by Kia Corthron
“You know Birdy?”
I shake my head.
“What’s your name?”
If I speak Francis Veter’s subconscious may register the voice he doesn’t recognize and he would wake. If I don’t answer she might get louder. I could kill them both now and run, save myself.
But I can’t. Him, yes. But a child. If only she hadn’t come out! if only
I wave goodbye, hoping that it will make her stop talking, and I creep away. She keeps staring at me and my teeth start chattering so violently I fear they’ll be the element to finally wake Francis Veter. Or that the girl will call out to me. But she just watches as I leave. I wonder what she’ll tell her father tomorrow. I pray he’ll assume she dreamt it. I don’t want any local coloreds to be falsely accused since local justice for colored I’d guess is accusation equals execution.
Walking. I’m walking what happened with Francis Veter will not happen with Randall Evans, I distinctly remember from the trial that Randall Evans is childless. No one else in his house but his stupid wife and if she gets in the way, well. She should have thought of that when she married the beast.
Randall Evans’s house is not isolated like Francis Veter’s but rather on a tree-lined street of other homes, so killing him will be a little more complicated. I park my truck a few blocks away and stroll, step lightly. Three in the morning, all the houses dark. Wake up anyone they see a nigger on the street I’m fairly certain they’d shoot first ask questions later. Poplar Avenue. I find it: 102. A sign on the lawn.
For Sale
Newcombe Realty
466-9387
I walk around the back, look in a window. Empty. Not a picture on the wall, not a chair.
I am calm keeping this information at a distance, I stay calm because the only alternative, when reality fully hits, will be to scream and that will not do right now I stroll step lightly seven blocks to my truck. I slip into my truck and quietly drive to the outskirts and it comes. I waited too long. Randall Evans is gone, Francis Veter I couldn’t, couldn’t, Why’d I wait so long? My baby brother was tortured and torn and blown to bits by strangers killing a nigger just for the hell of it and they’ll scot-free get away with it. There’s no justice no mother fucking justice in the whole goddamn world Eliot, Eliot.
It takes a good hour for my wailing to subside. Then I pull out, heading north. I shouldn’t be driving at night, a Northern nigger at night well I have bullets, I’ll take a few of them before they take me. But naturally nothing happens. I tempt fate, taunt fate, pray fate makes its appearance but there’s no God because I’m safe, the entire twenty-two-hour drive home I don’t stop to eat or sleep, only once to piss and I’m untouched.
At five in the morning I pull into Keith’s trailer park. He’s stunned to see me. We’ve not been in contact since I went down for the trial. I know the phone calls I didn’t answer were his, the knocks at the door I ignored. I sit in his place silent, staring into space. The ghost I will more or less be for the coming two decades.
If that toothless ugly old man in the hospital is not dead yet I could go now. I would tell him who I am, then hold his pillow over his face. Or I would tell him who I am, then press my fingers against his throat. His near-lifeless body would surely squirm, fight. Full up with cancer or whatever he has he could go any second, but isn’t it instinct to struggle against murder? I’d probably be sent to prison for the rest of my life, which at this point would mean a very light sentence.
But how pathetic, two old geezers throwing it down fifty years too late. I’ve seen a few of those cracker savages being tried now—ancient, frail. Throw away the key! I say. But Randall Evans and Francis Veter were already tried, you can’t try a man twice for the same crime. And if you could, if that near-dead thing in the hospital was finally locked up in a cell, would I feel gratified? If justice is not served swiftly, can it ever be?
I don’t realize I’m bawling until the phone rings. I let the machine get it, though I know it’s Lem calling from the supermarket to ask if we need this or that but really to check that I’m alright, his post-op elderly husband. If I don’t answer he’ll be petrified that I’ve dropped dead so finally I pick up, interrupting the message he’s leaving, his voice attempting casual but clearly shaky. “I’m here.” I can’t speak much as I’m holding back the sobs, and he knows something’s wrong and asks and I snap that I’m fine, I have to go, and he says Okay, he’s at the checkout and will be home soon and I know he’ll rush.
Perhaps I just need to go to the hospital and look at him one more time, knowing who he is. And to tell him who I am. To witness just a little of the terror in his eyes that he thrust upon my little brother.
But in the end, I simply pull out stationery and sit at the dining room table to write a note to Mr. Benjamin Evans Jr. I realize I have much to say though I jot just a few sentences. That in the hospital I recognized his face too but couldn’t quite place from where, that I also never had a chance to thank him for his courage, for what he had done for my family, for what he had done in the name of, in the hope of, justice. I’m just peeling off one of these self-adhesive Forever stamps, a new innovation that I as an old postal carrier have admired, when I hear Lem’s keys in the door.
**
Movin my han oer my body. Skeleton, days I ain’t ate or ain’t kept it down, IV only thing between me an gone. Thursday after B.J. leave I give the order: DNR, shut off the damn machines. My brother come see me, all the gratification I’ma get this side a life, time to head on.
But here it be Saturday, still my breath goin. What I’m waitin for?
That don’t sound like the nurse. Chair scrapin close!
“B.J.?”
He pick up my han.
“Thank you! Oh thank you so much, brother, I didn’t think ya be back!”
His hans don’t move.
“Never bought Ernest with ya this time?”
I came alone.
“Oh. I cain’t tell ya how glad I am ya here again! That Ernest. Now seem like he a good boy.”
His hans don’t move a while. Then start to turnin slow, like he wanna make sure I understand.
I almost didn’t come back. There’s something I need to ask you.
He wait. I don’t know what it could be but I get the feelin it ain’t gonna be somethin I wanna talk about. I also get the feelin I say I ain’t interested then he jus gonna stan, walk out the door.
“Go on, brother.”
His hans still. Then, Do you know who the other patient was? The bed next to you?
I frown. That question I didn’t expect. Then I get it.
“I know he was a colored man, it don’t matter to me.” I laugh. “Mighta had my moments but never like I flat out hated the whole race. Remember Roger from Henry Lee’s? An his ma? Sally?”
What black man?
What black man?
“B.J., I muss be confusin your signs. You say ‘What black man?’”
Yes.
“What black man I shared this room with?”
Yes.
“Now how would I. Whatchu mean?”
His name is Dwight Campbell.
That don’t ring an exack bell, but it’s ringin in the ballpark, somewhere I don’t wanna go.
His brother was Eliot Campbell.
My lungs! losin my breath “Whatchu sayin?” No answer. “You don’t know! Why you come in here, make stuff up? Lie like that. Huh? Lie like that!”
His hans move away.
“Uh-uh, dontchu do it! Drop that bombshell then go away, no!” Me swingin all directions, searchin crazy for him. “How you know? How you know?” I cain’t find him. He still here? “B.J.?” My voice small.
When he good n ready he come back, scarcely touch back a my han with his an I grab em, seize his hans fore he try take em away from me again. Catch my breath, calm, calm. Then I sig
n with jus my leff han, I ain’t lettin go a his in my right.
“So whatchu want? Me say I’m sorry? That what you come back for?” His han don’t move. “That stuff happened fifty years ago, B.J.! Why you gotta bring it up now?” His han don’t move.
Then he say, You never admitted it before.
Antlers scratch my face Pa wearin the pink Klan hood People think deer all gentle, nothin but prey. Well ain’t nothin more dangerous than prey on the defense an their little grinnin heads pop out the antler points: Mr. Holliman the mill boss what fired me, Mr. Martin the shoeman what fired me, Dr. Earl Mattingly thirteen years old copied my test crushed my Sopwith, Jesse the jail deputy, Francis Veter smilin through the blood I was the prey, Pa! I was the prey!
Wake up, “B.J.! You still there?”
He put his han nex to mine. I relax.
“Few years ago, the news. World War II decorated, Purple Heart, he come home to Mississippi, Klan. Nineteen sixty-three shot dead some important colored man. Convicted the nineties, forty years later. Ole man, liver spots, walkin with a walker they make him stan trial, they send him to prison! His lass days! You think at’s right? They didn’t condemn him back then, you think it’s right doin it now? Sick ole man?”
There’s no statute of limitations on murder.
“I didn’t ask that! I asked, You think it’s right, treat the elderly like that? I ain’t had nothin my whole life, B.J.! An Francis Veter lost his business, I heard half his kids grown up to be drunkards or drug addicks, that one girl kilt herself in her twenties, ain’t that punishment enough? I lost my son! I lost my son to the U.S. Armed Forces, now you think jail me too?” I’m feelin no answer. “B.J.—”
You were my brother.
An I hear somethin. Snifflin. Tears. Then jus as fast he plug it up. I’m quiet a while.
“I guess I letcha down huh.”
That’s not the point.
“That’s some a the point.” I sigh. Then I chuckle sad. “At neck scar still there?”
Yes. Barely.
I nod. “So. Ya think he knew? My roommate?”
Not while he was here.
I gotta teeheehee cuz I know what that mean. “My honest brother, my upright brother. Whadja do, write a letter to him?”
Yes.
“An lemme guess. Apologized for me?”
I apologized on behalf of our family.
“Yeah, you would. Not your place to, nunna your business to, but you would.” I take to dry heavin, pick up that metal pan spit up in it, lie back down. “Well, there go my pain pills.” I rest a second. “Hey B.J. Wa’n’t I married? Coulda swore I was married but don’t recall no wife.”
Erma.
“Erma?” Rack my brain. “Don’t recollect no Erma.”
She changed her name to Monique.
“Now why would she do that?” I feel for my cup a ice water, sip through the straw. “We stayed in Prayer Ridge?”
Texas.
“Oh yeah! That’s familiar, we moved after. After that thing. What the hell was that thing?”
You know.
At first I don’t. Then I do. “Oh yeah.” I chuckle but no joy. “Hey brother, I’m picturin you from 1972 but occurs to me you musta changed a bit. You still slim? Still gotcher hair Aw!” Swallowin. “B.J., I jus had a little accident. You get the nurse? Tell her, tell her the bedpan, you please get the nurse?” His footsteps scurryin off.
Pa cuttin the log at the sawmill. In walk slender Ole Bruce, sixty-year-ole shoeshine boy, walkin tall, strollin like a easy, kick-a-stone day. Pa look up an the head saw cut him in half, scalp to privates.
Pa’s leff han point down to that shoe, right han to that shoe. Think I could use a shine, both halves a Pa says.
Ole Bruce reply, In 1863 the slaves was set free.
What’s funny?
“B.J.! Brother, I thought you left. I called for the bedpan an thought you gone.”
That was yesterday.
“Yesterday?”
I went for the nurse, and she helped you and you talked some more but it didn’t make sense.
“Oh Lord, I don’t even remember that. So what it now? Sunday?”
Yes.
I sure hope you’re considering law school, says Mr. Hickory. Ma an Benja an B.J. an the trophy: randall evans/best speech/prayer ridge debate competition/feb. 20, 1942.
“B.J. You call up Monique, tell her I’m in the hospital? Fraid she’ll worry.”
Henry Lee an me an Roger runnin the train in the basement, then we hear somethin an Roger look up. Emily on the steps cryin, cryin.
“B.J.! B.J., somethin in my eye! B.J., hard to liff my hans up to my face, you blow in my eye like Ma useta?”
He lean into me.
“Other eye! Other eye!”
His breath cool, gentle.
“That’s it, that’s it. Thank you, brother.” On the sidewalk I walk right pass Martin’s Shoes in my new used wingtips an Mr. Martin an Brenda Jean an Diane stand in the door admirin my footwear admirin me. I smile, I ain’t tellin em my secret, who give em to me. Strut on down the sidewalk an come upon my ole friend grinnin at me. His suit clean an pressed, standin in his stockin feet.
Fitcha good, Randall? he ask.
Oh yeah, Eliot, like walkin on air.
“He gay me them shoes!” I laugh out loud.
Who?
“It was a kindness. Aw, he never meant nothin mean by it.”
An here I am starin through the Pearly Gates an Eliot on the inside, like this is the jail you wanna be in but to me the sign say NO TRESPASSING. Eliot typin on a ole typewriter, his face all concentration, the lawyer work.
“Hey there, Eliot! I jus figured it out. Looks like I owe you a heck of an apology.”
But Eliot don’t seem to hear. Keep typin, typin.
Awake. My throat take to catchin, B.J. put a tissue to my face, tears soakin it soppin, he gotta bring another tissue, nother. Then the gulpin stop. Startin not to feel my body. Like maybe I already done left it, no pain.
“Well, big brother,” I smile, “looks like ya outlived me.”
Backa his han against backa mine say nothin.
“B.J.? When you said, ‘You were my brother.’ What else?” I rest fore I go on. “Didja mean, ‘You were my brother, an I loved you’? Cuz I still love you. I never stopped lovin you, B.J.”
His han against mine shakin, shakin. I’m in the tree. I done my eighth-grade graduation speech I’m way up in the tree, I got the world. Nobody see me but I see them, Roger an Emily on a picnic. They kiss. Crazy? That could get em kilt! him for sure. All I gotta do is holler! But I don’t. I like em. I like Roger an Emily.
“Roger an Emily! It’s okay! It’s okay, yaw look happy. It’s okay, I jus hope yaw’re happy.” Then I say it softer, all smilin to myself. “Roger an Emily. I jus hope”
**
Today, Sunday October 17th, is Eliot’s seventy-sixth birthday. Every year I wonder about the man he would have become. I imagine him having stern talks with Rett about his defeatism, I see him walking with Eloise through a park, much like he’d walked Liddie’s twin little girls around the block that Christmas way back when.
I woke up feeling strong, renewed. I told Lem I’d like to stroll through the Botanic Gardens. He looked at me skeptically and I assured him I’d take it easy, calling out for rests when necessary. I want to breathe in the fresh autumnal air, to walk among the vibrant colored leaves. New York is a city of only two seasons unless you make the extra effort: the parks and gardens hold the equinoxes.
October was once a month of despair, but it has transformed into one of reflection. My mother died on the seventh. We don’t know for certain what she went through, those moments her weak heart gripped her for the last time, but the evidence, that she was found simply slumped over in her chair, has led us
to the comforting conclusion that she died peacefully. I still miss her. But the bittersweetness that accompanies the anniversary of her death differs infinitely from my complicated feelings every October 25th. This is the month Eliot came into the world and the month he was viciously torn from it.
Lem could see I didn’t want to talk when he came home with the groceries yesterday afternoon. He didn’t push me, just went to the kitchen to cook. Last night we sat up in bed to read as usual, my paperback open on my lap but my mind elsewhere. Finally he closed his book to look at me. And I told him. The letter I’d received and what it had revealed about the stranger with whom I had shared a room for five days. Our son was already ten before I divulged to my husband, on the anniversary of my brother’s passing, the story of my journey South for the aborted kill mission, and last night I told him how I’d seriously considered going to the hospital and at long last finishing the job. He was quiet a long time.
“What’s left of him, D? A lump of ugly, diseased flesh, inside and out.”
I turned to him. “So?”
He was silent.
“That’s justice?”
“In a sense.”
He could be like that. Karma. “You’re saying every terminally ill patient just got what they deserved.”
“No. I’m saying this one did.”
“He’s an old man! Everyone dies of something, for all we know his life up until now’s been one long party.”
“How many people came to visit him? And this only the second time in fifty years his own brother’s seen him? Something tells me his life up until now’s been nothing.”
I shake my head, eyes filling. “We don’t know.”
“We don’t know, we’ll never know.” He’s quiet again. “It was an apology. He’s felt shame for his brother for half a century. What’s that tell you?”
I swallow. “Eliot felt shame for me.”
“Eliot was twenty-six in 1960. And Eliot was coming around at the end, you’ve said that. Andi told you about his wholehearted gratitude to Keith.”
I nod, look away. He shakes his head.
“Nothing I can say to make you feel better. What happened to your family, to Eliot. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.” Several sirens dashing by. “And those decades the only Campbell left was lost. But how long you been clean now. Twenty-nine years? And what you’ve meant to Eliot’s son the last twenty-seven? And now starting a relationship with his grandchild, Eliot looking down sure must be relieved you’re here taking care of things, proud of his big brother.”
