George Washington University Hospital June 30
“I ain’t never been in no hospital before,” Anjean Jameson said, as the automatic doors swept shut behind him.
“No way,” Willie Jameson said.
“Fuckin’ word,” Anjean said loudly.
Several attendants at the reception desk looked up at Anjean and his two companions. Anjean was wearing a shiny black bandana tied tightly around his head. A gold chain hung around his neck. His black nylon pullover and black nylon sweatpants rustled with each movement.
“Shut the fuck up,” Starrell said in a low voice. “Act like you fuckin’ know where we’re going.”
The three men walked past the reception desk.
“Where are we going?” Willie whispered to Starrell.
“Like you fuckin’ know where we’re going,” Starrell repeated. He was wearing his wraparound sunglasses and carrying a beat-up knapsack. Willie was toting a plastic bag full of clothes.
They entered an elevator.
“What floor?” Willie asked.
“Any one, like you fuckin’ know where we’re going,” Starrell said and punched a button.
“Like fuckin’ Superfly,” Anjean said.
“Man,” Willie said. “He was a dealer. This trip’s more like Shaft. And what you mean you ain’t never been in a hospital?”
“What I said,” Anjean replied.
The elevator stopped at the fourth floor, and the doors opened.
“Get out,” Starrell said.
He turned right and the two brothers followed. They passed three pregnant women in hospital gowns.
“Look, man,” Anjean said. “This here’s for bitches about to pop.” He laughed. “Don’t think your man’s around here, Twayne. Not unless there’s something you ain’t tellin’ us.”
Starrell said nothing. He saw a door marked exit and opened it. The three took the stairs up a floor. There was not much activity in the hall. Starrell spotted a men’s room, and the young men entered it.
Starrell checked the stalls. No one was there. He took off the sunglasses, the sweatshirt, and the T-shirt that advertised the name of a New York fashion house. He grabbed the bag of clothes from Willie and pulled out a crumpled white dress shirt. Anjean sat on a sink, and Willie stood by the door.
“Now he puts on the disguise,” Anjean said, as Starrell started changing clothes. “I-Spy shit, man!”
“You must’ve been in a hospital,” Willie said to Anjean. “Like when momma was there.”
“Nah, when we was little, they wouldn’t let us come and we stayed with ‘Tie Rita. And after she said I couldn’t come home no more, well, I figured she don’t want me visiting her at no hospital. I almost was in one night before Halloween. We was at the video store and when we came out, this black Wagoneer came by loaded, and they start shootin’. They blew out the window. Randy whipped out his piece and shot up that Wagoneer. Got the back window. Like an explosion. Then I see Mouse-man on the ground. He’s cryin’ like a baby. ‘I’m fuckin’ wet,’ he says. ‘I’m fuckin’ wet.’ So Randy gets his Jeep and we put Mouse-man in it. Randy’s shoutin,’ ‘I’ll fuck you up you get blood on my Jeep.’ Mouse-man keeps cryin’, ‘I’m wet, I’m wet.’ We kick it to D.C. General. And Mouse-man gets real quiet. And when we slide to at the hospital, Randy says, just put him by the … what you call it?”
“The curb?” Willie said.
Starrell was doing the buttons on the white shirt.
“Yeah, the curb. And I say, ‘We got to bring him inside.’ Randy says, ‘Don’t think like a bitch. We blew those niggers away. They’ll be lookin’ for us. Leave him there, they’ll find him.’ Couldn’t say that ain’t so, right? So that’s it. Right by the door. But not inside.”
Starrell stared at Anjean.
“He died, right?”
“Sure did. But he was almost stiff when he got there. His blood was on E. So made no diff, man.”
Starrell took a blue tie with red stripes out of the bag and looped it around his collar.
“You know how to do this, Willie?” he asked.
Willie helped Starrell with the tie.
“But I bet you’ve been in a hospital,” Willie said to his brother.
“Bet what, man?”
“You have to send momma some flowers.”
“She don’t want zip from me.”
“You think she don’t want zip because that’s what she says. But that don’t make it what she really wants.”
“Yeah, and what you putting up?” Anjean asked.
“Next time you want to hide something in the house I won’t tell you to bounce yourself the fuck off.”
“You got it,” Anjean said.
Willie straightened the tie.
“Stay here for five,” Starrell said. “Then go wait outside.”
“How you going to find him?” Willie asked.
“I’ll find him. And don’t be calling any attention to your black asses. Okay?”
Neither brother said anything. Starrell put his face in front of Anjean.
“I said, okay?” Starrell said.
“Yeah, right. Why you asking me?”
“Okay, Twayne,” Willie said. “But maybe we’ll go check out the flowers downstairs’cause An is going to be in the market.”
“Unh-unh,” Anjean protested.
“’Cause he was in a hospital. He sure was. He was born in a hospital.” Willie laughed.
Starrell picked up the backpack and smiled. As he opened the door, he heard Anjean mutter, “Oh fuck that shit.”
Starrell stood in a hallway on the sixth floor and placed his hands over his face. He thought about the book of drawings done by Willie and Anjean’s brother, Marco. He thought about the way Marco had been found: at least a dozen bullet wounds, half of them in the face. And his mother kept wailing about having an open casket at the funeral. At the church, she tried to open the lid, crying, “Just wanna see my baby boy.” Willie had to pull her away.
He pictured his cousin Barry all laid out. And how his uncle said nothing that long day. And Tamika’s brother Wendell. Buried with his basketball card collection. Tamika and her mother never knew that Wendell had been collecting for the Stillman Crew. They had a rule: No collectors over thirteen years old. Wendell was twelve-years, ten-and-a-half months old when a bullet exploded his heart. Shit, everyone knew the Stillman Crew was pushing too far into the wrong hoods. If Wendell had asked, Starrell would have told him to quit. But what’s a kid supposed to know?
At least the face was left, so Tamika and her mother could kiss, kiss, kiss it before the reverend placed his hands on their shoulders and said, “It’s time.”
He imagined the baby—maybe a boy—growing inside Tamika. Those little hands. What he would do if any fucker tried to cause that baby harm. But how could he make sure that this baby would not end up in a Sunday suit in a box in the ground? Shit, why wouldn’t Tamika let him be the father of this baby he would protect forever?
He removed his hands from his face. He felt the wetness sliding away from his eyes.
Shit, he thought, it’s not that hard to cry.
A nurse was standing nearby. She was pretty: big eyes and caramel skin. “Can I help?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Starrell said. He tried a sob. “I was looking for my uncle. They told me downstairs where he is. But”—he wiped a tear—“I wasn’t really listening … . He’s Clarence Dunne. You know, the—”
“Oh, yes,” she interrupted. “Of course. Come with me.”
She gently put her hand against his back and guided him to an elevator.
“I’ll show you,” she said. “My name’s Cynthia.”
Starrell tasted the saltiness at the corner of his mouth.
“T-Thomas,” he said.
They rode up two floors, and the nurse escorted him through a hallway. She paused outside a room with a closed glass door. Starrell saw a black woman in a blue dress, and two black men wearing ties and jackets. A bearded white man in a white coat was talking to them.
“Your aunt and cousins,” the nurse said. “You want to tell them you’re … ?” She took a step toward the door.
“No,” Starrell said. “Not when they is … they’re talking to the doctor. That’s okay. Maybe I should just look in on Uncle Clarence, if I can.”
“Let’s go see,” Cynthia said.
Down the hall, a uniformed police officer was sitting in a chair outside a room. A nurse came out. Cynthia asked if Dunne could receive a visitor.
“Still unconscious,” the nurse said.
“It’s his nephew,” Cynthia said.
The police officer looked at Starrell, who rubbed his eyes and tried to ignore the stare. Just be like one of those Chevy Chase oreos, he told himself. They don’t fuckin’ freak when a cop checks them out.
“For a minute,” the nurse said.
Cynthia opened the door. The officer held up his hand. “Wait a sec.”
Starrell felt a tremor in his legs. He looked for the nearest exit. His muscles tightened; he was ready to sprint those thirty yards, ready to start pumping … in a moment.
Chill, he said to himself. Chill, chill, chill.
“Need to check his bag,” the policeman said.
“No problem … sir,” Starrell said. He swung the backpack off his shoulder, opened it, and held it out for the policeman. The officer pawed through it, saying the contents aloud: “letters, papers, brochures, more papers, more papers.” This could be fuckin’ it, Starrell said silently. He looks at this shit. Fuckin’ didn’t think of this.
Starrell breathed through his nose. Chill, man, he repeated to himself.
“Okay,” the policeman said.
Cynthia and Starrell entered the room.
“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” she said. She smiled at him and closed the door.
Dunne was connected to various machines. A tube ran from the bandages on his neck. A catheter was stuck into his arm. An assortment of electronic devices were at one side of the bed. His skin color was yellowish, his eyes closed.
Starrell approached Dunne slowly. The air smelled funny, he thought. He felt a nervous sweat pouring out of his body.
“Mr. Dunne,” he said.
Shit, he thought, what if the guard could hear?
“Clarence?” he said. “Uncle Clarence?”
Dunne didn’t move. Starrell sat down in a chair. He leaned over Dunne and placed his mouth near Dunne’s ear. He could hear the hiss of oxygen flowing through a tube.
“It’s me. It’s me, Starrell. Twayne.”
He pulled back and looked at Dunne. Nothing.
“Fuckin’ come on, man,” he said in a low voice. “I got all this shit here”—he patted the backpack—“from that house. Remember, man, we were in the car, talking. You were telling me all that shit. All that shit you wrote down in that notebook. Said like, someone else should know this shit. And right now the only someone else is my black ass. And you said that this whacked-out guy lived with this gook woman and that his bud shot up Hanover and that you wanted to check out the place, you know?”
Dunne’s mouth moved. His eyes flickered open, then closed.
“Come on. We busted in there. Not much there. Man, a mountain of empties. Some nasty-ass magazines with freaky motorcycle bitches. It stunk, man. But we Hoovered the place. Found this bag with all this shit in it. Letters. Newspaper shit. C’mon, wake up. I can’t park my ass here all day.”
Starrell glanced toward the door. He took Dunne’s hand from underneath the covers and put it on the bag.
“What the fuck do we do with this? You tell me.”
Dunne’s eyes opened. His lips parted. A phlegmy croaking came out.
“Fuck,” Starrell said. “You can’t say nothing. Shit, this sucks. I should get myself out of here.”
Dunne moved his hand off the backpack and placed it on top of Starrell’s hand. His grip was weak.
“Can’t sit around here and hold hands.”
Dunne’s eyes glared at him. With much effort, he shook his head. Then he tapped Starrell’s hand once. He paused. He tapped it twice. He paused. He tapped it three times. He stopped and blinked hard at Starrell. Then he tapped it four times. Then five. Then six. He blinked hard again.
“Shit, what do you want man?” Starrell asked. “Just fuckin’ tell me.”
Dunne’s finger poked Starrell’s palm seven times, then eight, then nine. He blinked. He then tapped once and grunted at the same time, making a short “ah” sound. He grimaced with the pain.
“Come on, fuckin’ say something.”
Dunne tapped and grunted once more, wincing.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m thinkin’, thinkin’.”
Dunne lifted his finger to start again.
“A … B … C …” Starrell said.
Dunne blinked his eyes fast several times.
“Okay, okay, alphabet city.”
Dunne tapped out one, then four, then three—
The door opened. Starrell jumped back. Margaret Hanover and the black woman in the blue dress—Dunne’s wife—entered. In the hallway behind them was a crowd of people: the doctor, Dunne’s sons, several nurses, men in dark suits, and the policeman. The door swung shut.
Starrell stood up.
“Who the hell are you?” Alma Dunne asked.
Oh shit, he thought. Oh—
“Who let you in?” She turned toward the door.
Oh—
“I’m going to see about this.”
Starrell held out his hands, palms up.
“Praise, Jesus!” he shouted, drawing out the words. “Praise the Lord!”
What do all those Jesus-nuts shout on television? he asked himself.
“Look at him.” He pointed to Dunne. “Oh, the Lord heals the sick and the afflicted. His power saves. See for yourself.”
Alma Dunne saw that her husband’s eyes were open. She rushed past Starrell to Dunne’s side and grabbed his hand.
“Oh, honey,” she said. “Oh, honey, Clarence, Clarence. Oh, Clarence.” She stroked his face.
Starrell moved past Margaret Hanover, zipping up the bag.
“Praise the Lord,” he said to her. “Praise him and the power of prayer and our hospital”—damn, what’s the word?—“ministry. I’ve been praying
over him. Yes, ma’am, I have. Eugene Carver, of Christ Healing Ministry.”
He stopped and held out his hand. She took it and stared at him, not knowing what to say.
“A pleasure,” he said. “Praise Jesus.”
“Thank you,” Margaret replied.
Starrell opened the door and pushed through the clutch of family, security personnel, and hospital employees. “Who’s that?” he heard someone say. “His nephew, right?” another voice said. “He’s not a nephew,” a different voice replied. Starrell kept walking and emerged from the crowd.
“Hey, you, wait a minute.”
Starrell broke into a sprint. The backpack slapped against him. His feet pounded the tile; he stretched out his gait. He heard someone—maybe two people—running behind him. Only dead men look back, he told himself. There were more shouts. He heard the voices, but did not listen to the words. Pump it, pump it, pump it, he said to himself.
He grabbed the metal door handle. He yanked it open and leaped down the first flight of stairs. He landed, reached for the railing and flew around the turn. He heard the door slam open behind him and more shouts. He gained his footing, took two quick steps, and jumped again. He caught the railing, turned himself, and passed the door to the seventh floor.
Concentrate on the feet, he said to himself. Concentrate. Jump, grab, turn, two steps. Then again. And again. He heard the grunts and groans of the people chasing him. He couldn’t tell if they were gaining. He wondered if they had guns. Jump, grab, turn, two steps. “Concentrate”—he said it aloud. “Concentrate.”
He went by the third floor. Shit, he thought, the men in suits outside the hospital room—Secret Service. Must be a whole posse at the hospital. If not for Dunne, then for Margaret Hanover. They all got those radio things in their ears. They’re probably waiting for him at the bottom floor. God damnit.
Starrell pulled open the door to the second floor. He looked both ways: no men in suits. He ran to the right. He felt the blood speeding through his body. His legs kept pumping. Like a fucking machine, he told himself. He brushed by two orderlies and an old man using a walker. He thought he heard the door to the stairwell bang open. There was more yelling. Don’t look back, he told himself. Only suckers do.
He turned a corner. Another long corridor. Shit, shit, shit, he said to himself. How the fuck do I get out? He ran its length and entered another stairwell. The basement, he thought. Maybe a parking garage. Keep on going down. He jumped the first flight. Hit the landing. Jumped the next flight.
“Fuck!” he shouted. A metal gate blocked access to the stairs leading to the lower levels. “To get to the parking levels,” a sign read, “use the stairwell at the western end of the corridor.” He pulled on the gate. It was locked. He heard the door to the second floor slam open. He burst into the hallway and ran.
He raced by visitors and patients. He shoved aside two children holding flowers. He thought he was running toward the entrance. But he had lost his sense of direction. He couldn’t feel his legs. Just blast by those Secret Service dudes, he told himself. Like through the backfield. The motherfuckers are right around the comer. Fuckin’ party time, Starrell said to himself.
He rounded the corner and saw the front entrance to the hospital. And six suits between him and the door. They were coming his way. There were shouts behind him.
I am fucked, he thought. Super-fucked. He remembered a coach from a long time ago: Keep that C of G low,’cause, you ain’t going down, if you’re already down. Starrell lowered his head and tried to find more strength in his legs.
Then the world exploded. There was a crash. Glass was flying. Several suits dropped to the ground. An ambulance had driven right through the front doors and into the lobby. An alarm went off. A siren started up. People were screaming. The ambulance skidded toward the reception desk. Nurses were running to get out of its path.
Starrell looked up. Willie was in the ambulance, waving at him from the passenger side and shouting something. Starrell spotted two suits coming toward him, but other people were in the way. He pushed bodies aside and leaped over one of the suits on the floor.
He could hear Willie’s voice. “Move it, man! Move it!”
There was one more suit. Starrell saw a gun. He heard several shots. He saw the suit go down. He wondered if he was too pumped to feel a bullet. He then noticed Anjean leaning over Willie, holding a gun.
“Fuckin’ shit,” Starrell said and sprinted toward the ambulance.
He jumped on the running board. Willie grabbed his arm.
“Hold the fuck on!” Anjean screamed.
The ambulance accelerated backward and out of the lobby. Pieces of glass fell on Starrell. The ambulance skipped over a step and crashed into a car in the driveway.
“Blow, Anjean, blow!” Willie shouted.
Starrell heard more shots. They hit the ambulance. He saw a suit with a gun at the entranceway. The same one he had jumped over? Good, he’s not dead, Starrell thought, but let’s get the fuck out of here.
Anjean threw the ambulance into gear and punched the accelerator. The rear of the ambulance fishtailed and struck another car. Starrell nearly
fell off. The backpack slid off his shoulder. He held on to the strap. Willie’s grip tightened on him. More shots hit the ambulance.
Anjean had room on Pennsylvania Avenue and sped through a light.
“Whooo-fuckin’-eeee!” he shouted. “This is vicious!”
“You’re fuckin’ crazy!” Starrell yelled.
“Crazy enough to save your skanky ass,” Anjean shouted. “We flipped the script, man!” He waved his gun outside the window and fired a shot into the air.
“Quit that shit, Anjean!” Willie screamed at him.
Starrell looked back toward the hospital. No cars were chasing them.
“Ain’t going to be nobody back there,” Willie said to him. “Not right away. We saw them all run into the hospital. Figured it had something to do with you. They left their cars. So … .”
He held up a knife and smiled. The ambulance hit a pothole, and Starrell’s feet flew off the running board. Willie pulled him close to the vehicle, and Starrell regained his footing.
“Fuckin’ D.C,” Starrell muttered.
“You know what I learned today?” Anjean shouted.
Willie and Starrell waited for the answer.
“They don’t use the fuckin’ Club on ambulances.” He laughed and turned right on Twenty-first Street, through a red light, the tires screeching.
“Pull over,” Starrell yelled at Anjean. “Now.”
“Man, I’m Luke-fuckin’-Skywalker!” Anjean yelled.
“Now!” Starrell insisted. He looked at Willie, and Willie pulled on the wheel. The ambulance jerked to the right. Anjean hit the brakes.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Anjean screamed at Willie.
Starrell stepped off the running board. His body was shaking.
“Three niggers in an ambulance ain’t goin’ nowhere fast,” he said. “We foot it back to Willie’s. Separately. Walk to a Metro. And then we meet back there.”
The two brothers nodded and got out of the ambulance.
“And take off the headpiece and glasses,” Starrell said to Anjean. “Try to look different, okay? Now book.”
A group of college students was staring at them. “Hey, ain’t you ever seen the D.C. summer jobs program at work?” Starrell said to the crowd. Sirens sounded several blocks away.
“Bust it,” Starrell said to the brothers. They jogged off. Starrell sprinted down an alley. As he ran, he told himself that he had to tell Tamika what he had been up to, show her what sort of man he could be. He felt the knapsack slap against his back. Shit, he thought, all that and I still don’t know what the fuck to do.