Small Great Things(78)
“Coffee would be a blessing,” he says.
As I turn on the Keurig, I’m thinking that Adisa would die if she were here. I wonder if it would be rude to take a selfie with Wallace Mercy and send it to her. “You have a lovely home,” he tells me, and he looks at the photos on my mantel. “This your boy? I’ve heard he’s something else.”
From whom? I think. “Do you take milk? Sugar?”
“Both,” Wallace Mercy says. He takes the mug and gestures to the couch. “May I?” I nod, and he motions so that I will sit down on the chair beside him. “Miz Jefferson, do you know why I’m here?”
“Honestly, I can’t even quite believe you are here, much less figure out why.”
He smiles. He has the most even white teeth I have ever seen, stark against the darkness of his skin. I realize that up close, he is younger than I expected. “I have come to tell you that you are not alone.”
Confused, I tilt my head. “That’s very kind, but I already have a pastor—”
“But your community is much bigger than just your church. My sister, this is not the first time our people have been targeted. We may not have the power yet, but what we have is each other.”
My mouth rounds as I start to put the pieces together. It’s like Adisa said: my case is just another apple box for him to stand on, to get noticed. “It’s very kind of you to come here, but I don’t think my story is one that would be particularly interesting to you.”
“On the contrary. May I be so bold as to ask you a question? When you were singled out and asked to not interfere with the care of a white baby, did any of your colleagues come to your defense?”
I think about Corinne, squirming when I complained about Marie’s unjust directive, and then defending Carla Luongo. “My friend knew I was upset.”
“Did she go to bat for you? Would she risk her job for you?”
“I would hardly have asked her to do that,” I say, getting annoyed.
“What color skin does your colleague have?” Wallace asks bluntly.
“The fact that I’m Black was never an issue in my relationship with my colleagues.”
“Not until they needed a scapegoat. What I am trying to say, Ruth—may I call you that?—is that we stand with you. Your Black brothers and sisters will go to bat for you. They will risk their jobs for you. They will march on your behalf and they will create a roar that cannot be ignored.”
I stand up. “Thank you for your…interest in my case. But this is something that I’d have to discuss with my lawyer, and no matter what—”
“What color skin does your lawyer have?” Wallace interrupts.
“What difference does it make?” I challenge. “How can you ever expect to be treated well by white people if you’re constantly picking them over for flaws?”
He smiles, as if he’s heard this before. “You’ve heard of Trayvon Martin, I assume?”
Of course I have. The boy’s death had hit me hard. Not just because he was about Edison’s age but because, like my son, he was an honor student who had been doing nothing wrong, except being Black.
“Do you know that during that trial, the judge—the white judge—banned the term racial profiling from being used in the courtroom?” Wallace says. “She wanted to make sure that the jury knew the case was not about race, but about murder.”
His words punch through me, arrows. They are almost verbatim what Kennedy told me about my own case.
“Trayvon was a good kid, a smart boy. You are a respected nurse. The reason that judge didn’t want to bring up race—the same reason your lawyer is skirting it like it’s the plague—is because Black people like you and Trayvon are supposed to be the exceptions. You are the very definition of when bad things happen to good people. Because that is the only way white gatekeepers can make excuses for their behavior.” He leans forward, his mug clasped in his hands. “But what if that’s not the truth? What if you and Trayvon aren’t the exceptions…but the rule? What if injustice is the standard?”
“All I want is to do my job, live my life, raise my boy. I don’t need your help.”
“You may not need it,” he says, “but apparently there are a lot of people out there who want to help you, just the same. I mentioned your case last week, briefly, on my show.” He shifts, reaching into the inside breast pocket of his suit and pulling out a small manila envelope. Then he stands and passes it to me. “Good luck, sister. I’ll be praying for you.”
As soon as the door closes behind him, I open the seal and dump out the contents. Inside are bills: tens, twenties, fifties. There are also dozens of checks, written out to me, from strangers. I read the addresses on them: Tulsa, Oklahoma. Chicago. South Bend. Olympia, Washington. At the bottom of the pile is Wallace Mercy’s business card.
I gather everything into the envelope, tuck it into an empty vase on a shelf in the living room, and then see it: my missing visor, resting on the cable box.
It feels like a crossroads.
I settle the visor on my head, grab my wallet and my coat, and head out the door to my shift.
—
I KEEP MY favorite picture of Wesley and me on the mantel of my house. We were at our wedding, and his cousin snapped it when we weren’t looking. In the photo, we are standing in the lobby of the elegant hotel where we had our reception—the rental of which was Sam Hallowell’s wedding gift to me. My arms are looped around Wesley’s neck and my head is turned. He is leaning in, his eyes closed, whispering something to me.