Tears of a Tiger (12 page)

APRIL 2
MIDNIGHT

—Maybe I should call Keisha. Naw, I've had enough of her whinin' and complainin'. And I thought she understood me! She ain't nothin' but a scar on my soul. I gotta move on.

—I think I'll call that Carrothers dude. He said to call him anytime—day or night. Let's see—what's that number? Here it is. Maybe if I talk to him, I can get my head clear. I feel like I got cotton in my brain.

—Hello, this is Dr. Carrothers's answering service. May I help you?

—Uh, yeah. My name is Andy Jackson, and I need to talk to Dr. Carrothers—right away.

—Are you a patient of his?

—Yeah, I guess. I've been in to see him several times. He said it was okay for me to call him anytime of the day or night. So I'm callin'. Could you connect me please?

—I'm sorry, sir, but Dr. Carrothers's mother had a heart attack and he had to go out of town. Dr. Kelly is taking his calls tonight. He'd be very glad to talk to you.

—Dr. Kelly? Who is that? I can't talk to no stranger. It took me a long time to get used to talkin' to that one long-head doctor. And he told me he'd be there for me anytime I needed him. This is the first time I feel like I really need to talk to him, and you tell me he ain't there? What kinda mess is this?

—Sir, Dr. Carrothers
was
the doctor on call tonight, but as I told you, he had a sudden emergency. I can get Dr. Kelly to—

—Look, isn't there some way you can call Dr. Carrothers long-distance? This is really important.

—I'm really sorry,…you said your name was Andy?

—Yeah, Andy.

—I'm really very sorry, Andy. Dr. Carrothers left about two hours ago for the airport, headed for California. He's on the plane now, so we can't even page him. But Dr. Kelly is a really fine adviser, and I know you'll like him. Let me connect you—he's on the other line. He'll be with you in thirty seconds, okay?

—Yeah, okay…
click
…Forget this! I don't need this. How come he be gone? Adults are always talkin' ‘bout bein' there when you need them, but then when you decide you do, they be disappeared like dust!

—Okay. What do I do now? I feel like the world is closin' in on me. Wait a minute! I know who's home. Coach Ripley. Of course he's home. Tomorrow is a school day. He's gotta go to work. He's gotta be home. He'll cheer me up. He always makes sense. I wonder if he's asleep.

—Hello, you have reached the Ripley residence. We're sorry we are unable to come to the phone now. If you leave a message at the sound of the tone, we'll get back to you as soon as possible. Have a real nice day…. BEEP!

—…Click….

—Yeah, well
you
have a real nice day, or night, or life, or whatever! I
hate
talkin' to machines. It's like it takes a part of you, a part of your soul or something, when you talk on those things. You leave a little piece of yourself, all naked and unprotected, for anybody to see when they push the little button. Well, they ain't gettin' none of me. Coach is probably asleep anyway. I'll talk to him tomorrow at school.

—School…. When I think about school, I feel like I got a mouth full of dry bread and I can't swallow…. When I think about school, I feel like I jumped off the deep end of the pool, then remembered that I couldn't swim, and then realized that it didn't matter anyway because the pool was empty…. When I think about school, I feel like I'm tryin' to take deep breaths, but the air is made of sand…. When I think about school, I feel like I'm in a dark, closed room, with invisible hands pushin' me from all directions, pushin' me toward a light I can't see. Some kids can see the light. Some walk around like they got lights screwed in their foreheads. Some just carry a glow, like Keisha. Yeah, Keisha shines. I'm gonna call her. She'll talk to me. I know she will.

—Hello, Mrs. Montgomery? May I speak to Keisha, please.

—Who is this?

—It's me, Andy Jackson. Did I wake you up?

—Andy? Of course you woke me up. Do you know what time it is?

—I'm sorry. I really need to speak to Keisha. It's important.

—Andy, she's asleep, and you should be too. You can't call here after midnight on a school night and expect me to call her to the phone. I don't care how important it is. Now you go get some rest and you can talk to her at school tomorrow, okay?

—I'm sorry I bothered you, Mrs. Montgomery. Don't even tell her I called. She'll just have one more thing to be mad at me for.

—Things always look brighter in the morning, Andy. I'm sure you two will be able to work out your differences. She really thinks a lot of you. Now get off this phone and let me get back to sleep!

—Okay, Mrs. M. Good night, and thanks.

—So what do I do now? My head is throbbin'. My mind is cloudy. My heart is bloody, and my soul is on ice. (I think I read that somewhere….) Nobody's home. Nobody cares. Maybe I'll try sleep. I wish I could sleep forever.

APRIL 3
In Homeroom

—Grimes?

—Here.

—Hawkins?

—Yeah.

—Henderson?

—Here.

—Immerman

—Over here.

—Jackson?…Jackson?…Is Andy absent again?

—Yeah, Mr. Whitfield. He's got “senioritis,” a terrible disease.

—I'd say that he might have a fatal disease. Students who catch “senioritis” have been known to develop serious complications and never graduate.

—He'll be here tomorrow. He has to. He owes me two dollars.

—Good luck. Okay, let's finish with attendance.

—Johnson?

—Here…

 

—Keisha, have you seen Andy?

—No, and I hope I never do again.

—Come on, girl, you know it hurts.

—Yeah, Rhonda. It hurts. I really liked him, you know, but it just got too complicated. He's better off without me. He's got to get himself together before he can get seriously involved with someone else. How's Tyrone?

—Oh, just great. We're goin' to the movies tomorrow. Do you want to come?

—No. I'll probably just catch a movie on cable. It's kinda nice just to relax for a change and not worry about how I look or what I'll wear or where we're going. I'm just going to chill and enjoy my freedom.

—Okay, but call me if you change your mind. Say, I'm going to drop off Andy's chemistry homework to his house after school. Mr. Whitfield said he'd fail unless he got this assignment in. You wouldn't want to go with me, would you?

—No way, girl. Actually, if I saw him, I might break down and do something stupid like cry, or make up with him. I'm out of his life—at least for now.

—Okay. I'll call you later.

APRIL 3
10:00 A.M.

—So what do I do now? Pray? Cry? Hide under the bed from the monsters that are inside of me? No, I'm just going to sit here and think. I'm goin' to think about why I'm sittin' here on my bed, holdin' my dad's huntin' rifle, feelin' how smooth and cool it feels. He likes to hunt—some killer instinct left over from his ancestors who ran around in loincloths in the Congo. Ha! What would they think if they could see him in his three-piece suit, spear in hand, crouchin' low to stalk a tiger?

Tigers have it rough these days. Instead of roamin' the jungle, hiding from hunters in three-piece loincloths, they are put in concrete cages with bars of steel. Even in the modern zoos, where it looks like the tigers ought to e happy because they are given fifteen or twenty feet of real grass, if you look really hard, you can see tiny little electrical wires. The tiger, who might think he's equal to all those tigers in the jungle that his mama told him about, is quickly reminded to stay in his place. He soon learns that he'll never get out of there.

I've always hated this bedspread. It's lumpy and when you sit on it, little tufts of the material stick to your clothes. See, it's already started—tiny little bits of lint all over my slacks. And it always slides off my bed in the middle of the night, just when I'm sleeping too hard to know it's gone. I just have this vague feelin' I'm cold, or dreamin' of being cold, or somethin'.

I'm a little cold now—now that I think about it—cold inside, like there's nothin' there, or like my guts are frozen. I remember once when I was little I got this same frozen-gut feelin'. I was in a department store with Mama and we were on the escalator—goin' down. I remember feelin' slightly dizzy as I looked behind us at where we'd been, the steps rollin' smoothly. When we got to the bottom, the shoestring of my new red tennis shoes got caught and the steps kept rollin', pullin' me and my foot with them. Mama screamed, and I guess I was scared, because I just felt frozen—like I was watchin' myself on TV—as the movin' steps gradually gobbled my shoestring and pulled my foot toward its teeth. Some dude ran over to the escalator and pushed the emergency button. Mama pulled me loose, and then smacked me for being careless. I never even cried. I just felt like I wasn't really there—like now, sittin' here on my bed, wishin' that I was nowhere at all.

It's not that I want to die—it's just that I can't stand the pain of livin' anymore. I just want the hurt and pain inside to go away. It's like a monster in my gut—eatin' me up from the inside out. Actually, I feel like the only thing that's keepin' me from going crazy is this terrible, terrible pain.

There's nobody home—everybody's gone for the day. I left for school, but halfway there I forgot where I was going, or why. So I came back here, to sit on my lumpy, linty bedspread, wishin' I had never been born, strokin' the smooth, cool barrel of my father's shotgun. It is very, very quiet.

I'm sorry for all I've done—so sorry,…so very, very sor—

APRIL 3 8:30 P.M.

OFFICIAL POLICE REPORT

YOUTH INVESTIGATIVE DIVISION

DATE: April 3

TIME: 1820

INVESTIGATING OFFICER: Casey

SUBJECT: Andrew Jackson—male—black, age 17

ADDRESS: 2929 Ridgemont Lane

FINDING: Suicide

DISPOSITION: Deceased

SUMMARY REPORT:

On the morning of April 3, the above-named student left for school, but a neighbor reported seeing him return home about one hour later. He never reported to school. His friends had expressed concern because of Andrew's recent extreme fits of depression. A friend, Rhonda Jeffries, arrived at the house at 4:05 to bring Andrew some missed schoolwork. Andrew's mother, who was just getting home from picking up her younger son from school, had not been aware that her son had not gone to school. The younger child, Monty, age six, noticed blood on the ceiling. Mrs. Jackson went to her son's bedroom where Andrew's body was found with a fatal gunshot wound to the head. Police and life squad were summoned at 4:11. Andrew was pronounced dead at the scene.

APRIL 4 9:00 A.M.

—Good morning, class. my name is Mrs. Sweet and I'm a member of the suicide prevention/grief counseling team that has been brought in to help you through this crisis. We want you to feel free to express your emotions—so cry if you want to, or ask us questions—whatever you need to do to get through this.

—If you work for the suicide prevention team, you didn't do a very good job, did you?

—You sound bitter, young man. Your name is?…

—Tyrone. Andy was my friend. Where was you last month when me and B.J. was lookin' for somebody to help him? You got posters and emergency phone numbers for suicide prevention hot lines posted all over the building today. Where was you last week? What good does it do now?

—You have a point, Tyrone. Your counselors here at school know these numbers and should have had them available for you.

—When we went to see the counselor, all we got was bad breath and bad advice.

—There is no way that your counselor could have seen the future. I'm sure she would have suggested our number had she known the severity of Andy's problems.

—Yeah, sure. Tell me anythin'.

—Is there anyone else who would like to express their feelings? Anger is a perfectly normal emotion.

—Yes? Your name?

—B.J.

—B.J.?…uh…that stands for?…

—It stands for B.J. Mrs. Sweet, we've had two kids die in our class this school year. We had some people here from your office when Robbie died too. It didn't do no good then neither. They're still dead. And I'm afraid I'll be next. I'm just plain scared.

—As we get older, we all learn that death is a part of life. If we let these tragedies become growth experiences, if we learn from them, then we have in some way triumphed over the fear and anger and sorrow that death brings.

—That sounds like somethin' you got outta a book. That don't cover how I feel. Andy left without sayin' good-bye and I don't know why. He had friends that cared about him that he didn't ask for help. I feel like he punched me in the gut and I can't hit back.

—I understand. Does anyone else have anything to say? No one? I see. Sometimes it's hard to speak such personal emotions out loud. I have an idea. Suppose you could write a letter to Andy. Don't tell
me
what's on your mind, talk to
him.
Tell him what you wanted to say, what you wish you had said, what you want to say now. If you write it down, that might help you sort out your feelings.

—This is stupid.

—If you don't want to participate in this activity, that's perfectly acceptable. But for those of you who do, let's see if it helps.