Radix spent the morning pondering his future ̶ what might happen if
he were excessed; or reassigned to another school, say, in Brooklyn,
miles and bridges away. Would he have to consider moving? Did he
really want to continue teaching?
When he saw Judy Wiener in the cafeteria, sitting with a teacher he
didn't know, he lost no time moving toward her. he pulled out a chair,
nodded politely and sat tight-lipped. "What's the matter, Michael?" she
asked, quick to sense his distress. He waved a hand as if the matter
could easily wait.
All around him, the cafeteria noise; tense white faces leaning forward,
talking to each other, scooping up food with plastic forks.
The teacher sitting with Judy Wiener abruptly shrugged and sighed in a
way that suggested there was not much anyone could do about what-
ever they'd been discussing. "Talk to you later," she said, remembering
to smile at Radix.
And before he could utter a word Judy Wiener said, "That was Mrs.
Summerhays, Xavier's Guidance Counselor. Did you hear about Xavier?"
Radix shook his head. "He's in a hospital…with gunshot wounds." Radix
looked at her, his heart going cold, his own discomfort fast dissipating.
"He was shot by a police officer in a subway station…resisting arrest…"
She said resisting arrest as if she didn't believe it, not her Xavier.
"What happened?" Radix asked.
It seemed Xavier was on a subway platform, somewhere in Manhattan.
He heard a train rushing in; he had to go down a long flight of stairs
which was crowded; it meant he'd miss the train on the lower level.
There was an up escalator not in motion; without thinking he charged
down the up escalator. When he got to the bottom a police officer
tried to arrest him. "For walking down an up escalator?"
What happened next was not clear. Xavier started to walk away,
protesting he'd done nothing wrong. The cop tried to stop him. Xavier
dared the cop to arrest him for something that stupid. There was a
scuffle, the officer's gun went off. The next thing they knew he'd been
shot.
He was in an Intensive Care unit, his condition critical. The bullet had
lodged somewhere near his heart. The doctors were afraid to operate.
Radix' stomach stirred, reminding him he had forty minutes, no, thirty
minutes, to eat before the bell. He didn't have the will to move. Judy
Wiener had spoken in a low intense voice which transfixed him. Not
just her voice. The look on her face, the moistness in her eyes. A
student ̶ her Xavier! ̶ had been shot.
What could he say to her? He returned her stare. He could see right
down to where she kept her feelings for the Xaviers of this world. She
managed a week smile and she told him his teaching break would soon
be over.
When he came back to the table, with a cup of coffee and a Danish
roll, her lips were compressed, her shoulders rounded; and her body
seemed to sag with the weight of this fresh calamity. "Where is he,
which hospital?" His voice was sharp with concern. "He's at Lincoln
Hospital."
Judy Weiner took a deep breath, then reached for her bag, taking out
a mirror. "I'm going to see him this afternoon." And Radix said, "I'll
come with you, if that's alright." "Of course, we'll go right after
school."
She got up to go. She wore a red dress which hung down her body like a
sack. He'd never really paid attention to the body inside that dress
until this moment,in this sack dress. She launched into chatter about
things she had to do and perhaps they could meet in the lobby and go
off to the hospital together; or would it make sense to get there in
separate cars?
He waited for her in the lobby as the school streamed out. There was
some sort of Art class display, artwork stuck around the walls by the
Art teacher, with the title, The Joy Of Spring. No one seemed in the
mood to stop and look. Judy Wiener was taking her time.
She didn't exactly rush from the elevators, frantic and apologetic.
Radix saw her walking toward him, self-absorbed; stopping to
put on her dark glasses, rummaging in her bag, her lips moving
nervously. And he found himself studying her again. The legs seemed
fairly confident under the sack dress. Something about the face,
though - a little too passive and unlucky; the face of someone who
spent too much time worrying; who found little reason these days
to exert herself.
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 