17 minute read
NEUTRAL GROUND by Tania Nyman
Neutral Ground by Tania Nyman
Elaine was sitting at a stoplight on Claiborne Avenue, a street that lacked the charm for which New Orleans was known, when she noticed a trio of kids crossing the three-lanes of stopped traffic. “Jesus,” she muttered. She glanced at the clock on the dash—it was a little after nine o’clock, too late for them to be out alone. The oldest couldn’t have been more than twelve or thirteen, and he was escorting two younger children, one, a girl, so little he’d hoisted her to his hip so they could walk more quickly. The third child reminded Elaine of the second-grade boy she’d tutored on Saturdays. He lived in this area and was about the same age and build—so slight his clothes hung on him as they would a hanger.
“They’re too young,” she declared to the empty car. The oldest was trying to hurry across before the light changed. With his free hand, he’d grabbed the younger boy by the wrist and half-pulled, half-carried him tripping behind. They were probably heading to one of the fast food restaurants, or to the neighborhood beyond: the Magnolia Housing Project, a warren of two-story brown brick structures, many of which were boarded up.
She watched the children step to the curb of the neutral ground, as the broad, grassy medians were called in New Orleans, and then scanned the area for a parent. Maybe one was trailing behind.
The children had come from her right where there was a dated strip of stores set back some distance from the street. The parking lot in front of it was almost empty. A man and woman stood near the corner. The woman leaned against a bus stop. The man rocked on his heels beside her. A short distance from them, a large oak grew in the small space between the sidewalk and the cross street, Toledano. The tree’s canopy didn’t quite reach Claiborne, but it stretched across a small section of the parking lot and one lane of the quieter and darker thoroughfare.
Something moved near the tree and her eyes fell on a wooden bench at its base. A yellow dog paced before it. A cat was perched on the top rail of the bench. Good lord, Elaine thought. The dog would leave, right? But the dog put its front paws on the seat of the bench and stretched its muzzle towards the cat. Elaine braced herself for the worst. The dog dropped back to the sidewalk, the cat unharmed, but her chest remained tightened with fear.
She had to get over there. She flipped on her turn signal, looked to the streetlight, and thought again of the children. They had safely crossed the three lanes of the northbound traffic on the other side of the neutral ground to her left. The oldest was ushering the younger ones into the fast food restaurant. The double-glass doors closed behind them.
The irony of the situation was not lost on Elaine—that she was turning her back on children, who, at the very least, appeared in need of help, to help a cat, but she was not naïve. There was nothing she could do for the children.
The light changed and she blew her horn at the car in front of her. She turned at the corner, pulling to the shoulder near the tree. A few cars sped past her down the wide avenue, leaving the street before her empty and dim in spite of the lights that lined the neutral ground, which was bleak and unkempt. There were no crepe myrtles, azalea bushes or live oaks growing down its center as there were in Elaine’s neighborhood, and the grass was overgrown and tangled with litter.
She scanned the area carefully. Though she hadn’t attracted any attention sitting in her car at the stop light, she would once she stepped out of it. White people typically didn’t stop in this neighborhood, especially at night. They only drove through it, and some wouldn’t even do that.
Granted, there was the troubled housing project and dilapidation and people hanging on corners at all hours. And there were shootings, regularly, but she didn’t believe every Black person in the area was out to get her. Her Saturday tutoring was at a church a few blocks down, and she’d given the busman from work a ride to his home on Louisiana Avenue often enough to know that the folks in the neighborhood might look at her askance, assume she was a social worker—or a prostitute—but leave her alone.
There was a need for caution, sure, but as long as she remained aware it would be safe and easy enough to hop out of the car, chase the dog away, and allow the cat to escape. She had to try. She couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t.
Behind her, the man and woman still stood on the brightly lit corner of the busy intersection. Before her, the darkness loomed in stark contrast. The streetlights running down Toledano were high and dim. The darkened houses sat back in the shadows. As she reached for the keys, the yellow dog trotted in front of her car and into the headlights’ glow. It was a haggard mongrel, thin and dirty, its hips and ribs jutting against its skin. It crossed the street and passed another dog—a bedraggled brown one, headed towards the tree. She unlocked her door and stepped out.
On the other side of the street, the yellow dog watched, its legs sunk into the tall grass. In the shadows, two other dogs lay nearby. All of them panted heavily, their tongues lolling happily from their mouths. She thought of dingoes she’d seen once on a nature show. The pack would corner an animal in a tree and then take turns keeping it trapped until it tried to escape or passed out and fell to the ground.
She stared at the dogs, but they seemed unperturbed. Their disinterest seemed to border on arrogance, an attitude one might expect in insolent teenagers. It annoyed her, their lack of fear. She was in a city, after all, not the outback.
In spite of the pack’s confidence, she still expected the lone dog guarding the cat to take off when she approached. But it didn’t. It sat in the dim glow of the streetlight before the bench, a haphazard construction of old wood. The sign that served as a seatback was so faded, no slogan or business name was discernible. The cat was lucky the sign was tall, out of the dogs’ reach. The dog paid no attention to Elaine, its eyes on the cat.
She stamped her foot. “Get,” she ordered. It started, but didn’t move away. Its resolve took her aback, but she would be damned if she let it intimidate her. She ignored her fear and focused on the anger instead. “You heard me,” she raised her voice. “Get!” She stamped again. The dog retreated a few steps.
“Go on!” She clapped her hands and moved towards the dog, stamping again.
It wheeled about and ran a few feet and turned and stared at her. She stared back until it trotted off to the neutral ground and the other dogs.
She turned her attention to the beleaguered cat. It was still balanced precariously on the seatback, which was not more than an inch wide, so it could not rest its paws side by side on the plank. It was standing as a tightrope walker would, one foot in front of the other. To keep itself upright, it leaned against the trunk of the tree.
She approached slowly. “Hey there, pretty,” she whispered. “You all right?” She gingerly ran her fingers across its dusty head. It didn’t move. “It’s okay now,” she said quietly. “The dog is gone.”
The man and woman still stood near the bus stop talking. Their banter was jovial. Every few moments they erupted in laughter.
“May I pick you up?” She slipped her hands underneath the cat. She could feel his ribs and his heart pounding. As she lifted him, his back legs extended. The fur was wet.
“Poor baby,” she said. “You peed on yourself.” She set him on the seat of the bench. He sat, sphinx-like, where she put him, eyes fixed before him. There was no telling how long he’d been there or how many people walked by while the dogs hunted him. She turned towards the couple at the bus stop. Their laughter didn’t seem so warm anymore.
She sighed. This was supposed to be a simple task—hop out of the car, chase the dog away, let the cat run to safety. But now what? She couldn’t put him in the car without a carrier. And even if she could, she couldn’t take him home. She had her own cat to think about. The absurdity of the situation was irritating. It was just a cat, not three unsupervised children. Was it really too much to expect to do this one little thing? She squatted next to the cat, feeling defeated.
“I don’t want to leave you here like this,” she whispered. She ran her fingers along its back, but it didn’t move, not even to turn its head to look at her. “Especially while those dogs are still here.”
Beneath the dirt, the cat’s coat was oily, the fur stood up in jagged clumps. She could feel the ridge of each vertebra. Still it didn’t move. It didn’t flinch at the sharpest traffic sounds. She ran a finger down its nose. It didn’t blink. She’d never seen a cat so unresponsive.
Once again she was reminded of Derek, the boy she’d tutored at the church down the street. At least she’d tried to tutor him, but the sessions had become torture, not only for Derek, but for her. Initially he’d shown up willing to work, though easily distracted. This she could deal with. But he went from uninterested to reticent to surly. The last few times he’d shown up, his father had had to drag the boy into the church’s schoolroom and shove him into a chair. Though she found her own patience taxed by the boy’s petulance, she was taken aback by the father. His tone was so cold, his grip so stern, it broke her heart. On these days, no cajoling would work on Derek, who sat slumped in his seat or with his head on the table, ignoring her.
None of the other children behaved in such a manner, and Elaine felt she was in way over her head. All the other tutors were African American women, somewhat older and most with children of their own. She couldn’t help but think Derek would be far better served by one of them than by herself, young and white with no significant experience with children. She wished someone would offer to step in, but no one did, clearly enjoying the sessions with their own energetic students, who arrived each Saturday morning thrilled to see them and reluctant to leave.
She stroked one of the cat’s ragged ears. “Maybe I can chase the dogs away.”
As she rose to her feet, headlights shone upon her from the parking lot. She raised her hand to shield her eyes. The car moved slowly towards her and stopped. She could see the red and blue lights on the roof of the vehicle. She looked towards the bus stop. The couple was gone. There was no one else around.
She folded her arms. NOPD wasn’t necessarily a welcome sight. It was the most endangered she’d felt all night. You never knew what kind of officer would appear. A sympathizer? Lech? Blowhard? She couldn’t stop herself from expecting the worst, even though she knew her wariness was a liability.
The door opened and the uniformed officer stepped out. “You all right?” he asked. He was a young guy, white, and he acted, not as if they were friends, but as if they were members of the same club—knew all the same people, believed all the same things, and he was not only pleased to be able to do this favor for a fellow member, he was confident she’d be eternally grateful. Say the wrong thing, or fail to say the right thing, not laugh heartily at a remark, and his friendliness would turn hateful in an instant.
“I’m fine,” she answered, taking care to sound agreeable.
“Car trouble?”
She took a breath and tried to smile. “Just trying to save a cat.”
“A cat?” He cocked his head.
“It was being stalked by that pack of dogs.” She gestured.
“Dogs,” the officer repeated.
“A pack.” She scanned the neutral ground. There were no dogs, just the empty swath of grass.
“You from around here?” The contempt slid through the officer’s words.
Elaine stiffened. “Yes,” she said curtly. She turned to look to the houses on the far side of the street. The road and yards were empty and still.
“You know that’s Magnolia Housing Project right there?” His voice rose with irritation.
She knew the officer was pointing to her left, but she looked down the dark street to her right. Nothing.
“You know someone was stabbed in that restaurant?” He pointed to the restaurant the children had gone into earlier. They were nowhere in sight now. They more than likely disappeared into the neighborhood behind it. Just like Derek.
“Last night.”
That morning Elaine had arrived at the church for the tutoring session though Derek had missed the last couple of weeks. As she watched the children tumble in and take their tutors’ hands, Ms. Charlotte, the director, explained she couldn’t get in touch with Derek. His family hadn’t had a phone. They’d used a neighbor’s number. When Ms. Charlotte called, the neighbor told her the family had moved. She didn’t know where.
“People killing each other over there and I’ve got to check on some girl who’s risking her life over a cat.” The officer’s hands were on his hips and his head was jutted so far out in front of him it was almost level with his shoulders.
She stared at the restaurant. Behind it, the buildings of the Magnolia Projects squatted. No doubt someone over there was being maimed or killed while they stood here. Elaine went rigid with frustration. “Then get back over there,” she wanted to hiss at him, but she clenched her teeth to stop herself. Others had been hauled off to central lockup for less.
“You think those men would give a damn about you or some cat?”
She looked about her at the litter-strewn gutter, the unkempt neutral ground, at the parade of cars streaming by on Claiborne Avenue, the drivers unmindful of it all. She shut her eyes, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it: the cat, the way its feet hung over the edge of the narrow rail as painfully as the dog’s skin hung on its hips and ribs; the children crossing the street, the older boy grabbing the younger one about the wrist rather than by the hand.
And Derek, how his smiling face would harden as soon as she pulled out one of the reading worksheets.
And now this, the officer berating her, as if she were a greater problem. She looked at him, when he paused and stared. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said sternly.
The exasperation in his voice reminded her of her own when she beseeched Derek to just look at the words on the pages. Her anger withered with the shame of it and she felt paralyzed where she stood.
She had wanted to help him, but she’d failed, and worse. He hadn’t learned to read. Had she thought about how this must feel to a seven-year-old boy? His mother gone to god knows what, his father perpetually angry? She should have pulled him into her lap, colored with him, read stories to him, silly ones with no educational purpose, offered him a respite. Instead, she’d persisted with those worksheets that he could not read, but that spelled out to him how bleak his future was.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she heard the officer ask.
That I could do some good, she thought, her eyes filling with tears, but the idea, even unspoken, now sounded absurd. She had always believed if one tried to do a little good, a little good could get done, that one could, if not alleviate some suffering, at least not contribute to it. She had thought this a modest, even cynical hope.
But in the years ahead, she would puzzle over this moment, the cat, the dogs and Derek, until one day, long after she’d abandoned the city, she would turn on the television and see those streets again after the deluge, people standing on rooftops waving the shirts from their backs, the oily water seeped to the eaves of the battered shotguns, the detritus on its surface and people wading through it, carrying diaperless babies, pushing children in makeshift boats, masses gathered on roadways, their mouths agape as they screamed into the cameras for help.
And then the stores besieged by looters—packs of them running with arms loaded. One, a boy, not quite a man, his white t-shirt wilted on his body, waded through the waist-deep water, a television still in its box balanced on his head. Derek would be his age. He smiled broadly at the camera. He knew what to expect. They both did.
The last time Elaine saw Derek, his father had once again dragged him into the church, shoved him into the chair, and marched from the room without a word. Derek slumped over the table and planted his forehead onto his crossed arms. She waited several minutes and then pulled her chair closer to the motionless boy to try to cajole him to do some work, but even as she talked to him in a lilting voice, she had the sense that it was pointless.
Life was going to be hard, and there was nothing she could do to spare him that.
She should have stopped, but she continued to press the boy to sit up, to look, to listen, until finally irritated with the futility of it all and his stubborn refusal to do anything, she hissed at him that she was sorry she’d wasted her Saturday mornings since he clearly didn’t appreciate it and wasn’t going to try.
He didn’t even flinch. He already knew she couldn’t help, and he was undismayed when her compassion ran out.
The boy on the television turned from the camera and a man sitting behind a news desk appeared. “What a shame,” he said, shaking his head, “a shame hardworking Americans are expected to help people like that.”
She winced. She realized it wasn’t a question of whether one contributed to the suffering, but the degree to which one did.
Standing paralyzed before the officer, she’d had some sense of this, but she didn’t try to explain. He never gave her a chance. His tirade had seemed as endless as the misery about them. It poured from him like water through a levee’s breach. When she finally turned to walk away, his voice rising above the sounds of the traffic, the litter, the neutral ground, she didn’t look to him for permission to leave. She looked towards the bench.
It was empty. The cat, too, had disappeared.
