The Window

I sat by my window and watched. At first it reminded me of a curious parade, like the ones my parents would take me to in the dusty down town corridor of a tiny Oklahoma town I used to call home. Some were marching, many had signs. Some were riding in the back of pick up trucks or on the hoods of Civics and Chevrolets. Most were shouting and chanting. I estimated the average age to be in the low 20’s. The energy exuding from their every pore was indeed remarkable. I felt their pain, of course. What happened was tragic.

“PeePa, are those people happy or sad?” asked the most adorable pair of brown eyes in Texas.

“Well, Kayleigh-Bug, I think most of them are hungry.” My granddaughter looked at me inquisitively then carefully inspected the half eaten peanut butter sandwich mostly mangled in her hand. “Not that kind of hungry, Bug. I think they’re hungry for someone to understand them. They want to be seen.”

I was quite certain of two things. One, my Kayleigh would have loved to set up a peanut butter stand and pass out sandwiches to everyone passing by. I also was absolutely sure that this six year old bundle of love was not ready to hear the real story for the commotion that was quickly turning from peaceful to something darker and more precarious.

Kayleigh had come for a visit with MeeMa and PeePa three days earlier when her parents finally got a chance to serve on a mission trip to the Dominican Republic. They were both teachers at a Christian school, and were planning this month long trip since November. Ruth and I are always delighted to spoil our one and only granddaughter, of course. The thought of having her for a whole month was exactly what we needed. Little did we know, however, that the timing could not have been any worse.

“She’s out, I think. Wouldn’t stop talking about making those people some three bean chili. For heaven’s sake, Bill, what have you been telling her?”

“Did you give her a kiss from me?” I smiled at Ruth but kept a watchful eye out the window. For the last two nights, the protests have grown increasingly violent, and closer to Culder Street. Culder Street was just two blocks from Main Street. Looters and rioters had destroyed three shops and the post office, all on Main. Tensions were high, you can see it on the faces of our neighbors. There is no more time for small talk. No more, ‘Hey Carl, lawn’s looking great‘. Instead, it’s wary glances and scurrying to complete errands. It was impossible to tell friend from foe. For Ruth and I, the ‘Month of Kayleigh’ had quickly turned from 30 excursions in 30 days into ‘Let’s Play Inside and Keep the Doors Locked.’

Ruth put on the news, but it was increasingly frustrating as the focus was on the bigger issues developing in Dallas. If Dallas was the big leagues, Buron, Texas was sandlot baseball Just 7 miles away. However, Ruth and I have made it our home for the past 30 some odd years, and it pained us both to watch it be defaced and destroyed right before our eyes.

Glass shattered in the streets as the skies grew darker. I peered out the side of the window. The steady stream from earlier had turned to a smattering. I prayed the unrest was easing. In the back of my mind I knew I was wrong. I sat uneasily back in my chair and muted the Dallas news anchor. On the screen was a burning building in the background and a disheveled reporter dodging a swarming hive of anger, desperately trying to covey the gravity of the situation. I had heard Ruth clinking and clanking in the kitchen, and remember her brushing my forehead with a kiss goodnight. I told myself I’d turn in soon, but drifted away as I had done countless nights before in my comfortably worn chair in front of the glow of the TV.

A loud crash startled me awake. The television? No. A quick look showed me a guy trying to sell me a pillow. My heart raced a bit. Something was off. Something was real. I managed to climb out of my resting spot and moved toward the window. I stopped quickly when I heard someone scuffling outside. I heard an engine rev and take off. Then I heard his voice scream and expletive so loud and so clear he was certainly just feet from the front door. My senses were heightened. I tried looking out the window but my view was blocked by something....someone. I jumped back, panicked. The doors were locked, of that I was certain. My Ruth and Bug were hopefully blissfully unaware of the commotion. I could feel panic as I eased away from the window. I prayed this man would go away. That’s when I heard three light taps on the door.

The police. I’d have to call the police, right? My mind debated the legitimacy of that conversation. Was it illegal to knock on someone’s door? At 10:15 at night? These past few days had certainly blurred the lines between right and wrong, ethical and unethical. Good guys could be bad, and bad guys could be martyrs. My indecisiveness lead to three more knocks, this time with such violence and force I could hear parts of the wood frame splintering.

My old man reflexes were enough to get me to the kitchen where my cell phone typically charged. As I struggled orientating myself to the device’s myriad of options, I saw Ruth emerge from the bedroom. “Get with Kayleigh, lock the door. Not a sound. I’m calling 9-1-1.”

The front door suddenly burst wide with an enormous jolt. I saw the door resting askew of its hinges as the shadow from the window was now invading our home. “Supriiiiise”, said the man. “I guess you didn’t hear me knocking.”

“What do you want? I’ve called the police,” I lied. “Take what you want. Just take it and go.”

The man looked in my hand and saw the phone. I felt inept. The phone was dark, dormant. The man appeared to be much larger than me by at least 50 pounds. He looked to be about 20 years old. He looked like a linebacker. In my prime I doubt I’d give him much trouble. Now, I stood no chance if this got physical.

“La policia, eh? On that phone?” The man approached me from out of the shadowy corner of my home. “Give it to me,” he demanded, reaching out his hand. He was close enough so I’d be able to strike, but he knew I’d already done that scenario in my head and dismissed it. I reluctantly turned over the cell phone. “Them blue lights coming for me?” he laughed, as he deftly manipulated the keys. “I don’t think so. You’re last call was to....Ruth. Officer Ruth?” he laughed, holding the phone to his ear. “Ayudame Officer Ruth.” He slipped my phone into the front of his jeans.

I tried to keep his attention away from the bedroom. I imagined the horror that must be going through Ruth’s mind. I’m sure she heard her name. And my Bug. My precious Bug. The fact that he hadn’t attacked me yet was chalked up to be a positive. He could have my phone. I just needed him out.

“You can have that phone. I don’t care. Just please. Leave. We...I’ve done nothing to you. Just go and protest. Please.” I said ‘we’. Did he catch that?

“Oh, you’re letting me keep the phone. How ‘especial’. Does this make us even?”

I remained silent. I knew what he was digging out. The news harped on the racial divide for 48 hours straight. I glanced out the gaping hole where the door once stood, hoping someone might have noticed my current situation. He saw me looking at the door.

“I did hurt my shoulder on your door, yes. That’s going to bruise,” he informed me. “How do you say, pain and suffering, no?” He grabbed the broken door and managed to mostly close it back to the place it normally stood. “There we go. That’s good.” He stood admiring his repair job, before turning back to me. “How about some water, huh?”

My mind took a moment to process this request. As much as I wanted him to leave, I also didn’t want him to explode. I especially wanted him to believe we were alone. “Water?” I asked.

“H2O. Agua“, he said, quickly taking back the empty space between us.

From the light of the kitchen revealed a face that looked younger than I thought. Kinder. What has happened in this world that this young man has relegated himself to home invasions? He was angry at people like me. Not me. Just ones like me.

I reached in the cupboard for a cup. My hands first found a glass, but I quickly shuffled and found a souvenir plastic cup from a Texas Rangers baseball game. I began nervously filling it with water from the tap.

“Ohhhh, is that how you treat a guest? From the tap? Like watering your lawn? Like I’m a thirsty dog? That nice refrigerator has water in the door, friend. En la puerta!” I moved to the refrigerator and began filling the cup. “I didn’t even know they made water in the door like that until my little sister told me she saw it at her friend’s house!” The ice maker noisily spat out a few chunks of ice I added to fill the cup faster. “Ohhh, yes. Now we are friends. Ice! Now we are good friends, for sure.”

He motioned me to sit in a chair near the kitchen table. He pulled up another chair and sat directly across from me, two friends chatting in a dimly lit kitchen.

“Do you know what color she was?” he asked.

“Who? What?”

”My sister’s friend with the fancy refrigerator.”

I shook my head, although I was quite certain of the answer.

“I think you do.” He looked me over. “For this I’m sure.”

I hesitated. I was unsure how to proceed. I was expected to have white guilt. That term had become the newest version of a scarlet ’A’. It was played like a wildcard in a high stakes poker game, unbeatable and unquestioned.

The man guzzled the water quickly in the chair across from me. He politely set the cup on the kitchen table. “Thank you. Refreshing on a night like this.” He quickly and aggressively pulled his chair much closer to me now. “He just left her!” he cried.

A half week earlier, Dallas police officer Kevin Shelby, less than a year on the force, struck and killed a 13 year old Hispanic girl with his patrol car. Her name was Carlota Martinez. She was walking home from her friends house just a few houses down the street. Neighbors reported Shelby stopped, the girl had screamed in pain, but Shelby left the scene. It was on a dimly lit street, and Shelby was in pursuit of a vehicle involved in a car jacking. Shelby would later be quoted as saying he thought he hit a tree branch in the road, and he continued his pursuit. The debate and distrust festered and exploded, leading to country wide protests and riots, much like other incidents involving the police and minority groups.

“I’m as upset as you are about that young girl. It’s terrible.”

”That cop is walking free! They buried that girl, but he’s out there.”

“I know. But what does this have to do with this? With me?”

“You know damn well. I’ve seen that American flag on the front of your house. You’re so....proud. Proud! Carlota Martinez was murdered and you continue to fly that racist.....”.

I thought about convincing him I wasn’t racist, but that’s pointless. People see others how they want. We are all our own magicians, making things appear just as we want them. The man paused. Calmed.

“You must have a gun.”

His words caused my face to give away the obvious lie that spilled out of my mouth next. “No. No guns.”

Ruth heard the word gun and let out a sound that gave her existence away. My heart stopped a beat as I saw the man’s eye move down the hall.

“Tsk tsk tsk. More lies.” The man stood from the chair and began making his way down the hall.

“Wait! Please,” I begged. “Let me show you.”

I walked toward the hallway and showed him a framed picture we had taken with Kayleigh last Christmas as we picked out a Christmas tree together. It was hanging on the wall right outside the bedroom where Ruth and Bug must assuredly wept.

“This. This is what’s behind that door. My wife of 35 years and my granddaughter. She’s six. She’s innocent. I’m begging you. Please.”

“Like Carlota. Yes? Young. Innocent?”

“I...” stumbled for the words. The wrong word might prove fatal. “I don’t know what to say.”

“So Carlota has to to die, but this one, eh Abuelo, with her Snow White skin, she goes on. With more birthdays. More Christmas presents.”

His tone was becoming increasingly agitated. I feared this angry young man would erupt at any minute, and it might not end well. If he opened that door, I feared my world would be lost. He began reaching for the door.

“I have a gun. Take it and go. Just please, go.”

“Now we’re talking. Show me this gun Abuelo.”

I led him away from the guest bedroom and into the master suite. “You’ll take it and you’ll go.” I opened a closet and moved some hanging jackets to reveal a small safe. I punched a code into the combination lock and it whirred open. Inside the safe were some legal documents and a 9mm pistol I had purchased 20 years previously. I hadn’t fired the thing in over a year. It was in a leather holster.

“Whoa whoa whoa. Easy now Abuelo. I’ll take it from here.”

I was certain the gun was loaded. As soon as I turned the pistol over to the man my heart sank. “Please leave. I won’t report this. Just please go.”

“Almost, my friend. One quick thing.” The man practically skipped out of the room and down the hall. I heard him rack the pistol and chamber a bullet. He stopped at the guest room and knocked three times with the butt of the gun on the door. “Snow Whiiiite?” he beckoned.

My knees buckled as he opened the door and moved inside.

“Nooo!” I cried, rushing into the room behind him. The room was quiet. The man calmly looked in the closet and under the bed. My heart was beating out of my chest when I saw a slight flutter of the curtain by the window. We never left the window open.

“I think we’re alone now,” the man softly sang. Then he laughed near the window. “It’s just me and you Abuelo!”

I prayed they ran to a neighbors house. I prayed for sirens, but with the all the turmoil, I wasn’t sure how quickly help might come. This man could dominate me physically, and now he had my loaded handgun. I took comfort in the fact that my girls had escaped.

“Go. You have everything. It’s not me you’re after. Please.”

“Get on your knees.”

My pulse quickened. My instinct was to refuse. “This isn’t you. You’re not a murderer. Doing something to me won’t bring her back. It won’t. I wish it could, but you know it won’t. You can still go. Blend in. I don’t even know you’re name. I’ve barely seen your face.” I was grasping at every straw I could to get this man out of my house.

“Beg for forgiveness. Apologize, Abuelo, for all the hate and racist acts you’ve committed. Kiss my feet and I may let you live.”

My head and heart were filled with rage. Rage at the injustice in the world. Disdain for how we allow ourselves to be divided in the simplest ways, melatonin levels, sexual preference, age, faith, everything. It would be simple and even prudent to appease this man, apologize for a sin that I did not commit. Instead, I just shook my head. I’d had enough.

The wail of sirens could be heard approaching. I turned to see blue lights flickering outside the bedroom window. Heavy footsteps rocked the floors as the man quickly threw the broken front door out of the way. I remained on my knees, shaken and trembling, as I heard shouting and three loud pops of gunfire in the front of my house.

I rose to my feet and made it back to the living room. I sat by my window and watched. A deputy removed my 9mm pistol from the hand of Carlota Martinez’ deceased cousin, all bullets still intact.