Ross looked back at Dr. Taylor. “Where do I begin my recovery?”
The doctor answered, “Lots of physical rehabilitation. I know a physiatrist—a specialist in the field of physical rehabilitation—who would be perfect for the job. His name is Dr. Peter Kline, and he works at St. Mary’s, a small rehabilitation center not too far from here. But Ross, you would have to stay at St. Mary’s for the long-term, full-time treatment that the physiatrist recommends for an effective recovery.”
Then Dr. Taylor turned his attention to Maggie, continuing, “Since Ross would be at the rehab center for a while, I figured perhaps you and Tracie could help out, at least until he gets used to things? In the early stages of therapy, patients normally feel like they aren’t making any progress and often need someone to cheer them on.”
Ross grew irritable at the other two people, who began discussing his medical situation as if he were not in the room. He did not want to have to depend on anyone, especially someone from the black race. He would probably always be thankful that the woman and her grandson had so bravely rescued him from the violent gang; but to him, they were just as much “niggers” as those men. Anyone from that race could snap and kill. Ross knew this to be true, especially as he recalled a painful experience that happened when he was twelve.
It had been an unseasonably hot summer Sunday afternoon, the kind of day Hades might decide to ride his chariot up from the Underworld for a holiday. Ross’s father, Benjamin, stepped out in front of his unruly organization to lead them in a protest march. This group of a hundred local white citizens had assembled for a specific mission: to demand better jobs, proper “white” education for their children, and adequate health care for the elderly. Their march began on Main Street, at the church, and was headed all the way down to a neighborhood of raggedy apartment houses, where Benjamin’s family lived.
Then, almost as soon as it began, the ill-tempered march ended—stopped short by a solid wall of armed black men and youths, who dared the angry group to continue. They shouted insults and threats and threw a few token rocks and bottles. Baited by the confrontational stance of the black community, some of the unruly white marchers began attacking black-owned cars, homes, and stores. Fortunately, the police arrived to break up the fight before it escalated into a full-scale riot.
While ordering his ragtag group to retreat to the church to prevent any of them from being arrested, Benjamin was hit on the back of his head by a brick thrown from the other side of the street. He drifted off into a coma while in the ambulance speeding for Hartford Hospital and never awoke.
Ross looked away from Maggie. He would not even consider accepting help from the race of people who had murdered his father and caused such hardships for his mother. Ross would never forget that after her husband’s death, Gloria had been forced to take a job as a cleaning lady to support her son and herself.
But Maggie saw the doctor’s offer as a wonderful opportunity to prove to God that she really was not prejudiced and to compensate for the terrible words she had said to Ross. Although she had already witnessed how enraged he became at the very prospect of her helping him, she would not be turned down.
She reached out to hold Ross’s hand again, but he slowly drew away from her. She gave him a knowing look. “Ross, we come too far to quit now. God brought us together for a reason, and I have a funny feelin’ you already know that. Now me and my grandson want to help you... Please let us do that, okay?” She had said it in a whisper, as if they shared a special secret, and Ross could not deny that the woman was right.
“Yes, okay,” he replied, before he could stop himself. He could not fight Maggie’s words, for he knew them to be true. It had already been confirmed in the dream of his supernatural visitation from Nigger. But he was still desperate to know why God had surrounded him with the very race that he was raised to hate.
Dr. Taylor’s pager sounded off in a series of high-pitched beeps, and Maggie quickly led him out of the room to the telephone in the kitchen. When five minutes later he returned to the bedroom, he was surprised to see Ross listening intently as Maggie explained how she had come across Dr. Taylor’s business card in Ross’s wallet and had immediately contacted him.
The doctor interrupted Maggie and Ross’s conversation. “I have to run—my fiancée wants me home!” They all laughed, and Dr. Taylor shook Maggie’s hand. “It was nice meeting you, and please give Tracie my best regards. I jotted down your number from the label on your kitchen phone, and I’ll be calling regularly to check up on Ross. If he gets hungry, continue to give him soups for now, and any kind of juice will be fine.” Dr. Taylor turned to Ross and continued, “I’ll get in touch with Dr. Kline later on today and get back to you soon. Meanwhile, rest. Maggie and Tracie are here to help you, so let them. Don’t try to do anything alone.”
As soon as Dr. Taylor left, Maggie noticed that Ross became nervous, and she knew that he would change his mind about accepting their help if she did not do something to calm him. Hurrying to the kitchen, she got rid of the bowl of soup. She returned carrying a chair, which she placed beside the bed.
She dropped down into the seat as if she were a little girl, looking serious as she said, “I’m sorry for what happened to you last night. When I ran to that window and saw you in danger...” She paused to stop the tears that would have otherwise come.
Ross had been about to fake sleepiness, since he did not know what to say to Maggie without the presence of the doctor, the middleman, to keep everyone conversing. But he was glad that she had made a sudden attempt to communicate with him, for several questions plagued his mind, and he wanted answers.
“Who were those men? How could anyone be so cruel as to attack a man in a wheelchair?” he asked.
“Just young people who know nothin’ about life,” Maggie answered, waving aside Ross’s question. She felt equally compelled to defend both the gang—for they were born into just one of many black ghettoes, where almost everyone hatefully blamed whites for whatever tribulations that they must face in the world—and Ross, because no excuse at all could justify anyone’s beating on another person.
She shook her head, wondering how the new black generation could be so stupid. They used violence as a weapon to fight against white American bigotry when education was the only thing that would ever win the war, as she had taught Tracie from a very early age. Young people seemed to believe that working hard and being a success was only a white man’s dream, and that selling drugs and making regular visits to already full jails was the only way of life for blacks.
When Ross felt a sudden sharp pain in his ribs, he winced, lying back on the pillows and embracing himself.
“Good Lord! Ross, want me to call Dr. Taylor?” Maggie jumped to her feet, rushing toward the door.
Ross held up his hand to stop her. “No, I’m all right. I was hit in a lot of different places last night.” He started laughing in spite of the incredible pain, which had passed as quickly as it came. Things could be much worse. God could have let the gang take his life; but instead, He had sent Maggie and Tracie along to rescue him. Because of them, he was still alive and laughing—that is all that really mattered for now.
Slowly lowering back into her seat, as if expecting Ross’s pain to return momentarily, Maggie said, “Yeah, they almost broke your nose, too, but the doctor said a couple days’ rest should heal the pain.” And then, “How did you come to live on Hexter Street?”
As Ross stared into Maggie’s kind eyes, he felt that he could tell her anything at all, even the horrible truths about himself. But he wouldn’t do that, not now at least. It hurt too much every time he relived his past, and he always grew angrier at blacks every time he thought about it.
“Hi, Nana. I’m home from work.”
Ross glanced sideways—always alert for danger since his surprise confrontation with the gang out on the street—at the brown-skinned young man entering the room. The man was handsome, despite his ethnicity, with eyes light brown and as la
rge as walnut shells, and dimples as deep as Maggie’s. He had short wavy hair and thick eyebrows; and he wore a work uniform consisting of a short-sleeved red and navy shirt and navy pants.
Maggie beamed. “Ross, meet Tracie, my precious grandson.”
“Nice to meet you, Ross. I hope we’ll become friends,” Tracie said, stretching forth his hand to Ross, who returned his greeting. He was relieved that the young man had walked into the room just in time to stop him from continuing his conversation with Maggie.
“I would like that,” Ross replied. But to him, it was more of a question than a statement.
2
Lying in the dark, Tracie Walker fought to contain the enormous burning fire in his heart as he thought, One day, you goin’ be somebody important. Not a day went by that he did not have the same wonderful thought, reassuring words of self confidence that gave him the will to keep working hard toward getting his novel published. The thought kept him focused and kept his dream alive.
Then he smiled, as a new thought entered his mind. He began thinking about how much he had grown up, about all the troubles he had faced as a kid who had been attracted to the unpredictable, dangerous lifestyle of the streets.
There were displays of behavioral problems very early in his young life. If his Nana stepped out of a room for more than a second, he would cry out loud, desperate for her return. When she tried to teach him how to eat independently, he would fling his spoon to the floor. And it took more than a few gentle pats on his pampered bottom to get the stubborn toddler to finally take his first steps. Sometimes his resistance against his Nana’s wishes was so overwhelming that it forced her to tears.
“Boy, why you so stubborn?” she would say. Unbeknownst to her, all he had wanted was the reward of her attention.
Once, at the age of six, Tracie walked up to his Nana in the kitchen while she was busy preparing dinner. He was crying so hard that his breathing had become a series of hiccups. The very sight forced Maggie into action, lowering the stove fires under the cooking food and sitting down at the table with Tracie on her lap.
“Sugar, what’s wrong?” she asked. Her experienced little hands were swift as they removed the tears from his dimpled cheeks in one swipe. When he did not answer as quickly as she thought he should, she said, “Speak! Who done messed with Nana’s baby?”
The attention that he received from his Nana seemed to intensify his sorrow, and he cried out loud, letting his head fall onto her bosom. Unable to speak through whatever was ailing him, his breathing became shallow and irregular. Soon his infectious sorrow parted and entered Maggie, as if it were an evil spirit. As tears fell from her eyes and nostrils, she squeezed Tracie into her arms and rocked him back and forth until he was calm.
“You really scarin’ me, baby. Now I want you to tell Nana everything. Did someone hit you... take your money... touch you in the wrong place?” The possibilities were endless. She was experienced enough to know that children could find sorrow in something as little as a splinter in a thumb. It didn’t take something as important as physical abuse to cause uncontrollable tears. She gave a satisfied sigh when she saw Tracie shake his head in response to her few guesses.
“Tomorrow is parents’ night at school,” Tracie said, shuddering, as he fought to stabilize his breathing. He had stopped crying, but his chubby, dimpled cheeks were ash-stained. “I don’t have no Mama and Daddy.”
Maggie’s trembling mouth opened, but then closed again. She did not know what to say. She had always known that this day would come. She had practiced over and over the words that she would say; but right then, it seemed too soon.
New tears fell down her cheeks. Again, she started to speak but found herself silent, as she went back to rocking her grandson in her arms.
“All the rest of the kids in school got parents. I ain’t got nobody but you, Nana.”
Maggie nodded through her blinding tears. “We all got parents, whether they live with us or not. Whether they livin’ or not,” she said emphatically.
“Do I got parents?”
Now Maggie smiled and stopped rocking. With the back of her hand, she wiped away the water from her eyes and nose. It amazed her how just one question in such a young life could bring back memories of the kind years and people—from the past. But with the good also came the bad, and she knew that she would have to tell Tracie the whole story about his parents—the good and the bad.
She said, “I wouldn’t be your Nana if you didn’t have parents. Your mother was my one and only child. She was the most beautiful girl I ever seen born. She had this long, straight honey-blonde hair. And hazel eyes that sparkled like a tiger’s. She was a little, thin thing, just like Nana. Before you came along, I don’t think I was ever so proud to call a baby my own. Only God truly knows how much I loved her. Her name was Michelle. I named her after her father, Michael, who I also loved very much.”
Tracie’s eyes widened with a new excitement. “Nana, that’s great! But where’s my Mama?”
Maggie paused in thought before continuing into the past. There was so much to the story, so much she had to reveal to him. But she knew that she would have to choose her words carefully in explaining to the youngster the actual sad story of his parents’ lives and the violence that had ended them. It was something that, over the years, she had successfully blotted out of her mind—all the sadness and depression—to live for her beloved grandson.
She turned Tracie around on her lap so that he was facing her. She squinted, as if trying to conjure up some memory that had vanished into amnesia. “Your Mama in Heaven with your Daddy. They had a tough young life, the two of them. Nothin’ ever came easy for them. Not even when young folks should be free to laugh loud and have fun and just enjoy life to the fullest. God knows, they was so young...”
But Maggie would go no further into the past. For Tracie was staring up at her with his confused six-year-old face, and it occurred to her that nothing she could tell him at that moment could truly explain what had happened to his parents. He was too young to understand any of it, so she said simply, “It was your parents’ time to go, Tracie.”
“Go where, Nana? Where would they go that was so better than stayin’ here with us?”
Maggie said, “God called them to Heaven. And you know from all the stories you learn in Bible classes at church that when He wants you, it’s ’cause you really special. Maybe He needed more angels in His army. Whatever the reason, when God wants you, ain’t no arguin’, ain’t nothin’ you can do but go.”
Tracie nodded. He was raised to have strong faith in the Almighty, for God was great and just in all things. He had also learned that God was good and the Devil was bad, so he would much rather his parents have gone to Heaven than Hell.
“So my parents dead?” he asked.
Maggie smiled down at the smart youth. “Yeah, Honey, your Mama and Daddy done went to be with the Lord.”
Tracie’s wayward ways came with the passing years. He went from demanding his grandmother’s attention to his demands for the cheerful adoration that he received from his classmates when he was clowning around in school. His jokes, known as “ranks,” were raw and insulting, talking about his friends’ “old holey shoes” or “300-pound mamas.” It was the kind of humor that had brought fame to comedians like Eddie Murphy and Chris Rock:
“Dag, Mike, when the last time you got that hair cut? You look like a beaver just laid on your head and died!” Tracie would say. And the other students laughed at the joking insult.
“Monique, it must be your time of the month or somethin’, ’cause you smell like a stinkin’ fish market!” Tracie cackled. The other students laughed at this one too, even though it made some of them uncomfortable.
“Did you smell the principal’s breath today?” Tracie would ask, before continuing with, “It was like... like stickin’ your head in a toilet after Monique just got finished takin’ a dump!”
As always, his classmates would burst out in laughter.
Although Tracie became one of the most popular students in his elementary school, no one knew how exceedingly unhappy he really was. He loved his Nana dearly. After all, she had assumed total responsibility for his life, raising him as her own. But he hated being poor, living among dangerous drug dealers and sleazy street-walking prostitutes in housing project apartment buildings that were filled with filthy rats and cockroaches. He was also acutely aware of his misfortune in not having parents to be part of his world. A commanding inner voice told him that he was meant to be something greater in life, but he did not know what it was or when it was going to happen.
One day in science class, Tracie was sitting behind Andre “Little Man” Williams. Leaning over to one of his classmates, he whispered, “Look at the size of Little Man’s neck. It looks like he might be part human and part gremlin.”
Tracie and his classmate both snickered.
But Little Man, who had overheard Tracie’s insulting words, did not find them humorous. “Tracie, you speakin’ on me? Well, laugh at this.” He jumped out of his seat, swung around, and punched Tracie so hard on the side of his head that he fell out of his seat.
All the other students laughed. But Tracie grew murderously angry, then jumped to his feet and charged after Little Man, who fell backward over his desk.
The two boys stood again, fell back down, and rolled across the floor, lost in a blurry whirl of their powerful swinging fists.
A stocky security guard broke up the fight.
“He started it!” Tracie and Little Man yelled in unison, pointing forefingers at each other.
“I don’t care who started it,” returned Mrs. Rule, the science teacher. “Get these brutes out of here. Oh, my God. Just look how you’ve destroyed my classroom!”
The security guard escorted Tracie and Little Man to a waiting area outside the office of the principal, who was away watching over the assigned first group of students eating lunch in the cafeteria.
A CHANGE OF HEART: Book 1 of the Hartford Series Page 3
