The Boy in the Black Suit (9 page)

I reached for the remote. I wasn't about to go all sensitive and whatnot.
Click.
News.
Click.
Basketball game.
Wish I was more into sports. Click.
Cop show.
Click.
News.
Click.
Reality
TV
. One
of those shows where the rich parents try to plan their daughter's sixteenth birthday. This girl was telling her mother that she wanted to take a private jet from Los Angeles to New York with all of her friends, party on the jet, then, when they got to New York, have dinner with Jay-Z and Beyoncé. Wow. My sixteenth birthday I had dinner with my folks at the restaurant they met at. Well, it's not the exact same restaurant anymore—no soul food—but it was good. I remember Mom did her French accent the whole time as a joke, and when she ordered a side of French fries, gave the young waitress a whole story about how French fries were created in France by her great-great-grandfather. The poor waitress asked for her autograph and everything, and probably still tells that story to customers. Ouch. While all that's going on, Dad inspected every fork, knife, plate, and glass, since he used to be a dishwasher in that place. Nothing was clean enough.

“Everything is spotty and streaky, Daisy. They can't even wash dishes right no more.”

“Ohhhh, calm down.” She blew him a kiss across the table. “Not everyone can bust a sud like you.” She winked at me.

“It's machines. Machines can't do everything. They can't replace elbow grease,” my dad said, his elbows on the table.

“I know, babe. Why don't you go on back there and show them how it's done. That way you can feel better about it, and we won't have to pay for this meal.” She laughed. We all did. Happy sixteenth birthday.

I settled into the old couch and figured this show would at least be entertaining, because as far as I was concerned, it was the furthest thing from reality. At least, my reality. And that's what I needed, a spaceship and a
TV
to take me away. And they did just that. Next thing I know, I woke up with a string of drool connected from the corner of my mouth down to my chest, and some other show was on. I didn't even know I had fallen asleep. The last thing I remembered was the young girl throwing a fit because the mother refused to let her get breast implants for the party. Yikes.

I turned the
TV
off. The sink was still dripping. The fridge was still buzzing. The house was still settling. The rain was still pouring. But the sirens were gone. At least there was that.

Even though the
DVD
player flashed 9:26 across the screen, I decided to go to bed. I was exhausted. It's not like I'd done a bunch of work, or anything like that, but I think my mind was just tired and ready to shut down for the night.

I climbed into bed, pulled the covers up to my chin, and thought for a moment about Nancy. Then about the way her mother heaved and cried. Her sister's poem. Nancy and her sister having snowball fights. Or water fights in the summer. Was Nancy's boyfriend there at the funeral? What did that feel like for him? Maybe what it felt like for Dad. Maybe Nancy's boyfriend is somewhere getting drunk right now too.

Then I put it all out of my mind and reached for my earbuds. Tupac. “Dear Mama.”
And there's no way I can pay ya back, but my plan is to show ya that I understand. You are appreciated.
Halfway through the song I blinked—at least it felt like a blink—and when
I opened my eyes, I was back in the church. Back with the old ladies, the white stockings, the white shoes, the fans, sitting next to my mother at her own funeral again. The casket was empty like it was before. She was sitting next to me, with her arm around me again, hugging me tight. I wasn't crying and neither was she, but she was holding me so close. Everyone else was mourning. Ms. Jameson was there, and Nancy's mother, and Alicia, her sister. But my father wasn't there this time. I wondered where he was. Did he choose not to come to his wife's funeral? He wouldn't do that.

A knock came from the back of the church. A bang. Someone was pounding on the door. That had to be him. But the ushers wouldn't let him in. He banged again.

I stood up. “Let him in!” I shouted at the top of my lungs.

They didn't move. The pounding continued. Louder. Louder.

“Let him in!” I shouted again, now stepping into the aisle. “Let him in!” I started walking toward the door. The pounding. Harder. Harder.

Pounding. I woke up. Pounding. Someone was banging on the door downstairs. Banging and banging and banging. I popped up in the bed, realizing the dream was over and I was back to my life. The earbuds had fallen out of my ears and Tupac was whispering. My heart felt like it was trying to break free from my chest.

More banging. I jumped out of bed and ran down the steps, ready to let my father in.
He must've left his keys. Or he lost them. Yeah, he probably lost them. He's banging so hard because he's drunk. Probably already pissed himself. Here we go again.

I looked through the peephole. A dark figure stood at the door.
No, two dark figures, one slumped behind the first guy. A shadow, long and thin, like death itself with its awkward assistant, trying to bang my door down. And neither figure was my dad.

“Matthew!” a voice yelled from the other side of the door. “Matthew!”

I cracked the door. The rain, thick sheets of it, was still coming down. I could barely keep my eyes open it was pouring so hard, bouncing off everything, splashing me in the face.

“Matthew, it's me! Mr. Ray!”

Mr. Ray? What was he doing here? I know he didn't come by to talk about work. Not in this weather. That could've waited until tomorrow. Or he could've just called. And who was the other guy? Then I thought about how my mother had been begging my dad to put a light out there. This could've gone smoother if I could see.

“Mr. Ray?” I stepped back from the door. And there I was . . . in my underwear. Didn't think to put on pants because I thought it was my father at the door.

Mr. Ray pushed the door open and sloshed his way inside, the man behind him still hidden. It was almost as if the guy was purposely trying to hide from me.

“Matthew,” Mr. Ray said, sliding the wet hat from his head. “I'm sorry for popping up on you like this. I tried calling, but the phone rang and rang.”

Tupac, the rain, everything was so loud.

Mr. Ray stepped to the side and yanked Quasimodo from behind him. The man lifted his head. You know when a person has a unique feature on their face, it's always the first thing you see. Like
if someone has a mole or a birthmark or scar on their face, that's always what your eyes go to. This person had a special thing. Well, maybe not special, but something you'd always recognize. Holes. Like tiny spoons had dug tiny spoonfuls out of his cheeks. Cork.

“But listen, we gotta get you to the hospital,” Mr. Ray said, straight to the point.

“What?”

“Your father. He's in the hospital . . .” Mr. Ray paused, his face dripping, his eyes sad. “He's been hit by a car.”

I felt like I suddenly couldn't breathe. My eyes started to blur. I was having another one of those moments, just like when I walked into my parents' room months ago and saw them sitting on the bed, holding each other, my mother trying to keep it together, asking me about those stupid senior pictures right before she told me she had breast cancer. I remember asking God to not let it be what I thought—knew—it was. And here I was again, asking for the same thing.
Not again, God. Not again.

“Is he okay? Is he hurt?” I pleaded, my voice high and shaky.

“I don't know, but we have to go,” Mr. Ray replied. He looked at me with the same face he gives people who've come to him for funeral service. The “sorry for your loss” face.

I don't even remember getting dressed. I just remember, in a flash, being in Mr. Ray's big black car. Cork sat behind me. The leather made a weird sound, almost like a fart, every time he shifted positions. The smell of damp, and liquor, sifted through the space left between the three of us.

Cork still hadn't said a thing.

Mr. Ray adjusted the rearview mirror.

“Y'know, he was with your father today,” Mr. Ray continued, “and Matthew, it really doesn't matter what they were doing, but—” He stopped. And looked at his younger brother, through the mirror.

“You know what,
you
should tell him,” Mr. Ray said to Cork, his voice suddenly steely.

I stared straight ahead as the rain pounded down onto the windshield, the wipers working double-time.

“He was jus tryin' get home,” Cork said softly. His words slurred, his voice made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. “It started ta rain, and he just, wuh gonna try to make it home before it gah bad.”

I twisted my mouth up to hold in my anger. And my fear. You would think that after your new drinking buddy got hit by a car, you would sober up.

“Tell him what happened, Cork,” Mr. Ray demanded.

It was no use. Cork was fading in and out.

“Cork!” Mr. Ray barked.

“Mr. Ray, can you just tell me. Please,” I said, my voice cracking. “I need to know what happened to my dad.” The tears were making their way up.

Mr. Ray sighed, clearly disappointed and embarrassed by his brother.

“He was trying to come home. At least that's what Cork said. He said they were hanging out over on Albany, and the rain started. So Jackson left. But when he got to the corner of Fulton
and Albany, he lost his balance and stumbled out into the street. Gypsy cab got him.”

My eyes started to sting.

“He was drunk,” I said.

“Now, we don't know that, Matthew,” Mr. Ray said quickly.

“No, I wasn't asking. I was telling you, Mr. Ray. He was drunk.”

I don't know why I said it, but I did. Because I knew it was true.

Chapter 6

BROKEN AND BONDED

B
EEPING. BUZZING. ELECTRONIC DOORS CLICKING,
sliding open. The smell of dirty and clean, mixed up together. The hospital was the same as it was when my mother was there. Nothing had changed about it except for the person I was there to see.

Cork sat down in the waiting room, his body almost melting into the chair. That was probably the safest place for him. Somewhere he could just go to sleep. Mr. Ray walked me to the front desk and pretty much did all the talking.

“Excuse me, ma'am, we're here to see Jackson Miller,” he said to the lady behind the desk.

She began typing, squinting at the computer screen.

“Looks like he's still in Emergency,” she said to the monitor.

It felt like I could feel the blood moving through my body, in my hands, my legs, my chest, my stomach. I don't even know
if there are veins in my stomach, but it sure felt like there were. And I was having a bad case of bubble-guts, so the blood in there must've been boiling. Usually people say their minds run a mile a minute when these things happen, but mine wasn't running at all. It was standing still. I was only thinking one thing.
God, please don't let my dad die.
That's all.

“Ma'am, this is his son,” Mr. Ray said softly. “We just need to know something. Please,” he begged.

The lady at the desk looked up at me. Her eyes were bright even though I could tell she was tired. She looked sorry for me.

“Hold on,” she said, picking up the phone. She dialed a few numbers. Mr. Ray patted me on the back and nodded. His face didn't look too worried, but the way he balled his hat up let me know he was definitely nervous. A man like Mr. Ray doesn't ball his hat up, ever.

The lady behind the desk asked whoever was on the other end of the phone about my father, and wondered if there was any word. She explained that I, his son, was there.

“Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay,” she said, then hung up. Then she closed-mouth smiled. “Someone will be out in a second.”

The doctor came through the big double doors in the typical doctor getup. Greenish blue pajamas and that thing on his head that looked like the hat that ninjas wear. He also wore a mask, but it was pulled down under his mouth, so he could talk.

“Here for Mr. Miller?” the doctor asked, his face pale.

“Yes, I'm Willie Ray, and this is Mr. Miller's son, Matthew.”

“Dr. Winston.”

Mr. Ray shook his hand, and then I did. The doctor squeezed tight.

“Well, Matthew, your father is going to be okay.”

I exhaled. It felt like I had been holding my breath since we left the house. “But,” Dr. Winston continued, “he's banged up pretty bad.”

I just nodded. At least I think I nodded. I wasn't really sure, but I know I moved my head.

“The car was going pretty fast and caught him from the side. He has multiple fractures in both legs, a few cracked ribs, and a hairline fracture in his jaw from hitting the windshield. The legs, they'll need surgery. But rods and pins'll have him up walking again, eventually. But the good thing is, his spine is fine, and his brain is fine too, which is really what matters most.”

Mr. Ray clapped me on the back—good bad news is better than bad bad news.

“Well, that's good news, Doc,” Mr. Ray said. “That's good news.”

“Damn right it is,” the doctor said.

I don't know why, but I liked the fact that he said damn. It made me feel comfortable. Like somebody I already knew. Like someone who actually cared about my dad.

“Now, he's got a long night ahead of him. More tests to make sure the ribs haven't punctured anything, and that the broken bones in his legs haven't lacerated any blood vessels, and then straight to the OR we go. So unfortunately, you won't be able to see him till the morning.” That was fine with me. As long as I knew he wasn't going to die, I was okay.

“Is there a Mrs. Miller?” the doctor asked. Came out of left field and caught me right in the gut. I guess it made sense to ask, but I wasn't ready for it. I cleared my throat to answer, but got stuck.

“No,” Mr. Ray chimed in and bailed me out. “But I'll be here.” He clapped my back again.

Dr. Winston never missed a beat. “Perfect. Like I said, you can see him in the morning. He'll probably do a few weeks here, and if all goes well, we'll move him next door to the rehab center to start teaching him to walk again. Sound like a plan?”

I nodded as the doctor shook our hands again and walked back through the big double doors.

3:00 a.m. Back at home. Back upstairs. Back in bed. But not back to sleep. Instead, I sat there thinking about how quickly things change. How quickly life changes. I was just pissed at Dad the night before—hell, I was pissed at him earlier that day—and now all I could do is think about hugging him and telling him that I loved him, and that I needed him. It's strange to think about. How that could've been it. He could've died. Only a month after my mom. And even though he didn't—die, that is—I still felt so alone. Even though Mr. Ray was helping out, and Chris was cool, I still felt like I went from a not-so-fancy version of the Cosbys to a one-man family. Like that movie with Tom Hanks stuck on an island—I felt like him, far away from everything, calling out in the dark, the waves splashing up on me, the deep water waiting to
swallow me up.

I don't remember falling asleep and I don't really remember waking up. It was like I just closed my eyes for a few minutes and then opened them when my cellphone started vibrating on top of my dresser. But I didn't feel rested, or awake. It was six thirty and Mr. Ray said to be outside at seven so that we could make it to the hospital right when visiting hours started.

In a haze I washed up, put on my white dress shirt, buttoned it bottom-up, and slung my black tie around my neck. I tied it once, the wrong way as usual, then tied it again. Downstairs I slipped on my slacks, then wiggled my foot into the stiff black dress shoes. The heel was always the hardest part. Lastly, the most important piece—the jacket.

In the kitchen I picked my backpack up, slipping one arm through one of the straps and bounced it up on my shoulder. Then, I thought about it. Was I really going to go to school today? What if Dad needed me to stay at the hospital? What if something went wrong in the surgery? They probably would've called me, but still . . . what if ? Did I really want to sit there listening to Mr. Grovenor explain for the twentieth time what fabliaux were?
Fa-blah.
With everything that was going on? I don't think so. I dropped the bag back on the chair and headed for the front door.

Mr. Ray was already sitting out on his stoop reading the paper. His dark slacks were raised high above his ankles. His hat, a different one, but the same style, hid his fuzzy hair. When he heard my door close, he looked up. Then, he rolled the newspaper up into a tight paper pipe, grabbed the brown bag next to him, and stood.

“Good morning,” he called out.

I trotted down the steps and met him at his car.

“Morning,” I said. Just “morning.” There was nothing good about it.

“Breakfast?” Mr. Ray said, as he opened the paper bag.

“No thanks.”

“Yep. Breakfast,” he repeated, making it clear that this wasn't an option. He reached down into the bag and pulled out two bagels, one for me, one for him.

“Hope you like cream cheese,” he said, handing me a bagel, still warm. “They always pile it on at the bodega.” He shook his head at the cream cheese overload and reached back into the bag.

“Here,” he said, handing me a cup of coffee without looking. “Light and sweet.”

I didn't drink coffee. When I was around seven, I once took a sip of my father's. It was terrible, like drinking smoke. I decided right then and there that juice would be my choice of breakfast drink. But I couldn't turn down the coffee, and knew that even if I tried, Mr. Ray would've insisted and probably said something like “Today you become a man,” or some mess like that. I probably would've taken anything he offered me. Even a cigarette.

We got to the hospital at seven thirty on the dot. Mr. Ray was always crazy about being on time, but I guess when you do his kind of work, you really can't afford to not be. Don't want the dead people showing up late to their own funerals. My head was buzzing from the coffee—not spinning, just kind of jumping around. It felt weird but I guess that was the point of coffee. To
get the brain jumping around. Mr. Ray checked his face in the flip-down mirror and wiped away a smear of cream cheese caught in the corner of his mouth.

“Before we go in,” he said seriously. He flipped the mirror back up and continued. “I need to tell you that I, uh . . .” Mr. Ray looked straight ahead for a few seconds before finally facing me. I could see his jaw flexing, as if he was chewing on his words. “I, uh . . . I'm sorry, Matthew. For all this.”

“You didn't do nothing,” I said.

“I know, but . . .” He started swinging his head side to side, like he was working kinks out of his neck. “But this is my brother's fault. And I feel responsible.”

“Mr. Ray—” I started, but he cut me off.

“Just listen, son,” he said sharp. “My brother, he . . . he always . . .” Mr. Ray pressed his lips tight, obviously frustrated that he couldn't get it out. Then he started again. “I just want you to know that from here on out, I'm gonna look after you. While your old man is getting himself together, I got you.” He patted his chest.

“Mr. Ray, really I—”

“Eh, eh, eh,” he interrupted again, shaking his head. “I feel like it's my duty. And I owe it to your folks. Hell, I owe it to you.”

This time I decided not to even try to respond. I just nodded.

“Okay,” he said, switching back to a lighter tone. “Ready?”

Tubes and wires everywhere. My father laid in the bed with both
of his legs strapped up in some weird contraption, already with thick white casts on them. His face was badly bruised and swollen, leaving purple splotches around his eyes and on one whole side of his face.

“Good news,” Dr. Winston said, still there, just as upbeat as he was in the middle of the night. “The internal fixation surgery was a success. He's got a few extra screws in him, to bond the bones, and we're still going to monitor his legs closely, especially the inflammation, but so far so good. Bad news is, he won't be able to speak,” Dr. Winston said. “At least not yet. We also had to immobilize his jaw so that the fracture would heal, so it's wired shut.”

I came close to my dad, looking at him top to bottom, bottom to top. A tube in his arm. A tube down his throat. I wanted to hug him but I knew I couldn't. I just stood there staring at him while he slept, feeling pretty damn helpless.

“He's also going to be out for a while. We got him pretty doped up for the pain,” Dr. Winston said. “But judging from the surgery and all the test results, it's looking like he's going to be fine. It's gonna take some time, though. I can't stress that enough.”

I nodded without looking at the doctor. I couldn't stop staring at my dad lying there stiff, broken. I didn't know if I should be angry with him for doing this to me—to himself—or if I should feel sad. Or even happy, just knowing that he would survive, and recover. I didn't know what to feel, and that frustrated me. My eyes started to twitch and burn, and the water came streaming down my face. I wiped the tears quickly, but they kept coming. Mr. Ray must've noticed me crying, because he asked the doctor if
he could step out with him for a second to talk about rehab stuff. When they left, I pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down. And for the first time since Mom's funeral, I let it out.