THE DEATH OF JAMES WILSON

THE DEATH OF JAMES WILSON

"He say `We gone to die today.' And I say `We not gone to die today.' And he say `Yup, we gone to die today. I've got a gun, and I'm gonna kill us both.' And he got a gun in his hand. It all shakin’. And I knew he was gonna shoot me and then shoot himself," Mrs. Wilson said. Tears trickled down the deep furrows in her face. She sat with her chin up, her back straight, and her hands hidden beneath the tabletop.

"Had he ever threatened you like that before?" Detective Davis asked. He sat on the other side of the table, leaning forward over his notebook, his pen forgotten off to the side.

"Not with a gun. Not like he did then. He was gonna shoot me."

"Had he ever threatened you with any other weapon?"

"Yup."

"What kind of weapon?"

"Knife, hammer, whatever was about. His fist mostly. That's all it would take. James was always a big boy. When he went to school, they made me show them his birth certificate. Had to order a copy. Took weeks. All on account of him being so much bigger than the rest."

"Had he ever actually hurt you before?"

"Once, while his daddy was still around, they both came home drunk. They got arguing about this and that. James goes storming out the back way and pushed me over. He was just mad and not watching where he was goin’. My knee hurt for months after. His dad just laughed and laughed. That old bastard always beat James for nothin’. He didn't touch him that time. That was the only time James ever really hurt me."

"What made last night different? Why are you so sure he meant to shoot you?"

"Last night was different `cause James was different. I guess the drugs did that to him. The drugs and just livin’. His life was hard and it pulled him down. At times, he would just lay there. I would try to get him up. I'd plead and yell, and I even kicked him. Not to hurt him, just to get a reaction. He wouldn't move for days. I just wanted to know he was still in there somewhere."

"Did you consider having him see a psychiatrist?" Detective Davis asked.

Mrs. Wilson snorted. "Nope."

"How did you get the gun away from him?"

"He been gone for more than a week. He smelled like he'd been in the sewer. He probably had been. Probably been running from someone."

She paused and locked eyes with the detective. "He probably been running from someone. He got himself into some trouble, `cause I knew as soon as I saw him he was scared, and it wasn't just the drugs. He gone and gotten himself a gun and probably been running from someone."

Detective Davis picked up his pen and scribbled something in his notebook. Neither said anything for a moment.

"He shot a clerk on the other side of the river." Detective Davis finally said.

Mrs. Wilson nodded her head. "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I wanted to get all the facts straight first."

"That clerk dead?"

"Yes."

"He'd gone and killed someone. I knew it was something like that. The way his hand was shakin’ with that gun. The way he wouldn't look at me. He'd come home because that was the only place for him. He come running home. When I saw that gun I looked at him, and he saw I was wonderin’ what the gun was for. He saw how I was wonderin’ what he did with it. He didn't look at me, and he said, `We gone to die today.' And he meant it. One way or another, he was already dead. He'd gone and killed someone and now was runnin’ from the police."

"If you want, we could wait until another time to finish this. I have what I need." Detective Davis said.

"No. No, I want to tell the story. I want you to hear what my James did. He'd gone and killed someone; I know that now. And he'd run home scared and knew he was dead. He'd come in, and that gun was shakin’ in his hand, and he wouldn't look at me, and he say as plain as could be he was gone to shoot me. You ask how I got the gun away from him. You wanted to know how little me, old and tired as I am, got that gun away from my James.

He say, `Yup, we gone to die today. I've got a gun, and I'm gonna kill us both.'

And I know he means it. I know my son.

I say after a time, `James, you dirty and cold. You gonna kill yourself dirty and cold? I am gone to fix breakfast. You don't want to die hungry, too. Let me do this. Let me make breakfast for us. We shouldn't die without eating.'

He look at me in this funny way. I don't know what he is thinkin’. My James, I could always tell what he was thinkin’. This wasn't my James no more.

`Mama, you fix us a dyin’ meal.' He whispered. `Be quick. Be quick, Mama.'

I walk over and pick up a skillet. And James watched me. He watch me, and he whispered at me like in a song, `Mama, be quick. Be quick. Mama, gonna fix us a dyin’ meal. Mama, be quick. Mama, gonna fix us a dyin’ meal. Mama, gonna fix us a dyin’ meal.'

And it was like that while I crack the eggs. He sanged while the bacon sizzled and popped. He sanged while the bread cooked. He sanged through all my cooking.

The house was warmin’ and fillin’ with breakfast smells, and James was dirty and smelly and huge, takin’ up most of the room around the house, and he was whispering that song of his, and I almost forgot he had said he'd come home to shoot me. I was fixin’ my boy his breakfast like I had done so many times before.

I fixed his plate and mine and brought them to the table.

He walked over and sat down and stared at his food as if he hadn't ever seen food before. He was hungry; I knew that. He had been gone a week, and likely never ate a meal during that time.

He set the gun on the table next to his plate and picked up his fork and started eating so slowly. He looked at each bite for a second before he put it in his mouth.

I notice first thing the gun just sittin’ there next to his plate. I am eatin’ my own food, and I am thinkin’ of grabbin’ the gun. He was gonna shoot me after we were done eatin’. Even with him eatin’ real slow like that, I didn't have long. The problem was I'm an old lady and not quick at all. If I tried to grab that gun and he got it first, he would likely just shoot me early.

I sat there tryin’ to make myself grab it. It is hard thing to do. I lived a hard life. I've put up with James and his daddy for so many years. I was scared. When a gun is that close, you just get scared and don't want to do nothin'. I was scared like I'd never been before. I don't think I would have even tried. I think I might've just sat there and ate and then let him shoot me. I was just too scared.

Then he dropped some eggs off his fork and onto his lap, and I just grabbed the gun. I didn't hesitate. One second it is on the table, the next it is in my hand and pointing at my son. My hand isn't shakin’. My hand is steady. And he looks up and begins eatin’ again like he never even noticed.

I say `James, I don't want to die today.'

He say `I know, Mama, but you have to. We both do.'

I say `Not anymore. I've got the gun.'

He puts another bite of eggs in his mouth and chews and says, 'Mama, when I'm done eatin’, I'm gonna take that gun.'

He sit there eatin’ and I sit there watchin’ him. He didn't eat any quicker or slower. He just kept at what he was doing before.

After some time, I say `I'll shoot you if you do, James. I'll shoot you.'

`I know, Mama.' He say.

When he'd put the last bite of egg in his mouth and chewed, he turned to me, and reached out his hand real slow."

"Why didn't you just leave when you had the gun?" Detective Davis asked. "I mean, you have the gun. Why just sit there?"

"I'm an old woman, sittin’ in my house. My house is the only thing I've got. Besides, I know he wouldn't let me. If I move, he just grab at me."

"So you shot him?"

"Not like that. I didn't just shoot him like that. He'd finished his food and was reachin’ real slow towards me. I kept that gun pointed at his chest, and I say, `James, you been a good son.'

His hand slowed and stopped in front me. That hand was so big and thick and covered in creases and lines. His giant eyes look tired and he say, `Mama, you've been a real good mama.'

His hand started movin’ again real slow. When it got too close, I pulled on the trigger. I pulled on the trigger, and the gun jerked in my hand, and James whole body jumped backward out of his seat and flew against the wall and fell to the floor. Everything seemed real quiet. The gun had made this huge sound. Now everything was real quiet. My boy lay against the wall on the floor. And I sit there watchin’ him."

"I'm sorry," Detective Davis said.

Mrs. Wilson wiped her face with her fingertips. Her eyes were glassy and bloodshot.

"You're sorry? I'm sorry about a bunch of things. Not about this. I'd rather be the one to shoot James than some policeman. I'd rather him die in our home after breakfast than hungry and cold in some alley."

Mrs. Wilson stood and walked to the door. She paused with her back to Detective Davis.

"My son didn't come home to shoot me. Maybe he thought he did at first, but, naw, he came home to die. He came home so his Mama could take care of him and do what needed to be done."