Chapter 24

Having delivered their message to the two boys, Mr. Atkins turned and started to walk away. Robert Benson came out of the house and stared at the back of the old man.

He shouted, “This is my fucking neighborhood and I’ll kill you if you fuck with me.”

Jerry turned to stare at the greasy little man as his muscles tensed making him look even larger. There was raw unadulterated hate in his eyes as he stared at the slimy bastard.

Robert looked at him and snarled, “Your lease is terminated.”

Kenny looked at Jerry and said, “You’re a fucking dead man. Don’t think I’ve forgotten about you.”

Jerry was about to reply when Mr. Atkins shouted over his shoulder, “Ya been warned.”

Mr. Atkins continued to walk away. Otis and Henry slowly turned to follow. Jerry paused to look at all three of the drug dealers in the eye to let them know that they were serious. He turned to join the other men only a step and a half ahead of him. Kenny stared at the back of the large man, angered that he would be discounted so easily.

As he pulled a gun, he screamed, “Fuck you!”

Jerry hadn’t taken more than one step when there was a loud pop behind him followed by the feeling that someone had kicked him on the left shoulder blade. Incredulous that anyone would dare hit him, he turned to see which of the three had that kind of nerve.

Kenny held a gun in his hand staring at Jerry unable to believe that the guy hadn’t fallen to the ground. Upon seeing the gun, the rage within cackled as strength flowed into Jerry’s body. His left arm didn’t work correctly, but he stepped forward and reached out with his right hand, grabbing the hand holding the gun. Giving a shout, he threw Kenny all of the way to the street feeling the kid’s arm come loose from the socket and bones cracking from the strength of his grip.

Kenny bounced before coming to a stop and lay there in the middle of the street. Otis waddled over and stood on the kid’s stomach as he looked down on him. He didn’t care if the kid could breathe or not. With a growl, he said, “You done fucked up boy.”

When Kenny had flown through the air past Mr. Atkins, the old man had turned to find out what had happened behind him. He looked at the red spot on the back of Jerry and realized that the big man had been shot. In a voice that carried down the block, Mr. Atkins shouted, “911.”

At the other end of the porch, Henry was throwing Joe against the wall as a gun fell to his feet. Terrified at the look on Henry’s face, Joe was screaming at the top of his lungs hoping that someone would come to his rescue.

Jerry turned to face the landlord now that the rage within had awakened fully. This time, the pain had left it totally unfettered. Free from control and restraint, the rage screamed, “Destroy!”

Robert with a snarl fixed on his face stared Jerry right in the eye, as he fired his pistol at nearly point blank range. The bullet entered Jerry’s abdomen, hitting the place within which his rage lived. Shocked, Jerry felt the rage scream as his lifeblood drained away and his strength started to ebb. The rage, with its last gasp, took over.

His head ached in time to a steady beeping noise that wouldn’t stop. He tried to open his eyes, but they didn’t obey his commands. He wished the beeping sound would stop or, at least, get quieter. He heard other noises, the soft squeak of tennis shoes on linoleum, the whisper of hose encased thighs rubbing together, and a nervous cough from a distance away. He wondered where he was.

Knowing that he couldn’t live the rest of his life with his eyes closed, he gave another attempt to open them and succeeded. A bright light forced him to close them immediately. After a second, he tried again finding that the light wasn’t so bright. His eyelids fluttered before he became accustomed to the light. Everything was fuzzy and he still couldn’t tell where he was.

Exhausted from the effort, he closed his eyes and fell into an uneasy sleep. It was the kind of sleep where one isn’t exactly conscious of what was going on around them, but not deep enough to be totally unaware. Time passed, but he had no way of knowing how much time passed. He slept experiencing bizarre dreams where Jenny talked to him about Bill.

He opened his eyes again, fighting the brightness of the light in the room. A low growl assaulted his ears, making him wonder if there was a wild animal in the room until he realized that he was making the noise. The damn beeping noises continued unabated. He tried to lift his head, but the effort was too much for him. He emitted another low groan.

Bill came over to the bed and looked down at his father with a worried look on his face. As concern battled with excitement at the change in condition of his father, he said, “You’re awake.”

His mouth and throat wouldn’t work enough to give an answer. He felt weak as a baby. This was such a weird sensation that he didn’t know what to do. Bill watched his father struggle to answer and said, “I’ve called the nurse.”

A large woman came into the room and checked his vital signs talking to him the entire time. It was too much of an effort to follow what she was saying and he stopped trying. He turned his attention back to Bill seeing the worried look on his face. A straw appeared in front of his face as the nurse said, “Take a small sip.”

Jerry tried, but most of the water ran out of his mouth. The little that made it down his throat only whet his thirst rather than relieving it. He made a second try with better results. When he went to make a third try, the nurse pulled the straw away from his mouth. He couldn’t lift his head to follow it.

Bill said, “Jenny is here, but she stepped outside for a minute to talk to your doctor.”

There was nothing more Jerry wanted than to learn how his son was doing, but his tongue felt swollen and any attempt at talking resulted in the generation of random noises. His back and stomach hurt as the memory of what had happened slowly returned. He couldn’t remember anything past the moment when he was shot in the stomach. Only now did he realize that he had also been shot in the back.

A woman wearing a white coat came over the bed and examined a chart while looking at him. Bill said, “He hasn’t said anything. Is he okay?”

The woman ignored Bill as she played a flashlight in front of Jerry’s eyes. The bright light hurt. She smiled over at Bill as she said, “The infection is lessening and he is awake. That is a good sign.”

When the woman moved, Jerry could see that Jenny had been standing behind her. He tried to say something, but all that came out was more noise. Frustrated, he frowned and gave up. Searching inside, he sought to find the rage hoping that he could tap into its strength, but there was nothing in the pit of his stomach except pain.

He closed his eyes wanting to gather his strength, but he fell asleep again. This time his sleep was more restful and his awakening less jarring. When his eyes opened he looked around the room. This time it was dark and he was alone in the room. A cough welled up in his chest and when it burst loose, he thought his entire body was getting ripped apart. He shouted in response to the pain, an act that hurt almost as much as the cough.

The loud noises emerging from the room brought a nurse. She looked at him and could see the sweat on his face and stepped over to feel his forehead. His fever had returned. She left the room to get the doctor. A middle aged black man wearing a white coat entered the room and examined Jerry with the typical distant manner common to doctors.

He asked, “Have you got your voice back yet?”

The question gave Jerry pause, as he hadn’t tried to say anything. Opening his mouth, he croaked, “Where am I?”

“You’re in a hospital,” replied the doctor. Turning to the nurse, he requested additional antibiotics.

The answer prodded his brain into working harder. It only made sense that he would be in a hospital after getting shot. He asked, “How long have I been here?”

“Eight days,” replied the doctor as he looked over the chart. Glancing up, he said, “You’re lucky to be alive. Not many people can get shot four times and survive.”

The news was too much for Jerry to take. How could he lay in a hospital bed for eight days? He had been shot four times? He only remembered the one shot to the stomach by that scum landlord. His eyes closed as he tried to reconstruct what had happened to him, but there were major blanks in his memory. Once again he fell asleep.

It was daylight when he woke and raised his head to see his situation. His left arm was bound up in a cast while his right arm was filled with needles, tubes, and wires. A tube under his nose itched. A noise attracted his attention and he looked in the direction from which it had originated. Mr. Atkins, dressed in a suit and tie, sat in the chair watching Jerry.

In a very rough and broken voice, Jerry asked, “How are you doing, Mr. Atkins?”

“I’s doin’ good,” replied the elderly black man. Shaking his head as he looked over Jerry, he said, “Looks like youse doin’ betta.”

“What happened?”

Mr. Atkins said, “Day shot you sumtin’ bad. Ya tore dem up good.”

“I’d say they tore me up good.” Jerry coughed a couple of times. Each cough was accompanied by pain that shot through his back, chest, and abdomen. He had a sour taste in his mouth that threatened to make him sick to his stomach.

Mr. Atkins chuckled at the comment and shook his head. He replied, “If’n ya tinks ya looks bad, ya shoulda seen dem. Dem doctors couldn’t put dat cracka back ta’gather.”

Despite knowing that Mr. Atkins was well respected in the community, Jerry really wished that he spoke better. His heavy accent and strange pronunciation made it almost impossible to understand what the old man was saying. Less a question than a statement, Jerry asked, “I killed him?”

“Yessa, ya killed em. Da cracka and da dealer.”

Jerry’s stomach clenched at the idea of having killed two men. The action caused a wave of pain to shoot through his body. He must have killed Kenny when he threw him to the street. Jerry said, “I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Sheet, ya saved ma life,” the old man said while shaking his head at the memory of that afternoon. Jerry had stepped between him and the gun stopping a bullet in the process. He’d never thought that a white man would do something like that for him. “Ya took da bullet fer me.”

Trying to follow what Mr. Atkins was saying nearly drove Jerry crazy. All the talk about taking a bullet for the old man didn’t make sense. He didn’t remember anything like that happening. Even though it hurt to talk, he said, “I don’t remember anything.”

Mr. Atkins stood and walked over to the bed. Standing there, he looked down at Jerry and said, “Thank ya.”

Not knowing what he was getting thanked for, Jerry replied, “You’re welcome.”

Turning away from the bed, the old black man shuffled out of the room without saying another word. Jerry was left wondering if he was under arrest for killing two men. He really hadn’t meant to kill Kenny. All he had wanted to do was disarm him.

A nurse came in after she had figured out that Mr. Atkins was telling her that Jerry was awake. She held up a cup with a straw for him to drink. The cool water soothed his throat. After several sips, he asked, “What time is it?”

“It’s a little after four. Your other visitors should be here soon,” answered the nurse with a smile as she adjusted things around the bed. She said, “We’ll be moving you out of intensive care tomorrow.”

“Where will I be going?” asked Jerry wondering what was going to happen to him. He watched what she was doing, but didn’t understand half of the actions she performed.

“I imagine a private or semi-private room,” answered the nurse. She finished what she was doing and asked, “Would you like to watch television?”

“Sure,” replied Jerry thinking it would help pass the time.

The nurse left the room after turning on the television to a cable news station. It was time for the economic news and he watched it feeling that it was incredibly boring. As the news crew droned on endlessly about the health of various companies, he considered his situation. Not remembering what had happened convinced him that it was pretty dire.

Bill came into the room and shouted, “Hey, Dad. You’re awake.”

“Hi, Bill. How are you doing?”

“Me? I’m fine. What about you?” asked Bill surprised that his dad was worried about him. He had worried about his father from the moment that he had heard the gunfire. Martin had kept him from running down the street to his father.

“I don’t know. Nobody has told me anything,” answered Jerry. He added, “I’ve been worried about you. Where have you been staying?”

Bill smiled, it was reassuring to know that his father continued to think about him even in his current condition. He answered, “I’ve been staying at home with Henry. Abe’s mom takes me to school and Jenny has been picking me up.”

“That’s nice of them. I hope that you haven’t been giving them any trouble.”

“Only a little, but nothing they can’t handle,” Bill joked with a wink. Henry was so much like his father that it was scary. He had the same sense of responsibility.

Jerry chuckled, but it hurt enough to choke it off. He asked, “How’s school going?”

“It’s fine. Made an A on my test yesterday. Sitting here watching you sleep gave me a lot of time to study. Woody, Sandy, and Larry have really been great,” answered Bill. While his father had been in the hospital, they had worked hard to cheer him up. He had spent one night with Woody over the weekend and they had played video games most of the time. It had been a nice break from sitting in his house worrying about his father.

Sighing, he added, “Everyone’s been great, but I’ve missed you.”

“I’m sorry to have worried you,” said Jerry. A noise by the door attracted Jerry’s attention and he looked over in that direction seeking the source. Jenny, watching with moist eyes, was waiting at the door allowing the father and son to talk. He called over to her, “Come in.”