Goodbye Days

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Goodbye Days Page 26

by Jeff Zentner


  I stand in the entryway while Judge Edwards goes upstairs. I’m afraid to do anything without a direct order. I hear him rummaging around.

  “Upstairs,” he calls. “Hall bathroom.”

  I plod up the stairs. Even this exertion is exhausting me after the run/walk. I make my way to the bathroom.

  Judge Edwards points to where he’s laid things out in neat formation. “Hydrogen peroxide. Bandages. Towels. Shower, tend to your injuries, make yourself presentable for church.”

  I nod and he leaves. I hang my suit on a hook on the back of the door and undress. I feel vulnerable being naked in Mars’s house. Especially since I would have never dreamed of showering at his house before. Part of me wonders if Judge Edwards plans to barge in on me midshower, yank me out, and throw me in the street, dripping and nude. Now you see how naked I felt when you killed my son, he’d say.

  And then, as the hot water hits me, soothes my aching limbs, flushes the smell of puke from my nose, and washes the blood from my knees and palms, I wonder if he’ll instead turn off the hot water abruptly, leaving me dancing and convulsing in freezing water. Now you know how it felt when you suddenly took my son from me, he’d say. But I finish and dry myself off. I apply the stinging hydrogen peroxide to my wounds and bandage them. I dress in my suit and tie and dress shoes and pad downstairs, feeling slightly less vulnerable. Judge Edwards is waiting for me. He’s already showered and dressed in an impeccable black-gray three-piece suit, with a shirt that gleams cumulus white, and a bloodred tie.

  He points to the dining room table. There’s a bowl, a spoon, a container of milk, and a box of Special K. “Eat.”

  My stomach is completely void, but somehow I’m not hungry. Still, I sit and pour myself a bowl of cereal and eat.

  Judge Edwards’s study is next to the dining room. I hear him go in and sit down, and then the scratching of a pen on paper. The air is tightly wound.

  Tell him who I am, Mars whispers to me in the wordless lull. I never did.

  I can’t, I whisper. I’m afraid.

  Of what?

  Of him. Weren’t you?

  Yeah. But I’d do it for you if the roles were reversed. What else can he do to you?

  I don’t know.

  Tell you that you killed me?

  Maybe.

  What about Billy? Hiro? Jiminy?

  You sound like Dr. Mendez.

  He sounds smart.

  “It’s time,” Judge Edwards says, exiting his study with a sheaf of paper in hand.

  I pick up my bowl and start to take it into the kitchen.

  “Thurgood always left his bowl on the table.”

  I halt, turn, and put the bowl back on the table.

  “It drove me mad.”

  I pick up the bowl again.

  He raises a hand in exasperation. “Leave it. Let’s go.”

  As we walk out, I catch a glimpse of Judge Edwards staring back at the bowl on the table, lying there empty and still.

  My stomach simmers as we pull up to New Bethel AME Church, a large, modern brown building. It’s reminding me of Mars’s funeral, and that alone would do the trick even without my having tossed my cookies earlier.

  “The church was an important part of Thurgood’s life,” Judge Edwards says, breaking the tomblike silence that has attended the entire drive. “He was part of the youth group. He sang in the choir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I glimpse myself in the side mirror. I have the complexion of a nice bowl of Greek yogurt. Except maybe a bit more pale green around the edges. Key lime–flavored.

  We park and get out. I follow at Judge Edwards’s heels as we join the bustling crowd. People greet him warmly. He doesn’t look back to make sure I’m following or to introduce me. I receive some genial greetings too, but obviously as a generic guest, not as Judge Edwards’s. I get kind but curious stares.

  Once inside the main chapel, Judge Edwards turns to me with a residual smile from having talked with someone he knows. He banishes the smile immediately when we make eye contact, ensuring none of it falls on me by accident. He points at me and stabs his finger at a center pew.

  I nod and sit on the aisle end.

  “Middle,” Judge Edwards commands.

  I scoot to the middle. The pews fill in around me as ushers seat people. I realize that I’m pretty much in the dead center of everyone. An elderly woman dressed in purple, wearing a huge, majestic purple hat, sits at my right. A man in a sleek, shiny ivory suit sits at my left with his wife and children.

  But Judge Edwards doesn’t come sit beside me. Instead, he sits in a red leather armchair behind the pulpit, crosses his legs, folds his hands in his lap, and sits with a look I’m not sure I recognize.

  The service begins with prayer and song accompanied by a full band. I stand on shaky legs and try to sing. I’m no Jesmyn or even Mars, but I figure I’d better do my best, since Judge Edwards is watching me. All in all, though, I’ll take this over the predawn death run. I’m still concerned about why exactly Judge Edwards is sitting up there, but I guess he has to sit somewhere and obviously he’s not going to sit next to me. Maybe that’s where he always sits because he’s a VIP or whatever.

  The black-robed pastor stands and sermonizes for several minutes, interspersed with amens and hallelujahs from the congregants. I sort of tune out. My mind needs a rest. But then he grabs my attention.

  “Brothers and sisters, you hear from me every week. But today, we have a special honor. One of our most esteemed brothers, Judge Edwards, has asked to speak with you. So if y’all don’t mind, I’m cutting my sermon short and offering him the balance of the time.”

  Scattered and eager yeses and mm-hmms from the congregation.

  A swell of adrenaline forces me to sit straighter. This is potentially very bad. But maybe he’s going to forgive me publicly. It’ll be like a movie scene where he absolves me and walks down, with tears in his eyes and hugs me while everybody claps. And everything’s okay. That could happen, right?

  Judge Edwards walks slowly, regally to the pulpit. He has the gait of someone accustomed to rooms full of people standing upon his entrance. He removes a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and sets it on the podium. Surveying the congregation briefly, his eyes finally settle on me. And there they stay.

  I do not see forgiveness in them.

  When he speaks, I barely recognize him. His cadence and speech is that of a preacher—a skilled one. “Brothers and sisters, we are called upon to deal with others as Christ Jesus did.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms.

  “With mercy.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms.

  “With forgiveness.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms.

  “With his. Own. Pure. Love.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms.

  “Like him we must suffer long. But what about…?”

  The crowd waits fervently. Someone calls out, “Tell us, Judge!” Someone calls out “Preach, Judge.”

  “Justice?”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms.

  His voice rises. “What. About. Justice?”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms.

  “In Job, we see the question: Does God pervert judgment? Does the Almighty pervert justice?” He pauses. Lets the crowd clamor for the answer. “It may feel sometimes like he does.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms.

  “You may feel as though you are called upon to give more than you can give. To bear more than you can bear. To bleed more than you can bleed. To cry more than you can cry.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms.

  His eyes are burning into mine. I want desperately to look away, but I can’t. That heavy-thing-sliding-off-a-shelf sensation. The falling-through-ice. I remind myself to breathe.

  “But God is great.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, scattered clapping.

  “God is good.”

 
Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, more clapping.

  “God loves us, and so—”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, more clapping.

  “God is not unjust.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords.

  A sheen of sweat oozes from my forehead. I’m nauseated again. Even that bowl of Special K might have been a mistake. Every eye in the worship hall seems to be following Judge Edwards’s eyes to me.“Psalm thirty-seven tells us the Lord loveth judgment, and forsaketh not his saints; they are preserved for ever: but the seed of the wicked shall be cut off.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords.

  “Wait on the Lord, and keep his way, and he shall exalt thee to inherit the land: when the wicked are cut off, thou shalt see it.” He’s crescendoing in intensity. But no sweat on his brow.

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords.

  “You may not live to see man’s justice in every wrong you suffer, brothers and sisters.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords.

  “You may not taste that sweet milk and honey in your days upon this land.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords.

  “But God is watching with his all-seeing eye.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords.

  “And he will have his justice and you will have yours.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords.

  “I am in the justice business.”

  Laughter, mm-hmms.

  “However, I only mete out the justice of men.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords.

  “The puny justice of men.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords.

  “But be patient, brothers and sisters. For all who wrong us will one day come to account before the judgment bar of God almighty.” He’s almost shouting.

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords.

  “And he will have his justice.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords.

  “And you will have your justice. Praise God almighty.”

  Amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-God-almightys.

  “Praise God almighty who saw his own son hung on a cross but stayed his hand!” He is unambiguously shouting by this point. His eyes are a fiery red sword, pushed slowly into my belly to temper.

  My mind races for a way to stave off the panic attack. It goes to Billy Scruggs. It goes to Hiro in his soaring car. It goes to Jiminy. It goes to Dr. Mendez’s understanding stillness. But Judge Edwards’s righteous wrath cleaves through it all. The world is a tossing ship deck. Sweat beads on my face and rolls down like tears. My chest heaves like the air is oily and I can’t grab ahold of a breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the woman next to me glance at me in concern. I ignore her and hope she doesn’t say anything.

  Judge Edwards closes to riotous amens, hallelujahs, yeses, mm-hmms, clapping, praise-the-Lords, and thank-yous, and sits. I put my head down and chew on my thumbnail. The man next to me turns to me and says, “Judge Edwards sure can preach, can’t he?”

  I nod. He’s a huge hit. And guess what—all of that was directed at me, so I suppose I’m sort of the cocelebrity of the day. Every story needs a villain, and that’s me.

  The music strikes up again, and everyone stands to clap and sing. I can’t do it. I slump into the exhaustion and deprivation of my panic attack for the rest of the service. Judge Edwards’s eyes never leave me. He can yell at me for not participating if he wants. I can’t.

  It’s quite a thing to sit in the middle of hundreds of nice people cheering for you to go to hell, even if they don’t know they are.

  The drive back from church is as silent as the ride there. I feel like I should say something, but Cool sermon doesn’t quite fit the bill.

  “I miss him every single day, Your Honor,” I say quietly. “I loved him.”

  Judge Edwards laughs, cutting and caustic, and brakes in the middle of the street. The car behind us honks. He turns and regards me with the look one might give a moist dog turd served on a fine china platter. Incredulous wonder mixed with contempt and disgust. “I don’t give a good got-damn how you felt about my son. Today is not about your feelings.”

  We drive the rest of the way back without another utterance passing between us.

  Judge Edwards goes to the kitchen. He returns a moment later with a box of white garbage bags and a box of black.

  “I presume you know where Thurgood’s bedroom is.”

  I nod.

  “Black is for charity. Anything somebody can use. The clothes, but not the shoes. He drew on them like a toddler.”

  Mars told us the only reason his dad let him wear Chucks was that’s what Mars’s grandpa had worn as sneakers. Mars claimed it was a tribute, and Judge Edwards bought it somehow.

  I stand there numbly, holding the boxes.

  “White is for garbage. The artwork is garbage,” Judge Edwards says.

  Hearing him say that pierces like steel slivers forced under my fingernails.

  “Any question, err on the side of garbage. I’ll be in my study when you finish.”

  “Is there anything you want to keep, sir?”

  “White is for garbage. Black is for charity. Do you see a third color in your hands?” His tone is as though he’s speaking with a dense, recalcitrant toddler.

  “No, sir.”

  “Any more questions?”

  I shake my head and trudge upstairs. I wish I could show him how completely he’s won. Physically. Mentally. Now he’s trying for emotionally. And I can tell it’s going to work.

  I stand outside Mars’s door for a moment, summoning my courage. Then I push in. The odor of unwashed clothes and stale food wallops my nostrils, like this door hasn’t been opened in months. Maybe it hasn’t. It’s a stark contrast to the bloodless order and sterility of the rest of the house. It sounds bad, but it’s not. Mars’s room always kind of smelled this way. It’s him. This was his island—now deserted. There’s a jolt of nostalgia.

  Judge Edwards made sure that even in the times he and I were apart today, I would continue to suffer.

  I loosen my tie, remove it and my jacket, and lay them on Mars’s rumpled bed. I roll up my sleeves and start with the clothes on the floor.

  One of these shirts might have been what he was wearing the day Sauce Crew got its name.

  One he might have worn to squirrel rodeo.

  One he might have spit bits of his sandwich onto while Blake showed us one of his newest videos.

  Before putting them in a black bag, I press each to my face and breathe it in. Clean, joyous sweat mixed with Old Spice deodorant and Tide. I beg the olfactory portion of my brain to remember, to allow me to summon this smell again, because I will never have another chance.

  Each fallen piece of clothing reminds me of a fairy-tale puppet from which the life has drained. Soon I have all the clothes off the floor in bags. Then the ones from the bed.

  While pulling things from under the bed, I find a bowl of moldy peanut butter. This was Mars’s favorite snack. He mixed peanut butter with maple syrup and dipped bread in it. We died laughing when we found out.

  “Dude, that is the sorriest snack I’ve ever heard of,” Eli said between breaths, convulsing with laughter.

  “Seriously,” I said, “why don’t you just eat a can of frosting?”

  “Least I ain’t eating spaghetti with ketchup and mustard like y’all nasty asses,” Mars said.

  Blake looked at me and shrugged. “I told him about the recipe we invented. It was good.”

  “Dude, do not tell anyone else about that recipe ever.”

  I put the bowl in a white bag.

  I clear his comics and graphic novels fro
m his shelves and put them in black bags for charity.

  I line the bags up in the hall so I have more room to work.

  This is what we leave behind.

  And then I start going through the drawers. More clothes. More black bags. The second-to-last drawer is stuffed with half-used art supplies. White bag.

  I open the final drawer. It brims with Mars’s drawings. I knew I’d encounter this. I’m surprised I didn’t sooner. And still I’m not ready to see it. If Mars’s clothes were his body, now I’m handling his soul.

  I sit with my back against his bed, bury my face in my hands, and cry. I tell Mars again that I’m sorry. I sift through the drawings—page after page and notebook after notebook of character sketches. He practiced constantly. Judge Edwards was right: he loved excellence. He was not a quitter.

  I find a drawing of Mars’s brothers and sister.

  Drawings of a couple of girls from school.

  A drawing of Sauce Crew.

  Then something I don’t recognize. It appears to be a unified, cohesive, work-in-progress—a graphic novel of some sort. It’s called The Judge. I leaf through. It’s apparently about an African American judge who takes on the criminal underworld as a sort of superhero in a corrupt, Gotham-esque city.

  My mind suddenly flashes to Hiro. But not soaring through the sky on mechanical crane’s wings. Instead, I see him confronting the Nissan CEO with the idea he thinks will save people. I see him pleading his case with his hands filled with papers.

  I’m done.

  I’m finished being broken.

  No more stories die here today.

  Fear drains from me like I’m bleeding it out. I stand quickly and wait out the head rush. I collect up The Judge and some of the other drawings. I collect my stories of Mars Edwards. And I go downstairs on wavering legs, gravity tugging my intestines toward my feet.

 

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