I follow Desmond to the house, which seems like it sprang from nowhere. Brandon’s beard is longer than I remember. Red patches obscure his lips. His eyes are glass, liquid brimming at the surface. He’s staring at the unmarked bottle of brown liquor in his hands. My stomach feels uneasy with nausea. Brandon looks up and I say, It’s Daniel.
He leans his head against the wall behind him and pulls his brim low.
Me and Des, I say.
Well, I’ll be damned, he says.
Heard about Aubrey, bro, I say. Tore me up real bad.
Shit. How you think I feel?
Worse, I figure. But I ain’t been able to talk to nobody up north who knew her like I knew her.
Brandon waves us up to the porch and holds out the bottle.
Ain’t much left, he says, but it helps.
The bottle is warm in my hands and the alcohol even more so in my mouth. It stings my gums enough that I don’t taste it. I swallow and it leaves a hot trail down my throat and in my core. I pass the bottle to Des. He shakes his head and I shove it in his arms.
Who posted bail? Des asks.
My dad.
How long you out for?
Next court date’s next month.
What’re your chances? I ask.
Whole world knows I was driving drunk, he says. Ain’t no way in hell I’m going to win the case. Just trying to get less time.
I shake my head and the silence lingers. Then I ask, Brandon, man. I got to know. What happened? Why was she down here?
Came down to see her grandma, Brandon says. She was diagnosed with cancer a few months ago. After Aubrey heard the news, she decided to get hitched. Wanted her grandma to be there. Then her grandma got worse so she came down to see her. Said it was in case she didn’t make it to the wedding.
I grab the bottle from Des and take another swig. My breathing slows and my face warms. I look around for something to lean against. I walk to the post at the porch’s corner and perch my back against its rough wood. I swig again. My throat and chest burn.
Easy on the drink, Baby D, Des says.
I’m good, I say. Go on, Brandon.
So Aubrey comes down, he says. She’s mostly with her grandma so we don’t see her till the last night. Me, Jess, Ronny, and her meet up at the Roadhouse. Jess ain’t drinking because she said she’d drive Aubrey home. I drove up there, but I’d driven US-1 drunk a million times so I figure I’m fine.
Brandon stops talking and I pass the bottle back to him. He pulls from it and then starts to roll a cigarette, staring down at the loose brown strands in the paper.
So we’re drinking and having a good time when Jess says her and Aubrey got to go. She’s got to work in the morning. We try to convince them to stay out but she ain’t having it. Says she’s going home. I say I can drive Aubrey. Jess asks if I’m sure. I say yeah. Jess says it’s up to her. And Aubrey, I guess Aubrey wanted to stay out for a bit. Ain’t been home in a long while.
Brandon strikes a match and lights his cigarette. The paper burns unevenly so the ember forms a red shard at its end.
You drove? Des asks.
We all done it, Brandon says. I’m just the one who crashed.
Des, chill, I say.
Brandon pulls from his cigarette. Smoke comes out when he says, Aubrey’s looking different. Cheeks filled out. Must’ve been eating right. Smiling the whole night. So it’s getting late and Ronny gets in his truck and we get in mine. We’re driving and talking and I can’t believe I ain’t tell her I loved her. She’s about to get married to some Northern chump I ain’t never met and I ain’t never told her.
I drink again and it burns less. My eyes droop a little and my body loosens. But my hands are clenched tight, uncut nails digging into my palms.
So we’re speeding down US-1 and I figure this is my last chance. I tell her it’s me she should be marrying. And I’m trying to look her in the eyes, but it’s hard because I’m driving and we been drinking. So I’m looking at her and then the road. I’m bouncing back and forth and I say it. But Aubrey, she just starts shaking her head. Asks why I’m telling her this. Says I know she’s getting married. Says she didn’t fly down here for this bullshit. Says she left for a reason. So she rolls down the window and puts a smoke in her mouth. Gets real quiet. And me, I’m freaking out. Talk to me, Aubrey. But she’s looking through her bag because she can’t find her lighter. I say it again. Talk to me. She says she ain’t got nothing to say. Turns the light on in the car. Keeps digging for her lighter. Aubrey, look at me. Say something. Don’t ice me out.
Brandon takes a long drag on his cigarette.
Next thing I know, I’m on the side of the road. Windshield’s broke. Glass all over the dash. Aubrey ain’t in the car. I try to move but I’m stuck. Then I wake up in the hospital handcuffed.
Normally, my brother calls once or twice a month. Around the time of Aubrey’s death, I hadn’t heard from him in almost a season. Then, a few days after I got the news, he called and said he’d been in and out of solitary. Some white folk tried him on the yard. His boys had his back, but they all ended up in the hole. He was there the longest. When he got out, they tried him again and he ended up in solitary again.
Junior asked what I was up to. Time was running out on the call. Not knowing what to say, I told him I was staying near where Uncle Junior used to live.
Sometimes, he said, his name feels like a death sentence.
We were quiet for a moment. Then I told him Aubrey died. Junior didn’t know who she was. I told him she was my ex-girlfriend.
White girl?
Yeah, I said. Went to high school with her.
The little dark-haired redneck? The one you started dating after I got locked up? The bitch who ain’t like niggas?
Yeah, I said. She was racist and I was sexist. But I loved her.
I don’t know, baby bro. Folks she hung out with probably the same folks jumping me on the yard.
If Brandon is convicted, he might be sent to the same prison, become one of those men jumping my brother. My stomach boils. I walk to the end of the porch, and it feels like they are miles away. Water begins to collect in my eyes, aching with what’s coming, but I blink it back.
The light coming through the woods is gray now. The sun must almost be down. I lean off the porch and look around the house. In the distance, the sky above the trees is pink, but behind me, it’s a dark blue, approaching black. A sunset ending in one direction and night coming in strong in the other, I must look less like a man than a shadow on his porch.
That’s the whole story, Brandon says.
I’m shaking my head and trying to inhale deep to calm myself but can’t. My breath moves fast and out of control. So many of my people have died young. I don’t want to be another Henriquez led to an early grave or to prison, but I feel the heat rushing to my head, the fear of death fading, and the dead possessing me. I am near yelling when I say, Jess’s going to drive, but you take Aubrey home anyway. Then you tell her you love her while you’re driving. Not when you drop her off. Not in Palm Coast. Not at the bar. You tell her when you’re driving at eighty miles an hour.
My body is hot and I don’t know if it’s the day, the alcohol, or the anger. I breathe faster. I step toward Brandon. Des shifts on his feet.
You ain’t think this shit could wait? I ask.
It was dumb, he says. It was wrong.
I approach Brandon. He stands up quickly and his chair falls over with a thump.
Lord knows it was dumb, he says, backing away and stepping down from the porch.
You killed her, I say, following after him.
Brandon starts to walk faster and I do too. He hops over the steps into the ankle-length grass and I follow. He backpedals toward the woods and I chase. He turns to run when I close the distance at the edge of the first gathering of trees. He’s half facing away when I grab his shirt cuff with one hand. I swing with the other. He tumbles backward into the long grass and I fall with him.
Cro
uched over him, I say, That’s it?
I punch at his face, but he moves to the side. My fist hits the ground. Pain shoots up my knuckles and through my forearm.
Daniel, he says, grabbing my arms and trying to push me off.
You fucking killed her, I say.
Leaning over him, I’m pulling on my arms to get free, but he won’t let go. His grip is tight. The pressure shoots pain up the bone.
Daniel, someone’s coming, Des says.
You killed her.
We got to go.
Lord knows I ain’t scared of you.
You fucking killed her.
Time’s up, Baby D, Des says as he grabs me by the collar and tries to pull me off. Brandon’s hands drag along my forearm, burning them with friction. He pushes me away and swings but misses. I lunge at him and swing wildly.
We got to get the fuck out of here.
I hear a truck approach and pull to a stop. Des turns around and puts his hand on his waist. I jump back on Brandon. I start swinging but he grabs me. He won’t give me any room. He knees at me and I do the same, but there’s not enough distance to connect with any real force.
Get off my boy, I hear.
I knee Brandon in his side and hear the air leave his body in a wheeze.
This ain’t none of your business, old-timer, Des says. Get back in the car.
I said get off my son before I shoot.
I turn around and see the old man’s pistol pointed at me. Des draws his and aims at the old man.
I ain’t going to tell you boys again.
I’m getting up, I say. I’m getting up slowly.
I roll off Brandon and onto my knees. I put my hands in the air.
I’m getting up slowly.
I struggle to raise myself without my hands. I stumble and then catch myself. Finally, I stand up, hands parallel to my face, palms facing the old man.
That’s right boy, says the old man.
Fuck are you calling a boy? Des says.
Better do like your friend there and put your hands up, says the old man, before I blow a hole in his face.
Better put your gun down, old man.
The old man stands in front of the truck, which blocks the road out. The barrel points at my face. I can see the shadow it casts over the path the bullet will travel. In my peripherals, I see Des opposite him, feet planted in the middle of their barely mowed yard. His hands clench his pistol’s handle. His arms bulge. They are no more than ten paces from each other. At this distance, they won’t miss.
Des, it ain’t worth it, I say.
Put the gun down, Des says.
You first, the old man says.
Behind the old man, I see another truck approaching, rising and falling with the terrain of the woods. Branches snap as it slows. The windshield is tinted black. I don’t know who or how many people sit behind it.
Des, if we’re going to get out of here, we got to go now.
I ain’t letting him blast you, Brown.
The second truck’s door opens. I look at the old man. My hands are up. Our car is too far to run for. I hear the car door slam.
Des, put the gun down, I say.
Listen to your friend, boy.
I ain’t putting shit down till you put yours down.
Then I hear a roar loud enough to shatter an eardrum and I drop to the ground.
Returns
My ears ring. I only hear a high pitch. I don’t feel any pain. Am I in shock? My hands rush to my body, searching for a wound. Nothing. The ringing quiets and is replaced by a sound that resembles hearing a wave passing overhead. Then comes the slight pitter-patter of feet. And, finally, a voice: All right, boys. Guns down.
My stomach is flat against the rocky ground, which itches my arms and scratches my chin. A woman stands in front of the truck wearing jeans and a tank top. The long rifle points up as she looks at us. Her hair is shoulder-length and blond, but a shadow cast over her face hides her features. She’s a silhouette framed by the truck and the sky’s dying light.
Mr. Jacobs, Desmond, guns away.
The old man crouches. His head darts from side to side, scanning the area. To his right, Desmond lies flat on the ground. I can’t see his gun. He’s not moving. Did they hit him? His head turns. He’s safe too.
Come on, now, says the familiar voice. Get your asses off the floor.
Bright-blue eyes peer beneath the shaded brow.
Jessica Ann? the old man calls. Though its end points down, he still clutches the gun tight as he searches his periphery. Now raised to one knee, Desmond does the same.
That’s right, Mr. Jacobs, Jess says. It’s me. Just a warning shot.
That’s one hell of a warning, Mr. Jacobs says, shaking his head.
Go on and get up off the ground, she says. Ain’t nobody going to shoot you. They’re friends of mine.
They’re on my property.
They ain’t mean nothing by it, she says, and they wasn’t going to hurt no one. You know them Palm Coast boys, they all bark.
The old man stands up and dusts himself off, but still holds on to his gun.
Palm Coast’s a long way off, he says.
They’re friends of Aubrey’s.
Wish I’d known, the old man says as he points his weapon down.
Desmond, put your gun down and get up. Otherwise I’m going to tell your mama about how you damn near got yourself killed out in Espanola.
Damn, Jess, Desmond says. You ain’t got to worry my mom like that.
Desmond stands up and tucks his gun in his waistband. Then he runs his hand over his forehead.
Daniel, Brandon, she says, ain’t no use rolling around in the dirt all day.
When I stand up, Brandon’s still on the ground. His arms wobble when he plants them on the ground. He is close enough for me to help him up, but I watch him come to his feet. He pulls a can of dip out of his cargo shorts and his hands grow still.
Now, I know y’all ain’t out here scrapping over a dead girl, she says.
My cheeks burn and I inhale deep. The dirt we turned up rushes in, smelling of iron, of blood.
Should’ve let y’all finish the job, Mr. Jacobs says. Least I wouldn’t have to worry about him no more.
Come on, Pops, Brandon says. I done said sorry a million times.
Mr. Jacobs, Jess says, we talked about this.
Old dogs, Mr. Jacobs says. Then he walks to his truck, places his gun inside, and says, Reckon I owe y’all an apology.
Mr. Jacobs gets in and pulls into the yard. After he parks, he tells Jess to say hello to her folks and walks into his home. Brandon follows, spitting brown liquid, and I watch him as he goes. My lungs still heave, my head’s still hot. I want to rush him, tackle him as he ascends the steps, slam his body into the porch and my fists into his ribs. But I bite my lower lip, the sharp pain erasing the image as he disappears inside the house. After the door closes, Mr. Jacobs, muffled by the house, yells. Metal clanks and something heavy thumps.
Desmond, Daniel, y’all ain’t got to say sorry, Jess says.
I ain’t saying sorry to nobody, Desmond says.
Shaking her head, Jess puts her rifle in the car and walks across the yard toward Desmond. She forms a fist close to her chest and swings at him. She doesn’t lean her shoulder into it. Her arm isn’t quite straight.
Goddammit, Desmond, Jess says.
What you mad at me for? Desmond says. I ain’t do shit wrong.
That ain’t entirely true, I say, chuckling.
Jess turns around and her hair sweeps with her.
Don’t you go acting all high and mighty neither.
This nigga, he says.
Y’all both should’ve known better, she says. You seen what he looked like when y’all rolled up.
As something clangs and voices scream in the house, the wind stirs. It picks up as night falls and the air grows cooler. It’s thick, comforting in a way. But soon it’ll be cold.
Sorry, I say. I just lost it.
Jess walks back to her truck.
Can’t believe I got to babysit y’all two, she says. And you. You ain’t even tell me you was coming back.
I’m here now, I say. You can get mad at me and we can go another ten years without talking, or we could hang tonight.
Jess gets in the truck and says through the open door, My house. Dinner. Hour and a half. If you’re lucky, I won’t be so goddamn mad.
Jess slams the door and drives away. Desmond and I walk back to the car. The wind rustles in the woods and the thumps inside the house continue. My mind is running. Jess knows what happened between Aubrey and me, what I’ve hidden from everyone else. There’s no way I’ll be able to keep up the act when we see her again. And when the truth comes out, I don’t know what Desmond will do.
I thought coming home would feel different. We would have some drinks, sit around a back porch, and talk about Aubrey. When the alcohol hit me, my shoulders would drop. If I stood, I might stumble. And when the liquor was warm in my stomach, I’d tell everyone how much Aubrey’s death wrecked me and how, even though I haven’t spoken to her in a long time, I fell in love with her again. I felt it in my chest every time I thought about her. Everyone would get real quiet until someone would pat me on the back and say I wasn’t crazy; they felt it too.
Instead, I dragged Desmond all the way out to Espanola. If it wasn’t for Jess, I might have gotten shot. I might have died. Desmond might have too. Or he might have caught a case, ended up with my brother.
Maybe the memories of Jamaicans returning to danger are why Mom told me not to come back here. Home wasn’t safe for her or her stepfather. When she lived with him in New Monklands in the ’60s, every Friday, he stuffed his week’s earnings in cash into his rucksack and hopped in the back of his boss’s truck with the other workers. They drove down the hills until the road became gravel and houses began to appear. In town, Mom’s stepfather deposited his earnings at the bank. If he had extra time, he drank rum at a nearby bar and listened to cricket or football on the radio until it was time to return.
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