LIFE OPERATIC
by
EBlack
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
EBlack on Smashwords
Life Operatic
Copyright © 2011 by EBlack
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
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GOD BLESS THE CHILD (Billie Holiday)
The sun was shining when Tony woke from his night of drinking vodka and cranberry juice with the best of them. He squinted in the morning sun while struggling to get a clear look at the clock. Ten o’clock.
“Damn,” he said to himself. He laid back down flat on his back in the bed and looked at
the ceiling. “Oh well, what the fuck.”
Tony hopped out of the bed and hurried into the bathroom. He turned on the shower and jumped in without checking to see if the water was either too hot or too cold. Good. It was warm. The warm water felt good on his brown skin. Tony buried his head underneath the water spouting from the showerhead and sighed.
The night before had been full of memories that Tony thought he would never forget, only he had and it hadn’t even been twenty-four hours. He remembered meeting friends at some club in Hollywood just a little after ten p.m. He remembered the first of his four drinks and the bartender that refused to serve him unless he produced an ID, which he had left in the car for some reason. He remembered meeting some white woman who thought his “exotic” half-Black, half-Mexican look was something so special that she wanted to fuck him right there on the dance floor. He declined, but he couldn’t remember that.
Tony jumped out of the shower and slowly dried off his body making sure not to leave a drop of water on his glistening brown skin. He noticed himself in the bathroom mirror.
“Damn, I look thirty-five.” He was thirty-five. “I’d better slow down or something.”
Tony hated when he talked to himself, but there was no one else around for him to talk to. A confirmed bachelor living on his own in Los Angeles’ west side, Tony had decided years ago that all he needed in his life was a good job and a nice apartment. He had found both, but he still was lonely sometimes. His friends loved him. His family adored him. He was warm and friendly, but he was still lonely sometimes. It was those times when he talked to himself. It was those times that he hated because he was forced to acknowledge the fact that he really did need someone in his life, someone other than family and friends.
Tony quickly got dressed, white linen shirt and matching slacks. He pulled his long, brown hair back in to pony tail and rubberbanded it. Tony heard his stomach growl, but ignored it. He reached for his sunglasses, which sat on the table near the door. He checked himself in the mirror in the living room one more time and, with sunglasses in hand, rushed out of the door.
It was now 10:30 and the mid-spring sun was hot. The sound of a lawnmower blared into the sky.
“Hey Jose, que paso.” Tony said.
Jose was the hired man, underpaid, hard working, Mexican regulated to mowing lawns for a living until he finally realized his part in the American Dream or at least have America realize that he still had a dream. Jose and Tony had become acquaintances about a year ago when one of Tony’s fancy west side neighbors verbally assaulted Jose for mowing too early in the morning. Jose knew no English at the time and Tony rushed to his defense. That neighbor had since moved and Jose owed Tony a debt of gratitude. Tony felt otherwise, but the two had become friends all the same.
“Es la tarde, no?” Jose asked.
“Pues,” Tony slurred.
Three Mexican young ladies walked by. They were made up far too much to be any older than sixteen, but Jose and Tony watched as they passed by anyway. Jose licked his lips. Tony laughed at his friend’s interest in the young ladies. One of the ladies looked back and smiled. A grin spread across Jose’s face.
“Ella quieres Jose,” Jose said. “Hey, adonde vas?”
“A la escuela, yo espero,” Tony mumbled. “Jose, Jose.”
Jose was still entranced by the young lovely that had just passed by. By now, the other two ladies noticed what their young friend was up to. They hit her on the arms and dragged her down the street. Jose turned back to Tony.
“Que linda, no,” Jose smiled as he spoke.
“Si, pero estas ninas son joven,” Tony replied.
“Tu no gustas Mexicanas. Tu le gusta morenas.”
“Yo soy moreno.”
“Solamente un poco,” Jose responded. “Pero tu eres mi amigo.”
“Thanks,” Tony started. “I appreciate that. How’s your English coming.”
“Mas despacio, Tony.”
“How – is – your – English – coming?”
“Ahh, bien. Good.”
“Alright. Llamame si tu necesitas ayudar.”
“Okay, my friend.”
Tony and Jose clasped hands and Tony rushed to his car. The top to his convertible Mustang slowly came down. Some Afro-Cuban beats blared from the car’s sound system.
Tony was proud of his African and Latin roots. As a child, both Blacks and Mexicans had ridiculed him for not being either. He had the dark skin of his father and the straight hair of his mother. He spoke both Spanish and English with ease, but he really wasn’t accepted by either group until sometime in high school when some teacher told him that he should be a model. He tried it. He liked it and he made a little money. Everyone treated him differently at school once they saw his face on the cover of a magazine. But that was a while ago, years ago, when being biracial wasn’t as common as it later came to be and when it wasn’t as acceptable as it is now.
Tony nodded his head to the beat and sped away. It wasn’t long before Tony reached the intersection of Wilshire and Robertson, two blocks from his job at Power Records. Tony motored toward the intersection. The light quickly turned red in front of him. He slammed on the brakes of his expensive car and sat patiently while traffic flowed through the intersection from the cross street.
Tony had been at Power Records for almost four years now. He had worked his way up and worked his way in to every possible aspect of the music industry, but he hated it. Deep down, he was still a boy from South Central forced to put up with the Hollywood elitists and the “next big thing” who couldn’t hit the right note if it hit them first.
The light turned green. Tony sped through the intersection and raced the two blocks toward his office. He parked in the building’s parking structure and walked through the structure, his shoes smacking against the concrete in a hurried frenzy. Tony pushed the elevator button and waited. He tried to prepare for what was next. He knew that his boss would yell at him for being late for the eighth time this month, “But,” he would say, “It is part of my job to go to the clubs and if that wasn’t a part of my job, I wouldn’t oversleep and if I didn’t oversleep, I wouldn’t be late.” He knew his boss wouldn’t buy it, but he was going to try it anyway just like he had tried it the other seven times that he was late. As the elevator doors opened, he checked his watch.
“Damn,” Tony muttered to himself, “eleven o’clock.”
Satchel sat at her desk and fondled her pencils like they were something that she desperately needed or hopelessly wanted. It was a slow Wednesday. The phones weren’t ringing like they normally would during the pre-summer season.
Satchel had been a customer service representative at Serra Insurance for the past three years. It was a job that she both loved and hated with equal passion. She loved having power over those who thought they had so much power over her. She loved being able to help those who really needed it. She hated having to deal with irate customers with a smile in her voice even though there was anger in her heart. Every day was a struggle just to make it, but Satchel never missed a day, never came in late and never left early. She was a dedicated and hard working employee.
Satchel noticed her nameplate. She hated the name given her by her grandfather for one of his favorite baseball players. She hated having to explain to everyone how she got such a strange name, but she did love the attention that it brought her. Satchel was one of four girls born to her parents. She wasn’t the smartest of the girls or the prettiest or the funniest. She was only Satchel, but she longed to be so much more. She once thought that she had what it took to become a star. She was so convinced that she left her family and friends back in Detroit and at the age of eighteen, moved to Los Angeles. She figured, if nothing else, she could always dance in music videos. None of that ever happened to her. She had to find a job and earn an honest living. Promises from Hollywood types and wanna be directors all turned cold and Satchel was left with nothing but her name to bring her attention.
Satchel noticed the clock located in the right hand corner of her cubicle. “It’s only ten o’clock,” she said half wanting the woman who was in the cubicle next to her to hear. “It’s gonna be a long day.” There was silence. Satchel stood and looked over the cubicle wall. Mattie was in her own world. She was reading the newspaper and clipping coupons as she went along.
“I can’t believe you are still reading that paper,” Satchel started. “You know it’s racist. They never have one good thing to say about anybody with any melanin in their skin.”
“All news is racist,” Mattie responded. “It’s been that way since time first ticked.”
Mattie was a woman in her mid-fifties with a zest for life that Satchel couldn’t match on her best day. They got along well. Mattie looked at Satchel as a daughter and Satchel was in desperate need of a mother ever since she left Detroit. Satchel had a family that was there for her no matter what, but she wanted to be independent as far as they were concerned. She didn’t need to put up that façade with Mattie. Mattie knew that façade too well.
“Well, I wouldn’t buy it,” Satchel said defiantly.
Mattie responded with all her coolness without ever looking up from the newspaper. “Who said that I bought it? You ain’t the only one around here who knows something, you know.”
Satchel smiled. “You’re a trip, girl.”
“I know that. Let me see your scissors. Mine are damn near rusted shut.”
Satchel grabbed her scissors off her desk and handed them to Mattie.
“Instead of worrying about what’s racist and what isn’t, you should be trying to clip some coupons. Ain’t none of us around here making that kind of money that we don’t need to clip coupons.”
“That never saves me any money.”
“Then you ain’t clipping right.”
“Maybe not. I’m going on a smoke break. You wanna go?”
“No thanks. I promised my kids that I would try to cut down. This is the first day on my promise and I don’t want to let them down. I’ll be out there later though.”
“Well, I’m going now. The phones are slow anyway.”
“Look at it as a blessing in disguise. Maybe white folks finally got tired of complaining.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it.”
Satchel grabbed the pack of Salem Lights off her desk and walked through the office. She looked into every cubicle from hers to the back door where she exited to head for the elevator. Every cubicle had a story all its own. There was the woman she hated because she once tried to get her fired for no reason that Satchel could think of even two years after the incident. There was the man who asked her out on a date every payday even though she knew that he knew that his wife would kill him if she found out. She smiled as she got her cigarette ready so that she wouldn’t be outside too long just in case the phones did start ringing or her supervisor came strolling by more than once.
By the time Satchel reached the elevator and pressed the down button, she had her cigarette in her mouth and her lighter in one hand. The elevator arrived quickly. Satchel stepped on. It was empty. Good. She was in no mood for being polite to people she knew she would ignore after work. She quickly pushed the button for the first floor. The elevator doors closed just as quickly as the elevator had arrived and Satchel breathed a sigh of relief. She was alone, totally alone even if was only for the two seconds it took for the elevator to go from five to one. Satchel leaned back on the elevator wall and patiently waited.
It had been a long time since she had given up and returned to smoking. Satchel enjoyed what she called her one last vice. It was the thing she had to have. As far as she was concerned, smoking made her human. Nothing else in her life had much rhyme or reason to it except for her Salem Lights, which she enjoyed like other women, enjoyed a good meal or a great man. Satchel knew the dangers of each puff, but she didn’t let that ruin her moment of normalness.
Satchel had taken up smoking when she first arrived in Los Angeles for two reasons: she thought it made her look older and she thought it made her look sexier. Neither was the case, but she came to rely on her cigarettes as an extended member of her family; there after the last man walked out and the next one arrived. Her smoking time was almost like therapy. That was her time to think and figure out where to go from there. She liked the feeling she got after her smoking time. She knew that it had little to do with smoking and more to do with thinking, but a small part of her put the two together and kept them together.
Satchel stepped off the elevator and bounded toward the lobby doors. She noticed smokers already puffing away in the front of building. She headed towards the back. She was hoping to be alone. She needed to think. A feeling had been running through her body all day. It was the kind of feeling that wouldn’t go away no matter what you tried. Satchel reached the back door and checked outside. Empty. She walked out into the summer air. Not much of a breeze was blowing, but Los Angeles wasn’t known for being breezy. Satchel lit her cigarette and puffed.
Ever since Satchel was a little girl, she would let her mind wander. She would think of all the things that she could become, things her sisters would never be able to do. Today was no exception. Satchel thought of trying to think of a way to get her acting “career” back on track, if you could call it that. A McDonald’s commercial and a role as an extra on General Hospital hardly constituted a career. She was older now and could prepare herself better. She was better looking and had much more confidence than when she was eighteen. Surely a good agent would spot that right away and she would become the next great Black actress like that woman who did that Tina Turner movie.
As usual when Satchel got lost in her own world, she lost track of time. She glanced and her watch and double-checked it to make sure her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her.
“Ten-thirty,” she said.
Satchel put out her cigarette in the ashtray the company so graciously put outside just for the smokers and rushed back into the building. The strange feeling she had earlier had only grown stronger. “Maybe it’s just gas,” she thought as she pressed the up button on the elevator.
J.C. looked up at the clock. Ten o’clock, ten minutes after recess, two hours before lunch. He was stuck. Mrs. Akiem, his fifth grade teacher, was babbling on about English or Social Studies, maybe even math. He really didn’t know. He tried to pay attention because his parents had told him that was what he was supposed to do, but he really wasn’t in the mood. It was the third week of school, the beginning of the school year in his last year in elementary school. He knew that it was far too early to get excited about going to junior high, but he was. For the first time, he was actually happy that he went to a year-round school. That meant that he would leave elementary school in April instead of June like the students at the traditional schools. J.C. felt that for the first time in his life, he would have something on someone, anyone.
“Isn’t that right, Juan Carlos?” Mrs. Akiem said.
J.C. looked around. He hadn’t been paying attention, which had become normal. The other students snickered behind their math books.
“Right,” J.C. responded even though he knew what was coming next.
“Is that so? Then what did I say?”
“Huh?” He knew she was going to say that. She always did.
“What did I say?”
J.C. turned his head toward the window and thought for a moment before speaking. “I don’t know,” he said.
J.C. knew that Mrs. Akiem cared about him. He knew that what she did and how she did it was for his own good. He was only one of the few Black students at Community Magnet School and she was one of the few Black teachers. She was his toughest teacher, but he loved her the most. He just wished she didn’t call on him when he wasn’t paying attention.
“I wasn’t listening,” J.C. continued.
“Do I need to call your mother?” Mrs. Akiem asked. “She said that I could call her anytime, even at work.”
J.C. didn’t think Mrs. Akiem had to go there in front of all the other students in the class including Shamika. Everyone knew how J.C. felt about Shamika. There was no greater injustice in his fifth grade mind than to be made fun of in front of Shamika.
“No,” J.C. responded.
“No, what?” Mrs. Akiem pressured.
“No, you don’t have to call my mother.”
“Good. Now that we have that out of the way, I hope that you will decide that it is your place to pay attention and learn. It is my place to demand attention and teach. Are we agreed?”
“Yes, Mrs. Akiem.”
“Now, where was I? Oh yes. How do we add fractions when the denominators are not the same?”
A flurry of hands rose toward the sky. J.C. felt small. His mind was starting to drift again when he heard the bells ring that signified there was a fire drill. The class instantly jumped to their feet.
“Oh great,” Mrs. Akiem said in exasperation. “Another fire alarm. Hold on class. Let’s do this in an orderly fashion. We don’t want to run each other over and remember when we get outside to be careful of the little ones. One of you ran over a first grader last week. I was embarrassed for you. Now, let’s line up in two straight and quiet lines.”
Community Magnet School was the new multicultural mecca. Back in the seventies, it was full of whites only as compared to the school two blocks to the west, which was full of Blacks only, but the new millennium had brought about a change. Community Magnet School was now leading the charge to reflect the changing faces of Los Angeles. They had a long way to go.
J.C.’s class of twenty-two white students, five Latinos, two Blacks and one Asian began to line up the way they always did. They each had a specific spot in the line and a specific duty to carry out to make sure that the line was never out of order and always the way Mrs. Akiem liked it. There was a murmuring between students as they lined up. Mrs. Akiem was disturbed by the thought of the unplanned fire drill especially since they had just had two the week before.
As J.C. took his place near the end of the line, the door to the classroom flung open and a teenaged, white boy rushed into the classroom. Mrs. Akiem looked at him. His face was flushed red. He had a look of anxiety in his eyes. There was clearly something going on in his head that didn’t agree with what he felt in his heart.
“May I help you?” Mrs. Akiem started, the bells ringing above her raised voice.
The teenager didn’t speak. He looked around the room.
“We have to go,” Mrs. Akiem said with urgency. She sensed that something was wrong. “Let’s go students.”
Without warning, the teenager took out a pistol and shot Mrs. Akiem in the chest. The students scrambled around the room. Several of the students ran out of the door and down the hallway screaming all the way. Mrs. Akiem tried to stand, but fell to the ground. The teenager pointed his gun around the room. As he pointed, children screamed and ran, taking cover behind bookcases, under desks and in closets hoping that they wouldn’t be found.
The teenager walked around the room. He found Daniel, the class’ only Asian student, hiding in a closet. He shot him in the head. The teenager looked around like a hungry dog looking for food. He licked his lips savagely. He found Nayeli, the cute Mexican girl J.C. had a crush on last year, underneath a desk. He shot her as several other students were able to escape the room.
J.C. felt his heart thumping inside his chest. He covered his chest with his hands hoping to silence the sound. He thought for sure that the crazed teenager would find him and Shamika hiding under the teacher’s desk. If he could only silence his heart, maybe they would escape with their lives.
Mr. Joseph, the assistant principal, came barreling through the door. He was about 6’4” and a good, solid 250 pounds.
“What in sam hill is going on around here?” he said in his native Texan twang.
The teenager turned quickly towards the door. He saw Mr. Joseph’s pale, white face. The teenager squeezed the trigger. Mr. Joseph fell backwards into the hallway and lay in a pool of his own blood. The teenager resumed his search of the room.
Shamika had started to cry, softly at first, but getting louder with each passing second. J.C. tried to comfort her and quiet her at the same time, but he was unsuccessful. He wanted to cry himself, but his father had only recently told him that he was too old for that.
The teenager heard the crying, just as J.C. feared he would. With one trembling hand still holding the gun, the teenager used the other hand to turn over the desk. J.C. looked up at the teenager. For the first time, they had come face to face. They studied each other. J.C. noticed that the boy was trying to hold back tears. The acne on his face was the same color as his red hair. He was tall and skinny and dressed like Dracula.
The teenager looked at J.C. and saw the face of a child, but the eyes of a man. The teenager partly admired what he saw. He dropped his eyes, but J.C. never did. J.C. stared at the teenager wondering what to do next. The teenager looked up and took a deep sigh. What happened next occurred so quickly that J.C. wouldn’t have a chance to remember it.
J.C. covered Shamika’s body with his. The teenager shot. The bullet pierced the back of J.C.’s neck. A second shot quickly followed. A small part of J.C.’s brain splattered to the floor. Shamika screamed as the teenager aimed at her head with J.C.’s lifeless body on top of hers.
Mrs.
Akiem pulled herself up using the bookcase and the wall to steady her
balance.
She focused on the teenager who was standing with his
back to her and facing the long, glass window that looked onto the
playground. Most of the students had assembled on the schoolyard.
Parents were running around in a frenzy. Helicopters hovered
overhead. Mrs. Akiem felt the pain from the hole in her chest. Her
head pounded. She was angry, angry that she had gotten shot, angry
that her children had become the latest target of some mad person’s
act of vengeance.
Mrs. Akiem steadied herself against the wall. She put her hands behind her and pushed herself forward. She gained momentum as she reached the teenager. He turned around a moment too late, just in time to see Mrs. Akiem lunging at him. Together they went through the first floor plate glass window. Glass penetrated their bodies, sticking through cavities they had never used or hadn’t used in a long time.
The teenager died instantly. His gun went sprawling across the playground at the moment of impact. Mrs. Akiem looked at him and smiled. She had saved her students. That’s all she ever really wanted and that’s what she had done. Her job was complete. She closed her eyes and passed away with a smile on her face.
By the time Tony got into the office, he noticed that something was different. The music was still blaring as it always was. Rap rang from one office. Rock blared from another. The television was on as it always was. Everyone was exactly where they always were doing the same thing they always did, but somehow it seemed different.
Tony looked in his boss’ office. He wasn’t in. Good. He only reported to one person and he wouldn’t have to explain anything or make up any far-fetched tales this morning. Tony slid into his cubicle that was stacked with CDs from various artists that he couldn’t give away. He wondered why the company was putting out so much shit and expecting the public to eat it up. “Monkey see, monkey do,” he often said to himself. Tony knew that if one artist came out with something new and it sold, it was only a matter of weeks before the concept would be duplicated. Only the names and faces ever changed in the music industry. Everything else remained the same.
Tony threw his backpack down in the corner and picked up his telephone. He dialed his code to check his voice mail messages. Three new messages. He listened. Delete. Delete. Delete. Nothing important. Today was shaping up to be a good day.
Tony searched through a stack of CDs on his desk. He was feeling a little mellow today. Last night had gotten the better of him. For the first time, he realized that he was no longer twenty-one. He couldn’t do the things the young kids could do anymore. He had to face the fact that he was getting older. Tony found an old Marvin Gaye CD, Trouble Man, and put it into the portable CD player that sat on his desk. He nodded his head to the beat and wished that he were able to smoke a joint in the office. That would really do the trick. “It’s all for the better,” he thought after a moment. “I really need to give that stuff up anyway.”
Satchel raced back to her desk and sat down quickly. Mattie didn’t look up. She only said, “Girl, ain’t nobody been looking for you and the phones haven’t rang once. Hell, I almost came down and joined you. Then, I remembered that my kids would kill me if I had more than one cigarette a day.”
Satchel didn’t speak. She was a little out of breath. The elevator was a little too slow for her liking and she had trotted up the five flights of stairs. Satchel thought of herself in good shape. She could do aerobics with the best of them, but she wasn’t going to give up smoking. She leaned back in her chair and turned on the little radio that sat on her desk. She was in the mood for KJLH, her favorite radio station. It soothed her, not as much as cigarettes, but in California you can’t smoke in the workplace.
Tony was able to clear most of the paperwork off of his desk in fifteen minutes. Most of it just needed a signature. It now sat proudly in his out box. He was going out in the field to meet with a couple of record store owners after lunch and he wanted his desk clear for once. When he felt that he had made a decent dent in the paper overflow, he walked towards the kitchen. He needed a cold drink. The office was a little warmer than usual and Tony was doing more work than usual.
Tony reached the kitchen and found a group of his co-workers surrounding the television. He didn’t look to see what all the commotion was about. He figured one of their artists was being arrested again. Maybe it would be interesting this time and the guilty artist would actually do jail time. Tony searched around in his pocket and found the exact change to purchase a juice from the vending machine. Today was a good day. He never had the exact change. As his can rattled to the bottom of the vending machine, Lisa turned away from the television.
“Hey Tony, what’s going on?” she asked.
“Not much,” Tony responded.
“You know Mr. Phillips isn’t coming in today. In fact, he’s out for the rest of the week. He had to go to New York last night on business. You’re so lucky. Your boss is away for the rest of the week. I wish I was in your shoes.”
“We all can’t be born lucky,” Tony gloated.
“You’re a lot luckier than the kids at this school,” Marc chimed in without taking his eyes off the television screen.
“Another shooting,” Tony said. “This is getting ridiculous. Why can’t their parents do something? Where was it this time, Kalamazoo, Michigan?”
“Not a small town this time,” Marc responded. “Right here in LA. In fact, not that far from here.”
“It’s a school right off of Pico and LaCienga,” Lisa said. “I think that’s what they said on the news. An elementary school this time. You know all of the others were either junior high or high schools.”
“An elementary school?” Tony questioned. “Community?”
“What?” Lisa asked. She had turned back towards the television and was watching intently while the newscaster talked to several of the parents and teachers live.
“Is the name of the school Community?”
“Yeah,” Marc said. “That’s it. The news is there right now. This is live. A couple of kids were killed. Some teachers too, but they really aren’t saying too much about it. The kids are just screaming, scared, you know.”
“Killed?” Tony said numbly as his juice slipped from his head and splattered all over the floor and his white linen pants.
Lisa turned around again and said, “You made a mess. Look at your pants.”
“I’ve got to go. Necesito ir a la escuela.”
Tony often resorted to speaking Spanish when he was excited or upset. It’s a habit that he picked up from his mother who preferred that he never learned Spanish at all. She never thought he would get a job or be truly accepted as a full American citizen if he spoke too much Spanish. She knew what a hard time she had in this country. There was no American dream for her, no streets paved with gold, only hardships and hard work.
Tony ran out of the kitchen slipping on the juice he spilled on the floor, but maintaining his balance.
“What’s wrong with him?” Marc said to Lisa.
Satchel screamed, “Noooo!” It was loud and piercing. Everyone in the office turned around to look at her, but she didn’t care. She grabbed her purse and headed for the door.
“Satchel, what’s wrong with you girl?” Mattie said.
She received no answer. Satchel was halfway to the back door. Mattie stood up and searched the room for Satchel. She found her with one hand on the doorknob and the other clutching her purse.
“Satchel!” Mattie yelled.
Satchel stopped in her tracks and looked at Mattie with a tear in her eye. She knew that Mattie never raised her voice and she never stood unless it was time to go home or she needed a smoke break. She even ate lunch at her desk. Satchel had never seen Mattie get up to get a cup of coffee or use the bathroom, so she stopped because she knew that Mattie meant business. She knew that Mattie cared enough for her to stand up and find out why she was screaming while everyone else just looked.
Mattie walked towards Satchel slowly. Satchel was in a hurry, but she didn’t move. She waited for Mattie to reach her and put her hand on Satchel’s shoulder.
“Are you alright?” Mattie asked.
Satchel closed her eyes and tried to gather her words before she spoke. “The radio,” she said. “Someone has been shooting at my child’s school and I have to go.”
“Are you alright?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care about me, but I have to go. I don’t care about this job. I have to go.”
“I don’t care about this job either. I’m going to drive you. You’re in no condition to drive yourself anywhere.” Mattie looked over her shoulder and said, “I know you’re listening. You tell them that we had to go make sure Satchel’s child was okay. You make sure you tell them that Mattie said so.”
A few heads nodded. A few people whispered, “Okay.” Then there was silence. The woman who Satchel hated was silent. The man who asked Satchel out on a date every payday lowered his head. Mattie put her hand in Satchel’s back and lightly pushed her out of the door. Mattie looked around the office and followed Satchel into the hallway. The door echoed as it closed shut. There was only silence.
Shamika was still crying and screaming when help finally arrived. A police officer loomed over her.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said. “Everything is okay now. There is no more danger.”
Shamika didn’t believe him. She only screamed louder. Several of the other children were led away from the room with other officers.
“I’m Officer Jones,” said the officer. “I’m here to help you.”
Shamika looked at the officer’s round, Black face and muffled her screams although she couldn’t hold back her tears. Officer Jones tapped J.C.’s body and shook his head. He lifted J.C. off of Shamika with one hand and swooped Shamika into his arms with the other. He carried her like a rag doll out of the classroom and onto the school playground where police and medical staff hurried about. Officer Jones put her down on a stretcher.
“You need to see her now,” he demanded to the medical personnel. “She was in the room where the shooting took place.”
Three people in white jackets rushed around Shamika and swept her in their arms. Shamika grabbed out for Officer Jones. He held out his hand. She touched it softly as the three people rushed her away. Officer Jones looked out over the schoolyard. Frantic children and terrified teachers ran to and fro as worried parents barreled through the rusted gates yelling the names of tiny tots they hoped to see alive again. Tears fell to the ground like a thunderstorm. Gloom covered the school like a blanket. Officer Jones took another look around the schoolyard and headed back into the building for another look inside.
Satchel rushed through the gates like a woman possessed. Her eyes searched frantically. Her heart led her in the right direction. Satchel ran pass the table that served as the school’s security post near the front gate. Mattie lagged behind puffing on a cigarette and shaking her head for two reasons. She knew that her children were going to be disappointed about the cigarettes she had now planned on smoking that day and she felt Satchel’s pain, a single mother not knowing whether her entire reason for living was still alive.
“Excuse me, Miss,” said the lady who sat at the security table as Satchel ran past.
Satchel didn’t hear her. She ran to room seven. So many times, she had walked into that room and listened to Mrs. Akiem talk. Satchel had faith in Mrs. Akiem. She knew that Mrs. Akiem was a good teacher and was doing the best for all of her students, but especially the Black ones.
As Satchel neared the room, she saw the yellow tape like those that had marked the homes and places that she held dear back in Detroit. That had been years ago when Detroit was known as the “murder capital of the world.” That was a title she was glad she was no longer a part of, but she felt the tears well up inside her and she neared room seven. Satchel reached out and touched the tape. She peered into the room. Tears streamed down her face.
“I’m sorry, Miss,” Officer Jones started, “all of the children are outside. I know this is a painful experience, but I’m going to have to ask you to go outside. There is someone out there who will help you.”
Satchel looked around the room. She saw the broken window. She saw the bodies with sheets covering them. She slid down to the floor and covered her face in her hands.
“Miss,” Officer Jones said.
He was halfway under the yellow tape when Satchel looked up. Her eyes were filled with tears that she wiped away with the back of her hand. Officer Jones extended his hand and helped Satchel to her feet. The look of despair in her eyes had turned to vengeance and spite. She wanted to know who could do such a thing to a group of children. Why weren’t the children safe? She wanted to know who could do such a thing to a single parent. Didn’t they know how hard she tried? Didn’t they know all that she had been through?
“I need to find my child,” Satchel said stoically.
“There is someone outside who can help you,” Officer Jones responded.
“Where is Mrs. Akiem?”
“Please, Miss. This is a trying time for all of us. I’m going to have to ask you to go outside.”
“No. I want to know where my child is. You’re going to tell me.”
“What is your child’s name?”
Tony rushed through the rusted gates just as Satchel had done. He passed Mattie on the way who was still puffing on a cigarette. She was on her second in a row and thinking of a third.
Tony headed for the school, but thought better of it and joined the other parents on the schoolyard. His eyes surveyed the yard. He saw the children crying. He saw the parents running around frantically searching for their children. He heard the helicopter overhead, but was afraid to look up at it. He thought that someone would see him and know that he wasn’t all that he pretended to be. After all, what kind of father would allow his only child to go to a school where such a thing could happen? What kind of father would spend so little time with his child that he had no idea where his child could be, no room number, no teacher’s name, nothing.
Tony turned around just in time to see Satchel walking from the building, her face buried in Officer Jones’ chest. Mattie ran up to Satchel and put her arm around her before Tony could get his feet to move. Officer Jones slid away from Satchel as Mattie cradled Satchel in her arms and gently stroked her face. Tony moved slowly toward Satchel fearing the worst, but hoping for the best. His eyes welled with tears as he neared Satchel.
“Satchel,” Tony slurred. “Satchel, it’s me.”
Satchel looked up and saw Tony. Tears streamed down her face as she reached out to him.
“She’s okay,” Satchel managed to say between the tears. “She’s alive and she’s okay.”
“Thank God,” Tony replied as he held Satchel tighter.
“Thank you Jesus,” Mattie muttered.
“Where is she?” Tony asked.
“She’s with the nurses out here on the yard,” Satchel said, feeling much stronger now. “She saw everything. Another boy used his body to save her life. I want to go find my baby.”
“I’m going to get on back to work,” Mattie said. “I’m glad everything worked out for you, baby. You call me if you need anything.”
“Thank you Mattie. Thank you for bringing me here and staying with me. It means a lot to me.”
“That’s what friends are for.”
“Then thank you for being my friend.”
Satchel hugged Mattie like she was her long lost mother. In many ways, she was. Mattie had filled the role of mother to Satchel better than Satchel’s own mother had. Mattie kissed Satchel lightly on the cheek and rubbed her back.
“It’s going to be okay now,” Mattie said. “You wait and see.”
Mattie turned to Tony and looked at him intently before speaking. “You must be Tony,” she said.
“I am,” Tony replied.
“You need to do right by this woman and your daughter.”
“I’m doing the best I can.”
“Bullshit. The best that you can ain’t shit. You need to do right.”
And with that, Mattie turned and walked away without saying another word or waiting for any response. She lit a cigarette as she passed through the school’s gate and whispered, “Fuck my kids. I’m gonna smoke.”
Shamika sat on a stretcher next to Rosanna. Rosanna has also managed to escape the gunman’s bullets. They had seen something that most people would never see in their lives. They knew that the people at home who were watching their misfortunes on some breaking news story would never know how they felt. No one would ever know how they felt unless they had lived through it themselves.
Shamika wiped the tears away from her eyes and sat still as the nurse examined her. Rosanna never shed a tear. She wanted to, but her heart wouldn’t let her. She never wanted the gunman to think he had the best of her. Rosanna sat on the stretcher with her back erect. She looked at Shamika who was getting herself together.
“Be strong, girl,” Rosanna started. “We’re different now. Today changed us.”
Shamika nodded as she heard her mother’s voice. “Shamika!” Satchel said with a shrill. Shamika knew that her mother was glad she was alive, but sad that something like this had to happen to her only child. Satchel ran to Shamika with Tony right behind. Satchel flung her arms around Shamika and held on tightly.
“How is she?” Tony asked the nurse.
“She’s fine physically,” the nurse said. “These children have all been through a lot today. The repercussions of what happened here will last for a long time. I’m sure the school will have someone come in and talk to the children, but maybe you might want to have your daughter talk to someone one on one. She was in the room where the killings took place.”
“Damn,” Tony muttered.
“I want to take her home,” Satchel spoke frantically. “Can we go home? I want to go home with my daughter.”
“I think you need to talk to someone from the office staff,” the nurse said. “They just want to make sure that all of the children are accounted for.”
“I’ll find them and let them know,” Tony said. “You two go ahead. I’ll meet you by the car.”
“Alright,” Satchel said relieved.
Satchel helped Shamika stand. They stood there for a short moment and looked into each other’s eyes the way they always did when they wanted to say something that words could not express. A single tear rolled down Satchel’s cheek.
“Come on, baby,” Satchel said to Shamika. “Let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”
Tony walked toward the center of the schoolyard as Satchel and Shamika walked toward the school gate. Shamika looked back at Rosanna. Rosanna forced a smile and dropped her head for a moment. Within seconds, Rosanna was sitting erect and looking straight ahead. Shamika turned around and rushed out of the school gate with her mother leading the way.
“You’ve been through a lot today, huh?” the nurse asked Rosanna. “How do you feel?”
“I’m okay,” Rosanna responded. I wasn’t shot or anything. I got out of there after Nayeli got shot. I ran with some other kids. We didn’t know if that man was going to chase us or not. We just ran.”
“You’re a brave young lady.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada. Did I say that right? I took Spanish in high school, but I’m not going to tell you how long ago that was.”
“That was right.”
Rosanna had come to Los Angeles three years ago from Guatemala. She rode the rails with her two cousins and her mother. They had hoped that once they got to America, life would be better. They had heard that the streets were paved with gold and no one was ever hungry and everyone could get an education. Their hopes went unanswered. The four of them spent the first two years in Los Angeles unable to find work or shelter. They slept on the street in South Central while Rosanna went to school where she learned English and excelled in every subject. Finally, her mother was able to get a job and a sponsor. The threat and danger of being illegal immigrants was coming to an end. One of Rosanna’s teachers at Wadsworth Avenue School recommended her for Community because she was so smart. Now, three years later, Rosanna was at a good school, her mother had a job and her two cousins were nowhere to be found. Only God knew where they could be and what they could be up to. They were teenagers after all and Rosanna learned early that there were no rules for teenagers.
“Oh dios mio, Rosanna!” Rosanna’s mother shouted from across the schoolyard. She ran to Rosanna and put her arms around her.
Tony joined Satchel and Shamika by his car. He opened the passenger door. Satchel made sure Shamika was comfortable in the back seat before she sat down in the passenger seat. Tony quickly jumped in the car. He looked around to make sure everyone was in the car and buckled up. He slowly pulled away from the curb making a conscious effort not to drive like he normally would.
The ride was silent. The sound of the hovering news choppers overhead drowned out the faint sound of the radio. Tony placed his right hand gently in Satchel’s left. They grabbed onto one another just like the first time they had made love. They were grasping for the fear of the unknown. They were scared just as they had been the night Shamika was conceived.
Shamika noticed her parents sharing a moment that only parents could share. She cleared her throat. Tony quickly glanced back then redirected his attention to the road. Satchel let go of Tony’s hand and turned to face Shamika. Satchel reached out her hand. Shamika told hold of it.
“There was this boy,” Shamika started. “He saved my life. He covered me with his body. That man was going to shoot me and then I would have been dead, but that boy is dead instead. He saved my life.”
“What boy?” Satchel asked, half grateful, half sorrowful.
“His name was Juan Carlos. We called him J.C. He was like you Daddy.”
“Like me?” Tony asked.
“Half Black, half Mexican. Only he didn’t speak Spanish at all. He was nice though. He was really nice. I should have been nicer to him.”
Shamika had known that J.C. liked her. It was her vanity that would not let her accept his attentions. After all, he had liked Nayeli just the year before. Everyone knew that. What would Shamika look like going around with a boy that had liked Nayeli, a girl who couldn’t even double dutch.
Tony pulled up the car in front of Satchel’s two bedroom apartment. He unbuckled his seatbelt and turned to face Shamika.
“You okay, baby?” he asked.
“I really don’t know Daddy,” Shamika answered. “I think so.”
“Let’s get you in the house,” Satchel said.
They got out of the car. Tony followed Satchel and Shamika down the walkway leading to the backhouse apartment that Satchel rented from an elderly couple. Tony was a little apprehensive. He had only been in the apartment once. Satchel had gotten upset with something he said and put him out. From that day on, he waited for Shamika outside whenever he picked her up.
Satchel opened the door. Shamika rushed into the house and ran straight to her bedroom. Tony waited at the door. Satchel looked at him.
“Come on in,” she said.
Tony walked into the apartment and looked around. It looked different than he remembered. Satchel had been redecorating, but then again, that was her thing. She loved to take nothing and make it something.
“Well, what do we do now?” Tony questioned.
“I don’t know,” Satchel said. “I’m just as confused and scared as you. That was our little girl who could have been hurt today.”
“But she wasn’t.”
“Not that we can see. She has some hurt inside her. It just isn’t bodily harm.”
“Maybe she should talk to somebody.”
“Maybe she should.”
“I can look around, find out who is good.”
“Okay.”
“I’d better go. I’m going to go say goodbye to Shamika. You let me know if you need me for anything.”
“I will. Thank you for coming today.”
“She’s my daughter too, Satchel. I love her too.”
“I guess you do.”
Tony walked through the apartment and into Shamika’s room. The door was open. He quickly looked around the room. Posters of that young, white, boy band lined the walls. Tony never understood why Shamika listened to Black sounding singers when she could just listen to Black singers.
Shamika was laid across her princess bed with the pink ruffle comforter. As Tony entered the room, she quickly wiped her tears away.
“You don’t have to do that for me,” Tony said. “Everyone deserves to cry sometime. Today is your sometime.”
“I know,” Shamika responded. “I’m not crying for me. I’m crying for J.C. because he wanted to, but he’s a boy and boys aren’t supposed to cry. I could tell he wanted to cry though, but now he will never be able to cry. That’s why I’m crying.”
“Well, when you’re crying,” Tony started, “don’t forget to cry for yourself. Someone needs to cry for you too. It might as well be you.”
“I won’t forget.”
“I’m going to go now. Tu mama y yo tenemos muchas amores para ti. Remember that.”
“I will.”
Shamika was not nearly fluent in Spanish. She couldn’t speak a word of it, but her father had taught her enough to communicate. At least she could understand it even if she couldn’t speak it. That was more than she could say for J.C. and he was half Mexican. Shamika lowered her eyes as they started to well up with tears again. J.C. had crossed her mind again. She wondered would he now always be a part of her.
Tony walked across the room and sat down on the bed. Shamika sat up and rested her head on Tony’s shoulder. The tears began to flow freely down her face. She was unable to stop them or pretend that they didn’t exist. Tony held Shamika for twenty minutes before she stopped crying. “Go on, baby. Cry,” he kept saying over and over.
Tony stroked Shamika’s hair and rocked her gently. Satchel stood in the doorway watching the father – daughter moment. Tony looked down at Shamika. She was asleep. He set her down on the bed and softly walked past Satchel and out of the room. Satchel went over to Shamika and kissed her on the forehead. Satchel walked out of the room.
Tony stood in the living room with his car keys in his hands. His eyes met Satchel’s as she walked into the room. He remembered how beautiful he thought she was when they had first met. He saw that beauty in her now.
“You call me if you need something,” Tony said. “And even if you don’t.”
“I will,” Satchel said.
Tony walked out of the apartment. He walked down the hallway and fought the urge to look back. He reached his car and sighed before climbing in. Tony examined his watch. It was a little before four. He thought about going back to work, but thought the better of it and decided to head home. He glanced back at the apartment building once before starting the car and driving away.
Shamika awoke early in the morning. The sun was just beginning to beam through the trees. She tiptoed from her bedroom careful not to wake her mother. She noticed Satchel asleep in a chair that faced her room. Shamika smiled faintly then shook her head. She knew that her mother loved her. Once again she was provided with evidence.
Shamika went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror just as she had done days before. She looked the same. The same face stared back at her only it seemed different. Shamika analyzed herself closely then closed her eyes.
Satchel stood in the doorway of the bathroom watching her daughter. She had been awakened from her light sleep by the sound of footsteps. She rushed to the bathroom to make sure that Shamika was okay.
“You don’t have to go to school today,” Satchel said. “I think it would be best if you stayed home. I mean, it’s only been a few days. It just happened on Friday.”
Shamika was startled. She opened her eyes quickly and faced her mother.
“I’m sorry,” Satchel continued. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m not scared,” Shamika said. “I thought you were asleep. I was trying not to wake you up.”
“I don’t think either of us got a good night sleep last night. How are you feeling?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to talk?”
“Yes, but not right now.”
“I’ll make us some breakfast,” said Satchel.
Satchel disappeared into the kitchen. Shamika heard the rustling of pots. She looked at herself in the mirror again. She wondered what J.C. was doing now, if he was watching her, if he was always going to be there to protect her.
“Mama!” Shamika shrieked.
Satchel came rushing into the bathroom with a pot still in her hand. Her face looked fearful of what she might find when she reached her destination.
“What is it, baby?” Satchel asked out of breath.
“I want to go to J.C.’s funeral,” Shamika said solemnly. “I don’t know when it is, but whenever it is, I want to go.”
“Alright. I’ll go with you.”
“And I want to go to school today.”
“Are you sure? You don’t have to. I can stay home with you.”
“You don’t have to do that. I don’t want you to miss work because of me.”
“Please. You’d be doing me a favor. It’s not like I’m doing something important. I’m a customer service rep. Someone else will be there to answer whatever questions someone needs answered.”
“Mama, you have never missed a day of work. You don’t need to start now. I’m okay and I want to go to school.”
“If that’s what you want, I won’t try to stop you. Maybe it’s what you need.”
“It is.”
“Alright. Then you better get ready. I’ll finish breakfast and walk you to school. You know my car is still at work.”
“Okay.”
Satchel walked back into the kitchen as Shamika closed the bathroom door and turned on the shower.
Tony awoke with the dawn for the first time in nearly a decade. He looked at the clock. Six o’clock. He laid on his back in the bed and stared at the ceiling. For the first morning in so many mornings, his head was clear. He was fully aware of what had happened the day before. His mind didn’t wander to which recording star he needed to escort around town today or which female MC wanted to make a baby with him just to prove their womanhood.
Tony slid the covers off his body and sat up on the edge of the bed. He picked up the telephone and dialed Satchel. She answered right away. They spoke pleasantly and sincerely to one another. They rarely did that. Satchel said that Shamika was in the shower preparing to go to school because she wanted to.
“She’s strong,” Tony responded to the information. “She’s just like her mother.”
“That’s a compliment, right?” Satchel questioned.
“If you want it to be.”
“I don’t think I do. The last time I heard one of those come out of your mouth, I ended up pregnant.”
“You deserve it. The compliment, I mean. You’re doing a good job with Shamika. I don’t say that often enough.”