selection

                               

                        v a n i l l a    i c e    d r e a m

                                 

 

                                                     

                        

 

 

If I stumble, Lord

Pick me up

Help me drink this bitter cup

 

                Charles Tindley

                Black spiritual

 

 

                Chapter one

 

 

 

 

He had just been doing some shopping, remembered the toothpaste he wanted, went back into the store, found it in the third aisle over, paid again, and came out into the tempest.

The kid was like a small sailboat caught in a sudden storm. He tossed right and left, and, in hot pursuit, the storeowner raised the speed of the wind and the temperature of the water. In a moment, it was boiling.

The store owner wasn’t shouting, he was stating facts, calmly establishing a list of coming events: I’ll kill you, you little black mother fucker, he said, I’ll run you off the road…I’ll…

A woman stepped in and was shoved aside, the thief, if thief he was, tripped, the store owner grabbed him, picked him up, held him like a rag, -- I didn’t do nothin, I didn’t do nothin -- and probably meaning to throw him against a parked car, instead, missed the car, and threw him into traffic.

The driver of the van blew his horn. It sounded low, like a bass, practicing scales. But its voice was tired. Been there, done that, run over little black boys before, discarded bodies, trampled souls barely had a body to work with from the outset. Probably a drug dealer anyway. They started young. Once that happened, forget it. Like so much.

The van that ran over the little boy was painted a dead sun flower yellow. The hatch sign on the sides of the van read #No Tomorrow. Maybe whoever painted the van had felt something foreboding in its wheels. 

The kid was broken in two. He didn’t make a sound. If he was fourteen, it was a lot.  Police soon arrived, took depositions. It was an accident, no doubt, the woman agreed, Carter Hollmann did too, though they might have all had different notions of what causes an accident.

You’re a journalist.

I have been. I just returned to the country.

Where were you a journalist?

Everywhere. I’m a travel writer.

That sounds interesting.

It depends on where you’re travelling.

Welcome home.

You think this is a good place to be?

His gesture suggested improvements could be made.

We’ll be in touch with you if necessary.

That’s fine.

Are you all right, Madame?

I just saw someone die in front of me. Someone who thought he was going to have a whole life. Yes, I’m fine in comparison. But he isn’t.

The policeman closed his file and Hollmann looked at his watch. He was half an hour late for the Aldermans but he walked anyway. He put his left hand on his right arm behind his back to keep his back straight. He tried to persuade himself that as backs go, so goes thinking. For a while, it seemed to work. Then, for another while, it didn’t.

 He might have been on his way to a concert in a country where he couldn’t remember whether he had ever been before. The music was discordant, contemporary, improvised, startling sometimes, at others jarring. Memories in B minor. He had played a lot of music when he was young; cello, piano, flute. Now the music played him. One marriage, one divorce, one child.