This Is My America

by Kim Johnson

  I hope that’s true. Hope that Beverly won’t forget where she came from.

  I look past Mrs. Ridges to the inside of her house. It has remnants of our home. Jamal’s old bike hanging in the entryway catches my eye. My coat hangs on a hook. I purposefully tore it so I could beg Mama for a new one and keep up with my classmates. The rip is sewn, barely noticeable; it must belong to Quincy’s sister CeCe now. Being here is like seeing my family echoed in someone else’s.

  “I should go,” I croak out.

  “I’ll tell Quincy you came by.” Mrs. Ridges grabs her keys and walks to her car, Malcolm trailing behind. She stops. “I’m sorry to hear about Jamal, but don’t come ’round here bringing trouble. If they looking for Jamal, I know they gon’ be bugging my boy about this. Already been here once.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” I slump my shoulders. She’s right. I wanted to find Jamal.

  “Don’t be like that now, Tracy. Hold your head up. I still love you. Still love your mama, Jamal, too. But I can’t lose one of my boys. They all I got.”

  “I know.” I turn back to the car.

  “How your daddy doing?” Mrs. Ridges yells after me.

  I put my hand up to block the sun and see if she really wants to know.

  “He’s okay.” My voice cracks. “He got less than a year, you know.” I stand there, waiting for her to say more. She almost seems like she’s done with me, but then she speaks again.

  “I be praying for him, you know. Every day. Always in my prayers. We lost Jackson. We don’t need to lose nobody else. So, you tell him I say hi. You tell him…” Her voice stops, choking on her words. “I hope God’ll answer y’all’s prayers. Bring him and Jamal home.”

  She steps into her car, waving at Malcolm to hurry up and get inside. Malcolm catches my attention, pointing to the garage before he waves goodbye. That’s when I notice Quincy’s Impala hidden behind Mrs. Ridges’s car. That garage never could close all the way.

  Quincy’s home.

  GOTCHA!

  I walk around the porch to the back window and spot Quincy watching TV. I tap on the glass and give him a winning smile.

  I read Quincy’s lips: Shit.

  When I come around, Quincy’s already by the door, leaning on the frame. Even though he is lounging around the house, he never looks unkempt. Locs twisted tight, clean-shaven, and crisp white shirt and blue jeans.

  “What’s the occasion?” Quincy’s locs sway as he checks me up and down. His soft brown eyes perk up, curious.

  “What’s up with having your mom cover for you?”

  “That was all her.”

  I study him. He looks like he’s telling the truth, and Malcolm acted surprised when she mentioned Quincy wasn’t home.

  “Can I come in?” I step closer, foot in the doorway and hand on my hips.

  “A’ight.” Quincy towers over me as he leads me to his family room. Stacked up along the wall is his DVD master collection of The Wire. He binge-watches like new episodes are still coming out. He turns the volume down on the television.

  “You talk to Jamal?” I ask.

  “Your brother?”

  “Of course, fool.”

  “Damn, Tracy.” Quincy cocks his head to the side. “Why you always gotta run that mouth of yours?”

  “You like it,” I say. “When was the last time you talked to my brother?”

  “Why? You ratting him out or something?” Quincy points for me to sit right next to him. Normally, I’d choose the opposite seat to get under his skin, but I don’t.

  “Does that mean you’re finally going to admit you’re happy to see me?” Quincy loosens a grin when I sit next to him.

  “I’m looking for Jamal. I’m worried. The whole family is.”

  Quincy’s face gets serious. He sits up, and his broad shoulders stand out as he pulls himself up from slouching on the couch, dragging his left leg in so it’s even with his right. He’s always kept his athletic, muscular build, training and working out, even though he never had a chance to compete much in sports.

  “I know you’ve heard from him.” I don’t know if it’s true, but I’m betting something is up, since he didn’t want to answer the door.

  I reach for Quincy’s hand. It’s rough but soft at the same time.

  “I’d tell you if I could,” he says.

  I drop his hand.

  “Damn, T. Why you gotta be so disappointed in me? That shit kills me. I promised your bro I wouldn’t get you caught up. You feel me?”

  “You admit you’ve seen him.” I flick my hand at his leg. “C’mon, where is he? Is he safe?”

  “Slow down. I saw him yesterday. He needed to get cleaned up and clear his head, pick up a few supplies. Ma spotted Jamal hiding out in my room after the police came by, and she flipped her lid. She covered for him, since they weren’t searching the house, but made me promise not to see him again or she’d tell Beverly.”

  “What do you know about that night, and where is he?” My voice rises in excitement. I should’ve come here Friday. Tasha should’ve sent me a text to let me know Quincy was out yesterday, not waited until today to say something.

  “This ain’t CNN, Don Lemon.”

  “Quincy.” I play-punch his arm. “This is my brother.”

  “Damn. He’s safe. I mean, I don’t know exactly, but he ain’t in jail. Shit.” Quincy pauses. “That’s all I can say. You know I got a soft spot for you, but you gotta trust your brother. I can’t get in the middle of this.” Quincy reaches for my arm but then pulls his hand back. “He’s already gonna kick my ass for talking to you.”

  “You promised me you’d always look out for me.”

  That was years ago, when Daddy was in jail awaiting trial. We went by to visit Quincy. Mama made his favorite pie. He suffered through the pain and acted like he was fine, even when I could see a grimace on his face with each move. The next day he forced his mama to visit us. He’d heard I’d locked myself in the closet because I was afraid of getting shot like him. Nightmares filling me each night, that the police would storm through our house. I got over it; never dreamed it would happen again with Jamal. When Quincy came to visit me back then, he stayed by my closet for hours. We talked about our favorite shows. Things we liked to do. How much he missed school. When he left, he promised he’d always look out for me. Sealed it by kissing my cheek before hobbling down the stairs, our mamas yelling at him to be careful.

  I can tell Quincy’s thinking about that day. He drops his head and runs his fingers around his locs.

  “Jamal’s took care of you pretty much your whole damn life. You think he’d run so far he couldn’t get to y’all if he needed to?”

  “He’s close, then?” I grip Quincy’s arm, my heart hanging on every word.

  “Nuh-uh. Don’t be using your flirtish ways unless you mean it. I’m not playing these games with you.”

  “Quincy,” I say, “tell me where my brother is and what you know about Angela.”

  “All I know is he was messing with someone else’s girl on and off since right after homecoming. A white girl at that. Fast-forward six months and she ends up dead. That’s why I stick to sistas.” Quincy gives me a lazy smile. “They were supposed to hook up that night. Then I get a text that plans changed. So he met me here. Whoop-whoop, she didn’t show. Typical. That’s it. Then when Jamal was here, he got a text, said he had to bounce. Whoop-whoop.”

  I pause, make sure I should admit this out loud. “I saw Jamal at home before the cops came, and he was cleaning up blood.”

  Quincy glances up at the ceiling as he grips the chair, then makes eye contact. “Jamal wasn’t messed up the first time he came over. But…when he came back, he said he found her, tried to save her, but she was pretty much dead in his arms, bleeding from her head. Like someone banged a rock on her head. He got there and fo
und her like that.”

  “Why didn’t he call 911?” My heart aches at what Jamal must’ve been feeling, finding Angela like that.

  “What you think was going to happen in this town if your brother called 911 and he got blood on him out at the Pike, hanging over a dead white girl’s body?”

  I rub my hands over my face. I get it, but I wish he did something different. “Who does he think did it?”

  “I don’t know. You gotta talk to him, because as far as the po-po is concerned, the common denominator is your brother. You notice how these jokers ain’t doing much investigating. They came around here, but all they were asking about was your brother.”

  “What did you say to the cops?”

  “Shiiiit. I didn’t tell them nothing. And Jamal damn sure wasn’t about to give me no details so I could get hung up by this. I’m lucky Beverly had some pull, or you know they’d drag me into a room until I said something.”

  “You didn’t want to know what happened to Jamal?”

  “What for? If I know, they got me ratting on my boy. If I don’t know, it don’t make a difference. Jamal’s my boy, and I know he didn’t put no hands on no girl. I’d whip his ass on principle.”

  Everything he’s saying is the truth I’ve known for Jamal. It makes more sense why he didn’t call the cops. I wish he hadn’t touched her and just called the cops, but Jamal wouldn’t be the type to not try and help her. He’d go to see if she was alive. If he could save her. Quincy doesn’t have more to say, so I stand. He walks me to the door. When Quincy opens it, I scoot through, but he stops me.

  “For your brother, me, whoever will get you to listen, please watch out.” Quincy brushes my hair back, then cups my chin. It’s intimate. I go still, mesmerized, wanting to see what happens.

  “I will,” I whisper.

  Quincy’s leg is pressed up on me, and his fingers touch my hair. God, it’s weird, I want him to kiss me. He’s looking into my eyes, and I feel like he can hear inside my head. He leans in. I blink, breaking our eye contact. He tenses up, like he’s expecting me to shove him, but I don’t. Quincy grazes his lips past mine without touching them, skimming my cheek and kissing me by my ear. He releases me, opening the door wider. I almost say, That’s it? Because if he kissed me right now, I would definitely kiss him back. He doesn’t do anything more, though, so I try not to stumble down his porch to my car.

  At the bottom of the last step, I hear Quincy call out to me, “Think if I didn’t get shot, I’d be your ride-or-die and not Dean?”

  I try not to think about how that moment changed our paths. I can’t say I’d be friends with Dean if Quincy hadn’t gotten shot. Not with how black and white school is. Dean filled Quincy’s absence, and I never let Quincy back in. I don’t know what to say.

  He waits for an answer. I want to say something smart about all his girlfriends, but Quincy’s move literally did catch my feelings by surprise. I turn to answer.

  “I’ve never forgotten how good you were to me.” I pause. “Are still. Thanks for helping me today.”

  Quincy gives a shy smile. “Jamal’s gonna be okay,” he says.

  My throat closes at how sure he is.

  If only I was that certain.

  LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON

  Mama fidgets as we sit in the prison visiting room. Last Saturday I was asking for forgiveness, and now, a week later, Jamal is gone. Daddy’s gonna see how we’re holding up for real. How Mama’s doing without her boy, who Daddy made promise to take care of us while he was away.

  My stomach lurches. I’ll have to lie to him for the first time and pretend we’re okay.

  We’re not okay.

  There’s a stall in the line after we’re searched. Up ahead you can see it’s a correction officer who’s the holdup. The same hard-ass from last time who was looking at me and Daddy.

  “Back in line.” He points at us.

  I turn my head. I know better than to argue with him. Finally, we’re at the front.

  “Tracy, Lillian, and Corinne Beaumont,” I say. “Visiting James Beaumont.”

  “I didn’t ask for your names yet.”

  I shut my mouth and wait for direction, even though we’re following exactly what the family in front of us did.

  “Who are you visiting?”

  “James Beaumont.”

  He scans the visitor roster. He passes Daddy’s name, but I don’t say anything. Being a smart-ass won’t help me. He takes another minute before he speaks.

  “You’ve already made a Saturday visit for the week.”

  Mama’s eyebrows knit together, but she doesn’t speak.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “You must be mistaken. Can you please check again?”

  “No exceptions.”

  “I…Please check again. I promise you there’s a mistake.”

  Mama taps at my arm to take a breath and calm down. Arguing with COs never helps, but I want to see Daddy tonight.

  “No, see right here.” He points to my time log. “Next in line.”

  Twenty-five minutes. He’s stopping me from visiting my father because last Saturday I checked in twenty-five minutes later, so we’re technically still in the same week. This is absurd. He knows it’s absurd. They’ve never gone by the hour here. It’s always the date. Saturday or Monday. Never the time stamp.

  “No. It’s my visit day. The rules are the day, not the time. Right?” I look at the people behind me. “Right, the day?”

  There are a few concerned looks, but no one is willing to back me up. Mama takes Corinne to sit without arguing. I study him: I’m not going to win.

  More rumblings behind me. A little boy asks, “When did we visit last Saturday? Are we going to have to wait, too?”

  I start the waiting process over and join Mama so I can follow these new rules.

  Corinne grabs my hand. I hold it fiercely until she smiles. Her eyes soften.

  “Tell me how he was last time,” Corinne asks, since she didn’t go with Mama on Monday after the interview incident.

  “Tired,” I say.

  Corinne’s neck tightens.

  “But good. He was strong, said he missed you the most.”

  “He did not.” Corinne rolls her eyes, then studies me for the truth.

  “He did. He said you grow up the fastest.”

  A smile creeps across Corinne’s face. Mama winks, then puts her arms around Corinne.

  “Well, I sure don’t look a day over thirty,” Mama says.

  “Thirty?” I smirk.

  “Yes. I hear it every day at work.” Mama rocks in her seat, all black-don’t-crack proud.

  “You think he’ll notice I’m taller?” Corinne scoots up in her seat and stretches her neck up.

  “Definitely,” I say.

  “Yeah, he’ll notice,” Corinne says softly.

  I glance at Mama, and her eyes are misty. Like me, she knows Corinne’s been marking off her height for a long time, and for her sake I hope she never has to worry about Daddy missing her grow up much more than he has already.

  “Don’t talk your daddy’s ear off about Jamal,” Mama says. “He wants to hear how you’re doing.”

  I nod, but it’s a promise I won’t be able to keep.

  “Lillian, Corinne, and Tracy Beaumont.” The CO finally calls us when he’s ready, waving us through to the visitation room. When I pass him, he grips my arm and leans in. “Disruptions get visitation revoked. Remember that next time you wanna show off on TV.”

  I take a hushed breath as I pull my arm back. He made a lesson of me because of The Susan Touric Show.

  The crank of a door pops, red lights flashing, then the sounds of the buzz. The men are all lined up, Daddy in the middle. He’s clean-shaven, Afro combed out but freshly cut with sharp edges that frame his face. His face lights up when he
sees us, and we let out a resounding breath as we wait for him to greet us.

  Corinne jumps up. I hold her back by the shirt so she doesn’t wrap her arms around him. Against the rules. She taps her thumbs on the table instead until Daddy sits down. He grins before folding his hands over ours that are now in the middle of the table.

  There’s nothing that fills me more than seeing how bright his eyes are lit with us here. Today is different because of Jamal’s absence. Daddy’s eyes are dark today, like he’s had no sleep. Like the light of hope has flicked off after hearing about Jamal.

  Mama’s face falls when she sees him. She’s carrying the weight of the world right now. She doesn’t think I know she’s been crying in her room, stuck staring at photos of Jamal as a baby.

  “I drew you a picture.” Corinne points at her drawing, all of us in front of our house, Daddy leaning on his Buick. Daddy smiles, then leaves it on the table for approval from the CO so he can take it back with him.

  “How’s school going?” he asks.

  That makes Corinne perk up. “Good. There’s this one kid…”

  Corinne tells random stories that trail off before she picks up another thread. When she runs out of steam, I pull her arm so she knows it’s time for us to leave Mama alone with Daddy before it’s my turn.

  Corinne and I walk back to the window and watch them.

  I read Mama’s lips and think she says, “Jamal.” She lowers her head. Daddy kisses the top of it, touching along her face. It’s so intimate I want to look away. Put a wall around them so they’re alone. No one else should share in their moment, but I can’t help watching, because it’s the only time I see my parents together.

  Usually when they’re close like this, hands clasped tight, it makes me cry with joy. Daddy talking away at Mama, and the way she flicks her eyes at him. Her hardness she’s always cracking like a whip becomes as soft as can be. Melting with Daddy. You can’t tell them they weren’t transported to another place for this moment. Their ability to block out the guards, inmates, noises in the background, even us. It’s only them. Until the time passes and they have to travel back to reality. Back to thinking about another long drive home without his heavy laugh.