Nurse Monteleone led them around to the rear of the hospital, down the stairs into the basement. More nurses clustered in an alcove created by a newly built wall. They stopped their nervous chatter as she paraded the black children toward them.
“You’re going to be given a special treatment to stop the spread of ringworm. It hasn’t been given to anyone before.” Her shadow passed over (Rashad). He shriveled into the tiniest ball he could, the way he’d slouch to avoid his teacher calling on him. “You’re special. You get to be first.”
She held her hand out, unwavering in front of him until (Rashad) straightened up and took it. Now, he had seen X-ray equipment before, but up close, the machinery seemed like a cold colossus indifferent to their presence. And he was still afraid of it. Sitting him in a chair, Nurse Monteleone began strapping his arms down. Before he could protest, she said, “We need to make sure you stay perfectly still. If you relax, you’ll be fine.”
Unsure what exactly constituted “perfectly,” (Rashad) quit squirming. He even kept his breaths shallow, afraid that deep ones might still be too much movement. Nurse Monteleone placed a cap on him, a kind of beanie with wires attached to it. Once in place, she rushed to join her fellow nurses behind their makeshift lead screen.
“Don’t move,” she shouted like a soldier from a foxhole.
(Rashad) stiffened. A kind of rattle in his ears became a haunting Klaxon that reverberated in his soul. It grew into a terrible buzz, the sound of electricity charging and leaping about. His scalp felt like someone took a match to it. The sensation spread, a spire of flames shooting down his back. His fingernails dug into the armrests. The air stank of burning hair.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.
“Oh my God! I gave him too much,” Nurse Monteleone cried out.
The machinery powered down to a dull thrum, a predator waiting with infinite patience. When she helped him from his chair, (Rashad) could have sworn that her mole twitched ever so slightly, a satisfied upturn of cruel, too red lips. He staggered up the stairs. Strength fled his muscles, and he steadied himself against the wall. His head blistered, too tender to even touch. He stumbled all the way to the bus before he threw up.
That became their ritual. As each of his friends lumbered to him, they vomited. (Rashad) gathered them, holding hands in a prayer circle. Eyes closed, (Rashad) whispered, “I was…
“…just a little boy, not some sort of test animal.” Rashad’s head still tingled. He reflexively drew his cap lower onto his head. “How could they?”
“Pap didn’t blame Mr.Lucas, you know. Well, no more than he blamed himself. None of them could’ve prevented it. Just like no one had any idea what their radiation experiment would do to the children.” Jerald averted his eyes. “Or their descendants.”
“That’s how you got your cancer.” Rashad’s voice hitched. “The sins of the father.”
Steadying himself against the wall, Jerald faced his friend. His face downcast, shoulders stooped under the weight of inevitability, he removed the knit cap from his head. Doused in medication, two dressings wrapped the wound. Brown splotches splatteredthe first layer of bandages, seeping blood having been baked into it. As he peeled off the second layer, the stench of mold and bacteria wafted like a physical force. The wound ate into his skull. Scars, burns that had never healed, mottled his skin, a mix of a bleached scalp and necrotic tissue. Oblong at the top, the wound split along its side like a volcanous mound. Blood trickled from the growths surrounding it. “It’s almost time.”
“Time?”
“They’re almost here. I’m ready to stop fighting. To let my burden go.” Jerald’s eyes flashed with a fevered mania. “I’m gonna haunt the shit outta the motherfuckers responsible.”
Dogs bayed in the distance. The smell of smoke curdled Rashad’s stomach. He glanced over at Jerald for any indication of alarm or further explanation, but his friend registered neither. A caravan of torches crossed the lawn, open flames on the march. Monteleone raised a fist, halting his men’s advance as Rashad exited the school.
“What are you doing here?” Rashad studied the merciless dance of flames.
“Seeing what you were up to. Making sure our streets remained safe.”
“With torches?”
“Sometimes you have to burn out an infection to make sure it doesn’t return.” Monteleone turned around to appreciate the throaty guffaws of his men. “This is exactly what I’ve been talking about. They built this school just to terrorize us. Make us feel guilty by association. And it draws…undesirables.”
“Y’all being awfully bold. Didn’t your daddies teach you that without hoods, your sins are more difficult to hide?”
“Don’t try to make this a hate thing. This is a justice thing. You’ll not besmirch the name and legacy of this great nation.”
These men, cloaked in the tarnished veneer of patriotism, were no different than any other homegrown terrorist firebombing a house or church. The intent was the same: to erase Lyles Station’s history as a gathering place, its testimony to perseverance in its people’s struggles. Rashad refused to give them what they wanted: his fear. His hand inched behind him until he clutched the grip of his Defiant. His posture paused their laughter.
“What you got behind you, boy?” Monteleone’s face hardened into a mask of impotent rage.
Rashad heard the word “boy” pronounced with a hard “r.” “Why don’t you come closer and find out?”
“We don’t have to get closer to do what we came here to do.”
The men began to spread out. Rashad waited for them to cross the invisible line separating insult from threat. Doing the calculus of violence, Rashad nursed a creeping realization that once he drew down, he could nail Monteleone—and perhaps two others—before the rest descended on him like rabid hyenas. He steeled himself for the inevitable.
“Are you with me?” Pushing his glasses higher up his nose, Jerald appeared next to him.
“Jerald, I…” Rashad angled himself closer, his voice softening in a farewell plea to his friend, but was waved off. What needed to be said was already known. He closed his eyes to repeat the last words he spoke when Jerald took his last breaths. “Yeah, I’m with you. Ten toes deep. That’s how brothers do.”
