“Have a seat, Rodriguez.” I don’t know why the doctor wouldn’t recommend the drug if his problem is inability to sleep.As the computer accesses his medical records, I turn back to him. “I see you did some fighting in the Southeast.”
“Yes, ma’am. I was there since before McGovern’s assassination. We’d been fighting Rangers for months. I been fighting almost two years. Last few months got real bad, though. Rangers least had the decency to fight like men. Children and women who ain’t fighting was spared. They take prisoners. You know, real stuff. But here…” He leans back in his chair and rubs his facial hair again. “They didn’t fight with no honor. I watched them kill kids. They execute any Order troops they got pinned down.”
His med-file has long since popped up and he’s certainly healthy enough for Lunum, but I don’t think putting this boy to sleep is the answer. As he speaks, the fear wrapped around him loosens. I’m going to heed Taylor and Delilah’s advice, and listen.
I know how hard that is for you.
Hearing her voice in my head is both a blessing and a curse. I feel closer to her, and more confident, but it also stabs me in the gut. When Rodriguez realizes I’m looking at him and listening, he clams up. I lean forward on my desk and clasp my hands together.
“Look, Rodriguez, I am not a shrink. If you need to talk, go ahead. Nobody is listening to you but me. And trust me, I’m nobody.”
He chuckles softly and props his elbows on his knees. “That ain’t true. You’re a Piccolo. And you got this swanky office. Leader De La Rosa trusts you.”
“Leader De La Rosa is trying to keep my head on straight. She would have me sweeping floors if she thought I was any good at it.”
Rodriguez gives me a strange look. “You know someone fighting?”
“Yes.”
“Family?”
“No. A friend.”
My hard expression negates any idea he might’ve had of my being more forthcoming. He squeezes his hands around his knees. “I grew up on a farm. Most people in the Southeast work in farming or textile factories, but colored people only work on farms. White people, they own the farms. They do their work, don’t get me wrong, but it’s colored people like me who till the soil.” He stares down at the floor. “My Pops is proud. He worked hard and finally got enough money to buy a big plot off of his boss. Fully owned by our family. And we worked hard. I seen guys lose their legs. Watched a man get gored by a rogue bull. Folks getting sick from being out under the hot sun. But ain’t nobody complains.”
“Your family are Order members.” I turn my screen so he can see the photos of them, and he peers up and smiles. “How did they get involved?”
“When I was ten, people showed up at the farm sayin’ they were doing research on farms that ain’t owned by whites. Ma and Pops was suspicious. I mean, normally when white people show up at your door, it ain’t good news. Racists will be racist no matter what, but when you add this accent to the mix, people assume we’re slow and stupid too. These folks didn’t have none of that nonsense. They treated us with sincere respect, and that put Pops at ease. He trusted ’em, told me he liked what they had to say.”
“Then what happened?”
“Pops left for a few weeks, saying it was business. When he came back, Mama left. Then a year later, me and my brothers were put on a train. They didn’t say where we was going, but my Ma said to listen and do whatever they said. We ended up at the Chicago HQ. We trained there for about six months, then wentback to Arkansas to the farm. We was told to act like nothing happened. My sisters went next. All of us trained up.”
The pride in his voice warms his words. In return, I smile. “You must be proud of them.”
“Hell yeah.” Joviality fades as whatever nightmare plagues his sleep creeps into his consciousness. “Anyway, we was taught to be tough. And I am tough. But what I seen in Detroit…it keeps me up at night. I know my Pops would tell me to man up, but he ain’t seen what I seen. Nobody shoulda seen it. Kids burning. Dusters shooting soldiers in retreat.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I want to block it out.”
“Why?”
Brown eyes with blown-out pupils pop open. “Why? Because it’s a fucking nightmare! You ever seen someone burn to death?”
“No. But like you said, you’re tough. You grew up around gore and violence. Somehow, this is different to you. Why?”
“Damn right it’s fucking different!” He grips the arms of the chair. “All what happened at home, it ain’t my fault. People get reckless on the farm and some of them animals are dumb as hell. McGovern and the Rangers was assholes. Couldn’t do nothing about that.”
“And what could you have done in Detroit that you did not try to do?”
Exasperated with me, he curls his fingers into fists. “I don’t know. Saved somebody, I guess.”
“You have a list of commendations from your superior officer,” I reply. “Seems to me you did everything within your power to help.”
“Them kids still burned. All I did was watch.”
“It’s a tragedy, there’s no doubt about it. Survival can be a curse. You carry the guilt of living. You’re afraid of dying. The simple joy of being alive causes you shame. But that’s okay.Those feelings suck, but they’re okay to have. What is not okay is letting them control you.”
“What else do I do? I close my eyes and I—I see it.”
“See it. You can’t stop memories, Rodriguez.”
