The Boy in the Black Suit

by Jason Reynolds

  Cork still hadn’t said a thing.

  Mr. Ray adjusted the rearview mirror.

  “Y’know, he was with your father today,” Mr. Ray continued, “and Matthew, it really doesn’t matter what they were doing, but—” He stopped. And looked at his younger brother, through the mirror.

  “You know what, you should tell him,” Mr. Ray said to Cork, his voice suddenly steely.

  I stared straight ahead as the rain pounded down onto the windshield, the wipers working double-time.

  “He was jus tryin’ get home,” Cork said softly. His words slurred, his voice made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. “It started ta rain, and he just, wuh gonna try to make it home before it gah bad.”

  I twisted my mouth up to hold in my anger. And my fear. You would think that after your new drinking buddy got hit by a car, you would sober up.

  “Tell him what happened, Cork,” Mr. Ray demanded.

  It was no use. Cork was fading in and out.

  “Cork!” Mr. Ray barked.

  “Mr. Ray, can you just tell me. Please,” I said, my voice cracking. “I need to know what happened to my dad.” The tears were making their way up.

  Mr. Ray sighed, clearly disappointed and embarrassed by his brother.

  “He was trying to come home. At least that’s what Cork said. He said they were hanging out over on Albany, and the rain started. So Jackson left. But when he got to the corner of Fulton and Albany, he lost his balance and stumbled out into the street. Gypsy cab got him.”

  My eyes started to sting.

  “He was drunk,” I said.

  “Now, we don’t know that, Matthew,” Mr. Ray said quickly.

  “No, I wasn’t asking. I was telling you, Mr. Ray. He was drunk.”

  I don’t know why I said it, but I did. Because I knew it was true.

  Chapter 6

  BROKEN AND BONDED

  BEEPING. BUZZING. ELECTRONIC DOORS CLICKING, sliding open. The smell of dirty and clean, mixed up together. The hospital was the same as it was when my mother was there. Nothing had changed about it except for the person I was there to see.

  Cork sat down in the waiting room, his body almost melting into the chair. That was probably the safest place for him. Somewhere he could just go to sleep. Mr. Ray walked me to the front desk and pretty much did all the talking.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, we’re here to see Jackson Miller,” he said to the lady behind the desk.

  She began typing, squinting at the computer screen.

  “Looks like he’s still in Emergency,” she said to the monitor.

  It felt like I could feel the blood moving through my body, in my hands, my legs, my chest, my stomach. I don’t even know if there are veins in my stomach, but it sure felt like there were. And I was having a bad case of bubble-guts, so the blood in there must’ve been boiling. Usually people say their minds run a mile a minute when these things happen, but mine wasn’t running at all. It was standing still. I was only thinking one thing. God, please don’t let my dad die. That’s all.

  “Ma’am, this is his son,” Mr. Ray said softly. “We just need to know something. Please,” he begged.

  The lady at the desk looked up at me. Her eyes were bright even though I could tell she was tired. She looked sorry for me.

  “Hold on,” she said, picking up the phone. She dialed a few numbers. Mr. Ray patted me on the back and nodded. His face didn’t look too worried, but the way he balled his hat up let me know he was definitely nervous. A man like Mr. Ray doesn’t ball his hat up, ever.

  The lady behind the desk asked whoever was on the other end of the phone about my father, and wondered if there was any word. She explained that I, his son, was there.

  “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay,” she said, then hung up. Then she closed-mouth smiled. “Someone will be out in a second.”

  The doctor came through the big double doors in the typical doctor getup. Greenish blue pajamas and that thing on his head that looked like the hat that ninjas wear. He also wore a mask, but it was pulled down under his mouth, so he could talk.

  “Here for Mr. Miller?” the doctor asked, his face pale.

  “Yes, I’m Willie Ray, and this is Mr. Miller’s son, Matthew.”

  “Dr. Winston.”

  Mr. Ray shook his hand, and then I did. The doctor squeezed tight.

  “Well, Matthew, your father is going to be okay.”

  I exhaled. It felt like I had been holding my breath since we left the house. “But,” Dr. Winston continued, “he’s banged up pretty bad.”

  I just nodded. At least I think I nodded. I wasn’t really sure, but I know I moved my head.

  “The car was going pretty fast and caught him from the side. He has multiple fractures in both legs, a few cracked ribs, and a hairline fracture in his jaw from hitting the windshield. The legs, they’ll need surgery. But rods and pins’ll have him up walking again, eventually. But the good thing is, his spine is fine, and his brain is fine too, which is really what matters most.”

  Mr. Ray clapped me on the back—good bad news is better than bad bad news.

  “Well, that’s good news, Doc,” Mr. Ray said. “That’s good news.”

  “Damn right it is,” the doctor said.

  I don’t know why, but I liked the fact that he said damn. It made me feel comfortable. Like somebody I already knew. Like someone who actually cared about my dad.

  “Now, he’s got a long night ahead of him. More tests to make sure the ribs haven’t punctured anything, and that the broken bones in his legs haven’t lacerated any blood vessels, and then straight to the OR we go. So unfortunately, you won’t be able to see him till the morning.” That was fine with me. As long as I knew he wasn’t going to die, I was okay.

  “Is there a Mrs. Miller?” the doctor asked. Came out of left field and caught me right in the gut. I guess it made sense to ask, but I wasn’t ready for it. I cleared my throat to answer, but got stuck.

  “No,” Mr. Ray chimed in and bailed me out. “But I’ll be here.” He clapped my back again.

  Dr. Winston never missed a beat. “Perfect. Like I said, you can see him in the morning. He’ll probably do a few weeks here, and if all goes well, we’ll move him next door to the rehab center to start teaching him to walk again. Sound like a plan?”

  I nodded as the doctor shook our hands again and walked back through the big double doors.

  3:00 a.m. Back at home. Back upstairs. Back in bed. But not back to sleep. Instead, I sat there thinking about how quickly things change. How quickly life changes. I was just pissed at Dad the night before—hell, I was pissed at him earlier that day—and now all I could do is think about hugging him and telling him that I loved him, and that I needed him. It’s strange to think about. How that could’ve been it. He could’ve died. Only a month after my mom. And even though he didn’t—die, that is—I still felt so alone. Even though Mr. Ray was helping out, and Chris was cool, I still felt like I went from a not-so-fancy version of the Cosbys to a one-man family. Like that movie with Tom Hanks stuck on an island—I felt like him, far away from everything, calling out in the dark, the waves splashing up on me, the deep water waiting to swallow me up.

  I don’t remember falling asleep and I don’t really remember waking up. It was like I just closed my eyes for a few minutes and then opened them when my cellphone started vibrating on top of my dresser. But I didn’t feel rested, or awake. It was six thirty and Mr. Ray said to be outside at seven so that we could make it to the hospital right when visiting hours started.

  In a haze I washed up, put on my white dress shirt, buttoned it bottom-up, and slung my black tie around my neck. I tied it once, the wrong way as usual, then tied it again. Downstairs I slipped on my slacks, then wiggled my foot into the stiff black dress shoes. The heel was always the hardest part. Lastly, the most important piece—the jacke
t.

  In the kitchen I picked my backpack up, slipping one arm through one of the straps and bounced it up on my shoulder. Then, I thought about it. Was I really going to go to school today? What if Dad needed me to stay at the hospital? What if something went wrong in the surgery? They probably would’ve called me, but still . . . what if ? Did I really want to sit there listening to Mr. Grovenor explain for the twentieth time what fabliaux were? Fa-blah. With everything that was going on? I don’t think so. I dropped the bag back on the chair and headed for the front door.

  Mr. Ray was already sitting out on his stoop reading the paper. His dark slacks were raised high above his ankles. His hat, a different one, but the same style, hid his fuzzy hair. When he heard my door close, he looked up. Then, he rolled the newspaper up into a tight paper pipe, grabbed the brown bag next to him, and stood.

  “Good morning,” he called out.

  I trotted down the steps and met him at his car.

  “Morning,” I said. Just “morning.” There was nothing good about it.

  “Breakfast?” Mr. Ray said, as he opened the paper bag.

  “No thanks.”

  “Yep. Breakfast,” he repeated, making it clear that this wasn’t an option. He reached down into the bag and pulled out two bagels, one for me, one for him.

  “Hope you like cream cheese,” he said, handing me a bagel, still warm. “They always pile it on at the bodega.” He shook his head at the cream cheese overload and reached back into the bag.

  “Here,” he said, handing me a cup of coffee without looking. “Light and sweet.”

  I didn’t drink coffee. When I was around seven, I once took a sip of my father’s. It was terrible, like drinking smoke. I decided right then and there that juice would be my choice of breakfast drink. But I couldn’t turn down the coffee, and knew that even if I tried, Mr. Ray would’ve insisted and probably said something like “Today you become a man,” or some mess like that. I probably would’ve taken anything he offered me. Even a cigarette.

  We got to the hospital at seven thirty on the dot. Mr. Ray was always crazy about being on time, but I guess when you do his kind of work, you really can’t afford to not be. Don’t want the dead people showing up late to their own funerals. My head was buzzing from the coffee—not spinning, just kind of jumping around. It felt weird but I guess that was the point of coffee. To get the brain jumping around. Mr. Ray checked his face in the flip-down mirror and wiped away a smear of cream cheese caught in the corner of his mouth.

  “Before we go in,” he said seriously. He flipped the mirror back up and continued. “I need to tell you that I, uh . . .” Mr. Ray looked straight ahead for a few seconds before finally facing me. I could see his jaw flexing, as if he was chewing on his words. “I, uh . . . I’m sorry, Matthew. For all this.”

  “You didn’t do nothing,” I said.

  “I know, but . . .” He started swinging his head side to side, like he was working kinks out of his neck. “But this is my brother’s fault. And I feel responsible.”

  “Mr. Ray—” I started, but he cut me off.

  “Just listen, son,” he said sharp. “My brother, he . . . he always . . .” Mr. Ray pressed his lips tight, obviously frustrated that he couldn’t get it out. Then he started again. “I just want you to know that from here on out, I’m gonna look after you. While your old man is getting himself together, I got you.” He patted his chest.

  “Mr. Ray, really I—”

  “Eh, eh, eh,” he interrupted again, shaking his head. “I feel like it’s my duty. And I owe it to your folks. Hell, I owe it to you.”

  This time I decided not to even try to respond. I just nodded.

  “Okay,” he said, switching back to a lighter tone. “Ready?”

  Tubes and wires everywhere. My father laid in the bed with both of his legs strapped up in some weird contraption, already with thick white casts on them. His face was badly bruised and swollen, leaving purple splotches around his eyes and on one whole side of his face.

  “Good news,” Dr. Winston said, still there, just as upbeat as he was in the middle of the night. “The internal fixation surgery was a success. He’s got a few extra screws in him, to bond the bones, and we’re still going to monitor his legs closely, especially the inflammation, but so far so good. Bad news is, he won’t be able to speak,” Dr. Winston said. “At least not yet. We also had to immobilize his jaw so that the fracture would heal, so it’s wired shut.”

  I came close to my dad, looking at him top to bottom, bottom to top. A tube in his arm. A tube down his throat. I wanted to hug him but I knew I couldn’t. I just stood there staring at him while he slept, feeling pretty damn helpless.

  “He’s also going to be out for a while. We got him pretty doped up for the pain,” Dr. Winston said. “But judging from the surgery and all the test results, it’s looking like he’s going to be fine. It’s gonna take some time, though. I can’t stress that enough.”

  I nodded without looking at the doctor. I couldn’t stop staring at my dad lying there stiff, broken. I didn’t know if I should be angry with him for doing this to me—to himself—or if I should feel sad. Or even happy, just knowing that he would survive, and recover. I didn’t know what to feel, and that frustrated me. My eyes started to twitch and burn, and the water came streaming down my face. I wiped the tears quickly, but they kept coming. Mr. Ray must’ve noticed me crying, because he asked the doctor if he could step out with him for a second to talk about rehab stuff. When they left, I pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down. And for the first time since Mom’s funeral, I let it out.

  On the way back to the neighborhood Mr. Ray and I didn’t talk too much. He turned the radio on and hummed to old songs from the seventies, snapping his fingers, and sometimes even singing some of the words. His voice wasn’t too bad. Raspy, but not bad.

  “Want me to drop you off at school?” he said, turning the radio down a little.

  I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to lie to him and tell him yeah, and then cut school, but I also didn’t want to tell him the truth, that I didn’t want to go. Especially since he always said I was different from how he was, growing up. I could tell Mr. Ray looked at me as a good kid, not a dude who skipped school. And that was true. I never cut school, but today I just needed a break.

  “Um,” I grunted.

  Mr. Ray tucked his lips into his mouth like a man with no teeth and tried to hold in his laughter. “I’m kidding, son,” he said, now flashing a cocky grin. “I know you ain’t going to no damn school. You ain’t even got your books with you.”

  I looked at him, surprised and relieved.

  “It’s cool. You’re smart enough to make it up,” he said confidently. “But you got your suit on, so I see you’re ready for work.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, ain’t no work to do today, son, so you all dressed up with nowhere to go.” Mr. Ray slid open the ashtray under the radio. He wiggled his finger inside of it and pulled out a small key. “But I wanna show you something.”

  He turned the radio back up and jerked his head back and forth, singing. Marvin Gaye, my mom’s favorite, was playing. “Inner City Blues.”

  I had never actually been inside Mr. Ray’s house. I mean, I had been in his funeral home, but never his home home, even though he lived right across the street from me. When we got to the top of his stoop, which felt like it took forever because of his limp, he jammed a key into the wooden door. Then he jooked it around a little until it turned and clicked.

  “This bad boy got a trick to it,” he explained. “I was gonna buy a new door when this lock started sticking, but then I thought, nope, I’ll keep it how it is.” He pushed against the old wooden door until it popped open.

  I didn’t really know what to expect from Mr. Ray’s house. I mean, I didn’t really think much about it as a kid. I never wondered what it was l
ike because he seemed like just a regular guy, sitting outside with his newspaper, coffee, and his cigarettes, watching the neighborhood live, prepared to do his job whenever a piece of it died. Other than that, he handed out cancer pamphlets and minded his own business. So I figured his house probably looked a lot like mine. Why wouldn’t it?

  But I was wrong. Mr. Ray’s house wasn’t normal at all. Not to me. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t creepy or nothing like that. As a matter of fact, it was incredible. Something straight off MTV. Leather couches and big flat-screen TVs hanging from the walls next to art in fancy frames, which seemed weird because he didn’t seem like the TV type, or the art type. Everything was leather and wood, and not that regular wood you see in most people’s homes—that light wood. Nope, he had dark wood everywhere, wood the color of me. I could just tell it cost a lot. I had no idea funeral homes made so much money. I don’t think I ever even thought about Mr. Ray getting paid. But he was living a sweet life and nobody in our neighborhood would ever be able to tell, judging from the outside of the place. I mean, he had to wiggle his key just to open the front door! And then it hit me why he didn’t have that janky door replaced. If he kept the old raggedy one he had, no one would ever suspect how dope his house was on the inside. Smart move.

  “You want something?” he said, slipping his arm out of his coat. “Some water? Coffee?”

  I tried to not stare at all the awesome stuff he had everywhere.

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “I’ll put on a pot of coffee anyway,” he said, heading around the corner to what I guessed was the kitchen.

  “Come on in here,” he called.

  The kitchen was all marble and stainless steel. No dishes in the sink. No crumbs. Nothing like my kitchen. Chris’s kitchen was like my kitchen. Every kitchen I had ever been in was pretty much like my kitchen. Except this one.

  Mr. Ray poured us huge cups of coffee, mine light and sweet, his black. My coffee high from earlier had worn off, finally, and here I was about to bring it right back. I don’t get why people drink this crap.