Thomas wondered if a person could taste sick. Not in the sense of if you put their finger in your mouth you could taste that they were sick but in the taste at the back of your mouth kind of way that people understood something was not quite right. Ever since Uncle Raheem had gotten sick Thomas had thought he was sick too. Of course he did. He’d been with Uncle all the time. They sat out on the stoop on 139th watching the people go by until there were less and less people going by; fewer and fewer cars dropping folks off at the houses. He’d been right there the first time Uncle coughed. They were already wearing masks by then. Summer was creeping into the city and Thomas could see that thin sheen of sweat atop Uncle’s near bald head. He never sweat until at least July when the humidity rose like a basketball shoved to the bottom of the city pool.
Now he sat in a blue hard backed chair listening to the other people in the Harlem Hospital waiting room talking about their family; who’d gotten sick and who hadn’t and he thought about the way it tasted right there at the back of his throat. That sick taste. Was he dying too?
Dad said they were just gonna let the black people die. Momma yelled at him and told him not to say that kind of stuff, but Dad just pointed to the television, leaned back and said, “mmm hmm.”
On the screen a black man who looked like he was Dad’s age was choking and moaning about not being able to breathe and three police officers sat on him. One had his knee on the man’s neck. After the stopped talking and looked like he stopped breathing, the police officer kept his knee on the man’s neck and Dad said, “That’s how they do us out there.”
Momma said, “Who are they? I am a police officer and I don’t do nobody like that.”
Dad shrugged and said, “mmm hmm.”
On Thomas’ birthday last year (he’d turned ten so it was a big one) Dad to him out to the playground where all the grown ups played basketball and he showed Thomas around and even introduced him to some of the players. Then a policeman’s car pulled up and Dad got real quiet when he said, “You growing up now, son, so you need to know this. Those people in them police cars aren’t there to help us. They there to hurt us.”
“But momma drives the police car.”
“Momma’s different, but there ain’t too many like her. Remember that.”
He did remember. As he watched his dad watch the TV he said under his breath, “mmm hmm.” He hoped his momma didn’t hear him.