John Ross sat in the judge’s chambers at a table across from his aged parents, but he did not know who they were. To him, they were just old people, a broken-down, stooped-shouldered, empty-eyed Cherokee who long ago forfeited his soul to white men, and a fragile, thin woman with streaked gray hair and tears in her eyes.
“Why is she crying?”
The judge cleared his throat and opened a thick folder as the old couple held each other’s hands tightly. He licked his thumb and began flipping through the pages.
“This won’t take long, Mr. and Mrs. Ross.”
He looked familiar, but John could not quite remember where they had met, perhaps in this room, this cold impersonal, wood-paneled room with many books and a poor oil painting of Maggie Valley. The urge for a smoke overcame John. He was about to reach for a cigarette when he noticed a large white man dressed in some sort uniform next to him.
“May I smoke?”
“Yes.” The judge smiled.
John took a cigarette out and placed it between his fingers which were brown from nicotine. First he looked to the guard for a light, but the man just ignored him.
“Here.”
John turned to the other side to see a bald-headed man in a three-piece suit. He smiled kindly at John and offered a lit match, which he took without acknowledgement. This man also looked familiar, but John could not quite place him. This feeling of not owning his past was driving John mad. No, he corrected himself, angry. He was angry, not mad, no matter what anyone else thought.
“Your son’s case history is well documented.” The judge patted a fat file. “In fact, I remember visiting with him a couple times myself.”
Mrs. Ross began to sob. Her husband put his thick old arm around her heaving shoulders, trying to comfort her. Her tears only made John more irritable. Pulling out another cigarette, John lit it from the first and began to rub out the first in a nearby ashtray. The rubbing evolved into a thumping and then into a definite tom-tom beat. Mr. Ross looked up in despair.
“For God’s sake, can’t you make him stop that?”
The guard leaned over and placed a meaty hand on John’s shoulder. John glanced in irritation at him and then at the judge before stopping his beat. Gazing off into space, John felt the drum beat continuing in his head. He disregarded the judge’s questions to the old man.
“Mr. Ross, when did your son receive the head injury?”
“Well, he was twelve, I think. He walked by this boy watching my…”
John began a tom-tom beat in the ashtray.
“There he goes again. Judge, can’t you make him stop?”
John glared at him and bit into his knuckles until blood materialized which he licked from his hand.
“There he goes again, Martha. Can’t you make him stop?”
“Johnny, dear, don’t hurt yourself like that.” She reached across the table. “We don’t want to see you hurt yourself.”
He gazed with indifference at her.
“Then the boy—he couldn’t have been more than eight or so—took this toy tomahawk and hit John with it in the forehead,” Mr. Ross said. “He was just playing. He didn’t mean no harm.”
“It was a real rock,” Mrs. Ross said. “They shouldn’t sell things like that.”
“Like I said, it wasn’t the boy’s fault.”
John winced as the memory came back to him.
“The boy started crying when he saw the blood,” Mr. Ross said.
“It was his fault,” Mrs. Ross blurted. “The stupid…” She caught herself and covered her mouth with her handkerchief. “The dear little boy should have been raised better. His parents should have never given him the tomahawk.”
“It doesn’t make any difference now,” her husband said.
John started thumping the tray once more.
“Johnny was in the hospital for a week.” Mrs. Ross held her handkerchief to her face to catch the tears rolling down her cheeks. “And that boy, his family didn’t pay a thing. They just walked away.”
“The publicity would have been bad for the reservation,” Mr. Ross said. “People wouldn’t come around if they had a notion we were going to take them to court for every little thing.”
“This wasn’t a little thing,” she replied in an intense tone.
“Well, it didn’t seem to bother John none,” his father said.
“Yes, it seems his teen-aged years passed without incident.” The judge nodded and looked through the file.
John’s hand continued to thump until the guard grabbed his arm. Giving the man a withering glare, John retreated to the time which the judge said passed without incident. What did he know? John remembered in a different way. His neck turned red and hot with mortification over the recollection of the Sunday school class where his father ridiculed him in front of the other boys. It was the same crimson warmth he suffered sitting there as these people discussed his life.
“He attacked someone in Knoxville later,” the judge said.
Smoke swirled around John’s head. This was his future they were discussing, so he should have a word to say about it.
“If he hadn’t been hit in the head, that wouldn’t have happened,” Mrs. Ross interjected.
“We don’t know for sure the knock in the head did it, Martha.” He looked at the bald man in the suit. “Ain’t that right, doc?”
“You’re talking about me, aren’t you?”
“Yes, we are, Mr. Ross.” The judge looked at him and smiled. “Do you have something to say?”
“Yes.” He knew his experiences better than anyone, he reasoned. “I was on a crew building an office complex in downtown. It was a good job. I liked that job. Except for the white men.”
“You don’t like white men?” the judge asked.
“Would you like someone who hit you in the head?” Mrs. Ross said.
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Black men, they’re all right. They understand injustice. They understand oppression. They hope someday their bondage will end.” John paused. “But they didn’t understand I was going to lead them to the Promised Land.”
“Oh no,” Mr. Ross said, rolling his eyes, “not that again.”
“They were too blind to see that I am Moses.”
“So you think you’re Moses?” the judge said.
“I am Moses.”
“What happened next, Mr. Ross?”
“I had been drinking.” John sat back. “People said whiskey would make the pain go away. It didn’t. I decided I needed to accept my heritage and renounce white culture. I sat on my apartment floor, chanting sounds only understood by Yo He Wa.”
“Yo He Wa?” the judge asked.
“That’s the name of the Cherokee god,” Mrs. Ross said.
“I ignored the banging at my door while I contemplated the knife I held in my hand and how it glistened in the candle light. But the cursing and banging continued so I went to the door, with my hand raised for battle.”
“The man at the door sustained minor injuries, I see here,” the judge said.
“I had to protect my heritage.”
Closing the file, the judge turned toward John’s parents.
“I don’t think there’s much doubt that your son needs to be committed to the North Carolina State Mental Hospital in Morganton. We tried out patient counseling and he stopped going. He refused to take the medication prescribed for him. He needs the supervision.”
“It’s not his fault. Some boy hits him and he’s the one that gets locked up. It isn’t fair.” Mrs. Ross began to cry again.
“Now, Martha.” Her husband put his arm around her. “You know it’s for the best.”
“Dr. Harold Lippincott will take him to the state facility at Morganton today,” the judge said.
John looked at the doctor. That was where he remembered seeing him, at the hospital. This white man would not enslave him.
“Don’t worry,” Harold said. “He’ll be well cared for, Mrs. Ross.”
Yes, he remembered the doctor’s voice. They had talked before. John did not think he was very smart. The doctor did not comprehend that John was meant to free all oppressed people.
“Come on.” The guard pulled John up by his arm.
“Don’t hurt him,” Mrs. Ross pleaded through tears.
“The van is waiting,” Harold said.
John concentrated on the old woman’s face as the guard pulled him toward the door. He wondered why this woman was crying for him, or why she would care.
“Good-bye, John,” she said. “Try to be good.”
Yes, he knew who that was. He knew who would cry for him and who would care for him so much.
“Mama.”
***
Jill laughed to the point her voice went up at least an octave as she fumbled with her keys in her purse outside her apartment near the University of Tennessee campus in Knoxville as Bob rubbed her shoulders.
“I tried to warn you about meeting my parents.”
“They weren’t so bad.” He leaned in to kiss her on the neck and breathe in her scent.
Jill unlocked her door and led him in. It had comfortable but not cheap furniture, and its walls were decorated with theater production posters. She glanced at her watch.
“Oh good, we’re in time for my favorite news show.”
They sat on the sofa, and Bob put his arm around Jill as she used the remote control to turn on the television to Channel Forty-three. Bob’s face came on the screen.
“There he is.” Jill snuggled into Bob’s side.
“…after a private hearing in Judge David Johnson’s chambers at the Bryson City courthouse. Ross was in police custody on charges of assault with a lethal weapon.”
“The reporter’s so cute.” Jill put her arms around his waist. “I wonder if he has a girlfriend.”
“Next week Channel Forty-three will examine the effects of childhood head injuries on adults, particularly upon native Americans in modern society. This is Bob Meade.”
As the station went to commercial Bob and Jill kissed, holding each other with enthusiasm. After a few moments they parted.
“It’s hard to believe it’s only been a few short weeks. You’ve completely changed my life.” He looked into her eyes and smiled before kissing her once more. A lock of his dark hair fell across his forehead.
“Do you know who you look like when your hair comes down into your face like that?” Jill giggled. “Rudolph Valentino.”
“How would you know what Rudolph Valentino looked like when he was kissing a girl?”
“I’m educated. I had a class in silent movies.”
The news returned, and now Bob was standing in front of a comfortable two-story colonial style house.
“Boone, North Carolina, police are still investigating the mysterious death of long-time community philanthropist Thelma Scoggins who was found dead at the bottom of the stairs days ago.”
“How sad.” Jill frowned.
“Official cause of death has been cited as heart attack, but police report a large bruise on the side of her face and that her bedroom had been rifled through as though by burglars, but there was no sign of forced entry.”
The picture switched to an elderly man.
“This is Harvey Nunn, Mrs. Scoggins’ neighbor.”
“Thelma was always taking in transients and letting them sleep in the room above the garage for doing yard work. The last time I saw her take someone in was right before they found her body. It was two teen-aged boys.”
“Have you given the authorities a description?”
“They were white, dark hair. Dark eyes. Funny squat noses. One was strong and about six foot. The other was shorter and skinny. They didn’t look very bright.”
“Now you can turn it off.” Bob nuzzled Jill.
She clicked off the television, and they resumed kissing. After several minutes she settled her head on his chest.
“I’m sorry about my mother.”
“Why?” Bob smiled. “Your mom was a very good hostess. She was very bubbly.”
“Bubbly is right.” Sighing, she sat up and looked into his eyes. “Are you being nice or didn’t you notice my mother was drunk?”
“Yes, I am nice, and no, I didn’t notice.”
“I’ve been told my mother never drank before she married dad.”
“He doesn’t seem like the type to drive someone to drink.”
“He isn’t. My grandparents are. My mother’s maiden name was Stone. It wasn’t until after marriage that my grandmother found out her family name was really Stein.”
“Your grandparents are bigots. My dad’s a bigot too. You learn to live with it.”
“That’s the problem. Mom joined the Lutheran church, never mentions her family was from Germany and was Jewish, and smiles a lot at grandma. But Schmidts don’t forget or forgive.”
“Forgive? Forgive what?”
“If mom could figure that one out maybe she wouldn’t drink so much.”
“It must be hard growing up with an alcoholic parent.”
“You had a hard time growing up too, didn’t you?” Jill looked at him with affection.
Bob wondered if this was the time to let Jill know about his parents, about why it was so difficult to return his father’s calls.
“I’ve been at your apartment when you’ve listened to your messages from the answering machine.” Jill glanced away. “And you never seemed anxious to return the ones from your father.”
“A little story.” He held her close. “When I was ten years old, I overheard a conversation between my mom and dad on Christmas eve. She told him to be sure to take off early from work that night. It was an order.”
“And he didn’t take kindly to orders from womenfolk.”
“Right. He said the tobacco warehouse paid time and a half if he worked late on Christmas Eve. She said spending time with his son was more important than a few extra dollars.”
“Nothing’s more important than a few extra dollars,” Jill said with a smile. “I’ve heard that one before.”
“Anyway, mom started complaining about how she didn’t feel good, and Dad said she never felt good, and that it was just her nerves. She wanted to go to a specialist in Knoxville, but dad thought it was a waste of money.”
“I don’t want to interrupt, but did he ever feel guilty later, when she developed cancer?”
“If he did he never told me.” Bob shook his head. “He said she was using feeling bad to get money out of him to buy me a Christmas present. The argument degenerated from there so I left the house.”
“You poor thing. You probably had to leave the house a lot.”
“You know this story, don’t you?”
“Variation Two: leaving the house when mommy’s drunk.” Jill looked up at him and smiled with sympathy. “I’m sorry. I keep interrupting.”
“That’s all right. Anyway, that afternoon mom gave me a few dollars to buy them presents. I don’t remember what I got. After I wrapped them and put them under the tree, mom scurried into the room all in a tizzy, grabbed me by my hand and headed for the door.”
“Don’t tell me,” she said. “Your father didn’t show up.”
“I remember it like it was yesterday. To be a lady who was in early stages of terminal illness she had a grip like a vice. As hard as I tried I couldn’t get away as we marched into the tobacco warehouse and stomped up to dad and the other workers. She demanded he give her money so she could—in her words—buy my Christmas.” Bob looked at Jill with sad, pleading eyes. “You can’t buy Christmas. You buy presents, but you can never buy Christmas.”
“Oh my God,” Jill said with a gasp. “Grandpa used that expression too. I hate it.”
“Dad drawled, ‘Well, Bobby, how much is it going to cost me to buy you Christmas?’ I stammered around, and then mom accused dad of making me cry. I tried to tell her I wasn’t crying, but she wouldn’t be denied. ‘You’ve hurt his feelings,’ she said. ‘You know how easy his feelings get hurt.’”
Jill wrinkled her brow in compassion and touched Bob’s face.
“Dad pulled a bill; I don’t remember how much it was, from his wallet and tossed it at mom. ‘Oh good grief,’ he said, ‘take it and get him out of here.’ The bill landed on the dirt floor between mom and me. She told me to pick it up. I picked it up, trying to ignore the laughter from dad and his friends, and we walked out slowly, with what I’m sure my mother thought was dignity.”
“This December,” Jill said, kissing him on the cheek, “you’re going to have such a Christmas, you won’t ever think of that one again.”
“Maybe that wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened in my family. Maybe it’s what everybody goes through.”
“No, not everybody goes through that.”
“Thank you.” He smiled and hugged her. “I was afraid you’d say, ‘Is that all?’”
“Never.”
They kissed with intensity and for a long time. Finally Bob buried his face in her lightly scented hair.
“We’ve known each other for such a short time, but it seems like I’ve known you forever. I think that’s what people say when they’re…”
“When they’re in love.”