The Channel Forty-three news van rolled into the parking lot of the Tribal Council Building on U.S. 440, the main street of Cherokee, North Carolina. Bob and Ernie entered the building where they were greeted by William Guess, chief of the tribal council government, a broad-faced older man with serenity in his eyes. With him was George Bigmeat, a younger, gaunt-faced man.
“Mr. Guess, I’m pleased to meet you.” Bob stuck out his hand and smiled. “I’m Bob Meade from Channel Forty-three and this is our cameraman Ernie.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Meade.” Guess turned to the other man. “This is my assistant, George Bigmeat.”
“Your phone call bothered me.” Bigmeat furrowed his brow. “I know William agreed to the interview, but I must say I have my concerns.”
“Of course. I’m sure I can help you with any questions you may have.”
“George is anxious about image.” Guess put his hand on Bigmeat’s back. “You can’t blame him. He’s head of our tourism bureau.”
“You said you got the idea for a story about Cherokee after this unfortunate incident with the Rosses,” Bigmeat said.
“There’s been quite a bit of attention to the stabbing and John Ross’s subsequent hospitalization,” Bob replied.
“You do understand not all Cherokee run around naked and stab their parents,” Bigmeat said without the sarcasm implied in his words.
“George, there’s no need…”
“If all Cherokee did run around naked and stab their parents then it wouldn’t be news, would it?” Bob paused to smile and added, “You’re absolutely right to be afraid, Mr. Bigmeat. Television news and newspapers sometimes find it easier to latch onto a stereotype, for example, a pitiful drunken Indian who has no purpose in life. The problem is they don’t want to do the research. I know that stereotype is the furthest thing from the truth. From my many visits here I’ve seen friendly, happy people working hard to make an honest living.”
“See, George,” Guess said, “we’ve nothing to worry about.”
“I own a few Cherokee pottery items with the name Bigmeat on the bottom. I don’t have many because they’re rather expensive. Is that potter in your family?”
“It’s my aunt.” Bigmeat smiled. “And I’ve always told her she charges too much.”
“Could we get on with this?” Guess looked at his watch. “I have a tribal council luncheon in an hour.”
“Of course,” Bob said. “Could we tape in front of the Museum of Cherokee History down the street? I like the large chieftain sculpture in front.”
A few minutes late, Guess sat in a chair in front of the statue while Bob faced Ernie with the camera. Bigmeat stood behind with a benign look on his face.
“Good evening,” Bob said in his best on-air voice, “this is Bob Meade reporting from Cherokee, North Carolina, for Channel Forty-three. He stepped aside to show Guess and walked to him. “With us tonight is Chief William Guess of the Cherokee Tribal Council Government to discuss the incident earlier this month when a Cherokee man stabbed his father who was dancing in front of one of the town’s trading posts.” He turned to smile at Guess. “Thank you for joining us.”
“My pleasure.”
“Mr. Guess, I’d surmise that the reaction of many viewers to this incident would be one of generalizing about Cherokee people as a whole, which would not only be unfair but also inaccurate.”
“That is absolutely correct.” Guess nodded but did not smile. “I’ve known the Rosses all my life, and they are good hard-working people. Mrs. Ross is the sweetest person I have ever met. I don’t think there’s a person in Cherokee who has ever heard an unkind word from her mouth. And Mr. Ross is the finest Christian gentleman I have ever known. He lives his religion. Turn the other cheek, and that’s what he did when his son was attacked with a stone tomahawk by the son of tourists. He didn’t file charges or sue anyone. ”
“The family of the boy never made an offer to help with John’s medical expenses?”
“No.”
“Why do you think they didn’t?”
“Not everyone can be as good as Mr. Ross.”
“A good reflection on Cherokee people,” Bob said.
“I hope so.” Guess smiled.
“Effects of head trauma followed John throughout his life, hasn’t it?” he asked, “and has that been a problem for the tribe to fight negative images?”
“Frankly, I’ve come to realize that if some white people want to think the worst of any minority, be they Cherokee, black or Hispanic they will hang on to any bad image, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“Thank you for sharing the Rosses’ story.” Bob shook his hand and looked back into the camera. “To learn how childhood head trauma can affect a person’s entire life, let’s go to the North Carolina State Mental Hospital in Morganton.”
A couple of hours later Bob and Ernie were in Harold’s office.
“To give you an idea of what I’m doing, I want to show you my interview with the chief of the Cherokee council,” Bob said.
Ernie turned on a small monitor he had brought with him, and Harold watched the tape with one hand over his mouth and his eyes almost blank, making it hard for Bob to determine if the interview would continue. After the tape, Harold nodded.
“Good, I think we can proceed.”
“Fine.” Bob smiled. “If it’s all right with you we’ll tape our segment this afternoon.”
In a few minutes Ernie had the camera running.
“Tell me, Dr. Lippincott,” Bob said, “what are effects of childhood head trauma?”
“Pediatric head trauma can lead to memory loss and lowered intelligence,” Harold explained. “John Ross certainly suffers from memory loss. From time to time he does not recognize his parents, remember being in the mental hospital or even the incident in which he was injured. His intelligence, other than memory, however has not been apparently affected. Each case, of course, is unique.”
“How about his violent behavior?”
“As a rule, pediatric head trauma in itself would not cause violent behavior.”
“So what causes Mr. Ross’s predisposition to violence?”
“I don’t know. Why does anyone become violent? The stress of modern society.”
“How can we control stress?”
“Rationalization.” Harold held up one finger. “Such as telling yourself you didn’t get chosen for the school team because the coach didn’t like you or some one paid him off or whatever.”
“And this is good?”
“Good or not, that’s what we do, and it does keep us going.”
“Fair enough,” Bob said. “What’s another one?”
“Aggression.” Harold held up a second finger. “Such as picking a fight with someone that’s angered you.” He raised a third finger. “And regression, such as acting childishly and wanting to be pampered when you’ve had a hard day.”
“That last one sounds good,” Bob said with a laugh. “I’d like to be pampered.”
“In moderate amounts. They all work in moderation. Abnormality occurs when a person selects one or more of these traits and takes them to an extreme. When this happens the patient usually has a chemical imbalance in the brain. The medical community is still studying these physical aspects of mental illness, and many are not receptive. They prefer to rely on cognitive awareness therapy, which basically says the individual can by will power stop any mental illness.”
“Like the old joke. ‘Doc, it hurts when I do this.’ ‘Then don’t do that.’”
“Right. I don’t believe that. I think the best way to address them is with medications, which are improving all the time.”
Ernie, on a cue from Bob, turned off the camera.
“Thanks, doctor, that’s great,” he said. “Do you think it’d be possible to talk with John Ross now? I’d be as respectful and non-intrusive as possible.”
Harold pursed his lips, put a finger to them and looked at Bob for a long time before answering. Bob shifted his weight from one side to the other in his seat, sensing apprehension from the doctor.
“He’s one of them with a chemical imbalance and, unfortunately, medication hasn’t helped much yet, perhaps because of the head trauma. It’s a matter of finding right drugs for his body and regulating dosage. I’m confident eventually I’ll find the right match of medications for him.”
“Oh.”
“I’d want to talk to John first to see how he would react.”
“We’ve a release form also,” Bob added. “Although, since he’s at the hospital you might be the one legally to sign it.”
“John’s in the yard now.” Harold stood. “Let me talk to him. If it appears he’s calm and cogent, you can tape today.”
“That’ll be great.”
***
John Ross sat in a lawn chair smoking in the shade of a large tree as he watched two muscular young men pour gasoline into a riding law mower and a lawn edger. If he were to escape his bondage and find Pharaoh he would need followers, young, strong men who would obey his every word.
“John?” Harold walked up.
“Yes?” Looking up and leaving his thoughts of escape, John surveyed Harold with indifferent.
“There’s a young man who wishes to talk to you.”
“A young man?” Perhaps this could be another follower. “Is he strong?”
“I hadn’t really noticed.” Harold’s eyes widened with surprise. “He’s a television reporter who has taken an interest in your case. He’s sympathetic to your situation.”
“He wants to help me leave here?”
“He wants to help people understand your problem.”
“Yes, I will speak with him.” John nodded. This could pave the way for the return of Moses, to have a herald.
***
A few minutes later Bob and Ernie were setting up on the lawn. Bob smiled warmly and stuck out his hand to John who studied it before extending his own. Bob thought his grip was rather limp for someone who fancied himself to be a warrior leader of his people.
“If you wish, we could film you from behind so your identity would be hidden.”
“And why would I be ashamed of being seen?” John looked at him with a smile.
“No reason. It’s just your choice.”
“I choose to be seen.” He raised his chin.
Bob turned to the camera.
“To help us with some insight into this problem, Dr. Lippincott has allowed us to…”
Lawn mower and edger engines started and interrupted his introduction. Ernie looked around with disgust.
“This ain’t going to work,” he said.
“Just a minute,” Harold said.
“Sure,” Bob replied as the doctor trotted over to the two boys.
From the shade of the oak tree Bob could just about make out that Harold was explaining to them that they could not run their machines right at that moment. One of the boys, larger and more muscular, whined a bit and kicked at the grass; the other, shorter and leaner, hunched his back, turned away from the doctor and spat on the ground.
“I admire their spirit,” John said.
“What?”
“Spirit,” he repeated, arching an eyebrow. “They won’t take orders from the doctor without protest.”
“Oh.” Bob furrowed his brow in curiosity as he watched John smile with intent at the boys. What an odd observation. Returning his attention to Harold and the boys, Bob saw him take some coins from his pocket and hand them to the boys.
“I like ice cream,” Bob heard the larger boy boom. The other seemed to mumble something before following the first one away.
“Yet they are able to listen to reason,” John added.
“Sure.” Bob did not know what else to say.
“That’s all settled.” Harold came back smiling.
Bob repeated his opening statement and turned to John.
“How are you today, Mr. Ross?”
“Fine.”
“You’re of Cherokee heritage, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“That must make you very proud.” Bob became nervous, fearing he was not going to get anything but one-word answers.
“Why?” John cocked his head and smiled, blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth. “I couldn’t control what I was born to be.”
“So being Cherokee isn’t important to you?” He sighed, glad John was opening up.
“I didn’t say that.” He shook his head. “Don’t put words in my mouth.” He blew smoke through his nostrils and smiled. “Being Cherokee is everything to me.”
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“My parents had me sent here.”
“Did they do the right thing?”
“They think they did.” John looked over Bob’s shoulder at Harold and squinted before returning his attention to the camera. “The judge who committed me thought it was the right thing to do.”
“But do you think it was the right thing for them to do?”
John only puffed on his cigarette.
“Do you remember receiving a head injury when you were a child?”
“My scar reminds me.” He pointed to a faded mark on the left side of his forehead.
“Have you forgiven the boy who hit you?”
“He did not ask for my forgiveness.”
“If he had, would you have forgiven him?”
Again John just puffed his cigarette.
“Do you remember the day you were taken into custody?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why you were taken into custody?”
“Yes.”
“Do you regret stabbing your father?”
“Do you regret hurts you have inflicted on your father?”
“Why, I suppose.” Startled, Bob paused, not expecting such a question. “We all regret many things in our lives. It’s how we deal with regret that makes a difference.” He blinked his eyes, trying to regain control of the interview. “What do you think?”
John just puffed on his cigarette.
Not wanting to continue the interview, Bob turned to look into the camera.
“John Ross left many questions unanswered perhaps obscured in cigarette smoke that swirls around his head. Pride, injury, forgiveness and acceptance become enigmas. Until smoke and mystery clears, society will continue to seek solutions to problems caused by pediatric head trauma.”
Bob nodded to Ernie who turned off the camera. Harold came up to him and shook hands.
“Very nice. Thank you for coming today. Drop by my office and I’ll sign the release form.”
“I’ve got it right here, doc,” Ernie said.
“Good, come with me.”
After Harold and Ernie left, Bob turned to shake hands with John.
“Thank you, Mr. Ross, for a very informative interview. I’m sure you’ll help many people who watch it on television.”
John’s limp handshake became a vise as Bob tried to pull away. Bob looked down at his hand in surprise mixed with apprehension. John stood and peered into Bob’s eyes.
“What is your name?”
“Bob Meade.”
“When I asked you about your father I perceived pain in your eyes.”
“Not really.” Bob blinked. “I’ve got to go. Perhaps we could talk some other time.”
“I can help you lose your pain.” John pulled him closer.
They stared at each other for what seemed an eternity to Bob before he shook his head and yanked his hand from John’s grip. He could smell John’s breath and body odor, and he shuddered in revulsion.
“I have no pain,” he said forcing a firmness into the tone of his voice.
“You lie.” John smiled.
Bob’s face reddened as he opened his mouth for a reply, but nothing came out. After an awkward moment of being transfixed in John’s gaze, he turned and bolted across the lawn to the hospital door, down the corridor to Harold’s office where he gathered Ernie and headed for the exit and their van.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said in a whisper.
“You look scared to death.” Ernie chuckled. “Did that weirdo pull a knife on you?” When Bob only glanced at him without expression, he sobered and agreed, “Yeah, let’s get out of here.”
Bob felt the back of his neck burn as their van sped down the highway toward the interstate which would take them back to Knoxville. Ernie and the driver turned the radio onto a country music station as Bob tried to remember the last time he felt this frightened and embarrassed. Memories little by little came to him. It was also a hospital, Clinton Memorial Hospital where his mother lay dying of cancer.
Bright lights of the hospital corridor blinded Bob’s sleepy eyes. A slender built fourteen year old, he sat in an uncomfortable metal folding chair with his bulky, lumbering father waiting to hear the inevitable bad news. His eyes wandered to a calendar. It was June thirtieth. July fourth was the next week. For the first time in his life, Bob did not care whether it was Independence Day or not. Who could care about firecrackers when his mother was about to die?
A door opened, and a doctor appeared. He approached Bob and his father.
“I’m sorry, but the end is near. You better go in now.”
Bob remembered his father’s standing, his eyes red and his chin rough with stubble.
“Thanks.” He looked down at Bob. “The boy better stay out here. He gets upset real easy.”
“I understand.” The doctor escorted Mr. Meade into his wife’s dark, silent room.
Bob remembered looking around at the nurses’ station and imagining the women were snickering at him. His neck burned red when he heard them giggling, even though as he listened, he discovered they were discussing the quality of meat loaf in the hospital cafeteria. The doctor came back from his mother’s room, paused to pat him on the shoulder and went to the station to write in his notepad. Bob stole glances at the doctor, and their eyes made an embarrassing connection. He wondered what the doctor thought about him. He must have thought Bob was a coward, and the boy wanted to prove him wrong.
A moment later Mr. Meade came from his wife’s room, leaned against a wall, and tried with all his masculine skills not to cry, but he failed as tears trickled down his cheeks. He moaned in misery as his big hand went to his face to cover his mouth. The doctor went to another room, and nurses seemed intent on deciphering a chart. Bob looked with intent at the door to his mother’s room and sucking in his stomach trying to summon courage to prove everyone wrong. He was not a coward. Unobserved, Bob slipped into his mother’s room.
Bob’s nostrils flared, taking in an oppressive smell, a combination of an assortment of medications and minor incontinence from his mother, but he in particular remembered being convinced he was surrounded by the stench of death.
“Hello, baby,” she said, struggling to lift her head and focus her eyes on him. “Come closer.”
He forced his eyes on the bed, lit by a small lamp in an otherwise black room. There lay the remains of his mother after cancer ravaged her body and took all the vibrancy from it. Bob almost did not recognize the woman in the bed even though he knew it was had to be his mother because of the voice, though weak, was hers.
“Come here, Bob baby.” She smiled as she lifted her shriveled arm which was connected to an intravenous needle feeding her morphine.
The familiar smile girded Bob for a moment, and he took a few steps toward her until he looked at the arm extended, beckoning him. Her hospital gown lay open, revealing her withered bosom. Finally her arm slumped from exhaustion, and no more pleas for him to move closer escaped her lips. Fear and shock welled up inside his chest, making Bob feel as though he would burst if he did not escape. Turning for the door, he ran into the intravenous line, tearing the needle from his mother’s arm.
“Oh, Bob.” His mother groaned and whimpered in pain.
He froze, staring at the blood dripping from her arm. Even now, many years later, in the news van, his mind dwelt on his last memory of the pain his mother experienced so close to death, caused by his craven cowardice. All these years Bob avoided his father because he feared his father knew what happened that night even though Mr. Meade was still dissolved in tears when Bob came out of the hospital room. No one else knew he failed his mother in her dying moments, Bob knew what he did was wrong and compounded his sin by punishing his father for it. What a spineless coward he was, Bob repeated to himself. And now John Ross knew. Somehow this mentally ill man peered into his soul and sensed his shame.