Victor LaValle - Ecstatic

Grandma didn’t get up, she pulled her chair a few feet across the white-tile kitchen floor. It was a way to get around without having to get up. To the table. To my money.

— Did you steal this? she asked.

— What do you think I am?

— Then where did you get so much?

— Mr. During. 143–44 227th Street. Ten dollars.

Nabisase held my encyclopedia.

— Give it.

— Mrs. Binni. 145–46 229th Street. Twenty dollars. All these people gave you?

— They paid me.

— For what? Grandma asked.

Nabisase shook my book while holding the spine waiting for the valuable item to fall loose. Dissatisfied, she threw it in the air, over my head. It landed on the floor with such a thump that I didn’t know what to do. I’d been excited when I walked in, and I still was, but I became so angry, too.

— For that! I screamed, pointing at the wounded encyclopedia. For me.

My grandmother threw my money at me and it separated in the air. A shocking soft explosion. The spine of my book was broken. My sister’s clothes were untidy on the floor.

Grandma picked up my hardcover and brought it to her nose.

She stood up and gave the pages a glance.

Grandma held it open with two hands and asked, sincerely, — For such nonsense?

So I hit her.

Ever seen a man smack a woman? Most of the time it’s anti-climactic.

I punched my grandmother, but didn’t knock her down.

It was a glancing blow, more on the shoulder than chin; I didn’t aim correctly. She fell sideways, but not to the floor. Grandma leaned against the fridge.

My sister drove her forearm into my back as though it was my weight she hated, not me. Then she kicked me in the shin, so I was relieved of that idea. Grandma sat on the closest chair, reached under the kitchen table, got a boot and threw it at me. Then Nabisase, ever the showstopper, swept cups and bottles from the kitchen table. The glass didn’t break, but landed softly in her scattered clothes.

I turned around and hit her too. With a bit more shoulder in the delivery.

My sister’s nose opened.

Blood went down into her teeth.

Grandma stood, swung a broom against my back and fell into her seat again. When the broom handle broke she moved to a cheap thin flashlight, bashing that against my knees.

Nabisase hit me with the broken end of that broom handle; it popped against my shoulder, went from eight inches to four. She hit me with it again then jabbed the wood into my cheek. We tussled and Grandma stayed in the kitchen. Nabisase and I went to the living room.

Over by the TV Nabisase threw a ruler at my head. D-cell batteries. Celery sticks.

As Grandma hurled pretzel rods I put up my hands, screamed, — I get the point!

Nabisase picked up a pair of scissors which are deadly even when folks are calm so I used my best defense and fell on her. She was fast enough to turn and start running, but I caught her under my breaker, if not my wave. Nabisase fell forward, onto her stomach and let out a sound closer to a burp than a scream.

Then a siren rounded the corner, three cop cars a moment later.

I ran to the window. Grandma had wobbled into the living room, but she didn’t have a phone in her hand.

— You have a panic button in the kitchen?! I yelled.

Then the ambulance, slowest of all emergency vehicles, parked in front of my home.

I ran past Grandma as she struggled toward my sister, grabbed my book off the floor, by the fridge. I imagined Mom calling the New York Police from a duplex in Virginia. Reaching us, protecting us, even now.

The four cars had stopped in the road, but still made noise. Their lights moved across an already gathering crowd.

My sister was on her belly and Grandma was on her knees and my neighbors emptied from their homes into the street. I could see them through the front window. I wanted to explain my situation before I was arrested. I opened my front door. The police stepped out of their squad cars. Three began crowd control, one spoke to the EMTs.

The last two touched their guns as they entered the President’s yard.

The paramedics followed, inside the President’s house with a gurney. From 144th Avenue to 145th folks had gathered on 229th Street and it wasn’t my fault.

The police brought the President out. I’m glad to say he wasn’t handcuffed.

— Mr. Jerome! the crowd yelled.

— Mr. Jerome, what happened?!

Ledric arrived, but couldn’t drive his Rent-A-Wreck car onto 229th Street because it was full of people. It better have been a rented car, if he owned one I’d be upset. Since I was on my steps I saw him leave the gray-green car on the next block and walk to my home. He wasn’t wearing the white hospital dress now.

Instead he’d had a haircut and wore a sleek, large leather coat. He’d finally washed his face, no more oily sheen. His ash-colored slacks still showed their creases. Ledric Mayo was styling.

He entered my yard, but stayed on the bottom step. I didn’t move from the top.

Ledric looked at the police, the President and back at me. — When I saw those cops I thought I knew who was in trouble.

— You’re the one that brought problems into my home.

He climbed nearer, but not right up to me. — I told her to be nicer to your ass, Anthony.

— You can’t mess around with a thirteen year old. I’ll call these cops on you myself.

He seemed afraid to walk past me, but he finally did it. — Not all families should stay together, he said.

Then he went into my home.

I went down the six front steps until I was with the crowd.

That must have been an old gurney the paramedics had, from the wheezing noise it made when dragged out of the President’s house and along our uneven sidewalk. Actually, it sounded more like whimpers.

When the EMTs pushed past me I saw the red Doberman, Viper, on the gurney. It had a claw hammer lodged in its neck.

The dog looked longer stretched out on the white bedding. Viper was on its side so the one visible eye squeezed shut and opened again, slowly. The hammer was so far inside that only the wooden handle showed. The metal head, both blunt end and sharp, had gone deep into the muscles. Viper opened its mouth to bark, but such noises were obstructed. The most it could do was sigh through the nose.

There were two paramedics, a man and woman. The guy had a body like telephone cord; he stood at the foot of the gurney massaging the Doberman’s lower paws. He was crying.

The woman didn’t seem as deeply affected. She kept digging her nose.

— You pick up animals now? I asked the woman.

— The call was just about an attack, she said. Didn’t know who was hurt until we got here.

— Oh damn it! Ledric came running from my front door, down the steps and to the EMTs.

— She’s bleeding, he told them.

— Another damn dog? the woman asked.

— My beautiful girl, Ledric told her.

I could see where each paramedic’s sympathies lay. The humanitarian ran into my house with her emergency kit, Ledric right behind, as the partner wheeled Viper to the ambulance. The crowd let him go, but slowly. They wanted to see.

The police went around taking witness statements for a few minutes. I wondered what they’d ask me.

The paramedic who’d helped my sister soon ran down the front stairs, carrying that heavy black box slapping on her left thigh. — Don’t put that dog in my ambulance, Ricky! Shit!

Ricky was already loading Viper inside.

The President was propped against a squad car while two cops interviewed him. He was tired; they were tired. The President’s wife walked out of the house with a third police officer, but Candan didn’t.

— Ricky! Stop! We’re calling Animal Control!