BLACK FRIDAY

CONNIE CORCORAN WILSON

 

 

December 19, 2014, Friday

 

“If your mother could see you now!” Ricky’s dad wiped the red gore dripping from the six-year-old’s bloody nose. “Look at you!” Mr. Towlerton’s voice was more anguished than angry. “You’re gonna’ have a shiner under your left eye. And you’ve got a bloody nose—AGAIN! This is the third time you’ve been in trouble at school in the last three weeks. When is this going to stop, Ricky? Who were you fighting with this time? What were you fighting about?”

Tom Towlerton sounded more pained than angry. He was distressed and disturbed.

Ricky sniffled. He wiped his runny nose across the sleeve of his holiday-themed reindeer sweater. His hassled father walked across the room to the kitchen sink. Tom grabbed a dish towel hanging from the handle of the oven door, ran warm water over it in the kitchen sink, then twisted it to wring out the excess moisture. She walked back to where Ricky sat, disconsolate, at the kitchen table. Tom used the dish towel like a cold compress, wiping away much of the grit from his son’s face.

The chair Ricky was occupying was dubbed “the hot seat.” Ricky only sat there when he was being punished. He served his Time Outs in this particular chair. His usual spot at the Towlerton dinner table was directly across from “the hot seat.” His mom, Marion, would normally be seated between Tom and Ricky. She would pass the food to her family during meals. Jump up to get them all second helpings from the stove. Ask the two about their day. Tell them about her own day. Inquire about Ricky’s homework. At least, Marion did all that until November 27th, 2014.

Marion Towlerton hadn’t been in her usual dinner table seat since November 28th, Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving.

Tom Towlerton shook his head slowly back and forth, looking at his disheveled son, Ricky’s appearance now slightly improved. Tom scowled, a sign of parental disapproval. He bent down on one knee to wipe clean his young son’s tear-streaked face with the dampened cloth. The grime and blood from Ricky’s altercation with classmate Johnny Dodge was transferred from Ricky’s face to the dish towel. This was no Shroud of Turin moment. Tom flung the grungy dishtowel toward the sink. It fell short and hit the floor with a wet thud.

“Mom always said you shouldn’t use a dish towel like that,” Ricky said, implying shy disapproval, trying to change the subject. “She’d say, ‘Dish towels are for dishes; hand towels are for hands.’“ Ricky looked up at his hassled father, big brown eyes large and wet with unshed tears. Ricky’s slight childish lisp on the letter “s” was like an arrow to his father’s already-broken heart.

“Mom’s not here,” his dad responded. Tom cleared his throat to regain his composure and remain calm. “She’s looking down from heaven. She’s wondering why you keep getting in all these fights at school.”

“I wasn’t at school, Dad. I was on my way home from school. It was our last day before Christmas—the start of Christmas vacation.”

“Well...” Tom Towlerton almost smiled. (Maybe the kid will grow up to be a lawyer someday, the way he argues with me.) “Really, Ricky. You’ve got to try harder to get along with everybody, whether you’re at school or on the bus or walking home. Whatever. Wherever. Whenever.” Tom paused, and then asked, “Exactly where were you when this fight with Johnny Dodge happened?”

“Twelfth Street. Just past the Nativity scene in front of St. John’s Church. Standing in front of Anderson’s Department Store with the life-sized Santa cut-out, where Santa is sitting in the fake sleigh in the window.”

“So, what was the fight about this time?”

“Same thing,” said Ricky, sniffling and looking down at the floor.

 

 

November 27, 2014

 

The guests had all enjoyed the annual Thanksgiving meal at the Towlertons. Twenty-five aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws and, of course, Tom, Marion and Ricky Towlerton. It was Marion’s crowning achievement each year to put on the biggest and best Thanksgiving dinner for all the Towlerton relatives, who came from far and near for the feed. The traditional turkey. Dressing. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Green bean casserole. Scalloped corn. Salads. Rolls. Pies. The whole shebang, preceded by plenty of hors d’oeuvres and libations. Marion always began cooking three days in advance. The entire family looked forward to eating her great food—(even if some of the relatives were not normally on good terms throughout the rest of the year). For one day annually, peace reigned. As the meal ended, Marion’s sister-in-law, Trudy, asked her, “Are you going out tomorrow to take advantage of all the big sales?” Trudy was a bargain hunter. She would spare no effort to be first in line for the $100 big-screen plasma TV on sale at Best Buy. In fact, once Trudy had slept outside Target in a tent after their Thanksgiving feast, intent upon getting the bargain of the morning. She was Tom’s younger sister and a lot of fun, but Marion didn’t share Trudy’s love of shopping. Nor did Marion approve of Trudy’s smoking inside her house. Tom was supposed to tell Trudy not to smoke in the house, but Tom generally avoided confrontation of any kind and wouldn’t reprimand his younger sister, even though Tom and Marion had had many private conversations about what a nasty habit smoking was and how it was also a health hazard for young children. Tom’s continued silence about Trudy’s smoking when they were around Trudy was a bone of contention.

“I don’t know, Trudy,” Marion said. “The mall will be a mad house...”

“Yes it will be, silly,” said Trudy with a laugh. “That’s part of the fun. And—-too—all the Christmas decorations will be up at the Galleria. They’ve got a humongous Santa’s house near the skating rink this year, instead of in that children’s area. Ricky will love it. You can take him there and get pictures.”

“I don’t know. Ricky’s almost seven,” said Marion. “He’s getting kind of old for Santa Claus, don’t you think? Do you think he still really believes in that stuff?”

“Sure he does,” said Trudy. “I heard him telling his cousin Michael that Santa was real. Michael wasn’t so sure—but, then, Michael is almost ten. Ricky’s at that age where kids still believe.” Trudy took a drag on her after-dinner cigarette, irritating Marion who was too polite to ask her to put it out. “You’ve got maybe one good year left. You ought to take Ricky out to see Santa. Get a picture of him sitting on Santa’s lap. Enjoy the innocence of childhood one last time. He’ll grow like a weed and be too big next year.”

And with that, Trudy stubbed out her cigarette in the empty pie plate, got up, and disappeared, heading for the bathroom. Marion waved her hands ineffectually in the air trying to dispel the smoke. Then she hustled the dead cancer-stick to the nearest waste receptacle, muttering under her breath.

Trudy, when urging the Galleria visit, said all this to Marion as though she were an authority. “Besides,” Trudy had added, “the madhouse aspect is part of the fun. You should see the lengths some people will go to just to get a bargain!” Trudy laughed cheerfully, failing to recognize the irony of her remark.

Marion sighed, indecisive.

After all the guests left, the words “the innocence of childhood” kept reverberating in Marion’s head. Ricky did believe in Santa Claus—right now. Would Ricky still believe in him next year, when he was almost eight? How many more years will Ricky be an innocent child who believes in all the childhood myths?

She walked into the bedroom, turning off the lights after cleaning up from the evening’s festivities, and asked Tom, “Do you think I should take Ricky to the mall tomorrow—Black Friday—to get a picture of him with Santa?”

“I dunno’,” said Tom. “Do you want to?” Tom was peeling off his socks. Next, he would throw them toward the hamper—and probably miss, as usual.

“Part of me wants to. And part of me doesn’t want to fight the crowds out in force bargain hunting the day after Thanksgiving.” Marion sighed.

“Well, decide which part of you is strongest and go with that.” Tom smiled and walked over to hug his wife, who was removing her jeans. “The Galleria is pretty upscale. All those fancy jewelry stores. Shops like that luggage place that we can’t afford. Nordstrom’s. Neiman Marcus.” Always pragmatic, he added, “If you go, stick with Santa and avoid the stores.”

“Oh, Tom. You know that one of the biggest stores is right near where Santa has set up shop this year. I don’t have to go in the stores, but I’m definitely going to be exposed to all the shoppers who are going in all those expensive stores. Ricky will probably come home wanting some horrifically priced monstrosity from Neiman Marcus’ window—like a life-sized giraffe or something.” They both laughed.

“Well, just keep ye olde budget in mind, hon. Meeting Santa ought to be a big enough thrill for a short visit to the glorious Galleria. Then you can come home and make meatloaf for the three us. We’ll be absorbing the cost of this year’s Thanksgiving Mega-Feed for a month or so. And, by the way, your usual wonderful job, Dear. Food was great!” He pecked his wife of a decade on the cheek.

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” said Marion, pretending to curtsey. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. There was absolutely no turkey left over—and that bird originally weighed over twenty pounds. And all the scalloped corn is gone too.”

“Well, we’ll deal with that tragedy tomorrow. We can buy one of those small turkey breasts and start all over, can’t we? We still have the dressing and mashed potatoes and gravy—right?”

“Yes, dear,” Marion said, with mock obeisance, sinking down next to him on the bed and enfolding him in her arms in a loving embrace.

 

 

Friday, November 28, 2014

 

Bright and early on Black Friday, Marion and Ricky hopped in the tan Hyundai Tucson van and started driving toward the Galleria Mall at 5085 Westheimer Road, near Post Oak Boulevard. The Galleria in Dallas was not new, although it had been remodeled in 2006. It was the 7th largest mall in America. It got its name from the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, a shopping arcade in Milan, Italy.

Walking into the mall, Marion never failed to be impressed by the barrel vaulted glass ceiling, interlaced with iron, identical to the treatment above the huge ice skating rink. Although her family was not wealthy enough to spend $200,000 at stores like Hermes, Saks and Chanel, Marion still felt the Dallas Galleria was the best true “mall” in the United States, given its scale, size, and mix of luxury and upscale shopping, plus offerings for mid-range buyers like the Towlertons.

This year, rather than having Santa set up in the Little Galleria children’s play area, the man-in-red’s opulent throne was situated quite near exactly those high-end stores that Tom had warned Marion to avoid. Still, if Santa was receiving his subjects there, that was where Marion and Ricky needed to be. And that was where they were headed.

 

Marion and Ricky made their way through the throng of holiday shoppers. Marion felt almost claustrophobic in the crush of people. True, the economy was doing better, but this was ridiculous! She was just about to pull Ricky from the throng and exit the mall entirely, when he spied the top of Santa’s house and began excitedly pulling his mother toward it through the massive crowd.

“Look, Mom! It’s Santa’s house. Santa is here!” His face lit up like the sun rising in the east.

Marion knew this, of course, but she had remained mum about the day’s plans, hoping to surprise her young son with their planned appointment with the Merry Man in Red. Nothing would do, now, but that they move as quickly as possible to join the other Christmas shoppers in line, waiting for Santa’s elves to guide them through the roped-off area until it was Ricky’s turn to sit on Santa’s lap and tell Santa what he wanted for Christmas.

As they listened to a small cherubic-faced blond boy of about two scream bloody murder in the cordoned off area—a child who definitely needed a nap—Ricky became more and more excited at the prospect of telling Santa about the video games he’d like. The games for his iPad. The skates he had his eye on.

The noise level in the mall was deafening. It was always a bit noisy on weekends, as the sound would travel up to the extremely high vaulted glass ceilings, necessary to provide light in the huge mall, but today the babble was particularly loud. Marion heard what she thought was the sound of firecrackers. How can they let someone set off firecrackers in the Galleria?

Ricky had just reached the head of the line. He was being ushered toward Santa by two green-suited elves in pointy-toed boots, elf caps, and red-and-white striped vests paired with green leggings. Ricky climbed onto Santa’s lap. The kindly old gentleman (and he was a really GOOD Santa, Marion thought) was just beginning the first of his “Ho! Ho! Ho’s!” when Ricky turned to his mother (standing nearby to offer moral support) and said, “What’s that noise, Mom?”

And then they both saw them: three armed men, faces covered with ski masks, smashing the windows of the expensive jewelry store nearby. Smashing and grabbing. Scooping up the jewelry displayed in the cases. Dumping the loot into black soft-sided bags that were slung across their shoulders. Moving quickly toward them.

A middle-aged mall security guard came running from the Main Galleria, the rink/Nordstrom side, but before the rent-a-cop could reach the center of the storm, he was cut down by gunfire. The shots immediately set off complete crowd chaos. People were running. Falling. Screaming. The guard dragged himself behind a planter, leg and left torso bleeding profusely. A second shot rang out. The guard lay still.

A little girl, standing with her mother, next in line behind Ricky, age four, was so frightened that she began shrieking at the top of her lungs and promptly wet her pants. The smell of urine wafted toward Marion and Ricky.

Santa appeared to be an elderly gentleman with a real white beard (no wig or fake beard.) He looked baffled by the sudden disturbance swelling around his opulent house. Slow to comprehend, perhaps his hearing wasn’t as keen as that of younger folk. Santa didn’t seem to realize what was happening—until it was too late.

Having ransacked the chi chi stores nearby (Saks. Chanel. Hermes. Neiman Marcus.), three masked gunmen were demanding of everyone that they “hit the ground.” Marion, standing next to Ricky and Santa, was too stunned to move at all. Even if she had understood what was being asked of her, she would not have left her child there, vulnerable and alone. She remained standing erect after the gunman’s edict. The shortest of the masked and vested trio shot Marion. The bullets entered her abdomen, right shoulder, hip and the right side of her head. She fell to the ground, hitting the terrazzo floor with as much force as though she’d jumped from the balcony above. She lay there, mortally wounded, covered in blood.

When the gunman yelled “Throw over your purse, lady!” at her, it was as though Marion were in a trance. Marion did not comply. She wasn’t defying the masked man. She had not fully comprehended what was occurring, initially—too petrified to move. The consequence was death. Nor had the elderly Santa Claus quite figured out what was happening.

“Mama! Mama!” The cries of children echoed throughout the area, a cacophony of terror. One of those shouting was Ricky, who watched in horror as his mother was shot a second and a third time. He remembered nothing but Santa clutching him one moment and his mother bleeding on the floor the next. Although he cried out once, he couldn’t hear himself screaming above the din. He was petrified into silence by what happened next.

The gunman turned toward the very life-like Santa and said, “I always hated you, you son-of-a-bitch. You never brought me one damn thing I asked for!” The smash-and-grab thief pulled the trigger. He shot Santa in the head from nearly point-blank range. The mall Santa, bleeding profusely from a ragged hole in the middle of what was left of his forehead, slumped onto the terrified child still seated on his lap. Because Santa died nearly immediately—(in a horrible and grisly fashion)—his considerable girth collapsed onto the stunned child (whose scream was cut short by the impact of the portly adult man). The costumed figure’s body shielded the six-year-old as Santa collapsed onto him, Santa’s red suit appearing unstained by the blood dripping from his face to his chest, a liquid which matched the outfit, now giving it a sodden look.

At this point, still silent, Ricky wriggled free of the dead man atop him. He ran to his mother. She gurgled twice. Death throes. Ricky threw himself onto her body. He clutched his mother around the waist, screaming, “Get up, Mommy! Get up!” His arms were red with her blood. And then Ricky fell silent. He didn’t utter another sound or make another move for ninety minutes.

That is how and where the authorities found him, an hour later, after the S.W.A.T. team entered the mall and gunned down the trio of would-be robbers. One of the shooters was still exchanging gunfire with officers sixty minutes after Ricky’s turn on Santa’s lap. The killer had barricaded himself inside the Chanel store.

Ricky lay atop his mother’s body, bloodied, unmoving. Shaken. In shock. The police and emergency personnel who emerged from the gunfight victorious went from victim to victim lying on the Galleria floor, searching desperately and frantically for signs of life. When they reached Marion and Ricky, they found the small boy curled in the fetal position, perfectly motionless. Silent. Apparently catatonic. He was unharmed.

At least physically.

 

 

Marion Towlerton’s funeral was held on Saturday, December 6th.

 

Ricky’s Aunt Trudy came to Dallas from San Antonio (where she and her husband and her ten-year-old son Michael lived) and stayed for a week, taking care of Ricky and her brother Tom. Eventually, Trudy returned to her own family in San Antonio.

 

School was still in session. Tom Towlerton knew that Marion would not have wanted her only child to miss weeks and weeks of classroom instruction under any circumstances. Tom vowed to try to make Ricky’s life as normal as possible for a child who had just witnessed his mother murdered in cold blood. As normal as possible for a child who had felt the clutches of the Grim Reaper while visiting the mall for a happy outing with his mom. As normal as possible for someone who has experienced abject terror and utter hysteria and remained catatonic throughout ninety minutes of chaos—a lack of movement which probably saved Ricky’s life from the savagery of the gunmen. The armed assailants opened fire on any unarmed shopper who moved. Twenty-six people were killed, six of them under the age of ten.

No one was spared. If a woman didn’t hand over her purse quickly enough, she was shot. If a male shopper refused to throw his wallet to one of the trio when commanded to do so, he too, was shot. In some cases, the individual would be shot whether he complied with the orders of the armed trio or not. The bloody scene was horrific.

“One of the worst mall massacres in history,” trumpeted CNN.

Of course, CNN meant one of the worst mall massacres in United States history. There had been a far worse mall shooting in Nairobi, Kenya just one year past. On September 21st, 2013, four unidentified gunmen attacked the upscale Westgate Shopping Mall in an attack that lasted three days. Sixty-seven people died, including the four attackers. More than one hundred-seventy-five people were wounded. All four of the gunmen, Islamic zealots from the group al-Shabaab, were killed.

The deadliest United States mall killing, prior to the Dallas Galleria attack that killed Marion Towlerton, was on December 5, 2007, in Omaha, Nebraska. Eight people were shot and killed by nineteen-year-old Robert Hawkins, who then committed suicide.

Virginia Tech. Sandy Hook. Columbine. So many mass shootings in so many other public places, but the deadliest United States mall shooting now was the shooting at the Dallas Galleria Mall that claimed Marion Towlerton’s life and that of fourteen other unsuspecting victims (not including the three attackers.)

 

On December 8th, 2014, just 11 days after watching his mother die at the Galleria Mall in Dallas, Ricky returned to his first-grade classroom at Ronald E. McNair Elementary School.

 

At first, everyone treated Ricky as though he were made of glass. They acted as though he might break at any moment. They gave him a wide berth. Special counseling sessions were set up for many of the school’s students. There were eight sections of first grade. In those eight sections, at least five children knew of someone who had died at the mall. However, none of them except Ricky had actually been at the mall during the attack. And none of them except Ricky had lost a parent to such senseless violence.

All affected youngsters of whatever age at Ronald E. McNair Elementary School were told they could talk about their feelings with a counselor. Many of them, including Ricky, took advantage of this special service.

But some of the less-sensitive young boys in Ricky’s class, when the children were alone or playing on the playground, would ask him: “How did it happen? What was it like? Weren’t you scared?”

At first, Ricky would just shake his head. He wouldn’t respond. He refused to talk about it. Later, however, after two or three days of repeated interrogation by classmates, he began to speak to his friends in first grade about his visit to Santa Claus.

When Ricky told Jimmy Baker about Santa’s death, Jimmy was sympathetic and said to Ricky, “How awful that must have been for you! I would have been so frightened!”

But there were far more Johnny Dodges in Ricky’s large first-grade class than there were sensitive Jimmy Bakers, plus there were the students in older elementary grades. After three days, one of them, Max Black, said, “You’re stupid. Santa isn’t real.” Ricky had just recounted (for what was beginning to feel like the one millionth time) how Santa was shot. How Santa Claus had slumped forward, crushing him, right after Marion was shot and killed.

Max Black was held back in first grade. He still did not know how to read in third grade, despite being almost ten. He was a sullen boy of Serbian descent who seemed to always have a knack of bringing down any happy gathering. It was not surprising that he was the one who interrupted Ricky. At the time, Ricky was on the playground talking with a trio of first-graders, two from his class and one slightly older boy he did not know well.

“Santa saved my life,” Ricky said solemnly. “After the bad man with the mask shot him—right here—-(Ricky pointed to his own forehead)—Santa kind of slumped forward onto me. My mom was already on the floor. She was bleeding real bad.” Ricky sniffled at this point, unable to go on.

“What happened next?” asked Max. Max had all the sensitivity of a charging rhino.

“Santa. Santa happened next. He got shot. But he saved me when he fell on me.”

“You know that Santa Claus isn’t real, don’t you, Ricky?” repeated Max Black, his voice a verbal sneer.

Ricky looked at Max and said, defiantly, “Yes he is.”

Max laughed. A short unpleasant staccato outburst. “No he isn’t, retard. Only babies think Santa Claus is real.”

Ricky hit Max in the shoulder. Max hit Ricky back in the face. Black eye and bloody nose number one.

When Ricky returned home from school the weekend of December 13th, after a disagreement with a different classmate, he wasn’t sporting a bloody nose or a black eye. But his shirt was torn.

“What happened to your shirt, Ricky?” his father asked.

“This big kid who’s in Miss Simpson’s first grade section—- he tore it,” Ricky said.

Tom gave Ricky the standard lecture about getting along with others and taking care of one’s belongings. He didn’t know the extent of the pushing and shoving that had occurred on the playground during recess (which Ricky started). The incident was forgotten.

 

 

On Monday, December 15^th

 

Ricky was involved in another incident with a different boy during gym class. Principal Soames called Tom Towlerton and asked him to come into his office for a conference.

“Mr. Towlerton, I know things have been rough for you and Ricky since—well, since what happened—but he seems to be acting out. We wondered if you’d thought of getting him some private psychiatric counseling. He’s been through a terrible ordeal. In fact, he’s lucky to be alive. It has to have affected him. We’d like to help him get over it.”

“Get over it!” Tom said. Sarcastic. Incredulous. “HE WATCHED HIS MOTHER DIE! How do you ‘get over’ that?” Tom stormed from the office, angry, without responding further, other than to say he’d think about the psychiatric sessions the school principal suggested.

Tom did arrange for a few private sessions with a psychiatrist, Dr. Rothstein, when he learned it would be covered by his employee insurance at Exxon-Mobile. The sessions were privileged, which meant that the shrink didn’t really share every single confidence Ricky told him with Tom Towlerton, but Dr. Rothstein did say to Tom, “You know—it’s nice to see a little kid like Ricky after working with so many jaded teenagers. Did you know Ricky still believes in Santa Claus?” Dr. Rothstein smiled as he told Tom this small detail.

“Yes—I know,” replied Tom. “It’s the main reason Marion took him to the Galleria that day. She wanted to get a picture of Ricky on Santa’s lap.” Tom thought, If only Marion hadn’t taken Ricky to the Mall to get that picture, she might still be alive today...

As though reading his mind, Dr. Rothstein said, “Well, don’t blame Marion for taking Ricky to see Santa. And don’t think it’s a bad thing that Ricky still believes in him. It’s actually kind of refreshing to meet a little kid who still has that kind of childish innocence. So many kids lose the wonder so young.”

With those closing remarks, the two men shook hands and Tom exited Dr. Rothstein’s office, where he had stopped for an update on Ricky’s progress.

 

 

December 19, 2014

 

Tom Towlerton sat down in his wife’s seat, next to his shaken son—a little boy still covered in cuts and scratches and dirt that Tom’s efforts had not quite successfully removed. Tom asked, “What happened with Johnny Dodge today, outside Anderson’s Department Store? What do you mean by ‘the usual?’“

Ricky sat there for a moment, stubbornly bullheaded. Quiet in a sullen way. He didn’t know if he wanted to respond. Then he began to speak.

“Dad—every single one of the fights I’ve been in since...since Mom died....they’ve all been about the same thing. Kids ask me about the shooting. At first, I try not to talk about it, try not to tell them anything. But they won’t leave me alone. At recess, on the bus, walking home, in class: they all want to know the same things. What was it like? Were you scared? How did you survive? What did you do?

At first—like I said—I didn’t say anything. But then I started to answer them. (Tom’s heart broke a little bit when Ricky lisped the word ‘started’ in his six-year-old’s voice.) And tonight, when Johnny Dodge and I were standing in front of that Christmas display in Anderson’s Department Store window, I told Johnny, ‘That’s not the REAL Santa Claus. That’s just a cardboard cutout of him in a fake sleigh.’ Johnny laughed at me and said, ‘Dummy—there is no REAL Santa Claus!’“

“And what did you say, Ricky?” his weary father asked, inwardly fearing the answer.

“I told Johnny Dodge, ‘Santa Claus is too real! I watched him die.’”