High Crime Area (26 page)

With a bright glistening grin Ezekiel asks, as if we've just run into each other casually on the sidewalk: “What you doin here, ma'am? You teachin?”

I tell him
yes.
Briefly, with a small smile
yes.

Ezekiel is older than I remember, in his early thirties perhaps. Is it ominous, in this chilly weather Ezekiel is wearing a soiled gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut crudely off at the shoulder, as if to display his tight-muscled arms? I can see veins in his biceps, veins in his forehead. He seems to be perspiring: oozing oily beads of sweat, as in a drug high.
Is he high on drugs?
Is he deranged?
A wave of dread comes over me, one of Ezekiel's hands remains inside his trouser pocket... He is fondling the edge of a knife blade, is he?—or, with equal surreptitiousness, the edge of his genitals.
Is he touching himself? Defiantly, in front of me?

I am staring at Ezekiel's face. I am (resolutely) not looking at his hand slow-moving inside his trousers. Yet, the terror comes over me, obviously Ezekiel has a knife, Ezekiel would not be without a weapon in the inner city of Detroit if but to defend himself, and if Ezekiel has a knife, he is now drawing his forefinger over the blade, caressing, calibrating its sharpness; he is imagining how he will use this blade, how he will use both hands (of course) seizing my hair, yanking me forward, and down, down on my knees, deftly he will position me so that he can bring the knife blade swiftly across my throat, and with enough force to sever the skin, the tissue, cartilage, a vein, the throbbing carotid artery—this will not be a frenzied slaughter—(I think)—but something like an execution. And very swiftly and deftly executed, for it has been planned and, for all I know, it has already been executed. It has been
memorized.

The fallen woman, suddenly limp, inconsequential on the filthy pavement. Terrified eyes now blank. Mouth open, but no sound emerges—she is mute, her speech has been taken from her. Possibly she has tried to press her fingers against her throat—to apply pressure to the exploding artery. But she has bled out within minutes. All this has happened already, it is foretold. Beneath the back-flung head, a perfect pool of blood.

Even with the gun, this could happen to me. There is no way I could get the gun out of my shoulder bag, back off and begin to fire—Ezekiel is too quick-witted, and possibly, he is too practiced at wielding a knife.

Yet, numbly I hear myself say: “Yes. I'm teaching the same class—composition. In the same building, I think the same classroom. At the same time, Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

Ezekiel, who has been gazing at me with rapt attention, as if seeing something in my face of which I am unaware, doesn't seem to have heard this. He's making a murmurous sound
Uh
—yeh?—uh-huh! OK maa'aam!

Yet, at such a time the bizarre thought comes to me, what it would be like to call such a person
brother
.

Ezekiel, my brother. Ezekiel
—is that your name?

As if he has sensed my terror Ezekiel begins to speak rapidly, with a bright damp-toothed smile. He is trying to explain to me—something—that isn't altogether coherent. Such speech is a way of placating terror—as an adult might address a frightened child while advancing upon the child holding something behind his back, or secreted in a pocket. Half-consciously, I step back. Between us there is the pretext that this is a normal conversation, a friendly conversation; the pretext that I'm able to understand him without difficulty, for I am nodding and smiling as teachers invariably do with students, to show sympathy, and to encourage; here is a (female, white) instructor, a (male, black) student near the campus of a sprawling urban university with a mission to educate all citizens. Yes, it is a reversal, a tacit insult: the instructor is younger than the student. This seems wrong. This seems unjust. Perhaps it is “racist.” Yet, it is unavoidable. I can't apologize for the person I am, as I can't apologize for the myriad circumstances that have brought me here, or for the (conspicuous) color of my skin. And I am now recalling, prompted by something Ezekiel says, how at the end of the last class he'd attended he'd told me that he had to
go inside
for a while and didn't think he could finish the course. In shame he'd lowered his voice so that I could hardly hear him. So that others standing nearby couldn't hear him. At the time I had no idea what he meant but later, hearing a night school colleague speak wonderingly of a student who'd actually been arrested in a classroom in Starret Hall, led out of the room handcuffed by two uniformed police officers, I realized that Ezekiel must have meant that he was
going inside
what was called, somewhat euphemistically, a “correctional facility”—he'd been, to use the familiar Detroit term, “incarcerated.”

No one
went to prison
. Criminals were
incarcerated.

Whatever Ezekiel's crime, it couldn't have been very serious. Or he'd been allowed to plead guilty to a lesser charge. The sentence couldn't have been long. (Was Ezekiel paroled? Had something happened, he'd been
released
?) For now Ezekiel is standing before me, his former English teacher, smiling and smirking, not certain what he seems to be telling me, or what his intentions are.

Still, he is tracing the outline of the knife inside his trousers. He isn't carrying a gun, there isn't room for even a small gun inside those trousers. He isn't touching his genitals—I am sure, it's a knife blade. Above and to the left of his groin. A slender knife would fit there, as a handgun would not. His bluish-lidded eyes half-close, his fleshy lips retain a dreamy smile.
He is imagining it: the swift deep cut. The explosion of blood that is not “white” but a dark, satisfying red.
Yet, in a resolutely calm and friendly voice I am asking Ezekiel if he's taking courses this semester at Wayne State and he shrugs enigmatically—maybe yes, maybe no. (The question has flattered him, I think. It is also unexpected. It is causing Ezekiel to rapidly reassess the situation—and himself.)

Overhead, the sky is streaked with red, splotched like fraying clouds. The air smells of chemicals, diesel exhaust. I wonder if I should compliment Ezekiel on his muscled arms—
Do you work out, Ezekiel? In a gym?
—but the thought comes to me that this is too familiar, too intimate, and probably Ezekiel would have to say he's been working out in prison.

That is, a correctional facility.

And I might ask him, blindly, daringly—
Is this Slate River? Do you know an inmate approximately your age there, a black Muslim, his name is
—Joah? The cousin of one of my students this semester
...

Ezekiel's bluish-dreamy hooded eyes blink slowly. Pointedly, Ezekiel glances around. No one on the street. No one inside the parking garage. Yet, a half-block away at Cass, there is a stream of traffic. And now, streetlights have come on, as if grudgingly. At any moment, a Detroit police cruiser might turn onto this narrow side street and drive slowly past us. At any moment, two (white) police officers in the cruiser, clearly visible beneath the windshield. More than once I'd felt myself saved from similar ambiguous situations in Detroit, an empty stretch of sidewalk, lone individuals or teenagers behind me suddenly very quiet, and then—the police cruiser... Though afterward recounting the experience to colleagues and friends—(not ever to my husband!)—I'd underplayed my vast heart-stopping relief, and ridiculed my fears.

As if he's made a decision, as if (perhaps) he understands perfectly all that has rushed through my mind, Ezekiel says in an oddly elevated voice, as if he hopes to be overheard by witnesses, “Maa'aam, I'm gon walk with you, you look like you need somebody walkin with you.”

He removes his hand from his pocket. Like an overgrown boy he adjusts the cap more securely on his head.

Walk with me—where?

Quickly I tell Ezekiel that I'm going to the library, to meet my husband. I am not going to the parking garage after all.

Ezekiel smiles, hearing this. He's amused, he knows that I am inventing, out of desperation; such invention is natural to him, and he admires it, in me.

I tell Ezekiel that I don't need him to walk with me. I thank Ezekiel but repeat, I don't need him to walk with me.

Ezekiel frowns happily, shaking his head. “Ma'am, I goin to the lib'ry too, infact. That's where I'm goin, we c'n walk together.”

“But—”

“Ma'am, we goin there. Over that way, in't it?”

And so my decision is made for me: I will not need to fumble in my shoulder bag. I will not need to reveal the gun shaking in my (white) hand. I will not need to (blindly) fire at Ezekiel staring at me in quick-dawning horror. I will not need to cross over into that other life.

I am relieved—am I? I am numb.

And numbly then setting out in the direction of the university library, with my former student. And neither of us has been revealed to the other. And neither of us has been exposed to the other. Now I see the name of the short, dark block: Trumbell. Ezekiel is protective of me, even chiding—“Ma'am, crossin this street, better watch out.” As if the gesture is altogether natural, Ezekiel dares to take my arm—closes his strong fingers about my arm, above the elbow. The gesture seems to be unpremeditated and curiously impersonal but I am sweating profusely now and fear that I will smell of my body.

“Ma'am, watch out for them fuckin potholes...”

Fuckin
. It is a rude little nudge, this word. Ezekiel speaking to his former instructor in a way to convey both concern and sexual disrespect.

Once across Cass we make our way onto the near-deserted campus. We are a strange couple—you would glance at us curiously, and perhaps you would stare after us—
Who are they? Not lovers
—are they? Will one turn upon the other, to inflict harm? To murder?
We pass a graffiti-covered wall but it is undistinguished, uninspired graffiti—not graffiti to which I would wish to call Ezekiel's attention. And passing a row of darkened wood-frame houses, remnants of a residential neighborhood, renovated, with “modern” facades—
CAMPUS
MINISTRY
.
THIRD
WORLD
CENTER
.
PSYCHOLOGICAL
COUNSELING
.
AFRICAN
-
AMERICAN
HOUSE
.

Tall arc lights illuminate this central part of the campus. Here, it isn't quite so deserted. Ezekiel is saying that he “go to the lib'ry” every night at this time. Ezekiel insists upon escorting me into the dour granite building, up the steps and inside, where there is a blast of overwarm air, and a security guard seated at a turnstile checking IDs. Here, Ezekiel holds back. And I hesitate.

The guard is a middle-aged black man. He is wearing a uniform, and it appears that he is also wearing a holster and a firearm. “Ma'am?” he says. “You comin in the library?” He has recognized me as a university person—graduate student, younger teacher. He is aware of but has scarcely glanced at Ezekiel hovering a few feet behind me.

Seeing that I'm agitated, though making an effort to appear calm. My tremulous lips, dilated eyes. Clammy-pale skin. Gripping the unwieldy leather bag in both hands. I will need to retrieve my wallet from the bag, will need to rummage desperately in the bag to find the wallet, for there are other items in the bag including, in a compartment, the bulky little gun which is a secret, and which no one must know about; and from the wallet I will need to extract the laminated plastic ID card with my wanly smiling miniature face, but these complicated maneuvers are much for me to grasp at the moment. Barely I can hear the security guard's voice through the roaring in my ears.

“Ma'am? Somethin wrong?”

Something wrong? At first the question seems to baffle me.

“No. I'm meeting my husband here. Inside—here.”

My voice is cracked. My throat is very dry. The gravely frowning security guard cups his hand to his ear, to hear more clearly this barely audible guilty-sounding reply.

When I turn, Ezekiel has vanished. As if he has never been.

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Acknowledgements

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