— You going to bust my fence now too?!
Ishkabibble looked at me, — He’s going to pay, Anthony. Don’t worry. Stand straight. Relax.
The man walked into his home and two of his children came to the only window on this side of the house. A bathroom I’ll bet because there was fog on the pane. Two girls, younger than Nabisase, who stared like it was me who’d come to collect their daddy’s soul.
But let me refrain from acting po-faced for too long. Once I realized that Ishkabibble had propped me up to play his muscle, a hired lug, I loved it. The man actually believed I was menacing just because my upper arms were as big as some people’s thighs.
When he came back out with a folded envelope for Ishkabibble he looked my way but I remained impassive. Looked at his home rather than him. He came to me. Stood one foot away. Then I was afraid. Those wiry guys are the toughest meat in the world. If he’d actually starting hitting me my best defense would’ve been to fall forward, hoping to crush his thorax.
— You lay down with a man like Ishkabibble and you going to have hell.
I had shut my eyes, but opened them when he stopped speaking. The man’s thick beard looked softer from here. For no reason I wondered how many pens he could store in it.
— Who is this boy? he asked Ishkabibble.
But my buddy was already walking off. — Anthony come on, he said.
— Are you that one, then? From down over 229th Street way.
The man touched my neck so tenderly that I wasn’t agitated anymore. I felt like an animal that knows, instinctively, when it meets a decent human. He yelled at Ishkabibble. — You’re wrong for using a boy like this. He’s big, but don’t know better. Doesn’t matter Anthony, he said. Anthony, yes? I’m not mad. I heard about you. I’m always sorry for people with troubles.
I walked far behind Ishkabibble; he wouldn’t slow down for me. At every corner I expected him to throw out my manilla envelope, but he kept it. How far he expected me to escort him I’m not sure, but passersby stopped me more than once. Couples mostly. In the middle range; forties, fifties and sixties.
Mr. and Mrs. Blankets said hello and asked about my day. They were walking that husky German Shepherd. It pulled at the leash; it pulled at the leash; so they weren’t able to stay.
Mr. Rumtower and Mr. Brace patted my arm and said, — Alright Anthony, when I passed.
Ms. Tandyamara, who drove a tractor for New York City, gave me five dollars. Popularity never felt so bad.
I said thanks to her. I said it to everyone. They shrugged or laughed; some friendly and some uncomfortable. Don’t believe it when you hear that everyone mistreats the mentally ill and that they always have. Compassion smashes up against confusion, unease. The pileups make messy scenes.
I forgot about Ishkabibble until he had almost disappeared. A long, thin doodle ahead of me.
30
For days now I’d begged Grandma to let me help her. I was sleeping twenty minutes a night, that’s all. I’d lie down, but the eyes wouldn’t shut; I lay flat until that got boring then rolled onto my side. I tried to find the cool spots on my pillow. With Mom still gone I stayed in her room, the one that seemed to expel its occupants.
On the 17th of November, a Friday, Grandma finally let me pack her up. Of course she could have waited until Saturday because I didn’t have to work, but then most people find the exact wrong time to accept help. I called in to Sparkle to miss a day and the receptionist only grunted.
I had to drive Nabisase to school because she’d skipped on Thursday to visit Ledric in the hospital. I found out because the school called me. He could speak well enough already to give my sister a phone number for his parents in Chicago. They said they were going to send some money; it was that or have them visit. I vetoed a plane trip because I’d be the one getting them at Kennedy Airport, driving them to Queens General and back. And I didn’t even like this guy! My sister was his sympathetic bet.
After I watched Nabisase walk inside her school I came back for Grandma.
— Bring the mail, she said as she dressed. We’ll be waiting a while.
From the clinic’s parking lot there was a view of Brookville Park; a parcel of spare woodland that divided Rosedale into halves, one mostly white and the other mostly black.
I’d wheeled Ledric through the service entrance, but I carried Grandma to the front. The clinic’s waiting room was still small, but it serviced a tiny clientele. Immigrants fed this practice. Carribean, West African, East Indian and some Irish. Black Americans, yes, and Chinese from Valley Stream. If a job or Medicare wasn’t covering hospital charges, then you went here.
The waiting area was occupied by rows of chairs that were soldered down in groups of seven; they were orange. Twenty people sat around already. I took a number from a red dispenser that looked like a canteen. Our number, A44, was called so quickly I expected to be home fast.
This first walk to the receptionist was only to register, though. We were allowed to request a doctor so I chose the apparatchik. Now the disinterested woman behind the Plexiglas gave me another ticket, a new number, and told me to sit some more.
— One is yours, Grandma said when I sat again. She pushed the piece of mail into my chest.
I would have liked to peel the stamp off as a souvenir, but there wasn’t one. Only that faded red punch of machine postage. The left-hand corner of the envelope showed the group’s name and return address in Boston.
Free Ahmed Foundation.
Dear Conscientious Supporter (this was printed on the page, the rest he wrote by hand),
Thank you for the letter. You will be added to our growing mailing list.
You are correct, I do have a lot of friends. The number grows more each day as my case gains more attention. God is good.
I did quote a comic book in my interview. Would you have respected me more if it was Diderot? They are both just entertainments in the end, don’t you agree?
Many people have asked about my name, but I do not understand their confusion. I have found friends in here who introduced me to the virtues of Islam. Faith is important in prison. I think you see religion as a child’s toy, but it’s a weapon. The schemes of powerful, treacherous men fall before it.
In your letter you seemed quite angry. I hope I am incorrect and that you rest at peace. You ask if I wish that I was black. I do not. I am not crazy. Have you ever wished to be a woman?
Some people write asking that I tell them how to be productive. Often they sound like you. Misguided. Let me sign off by telling you what I’ve told many of them. Be active. Activate!
Ahmed Abdel
At two-thirty they called Grandma’s name.
I carried her to an examination room then propped her on an examination table. I stayed in there with her, watching the clock go. The windows were opaque so the sunlight that came in turned a buttery yellow.
Grandma said, — Thank you for bringing me.
— Do you have to say it like we’re strangers?
She turned her head away. — Why did you let those people in? Your sister might have won.
— Miss Innocence? What was her talent going to be? Punching out the MC?
— But you even stopped her fun.
The Russian shook my hand quickly when he walked in, but no more. He hardly looked up. Just said, — Hello. Hello. I’m going to close this curtain so she and I have privacy.
I was actually hurt that he didn’t recognize me as the botulism brother.