Blackman's Coffin (2 page)
At eight the next morning, I looked over at Mr. Carlisle. He slept with a clear plastic oxygen tube dangling half out of his nostrils. Mr. Carlisle suffered from chronic respiratory problems—a condition created when a Japanese fuel tank exploded on Saipan and smothered him in black diesel smoke. He’d also spent a lifetime with cigarettes which, despite the tobacco lobby’s claims to the contrary, continued the destruction of his lungs. He’d checked into the hospital a week after I arrived. Odds were he wouldn’t be checking out.
During the six weeks of physical therapy since my transfer from Walter Reed, I’d seen Mr. Carlisle’s daughter take him out every Sunday for dinner. She made sure he had something suitable to wear. The wardrobe that had come with me from Walter Reed consisted of military fatigues and a red Hawaiian shirt. Not the most appropriate way to show respect for the dead. My brother had moved my things out of our parents’ home when the house had gone on the market, and he kept the few non-army clothes I owned waiting for me in Birmingham.
I slipped out of bed and grabbed the crutches leaning against the wall. With the stealth of a commando, I checked Mr. Carlisle’s drawer for anything that might carry a decorum of dignity. He had several pairs of boxer shorts, black socks with elastic so frayed they fell down around his ankles, two pairs of navy blue slacks rolled up like miniature sleeping bags, and a folded white shirt. I shook the shirt and the wrinkles disappeared. The fabric contained so much polyester it would melt under a hot lamp.
Mr. Carlisle stood a good six inches shorter than me but he had at least an extra six inches around the waist. I tossed my hospital gown back on the bed and tried on his shirt. The length provided enough tail to tuck in, but the sleeves stopped halfway down my forearm. I turned back the cuffs. Casual but neat. I’d have to go with my military pants. Thank God they weren’t camo. At least I wouldn’t appear to have stopped at the church on the way to a luau.
I sat on the edge of the bed and fit my artificial limb into position. Such an odd feeling to look down and see this impostor replacing part of my body. I knew some men at Walter Reed who’d given their prosthesis a name. I don’t think this cold device and I could ever be so intimate.
Mr. Carlisle coughed and shifted in bed. I kept my back to him.
“Where you going, Sam?” he asked in a raspy voice.
“Thought I’d practice walking outside before it gets too hot.”
“Don’t spill anything on my shirt.” He rolled back over.
I stopped at the nurses’ station and said I was going to the library. I carried the book Tikima had given me. I asked the duty nurse to cancel my morning physical therapy because I had a guest coming to talk about a job possibility. All the nurses knew I’d been cleared for release on Friday and they’d started cutting me slack, like I was getting a few days of vacation before being dumped on the world.
The hospital had a truckload of forms being processed for my release. I’d had to give proof that my brother’s house would be my next residence, and that I’d continue with follow-up physical examinations. The government must have been concerned I’d re-grow my leg and continue to collect disability. I didn’t want to start another avalanche of paperwork to get permission to attend the funeral, so what the hospital didn’t know was in everyone’s best interest. Out and back in two hours, no stains on Mr. Carlisle’s shirt, and no one the wiser.
I found a pen in the library and started to inscribe the Elmore book as a gift to the vets at the V.A. hospital from Tikima Robertson. Instead I wrote—From Tikima Robertson to Sam Blackman. June 2, 2007. Then it struck me I was holding the last gift she’d ever given.
Around ten I walked out the doors of the main entrance. I strolled along the driveway toward the front gate, pausing now and then to rest. The exertion of walking on uneven concrete taxed my stamina and my balance. Perhaps attending the funeral would be a mistake. What if there were a lot of stairs or Nathan Armitage couldn’t park close to the church?
Before my doubt could overcome my resolve, a black Lexus turned into the hospital grounds. As it approached, I waved and stepped closer to the curb. Armitage eased the car over, reached across the passenger seat, and opened the door.
“Blackman?”
“I’m your man.” I sat on the leather seat with my legs still outside. Armitage watched as I lifted the left one with both hands and swung it into the car. “Don’t want to scratch your interior,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it. The car’s leased.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m privileged to meet you.”
I gripped his hand firmly. The broad palm was tough and callused, not what I’d expect from a man who I thought sat behind a desk. Armitage wore a smartly tailored dark blue suit, white shirt, and impeccably knotted burgundy tie. His clean-shaven face had a golfer’s tan with a thin band of white on his upper forehead where he probably wore a cap or visor. His short black hair had a dash of silver at the temples. I figured him for mid-forties.
“What’s the book?” Armitage looked at the Elmore volume in my lap.
“In case you were running late. If I’m reading, hospital security doesn’t think I just wandered out of my room.”
He pulled the Lexus away from the curb. “How long have you been here?”
“A little over six weeks. Trying to get used to this damn tree stump.”
“It’s the feeling, isn’t it? Like walking on one stilt but you’re not sure when it’s going to hit the ground or how high to lift it.”
I couldn’t help but glance at his feet.
He smiled. “No, I’ve got all my toes, but my best friend from the service lost both legs. First Gulf War. The one we fought the right way. He told me what it was like. Said the best thing about the artificial legs was they eased the phantom pains.”
“I’ve noticed that too. Were you Army?”
“Marines. One of the things that bonded me to Tikima.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe she’s gone. We worked together nearly three years.” Armitage turned onto Tunnel Road and headed into Asheville. “She was my top sales person. Her clients loved her.”
“And you’ve got no idea who had a motive to kill her?”
“No. Like I said on the phone, we don’t do investigative work. The police say the M.O. doesn’t fit a random robbery gone bad, and no one has come forward to say they met with her that Saturday night. Whatever it was must have been personal.”
“Boyfriend?”
“If she was seeing anyone, she didn’t tell me. But something had been bothering her the last few months. She was preoccupied and moody. Still doing her job but without any zest. She’d even stopped visiting vets.”
“I was surprised that my nurse didn’t know Tikima, but she’d started at the hospital only a few weeks before I arrived.”
Armitage took his eyes off the road a second to look at me. “That’s why your call surprised me. Tikima didn’t tell me she’d gone back to visiting.”
“Maybe she’d worked out whatever was bothering her,” I said.
Armitage raised his eyebrows. “I think her funeral’s proof enough she hadn’t.” Again he turned to me. “What did she talk about, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“She bluntly told me not to feel sorry for myself. Pissed me off at first, but she kept at me in a way that made me laugh. She said she’d come back.”
“But she didn’t. Anything else?”
I hesitated a moment. “Don’t take this like I’m hitting you up for anything, but she said maybe she could get me a job if I decided to stay in Asheville. I thought she meant a night watchman or something. I guess your company provides those services.”
“Among other things.”
“Then she told me she wanted my brain, unless I’d left it in Iraq along with my leg.”
Armitage snorted a laugh through his nose. “That’s Tikima. What did you do in the service?”
“A Chief Warrant Officer with the Criminal Investigation Detachment. Army said they’d evaluate my situation. Maybe grant me a desk job. I told them no thanks.”
Armitage nodded. “Maybe we can work something out.”
Mt. Zion Missionary Baptist stood near the corner of South Spruce and Eagle streets a few blocks from the center of Asheville. I’d expected a little country church and was surprised by a gothic Victorian red brick sanctuary. Cars were lined up turning into the parking lot.
“When we’re in front of the door, I’ll stop and you can get out,” Armitage said. “If you want to wait for me fine, but if you try the steps on your own, save me a seat.”
I felt a little unsteady as I stepped up on the curb. Armitage drove on and I noticed his vanity plate—B C CURE. At first I thought he was advertising for the headache powder BC that’s popular in the South, but then it hit me—Be Secure.
I made my way to the handrail that bordered the concrete stairs. Several people stepped aside when they noticed my wobbly gait. The steady stream of well-dressed mourners flowing into the sanctuary made me nervous that Armitage and I would find a pew. I gripped the rail and managed to climb to the doorway. Inside, an elderly black woman with a warm smile handed me a bulletin.
“I’ll be on the back row,” I said. “My friend, a white man in a blue suit and burgundy tie, will be looking for me.”
“I’ll keep an eye out,” she said. “Thank you for being here.”
Although it was only twenty minutes till eleven, the sanctuary was more than three-quarters full. Unlike my Presbyterian church back in Winston-Salem, this church filled from the front first. I sat on the aisle of the back pew where I felt more confident about being able to stand and get out.
The bulletin was a single sheet of paper folded in half to create four panels. On the front was the title “A CELEBRATION OF HOMEGOING. TIKIMA ROBERTSON. 1972–2007.” Inside, the order of worship listed a number of Bible readings interspaced between hymns. There was a eulogy to be delivered by the minister and something called Time of Remembrance. The music leaned toward spirituals with a theme of going home. I recognized
He’ll Understand and Say Well Done
and
City Called Heaven
, but others were unfamiliar. I wondered if
Old Ship of Zion
had something to do with this church in particular. On the back panel were printed two short paragraphs: one of thanks from the family for the prayers and condolences which had been offered by the congregation and community and the other was directions to the cemetery. I hadn’t thought about the funeral procession and wondered whether Armitage planned to attend the graveside service.
I’d been so intent on finding my seat that I hadn’t paid attention to my surroundings. I looked up at gold chandeliers hanging from a ceiling of rich dark wood receding in layered thin slats that would cost a fortune today. Beautiful gold organ pipes framed the back of the chancel and the pulpit stood front and center. I leaned out of the pew to see down the aisle. On the floor in front of the pulpit sat a pewter and navy-colored casket. Across its bowed lid stretched an American flag.
Armitage nudged my shoulder, but instead of sliding over, I stepped into the aisle and let him in. When we were settled, I whispered, “Are you going to the graveside?”
“I hadn’t planned on it.”
I nodded in agreement. I wasn’t ready to trust my leg trekking across open ground.
The congregation was predominantly black, but a significant number of white faces were in attendance. A few minutes before eleven, the organist began the prelude. Toward the end, the congregation stood as the family entered from a door beside the chancel. While we were still standing, the minister welcomed everyone and announced that the hymns for the service had been favorites of Tikima. She had specified them for her funeral before her deployment to Iraq. The irony of the situation was not lost on any of us.
I sang the songs as best I could.
Old Ship of Zion
turned out to be a spiritual about Jesus as captain of a ship rescuing souls from sin and sorrow. The minister’s eulogy was directed to the family seated in front of him. He told of Tikima’s lifelong growth in that congregation, her kindness, and her sacrifice in war, and that she and her family were no strangers to tragedy. But, as before, God’s grace and strength would pull them through once again.
The “amens” began from the congregation. The minister led them from despair to hope and from death to life. He mentioned Tikima’s work with the veterans at the V.A. hospital and how that was so like her to help others. The statement must have been a cue because the piano began playing while the minister said, “The greatest tribute we can pay Tikima is to continue her legacy by making this commitment—” He stopped and the congregation immediately broke into the song
If I Can Help Somebody, Then My Living Shall Not Be In Vain
. It was a powerful moment because I hadn’t sensed it coming. I was part of the frozen chosen, not comfortable being spontaneous in church, or moving in the pews except to get in and out. But the lyrics and rhythm were contagious and even B C Cure Armitage swayed back and forth in time.
When the song was over and the congregation seated, an usher brought a microphone on a stand and set it beside the casket. The minister said Tikima’s sister desired to set aside a few minutes for others to share memories of Tikima.
A few people rose immediately and made their way to the microphone. A Sunday school teacher who had taught Tikima, a basketball coach, a best friend who had known Tikima since kindergarten. The stories were personal and some of the speakers wept as they spoke.
As the Time of Remembrance continued, I became aware that no one had yet talked on behalf of the veterans Tikima had visited and even more aware that none of those waiting to speak was white.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. The line at the microphone had shrunk and no one else was getting up. Then I sensed someone standing beside me. I looked up to see the elderly woman who had handed me my bulletin.
“Would you like to say something,” she whispered.
She phrased the sentence not as a question but as an approval.
I took a deep breath and stood. From the corner of my eye, I saw Armitage look at me like I’d lost my mind.
The last speaker was leaving the microphone as I walked down the aisle. My left leg seemed to hit harder with each step and a few times I had to grab the side of a pew to steady myself.