Riptide

by Debbi Mack

Meanwhile, her parents’ voices would grow louder and then become more hushed. By 1 A.M., Jamila couldn’t lie still a minute longer. She rose and crept to her door, opening it slowly. Her parents’ words drifted down the hall toward her.

  “I don’t understand. You owe them nothing.” Her mother sounded frantic.

  “I’m their attorney,” her father said, sounding resigned. “I owe them my allegiance.”

  “You won’t be able to help anyone if you’re dead.”

  Jamila sucked her breath in. Why would her father die? What did this have to do with anything?”

  “Honey, I’ll be fine.”

  “I’d ask for that in writing, if I didn’t know how little that was worth.”

  “Sweetheart, listen. The riots are in the cities, not here. We’ll be fine.”

  Riots? Jamila strained to hear more.

  “But you know how some of these people think. You deal with it every day. Now, when they see the news, how do you think they’re going to treat us? I think we should get the hell out of here.”

  “Where should we run exactly? We can’t simply run away from this. We have to stand our ground. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “So. Jamila should just go to school tomorrow? Like nothing’s happened?”

  Her father sighed. “I don’t see any reason why she shouldn’t.”

  “Baby.” Her mother’s voice broke on the word. “You know when it comes to racism, this place can be worse than Mississippi.”

  “I know. We just have to be strong and show we won’t be intimidated.”

  *****

  The next morning her mother took Jamila’s drowsiness as a sign of illness coming on and ordered her to stay home.

  Her father sat at the dining table, looking skeptical. “She’ll have to go back eventually.”

  “I know.” Her mother’s mouth pressed into a firm line. “Just not today. Give them the weekend to cool down.”

  Her father nodded. “You’re right. That makes sense.” He folded the newspaper he’d been reading and tucked it under his arm, before placing his dishes in the sink.

  He kissed Jamila atop her head. “Get some rest. And feel better, okay?”

  Jamila wanted to tell him the same.

  *****

  After a lunch of chicken soup for her imaginary illness, Jamila and her mother watched a quiz show, while Bobby played with his toy trucks. The phone rang. Her mother sighed and answered it.

  A long moment of silence transpired after her greeting. Jamila fixated on remembering the name of one of the Great Lakes. If she knew the answer, someone else would win $50. The panic in her mother’s voice disrupted her thoughts and she turned to look.

  “So where is he now?” Her mother’s brow furrowed and she clutched the phone with both hands. More protracted silence. “Okay. And what’s his condition again?”

  Jamila’s mother tucked the receiver between chin and shoulder, and stretched the coiled cord to its limit, as she gathered her purse and keys.

  “Yes, yes. I’ll be right there.”

  She hung up the phone and stared before her.

  “Jamila,” she said, without looking at her. “I need to go out.”

  “What’s going on?” Jamila asked.

  “You’re father’s … had a little accident. That’s all.” She continued to avoid eye contact.

  “He’s hurt?”

  “A little, but he’ll be okay. It’s not serious.”

  Jamila wasn’t convinced.

  After arranging to have the next-door neighbor, Mrs. Murphy, come over and watch Bobby and Jamila, her mother said, “Now, honey, I’ll be back. Just do as Mrs. Murphy says, okay?”

  Jamila wrinkled her nose. “But she stinks.” Mrs. Murphy was a gray-haired widow who smelled of old lavender.

  “Don’t say she stinks,” Jamila’s mother said, her voice calm, but intent. “It’s not polite.”

  “I didn’t say it to her.”

  “Jamila Williams.” Her mother fixed her with an icy stare. “You know what I mean. I’ve taught you better than that.”

  Jamila hung her head. “Yes, mom.”

  When Mrs. Murphy arrived, Jamila’s mother squatted beside Jamila and wrapped her arms around her. She could feel her mother’s ragged breath in her ear. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry. Your dad will be fine.”

  Jamila got the distinct impression her mother might be talking to herself.

  *****

  By dinner time, her parents still hadn’t come home. Mrs. Murphy fixed a simple supper of macaroni and cheese. Jamila wasn’t wild about macaroni and cheese, but it masked Mrs. Murphy’s lavender smell.

  “I wonder what’s taking them so long,” Jamila said, fishing for possible explanations. Bobby played with his food.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m sure everything’s okay.”

  The distant look in Mrs. Murphy’s gaze told Jamila otherwise.

  *****

  Hours later, her parents still absent, Mrs. Murphy told Jamila she ought to get ready for bed. Jamila balked but did as she was told.

  Jamila was in the hazy netherworld between wakefulness and sleep when a squeal roused her fully alert. What was that noise?

  She crept out of bed and poked her head out in the hall. “Mrs. Murphy?” she said. No reply.

  The house seemed too quiet. Then she heard movement. A scuffling sound.

  Could it be her parents, at last? She wondered about the squealing noise, however.

  She stepped into the hall and crept toward the living room. “Mom? Dad? Mrs. Murphy?”

  Her high-pitched voice seemed to be swallowed in the hush descending upon the house.

  With each step toward the living room, her heart beat a little faster. Her breathing increased with it.

  Jamila reached the end of the hall and peered into the living room. A chill shot through her when she saw the front door open and Mrs. Murphy on the floor, bleeding from her forehead.

  Jamila froze. Her breath caught in her throat. A tall dark silhouette of a hooded figure appeared at the door. She scampered into a nearby room and peeked out.

  The hooded figure turned to one side, then the other, then strode into the house. He shoved Mrs. Murphy aside with a booted foot. Another hooded figure followed, then another.

  Jamila watched in horror, as anonymous hooded people invaded her home.

  Then her mind screamed, Bobby!

  Where was he?

  What could she do?

  Call someone.

  Sounds of ransacking came from the kitchen and living room. Jamila took stock of her situation. She was in Bobby’s room—no sign of him. She suppressed a sudden urge to cry. No time for tears. Must get to the phone.

  Jamila stole a glance down the hall. The hooded people were apparently too busy looting the other side of the house to check the bedrooms. Her parents’ bedroom was only a few feet away. Just a dash down the hall, a quick phone call, then climb out the window and look for Bobby.

  She took one last look toward the living room and sprinted toward her parents’ bedroom. She shut the door behind her and locked it, then leapt toward the phone.

  “Dial zero,” she reminded herself. “Ask for the police.”

  She dialed the number. An operator answered.

  “Please help. I need the police. People have broken into my house …”

  “Now, now, little girl. Slow down. I’ll put you through to the police. Hold on.”

  Jamila suppressed the urge to scream and waited.

  A woman came on the line and Jamila let loose.

  “Please send someone to my house. Strange men have broken in. My brother’s disappeared. I’m scared.”

  “Slow down,” the woman said. “Try to remain calm. I need to get your address, okay?”

  Jamila gritted her teeth and rattled off her address. “Please send someone. Now!”

  “Listen. I need you to keep
your head, and just tell me what’s going on.”

  Jamila almost cursed. Her mother would’ve spanked her backside raw if she’d said the word that had come to mind.

  “Little girl? Are you still there?” The woman’s tinny voice prompted.

  “Ye-e-e-s, I’m here,” Jamila responded.

  “Good. Now stay on the line. Patrol units will be alerted. Now, tell me what’s going on?”

  “There are strangers in my house. They’ve knocked out the lady who was watching us for our mom. My brother isn’t in his room. I can’t find him. I’m worried.”

  “There there, honey. It’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

  Jamila’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the doorknob being jiggled.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Jamila stared at the door with the receiver pressed to her ear.

  “Honey, are you there?” The woman said again.

  The rattling grew louder. Then it stopped. She heard voices.

  “I gotta go.” Jamila whispered and hung up. She scrambled off the bed and to the window, thanking God that her family lived in a one-story rambler. The door shuddered as if a heavy weight thrust against it.

  Jamila threw the window open and squirmed halfway out before the door flew open and banged against the wall. She fell the rest of the way out and crawled among the bushes to hide.

  Lying prone, she raised her head just high enough to check the window. A white-hooded head stuck out from where she’d made her hurried exit. The black eyeholes revealed nothing in the way of identification. The hood could have hidden anyone.

  Jamila recalled how her grandma always said the eyes were windows into a person’s soul. The hood seemed to rob the person wearing it of his soul.

  “Ya see anything?” A man yelled within.

  “Nah.” The one at the window answered.

  “Fuck it. We got the nigger boy. Let’s split.”

  Jamila’s mind raced. Bobby! Oh, no!

  And where are the police?

  Jamila crawled out from under the bushes. She couldn’t wait for the cavalry.

  Making her way to the tool shed in the backyard, Jamila found a screwdriver with a sharp pointed end. She dug around more, came up with her father’s Stanley knife and grabbed that, too.

  By this time, the hooded gang was filing out to the car. One of them had Bobby slung over one shoulder. Jamila held back in the shadows, until the last minute. As they started up the car, she ran over and took the Stanley to one of the tires. The blowout was like a small explosion.

  These guys aren’t going anywhere, Jamila thought. Ha!

  The gang got out of the car. Jamila turned, dropped the tools and ran for her life.

  “Get her,” a man yelled.

  Jamila’s feet pounded the pavement. Thudding behind her grew louder. She spied a fence to her left. Veering sharply, she ran toward it, crouched quickly and sprang up, grabbing the top. She used the force of her momentum to sling herself over the fence. Once over, she let go and landed on her backside.

  Jamila made no sound, though her heart felt like it was trying to burst from her chest. Her butt was sore. As if she’d been paddled. Still, she didn’t budge.

  She could hear the men on the other side trying to find ways to scale the fence. But they were heavier and not as nimble.

  “Excuse me.” She heard a man’s voice. “What are you people doing on my property at this ungodly hour?”

  Clearly, the homeowner had discovered the hooded strangers. She heard mumbled exchanges that might have been apologies. Slowly, Jamila got on her hands and knees and crawled to the fence. She peeked out between the wooden slats.

  The hooded men were leaving. Jamila breathed a sigh and slumped in relief against the fence.

  Jamila tuned out her surroundings. She’d come so close to being caught, it frightened her half to death. Her thoughts wandered briefly toward Bobby, but she shut them out.

  After a while, Jamila’s head cleared. She managed to stand up and brush herself off. After collecting herself, Jamila circled the house to the front. She started to approach the door, when she saw the flashing blue and red lights. The police! They must have come without sirens. At last! Thank God!

  Jamila ran home. Officers were milling about her yard. Her parents were there. They looked frantic.

  “Mom! Dad!”

  They looked her way. Her mother’s face collapsed in grief. “Oh, my baby!”

  Her father, his head bandaged and his arm in a sling, looked stricken. “Thank God.”

  When Jamila reached her parents, she threw her arms around both. Her mother took her and squeezed the air out of her. She started shaking and choking.

  “Mommy?”

  “Oh, my baby. Oh, my God.”

  Tears streamed down her mother’s face. Her words were a mournful cry.

  Jamila looked around. Where’s Bobby?

  She glanced at the car with the flat tire. There was yellow crime scene tape strung around their yard and people in uniform crawling all over the car.

  Jamila felt a ball of ice form in her belly.

  “Where’s Bobby?”

  Her mother let out a guttural wail. Tears gushed.

  JUNE 2006

  CHAPTER FORTY

  In the cozy condo by the sea, silence fell as I digested Jamila’s story. She stared out the glass doors.

  I cleared my throat. “The knife?”

  Jamila flinched. She nodded once.

  I took a steadying breath. Rising, I moved toward her. I crept, as if approaching a feral animal.

  The sun had set and the room was cast in shadow. The dock lights glimmered. Jamila’s face shone with tears.

  I eased beside her and lowered myself onto the sofa.

  “If I hadn’t dropped the knife,” she said. “Bobby would still be alive.”

  Jamila’s voice sounded choked, barely recognizable. I threw my arms around her and hugged her tight.

  “No,” I said. “You don’t know that.”

  “I shouldn’t have cut the tire. I shouldn’t have done anything …”

  “How could you have known?” I hugged her harder. “You were very brave. You tried to save your brother.”

  “But look how it turned out. I screwed up. And how could I just run like that? I left him alone. I should have stayed and done something. Protected him.”

  “You did what you could. You couldn’t have fought those men.”

  “Face it. I screwed up. I’ve tried so hard to forget. I thought I’d put this all behind me. But it seems like it’ll never go away. How have I lived with myself?”

  “You have to accept it. You have to forgive yourself.”

  Jamila turned from the doors toward me. “Have you ever done anything you were so ashamed of you couldn’t tell anyone?”

  I opened my mouth, but stopped short of telling her. What would Jamila think if she knew about me and Ray? How would my married friend feel about that?

  “We’ve all done things we’re ashamed of,” I said, avoiding the specifics. “We all have to forgive ourselves. We’re only human, after all.”

  I fixed some herbal tea for Jamila and brewed a small pot of coffee for myself. After we’d settled in with our drinks and Jamila had composed herself, every muscle in her body seemed to release at once. Her shoulders slumped as she leaned forward with forearms planted on her thighs and elbows jutted out.

  “The local press found out about what happened,” Jamila continued. “After that, Bobby’s death became a brief local news sensation. Or so I’ve been told. Fortunately, my parents decided to relocate quickly, so I wouldn’t have to deal with the fallout. That’s when we moved to the D.C. area and my dad used his connections to get a job with his firm downtown.”

  Jamila paused, swallowing hard. “They were never able to catch his killers, you know.” She shook her head and blinked back more tears. “I couldn’t identify any of the hooded people and n
either could the neighbor down the street. No one had information or offered to be a witness. The car was stolen from an innocent person. At least, the police found no link between its owner and the people who broke into the house. Mrs. Murphy couldn’t recall anything useful. Bobby was restless and couldn’t sleep, so she was going to warm up some milk for him. But, first, she decided to go next door and get her knitting or something. Just pop over for a couple of minutes. No time at all. They must have ambushed her. Maybe they would have broken in. Who knows?

  “I’m sorry about not telling you. I’ve been wound tight as a string since this started. When Mulrooney alluded to what happened back then, I realized people can have long memories. They might assume wrongly that what happened gave me an ax to grind. That just made my guilt over the whole thing even worse. Plus the evidence, the whole business with the panel, and now the hearing being moved up.”

  “Yeah. Listen. About that. I think I’m onto something. Something that could provide a lead on the real killer. Depending on how things pan out.”

  Jamila looked at me sidewise. “How’s that?”

  “I’ll let you know for sure after I talk to Reed Duvall tomorrow. But I get the funny feeling that there’s something fishy about that witness who pegged you in the lineup.”

  “Why would he pick me if he didn’t recognize me?”

  I gave Jamila a hard look. “Think. What talks? Everywhere.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “But how will you prove it?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure I can … arrange something with the guilty party.”

  “Who? Bower?”

  “No. He wouldn’t dirty his hands with this.”

  “Who then?”

  “I have a theory. I’m waiting for confirmation. Hopefully, tomorrow.”

  “And then?”

  “Don’t worry about it. The less you know, the better off you are.”

  *****

  The following morning, Jamila’s mood seemed to have lightened. By the time I woke up, she was brewing coffee.

  “Good morning,” she said, pouring me a mug, while I retrieved a box of Cheerios from the pantry.

  Jamila actually smiled. “Boy, how about this weather, huh?”