"RIGHT HERE is good.”
"But there's another block and a half to go."
Reg got out of the car when Reuben pulled over.
"I’ll walk the rest of the way. It’ll give me time to prepare for her."
"I don't know how you stand it."
"Carol. I think about her giving me Carol, and most days I can hold my tongue."
"Better you than me," Reuben smirked, as he sped away from the curb.
Reg kept his cool around his mother-in-law, Madelin Hanson, for more than just Carol’s sake. Bigotry is born of ignorance. If he responded with an equal opposing force, he would prove himself as ignorant as she. He also frowned on the idea of providing her ammunition to discuss with her like-minded friends. It is why he 'dolled up,' as Kris put it. Whenever Madelin thought of him, and his ghetto blackness, she would have no choice but to conjure an image of a dolled up brother, in a sharp suit.
Reg made sure Reuben was out of sight. He reached into the concealed pocket inside his jacket, and pulled out a miniature bottle of Seagram's Extra Dry Gin. He drained the short under a clear, afternoon sky. As he licked residual gin off his lips, Quarterman came to mind.
He couldn’t ever get that bad, could he? No, never.
It will take more than a broken heart, a criminal case—no matter how insane the assailant— and an ignorant in-law, to drive him that far. He returned the empty bottle to its hiding place, and strolled past the last set of homes leading to his wife’s childhood residence.
The neighborhood reminded Reg of a quaint little town painting. Enclosed by railroad tracks, it was an isolated island brushed with row houses, in a five square block area. If they could stand the roaring train noise, he imagined homeowners caught a break in the purchase price.
He rang Madelin’s doorbell and was met with silence. He rang again. There was a peek out an upstairs window, but moments later, still no response.
"Madelin, give me a break, I saw you peek out the window.”
Eventually, she opened the door, and wasted no time in making him feel welcome.
"Why are you here?”
Reg smiled, though he didn’t want to. He refrained from grabbing her by her fluffy blouse, and screaming into her double-chinned, flat face.
"Remember me telling you I would stop by today?"
"I remember saying I’d appreciate if you didn't."
"Madelin,” he sighed, “you don't like me, but we do have something in common. Carol, remember?"
"Not anymore.”
Reg bit down on his tongue, hard.
"Have you heard from Carol?”
"Why would I tell the man who oppressed her?”
He would not be happy about it later. He would go through an entire fifth that night not being happy about it. He was supposed to represent his people. He was supposed to keep his cool for Carol, and because Alan Hanson was an honorable man. Neither were there, however, and he lost it.
Reg rushed forward, took her by her fluffy blouse, and bull-rushed her back inside her home. He slammed the door with his foot, and bent to get in her face.
"Your husband was my friend, so I kept quiet. Your daughter was my wife, who I loved with all my soul, so I bit my tongue. But you just crossed the line. The only thing being oppressed around here is your skull. If you know where Carol is, or heard from her at all, and don't tell me, I'm gonna … I'm gonna ...”
Madelin Hanson wanted to scream. Her mouth was open, but no sound would come out. He had pounced on her so quickly there was barely time to shriek. Now she was alone with him. “He is a police officer,” her husband and daughter assured her, “You have nothing to fear from him.” They were wrong. She was about to be raped and murdered, and her half-naked body left to rot. At the horrifying thought, urine released from Madelin Hanson’s innermost place.
The ringing startled Reg, until he associated the sound with a phone. He glanced at it on the foyer table, and back to Madelin. Wretched horror lined every crease in her face. He still simmered from her ignorance, but the phone lifted his veil of rage. He saw the severity of her terror for the first time.
He released his hold on her fluffy blouse. Madelin crumbled to the ground. He was in trouble. Quarterman may not have been a canary, but Madelin has had feathers for as long as he has known her. Nine years on the job down the toilet, because he couldn’t take a little ribbing from a wee-minded bigot.
Quick, what’s the play? She is scared of black people, scared of me. I can use that.
He crouched and took hold of her fluffy blouse, lifting her off the ground. He disliked what he had to do, and when he smelled the fecal matter, he felt worse. He glared fire at her anyway.
“If I hear anything about this from anybody, I’ll be back. And so mad, I don’t know what might happen. Tell me you understand. I want to hear you say it.”
Madelin Hanson eeked out a terrified ‘yes.’
The phone sputtered its last ring. Reg let her down easy and left, breaking into a brisk walk toward the train platform. He thought of Carol and what she would have said. Of Alan, and what his counsel would be. His last thought before changing direction, but not speed, for the liquor store was of Quarterman, and how he could never get that bad.