Vulnerable (29 page)

“She's late,” Imani said, leaning into her older sister.

“She'll be here. She wanted to meet
us
, remember?”

“We should order something. Everyone's staring at us.”

“They aren't staring. You're so paranoid, Im,” Kenya whispered.

Taking in a deep breath, Imani reached for the plastic glass of room-temperature water. After she took several sips, she said, “What are we going to say to her? After all, she can't speak a word of English.”

“Don't be so judgmental.”

“Judgmental? All I said was she didn't speak a word of English.”

“Yes, that's what you said. It's your tone that was speaking louder than your words.”

Two women entered the establishment, allowing cold air to rearrange the perceptible force suspended over the tightly situated room. They were appropriately bundled up in wool clothing. Both had long brunette hair flowing beyond their waists. One was in possession of a baby stroller. They stood at the door and it looked like they were seeking out a free table. The young waitress who waited on Imani and Kenya earlier greeted the two young women with enthusiasm, speaking in Spanish. Their voices were eager; their laughter happy. Within moments, the little one in the stroller became the main attraction. The woman who worked for the café pointed toward Imani and Kenya, and the sisters sat erect. Curious, and their heartbeats starting to elevate, they reached for each other's hands. Wordless, they sat there, not sure if the woman they had been waiting for for twenty minutes was the woman at the door. Their independent thoughts were confirmed when the three women walked toward their table. Instinctively, Imani looked at tables nearby and there would be nowhere to put the baby stroller.

“Jello,” one woman said. “Imeeni jan Keyna?”

“I-ma-ni and Ken-ya,” said Kenya. “Magdalena?”

“Sí.”

“Can someone speak English?” Imani asked of the three women.

“Jes,” said the woman who was with Magdalena. “I speak English. Magdalena hees my sister. She…”

“I speak English. I am American,” the woman, working at the café, butted in.

Imani and Kenya looked to each other; they were most likely thinking the same thoughts.

“Magdalena…she could not wait to meet you. She got out of hospital but the baby…” The waitress turned to the baby in the stroller. “It was tiny. So small. But she never can forget about the man who save her life and her precious little angel, Dante.”

In unison, Imani and Kenya caught their breath.

“She named the baby after my—our father?”

Magdalena's sister said, “Jes. Oh, jes. Dante wisk his life…for our angel.”

“Can we…see?” Kenya said, leaning forward.

“Por favor,
jes.”

When Magdalena pulled the baby from inside the stroller and into her loving arms, Imani and Kenya came to their feet, rapt by the moment. Before they knew it, the entire café was on their feet, coming to see the tiny blessing, Dante. The infant blinked open his small black eyes, coming out of a gentle sleep, and then gently shut them again.

“Oh, my goodness. He's gorgeous,” said Kenya.

“Jew hold heem?” Magdalena offered. Kenya assumed the young woman rehearsed the words all morning.

Kenya reached for the baby, and Imani smoothed his fine hair, the color of coal, with her fingertips. “Hi, Dante. Hi.” Kenya smiled into his small, tan-colored face.

“Hola,
Dante,” Imani said.

In Spanish, a group of people began to sing a song. The room
warmed to the quiet love that engulfed the small café. Finally, after several minutes of communal spirit, the waitress of the café explained that everyone in the café was in some way related to Magdalena and her sister. They were so happy to finally meet people who were close to, and loved, Dante; the man who saved their Magdalena's life, and that of her unborn child.

The five women sat at two small tables pushed together near the back of the café. Magdalena explained in Spanish, while the waitress translated the tale in English, what happened that fateful day at the bodega.

The waitress began, listening with care to Magdalena's words and interpreting word-for-word: “I was standing near the back of the bodega. I heard loud voices. People was shouting.” The waitress stopped translating and said, “Magdalena understands English better than she can speak it.” As Magdalena spoke in Spanish, the waitress continued: “The owner told someone he won't give up his cash. That the young boy had two options: to shoot him, or leave. There was shouting and there was the sound of a gunshot.” The waitress's voice grew passionate. “I was so scared. Scared for my baby. Scared I would never see my baby…I want to leave the bodega. I want…want to get out of here—there. I didn't care…I care about my baby…I ran for the aisle and I stop because there is a man lying on the floor…he bleeds, but his eyes was open. I walk over him…I am a shame that…. not stop to help him, but I was scared for my baby…unborn baby.”

Magdalena looked down at the sleeping infant in the stroller. Her eyes were filled with bittersweet tears. She continued, while the waitress explained in English: “When I got to front of bodega, your papa, Señor Dante, he try to tell the man…the boy with the gun not to kill the owner. He reach for his wallet and say, ‘Take it. There, three-hundred dollar…more than the man have in cash
register. Take it, take it,' he yell at the boy. He was…he was no more than sixteen or seventeen. I no see his face. He wears the hoodie. His back to me. Señor Dante, he threw hees wallet at the boy and tell him to go! ‘Go!' he yell. Then I knock something and it fall…I want to try to run for the door, but I was carrying the angel Dante—almost eight months, I carry the little angel Dante…and… the boy look over at me, and Señor Dante, he try to, to…”

“Distract?” Kenya butted in.

“Sí,
deestract
…” Magdalena said, and then she resumed.

The waitress related the tale with verve, using her hands to add to the urgency of what she was communicating to the beautiful sisters sitting before her.

“The boy he…he point the gun at me…Señor Dante run to the front of the gun and he say to the boy, ‘You shot one man…' He say, ‘You so f-word in the head that you shoot pregnant woman? What is the wrong with you,
mon'? Mon,
he say. And I all of a sudden hear shot…The Señor Dante fall to the floor…”

Magdalena covered her face, weeping. In a whisper she said to herself in Spanish, “God, forgive me.” She made the cross.

Kenya reached over and took her hand. “It's not your fault, Magdalena.”

She began speaking once more in Spanish while the waitress translated: “I try to help Señor Dante. I try…there's blood everywhere. The man at bodega call nine-one-one. But your papa lose the consciousness in my arms.”

In the taxi, driving through the crowded streets of New York, from uptown to downtown, Imani and Kenya were silent, somber. A senseless act of violence took their father away from them. For Kenya, she was able to begin her healing process after meeting Magdalena. It was the opening of her closure. Imani still grieved. The following day, when Blaine came to New York, he and Imani
went to visit Dante's grave. They stood silently for a while. Imani looked over to Blaine and said, “He's a beautiful boy. Dante would have laughed knowing there's this kid taking on his name. Dante…this is what I know for sure…would not have changed that moment. He lived such a full life, Blaine. He told me once, after my mom passed away, that we spend a lot of time while we're living being careless with our lives. When we stare death in the face…when death snatches us up, we know death has arrived at that moment, and what flashes in our mind in that brief moment of realization is that we squandered so much time. But Dante believed that when death takes us, it's because God's purpose for our lives has been served. Every breathing thing, he believed, is connected.” Her throat clogged, she said further, “Dante was so sure of that.”

“I never asked, when was the last time you saw him?”

“My birthday. He surprised me and came to Seattle. I took him to this club on Crescent Island, where I have my Pilates studio, this place called Moody's Jazz Alley. Next thing I know, he's up there playing with the band that plays there regularly. I think he was killing two birds with one stone.”

“How so?” Blaine asked.

“He had heard a lot about the Alley. A lot of his friends and colleagues have played there. Like Dante, they dropped in unannounced.” Imani stared out at the day for a little while. “It was amazing. My best birthday yet. I had no idea…”

“When was the last time you heard his voice?”

“Two days before he died.”

“He called me about a month before…he was in Boston.” Shaking his head, Blaine said, “I was too busy.….”

“Blaine…don't go there. Dante understood, trust me.”

He reached for her hand. They stood quietly while a soft snow fell.

“
S
orry to bother you. There's…an issue.”

Sicily looked up from a mound of paperwork. Puzzled, she asked, “What's the issue?”

“Two detectives are here. They want to see Rawn Poussaint.”

“About?”

“They wouldn't tell me.”

When she came to her feet, Sicily adjusted her tailored jacket that cut just below her slender hips. “Rawn…he's teaching French?”

Sicily knew her faculty's schedule better than she knew her own, and without having to consult her Palm Pilot. It was a personal rule she established early on at Gumble-Wesley: be very accessible to faculty, staff, students and parents.

“Yes, I checked.”

Taking in a deep breath, Sicily walked around her desk. “Would you put them in the Lake Washington conference room. Is it available?”

“Until two-thirty.”

They stood a few feet apart.

“I'll get Rawn. See that Samantha Rivers covers the remainder of his class while he's in conference with the detectives.”

With a nod, the assistant said, “Understood.”

Sicily stood outside Rawn's classroom door, her hand on the knob. She tried not to rush to any conclusions. Memories—and in particular the ones that shaped perception—could contain a unique range of influences, albeit unconsciously. The fact that
two detectives, and not uniformed officers, came to the Academy made Sicily feel ill at ease. It was the middle of a school day. Was he an eyewitness to a crime? Sicily was more concerned with what staff would think. When the board of trustees got wind of this, what conclusions would they draw? Gossip was a strange thing, and people were nosy and predictable. Even if it was innocent, two detectives arriving in this way would certainly initiate rumors.

When she was in eighth grade, one cold winter's day ten uniformed police officers had arrived with sirens blaring—some of the students became quite frightened. The authorities had come to arrest the janitor of her school. A black man, who had been accused of raping a white girl, caused quite a scandal at her boarding school in 1977. The black man was convicted and sent to prison. Many years later—while Sicily lived in New York—her mother called to tell her that the girl from her boarding school, who now resided in Tucson, had recanted her story. But the black man's journey had already been taken and, while the retraction eventually set him free, his character would be forever marred by her deception.

Rawn looked over to the door when it opened. Most of the eighth-graders reacted to the headmistress entering the classroom; their demeanor changed, or they grew attentive. A student was standing when Sicily entered the room. She had just finished an exchange with Rawn in French. He said to the student in French that her accent had improved. When the student's gaze met Sicily's, on impulse she took her seat.

Sicily dreaded interrupting. “Good afternoon, Mr. Poussaint.”

“Good afternoon.” Her look freaked Rawn out. She was too solemn,
too
professional.

“Can I speak with you outside, please?”

He said to the classroom,
“Excusez-moi, s'il vous plait.”
When he approached her, he greeted Sicily with, “Hey, what's up?”

“I need you to come with me. Sam's on her way; she'll take over your class.”

Rawn was not sure what to think. “Why?” he asked.

“We'll talk outside.”

•  •  •

“Mr. Poussaint, good evening. I'm Winston Sanders, Gumble-Wesley's general counsel. Sicily requested that I come.”

Both men produced firm hands and shook.

Calm, steady, Rawn slipped on his bomber jacket. He looked tired, but Winston Sanders noted he was not particularly shaken, which made it difficult to size him up. They started walking down the small hallway of the Crescent Island police station when Rawn said, “Where's Sicily?”

“Oh, Mr. Pou…”

“You can call me Rawn.”

“Sicily must remain partial. She can't…I have advised her to keep her distance from the situation, you must understand.” Sanders stopped walking, as did Rawn. The two men eyed each other, and the general counsel was confident Rawn appreciated his words, but he concluded, “I understand that the two of you are friends, so you must realize her position.”

With a vague nod, Rawn said, “Sure.” He resumed walking, but Sanders reached for his arm.

With a curious brow, Rawn met the general counsel's eyes.

“There's something I should make you aware of.”

“What's that?”

“The media.”

Exhibiting no particular emotion, Rawn said, “What are you talking about?” Nonchalantly, he straightened his collar.

“It's…This story is all over the news. The coverage has been—it's breaking news.”