Cross Body Lead

By Elie Axelroth

How far would you go to right an injustice?

At a college campus across the bay from San Francisco, Billie Ochoa teaches Cold War politics and Cuban history. She is charismatic, unapologetic, resolute. Inspired by her dead father’s love for his Cuban homeland, she is a regular at a salsa dancing class at the local community center, and an advocate for the vulnerable, marginalized and exploited. But when one of her students, Evelyn Davis, needs her help, Billie gets more than she’s bargained for.
One of the few Black students on campus, Evelyn is used to being followed in drug stores and clothing shops, but it’s different when Eddie Pike, another student in Ochoa’s class, follows her home, posts photos of her on social media, and texts her multiple times a day, repeatedly asking her out on a date. Evelyn tries to keep her cool but is becoming frustrated and scared as Eddie refuses to take no for an answer. She confides her fears to her professor as the stalking escalates. Trash cans are overturned. Someone has broken into her apartment, but campus police and college officials continue to dismiss Evelyn’s concerns. Even the campus counselor, bound by confidentiality laws, is unable to reassure Billie—or anyone else—about the risk Eddie poses. Seemingly out of options, Ochoa is forced to take matters into her own hands.

Lyrical and poignant, edgy, bold and honest, Cross Body Lead is a story at once cautionary and all too real. Where indifference leads to tragedy, but the ultimate lessons learned are ones of compassion and love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Propertius Press
• Release date: Nov 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005953409

Book preview

Part I

Green pine trees, cranes and 

turtles ...

You must tell a story of your 

hard times

And laugh twice. 

― John Hersey, Hiroshima (from a Japanese folk song)

Chapter 1

Ten minutes past the hour, Billie Ochoa dashed into the classroom, flipped open her laptop, then picked up a marker and hastily scrawled in block letters on the whiteboard: STALIN. TRUMAN. CHURCHILL.

Let’s talk about tyrants and bullies, she said. She snapped the cap back on the marker and set it down on the ledge. Monday morning, it wasn’t hard to ferret out the handful of students bleary-eyed from too much drinking over the weekend. One student, late to class, was trying to sneak in the back door unnoticed. Another had spilled his coffee and was mopping it up with his sweatshirt sleeve. The point was, she’d gotten their full attention—thirty-plus pairs of eyes staring at her, poised for her to continue.

Billie taught Cold War politics in the History Department at Morgan College, a small liberal arts school across the bay from San Francisco. She knew she was being provocative. And to be sure, slapping overly simplistic labels on these complicated, larger-than-life leaders, wouldn’t deepen their understanding of what led up to the Cold War. But if her students were going to understand the twists and turns, the complexities of history, she’d have to get their attention first.

July, 1945, she said. The Potsdam Conference. It’s nearing the end of World War II. Stalin, Truman, and Churchill come together to work out the terms of a post-war Germany. Roosevelt is dead and any hope of building trust between Truman and Stalin has crumbled. Not to mention the war with Japan that is lingering on. Alliances are shaky; tensions are high.

She wanted them to understand that history wasn’t just about the dry facts—whatever facts could even be determined—but it was the trust and animosity, the greed and deceit and lies, a complex web of varying perspectives that would determine the outcome.

At the same time, Truman has called for Japan to unconditionally surrender or ‘face prompt and utter destruction.’ He makes known to Stalin that the United States has just successfully detonated a powerful weapon. In fact, less than two weeks later, the US would drop the first atomic bomb on Hiroshima.

Chad, a pale, slightly overweight sophomore raised his hand. He was a good student, often the first person to speak up in class. He generally had something smart to say—and wanted everyone to know it. Before Billie could call on him, he blurted out, Isn’t it true that Truman dropped the bomb on Japan to teach Russia a lesson?

On its face, the idea seemed absurd to the other students and a wave of snickering rolled through the class. What they’d most certainly learned in high school—and was generally understood by the American people—was that dropping the bomb on Hiroshima and then Nagasaki was motivated by Truman’s desire to bring a swift end to the war with Japan. It was Japan’s aggressions that led to the outcome, or so they all thought.

You might find Chad’s question amusing, Billie said, but he’s making an important point. And he probably did more of the reading than the rest of you.

There was an audible shifting in their seats. Despite her teasing tone, they knew she was serious. From the first class, she’d made it known she expected they take the weekly assignments and required readings at least as seriously as they took their recreational pursuits. And yes, I think it’s fair to say that Truman wanted to show the Soviets he wasn’t afraid to use atomic weapons, forcing Stalin into a more favorable deal when it came time to carve up eastern Europe.

Billie glanced out the window at the grassy area outside their classroom. Students were setting up booths and sandwich boards in preparation for fraternity rush. A group of middle-aged men with thinning hair and flabby waists jogged by. On the other side of the quad, a handful of students were playing Frisbee in T-shirts and shorts. A burst of laughter from one of the classrooms nearby threatened to interrupt her train of thought, but Billie wasn’t about to yield to the distraction.

Most historians will recite the long-held belief that Truman was left with few options. That he dropped the bomb in order to save lives—meaning American lives. That Japan had stubbornly refused to concede, and he needed Stalin’s help in routing the Japanese from China. But for the moment, let’s focus on the US. What did Truman—and the US—bring to the table at Potsdam? What do we know about some of our own actors in this drama?

One of the students near the front, Evelyn Davis, raised her hand. Billie nodded in her direction. Evelyn always paused before she spoke, as if she were selecting her words carefully. Being one of a handful of Black students on campus, she was hard not to notice. Always fashionably dressed, her hair straightened, her nails manicured, Billie was sure she got a lot of attention for her appearance—wanted or not. It was something she’d experienced herself when she was younger. Unfortunately, it meant this student’s insights and her potential were overlooked by less observant faculty. That was something Billie had experienced, too.

Before Roosevelt died, Evelyn said, Truman hadn’t met Stalin or Churchill, and he hadn’t been briefed on negotiations with the allies. Until he was sworn in, he didn’t even know about the Manhattan Project.

Unbelievable as it sounds, Billie said, that’s correct. Roosevelt and Truman had never really gotten along, and he’d been left out of any discussions or negotiations about ending the war. He was ill-prepared for the magnitude of the responsibility. What about Truman’s cabinet? His closest advisors? What role did they play?

She pointed to another one of the students. Yes. Mercedes.

Even Truman’s Secretary of War, Henry Stimson, believed we should warn the Japanese first, let them know about the atomic bomb and give them the opportunity to surrender.

Other students were calling out their answers.

Some of the scientists, like Oppenheimer, thought the atomic bomb should never have been used.

I read how the scientists didn’t even know the real effects of radiation.

Yes, very good, Billie said. So you can see that what the US brings to the table at Potsdam has a history all its own—one of disruption and misinformation. Of hubris and naivety. But here’s something else, something you’re not likely to come across in most textbooks. We’ve already talked about Truman insisting that the Japanese surrender unconditionally, which on its face seemed a prudent, necessary step in order to discourage future Japanese aggression. But in negotiations prior to the bombings, intelligence reports suggested that Japan was ready to surrender. And this is important—as long as they could retain their emperor, Hirohito.

A few students raised their hands in reaction to her comment, but she wasn’t ready to call on anyone yet. She wanted them to understand that history wasn’t an irrelevant patchwork of events from the past, but a way to understand the present moment; that our limited point of view, our mistaken assumptions, our biases affect people’s lives. She wanted them to grapple with the complexities inherent in studying history, the relationships and power struggles and the moral dilemmas that challenge us.

Let’s consider this demand from the Japanese point of view. What we understand now is that our refusal to appreciate the importance of Hirohito to the Japanese people was a cultural blunder. As Emperor, he was seen not exactly as a god but certainly as a divine descendant.

But they did bomb Pearl Harbor, called out a student from the back of the room.

Yes, and the American public hated Hirohito for it; they wanted nothing less than to see the Japanese nation brought to its knees. But the point is that we could easily focus our attention exclusively on Truman and the pressure on him to end the war quickly and decisively. Or on the scientists who spent years developing atomic weapons—and didn’t really know the extent of devastation those bombs would cause. Or we could blame the Japanese, who brought us into the war. Or Russia’s continued overreach into Eastern Europe. It’s easy to see the war and dropping the atomic bomb as an inevitable outcome of these multiple, significant forces, forgetting that we also brought our own inconsistencies and weaknesses, our misconceptions, our limited perspective to the table. Conflict does that—encourages us to simplify, even distort the choices, to focus on our own needs, forgetting that the other side has a point of view consistent with their own history and deeply held identity and cultural understanding. If we insist on seeing the enemy as evil, then we miss out on an opportunity to see their humanity.

Ochoa was playing with the ends of her scarf, twirling them around her fingers. Look, she said. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not absolving the Japanese of all responsibility. Or the Soviets. But our job here is to open the lens of history, to see the wide-angle view. To create as detailed and intricate a portrait of historic events as possible. It’s not an easy task, to put aside our assumptions. To commit to seeing the other in a new light.

Billie stopped talking, long enough for everyone to notice the quiet in the room. The students had stopped taking notes and they were all staring at her. The only sound was from the rhythmic rumble of a train passing by, just on the edge of campus. She leaned against the side of the lectern, allowing the moment to hang in the air before continuing.

Really, what’s the point of studying history? she asked. Certainly we’re called upon as good citizens to study the past, to hone our skills in critical thinking. History well-told is like a beautifully written novel. The writer and philosopher George Santayana famously said, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’ But despite our study of history, it’s clear that we do, indeed, repeat our mistakes. Over and over again. The names change, and often the stakes are higher. But the case could be made that if we’d taken the time to really understand the Japanese character, we might have seen the importance of crafting a compromise allowing them to retain their emperor, thus ending the war. Without dropping the atomic bomb. We’ll see this same dynamic later in the semester with blunders made in Cuba. And Vietnam. And the Soviet Union.

Ochoa looked up at the clock. I’ll leave you with a final thought you can mull over this weekend while you’re sharing a pitcher of beer with your buddies: In some sense, we’re all culpable, even if individually we aren’t the ones to pull the trigger. Or push the nuclear button. We have a responsibility, a collective responsibility as good citizens to understand the whole truth. And to speak up.

Just before dismissing the class, she added, Doing nothing is a choice, too.

Chapter 2

Evelyn was gathering up her books and purse and laptop, heading out the classroom door when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She hadn’t noticed the tall guy approach her from behind. He was imposing, built like a football player. Instinctively, she backed away before realizing she’d met him at the history department social the Sunday before school started. She’d barely paid attention to him in class, except to notice that he sat in the last row, hunched over a desk that was painfully small for his oversized frame, as if he’d had to lever himself into the seat. She couldn’t recall him asking any questions or participating in the class discussions—something Dr. Ochoa required for a good grade.

She’s wrong, he said. His backpack was slung over his shoulder, and he was slouching, his face blank, making it hard to know if he was dead serious or joking.

Excuse me?

About that guy Hirohito, he said. The Emperor. There’s no way we shoulda negotiated.

Evelyn wasn’t sure what to say, so she smiled politely and started to turn away, but he was reaching out to shake her hand. Without realizing it, she’d been holding her books and laptop in front of her like a shield. It meant she had to move in closer to him. His handshake was firm, but his palms were sweaty.

Eddie, he said. Eddie Pike. Remember? We hung out together at that party. He was staring at her, expectantly.

As far as Evelyn was concerned, they hadn’t hung out together; it was more like he’d tagged along with her friends, Chad and Natalie—not that there was anything wrong with that. But Eddie had barely looked up from his new phone, scrolling through apps, checking email. Then he’d insisted on taking a selfie with them out on the deck. Natalie, who didn’t have any trouble being rude, thought he was creepy and didn’t want to go out on the deck—or anywhere else—with him. But Evelyn couldn’t see any harm in humoring the guy. Why not give him the benefit of the doubt? He’d seemed shy and insecure, the kind of guy who’s awkward but ultimately harmless. He’d asked for their contact information so he could send them the photo. The next day, she saw he’d posted the selfie on Instagram. In the photo, Eddie was leaning in toward her with his hand hovering above her shoulder—something she hadn’t realized at the time. Hanging with my friends #imacollegeboynow.

Anyway, about the Emperor, that’s not what I wanted to say. He paused, obviously working up the courage to ask her something. I was thinking maybe you could show me around. You know, campus. I have to get my student ID. Some office behind the Graphic Design building. Wherever that is. He offered her a sheepish grin, then looked away.

The layout of the campus wasn’t that hard to figure out and Evelyn was pretty sure he could find the building if he looked on a map. He seemed pathetic, misplaced, and she couldn’t tell if he was for real or if he was playing her. As much as she wanted to avoid spending any more time with him, she couldn’t figure out a polite way to say no. Sure, she said. I have to go to the bookstore; it’s on the way.

His face brightened. Me, too, he said.

As it turned out, two weeks into the semester, Eddie hadn’t picked up his financial aid check which meant he didn’t have money to buy his books. He’d been checking out the required textbooks from the reference desk in two-hour allotments, and he hadn’t bought notebooks or Scantrons for exams, either. It wasn’t like this in the army, he said. They tell you exactly what you’re supposed to do.

Eddie’s hair was a burned-out shade of red, shaved along the sides and cropped short on top, military-style. With his creased jeans and a new Morgan College T-shirt tucked in, he looked as if he hadn’t yet adjusted to civilian life. She couldn’t help but notice a ragged pink scar just above his eyebrow, too recent to have turned pale.

They headed out the front of the Humanities building and around the perimeter road behind the student union. A crew of groundskeepers was tending to flower beds, taking out the summer annuals, watering and trimming the grass, shoveling a layer of mulch around the plants. The air smelled of damp earth and redwood bark. They had to step over a thick green hose that had been tossed across the road. A long line of students was weaving its way into the Sandwich Factory for an early lunch. Another group was huddled near the coffee shop waiting for their lattes and iced Frappuccinos.

When they got to the bookstore, he held the door for her and then followed her to the back of the store where rows of textbooks were stacked on six-foot metal shelves. Eddie tagged along close behind her. The puzzled look in his eyes suggested he had no idea how to find the books he needed. If this was an act, she thought, it was a pretty good one. But if he couldn’t figure out something as easy as finding a building or buying books, how was he going to get through his classes? Everything’s arranged by subject and course number, she said. They scanned the F-H shelves. Food Science and Nutrition. Geography. Graphic Communication. Health and Human Sexuality. History 257: America and the Cold War. She pointed out the two textbooks and supplemental readings required for the class. Of course, Evelyn had bought everything she needed before the start of the semester. She walked him to the Math and English sections to find the rest of his books. He was taking a remedial writing class and pre-calc.

Evelyn needed a lab notebook and safety glasses for her chemistry class. I’ll meet you at the register, she said. But Eddie stuck with her, like a small child afraid she’d run off without him. What’s with this guy? she thought, but she didn’t say anything, figuring he’d be off to his next class soon enough.

The checkout line was long, snaking around rows of metal stanchions. Evelyn didn’t have much to say, but Eddie kept the conversation going, telling her where he was living in the dorms, and how, after being in Afghanistan, he’d taken a few classes at the community college and worked for his brother up in San Jose at his auto body shop. As evidence, he showed her his hands, which were clean but callused. Then he complimented her on the dress she was wearing.

Not many girls get dressed up anymore, he said. That color looks good on you.

Evelyn was wearing a pleated skirt and a paisley green and gold cotton blouse she’d bought at a boutique in downtown Monterey. It was true, she prided herself on her sense of style. Her friend, Natalie, called her a clothes horse, but she wasn’t used to having a guy notice what she was wearing. Staring and catcalls? Sure, but this was different. Her previous boyfriend, Derek, who was a year older than Evelyn, hadn’t known how to compliment a girl—although that was the least of his issues. Even so, it seemed an odd thing to say, and she hoped it wasn’t his idea of a pick-up line.

It took them twenty minutes to make their way to the cashier. Eddie couldn’t believe how much his books cost. It’s more than I was paying for rent back home. He pulled out a debit card and reluctantly handed it to the cashier. Now I really have to figure out where the financial aid office is.

Evelyn had planned on meeting Natalie and Chad in the cafeteria, but she looked at her phone and realized there wasn’t enough time to have lunch with them and get to her next class. She felt exhausted trying to make idle conversation with Eddie, and she didn’t especially want to chaperone him any longer than necessary, but the financial aid office was the next building over and then, of course, there was showing him the Graphic Design building for his ID photo. Evelyn texted Natalie to let her know she couldn’t make it to lunch. She knew better than to tell her how she’d felt pressured into helping Eddie out. She’d never hear the end of it.

They headed over to the administration building; the Office of Financial Aid was on the first floor. The line was long, but fortunately, seemed to be moving at a steady pace. Eddie was talking about how at first he thought he was fighting in Afghanistan for a good cause, but then he saw how pointless it all was. I’d enlisted. Maybe I didn’t know what else to do with my life. Seemed like a way to make a difference.

She motioned toward the scar above his eyebrow. You get that in Afghanistan?

He nodded, but then he looked away. I don’t like to talk about it.

There was an awkward silence. Evelyn was sorry she’d brought it up. A student behind them was talking in a stage whisper about using her financial aid check to get the utilities turned back on. Evelyn’s parents made too much money for her to be eligible for financial aid, but still, it was something she could relate to—way more than being in the military.

It’s been tough, he said, coming back, I mean. He was staring at the front of the line, making it seem as though he was talking not to Evelyn but to himself. Geez. Even got so bad, I thought about killing myself. He glanced over at her like he was checking out her reaction, but as soon as she looked in his direction, he turned away.

Evelyn was so unsettled by his words she barely heard the rest of what he said, something about the woman who’d saved him. If she could have figured out a polite way to excuse herself without seeming mean or uncaring, she would have. I’m sorry, she said. That must have been horrible. The line was shrinking, and there were only a few students ahead of them.

I don’t tell many people that, he said. Scares them off. But you’re being really great. He smiled, then pulled out his phone. He briefly scrolled through his email before slipping the phone back in his pocket.

I don’t mind, she said.

Later, when he would accuse her of leading him on, she’d look back at that moment with regret for not having been clearer with him from the start. She would wonder why she hadn’t casually lied about having a serious boyfriend, someone long-distance, attending college out of state. If she was more like Natalie, she would have told him straight up that she didn’t know him well enough to hear about his having tried to kill himself. At the very least, she could have said nothing at all. Even that would have been better than suggesting she was eager to hear about his traumatic experiences in the military and his most painful secrets.

The student assistant was leaning over the front counter. She called out, Next and motioned toward Eddie.

Sorry, but I have to get to class, she said. Pointing to a building down the hill: That’s Graphic Design. There’s a sign out front that’ll tell you where to get your photo taken. She dashed off before he had a chance to object.

After an hour-long chemistry lecture, Evelyn picked up a burrito to-go from a food truck parked next to the quad. Just as she was sitting down to eat, Eddie texted her a selfie with his new ID card and a thumbs-up. Lunch tomorrow? To say thank you. Usually she’d respond right away, but she was afraid any response—even a flat out ‘no’—would only encourage him, so she put her phone back in her purse, finished her burrito, then headed over to the library to study.

Plenty of her friends avoided going to the library, but she loved its three-story atrium and glassed in rooms, the hushed voices, the undisturbed space for her thoughts. It was as much like going to church as anything else. She spent a couple of hours reading journal articles and poring over original source material for an essay in her Cold War class about George Kennan and US containment policy. She’d found Kennan’s idea fascinating—that Russian aggression should be contained rather than attacked. It seemed gentlemanly, although she knew that wasn’t the rationale for his position. The time had passed quickly, and it was already dark when she returned the materials to the reference desk. She packed up her laptop and purse and headed home.

With her house in view, she crossed the street. The only light outside was from street lamps and the occasional car headlights and the muted haze of neon signs and storefronts on the other side of MacArthur Boulevard. No one was outside, but she could hear music and television voices coming from a few of the neighboring houses. As she stepped off the curb, someone called out to her. It was a male voice she vaguely recognized.

Evelyn. Hey, wait up.

With his body blocking the streetlight, only his shadowy silhouette was visible. He was tall and broad-shouldered, slouched over. Unmistakably, Eddie.

You walking home? he asked. In the dim light, she could just make out his deep-set eyes and broad nose, his sturdy chin that sharpened as he stepped toward her.

Eddie had texted her several more times to complain about a math assignment and to thank her again for helping him out, each time reminding her he wanted to take her to lunch the following day. It wasn’t good netiquette to ignore his texting, but she’d hoped he’d take a hint from her silence. Obviously, that wasn’t working. I’m studying at a friend’s house, she said.

Don’t you live there? he asked, pointing directly at her house.

With the living room lit up, she could see her housemates hanging out around the coffee table. Ashley and Greta were sitting on the couch, their wine glasses on the table. Leah had her feet up on an arm of the chair with a textbook open on her lap. They were giggling, except for Leah, who was always too nervous about school to put her book down. She was a civil engineering major and acted as if college was a piece of cake unless you were studying engineering, in which case you were always on the brink of flunking out. They would be catching up with each other. Leah would be recounting her latest test-taking disaster. Greta was on the college soccer team; she’d been away the past weekend for a tournament, and she’d want to know what she’d missed out on. Ashley would be gossiping about who’d hooked up with whom over the weekend.

Evelyn wasn’t sure how he knew where she lived—all the more reason she didn’t want to be standing out in the street talking to him. I gotta go, she said, walking quickly in the direction of her house.

Had Eddie been following her home? Without her noticing? She could hear her father’s voice: Look both ways, he’d say. He wasn’t talking about crossing the street; he was cautioning her not to be so naive, that she was too nice, that her kindness left her vulnerable. She could only imagine what he’d say about her inability to tell Eddie to back off.