Finally

Patricia Smith

Even before the woman opened the door, I knew I was going to kill her.

It was all too perfect. The street like a poor man’s mouth, row houses staggered like those last few adamant teeth. No cars moving this late. Then her slack-foot shuffle to the threshold and this war wheeze from a throat scraped bleak by brown liquor, filterless cigs, and the absence of a neighborhood around her:

This the police?

Because I fuckin’ felt like it, I went straight in with the flat of my hand then, not psycho but psycho enough, rocking the weathered wood door on its hinges and popping the “jimmy proof” deadbolt. I could have just done the whole thing in and gotten right down to the business of I-was-in-fear-for-my-life, but one look at Whitman, my shaky new sidekick—third one so far this year—and I sucked in my breath instead, left the wounded door standing. I wanted her to know I could.

“Yeah dis the po-leese,” I mimicked in response. My fist quavered, begging to go frantic. The blood and sting snaking to the surface of a knuckle pissed me the fuck off. To calm myself down, I snapped open my holster, hefted my Glock, and bopped the door with its nose. I felt Whitman rethinking his life choices, straining to remember his fresh-faced days as a new recruit. Buck up for the ride, buddy. He’d probably already heard all the stories about the wildfires in my head.

Nothing wrong with me.

I just hate Black people.

“Don’t—don’t bust—it down,” came a gravelly mutter from the other side. But now I heard the tired scare under the tough. “I’m coming.”

The cloudy peephole filled with an eye. I fought the urge to kiss it with a bullet.

The door inched open. Struggling to keep my piece at my side, I pushed past and into exactly what I expected. The walls had a clutch on everything that was ever fried and burned there. A much-stomped carpet, all grays and greens and vacuumed to thread. Shadow box stuffed with chipped porcelain. Mismatched armchairs. Tarnished Jesus—nobody’s savior today—splayed like a whore on a white cross centered on the wall above the TV. The kitchen pushing hard against the front room. And a woman. Black so I couldn’t tell if she was twenty-five or eighty-five. Black so she could have been tall or short, a pig or a stick. Black so she could have been blue-Black or damn-near-white Black.

It would take a moment for me to bring her into focus. I was so mad she was Black.

And breathing.

And talking.

“I heared something—moving ‘round—outside. Not like rats—or anything like that. Footsteps. Lots of talking. Something whispering all the time. I called y’all—you—‘cause I’m scared to go—out there. Living all by—myself. Kids is gone. Could be—somebody might be—tryin’—to break in—here.”

The way they slow their talk down when they’re talking to white men. Damndest thing. Like slow means not stupid. The piece squirming in my hand, craving, to be up and hot. I looked at her then.The wiry explode of hair. Mammy chest straining against a misbuttoned robe. Berserk gaze locked on Whitman, already the good one.

“Break in to steal what?” I snickered. I lifted my eyes to dead Jesus, curled my nose at the godawful stink in the walls, pointed at the cheap TV and its silent trickle of some nigger comedy. “Think somebody could sell that thing for drugs? What else you got around here worth stealin’?”

Wait. Drugs in the house would help.

“You a dealer? You sellin’?”

Looking up from whatever the hell notes he was taking, Whitman fuckin’ cut his eyes at me. I sensed judgement. So I met his brave little glare with a message of my own—I am not the one, champ. He wouldn’t last long. Certainly not past tonight.

“No!” the woman barked before thinking better of it and taking a step back looking around for some white to put into her voice. “I’m not like—that. I would never—had—that stuff in—my—”

As impressed as I was, I had work to do. “Yeah yeah. Proud of you. I’m gonna have to have a see for myself. And hey, we looked around outside before we knocked. Looked under stuff, behind stuff, through stuff. With flashlights. No rats. No whispering. No robbers. No trash cans. No grass. No nothing.”

No witnesses.

“Don’t leave me here by myself! I ain’t lying! I tell you I heared—” She stepped forward again, too close, too fast. I smelled that smell. It was the walls. It was her skin. It turned my stomach.

“Back the hell up!” I yelled. Whitman’s whole heart jumped and I almost laughed. I shoved the woman. Her feet tangled and she fell back into one of the chairs. I liked how small and weak she looked as I stood over her.

“What you ‘heared’ was not a damned thing,” I hissed. “You should know. You don’t live in the best place. The night here makes noise.”

I asked for ID. Whitman looked at his notes. “Her name is Sonya—”

“I didn’t ask you, Sparky. This one can talk for herself. I need to see an actual government-issued ID. This might not be the same woman who called us. You can’t be too careful.”

My gun at my side, standing back, standing by. The woman’s eyes were on it. So were Whitman’s.

“Get some ID. Now!”

The woman rose slowly from the armchair. She waited for me to move out of her way. I didn’t. I held her eyes until she dropped them and ducked around to my right.

Then moved way too slowly to a counter separating the kitchen and front room. With her right hand, she reached for the knob of a small drawer.

“Fuckin’ freeze!”

I trained my Glock on the nape of her neck. No one drew a breath.

“Whitman, I think I heard something outside. Go check it out.”

“But—”

“Get out!”

Whitman, his eyes huge, backed out of the house like a freed hostage. Again, I came close to laughing.

Her back was to me, my sight locked to her neck. When she finally spoke, her voice was clear and blank, not as Black as it had been.

“Do you have a gun to plant somewhere, Adam? On my breathless body perhaps?”

Not Black at all. Like she was someone else. And how did she know my name?

“Are you going to tell them that I drew on you?” Now her words were deep, on the edge of whisper, almost sultry. “Did I lunge? Was I foaming at the mouth? Did things just get crazy for a minute? You going to tell them how much you feared for your little life? Will you shiver a little when you tell them how scared you were? How I was a beast, so much stronger than you thought I’d be? Like a man? Did I fight you like a man, Adam? Like a big Black buck of a man? Did I wrestle you for the gun? Were you afraid I’d win? Are you going to tell them that you were afraid I’d win?”

I asked who she was. How she knew what she knew.

“Does it matter? No matter what my name is, I’m Black. And because I’m Black, you’re going to kill me.”

She dropped her hand and turned with an aching slowness toward me. “But just so you’ll have something to forget, my name is . . .”

She introduced herself again and again, the name and timbre changing each time, the face clicking through changes in rhythm like a period after each one.

George.

Trayvon.

Breonna.

Bree.

Tamir.

I’d heard some of the names, seen some of the faces. Trayvon was that little hoodlum taken out by that Zimmerman guy. Tamir Rice was the kid, the young one. And who could forget George Floyd’s neck under a knee?

Atatiana.

Dominque.

Jamel.

Antonio.

DeAngelo.

Romir.

Ashanti.

Botham.

Terence.

John.

Chanel.

Stephon.

Philando.

Kentry.

She was a man, a woman, a child, a gangly teenager, he was straight hair, curls, clean bald, Afros, dreadlocks, she was thin lips, thick lips, he was shining smile, gap tooth, yellow grimace, she was blue-Black, cream-colored, he was freckled, peppered with pimples, ugly as sin, as beautiful as a white woman—

Bee.

Layleen.

Romelo.

Emmett.

Eleanor.

Montay.

But they were all smiling. Damndest thing. Wide-grinning like they weren’t dead and buried. Smiling through blood and scrape and gash.

Jenisha.

Kiki.

Alton.

Mack.

Francine.

She bled and blossomed with bruise, he was chalk outline, swollen eye, she was gaping wound, bullet holes, he was hood, they were headline, she was dead and dead and dead

Tenisha.

Eric.

Dominick.

Renee.

Michelle.

Elijah.

Nia.

They were running out of air. But not out of faces. They came faster and faster. Without pulling in a breath, she kept telling me who she was. I didn’t particularly want to know.

George Trayvon Breonna Bree Tamir. Atatiana Dominque Jamel Antonio DeAngelo Romir Ashanti Botham Terence John Chanel Stephon Philando Kentry Bee Layleen Romelo Emmett Eleanor Montay Jenisha Kiki Alton Mack Francine Tenisha Eric Dominick Renee Michelle Elijah Nia Amadou Akai Monina Cortez Kentry Sean Alberta Michael Gabriella Lou Natasha Brooklyn Walter Lee Laquan Ahmaud Mohamed Elray Aura Shane Rayshard Denali Sandra Oscar Blane Lizzie Berry Thomas Bobby Daniel Luther Roman Johnny Leonard Matthew Martin Vivian Eddie Rufus Eloise Rebecca Hattie Raymond Herman Alfred Alphonso Emmanuel Roy Perry Tonia Carl Delano Larry Fred Philip Rita Bonita Earnest Sal Lloyd Yvonne Clement Howard Malice Simmon Windy Preston Eric Nathanial Carolyn Malik Justin Donta Deron Latanya Demetrius Malcolm Patrick Prince Annette Adrian Charmene Andrea Kennth Willie Trey Genie Orlando Marquis Charquissa Kendra Cornelius Mannix Leslie D’Koy Devin Jashon Deon Lorenzo Brandon DeAunta Frisco Tarika Xavier Baron Artavious Ruben Shatona Broderick Shevette Parnell Kiwane Warren Alyana Dexter Tony Jamail Ontario Kemp Dwight Shereese Davinian Shantel Mario Carlton Dakota Malissa Danielle Jermaine Ezell Corey Oliver Tanisha Natasha Felix Patterson Bettie Livonia Terence Muhammad Wardell Eurie Amando Juan Cynthia Jameek Pierre Javier Marcellus Latoya

The faces whipped past, blurring now, the naming its own language, a meld of man and woman showering me with grin and spittle, too quick even for color.

JaylandGeorgeTrayvonBreonnaBreeTamirAtatianaDominqueJamelAntonioDeAngeloRomirAshantiBothamTerenceJohnChanelStephonPhilandoKentryBeeLayleenRomeloEmmettEleanorMontayJenishaKikiAltonMackFrancineTenishaEricDominickReneeMichelleElijahNiaAmadouAkaiMoninaCortezKentrySeanAlbertaMichaelGabriellaLouNatashaBrooklynWalterLeeLaquanAhmaudMohamedElrayAuraShaneRayshardDenaliSandraOscarBlaneLizzieBerryThomasBobbyDanielLutherRomanJohnnyLeonardMatthewMartinVivianEddieRufusEloiseRebeccaHattieRaymondHermanAlfredAlphonsoEmmanuelRoyPerryToniaCarlDelanoLarryFredPhilipRitaBonitaEarnestSalLloydYvonneClementHowardMaliceSimmonWindyPrestonEricNathanielCarolynMalikJustinDontaDeronLatanyaDemetriusMalcolmPatrickPrinceAnnetteAdrianCharmeneAndreaKennthWillieTreyGenieOrlandoMarquisCharquissaKendraCorneliusMannixLeslieD’KoyDevinJashonDeonLorenzoBrandonDeAuntaFriscoTarikaXavierBaronArtaviousRubenShatona

Then, suddenly, all of the black spinning stopped. There was a wide ringing silence as the thousands of faces became one face again—hers. She leveled the pistol she’d pulled from the drawer while her dead kinfolk were busy saying howdy-do.

Time for her to join them.

If this whole crazy show was supposed to turn me into a sad little lover of Black folks, it hadn’t worked. If it was supposed to make me weepy about all the dead ones, it hadn’t worked. And if this bitch thought she was going to outdraw me, it wasn’t going to work. No matter what batshit world we were in.

I lifted my gun and blasted her right under her left eye. I didn’t miss. I never miss.

Nothing happened but the sound. She stood right where she’d been, unbroken, unblemished, her pistol still pointed toward my face. Then I heard the names again, just the names, rising, a brutal whisper sweating the room.

BroderickShevetteParnellKiwaneWarrenAlyanaDexterTonyJamailOntarioKempDwightShereeseDavinianShantelMarioCarltonDakotaMalissaDanielleJermaineEzellCoreyOliverTanishaFelixPattersonBettieLivoniaTerenceMuhammadWardellEurieAmandoJuanCynthiaJameekPierreJavierMarcellusLatoyaJayland—

She smiled with everything but her eyes. Layered over the chant, her words were ice.

“Even before I opened the door, I knew I was going to kill you.”

Whitman. I opened my mouth to scream for Whitman. The two syllables moved through my throat but never reached the air. The woman chuckled. It was a horrible sound, especially with the blue note of names riding beneath it.

GeorgeTrayvonBreonnaBreeTamirAtatianaDominqueJamelAntonioDeAngeloRomirAshantiBothamTerenceJohnChanelStephonPhilandoKentryBeeLayleen

“No one will hear you,” she said. “We’re not in the best place, remember?”

Shit. It was all too perfect. A dead neighborhood. No cars moving in the street. The killshot would be just another noise the night makes.

At least now I knew who’d be waiting for me.