Jodi Picoult - Small Great Things

–

EDISON IS NOT home when I arrive, strip off my uniform, and shower away the smell of grease. I text him, but he doesn’t answer. So instead, I cook dinner, pretending that nothing is wrong. By the time he finally comes home, I have just put a casserole on the table. “It’s hot,” I tell him, but he goes straight to his bedroom. I think he is still upset about my new job, but a moment later he appears, holding a giant Mason jar full of coins, as well as a checkbook. He tosses these on the table. “Two thousand three hundred and eighty-six,” Edison announces. “And there’s got to be a couple hundred more in the jar.”

“That’s money for college,” I say.

“We need it now. I’ve got the whole spring and summer to work; I can make more.”

I know how scrupulously Edison has saved his earnings from the grocery store where he’s worked since he was sixteen. It was always understood that he’d chip in for his education, and between scholarships and FAFSA and the 529 plan we started for him as a baby, I would swing the rest of the tuition. The thought of taking money that is earmarked for college makes me feel sick. “Edison, no.”

His face crumples. “Mama, I can’t. I can’t let you work at McDonald’s when I have money we could use. You got any idea how that makes me feel?”

“First, that isn’t money, that’s your future. Second, there’s no shame in a good honest day’s work. Even if it’s making French fries.” I squeeze his hand. “And it’s only for a little while, till this is all cleared up and I can work at the hospital again.”

“If I drop track I can get more shifts at the Stop and Shop.”

“You’re not dropping track.”

“I don’t care about a dumb sport.”

“And I don’t care about anything but you, ” I tell him. I sit down across from him. “Baby, let me do this. Please.” I feel my eyes fill with tears. “If you asked me who Ruth Jefferson was a month ago, I would have said she’s a good nurse, and she’s a good mother. But now I have people telling me I wasn’t a good nurse. And if I can’t put a casserole on the table and clothes on your back-then I have to second-guess myself as a mother, too. If you don’t let me do this…if you don’t let me take care of you…then I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore.”

He folds his arms tight across his chest, looks away from me. “Everyone knows. I hear them whispering and then they stop when I get close.”

“The students?”

“Teachers, too,” he admits.

I bristle. “That’s inexcusable.”

“No, it’s not like that. They’re going out of their way, you know? Like giving me extra time for papers and saying that they know things are rough at home right now…and every time one of them is like that-so nice, and understanding- I feel like I want to hit something, because it’s even worse than when people pretend they don’t know you missed school because your mother was in jail.” He grimaces. “That test I failed? It wasn’t because I didn’t know the stuff. It was because I cut class, after Mr. Herman cornered me and asked if there was anything he could do to help.”

“Oh, Edison-”

“I don’t want their help,” he explodes. “I don’t want to be someone who needs their help. I want to be just like everyone else, you know, not a special case. And then I get mad at myself because I’m whining like I’m the only one with problems when you might…when you…” He breaks off, rubbing his palms against his knees.

“Don’t say it,” I say, folding him into my arms. “Don’t even think it.” I pull away and frame his beautiful face. “We don’t need their help. We’ll get through this. You believe me, right?”

He looks at me, really looks at me, like a pilgrim searches the night sky for meaning. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I do,” I say firmly. “Now, eat what’s on your plate. Because I am sure as hell not going to McDonald’s if it gets cold.”

Edison picks up his fork, grateful for the distraction. And I try not to think about the fact that for the first time in my life, I’ve lied to my son.

–

A WEEK LATER I am rushing around, trying to find my uniform visor, when the doorbell rings. Standing on my porch, to my shock, is Wallace Mercy-wiry white shock of hair, three-piece suit, pocket watch, and all. “Oh, my,” I say. The words are puffs of breath, dry in the desert of my disbelief.

“My sister,” he booms. “My name is Wallace Mercy.”

I giggle. I actually giggle . Because, really, who doesn’t know that?

I glance around to see if he is being followed by an entourage, by cameras. But the only sign of his renown is a sleek black town car pulled up to the curb with its flashers on, and a driver in the front seat. “I wonder if I might take a moment of your time?”

The closest brush with fame I’ve had is when a late-night-TV-show host’s pregnant wife got into a car accident near the hospital and was put on the ward for twenty-four hours of monitoring. Although she turned out to be perfectly fine, my role segued from healthcare provider to publicist, holding back the crowd of reporters who threatened to overrun the ward. It figures that now, the only other time in my life I’ve met a celebrity, I am wearing a polyester uniform. “Of course.” I usher him through the door, silently thanking God that I already made my pullout bed back into a couch. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Coffee would be a blessing,” he says.

As I turn on the Keurig, I’m thinking that Adisa would die if she were here. I wonder if it would be rude to take a selfie with Wallace Mercy and send it to her. “You have a lovely home,” he tells me, and he looks at the photos on my mantel. “This your boy? I’ve heard he’s something else.”

From whom? I think. “Do you take milk? Sugar?”

“Both,” Wallace Mercy says. He takes the mug and gestures to the couch. “May I?” I nod, and he motions so that I will sit down on the chair beside him. “Miz Jefferson, do you know why I’m here?”

“Honestly, I can’t even quite believe you are here, much less figure out why.”

He smiles. He has the most even white teeth I have ever seen, stark against the darkness of his skin. I realize that up close, he is younger than I expected. “I have come to tell you that you are not alone.”

Confused, I tilt my head. “That’s very kind, but I already have a pastor-”

“But your community is much bigger than just your church. My sister, this is not the first time our people have been targeted. We may not have the power yet, but what we have is each other.”

My mouth rounds as I start to put the pieces together. It’s like Adisa said: my case is just another apple box for him to stand on, to get noticed. “It’s very kind of you to come here, but I don’t think my story is one that would be particularly interesting to you.”

“On the contrary. May I be so bold as to ask you a question? When you were singled out and asked to not interfere with the care of a white baby, did any of your colleagues come to your defense?”

I think about Corinne, squirming when I complained about Marie’s unjust directive, and then defending Carla Luongo. “My friend knew I was upset.”

“Did she go to bat for you? Would she risk her job for you?”

“I would hardly have asked her to do that,” I say, getting annoyed.

“What color skin does your colleague have?” Wallace asks bluntly.

“The fact that I’m Black was never an issue in my relationship with my colleagues.”

“Not until they needed a scapegoat. What I am trying to say, Ruth-may I call you that?-is that we stand with you. Your Black brothers and sisters will go to bat for you. They will risk their jobs for you. They will march on your behalf and they will create a roar that cannot be ignored.”