“A ruggedly sexy raccoon. Why am I not dead?” I asked.
“You look pretty bad, but it’s not worth ending it all just because you ugly,” Merrill said. “You’s ugly before.”
“I guess you’re right. Why didn’t they kill me? What happened?”
“Some loud Negro in a big-ass pimpmobile-looking car scared them off.”
“What were you doing driving your uncle Tyrone’s car?” I asked.
“He needed my truck to haul his old lady’s dresser. She leavin’ again. Twice every year he has to borrow my truck. Once to move her big black ass out and again to move it right back in. Come to think of it, it’s four times a year. Her ass is so big it take two trips each way.”
“How many years have they been doing this?” I asked.
“As long as I can remember. Anyway, Anna told me to look out for you. She say you could probably use a big, strong, handsome, black bodyguard ’bout now.”
“She was right. What took you so long to snatch me from the jaws of death?”
“You’s drivin’ everywhere. Never stopping. I didn’t know how long you’s gonna ride. I finally had to stop for gas.”
“That’s what I should’ve done,” I said.
“You can say that again.”
“That’s what I should have done. What happened when you pulled up in the pimpmobile? Did they come over and ask you for some ladies?”
“I made a lot of noise coming in-horn honking, firing a gun. They took off.”
“White flight,” I said. “It happens when you black pimpmobile-driving hoodlums move into the neighborhoods.”
“I suppose so.”
“Did you see who it was?”
“Sure did. Now they in your daddy’s jail. I’ve heard complaints of police brutality, but I said that police don’t be brutal to no white men, especially fellow law-enforcement officers.”
“Especially them,” I said.
“Skipper’s going to pay for what he’s done,” Anna said. “Merrill and I went forward with everything you had told us. He’s already been arraigned. Now he’s just waiting for a probable-cause hearing.”
“For what?” I asked.
“Murdering Johnson and Maddox, of course,” she said. She could tell by the look on my face that something was wrong. “Are you all right? What is it?”
“What other charges were filed against Skipper?”
“Just attempted murder, for what he did to you. The DA said that was enough. Don’t you think that’s enough?”
“No. It’s not nearly enough,” I said.
“Why?” Anna asked.
“Because he didn’t do it.”
“He tried to kill you twice,” she said emphatically.
“Yes, but he didn’t kill Maddox or Johnson.”
“Of course he did. Who else would have killed them?”
“I’ve got some ideas, but it doesn’t matter. I’m no longer involved. I’m suspended, and I feel like I’m lucky to be alive. They won. I quit.”
“I think he’s guilty,” Anna said. “Skipper’s the worst kind of cop. He’s rotten to the core.”
“He is rotten, and he’s guilty as sin, but he didn’t kill those men, and they’ll figure that out.”
“Who?”
“The inspector, FDLE, the sheriff’s department. Somebody.”
“And, if they don’t?” Anna asked.
“He get what he deserve anyway,” Merrill said.
“Right,” I said.
“No, it’s not right, and you know it. If you really believe Skipper didn’t kill them, you have to do something. You can’t just allow this to happen. You’re not even sounding like yourself.”
“Anna’s right,” Laura said. “You’re not a quitter. You have to see this thing through.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, “but quitting is what I do best. I’ve been practically fired and practically killed, and I’ve had enough. If you all are so concerned about Skipper, go and do something about it. I’m not. I don’t have nine lives.”
“He’s just upset,” Anna said. “He’s been through so much.”
“That’s not it. You were right,” I said. “I had no business getting involved in the first place. I was meant to be a chaplain, and now I’ve screwed that up, too.”
“There are other jobs,” Laura said. “I’m just grateful you’re alive.”
“So you not going to do anything about Skipper?” Merrill asked.
“No. My religion forbids retaliation. I’ve turned both cheeks, and he’s pulverized them both. You going to do anything about him?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Are you going to do anything about your job?”
“Clearing my name, all that stuff? I don’t know. We’ll have to see what happens.”
“What about this?” Merrill asked and slung a newspaper on my chest.
“Merrill, no,” Anna said, “now’s not the time.”
I attempted to pick up the paper. When I had struggled with it for maybe five seconds, Laura picked it up and held it in front of me. It was the Tallahassee Times. The headline just above the fold and to the right read: “Former Atlanta Pastor Charged with Sexual Misconduct Again.”
A wave of sickness crashed over me, and I began to heave-a deep, painful, dry heave. It was happening again. My world was closing in on me. I felt as if I were suffocating.
“I told you he didn’t need to see that now,” Anna said. “My God, he’s been in a coma for three days.”
“He need to see it now more than ever. He need to finish what he started.”
“Merrill’s right. I needed to see it. I can’t hide from it.”
I looked up at Laura. Her eyes were warm and reassuring. “Lucy,” I said in my best Cuban accent, “I got some splainin’ to do. I’m just not up to it right now.”
She smiled at my lame joke and said, “You have nothing to explain to me. I’ve spent the night with you, remember? I know you. Besides, Anna told me everything.”
“She doesn’t know everything,” I said and laughed.
“She knows a lot,” Laura said and smiled.
Anna smiled, too.
It was overwhelming.
After they left, I went back to sleep. I slept the rest of the night and most of Friday, only waking long enough to eat and move around the room a bit at the doctor’s insistence. Late Friday night I eased into my wheelchair and slowly, dreadfully rolled to Mom’s room. I felt so guilty, a feeling not uncommon to our relationship over the years. I couldn’t believe it had taken me being put in the hospital myself to make me visit her. I had told Laura how important it was for me to reach out to people when they were in crises-death, terminal illness, loss-and that was all true. But, I found that going into the room where my own mother lay dying I had nothing to say-no words of hope, inspiration, comfort. Such is the hypocrite I am.
“Mom,” I whispered when I had rolled up beside her bed.
She didn’t respond. Her back was to me. I sat there and stared at her for a while before I attempted to rouse her again. She was emaciated. Her hospital gown, which she should not have had to wear because I should have brought her one from home, was only tied at the top, revealing a backbone and ribs that protruded so far out as to make her look like a sack of bones. She reeked of urine, sweat, drool, and a few other chemicals that were foreign to me.
“Mom,” I said a little louder this time.
She slowly raised her head and then let it fall back down again. I wheeled around to the other side of the bed. What I wanted to do was to wheel back out of the room and say, “Well, I tried.”
“Mom,” I said even louder and this time directly towards her wrinkled, seemingly lifeless face.
Her eyes opened, and in them I saw fear-fear of death, fear of life, pure fear. In that moment, all of my rage toward this wounded old woman seemed to melt like the numerous candles I had lit for her. Now, in liquid state, it ran out of me, across the floor, and out the door.
She closed her eyes again. I think the closeness of my eyes to hers made her uncomfortable. She probably needed a drink. I sure did. I rolled the chair back slightly, and this time, when she opened her eyes again, that is how they stayed.