Waking in the morning at 7am. Melissa standing over me, in her school clothes, looking down on me from a height (as she should), turning her head sideways in that half-child, half-adult way. She is invisible. She is invincible.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m hatching a plan.”
She looks around at the candles on the floor, corner of my favorite map burned.
“Well, you’re gonna be late for work if you don’t get up. Shower.”
She turns but I say, “Melissa, Missy, let me ask you something.”
“What.”
I pull her back into the room by her shoe.
“When you—or your classmates—when you think about each other, do you think about race?”
“What do you mean, race?”
“Like whether a kid is Black or not. Or whether she’s from Polynesian descent. You know, a person’s fromness.”
“I don’t usually think about their fromness.”
“What do you think about? When you look at a face? Are you like, This kid is Black, this kid is Black in the back of your head?”
“No.”
“No??”
“No. What do you want from me?”
“I want to know what you’re thinking.”
I sit up.
“Like when your friend, Lucas, got beat up by those four Black guys. When he tells you the story, does he say, ‘I got beat up by four Black guys?’ “
“Yes. I think that’s what he said.”
“He said four Black guys.”
“Well he mentioned it but that wasn’t the point of the story. I mean he did get beat up by four Black guys—there’s no way around it. But he’s not like Niggar this and Niggar that when he says it. And he doesn’t necessarily imply that they beat him up because they were Black.”
“But that is why they beat him up.”
“Who knows! It’s just a fact that they were Black and he was White, and since there were four of them and they were all Black it does beg the question—“
“That’s what I’m saying! It begs the question. Begs the question. Isn’t it more like you can imply that they beat him up because he was White?”
“I think you mean infer.”
“Imply, infer—I don’t know what I mean! I’m not pre-podiatry like you.”
“Podiatry happens to be one of the fastest growing medical specialties in the world. We’re growing at a rate of 15% annually.”
“What is growing at a 15% rate annually?”
“Podiatry. As a science.”
“But how can you say—? It doesn’t matter. Can’t you infer it was a racist attack from the fact that it was four on one? Black on White? Violence.”
“Is that what you do in your profession?”
“Hey. Please watch it there.”
“Isn’t it? I watch the news.”
“And what do you find out from the news that you don’t also get from your dear old dad?”
“A lot of Black people kill’d. With no reason.”
“Hey! Hey. Maybe it’s time you make your breakfast.”
The three of us sat, my wife and daughter closer together than anyone else, me seated farther away from everyone else. When I moved my chair, it rectified the situation. But then one of them would move their chair and I’d be in the cold again.
“This situation with Lucas,” I say. “Did the bastards who did this ever get caught?”
“No,” Melissa says through a bite of cereal. “Didn’t you look for them?”
“Kinda hard to find them when he didn’t recognize their faces.”
“Maybe it’s hard to recognize faces when you’re having yours beat in.”
“Touché. Pass the butter. But don’t you think,” I say, buttering my bagel, “that Lucas wants revenge?”
“I know he was really mad,” my daughter says without looking at me.
“Really mad? I’d want to kill the motherfuckers—!”
“Honey!” my wife says.
So I say very quietly, “If it was me, I would want to kill the motherfuckers.”
Annabel glares at me.
“And then I’d want to rip every one of their goddamn throats out of their fucking heads. That’s me. I’m a cop, though—you know, cop rules, cop life.”
“This is our breakfast table,” Annabel says.
“Is my conversation inappropriate for our breakfast table?”
Melissa gets up.
“Have a good day you two!”
“Sit down!” I say. “We’re in the middle of something here. What I want to know is, is this Lucas such a pussy that he lets such a thing go? That he gets beat up—severely beaten!—and he lets the scum that did it get away? With no punishment! They’ll never get what they deserve.”
“He did get angry after it happened, Dad. He went into his back yard and practically dug it up with sticks.”
“What does that mean, dug it up with sticks? What is that?”
“I don’t know! He took sticks and ripped up the dirt. He said he was screaming and crying. He said he was really mad.”
“Then what?”
“Then they took his ass to the hospital.”
“But what about the guys?”
“The guys who beat him up?”
“Yes!!”
“I don’t know what you want from me. I have to go to school.”
Melissa gets up and Annabel puts her hand on top of mine.
“She’s just a girl,” Annabel tells me. “She doesn’t understand revenge—“
“I’m sure she understands revenge.”
“But she doesn’t feel it in her blood like you and I do. She’s young. She grew up with Black kids her whole life. They’re not such a quantity for her as they are for you or I. Just let her go. She gotta focus on her age things.”
“I don’t see what kind of kid doesn’t go after his attackers. Didn’t Melissa like him for a while?”
“Lucas? Maybe for a minute.”
“That’s not the kind of guy I want in her life, Ann.”
“I don’t think he’s in her life. Can I get you another sausage?”
“I’m fine.”
I wipe my mustache.
I stand.
“I just don’t want pussy-ass kids in my daughter’s life.”
“Why don’t you say it a little louder?”
“What was that?”
“I said. Why don’t you say it a little bit louder!”
Melissa slams the front door. It’s loud. It reminds me of when my mother did it.
“We’ve got a goddamn daughter that hangs out with faggots!”
“He’s not a faggot!!”
“He acts like one! Any kid gets beat up by four black guys does nothing about it—that’s a faggot!!”
“You ruined your life now you’re ruining my daughter’s. That means you’re ruining mine. Do you want to get out or do you want to make this work? That’s a question. That’s my motherfucking question!!”
“I’ll answer your question!”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I’m gonna get out of here and get to work. Where I’m gonna nuts-down some Negros who ain’t learn how to act right! Then I’m gonna go to Hooters with the boys and have some beers then I’m gonna come home and drink more while you encourage our kid to hang out with weaklings. Weaklings! Bums! And the Big Lebowski will play in the background. The strings will rise! I shall become Lord of All and the pianissimo of it all—resplendent—will resound with the chords of followed and broken rules, those little rules you have in your head that keep you on the track of it all. Those are the guide stones of my life—should be your life—gently smacking me in the neck. Holding me like a tiger’s breath. Mother. Counselor. See the departmental one every few months after a bad break. This one (also a fag) suggests I give the Nigs a rest next time. They are people too (apparently). They have feelings and thoughts (just like me). They have families—just like me. Do I feel clear in my thoughts? No. Obviously not. Do these thoughts seem clear to you? I have a spitfire of a daughter just coming out of puberty she doesn’t need to get her pussy wrecked by a team of Niggars fresh from the farm. I couldn’t stand for that to happen. And he asks, Do you think it’s likely your daughter will be raped by a pack of Black children from the West Side? And I say, I don’t know—because I don’t. I don’t know what these people are scheming up! How could I know? They’re a bunch of malignant, arrogant pricks. With zero respect for authority. For the way things aught to be. For White history. For the fucking Republic! Them pulling down those statues is just the same as them raping my daughter. That kid from yesterday—Sheth—him sitting there staring on repeat at Jennifer Lawrence tripping up the Oscar stairs—that’s exactly the problem. White status—Jennifer Lawrence, a young, powerful actress who we all want to fuck from behind (get in there, grind that young kid on the set of her white trash movies)—this is what Mr Jones is watching—Jennifer Lawrence fall—exactly! That’s the whole thing! That’s what gets this Black kid off. It isn’t watching Jennifer Lawrence stand tall. It’s watching her fall over. Watching her fail at walking up the stairs. To see her utterly humiliated. Paralyzed. Bent over. Vulnerable. That’s our culture. That’s our legacy. The Pride of the South. La Belle of La Southern Belle. Oregon District. Whites only. The house I got married in. Long, rolling back yard. Had my sister’s kid do our wedding video—he fucked it up. Too many shots of the food, not enough of the action. My sister is a mystery to me. Seemingly clueless—still I know she’s smarter than me. The Fall. Fall of Man right into the trash can. I would never marry a woman I met East of the Mississippi. They’re too unkind. Too unkind.”
I manage to stop talking. My wife stands in the doorway. Breakfast dishes are on the table. I’m still in my clothes from the night before. My map room will need cleaning. I stare in its direction.
“Hun,” Annabel says.
“Yeah.”
“You are fucking unbelievable.”