by Nenny May
“And where’s Mr. King? I would like to have him present during my… questions.” She paused in the middle of dumping the tea bag into the empty mug and looked at Harrington with glum eyes.
“Mr. King and I are going through a difficult patch,” She placed the tea bag and drew open her oven, pulling out a tea kettle. Was that where she stored pots and pans? Barron didn’t think too much into it. He did consider how appropriate it was that Mr. and Mrs. King would be having difficulties around the time information had begun to whirl regarding Juliana Harrington’s affair with Morgan King.
“And when last did you hear from Mr. King?” She was by the sink, running an open tap over the tea kettle.
“It’s been a while. A couple of weeks,” She tried to seem nonchalant. She’d shut the tap off and carried the kettle over to the stove. Switching it on, she turned to Detective Harrington. “I’m sure you’re here because you think that in some way because I found out about Morgan’s affair with your mother… I could have done something to your father; I could have sent someone to do something… Isn’t that why you’re here?” Barron nodded. She’d hit the nail on the head. She’d walked toward him and gestured for them to take their conversation back to the living room, at least until the tea brewed. Barron took a step backwards and allowed her guide him to the sofa. She occupied an arm chair by the window.
“I would like to know a little more about Mr. King.”
At that she’d worn a lazy smile. “He was a hard working man, couldn’t keep it in his pants, but it didn’t make him any less of a good person.”
“And when did you learn about this affair particularly?” Rosaline King huffed.
“Not soon enough. It had been going on under my nose for years, Barron. Years. It wasn’t a one off thing. I felt stupid finding out from my neighbors. And they hadn’t even come to tell me to my face directly.” At the thought Rosaline reddened at the cheeks.
“And what did you do when you learned about his affair?”
“As any woman would I confronted my husband. He denied it and that’s when I kicked him out.” Barron hummed and tapped his heels against the carpet.
“Would you like to talk to me about that picture?” He poked a finger in the direction of the image over their television and speaker set-up. When Rosaline turned to the image, she’d beamed, her smile was dull but it was there, brighter then before. She still loved Morgan.
“He was at his happiest.” Detective Harrington hadn’t been looking at the picture on the wall but at the woman before him. Reading her. “Morgan had carried it around this entire building that he’d met Lynch. He wasn’t particularly the best investor. But he was trying and he’d gotten to meet his idol.”
“And is Mr. Morgan still in the business of investing?” Her shoulders fell. She nodded.
“With our retirement funds; yes. We recently incurred a great loss, and he hasn’t particularly been taking it all too well.”
“What loss?”
“He’d been duped during a conference into invest a loan he’d been granted from the bank, into a company that had crashed.” Detective Harrington leaned further in his seat.
“And was that conference a Sustainable Funds Conference at Gresham Square by any chance?” Rosaline’s eyes shimmered, though not in the ways Barron Harrington would have liked.
There was a possibility Morgan King could have killed Lawrence Harrington.
Christina Gresham didn’t quite like the early start to her day. She’d woken up three hours before she normally would, too hot and in too much pain. She’d somehow managed an ulcer. A mouth ulcer. It hadn’t plagued her the night prior after she’d returned from her conversation with Jack Patrick. It hadn’t burdened her when she’d sat up in bed trying time and time again to get in contact with Terrence Gresham. Her own father had been letting her calls run to voicemail. She’d concluded as a way to let herself fall into a slumber, that he was yet to get over the fallout they’d had when they’d last spoken. Perhaps she should have gone after him? It was too late now, though she’d allowed herself the torture of the question that evening. There had been too much to digest, she hadn’t been in the mood to give room to the dam of recollections that threatened to burst. She’d been privileged with a wink. It hadn’t lasted more than that.
With legs still entangled in the sheets, a hand cradling her left flaring cheek, she glimpsed at her bedside table. On it, sat her phone, pills and a prescription. She reached for her phone. The pain was bearable, but it was there. It was a glimmering summer morning and Christina Gresham felt as though she’d just returned from a rather rough dentist appointment. She never did like the dentist, not only did the visits bring back unnecessary pain, but they were just as uncomfortable.
Articles and headlines filled her screen the moment her handheld device had booted up. She’d overlooked them. It was the same thing every day, news sites asking the same questions. It was getting old. She’d promised to call Grace as much as she could. The night prior, she’d given her cousin a ring. Much like Terrence’s calls, it had gone to voicemail. That morning, with Christina still sitting in bed, Grace Gresham had picked up.
“Christina?” Grace had asked, her voice heavier than a late-summer rainstorm.
“Were you sleeping?” Christina had asked even though, a second thought pointed out the stupidity in her question. She wasn’t good at this… checking up on others. But she was trying, and she hoped Grace could see that. But then again, was she calling to prove to Grace that she could care? Or was she calling from the depths of her heart, calling because her cousin had merely fluttered across her mind? She wasn’t there yet, she was a work in progress. It was the only thing she could tell herself.
“Yeah, but I’m up now. How are you?” There was a subtle shuffling in the background and then a mumble. Christina presumed that was Jacob questioning why his fiancé was up so early.
She didn’t know what to say. She felt cold all of a sudden, but wasn’t like a chill; it was a sort of nervousness that sent a nippy crispness gliding across her chest. Her mouth ached and her tongue ran over the line of bumps that had formed inside her left cheek. “I haven’t heard from Terrene.” She blurted out. Was that selfish? That she couldn’t even bring herself to ask about Grace? How her cousin was coping with the miscarriage?
“What?”
“Forget it.” Christina cleared her throat. “How are you coping, with everything so far?” She asked instead. Silence. “I know it’s a hard thing to deal with…” She fumbled around in her bed, tensed.
“You don’t have to try so hard to prove that you care, Christina.” Her jaws clenched. Was she trying too hard?
“I want to care. I want to care about you, about your situation… I’m trying.”
“You want to care, Christina, but you don’t. You just don’t care. You’re trying but that isn’t enough. I need you to care. And until you do, I can’t tell you how I am. I can’t tell you how I’m coping.” That was fair. Why then did it feel like claws reaching into Christina Gresham’s chest, why then did that crispness spread like an inferno.
“I’m sorry.” Christina had muttered. Silence; it was an intentionally inflicted void. She’d been on her own since Michel Gresham’s passing. Grace had tried to fill the gap. There was only so much a cousin could do to fill the gap of a dead twin. Her parents had gone through one fallout after another, until the divorce and Christina had quickly gotten out of her mother’s hair, relocating to Harlem. She had to care. And all she had, swirling through her mind, were excuses, defenses as to why she was the way she was. She knew her problem, she didn’t know how to fix it. She had to care. Grace had been a shoulder for one too many years and Christina had inflicted unnecessary emotional strain on her poor cousin. “I’m sorry…”
“Have you tried calling Terrence?” Grace offered. It grains of rice to hungry, and just as such, Christina had lunged at it.
“Yes, and it keeps going to voicemail.” Had Grace been in contact with Terr
ence recently? Had anyone been in contact with him? He was a grown man and could fend for himself… Did he need them to check up on him all the time? If he didn’t, why then couldn’t she shake the feeling that something bad had happened? Then again, it could all be in her head. A lot had been in her head recently.
“I’ll try my luck… and try giving Olivia Gresham a call she might have spoken to him.” Yet another person Christina had failed to check up on.
She wondered if her support group could double as therapy? As a space where she could share her problems outside the concerns of her disease and get help? What would she even say if that were possible? That she couldn’t seem to care about anyone besides herself? That she couldn’t drag her head from where it had been shoved so far up her own ass? She wondered if Judy Cole had an issue relating with people? No, the woman was much too chirpy. How long had it taken her to grow beyond her situation? A year… maybe two? Christina needed to speak with Judy and found herself looking forward to her next support group meeting. It had been scheduled for the following week. The same day every week. She would always have that day, to look up to someone she… adored? Yes, she wanted to see her cancer as something she could live with, She wanted to see it the way Judy saw hers, as something she could wear like an accessory the way Judy did with her hair… or lack thereof. Christina Gresham wanted to see the woman who spoke with a heart as light as a feather. That woman couldn’t have had dilemmas with associating with people. And Christina could only blame her failed relationships on her situation for so long before it begun to get old. When exactly had she become the girl that related all her problems to her disease? The day that had begun wasn’t strange to her. She’d heard it for herself when Grace had mentioned her miscarriage. She’d pointed a finger on her disease. It wasn’t the problem. She was, and Grace Gresham had opened her eyes to a series of character traits she couldn’t believe she’d been carrying around.
“I’ll give her a call.” Christina promised. “And I am working on myself, Grace…” She didn’t know how, or if there were even definite steps. She wasn’t going to let that deter her spirits.
“Get something to eat, I’ll give Terrence a call.” And with that, Christina was once more left to her own thoughts. She didn’t feel too good, and it wasn’t because of the pain in her left cheek. No, she was displeased with herself, with the woman she’d become, agitated that she had no one else to blame but herself. She felt trapped, as if her flaws had been inked on her skin and she couldn’t outrun them. And so, she’d flung her legs over the side of the bed, a hand pressed against her cheeks in an attempt to numb the dull ache. She rose and padded for the kitchen where she’d pulled out some Advil and a glass of water.
Gulping a pill, she’d thought of Olivia Gresham. It had been months since she’d last heard from her. She couldn’t bring to mind just how much time had fluttered along, but it was too long for a daughter to go without hearing from her mother. Her relief was instant, but unfortunately Advil could do little to cure the ache in her chest for a better version of herself, for a better situation.
Olivia Gresham's voice was once a soft melody, belonging to a woman Christina had looked up to. And when she thought of her high school life, semester after semester, returning home to a mother by the kitchen stove, stirring something sweet and spicy, something to pick Christina's spirits, a small saddened smile ghosted across her face. Placing her glass down against the counter, Christina remained in place. Olivia Gresham’s voice was once the tempo of Christina’s childhood and she could no longer recall what it sounded like particularly. With eyes pinned on nothing and everything, Christina listened for her mother’s voice as if it would fill the desolate emptiness of her Harlem home.
She had heard a familiar voice, it wasn’t that of Olivia Gresham’s but that of Jessica’s from next door. Once more, her neighbor had been displeased. Christina didn’t have it in her to listen further.
Straightening, one foot after another, she retreated to her room down a short hall. It was the second door to the left. She reached for her phone and dialed a number that had sat forgotten at the bottom of her contact list. Before the sweet music of a ring had filled her ears she’d wondered if it would go to voicemail? She didn’t think she had it in her to deal with that.
The saddened smile she’d worn and long forgotten didn't last, because she'd thought of Law school, and from there, her lips pressed into a thin line… it was about the time the fractures in her parent's marriage deepened. When their frustrated screams would pierce through her bedroom door—because, as at the time, she'd still lived with both her parents, she'd still lived with them even after she'd gotten her first job— it was about the time the hitting had started and the divorce threats had become a goodnight to the twenty-year-old Christina Gresham. She’d wanted to hear her mother’s voice, she’d beckoned it. And now, all she could hear was the shrieks of a woman on her last leg, the pleas for Terrence to keep his displeasure within the paper-thin walls of their bedroom.
That woman had picked up the call on the first ring.
“Sweetheart,” Her voice trudged with it bitter memories. The screaming match they'd had before Christina had inadvertently bundled up her things and reluctantly parted ways with the woman who'd never grown passed Michel’s death ten years ago. Christina Gresham's blood spiked. She was tongue tied. Her heart doing some sort of acrobatics routine in her chest. “I heard what happened to your uncle… Lawrence. How’s Terrence doing?” Christina had rerun the voice in her head. This wasn’t a screaming voice. This wasn’t a broken voice. It was a strange sound.
“I can’t reach him.” Christina graced herself with a moment of shut-eye. Whatever that frigid sensation was in her chest, she didn’t like it. She didn’t like that it was just there when thoughts of Terrence would bubble through.
“I’m sorry to hear that, darling. I haven’t been in touch with him since everything spiraled out of control.” Her eyes parted. Christina didn’t particularly know what to feel. And in a way, she did. She was a child. She wanted her family back. She wanted Michel, Terrence and Olivia. She wanted a time before death became a trend. Before bellowing its name became the new curse word. But she was mute, because child Christina was nothing but a shadow, a memory.
“Do you regret it? Letting him go? Letting me go?”
“Of course I did. But it was the right thing to do, for the family…” Shattering cracked glass was the best thing to do?
“Do you miss us?” Silence, the kind that had caressed Christina’s skin with fingers of sandpaper and jagged nails. “What happened to us, Olivia? To our family?”
“Michel died.” A whisper. Michel had died. Christina sat by the edge of her bed, her eyes on her open door. Michel had died and Terrence had been accosted for his death. He’d faced claims of murder of the second degree as well as charges of negligence. The charges had been dropped for a want of evidence on behalf of the prosecution… had there been some sort of foul play? She felt sick to her stomach.
“What exactly happened the night Michel died.” She cared little whether or not she was ready to hear what happened. She could only be in the dark for so long.
“You already know he'd slept and didn't wake up.” Her head tilted and eyes fell to a spot on the wall. A dark line where she’d smashed a bug and it had left a nasty stain.
“Tell me the truth.”
Nothing was said.
The call hadn’t been disconnected.
Christina had risen to her feet and begun to pace. There was a soft pat, pat as her feet kissed the floor. Her thumb between her teeth. Terrence didn’t kill her brother… Terrence didn’t kill her brother…
“I don’t want to talk about this, Christina…”
“What happened to my twin brother, Olivia?”
“Michel was dying.” Olivia finally said. “That's why Terrence had to take him away from home. To take him for treatment… that's why I had to join them afterwards. And we couldn't take you because, well we did
n't want you to see your brother leave you like that. We didn't want you to remember him as he'd been in his last moments.” How had been in his last moments? Why did the selfish decision of her mother leave a burning pool behind her eyelids? Even if she was inherently selfish… even if maybe she’d picked it up from her mother did she want to continue? And is that what Grace had felt? Christina hadn’t bothered to fight it, and she was glad Olivia had overlooked it. That blazing pool had sported a leak and with it trailed a salty sob. Who did Olivia think she was to decide what was best for Christina? Who did Christina think she was to decide that keeping away from Grace wouldn’t have adverse effects on her cousin’s pregnancy? She’d killed a baby. Her cousin’s baby. Oh God, she’d killed a baby because of her selfishness.