We enjoyed another active day. Jeff helped me pull the cap off the back of my truck so I could wax underneath it and wash those impossible-to-get-to windows where the front of the cap faces the back of the truck (yes, I am running out of things to fix and polish). After breakfast, and after the morning’s crossword puzzle, HO and I worked on her new email address book and continued to explain her absence to her cyberbuddies. Then I drove to the mall to buy food and computer-related parts, and for dinner we all went to Jeff and KarenÃs.
The amount of food consumed by the Millers was most impressive. Helen had, in her subtle way, complained of the lack of flavor in the fixings I’d been providing. Little did I know that the chicken soup I created was so similar to what she’d been eating for the last two months. We feasted on salmon, tuna, baked potatoes and spinach salad, as much for taste as hunger.
After dinner we drove the thoroughly exhausted Helen back and put her to bed. I switched on her TV and did what I always do – sit at the computer and respond to her minor requests. She watched another British comedy, and I typed; she fell asleep, I played computer chess. We experienced one brief scary choking period before I left, and I think that helped set the stage for what happened next. Let’s say it knocked over another chess piece on an already messy board.
With my camera slung over my shoulder and my new black Irish sweater tossed almost preppy-like on my back, I headed towards Jeff and Karen’s. The streets were dark. This time as I shuffled along I thought about the girl who had been shot in the park across from the Ruthenburgs. I even imagined her slumped on one of the benches. I don’t know the real details.
From behind me, I heard a voice, a question. I turned and saw a guy on a bicycle. He appeared too old and too big for the bike; I said “Hi.” He looked at me and mumbled, “I thought you were someone else.” I thought, I’m much older than you, I’m white, and other than my blue jeans I’m sure I’m not dressed like anyone you know.
“It’s an easy mistake,” I offered under my breath. I might as well have said, “Yep, I”m prey. Take a bite.”
He turned on his bike, looked harder at me, and said something else I didn’t understand. I walked on and he cut his front tire sharply and coasted up to me. For some reason, maybe it’s that male thing, but when I feel like someone is pushing, I push back. I knew where he was headed, my face, but he had no idea where I was going, his face. Now he’s straddling his bike and I’m staring through the dark lenses of his glasses, our noses maybe five inches apart.
Had I a moment to reflect, I might have laughed. An old white guy, far from home; a young black guy, in his hood. And moments before I was sitting with my mother clearing the phlegm from her throat.
We stood for a few moments, then he said something conciliatory, and I responded in kind. We disengaged.
“I’m in a lousy mood. I’m visiting my sick mother.”
We walked together the last two blocks to Jeff’s house, me telling him about my mother, he telling me about his parents, where he went to high school, his military service, the work he does, the work he has done, his belief in God, how he prays when he is depressed, and on and on. We talked so long that Jeffrey, who was inside listening to music and thought he was hallucinating me outside talking to this guy, moseyed out to see what was up. As Jeff approached, my new friend said,
“Hey, man, I didn’t mean anything earlier. No disrespect or anything.”
