry about Micah and me.”

  “Okay. He’s already had his dinner. Don’t overdo it with the sweets.”

  “Boy, are you tellin’ me how to look after my great-grandson?”

  “No, Noonie. I know you know what you’re doing.”

  “If you’re worried about Tirrell bein’ back home, don’t. Micah is goin’ to be just fine.”

  “Kevin, we need to go or we’re going to be late,” Pat said after kissing Micah good-bye.

  Kevin picked Micah up. “You be a good boy and mind Noonie, understand?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “I’ll be back in the morning to pick you up.”

&n
bsp; “Okay.”

  “Gimme a kiss.”

  Micah threw his arms around his father’s neck, puffed his cheeks with air, and blew, making a sputtering noise as he kissed him. Kevin tickled him and he laughed and squirmed hysterically.

  When Kevin put Micah down he scurried off to Betty’s room to play. He then hugged Betty, thanked her again, and he and Pat exited. Betty waved them off and closed the door.

  “Micah, would you like some cookies and milk?”

  Scampering little feet following her into the kitchen was all she needed to hear. She took two chocolate chip cookies from the jar on the counter and put them on a napkin, and poured a half cup of milk and set it on the table in front of him.

  Micah hummed and swung his legs and feet, enjoying his snack. Betty sat down next to him with a Moon Pie.

  “Noonie, is Uncle Tirrell comin’ home soon?”

  “I don’t know, baby.”

  “Can I stay up until he comes so we can play?”

  She glanced at her watch. “Well, your daddy told me to have you in bed by eight, but we’ll see.”

  A souped-up black Mustang with dark tinted windows cruised by Tirrell as he walked toward the house, and made him uneasy. He lowered his gaze and picked up his pace.

  “Yo, Q. Slow down, man,” the passenger inside the car barked.

  “What for?” the driver asked.

  “That was that muthafucka I was tellin’ you about who came to my place the other week. He jacked Stacey and busted my damn nose.”

  “Do you think he lives around here somewhere?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s get his ass.”

  Another car pulled up behind the Mustang as it idled at a stop sign and blew its horn, prompting them to continue through the intersection. The Mustang quickly turned off into a neighboring driveway and spun around.

  Tirrell spotted Marquis driving up to his mother’s house and called to him. Marquis got out of his car and Tirrell started across the street just as the Mustang careened toward him. The quick flash of a gun barrel sticking out of the passenger window was all Tirrell saw before rapid fire rained down like a hail storm. Marquis ducked for cover. With scarcely enough time to react, Tirrell dove into a bank of hedges in front of the house.

  “T!” Marquis yelled as he came from behind his car and hurried over to him.

  The Mustang tore through the four-way stop at the end of the block and disappeared.

  The commotion brought skittish neighbors to their windows and doors, and Anne Crawl raced screaming from her house.

  “Marquis! Oh my God, are you all right?”

  “I’m all right, Mama.” He went to Tirrell and helped him up out of the bushes. “T, are you all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh my God,” Anne shrieked. “You’re bleeding.”

  There were cuts and scratches on Tirrell’s face from the prickly sticks and brambles. He was in shock and didn’t feel the shot that had torn into his left thigh. When he saw blood spewing from the open wound, reality came crashing in. He turned to see the glass in the storm door and front window of Betty’s house shattered and the house riddled with bullets.

  “Noonie!”

  He pushed Marquis aside as he tripped up the concrete steps and limped to the door. The horrifying sight that greeted him took his breath away. Betty was slumped over in her recliner.

  Tirrell swept her up in his arms and wailed. They were all stunned when they looked up to see Micah coming from her room crying. Anne Crawl picked him up, shielded his face, and tried to calm him down. Marquis called 911.

  Spectators swarmed the house on Eastland Avenue like ants at a picnic; some even dared to come up on the porch to get a better look inside as emergency vehicle lights flashed and lit up the street.

  Tirrell wept vehemently. “Don’t die, Noonie. Please don’t die.”

  Micah fought, screamed, and reached out for his uncle when Anne Crawl tried to take him out of the room.

  Tirrell choked, “It’s okay, Micah. Go with her.”

  Police arrived and attempted to control the pandemonium. Anyone not directly involved was ordered to move away from the house while the EMTs hurried in and went to work.

  “There’s a lot of blood here,” a female EMT reported to her partner. “As far as I can tell she’s been hit in the abdomen.”

  “Let’s clear the area,” her male counterpart responded.

  He moved a lamp and table. Marquis offered assistance setting aside any obstruction. Tirrell hovered, refusing to budge.

  “Sir, you’re going to have to step back so we can do our job.”

  “She’s my grandmother,” he cried.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Tirrell Ellis.”

  “Okay, Tirrell, we’re going to help your grandmother, but you’re going to have to give us some space.”

  Marquis pulled Tirrell back.

  One of the paramedics noticed Tirrell’s blood-saturated pants when he winced. “Can I take a look at your leg?”

  “No,” Tirrell countered. “I’m all right. Fix my grandmother.”

  “What’s your grandmother’s name?”

  “Betty.”

  “How old is she?”

  Tirrell rubbed his blood-spattered hand over his face. “Uh . . . sixty-three . . . sixty-four.”

  The male EMT radioed for a backup unit and returned to his partner. “Her breathing is shallow. Pulse is weak and thready. Blood pressure sixty over forty. We need to intubate.”

  There was an alarming back and forth exchange between the two paramedics as they furiously worked to bring Betty around.

  “She’s having arrhythmias. Start two large-bore IVs.”

  “Get some pressure on the wound.”

  “She’s in v-fib!”

  “Shock her at two hundred.”

  The female technician ripped open Betty’s robe, grabbed a pair of defibrillator paddles, and pressed them on to her chest. “Clear!”

  Betty flailed like a ragdoll. After a few more attempts she began to respond. Another team arrived soon after and tended to Tirrell. Tearing open his pant leg it was easy to see that the bullet had ripped into the meat of his thigh, but it couldn’t be determined whether it had caused any damage to an artery.

  Tirrell grunted and spewed expletives as pressure was applied.

  “You’re goin’ to need an X-ray,” one of the technicians declared.

  “No shit,” Tirrell countered.

  His leg was cleaned, packed with gauze, and bandaged while he waited to be transported to the hospital.

  The tranquil Ellis living room became a frenzied crime scene within a matter of minutes. Tirrell glanced around to see a police officer in the kitchen talking with Anne Crawl, who was still trying to pacify Micah. Another was in the dining room questioning Marquis.

  There was absolutely no doubt in his mind who had perpetrated this calamity. Tirrell was already formulating a plan for revenge.

  Once Betty was stable enough to move, the EMTs put her on a stretcher and loaded her into the back of the ambulance.

  “I’m goin’ with her,” Tirrell demanded, ignoring his own injury.

  “Mr. Ellis, we’ve got some more questions for you,” one of the officers said.

  “To hell with that. I’m goin’ with my grandmother.”

  Marquis helped Tirrell to the ambulance. The male EMT looked at the police officer for his consent.

  “I gotta get checked out anyway, right?”

  The officer nodded and they pulled him on board.

  The police followed directly behind the ambulance with Marquis, his mother, and Micah in tow.

  “Dispatch, we have an African American female, approximately sixty-four years old, GSW to the abdomen. There is massive internal bleeding. Patient is in and out of consciousness and diaphoretic. We started two large-bore IVs of normal saline, wide open, and patient was shocked at two hundred. We also have a male on board . . .” The EMT turned to Tirrell. “How old
are you?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “African American male, twenty-two years of age, GSW to the left quadrate muscle of the thigh. We’re about ten minutes out. Please have a trauma team standing by.”

  Tirrell leaned into Betty and gently took her hand. “Hold on, Noonie. Everything’s gonna be all right. I swear. Just hold on.”

  Betty was wheeled into the ER where a surgeon promptly assessed the extent of her injuries. “Let’s get an X-ray of her chest and abdomen to see if there is any other damage. I want her blood type crossed and matched for ten units.” The surgeon took a scalpel to open her up and discovered the cause of the hemorrhaging. He stuck his hand inside her chest to put pressure on the hole in her aortic valve. “Get the vascular surgeon on call to meet me in the OR, stat!”

  Tirrell’s wound was treated in the ER, but he knew that all the antibiotics and stitches in the world would not be enough to save him once Kevin found out what happened.

  Kevin checked the messages on his cell phone as he and Pat walked out of the Civic Center. He scowled after finally listening to the one Tirrell left earlier. He was panicked by the one left by Anne Crawl.

  “Kevin, what is it?”

  “There’s been a shooting.”

  “What?”

  “Noonie’s been taken to Grady Hospital.”

  “What about Micah?”

  “I don’t know. We gotta go.”

  Kevin grabbed Pat’s hand and they pressed through the crowd in the lobby and dashed through the parking lot to their car. Unnerved by the sea of cars jockeying to exit, he laid impatiently on his horn as if by doing so they’d move any faster. While Kevin cursed and cut other drivers off, Pat called Anne Crawl for an update.

  “Micah’s with Miss Anne,” Pat relayed. “He’s all right. Tirrell was shot.”

  “What the hell happened?” Kevin snapped.

  “Some sort of drive-by. Miss Betty’s in surgery.”

  Kevin turned to his wife with a stricken look on his face. “Tirrell had something to do with this. I know he did.”

  As usual the burgeoning Atlanta traffic didn’t bow to the urgency of the situation. Despite risking an accident, and defying the police to stop them, they managed to make it to the hospital in less than twenty minutes. They bolted through the ER doors and found Anne Crawl and Marquis sitting among the many others waiting to be seen by a doctor. Micah, who had cried himself to sleep, woke up and leapt into his father’s arms.