Mrs. Dorsey sat facing the window, looking out into the night. She saw the reflection of her husband enter the room. Mr. Dorsey approached. He too looked out into the night for just a moment, then said to her reflection, “This place stinks.”
“My baby’s been hurt?” said Mrs. Dorsey holding back tears.
“I’ve already gotten a report. She’s OK. But she’ll be much better after we get her out of this rat hole,” he said, still not having found his volume control.
Mrs. Dorsey looked around the room uncomfortably at other family members waiting for news about their loved ones. “So, you’ve talked to Dr. Jackson?”
“Why am I not surprised that the doctors name is Jackson,” snorted Dorsey.
Mrs. Dorsey rose. “Honey, let’s go talk to the doctor,” she said, rising and taking him by the elbow.
“Mr. Dorsey, is Carlton with you?” blurted out Heather as she sprung from her chair.
“I told your dad I’d drop you off at home,” replied Mr. Dorsey. “Wait here,” he barked as he turned away.
“It wasn’t my fault,” cried Heather in a more pouting than convincing voice.
“Then whose fault was it?” demanded Mr. Dorsey.
Heather turned here eyes away when she saw the rage in Mr. Dorsey.
He shouted, “Answer me!”
“It’s that nigger in the black hoodie,” snapped Heather, pointing at Yendor out in the emergency waiting room area.
Every eye in the room was now trained on Heather, but she felt none more piercing than Mrs. Dorsey’s.
“I guess that makes Carlton a nigger too,” said Mrs. Dorsey calmly as she approached Heather.
Heather stumbled an apology as she backpedaled, tripping over an elderly man in a wheel chair. She glanced around the room as though looking for an escape hatch. She looked to Mr. Dorsey, but he seemed to show no concern for the wrath his wife might pour out on her.
Mrs. Dorsey had Heather locked in such a fierce stare that tears welled up in her eyes. When Mrs. Dorsey was in her face so tight that she could feel the baby hairs on Heather’s nose, she said, in a most menacing voice, “If I ever hear that word come from your tiny lips again, I will snatch every blond hair by its brown roots from your big empty head. Do you Do you understand?”
“Uh hue,” quivered Heather.
“Uh hue?” replied Mrs. Dorsey, their noses now touching.
“Yes Mrs. Dorsey,” quivered Heather.
Mrs. Dorsey paused to determine if Heather was being condescending or contrite. Only when she was satisfied that Heather understood that she was close to getting her butt whipped by her boyfriend’s mother did she turn away.
She was so angry that she had not noticed that her husband had left the room.