Long Bright River(102)

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—

I advance. I peer into the boarded-up windows of each house, one after another. I see nothing through the windows of the first two on my left. When I peer between two boards blocking a window in the third house, I catch a glimpse of movement, some shadowy figure crossing the room. I cup my hands around my eyes, trying to darken the outside world so I can see what’s happening better.

Everything inside is still.

Then I hear a voice. Truman’s voice, very quiet.

I can’t hear exactly what he’s saying, but I can see that he’s talking to someone on the ground. Truman bends down, and then I can’t see him anymore, or what he’s doing.

I think of Kacey. Of all that she endured for a decade on these streets. I think of Paula. Before I change my mind, I draw my weapon and pull open the unlocked door of the house.





I edge in through the doorframe sideways, trying to make myself a small target, as I have been taught.

My eyes, as usual, are slow to adjust inside the dark house. A figure—Truman—raises his head abruptly.

—Don’t move, I say, aiming my weapon at his chest. Don’t move. Put your hands up.

He complies. In silhouette, he raises his arms.

I look around wildly. There’s a second person in the room. In the dark, I can’t make out any identifying characteristics. She’s lying on the floor, in between Truman’s legs.

Truman’s suitcase is closed and lying on the floor beside him.

I keep my weapon pointed at him.

—Who’s on the ground? I say.

—Mickey, says Truman.

—Who is it? Is she hurt? I say.

—Tell me, I say.

But I can hear my voice getting weaker, losing its authority.

Truman speaks, at last. What the hell are you doing here, he says quietly.

—I’m just, I say, but I hesitate, and then find that I can’t finish.

—Put your weapon away, Mickey, says Truman.

With the Glock, I gesture to the suitcase. What’s in there? I say.

—I’ll show you, says Truman. I’ll open it and show you.

The woman at his feet hasn’t moved an inch.

Truman crouches next to the suitcase. He says, I’m just going to take out my phone, all right?

Slowly, he reaches into his breast pocket and removes it. He shines the phone’s flashlight toward the suitcase, and unzips it. He flips open the lid.

I can’t, at first, see what’s inside. I take two steps forward, peering into it. What I see are sweatshirts, gloves, hats, woolen socks. Hand warmers and foot warmers, the chemical kind that last for eight or ten hours. Energy bars. Chocolate bars. Bottles of water. And, zipped into the netting on the underside of the suitcase’s lid: a dozen or so doses of Narcan nasal spray.

—I don’t understand, I say.

In my peripheral vision, the figure on the ground moves slightly. I swing back, aim my weapon in her direction briefly before turning it once more on Truman.

—He’s still conscious, says Truman. But we shouldn’t wait much longer.

—What do you mean, I say, he?

Truman shines his phone toward the figure. And suddenly I see my mistake.

—Who is that? I say.

—Name’s Carter, I think, says Truman. That’s the name he gave me, anyway.

Slowly, with a dawning sense of shame, I walk toward the person on the floor. It’s not a woman at all. It’s a boy, a young boy, sixteen or so, the same age Kacey was the first time I ever saw her in this state. He’s skinny, African-American, dressed vaguely like a punk, eyeliner on his eyes, trying hard to look older than he is. The childish slightness of his frame betrays him.

He’s gone completely still again.

—Oh no, I say.

Truman says nothing.

—Oh no, I say again.

—Do you want to dose him, or should I? says Truman flatly, gesturing down toward the Narcan in his suitcase.





Later, on the street, we wait together for the ambulance to arrive.

The victim, Carter, is revived, sitting on the ground, crying, dismayed. I don’t need an ambulance, he’s wailing, ineffectively. I gotta go. His sleeves come down over his fingers; he holds them there. I try to place a hand on his shoulder and he shrugs it off.

—Sit still, says Truman sharply, and the boy listens, finally resigned.

Truman is off to the side, not looking at me.

Several times, I try to speak, to consider how best to apologize. For today. For what happened at Duke’s. In general. But no words come to mind.

—What are you doing here? I say, finally.

Truman looks at me for a long time before responding. As if deciding whether I deserve an explanation.

At last, he speaks. For a while, he says, he’s been volunteering with Mr. Wright. Every day he can get to Kensington, he stops into Mr. Wright’s store and picks up a suitcase that Mr. Wright has filled with supplies, and then he roams around the neighborhood, doing what he can to help. Giving people food and supplies. Administering Narcan when necessary. It’s something Mr. Wright’s been doing, he says, for a decade, ever since his sons died. But now Mr. Wright is getting older, less mobile, and someone has to fill his shoes.

—That’s really nice of you, I say, uselessly. Weakly. But my heart is sinking. Apologize, I think. Apologize, Mickey.