Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

But somewhere in the conversation she began to realize that this man, though in great pain, had begun the process of healing himself. How she did not know, and it really did not matter. Constructive healing, from whatever source, was welcome whether elicited or delivered.

“Do you know what my wife did yesterday, Dr. Preston?”

“What?” Anne asked, watching the man stare at the ceiling, his head back as tears of relief rolled slowly down his cheeks. These he did not bother to wipe away.

“She got up and made Sunday breakfast,” Darren revealed, as though proclaiming a momentous event. “The last time she did that was more than a year ago, the morning Tanya was killed.”

“Do you think the fight you and Moises had the night before had anything to do with that?”

Darren looked to Anne and nodded, biting his lower lip. “I think so.”

“Why do you think that affected her?” The best therapists have no answers…only questions . That bit of sage advice from an old professor had been etched in Anne’s consciousness by sheer repetition, and later by recognition of its value.

Darren sniffled and dried his cheeks. “I think when she saw Moises and I…going at each other, I think she felt she was losing the rest of her family. I think maybe her mind told her that one child lost was enough. I don’t know what to call it. The survival instinct. Protectiveness.”

He had the gist of it, so a slight bending of her rule was in order. “It’s called mothering.”

“You’re right.”

“I know I am,” Anne said with a smile. “I’m one of them.”

“I tell you, Doctor, I thought I had already lost her, and here she comes and saves me from…” Darren looked away.

“Would you really have hurt your son?”

“I wanted to.”

“I asked if you would have.”

Darren looked through the big window to the grayish glass of the skyscraper across the street. “No. I would have hit him again, but then I would have wrapped my arms around him so tight.”

“I think he would have run whatever you did, Darren.”

“I know he would have. He’s just so far from me, Doctor. I mean, we could be nose to nose and I still can’t understand the boy. I don’t know what to do for him anymore.”

“Do you think he might agree to come with you some day?”

Darren looked at the intricate rug pattern at his feet, his head shaking.

“I want you to try.”

“I haven’t even seen him in two days, Doctor.”

“You don’t know where he’s been?”

“I have no idea,” Darren said. “I wish he’d just come home for his mother’s sake.”

Anne could do nothing to bring young Moises Griggs home. Though his father talked of him as if he were a child, as any parent would, Moises was a young man, of legal age and wanting to make his own decisions. She sincerely hoped that he was making the right ones.

“I want to meet Felicia,” Anne said, moving the session away from what she called an impassable minefield.

Darren smiled, something he had done infrequently of late when thinking of his wife. It was a good feeling. A very good feeling. “Not just yet, doctor. She’s not ready to come here.”

“That’s all right. But let her know that I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

“I will.”

Anne gave her watch a glance. They were a few minutes over the hour session length she liked to stick to. She reached to her desk and brought her personal schedule book over and scanned the following week. Abbreviated by the Thanksgiving holiday, her appointments were back to back. Flipping back a page she found a slot. “Things are really hairy next week, so is this Friday good for you?”

“Anytime. Sure.”

“Okay, four o’clock.” Anne penciled the appointment in. Later she would transfer it to her secretary’s book.

Darren found it difficult to get up. Part of this arrangement was still bothering him. “I really wish I could pay you, Dr. Preston.”

Anne closed her book one-handed with a slap. “Darren, you need to concentrate on you, and on your family. And we already agreed on my fee.”

“I know, but you making my family dinner hardly seems like a fair exchange. You’re doing all the giving.”

Anne smiled. “ ‘Tis the season of giving.”

Darren laughed softly. “Thank you, Doctor.”

Anne stood and walked her patient all the way through the outer office of her secretary, waiting until he was on the elevator to turn away. “Lena, put Mr. Griggs down for this Friday at four.”

“Okay. Twice in four days?”

“Next week is out,” Anne said, looking over her secretary’s shoulder to the following day’s schedule. “Wow.”

“And don’t forget you’ve got a class tomorrow night,” she reminded her boss.

“It’s going to be a long one, isn’t it?” Long, satisfying, tiring, and of her own doing, Anne knew, though now she was beginning to wonder if taking on two classes to teach was too much, especially with the full schedule of patients she maintained. But UCLA paid generously, and she really loved teaching. Adored it, actually. Still, time was so short, something she had begun to recognize since Art Jefferson came into her life. Though the pangs of schoolgirl crushes were well in her past, she found herself noticing when he was not with her. That did wonders for her concentration during those increasingly frequent occurrences. Love wasn’t a bitch, she thought. It was an eye opener.

“Anne?”

“Huh?” She smiled, popping out of her silent contemplation. “I was just thinking that I might want to ease up next quarter.”

Her secretary recognized the expression. “Can’t get enough of him, can you?”

“No,” Anne answered. “But that’s nice in a way.”

“Yeah, it is.”

Moises Griggs walked slowly along Vermont Avenue, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans and his head swiveling streetward as each set of headlights passed. This was the part of town he had never hung out in. The part of town where wearing the wrong color could get you shot. Or having the wrong look on your face. It was not a pleasant place to be, but it was the place he had to be.

He slowed near the NALF storefront, the faded neon sign of the adjacent liquor store catching his attention. His fingers fumbled through the change in his pocket. Less than a buck left. The motel room, cheap as it was, had used nearly all his money for the four nights he’d been gone from his home. Food had eaten up the rest. Now, with only a few coins left to his name, Moises was craving a Coke. Just a Coke. Something that simple, that small, and it was denied him. He sniffled against the chilly wind as he wondered if this was what his life was going to be. Want. Anger. Hate. Frustration.

The storefront to his left drew his attention back. Not with them, he thought. In there was hope. Direction. A place to be, a way to fight. A car of young men, black like him, slowed as it passed, the front passenger giving him a “mad dog” stare before driving on. “Idiots,” Moises said softly. You’re killing your own people. There were better targets for one’s rage, he now realized. And the way to them was but a few steps away, a few steps that Moises took willingly.

“Brother Moises,” Roger Sanders said upon turning toward the jingling bells attached to the front door. “Welcome back.”

“Hi.” Moises immediately noticed that it wasn’t much warmer inside than out.

Darian heard the voices from the back room and came to the front. “Brother Moises. You’re back. Good. Good.”

Moises nodded nervously. “Brother Darian.”

The NALF leader held his hand out at chest height and gave a power shake to the young man. “We know about you, Brother Moises.”