Full name.
Bad sign.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Do not ‘hi Mom’ me.”
“You sound like Aunt Evelyn in another life.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Television says blood.”
“Small cut.”
“Did doctor examine?”
“Yes.”
“Did they scan your head?”
“No need.”
“Who decided?”
“Medical professionals.”
“White?”
I laughed involuntarily.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“I’m asking.”
“Mixed team.”
“Good.”
My mother, Lorraine Caldwell, was seventy-two and had spent forty years as a nurse anesthetist.
She trusted medicine and questioned everyone practicing it.
“What happened?”
I told her.
She became quiet.
Then said:
“You told him you were judge?”
“Yes.”
“And he hit you anyway?”
“After.”
She breathed slowly.
“Your father would have driven there.”
“Dad would have been arrested.”
“Yes.”
“That is why he married me.”
I smiled.
Then Mom said:
“You remember when police stopped us outside Birmingham?”
I did not.
“When?”
“You were six.”
“No.”
“Your father driving.”
“New Oldsmobile.”
“They asked him whose car.”
“Your father said his.”
“Officer laughed.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“You were six.”
“No, later.”
“What good?”
I almost said historical context.
Instead:
“I don't know.”
Mom continued.
“They made him stand outside.”
“Searched trunk.”
“I sat inside with you.”
“You asked why Daddy looked mad.”
“What did you say?”
“That police were checking something.”
“Was that true?”
“Technically.”
I leaned against kitchen counter.
“Did Dad complain?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He had hospital job.”
“Mortgage.”
“You.”
“Same answer everyone gives.”
Mom’s voice sharpened.
“Do not judge him.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes you are a little.”
She knew me.
“I’m sorry.”
She softened.
“Your father was angry for weeks.”
“Then life continued.”
“You think these things become history because somebody writes article.”
“Mostly they just become Thursday.”
That sentence stayed.
Mostly they just become Thursday.
The investigation moved quickly at first.
Then slowly.