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by Fha User

  “Has anyone informed his family, Sir?”

  “Not yet,” Jackson replied. “That task would be mine or Rev. Winters.”

  Clayton knew Rev. Winters. He’d been police chaplain for as long as Clay

  had been on the force.

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  “I’d like to do it sir, if it’s alright with you.”

  “You sure you’re up for that?”

  “I know his family, sir. It might be somewhat easier coming from someone

  they know.”

  Captain Jackson paused a moment before saying, “You don’t look so good

  Marshall. Sit down.”

  He took the chair the Captain motioned him into, trying to come to grips

  with this but also knowing he couldn’t let anyone else tell Craig’s family.

  After a few seconds, he looked up at his superior and pressed Jackson for an

  answer.

  “Well, Captain?”

  Considering the younger man’s request, Captain Jackson agreed it might be

  best if Clay were the one to break the news.

  “Ok, if you feel up to it, go ahead.”

  Relieved, but still visibly shaken, Clayton muttered. “It’s still so hard to

  believe.” Clasping his hands together, he bent at the waist and rested his

  elbows on his knees. “A couple of hours ago he was standing in the kitchen,

  eating cereal!”

  “I know. Just yesterday he invited me to the beach with you guys after my

  shift ended today,” Piterrelli added.

  Looking closely at the younger officer, Clayton saw pain etched in his

  features. Piterrelli was built like a wide receiver with a full head of gray hair,

  even though he was only in his thirties. Just last month he’d invited the

  entire squad to his sister’s wedding in Little Italy. It didn’t matter that Clay

  and Craig were black and Piterrelli was white. The officers in his department

  were close knit and looked out for each other like brothers. You never knew

  what situation you might walk into being a cop. It helped to know you had a

  brother, someone you could trust, to watch your back. This brotherhood

  went beyond race, religion and all color lines. To these guys, the only

  important color—the only color that mattered—was blue.

  “Hell, Mike, I’m sorry man. You’re the one who responded to the call and

  here I am falling apart over here, when you must have gotten the biggest

  shock.”

  “Yeah…” unable to say more Piterrelli, turned away to dry his eyes.

  It was Clay’s turn to do the comforting. He rose and draped an arm across

  Piterrelli’s shoulder, giving his thick shoulders a squeeze.

  “Where is he?”

  17

  “He’s at the morgue Clay, but don’t go over there and don’t let his mother

  go man. He was pretty messed up.”

  Clay gave his shoulder one last squeeze then dropped his right hand to his

  side.

  “This is going to kill his mom.”

  “Yeah.”

  Whatever Piterrelli was going to say was cut short when the front door

  opened, and Reverend Winters strode in. In his sixties with slightly graying

  hair, Reverend Winters had kind eyes behind thick, corrective lenses.

  “We’ve lost a good man,” he said to the entire room. The calm, subdued

  quality of the reverend’s voice reached each officer in the room.

  “The last time I talked to Craig he told me that he couldn’t understand why

  people stayed at a job they hated. ‘How do they get up every morning? I

  love my job,’ he said. ‘I love getting up every morning knowing I can help

  people.”

  Reverend Winters knew everyone grieved differently. Some of these officers

  would work through it by themselves and others may need to talk with

  someone to come to terms with their grief.

  “Maybe you’ll all feel a little better if you remember that. Craig was a

  great policeman, he was a good man and most importantly, Craig Simpson

  was a happy man,” he added. “I believe we could all use a prayer right

  now.” Grasping the hand of the officer nearest him, Reverend Winters

  addressed the room. “Let’s join hands.”

  Clay barely heard the reverend’s words. His mind was filled with concern

  for Craig’s family, especially his mother. She’d already lost a husband, now

  he had to tell her she’d lost a son. Craig also had a younger brother, Tony,

  who was only fourteen, and sister, Janae who was twenty one. While Mrs.

  Simpson had two other kids, Craig was the oldest and the one she relied on

  most since her husband passed away eight years ago.

  The prayer ended, pulling Clayton back to the present and Reverend

  Winters walked over to where he stood.

  “Captain Jackson said you wanted to inform the family, is that right son?

  ”Yes sir, that’s right.”

  “Son, if you feel you must, by all means, do so. But, are you sure you can

  handle it?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Reverend Winters studied him. Satisfied, he nodded his agreement.

  “Okay son. Come and see me later if you need to talk, alright?

  18

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  Cynthia Edwards parked her car in back of the salon, entering through the

  back door of Nu U and turned on the lights and air conditioning. Although

  she only worked in the shop three days a week for a few hours, Cynthia liked

  to come in early, finding that was the time of day when she got the most

  done. During the workday, when the shop was in full swing, there were too

  many distractions. The Nu U staff normally got in around ten and they were

  a lively bunch. After they arrived and the shop opened, piped in music

  would play on overhead speakers and a steady flow of customers came in

  throughout the day.

  Cynthia did not have to work; her husband’s business did quite well, but

  these few hours a week were just what she needed at this point in her life.

  When Vi asked her to come and work at Nu U a few years back, Cynthia had

  been surprised. After all, she had been dead set against Vi opening up this

  beauty shop in the first place. As she turned the coffeemaker on, she

  thought about that time. It had been a difficult time for both of them.

  “Vi, you can’t be serious. I mean, opening a beauty parlor at your age.

  What do you know about running a business?”

  “It’s not a beauty parlor, it’s going to be a salon/day spa and for your

  information I plan to take management courses.”

  Cynthia could tell Vi was upset, but then so was she. She was, after all, the

  older, more responsible one and she couldn’t stand by and let Vi squander

  her dead husband’s life insurance money on a whim.

  “Vi, don’t be foolish. It’s ridiculous for you to think about going back to

  school at this stage of your life, much less trying to start a business.”

  Unable to hold her temper any longer, Vi told her sister, “Thanks for the

  support Cyn. I don’t know why I’m even discussing this with you. I’m a

  grown woman and I don’t need your permission.”

  “What you need to do is leave that money in the bank and work on finding

  a husband and father for your kids,” Cynthia shot back.

  “Oh, like the last jackass you set me up with? No thanks.”

  After that, th
eir discussion deteriorated into a shouting match. Afterwards,

  Vi didn’t speak to Cynthia for over two months. Although Cynthia still felt

  19

  strongly about the choices Vi was making, she did start to miss spending

  time with the family. Cynthia and her husband had no children. Because of

  this she treated Vi’s children like her own, showering a multitude of affection

  on them since they were babies.

  Within the first few weeks after their argument, Cynthia started feeling

  badly, but no amount of coaxing would make Vi come for Sunday dinner or

  talk to her on the phone. Vi made a point to only spoke to Cynthia out of

  necessity. Fortunately, Cynthia was able to keep up with things through her

  nephew, Craig. She began calling Vi’s house when she knew Vi would not

  be home and knew Craig would pick up the phone. It was through Craig that

  Cynthia found out Vi did, in fact, enroll in those business courses at night.

  He also told her Vi found a part-time job that made it possible for her to be

  home when the kids got home from school. What she didn’t know was that

  during those tough times, Vi used the insurance money to pay the bills and

  take up the slack, while she finished her night classes. Then she did

  something that some people only dream about all their lives. Vi used what

  was left of the insurance money and opened her business. Her sole reason

  for starting the business, she’d told Cynthia later on, was to provide a decent

  living for her family. As it turned out, the business became much more than

  that.

  When Craig proudly announced to his aunt just how well his mom’s shop

  was doing, Cynthia was more than a little surprised. It appeared Vi had

  showed them all. Apparently she possessed a business savvy and a natural

  flair for style that the family didn’t know about. Her salon seemed to fill a

  need in the neighborhood and catered to everyone. Nu U was not just a

  salon—it was an oasis, where women received pampering from head to toe.

  Not only did the staff style hair, Craig told his aunt, but they did things

  Cynthia had never heard of, like body wraps and seaweed treatments. At the

  time it was the only salon of its kind, and had gained a steady and loyal

  clientele. After a while Craig got tired of being the middle man, as his

  mother and aunt’s silent feud dragged on several months. Trying to get the

  two women together again, he decided to tell his mother that Cynthia called

  him just about every afternoon. At first, Vi was upset. The nerve of

  Cynthia, she thought, trying to ply her son for information. But even though

  Cynthia had always been a bossy and stubborn woman, she was still her

  sister so she needed to be the one to break the ice this time around.

  Although, Cynthia wasn’t sure why Vi asked her to join her business and

  do the books, she didn’t hesitate to jump at the offer. By mutual agreement,

  the two sisters never talked about Cynthia’s initial lack of support, or just

  how well Nu U was doing, in spite of her family’s initial criticism.

  Just then, the bell over the front door chimed, bringing Cynthia back to the

  present. Andre and Nicole walked in laughing and talking. Seeing Cynthia

  20

  at the front desk pouring over the books, they greeted her in unison. These

  two, Cynthia knew, were Vi’s best stylists. About Vi’s age, Nicole wore

  dread locks and jeans to work every day. She was a hardworking, single

  mother of two while Andre seemed to be searching for a new lover just about

  every other month. Although a bit talkative, Cynthia thought Nicole was

  nice enough. On the other hand, she and Andre seemed to butt heads on a

  weekly basis. It wasn’t his flamboyant style or the alternative lifestyle he

  led that annoyed Cynthia so much. It was his lack of discretion and the

  obvious delight he took in making sure everyone knew he was gay. That got

  on her nerves more times than none, like today. With obvious distaste,

  Cynthia eyed Andre’s too-tight jeans, shiny pink shirt and the bright yellow

  highlights in his afro.

  While Cynthia Edwards was starting her normal workday, Clayton

  Marshall left the station feeling anything but normal. Outside the sun

  dazzled bright against pristine, white clouds. The beauty of the day was a

  mockery. Putting on his sunglasses to ward off the blazing sun, he walked

  across the parking lot to his car. Ignoring the sweltering heat inside his car,

  Clay got in it, rolled down his driver side window and started the engine.

  The heat inside the car didn’t register as he sat there with the car running,

  completely forgetting exactly what came next. Oh yeah, put the car in gear,

  he thought and in the next instant he was assailed again by the weight of his

  grief. It was so overbearing that it choked him, suffocating him where the

  heat inside the car had failed to penetrate his senses. He fought for control,

  put the car in gear and drove down Route 110 toward the Long Island

  Expressway.

  Clay thought about what he was going to say when he reached her house.

  Craig and his mom were really close—Clay had never heard anyone praise

  their mother the way Craig praised his mom. Their relationship was a level

  above just love between a mother and son. They not only loved each other,

  they respected and admired each other. It always amazed him how Craig and

  his mom could talk about anything – money, relationships, sports and

  politics. If you didn’t know them, you might get the impression they were

  like a modern day June and Beaver Cleaver. But, they weren’t. They had

  their share of disagreements, but the nice thing was they never stayed angry

  at each other for very long.

  Whatever was going on, and there was plenty, she and Craig discussed it.

  And later Clayton would hear all about it from Craig. He knew a lot about

  Mrs. Simpson. Whenever he spoke about her, the admiration and love in

  Craig’s voice made a hard knot of envy form in the pit of Clayton’s stomach.

  She was an ideal mother—hardworking, capable and compassionate—and

  21

  over time Clay acquired a deep admiration and respect for her that he’d never

  known for his own mother.

  Out of nowhere, something he thought about earlier came back to him.

  What the hell was Craig doing on Chestnut this morning?

  Chestnut was clear across town. It was also the poorest section of town,

  and as far as Clay knew, Craig had no friends over there. Craig told him this

  morning he had to stop by his mother’s and then run some errands. There

  were dozens of supermarkets and convenience stores to stop at on this side of

  town, and Chestnut was no where near his mother’s house or on the way to

  the beach.

  A car horn blasted loudly, penetrating Clay’s thoughts. His mind

  registered that he was sitting at a stop sign and apparently holding up traffic.

  If the line of cars behind him was any indication, he must have been sitting

  there for a while.

  Silently reprimanding himself, Clayton forced his mind to focus on his

  driving. He needed to get himself together before he reached Mrs.

  Simpson’s house. This was going to be hard enough on her, wi
thout him

  falling apart. Craig had told him once she was one of the strongest women

  he knew. But, even the strongest people broke down, he thought.

  Clay spent the entire drive to her house, lost in thought. As he neared her

  street, he turned right onto Ronald Drive. It was a nice neighborhood with

  tree-lined streets, and houses with matching shutters and trim that only added

  to its quiet charm. It was one of those neighborhoods where everyone knew

  each other. Her house was up ahead on the right. It was a large colonial

  with bright green shutters and a white picket fence surrounding the front

  yard. The front door was painted the same green and flanked on either side

  by big terracotta pots filled with leafy plants and colorful impatiens. A huge

  magnolia tree dominated the front lawn, its blossoms hung heavy and full on

  outstretched limbs. The grass had just been cut and looked healthy and

  green except for one yellowed spot near the curb. An oscillating sprinkler

  sat near that yellowed patch, pushing water through in a sweeping, fan

  motion. Its movement was quiet, monotonous and detached as it threw water

  across Clayton’s passenger side window when he pulled into her driveway.

  Clay put the car in park, took the keys out of the ignition, but made no

  movement to get out. He sat in his hot car looking around at everything and

  at nothing. Craig’s mom had a two car detached garage. Both garage doors

  stood open because it was broad daylight, so the interior was visible to

  anyone walking on the street. One side was vacant and in the next stall her

  car was parked, a late model Japanese import, compact but reliable.

  As the sprinkler continued its long sweep, it caught him on the arm and wet

  his front passenger seat. He reached over and rolled the window up slowly

  22

  as he studied the sprinkler, not realizing why he even bothered. He sat back

  and stared again into the garage. Inside various gardening tools and

  equipment sat near an old gas grill. In the back was a workbench that looked

  like it hadn’t been used in quite a while. Tools hung over the bench and two

  bikes hung from the rafters above.

  He leaned his head back against the headrest and pinched the bridge of his