Hero

Chapter Twelve

Adelle awoke slowly, becoming aware that it was morning in gradual stages: the position of the sun as it shone through the open blinds of her room; the sound of cars outside; of the morning talk shows coming from the television in the living room. Other things slowly filtered in as she wove in and out of slowly dawning consciousness; the woozy, stoned feeling she felt throughout much of the past two days was wearing off; she was feeling more aware of herself and her surroundings.

And she was focused.

Adelle looked at the clock on the bureau by her bed. It read ten thirty-five. Some talk show was on the TV and Adelle tried to remember what day it was. Talk shows only came on weekdays, which meant…

The sound of purposeful footsteps coming toward her room brought a feeling of impending doom as time seemed to slow down for her.

Natsinet emerged in her doorway, that evil look on her face. Dressed in a clean white nurse’s uniform, she looked like something out of a nightmare. She was carrying a metal tray, which she set down on the edge of the bed.

“Good morning, Mrs. Smith! So good to see you again!”

The nightmare of the past week still fresh on her mind, Natsinet tried to move away from the nurse and only succeeded in rocking back a few inches into her pillow.

Natsinet laughed.

“Well, looky you! You moved three whole inches! See, we are making progress!”

Stacked on the tray was the stun gun, what looked to be a cattle prod, and a butane grill lighter. Natsinet ran her fingers along the instruments, as if debating which one to choose.

“So…” Her face had a look that Adelle usually associated with cats who were anticipating playing with the field mouse they’d just caught, “Ready to get back into your therapy again?”

No, not this, not this, I was supposed to see Tonya this weekend, please not this…

Her therapy session that day was the longest by far.

Or so it felt.

It didn’t take much to reduce the old woman to a quivering lump of flesh.

Time seemed to spring forward quickly for Natsinet the first few days of that week. She didn’t think it would be that way, but then she supposed the saying “Time flies when you’re having fun” had some validity to it. It certainly flew by for her. Of course, it was probably agonizingly long for Adelle Smith as it should be. Worthless sack of shit wasn’t worth anything anyway, so why bother even working at trying to maintain the old woman’s quality of life. Natsinet had spent the weekend trying to convince herself to feel some guilt over what she was doing to the old woman, and as much as she tried she honestly couldn’t find it in herself to feel guilty. She knew that most people would think she was a monster for abusing the woman, but Natsinet didn’t care. For the first time in her life, Natsinet didn’t care about what people thought of her. She was doing what she wanted, what made her feel good. No one else would understand. They were incapable of understanding. They hadn’t lived her life. She knew that from her interview with her supervisor at Hospice Nursing. Racist old cracker woman. If it weren’t for the fact that she needed this job, Natsinet would have bitch-slapped that old fossil the day of her interview. Unfortunately, she couldn’t lose the chance at this job and she was fortunate to have it now. She couldn’t lose it, and she wasn’t going to lose it. In fact, her abuse of Adelle Smith would go unrecorded. Natsinet had it all figured out.

The fact that Rachael didn’t suspect a thing was heavily in her favor. Natsinet had things set up so that if Rachael discovered that she was abusing Adelle, it would be easy to dismiss as simple accidents. Were those marks on Adelle’s arms and legs burns? Not at all, she just got a little too much sun when I left the drapes open one afternoon—it was such a nice day! Were those rug burns? Scrapes? Well, yes, but Natsinet was trying to help Adelle regain use of her legs again. She fell, yes, but it was an accident. And what about Adelle’s accusation that you beat her, shot her multiple times with a stun gun, and dragged her across the floor? I would never cause deliberate harm to one of my charges. My record is impeccable. See for yourself.

And they would do so and see that, yes, her record was impeccable. Her superiors at Philadelphia General had put in a high recommendation for her to Hospice Nursing, and her teachers all had kind words for her. She had a spotless record.

So what had caused her to not only humiliate, but treat this woman—this patient—like something less than human?

Because she was less than human.

Natsinet was in the kitchen making herself a light lunch, a sandwich and a small salad, as these thoughts flew through her mind. She had to admit to herself what was becoming obvious. As a whole, she didn’t care for Black people. Yes, her father was from an African nation, and yes she was often forced to check off the box marked “African American” in employment and government forms when the disbelieving clerk raised an eyebrow at her first choice, which was always Caucasian. She would get that look. You don’t look White to me. Then she would be forced to explain her mixed heritage, after which the clerk or whoever it was she’d handed the form to would say, You can’t check that box if you’re of mixed race. You’re going to have to check the African American box. And then Natsinet would be forced to check that box, regretting that she was being forced to relegate herself to those who were responsible for the majority of crime in this country, who whined and complained the loudest, who demanded they be handed every damn thing and not work for it, who’d ruined her life. She didn’t like the fact that the last time she tried to buy a car she saw a chunky White salesman whisper something to a colleague, who quickly raced into the rear of the showroom; moments later the classic rock music that was playing over the showroom’s speakers changed to rap and the chunky White salesman was going out of his way to speak a sort of fake street argot to her. She was so mad she made him work at trying to get a sale out of her for three hours before she finally said, “Thanks, but no thanks,” and walked out.

So yes, she didn’t care much for Black people because of the bad impression they left on her. Even Black comedians made a career out of exploiting the stereotypes. Sure, there were Black people who had risen above those stereotypes, who had made something of themselves. But in her experience she could count all those she’d known personally on both hands. Most of the Black people she’d had to deal with in school were lazy and not interested in learning anything, and most of the ones she’d dealt with as patients in the ER were even worse.

Natsinet ate her lunch quickly, watching the Jerry Springer show. Sure enough, the guests on the show illustrated her point. A pair of skinny Black guys in baggy clothes talking trash about their women who were as wide as houses, bragging about how much hooch they got on the side and, no Jerry, that ain’t my baby because she’s just whoring around on the side too, you know I’m sayin’? It was really hard to follow the argument that followed due to the yelling and screaming, the accusations flying back and forth. Natsinet shook her head. It was bad enough for corporate America to exploit the ignorant and downtrodden like that, but it was even worse as a so-called African American to buy into it and allow yourself to be exploited, made fun of, jeered at, to prove to the world that, yes, you are just another ignorant, dumb nigger. And worse, those ignorant dumb niggers clung to the heels of Black leaders like her charge, Adelle Smith, and continued to stay dumb and ignorant and talk like they had not ventured beyond the fifth grade. With that kind of progress what good were people like Adelle Smith?

Martin Luther King, Jr. had proclaimed that he had a dream that one day society would not judge his children by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. Judging by the content of the characters of most Black people, they were judged accordingly. They were worthless then, they are worthless now. She wished she could drain every ounce of Black blood out of her body. She’d have to settle for draining it from Adelle Smith.

When she was finished with her lunch Natsinet carried her dishes to the kitchen, placed them in the sink, and went into the bedroom to check on her charge.

The smell hit her immediately. Three days of not airing out the room had made the smell of feces and urine settle in like it owned the place. She’d have to air the room out soon if she didn’t want it settling into the bedsheets and carpet. Natsinet glanced in disgust at her unconscious patient lying amid a pool of filth and checked her pulse. It was steady. She glanced at the clock on the bureau and her eyes passed over a notepad left there. She almost looked away but was drawn to two words scrawled on the top sheet.

My guns.

Natsinet picked up the pad. No doubt, the shaky handwriting was Adelle’s.

According to Rachael’s notes, Tonya Brown had dropped by Saturday and Sunday and spent a considerable amount of time at the apartment. Rachael indicated that the few times Adelle was conscious she was very groggy and tried to communicate with Tonya but had been unable to. Tonya had been a little upset at that. Natsinet’s rage flared as she realized that the tranquilizers she’d slipped into Adelle’s prescription bottle hadn’t been a high enough dose to knock her out for most of the time. It was quickly apparent to her that Adelle had been trying to tell her daughter that she had weapons in the house, that she needed to have access to them.

Did Tonya understand the meaning of this message?

Natsinet set the notepad down and began her search. She rummaged through the dresser drawers, rooting under clothing, coming up with nothing. She checked in and around Adelle’s bed then turned her attention to the closet and quickly found what she was looking for.

The shoebox she brought down was heavy. She opened it and lifted a black handgun from where it lay nestled in a towel. Natsinet didn’t know much about guns, only that you pointed them and pulled the trigger and if you hit your target a hole was put in it. She set the box down and turned the gun over. She had no idea what caliber it might be, but correctly guessed it was some kind of semi-automatic. With some fumbling, making sure she kept the barrel pointed away from her, she got the clip ejected. It was full. The chamber was empty. With some experimenting she was able to figure out that the safety was engaged.

Natsinet flicked the safety off and pointed the gun at Adelle Smith’s sleeping form, sighting down the barrel of the gun. She lined up the sites on the top of the gun until they were level, the site at the end of the barrel lined up perfectly with Adelle’s head. She pulled the trigger and the hammer fell on an empty chamber with a loud “Click!”

Natsinet glared at Adelle’s still sleeping form. And as her anger ebbed a plan began to formulate.