This Is My America

by Kim Johnson

  This time when they talk, it’s different. This time Mama is telling Daddy about Jamal, and he’s hanging on to every word. They look over at us, force a smile. They talk some more, serious looks. I want to lean in closer, catch what they’re saying.

  “I miss Jamal,” Corinne says.

  I pull myself away from staring at our parents, but not before locking their image in my mind. Make up a background where they’re swinging out on the porch.

  “Me too.”

  “You think he’s okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say, even though I don’t know.

  “I hope he never comes back.”

  “Corinne.” I grip her chin, so she doesn’t turn away. “Why would you say that? Jamal’s coming back. He has to come back.”

  “They’ll take him away.”

  I meet her worried eyes, pause before speaking. “Jamal is coming home, and he’s going to be fine.”

  She gives me a smile, but the rest of her expression is empty. I hug her close, and she stays limp. A tear escapes down my cheek, and I wipe it away with my sleeve so she doesn’t see. I don’t want her to lose hope.

  Daddy sits up when it’s my turn. I can barely exhale until I sit down. His eyes are red. I want to give him a hug, but it’s against the rules, so I hold tight to his palms, bending my head onto them, an old habit from when I was little. I look at him.

  “Baby girl. How you been?” He rubs his hands together. They’re dry and cracked. An aching regret builds. We’ve neglected him by not adding money to his account this month. My eyes well for not making life a little bit easier. A little more comfortable for him. By the roughness, I can tell he’s out of Vaseline. A necessity for those long days working outside in the heat.

  “We’ll leave you something.” My voice cracks. “For your account today.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Your daddy’s fine.” He rubs between his fingers and makes it worse, so he hides them below the table.

  My chest aches from being so close but so far away. Although I want to be strong, hold back my fear, I let out a slow sob when he holds my cheeks in his palms.

  “Ahh,” Daddy says. “Baby girl, don’t let me see you like that.”

  It’s like we’re back home again before his trial. Mama cooking after a long day at church. Trying to fill us up so we start our Monday right. I don’t see the gray-painted brick walls or the white uniforms around the room. Just home, like it was.

  I want to tell him we had trouble seeing him today. But that could make things worse. I’m not the one who would have to face repercussions on the inside. Daddy is.

  Daddy doesn’t say it, but the stress is all over him.

  “Jamal says he didn’t do it,” I whisper. Desperate to give him some sense of relief.

  “Have they picked him up?”

  “No. We don’t know where he is, but they’re convinced Jamal killed Angela out by the Pike. But how, Daddy? Why?”

  Daddy’s searching for answers, too. I don’t want to tell him more because I don’t want it to end up hurting Jamal. Not until I know what happened. His eyes are weighted with worry. Silent. He’s never been shy about giving advice. Rather than speak, he slumps his shoulders. He doesn’t know what to do.

  Neither do I. A sinking, hopeless feeling presses heavily in the pit of my stomach.

  Daddy grabs my hand. “Hire a lawyer.”

  “Mama’s looking, also fund-raising through the church. I don’t know how we’re going to pay. We’ll have to get free legal counsel, but they won’t be assigned until he’s arrested.”

  I wish I didn’t have to be the one to put it out there on the table that we can’t afford a good defense lawyer. We’re barely hanging on as it is.

  Daddy rubs his chin. “You have that list of the lawyers I’ve worked with?”

  All of them were useless. A lump grows in my throat. To trust the lawyers that failed my daddy? I don’t know if I can.

  “Give ’em to your mama. One of them might help,” Daddy says.

  “Daddy, what if—”

  “Call them.” His face goes stern.

  “I will. Beverly said the same thing. Do you think she can help?”

  “She’s brand-new to the force. I doubt she has any pull. She has to prove herself, too.” Daddy squeezes my hand again to get me to focus. “Get ahold of Jamal. Find him. The longer he waits, the worse it’s gonna get.”

  “I don’t know where he is. What am I supposed to do if I can’t find him?”

  “If anyone can find him, you can. And what do you mean, what you gonna do? You gonna do what you were born to do. You a fighter. Chase down his friends until they tell you something. Make sure the police don’t run down my boy, do one of your rights workshops, a community gathering. Keep yourself busy—but outta trouble.”

  “I went by Mrs. Ridges’, and she told me to tell you she was praying for you.”

  “Tell her I said I’m doing fine. I be praying for her, too.”

  “Do you think Jamal will be like Jackson? Fight being taken in?” My biggest fear is things will go down like that with Jamal.

  “Jackson had his own history with the police. He thought he was protecting his family. He had a big heart and didn’t think about consequences. All he ever wanted was to build something for his family in Crowning.” Daddy frowns. “I don’t know why he thought he could barricade himself like that…”

  Daddy stops. Grimaces. Swallowing up that pain before he speaks. There have been so many reasons I thought Jackson locked himself in his house. The guilt because he’d gotten Daddy to take one more meeting with Mark. Maybe that decision brought them to the wrong place at the wrong time. How he couldn’t face my daddy knowing they were getting pinned as the murderers. Jackson might’ve convicted himself for that reason alone.

  “Promise me.” His voice shakes. “You’ll forget about helping me and just find Jamal. Keep praying that things end up better for him. I need you to keep him strong.”

  I hang on to each word, nod at promises I want to keep, so he can let go when it’s time. But when I look at him, I can’t convince myself it’ll be his time in less than nine months now. I shake my head. I smile, tell him I’ll be somebody.

  But inside I know I can’t let Daddy give up. Every person who was against his partnership with Mr. Davidson is a suspect, and that history Daddy keeps trying to make me forget might be what I need to hold on to.

  “What were you doing over there at Mrs. Ridges’?” Daddy gives me a mischievous grin. I know what he’s going to say next. He always has a way of turning my questions back on to me. “You know, Quincy has to ask me for permission if he’s going to date my daughter.”

  “Daddy.” I tap him playfully. “That’s not happening.”

  “I remember you two as kids, right when we moved here.”

  I smile shyly. We were kids. Daddy knows how Quincy was my first crush—before Dean—one of those mysteries he knows about. He used to know everything about me. Before the shooting, before all our lives turned upside down. He’s always been observant.

  “Quincy’s not the same boy you knew, Daddy. He has a million girlfriends.”

  “I know Quincy. He comes here with Jamal sometimes. He ain’t forgot me, and I ain’t forgot him.”

  I didn’t know this. I wonder how often he comes to visit, but I know if I ask more, Daddy will think I care too much and prove him right.

  “I guess since you and Dean are dating now, that won’t work out. Maybe when you get a bit older.”

  Daddy loves acting like he can see everything I do from his prison cell. I have to chuckle.

  “I’m not dating Dean, either. Who has time to date? I’m a lawyer in training now.”

  “Well, I’d like to see that. My daughter a lawyer.”

  “What, you don’t think I can?”
<
br />   “You can do anything. I’ve never heard you talk about college, let alone a profession. I’m glad you’re starting to listen to us.”

  I let myself think about the future for a moment, then pause. The urgency of here and now brings me back down.

  “First I need to help Jamal. Whoever got to Angela could be after him,” I choke out.

  “My story won’t be Jamal’s.”

  “Jamal will come home if you’re free.”

  “Their minds are already made up about me. Help your brother. Get him to come home. He can win if he speaks out. They already filled their heads about me from the moment we moved into town. Watching us, being outsiders. Convincing themselves of whatever fit their narrative. So, when the Davidsons ended up…” He looks away, and I know he’s had this thought a thousand times. “Ended up dead. Town already upset we’re taking some of their jobs. Who’s easier to believe, someone who’d been a part of that community for years, or me? So, it ain’t that complicated, girl. But that don’t mean that Jamal’s roots to the city can’t be planted. He’s no outsider. He can do different than me.”

  I can see the weight of not being home, able to help us, pulls on Daddy. I stay with him another twenty minutes, finding anything else to talk about. Daddy holds on to my hand like he wants to drain every last second he can with me, slowing down the clock that’s running out on him. The same clock I live and breathe by.

  When our visit ends, I expect him to get up and leave right away, but this time when we both stand, he gives me a long hug, even though we both know he shouldn’t. It takes everything in me to not break down and cry. I’m so focused on him I barely hear the guards yelling, “That’s enough!”

  He doesn’t seem to hear them or care that they’re approaching us. We only let go when the two men are within steps of us. The COs rush him along, but all I see is Daddy, everything else grainy and blurry as I watch him line back up and blend in with the rest of the inmates.

  RUBY BRIDGES BRAVE

  Mama didn’t force me to go to school when Daddy was arrested. Jamal and I stopped during the trial and didn’t return until a few weeks after. She tried to shelter us from the news, but every channel covered the murder trial. You’d either have to choose to tune it out or completely shut it off. I didn’t want to go to school anyway. Quincy was still recovering; it put him a year behind so he’s in my grade because of it. Without him, I thought I’d be bullied forever before Dean stepped in. Eventually I knew we had to go.

  To give me courage that morning of the first day back, Mama told me about Ruby Bridges, a little girl from my hometown in New Orleans. How brave she was as a first grader going to school with guards because white folks didn’t want her integrating school. Mama talked to us about being brave, the same talk she gave Corinne last Wednesday when she left for school. Mama had me imagine how hard that must’ve been. That anything I was going through would pale in comparison. Then she dug around and found a Ruby Tuesday pin from the restaurant, so I’d think about her when I was at school.

  I hadn’t touched that pin in years, but on Wednesday I gave it to Corinne. Now with Monday rolling around, I wish I had it for myself. I dress baggy so I’m swallowed up by my oversize tank top and black yoga pants.

  Mama doesn’t care I only have a few weeks left of school. She doesn’t trust Jamal’s teachers will be fair. He’ll go from As to Cs, since his missing assignments will turn to zeros, but she’s hoping it’ll at least be a passing average so he can graduate. I need to be there so they don’t forget that we’re real people—“good kids.”

  In fifth grade, when I went back to school, I wore earbuds on the bus to drown out the chatter about Daddy. There were snickers, taunting, jokes, but never a crowd.

  Today is different.

  Media outlets are parked on school property, roaming the lawn. Lights hover over classmates being interviewed. Mama took Jamal’s car to work so I can drive her car and lay low at school. I fling on my backpack and baseball cap. With the media outside, it’s chaotic enough that I think I’ll go unnoticed, as long as I put my head down and skirt to the front doors of the school.

  Justin Draper doesn’t let that happen, though. He stops the camera operator from NBS and points to me with his booming voice. “That’s Jamal Beaumont’s sister.”

  My mouth opens; I look to my left and right, unsure of the best escape route, the camera moving closer to me as other media outlets pick up on who I am. Each one angling to get their exclusive. If this wasn’t about Jamal, I’d embrace it, use it as an opportunity to talk about Daddy.

  They get closer, and I feel the blood rushing from my face.

  I’m frozen, until a hand swoops under my arm and steps in front of me, blocking the cameras.

  Quincy.

  “We’re going to the west gate out by the track. Ready?” Quincy says with a rushed, heavy breath.

  I nod, his arm securing me, and we go on the move. I follow his body, weaving in and out of crowds that haven’t caught on that the cameras are after me.

  The west gate is usually locked in the morning unless there’s an early track practice. I pray Quincy knows what he’s doing.

  There’s a buzz behind me, cameras clicking. People talking, coming after us. I block it out, listening to Quincy tell me to duck my head and he’ll take care of the rest. He takes off ahead of me; even with his limp, he’s still fast as hell. He races toward the door, then skips, leaning heavily on his left leg. It doesn’t stop him from hopping and gliding to the door.

  Quincy enters in a code, the gate unlocks, and I race through it.

  He slams it shut, then takes my hand and leads me behind the school through the path toward the senior lockers. There’s a buzz behind us, followed by a series of camera clicks, but we’re beyond their reach.

  Panting, I touch Quincy’s shoulder as he grips his hands on his knee. He bites on his lip; pain must be shooting through his body. This is what made track impossible for him, even if the coach said he could still train but not compete. The steel bolts keeping his left leg together just make it too hard.

  “You okay?” I calm my breath, the fear fading away with him being here, even if he’s in pain.

  “I’m good.” Quincy rubs his knee and walks back and forth, shaking his leg. “Just got locked up running. Haven’t moved that fast in a long time.”

  “That was out of control. Thank you for helping. I wouldn’t be able to handle the cameras like that. I told Mama it’s too soon to go to school.”

  “Come on. They can still see you.” Quincy takes my hand again, and my heart flutters. I look at him, shake my head because I didn’t expect that.

  We walk past the lockers into a breezeway.

  “If you go out that way, and back through those doors, you’ll find your way to your locker.”

  “How do you even know this?” I ask, when our view is blocked from the corner.

  “Skipping class. Gotta know the best route to move unseen.” Quincy turns to leave.

  “Wait.”

  Quincy pauses, and I hug him before he slips away. I fight back the ache in my body. I just needed to get into school today, and Quincy made that happen.

  “Remember when this was my job? I forgot how physical it could get helping fight your battles.” Quincy chuckles, covering up the awkwardness.

  “Justin’s always been an asshole, huh?” I say.

  “You gonna be all right?” Quincy asks.

  “I can’t do this every day. What am I supposed to do?” I let go of him.

  “Don’t trip on the news. The kids at school. None of that matters. I stopped caring a long time ago.”

  “What about Jamal?” Quincy’s guard is down. I can’t help but use this. “You heard from him again?”

  “Nah. He’s a ghost now.” Quincy looks away. “Too dangerous. Jamal’s tough; he’ll figure it
out.”

  “If you see him…talk to him…tell him I get why he doesn’t talk to Mama, Corinne. But he’s gotta know I got his back. That I will fight to the death to free him.”

  “He knows. He also knows you gotta keep your family together. You’re gonna be the key.”

  “Right,” I say. “How am I supposed to do that?”

  Quincy rubs his hands over his head, considering, then reaches into his backpack. He puts a small phone in my hand.

  “Once a day he turns his burner on. Won’t answer a call, only text. Whatever you get, you delete. Whatever you send, you delete.”

  I shuffle back a step, surprised. Quincy and Jamal have been in touch.

  “Don’t make me regret giving that up.”

  “When did you—”

  “Jamal will seriously be pissed. Please do what I say.”

  “How will you reach him? Get another phone?”

  “Can’t risk it. Shoot, after this, I think your brother might write me off. Anyway, you know how to help him more than I do. Don’t waste his minutes. He can’t get a replacement or charge often. He turns it on at ten each morning.”

  “Thank you for trusting me.”

  Quincy turns back around.

  “Wait, where you going? Bell’s about to ring.”

  “I’m not going. Came to make sure you got in safely. See, this knee be acting up, so I’m gonna need to make up my work at home.” Quincy grins.

  “Two weeks, Quincy. Summer will be here soon enough. You can do it.”

  Quincy steps back and points at me. “Stay in school, Tracy.” Then he jogs off toward the west gate.

  When I reach my locker, I find Tasha waiting at hers for me.

  “Where you coming from?” Tasha asks. “It’s a madhouse out there.”

  “I came from the west gate, cut through the back hall. Media after me.” I keep to myself that I’ve got a way to reach Jamal.

  “Damn,” Tasha says. “They should just close school for the rest of the year.”