Small Great Things(32)

He looked right at me. “Guess it’s just typical nigger bullshit,” he said.

I thought: Shit, I hurt his feelings. Then: So what?

It’s not like I stopped using that word. But I’ll admit, sometimes when I said it, it stuck in my throat like a fish bone before I could cough it free.

—

FRANCIS FINDS ME just as I put my boot through the front window of our duplex, pushing out the old casing so that it explodes onto the porch in a rain of splinters and glass. He folds his arms, raises a brow.

“Sill’s rotted out,” I explain. “And I didn’t have a pry bar.”

With a gaping hole in the wall, the cold air rushes into the house. It feels good, because I’m on fire.

“So this has nothing to do with your meeting,” Francis says, in a way that suggests it has everything to do with the last half hour I’ve spent at the local police department. It was my next stop after the hospital. I’d dropped off Brit, who crawled back into bed, and drove straight there.

My meeting, really, was not even a meeting. Just me sitting across from a fat cop named MacDougall who filed my complaint against Ruth Jefferson. “He said he’d do a little research,” I mutter. “Which means I’ll never hear from him again.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That that bitch killed my baby.”

MacDougall didn’t know anything about my son, or what had happened at the hospital, so I had to tell the whole sorry story over again. MacDougall asked me what I wanted from him, as if it wasn’t evident.

“I want to bury my son,” I told him. “And I want her to pay for what she did.”

The cop asked if, maybe, I was just overcome with grief. If I had misinterpreted what I saw. “She wasn’t just doing CPR,” I told MacDougall. “She was hurting my baby. Even one of the other doctors told her to lighten up.”

I said she had it in for me. Immediately the cop glanced at my tattoos. “No kidding,” he said.

“It’s a f*cking hate crime, that’s what it is,” I tell Francis now. “But God forbid anyone stand up for the Anglos, even though we’re a minority now.”

My father-in-law falls into place beside me, ripping a piece of flashing out of the window cavity with his bare hands. “You’re preaching to the choir, Turk,” he says.

Francis may not have talked publicly about White Power in years, but I happen to know that in a locked storage facility three miles away from here, he is stockpiling weapons for the racial holy war. “I hope you’re planning on sealing this up,” he says, and I pretend he isn’t talking about the window.

Just then my cellphone rings. I fish it out of my pocket but don’t recognize the number on the screen. “Hello?”

“Mr. Bauer? This is Sergeant MacDougall. I spoke with you earlier today?”

I curl my hand around the phone and turn away, forging a wall of privacy with my back.

“I wanted to let you know that I had a chance to talk to Risk Management at the hospital, as well as to the medical examiner. Carla Luongo corroborated your story. The ME was able to tell me that your son died due to hypoglycemic seizure, which led to respiratory and then cardiac arrest.”

“So what does that mean?”

“Well,” he says, “the death certificate’s been released to the hospital. You can bury your son.”

I close my eyes, and for a moment, I can’t even find a response.

“Okay,” I manage.

“There’s one more thing, Mr. Bauer,” MacDougall adds. “The medical examiner confirmed that there was bruising on your son’s rib cage.”

My whole future hinges on the breath between that sentence and his next.

“There’s evidence that Ruth Jefferson may have been at fault in the death of your son. And that it could have been a racially motivated incident,” MacDougall says. “I’m putting in a call to the district attorney’s office.”

“Thank you,” I say gruffly, and I hang up the phone. Then my knees give out, and I land heavily in front of the damaged sill. I can feel Francis’s hand on my shoulder. Even though there’s no barrier between me and the outside, I struggle to breathe.

“I’m sorry, Turk,” Francis says, misinterpreting my response.

“Don’t be.” I pull myself up and run to the dark bedroom where Brit is hibernating beneath a mound of covers. I throw open the curtains and let the sun flood the room. I watch her roll over, wincing, squinting, and I take her hand.

I can’t give her our baby. But I can give her the next best thing.

Justice.

—

WHILE I HAD been plotting my revenge against Yorkey during my six months in jail, he had been busy, too. He’d allied himself with a group of bikers called the Pagans. They were hulking thugs who were, I assumed, somehow involved with meth, like him. And they were more than delighted to have his back, if it meant they could take down the leader of the Hartford NADS. Street cred like that went a long way.

I spent my first day out of jail trying to round up the old members of my crew, but they all knew what was about to go down, and they all had an excuse. “I gave up everything for you,” I said, when I had exhausted even the freshest cut in the squad. “And this is how you repay me?”