We Are Not Like Them

by Christine Pride

  His big laugh makes me laugh too—I’m grateful for our easy rapport. But then he catches himself. “Look at me laughing. It’s funny how everything can be awful and then for a split second you can’t help yourself, it’s normal and you forget. Of course then it’s worse when that second passes. Does that make any sense? It’s like when I wake up in the morning and remember it all again. Justin’s gone. He’s gone but he’s also everywhere. All over the media. I assume you saw the latest? They want to put that stupid picture of him with a joint everywhere. As if that’s some news. Teenage boy smokes weed. What a headline. Guess he deserved to die? The irony is he didn’t even like weed, said it made him paranoid. He was just doing that to fit in with his friends. He was a total geek, so the idea that he was some sorta drug fiend? Or a drug dealer?” His laugh is back but with a razor-sharp edge. “Gimme a break, that’ll be something, Justin out here selling weed. I mean, this is a kid who named a hamster Neil after some science guy. But yeah, yeah, he must be a gangbanger, right? Because we all are. It’s some shit.” He shakes his head. “I’m not saying some shit doesn’t go down with these little wannabe thugs over here, but Justin wasn’t caught up in that. I worried about him for that reason. He was too soft sometimes. This world isn’t made for soft types, you know. I wanted to protect him. And I failed. Simple as that. I failed.” His head hangs so low, the steam from his coffee fogs his glasses.

  “You did your best. You couldn’t have known this would happen.”

  Wes shoots me a look. “Come on, little miss. We all knew this could happen. I’ve been stopped a dozen times by the cops. I wasn’t much older than Justin when a couple of them threw me on the ground and damn near ripped my shoulder right outta the socket. I can’t sink a layup anymore. But no one was talking about it back then. No one was making videos. I told Justin all about it though. I told him to shut up and do what they say if they ever stopped him. But he didn’t get the chance. They didn’t give him a chance.”

  “My dad gave my brother the same talk. And my brother—well, he’s had his own problems with the cops.” I almost tell Wes everything, the hell Shaun’s gone through, but I don’t. He doesn’t need my problems. “How’s Tamara?” It’s a ridiculous question—how can she be anything but devastated?—but I ask anyway, sincerely. He picks up his head slow as a sunrise.

  “Not great. She couldn’t stop screaming when I carried her outta the morgue. It’s hard to watch my sis struggle like this. First her husband. And now her child. It’s not right, man. If I hadn’t given up on God a long time I ago, I would now, for sure. I just wish I could get her to eat. She’s all but stopped, ever since Justin went into the hospital. She’s lost fifteen pounds she didn’t have to lose. She’s gonna waste away like this.”

  I want to reach out to touch him, this man sitting here like God has forsaken him and helpless to help his baby sister. But I keep my hands folded on my lap. Sitting here hip to hip is intimate enough already.

  “I was just at the hospital with my Gigi, my grandmother—she’s dying of kidney disease. She told me her cousin was lynched when she was a kid. I had no idea.” I’m not sure why I blurt this out.

  Wes turns to face me. “Damn, man, that’s awful. I’m so sorry, Riley.”

  “I don’t know why—I didn’t know him. Didn’t even know of him. But it hit me pretty hard.”

  “Of course it did. It just never seems to end, does it?”

  It’s more a statement than a question, so I don’t answer. Instead, I reach into my bag and fiddle with my phone. I’m risking rudeness, but this will be worth it. Wes is lost in thought for the moment anyway, until he hears Justin’s voice. I’ve pulled up the video of their rap. I found it in my research about Justin. I’ve spent hours on his social media in the last week, a haunting rabbit hole. That’s how I already knew about the hamster named after Neil DeGrasse Tyson and how he died last year after escaping from his cage and getting stuck under the fridge.

  “Is that…?” He grabs for my phone like it’s offering the gift of life, which it is, in a tiny way.

  The phone’s reflection captures the tears that have pooled along his lower lids. I worry I’ve made a mistake, but he’s smiling too. Nodding along, remembering. He watches the whole three-minute video, rapt.

  “This is why I want to do the interview with Tamara,” I say when the song finishes. “So that we can reinforce that Justin was a sweet, gentle young man who loved his pets and Hamilton and his favorite uncle.

  “People need to see what she’s—what you all have—lost, and what’s at stake for everyone in the community.”

  “Well, if anyone, we’d want it to be you. You’re different from all these other reporters and producers hounding us. White folks offering us hotel rooms and trips to New York City like we won the damn lottery. Telling us they can feel our pain. Yeah, Charlotte, yeah, Becky, I bet you know exactly what this is like. They have no idea what ‘our pain’ feels like and they never will.”

  The anger in his voice, I recognize. It’s an anger that’s been bubbling up in me these last few days, an anger I haven’t really experienced before and don’t know quite what to do with. I prefer my emotions predictable and tucked away. Right now, it’s too personal, too raw. How can I be objective when I’m this upset? I have to channel these emotions, allow them to fuel me and my work. I want the world to be better, baby girl. Gigi’s words linger. “I want to give your sister a chance to talk about all of that. I want her to get to talk about the real Justin. I just want the world to know about her son and to see her pain, to share it.”

  There’s a long pause, and Wes closes his eyes like I’m not there. I don’t know what to do with myself but wait.

  “You know, he would have been fifteen next week. I managed to get us tickets for the Sixers—third row, cost me a fortune. He’ll never go. He didn’t even know he was going to go. It was gonna be a surprise. I don’t know what’s worse—that he didn’t know he was going or if he did. I’m not making sense; I’m just wondering, should I have told him? He would have had something to look forward to.”

  Wes’s hands turn to two tight balls in his lap. This time I do reach over and drape my palm over one of his fists, which gives slightly in my hand.

  “He was lucky to have such a great uncle.”

  “I tried, man. I tried to always be there for him. Teach him how to survive in this world. Step up when his own pops died.”

  “You did. You did.” I squeeze his fist now. I don’t even care about the interview anymore; in this moment, I just want Wes’s pain to ease.

  “You’re a good woman, Riley Wilson. I feel that. Come by today. Let’s do the interview. I can convince her to do it. I think it’s the right move. But you be careful with her, okay?”

  Instead of feeling relief and excitement that I saved the interview, I’m flattened by weariness. I tell Wes how grateful I am and that I will see him in a few hours, and then I stand up, leaving him to go inside and pick out a casket.

  * * *

  At every stoplight on the drive to Strawberry Mansion, I look in the rearview mirror, tug at my bangs. I shift in my seat, smooth the wrinkles out of my dress. I’d planned to wear a dress that was a deep gold. I’d bought it earlier this week, especially for the interview. But when Justin died, it no longer felt right. Instead, when I got home from meeting with Wes, I changed into this black dress that I’ve owned forever. I wouldn’t normally wear black on camera, but it felt right.

  The leafy streets of Kelly Drive give way to seedy corner stores and abandoned lots overgrown with weeds and strewn with trash the closer I get to Tamara’s neighborhood. I pass more than a few abandoned synagogues, strange in this predominantly Black section of town. They’re vestiges from when this area was a wealthy Jewish enclave, before white flight took off and urban decay followed. On one of the crumbling brick walls, a mural is in process, a portrait of a Black mother holding her newborn baby. I slow down to take it in. The woman has been filled in with vibrant colors; the
baby remains a faint outline, like a thought waiting to enter the world.

  At the next light, I check my phone for video of the march taking place across town. KYX has a crew covering it live online, and I asked them to send the footage we’ll be using as b-roll for tonight’s package. I load the clips they’ve sent over, and it’s as though the screen itself shakes with the energy of the crowd. We have three cameras at various points on location. The clips offer snatches of footage from each of them—a close-up of the front of the march, where Pastor Price, bald head gleaming in the sunlight, walks, arms linked, with several community leaders and a woman. It takes me a moment to place her: Rashanda Montgomery. Her mentally ill daughter was shot by a police officer in North Carolina last year. She’s wearing a sweatshirt that reads, “M.O.M., Mothers of the Movement,” with her daughter’s face below it.

  There’s an aerial shot of the crowd behind Pastor Price, a mass of people, young, old, white, Black, snaking down Broad Street, at least ten blocks deep. I’d suspected the turnout would be strong—local activists have been beating the drum all week, putting up stickers and flyers all over town. And no doubt more decided to come out after hearing Justin died last night. The perfect weather helps too: activism is easier when it’s cloudless and fifty-five degrees.

  I search for my family, though I know it’s pointless given the sheer number of people. Shaun and I got into an argument at my parents’ dinner table last night about him attending today. Sure, it’s supposed to be a peaceful protest, but plenty of events are peaceful until they aren’t. If things get out of hand, the first person the police are going to go after is the six-foot-two Black guy wearing a T-shirt with Colin Kaepernick taking a knee.

  “It’s not worth the risk. You get arrested and you’re screwed,” I’d told him.

  “Protesting for civil rights isn’t worth the risk?” he shot back. “Do you even hear yourself? There’s no way I’m missing this.”

  “You can’t go.”

  “First of all, I’m a grown-ass man. You can’t tell me what to do. That’s the difference between you and me, sis. They’re not going to make me afraid. I’m not hiding. I’m gonna be seen and heard.”

  “We’ll all go together. As a family,” Dad chimed in. “And your sister’s right, it could get dicey out there. You know there’ll be some young bloods out there getting up to no good, giving us all a bad name. I got caught up in all that mess back in the ’64 riots—tear-gassed and everything. All I’d hoped was that it would be better for y’all. But here we are again, fifty years later and ain’t nothing changed but the music. I swear it’s like we’re on a damn treadmill set to the highest setting and we just keep trying to climb, going nowhere fast,” Dad said, taking a giant bite of his peach pie.

  My phone dings now with a text from Shaun. He’s sent a selfie from the march, standing in front of city hall with Mom and Dad.

  I’m relieved to see that the crowd really is peaceful, so many faces filled with righteous conviction and purpose. Nonetheless, my cynicism creeps in. Ain’t nothing changed but the music. All the clever signs and chants, the people who showed up just so they could post it to their social media, what does it add up to? How many marches have there been? How many calls for justice? How many lawsuits? How many “national conversations about race”? But then again, maybe this is something. No one had marched for Jimmy; no one had demanded justice. Instead, terror had chased our family out of town, paralyzed them in silence for decades. So maybe the marching, rallying, showing up, it serves a purpose. It says, We will not be invisible or afraid. We will not give up. And that’s not nothing. It might actually be everything.

  Traffic is light this side of town, and I arrive at Tamara’s earlier than I intended. So after I park on the street, I take a detour and walk into the alley, the one behind the liquor store, the one Justin walked down on his way home from school. I expect something more menacing, but it’s just a dark narrow alley. There’s a pile of candles, sympathy cards, battered teddy bears, and fistfuls of deli flowers that serve as a makeshift memorial. I stand there alone and look left and right, imagine turning around and seeing the barrel of a gun. I open my mouth and scream—I scream for Justin and for Jimmy. I half expect to see the cops show up just then, but the only witness to my moment of madness is a stray alley cat with a nub tail rubbing himself against the brick wall. I trace the path Justin didn’t get to take that day, squinting my eyes to read the numbers on the line of crumbling brick row houses. When I see the bicycle on the porch—a blue Huffy lying on its side next to a set of concrete steps—I know it’s the right one.

  As I climb the Dwyers’ porch stairs, my gaze lingers on the bike, the one Justin will never ride again. Before I can even knock, Tamara opens the door. She’s wearing a red Phillies cap with dried sweat stains along the rim.

  “Hi, I’m Riley.”

  I extend my hand right as she steps forward for a hug, and then we switch, her hand out, me stepping forward, and end up laughing at our awkward dance.

  “I’m a hugger,” she says, and pulls me in for an embrace that lasts longer than I expected. Even though Wes warned me, I’m not prepared to feel her bones through her skin. She moves away and leads me across the threshold into the living room. All the blinds are drawn, and shadows fall over the room. It takes me a minute to see that the couches and chairs are filled with people. Three teenage boys sit on the floor, watching a video on one of their phones, the sound turned off.

  Sadness casts a pall over the room.

  “This is Riley Wilson from the news,” Tamara introduces me. “Riley, this is everyone. The entire neighborhood has been coming over and sitting with me. Less people today because of the march.”

  “I was just watching some footage from the march. It’s a really strong turnout for Justin.”

  “I wish I coulda kept it together to go. But no, it was too much—being the center of attention, having everyone looking at me… It woulda broke me.”

  Wes rises from a giant lounger in the corner that reminds me of Gigi’s. He doesn’t hesitate before reaching out and hugging me as well. “Riley. Long time no see,” he jokes.

  I allow his chiseled arms to engulf me, my cheek pressed firmly to his broad chest. Now, standing here in his embrace, our connection feels all the more intense, like he’s someone I’ve known forever.

  “Do you need a drink?” Tamara offers. “Water? A Coke? We have plenty of food too; people have been dropping it off nonstop. So help yourself.”

  I already feel like an intruder; I’m hardly going to grab a paper plate of green-bean casserole. “Thank you, but I’m okay.”

  Tamara goes over to the small galley kitchen, opens the fridge door, and closes it again without taking anything out. She runs her hands up and down her jeans, looks around as if she doesn’t quite know what to do with me now that I’m here. Wes, who shadows his sister closely, puts his hands on her shoulders. “Take it a minute at a time, sis. You don’t need to do this right now if you aren’t up for it.”

  “No, no, I can do it.”

  Wes turns to me. “Do you want to see Justin’s room? We can do the interview in there if you want.”

  I nod and follow the two of them a few steps down the hall. Hanging on the closed door is one of those personalized little Pennsylvania license plates that reads JUSTIN. Tamara prepares herself with a deep breath and then opens the door. She walks a few feet into the room, plops down on the bed. It’s covered with a pilly plaid comforter. She grabs a pillow, holds it to her face. “I keep coming in here and smelling his pillow. How long do you think it’ll keep smelling like him?”

  “We won’t ever wash it.” Wes leans in and takes a whiff.

  I take in the room—half-finished models of dusty dinosaurs perch on the shelves; an iconic, and apparently timeless, poster of Tupac hangs above the bed; a trombone case leans against it; and a tattered paperback, Of Mice and Men, lies facedown on the desk next to a small tank with one lone goldfish swimming in lazy circles. L
oose socks are scattered around the floor. It already feels like a shrine.

  Tamara’s red-rimmed eyes are focused on watching the fish in the tank. She doesn’t look at me when she speaks.

  “I couldn’t have made it through the last week without this man, without my brother. Wes was there in the hospital with me when we finally let Justin go… when I told them to go ahead and pull the plug.”

  “I couldn’t stay in there when they did it, when they unhooked him,” Wes admits.

  “I was alone in there when my baby died. And then I couldn’t figure out how to leave. I crawled up on that bed and held him tight until the breath went out of his body.” She trembles and grips her brother like he’s a lifeline.

  Then she fixes her gaze on me as if she’s remembered I’m there, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

  “Do you have kids?”

  “No,” I respond, trying not to sound defensive. Whenever I get asked this, which is all the time, my answer always feels wrong. I hope it doesn’t make her think I can’t relate to her loss, even though it’s probably somewhat true that I can’t.

  “I’ve only got one child.” She says it like Justin is still right here, like he isn’t gone, wishful thinking, the power of language to keep him alive. “He’s the best thing I’ll ever do.”

  “I wish I could have known him.” Reaching for adequate words is like trying to grasp at air.

  The doorbell rings, and Tamara jumps a little. “No one ever uses the doorbell. I better see who that is. I’ll be back.” Wes trails her closely like he can’t bear to be away from her side.

  It’s too early for it to be my crew—probably another neighbor with a deli platter. I catch snatches of Tamara mumbling to herself as she walks down the hall. It has the gentle cadence and hushed tones of a prayer.

  Alone in Justin’s room, I feel even more like an intruder. I remain in the doorway and mentally plan out the interview logistics. I can sit in the desk chair beneath the window and Tamara can sit on the edge of the bed, with Bart, my cameraman, positioned right where I’m standing now. We’ll need to hang some lights along the closet, but it’s a good setup, intimate and personal. I’m so relieved about how well the staging works that it takes me a second to feel queasy about the direction of my thoughts.