Saving Ruby King

by Catherine Adel West

  Damn it. The pounding in my head now matches the muffled bass of a passing ’80s Caddy with large rims, the words from the music lost in the vibration of the rattling frame.

  With outstretched arms, a high-pitched squeal and a twitchy smile, Christy trots up in her heels and hugs me tightly.

  “Oh my God, I missed you tons!” she says.

  “You brought your dad?”

  “Yeah, he said he wanted to come and be among the people.”

  Her father slowly scans the block at least three times before ascending the stairs with a smile and a handshake.

  “Mr. Sikorska, so nice to see you.”

  “It’s ‘Senator,’ dear. Will the car be okay out front like this?”

  Already I hear the anxious superiority in his voice. I know he doesn’t mean for it to come out, but there’s an inherent assumption in his question, about where I live and that dividing line between State Street that to him separates the haves and the have-nots.

  “It’ll be just fine in this neighborhood, Senator.”

  His snow-white Lexus is parked near the end of the block. That car could probably feed three or four families in my neighborhood for a year. This bothers me just as much as the Senator’s words and constant glances.

  I remember hugging Christy goodbye at graduation last May, on campus with fresh air and elm trees. She got her degree in advertising, and I finished my graduate degree in journalism. Everything lay before us—changing the world and making fortunes within our grasp. I was going to use my education to right wrongs and become a troubadour of justice and truth. But beginning troubadours make very little money so I settled on a career in marketing at a boutique firm downtown. Christy’s father, a state senator who now, according to the news, aspires to become a US senator, handed her a cushy job in his main campaign office. Her future already set. Her education already paid for. Her life laid out. No worries.

  Must be nice.

  A round face with a pug nose and a barely tamed crown of blond hair slicked with gel, he says, “So happy to be here.”

  “Happy to have you,” I respond.

  He again looks down the block to make sure no thugs have stolen the car or stripped it for parts in the three minutes since they’ve arrived.

  “Sorry we’re late. I got a little turned around. We normally don’t go past 35th Street,” Christy blurts out.

  The Senator closes his eyes, slightly shaking his head.

  “You’re pretty much on time. We haven’t even started Praise and Worship,” I say.

  Christy squints her eyes and I can see the question forming before she asks. I break down Praise and Worship in the simplest of terms for my friend: “It’s basically songs and expression of thanks, some shouting, maybe speaking in tongues if Mother Wheatley’s in the mood. It’s the warm-up before a main event. It’s loud, but happy. It’s meant as a release from, well everything.”

  “Oh my God, this is going to be so much fun! So real. So different.”

  Christy is my friend. But it’s not like with Ruby. There’s a shallowness to our bond because I can’t open myself and all my experiences to Christy. When Auntie Alice died, I should’ve been able to call her for emotional support, but I didn’t. What would I have said? “Oh yeah all that crap you probably believed about where I live, where I come from, well it happened, someone close to me was murdered.” It probably would’ve been a confirmation for her.

  “So how long does church last?” Christy questions.

  “As long as it has to sometimes,” I respond. “Generally, about two hours, maybe more. It really depends.”

  “Geez, that’s a while. We’re out of Holy Name Cathedral in an hour.”

  “Well, Saint Sabina actually lasts a little longer than that I think.”

  Christy’s ocean-colored eyes grow wide. “I totally forgot about that church.”

  “Yes, Christy.” Senator Sikorksa adds, “African-Americans have a rich tradition when it comes to religion and let’s not forget political action in church. It’s not limited by denomination or category. All that money I paid for college, I’d expect you to know this.”

  “Of course, Daddy,” she replies.

  “It’s fine. You’re smart in other ways,” he laughs and so does she, a sad, forced laugh at a joke at her expense.

  He smiles again. “You know before the festivities, would there be time to speak with your father, dear?”

  There are a million reasons why this is a bad idea. Two men with big egos and easy lies rarely lead to progress. But my father can take care of himself and entertain this charlatan. It wouldn’t be the first time. But whatever favor the Senator seeks, hopefully Dad will be able to resist this one time and do what’s best for the church.

  LEBANON

  “Why are you back so soon? You were going to church,” the girl asks.

  “You need to watch your tone. Your momma was too busy spoiling you and didn’t teach you manners. You know that’s why we got into that little argument this morning.”

  She pulls down her shirt collar. “Oh, you mean this?” Long markings reach around her throat, like my fingers are still there. I don’t look long and continue to search for the debit card so I’ll be able to deposit the check Jackson’s gonna give me. He will give it to me.

  “Look, I got a little beside myself. I can admit that. But when I tell you to do something, do it. The world ain’t here to indulge you.”

  The girl stares at me in my own room like I’m an intruder, like I can’t be in the home I pay for, in the place where I put food on the table. Her eyes are my eyes, but I don’t know where my eyes came from. They could be my daddy’s but Sara won’t tell me. She’s laying in a hospital bed dying. Sara could tell me something, show me she’s a mother before she dies. Instead, all she does is look at me like the girl. I’m angry all over again.

  “I need that damn debit card. Help me find it.”

  She turns her back to leave. I grab her arm, not realizing how hard.

  “You’re hurting me!” I tighten my grip a little more to let her know I mean business, that this isn’t a game for me.

  Sometimes when I get angry, it’s like I’m outside myself and watching as I do these things. It comes in waves, this rage, big crashing waves, and I’m drowning in it and I can’t breathe, and it’s like I’m reaching for her, for someone to pull me up.

  “Let go! I’ll help! Let go!” she yells.

  She’s not like Alice. She doesn’t whimper or get sad. I release her, she goes to the bureau searching around the open jewelry box and there under some old bills lies the card. She thrusts it at me and quickly walks out of the room. And instead of throbbing, bruised flesh, I grip thin, lifeless plastic.

  My hands shake. My face in the mirror is twisted into something ugly, and I’m Sara. She looked this way after she hit me or blacked an eye or snapped a bone. Her eyes were faraway. I wasn’t even worth her staying with me in that moment of pain. Sara would leave, and her hands would take over. I was still a little there when I’d take my anger out on Alice, or when I hit the girl. But I didn’t do it a lot. I’d try to leave when I felt my rage bubble up, but people can push you and you do things you wouldn’t do. I didn’t hurt Alice or the girl as much as I feel my anger. It pulses almost constantly, like the blood in my arm. I can still be a good person and have those bad parts if I can make up for it. You can do things, awful, terrible things, but you can make up for it.

  Breathe deep and think about the sun. It’s not shining outside but it is in my mind. It’s bright and gold. When my eyes open again, I see Alice’s pearls poking out of the drawer of her silver jewelry box, the shimmering beads telling me what I need to do. I measure the size of them in my hand. They’re delicate, the strand holding the bone-colored beads together. Doesn’t take much to crush something so pretty, so fragile.

  I find the gir
l at the kitchen table and lay the pearls in front of her.

  “Your mom liked this necklace. Most expensive thing she owned I think. She’d probably want you to have them.”

  She doesn’t touch them. She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t say thank you. I could’ve sold them. Kept them to myself, but I offer her something Alice loved and...nothing. She remains a pillar of salt.

  A sharp knock on the front door pulls my attention away from this light-skinned, ungrateful girl. I almost ask Alice to answer the door before I realize she’s not here to do that.

  Two detectives stand outside of the door. Cantor and Jurgensen. They told me their first names the night Alice died, and I remember them. Not that I really need to. No point. All cops look alike. First, they’re mostly white. Second, they have this air about them, not of authority. No, it’s more an air of invincibility, that must be tied to the gun they wear on their beltline. They know they won’t be held accountable for their actions. America doesn’t need ropes and trees anymore to kill us. They have cops and the legal system to do its dirty work. You can’t trust anybody, your friend, your mother, your daughter, but in my experience that goes triple for cops.

  Sara was right. You’re either the bully holding the magnifying glass or the ant.

  “I’m actually leaving,” I say trying to close the door behind me, but Jurgensen barges his way past my threshold. Even in the disappearing sunlight, I notice the wrinkles framing his face, a strong jawline, hidden by too many burgers and pastries; thick gray-and-chestnut hair covering slate-blue eyes.

  “Well, are you coming to tell me you have some suspects or something? It’s been over a week.”

  “Mr. King, finding the person responsible doesn’t quite work out like you see on television,” Cantor chimes in, a slit of dulled white teeth forming a tight smile.

  “This isn’t entertainment for me and my daughter, so excuse me if I think you’re coming here to tell me you’ve got someone in custody.”

  “Of course, of course.” Cantor’s hand clasps my right shoulder and slightly wrinkles my suit, wispy red wrist hairs match the burnt copper mane on his head. The tan line of his expensive watch falls back to the tailored cuff of his shirt.

  And that’s it. If jail taught me anything, it’s how police operate. They’re nice at first. They act like they’re my friends and they want to help me find out what really happened. Then they take my words and twist them, and they keep asking me things and saying no this didn’t happen. I’m lying. I’m hiding. I’m worthless. And then come the fists. Then come the shouts. And the kicks. Then come my cries, and I don’t even know it’s me crying out into a room, in a place where it’s just me. But, yeah, they’re nice at first. Like right now.

  “We have a few more follow-up questions. We won’t take up much of your time,” Jurgensen says scanning the living room, the pictures on the walls.

  The light scraping of the chair in the kitchen steals his attention. The girl gets up and heads to her room.

  “It’d be nice if we could talk to your daughter, too,” says Cantor, his long nose twitching in the direction of the girl’s shadow. He walks farther into the living room and stops two steps from the faded imprint of Alice’s blood on my oak floors. These men enter and roam my house, and I must take it.

  I step in front of Cantor. “She’s not feeling well. Told her to lie down so you’ll have to talk to her some other time.” His eyes, green like mine, narrow a bit in challenge, but he thinks better of it and backs off.

  “We’re not meaning to intrude. We just want to clear up your whereabouts from that night.”

  That night, that collection of seconds and minutes bleeding heavy and slow like Alice.

  “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. King?” Jurgensen says. It was an order he posed like a request to me in my own damn home.

  Alice picked out that couch barely a month ago. I sit down as if I had a choice.

  “I know it’s hard to relive that night, but we’d appreciate it if you would take some deep breaths and recount your steps. That’s all I need you to do. Connect the dots for me. It’ll give us a better understanding, help us put together what happened,” Cantor requests and it almost sounds like he’s trying to help.

  “Detectives, I told you what I told you that night. I left the bakery around 9:00 p.m. Then I came home and found the girl—”

  “Your daughter?” asks Cantor.

  “Yeah... She was holding Alice, begging her to stay, hold on, but she was gone, nothing behind her eyes anymore.”

  Cantor scratches something down in a notepad. “You know that look, Mr. King?”

  “Yeah, I do. Suppose you do, too.”

  “Would anyone want to hurt Alice? Most of the items taken weren’t worth very much. They even left a laptop in plain view. That’s strange,” Jurgensen says. He forces a smile.

  “Alice interrupted them, and they killed her. They fled,” I propose.

  “That’s a neat little summary, Mr. King. You got it all tied up in a little bow for us, huh?”

  “That’s what some of the cops was saying to me that night. Makes sense to me. What do you want me to say?”

  Cantor looks back at Jurgensen waiting for some kind of permission, some signal from his partner, and Jurgensen nods.

  “Look, we did some digging. I’m wondering why you haven’t mentioned this.” Cantor places a folder on the table. I open it, but I already know what’s there. My mug shot. A statement with my shaky signature. A judgment that damned me years ago and damns me now. I remember the musty smell of the courtroom, how the proceedings were dry, mechanical and took about ten minutes. Ten minutes standing in front of a judge sent me to jail for five years for Syrus Myllstone’s murder. My lawyer said he knew the judge so it could’ve been way worse, but everyone wanted to clear the case and be quick about it.

  What’s another black man dead? What’s another black man behind bars? That’s where we all end up anyway—dead, with some kind of ball in our hands or paraded around in front of reporters and carted off to cages. History comes around to visit sometimes and the repeats ain’t always pleasant. That’s what they think about us: we’re entertainment or sacrifice of some sort.

  I realize I’m not leaving unless I answer their questions, until they like the words coming out of my mouth. It puts another notch in their belt and another black man in chains, like I used to be.

  I shrug my shoulders and answer, “I don’t much see how my past has to do with what happened to Alice.” They think they know about that night years ago and who I am as a result of it, but they only know black ink on a paper form. They don’t know what I sacrificed.

  “You okay, Mr. King? Your face is all red. You want me to grab you some water?” Cantor gets up, walks to my kitchen and produces a glass of water in a couple of minutes. How hospitable of him.

  “We don’t bring up the past to be cruel—” he continues.

  “All people know is how to be cruel. Most of y’all cops think cruelty is something special you have.”

  Cantor sighs and finishes, “We need to know if what happened all those years ago might’ve had something to do with your wife’s death.”

  “I don’t think that has anything to do with Alice. Like you guys said, the night Alice died, it was probably a burglar. Now, you think someone wanted to kill her because of a mistake I made as a kid?”

  Jurgensen scratches the side of his nose and says, “So murder is a mistake now?”

  “It seems to be a mistake when y’all kill us in the streets.”

  Jurgensen lunges forward, but Cantor grabs his arm. The movement causes the vase on the coffee table separating us to slightly wobble.

  I don’t budge. This man with his nice clothes and thin smile don’t scare me. Nothing much does anymore.

  “We’re just...looking at all the possibilities,” Cantor says, slowly rising an
d walking behind me. His hand back on my shoulder. “You’re a religious man, Mr. King?”

  “Suppose I am.”

  “Me too,” Cantor commiserates. “It’s not always the best combination—a cop and religious. But it provides comfort. You know, men of faith, like us, we can also be men of logic. We’ve still got to make sense of why something happened. We can’t help but to ask questions, you know. Like, what if I decided to become a teacher? What if I’d taken Bishop here instead of Ashland? What if you’d gotten home a few minutes earlier from your shift at the bakery? What if the missus came home later from church?” Cantor leans in close and whispers, “What if it was you instead of her?”

  The coffee he drank lingers on his breath and singes my nostrils a full minute before he sits back down on the couch next to Jurgensen who glares at me.

  “We want answers, Mr. King. I’m sure you do, too,” Cantor coaxes.

  “Yeah, I want answers to lots of things—most of ’em you can’t give me anyway. I told you what I told you and the girl isn’t feeling good so you can either come back another time or take what you got and roll with it and find out who did this.”

  Cantor walks toward the door. Jurgensen’s backside remains on my couch. “We’re not done here, Mr. King. There are things not adding up. Like why did it take you so long to get home? I didn’t think bakeries stayed open past nine at night.”

  “Seems to me you know a lot about bakeries,” I fire back.

  “Listen—”

  “No you listen, Officer Jurgensen...”

  “It’s Detective...”

  “I told you what I told you. I was only late coming home cause of paperwork. There’s a lot of it since I took over the bakery, more than I thought.”

  “Not so good with numbers, huh? Yeah, some people said your wife was smart like that. Understood where all the pluses and minuses went.”

  “That’s the only reason I was getting back that late. If I finished sooner...then maybe, maybe... I don’t know. I just know where I was instead of where you’re trying to put me. Now, I gotta go to church. I’m already late.” I stand up and head toward the door, opening it.