by Ada Winder
Too late, George noticed that Robert had a large rock in his hand.
He hadn’t noticed when Robert had left for a moment to go and get it but there he was with an unnerving look in his eyes.
George understood then what people were talking about when they said the hairs on the back of their neck rose.
George finally found his voice again.
“Hey, Bobby, you sure…” but his voice quavered. He could go no further. He felt frozen in place unlike Mark who let go of the boy and got out of the way.
“Bobby, stop it—that ain’t called for…!” George found his voice at last but had to move as Robert brought the rock down. Surely, the first blow was enough, but Robert lifted and brought the rock back down again and again.
George looked away. By that time, Mark had gotten around Robert and stopped him from bring it down a fourth time.
George turned to see him throw the rock aside, but couldn’t bring himself to look at the still figure on the ground.
The rock fell to the ground with a thud. George saw Mark’s pained face as he briefly glanced down at the prone figure.
“He,y where’s that gun you were talking about?” he asked Robert, his voice sounding hoarse. He was still awkwardly holding Robert’s arms behind him.
Robert chuckled, and George’s own heart suddenly felt like a falling rock.
“He ain’t had none on him—but how else was I gonna git you guys to help me out?”
George finally forced his eyes to look at the fellow he knew would never move himself again. His lips were swollen, blood streaming down his crushed face, one eye bulging the other swollen shut.
George looked away again, feeling bile start to rise in his throat.
“Hey, we can’t tell no one ‘bout this—y’all understand that, right? Ever,” Robert said. “Served him right and all, but we might git in trouble.”
George and Mark walked slowly toward the truck as if in a funeral procession, while Robert rushed ahead. It was definitely time to call it a night.
They crammed into the truck once again, Mark at the wheel.
“What’re you gonna tell your wife, George?” Mark asked, starting up the truck but leaving it in park. “You’re a mess.”
George hadn’t thought about it.
“I’ll make something up,” he said.
“You better git your story straight,” Robert said. “Why don’t you tell her ‘bout that night in the bar. Tell her you was defendin’ Miriam. That way, you not really lyin’. Just usin’ a different date.”
It was the smartest thing Robert had ever said.
George nodded. “Yeah, that’s it. I’ll do that. I’ll do that.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Man, should we call an ambulance or what?”
Mark shook his head gravely. “Don’t look like he’s gonna need it, buddy.”
George had hoped he was wrong about his own assessment although it couldn’t be clearer the boy was dead.
George tried to rationalize. He was a criminal. They just meant to punish him a little. Things just went too far…
“But I guess we could still call it in,” Mark said. “First pay phone we get to.”
He breathed deeply and finally put the truck in reverse. “Holy shit…” he said quietly.
No one seemed to be able to say out loud what had just happened.
“Hey, it’s all right man,” Robert piped up. “He just would’ve become a murderer anyway, that’s how it goes. My momma always said ‘a liar’s a thief and a thief’s a murderer.’ Same with that rapist. A criminal is a criminal.”
George wondered what that made the three of them.
“I don’t quite think it’s the same thing,” he said as Mark reversed out of the area and they sped off.
“Eye for an eye,” Robert insisted, making George recall the boy’s eyes—his unseeing, pitiful eyes on his swollen, bloody face.
He shook himself. He had to get a grip or Alice would suspect something. He had to stop himself from blurting out the truth.
He looked over at Robert, then Mark.
Robert looked like he had simmered down, a satisfied look in his eyes as he looked out the window like he had just eaten his fill at a delicious buffet. But Mark’s eyes stared straight ahead, focused. Burning with emotion. His mouth was set in a tight line, as if he was fighting again, but this time, himself. George knew things would never be the same between them again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Guilt. Or as his wife would say, “contrition”—or some other long-ass useless word she would use when a perfectly simple and shorter word would do.
No matter the word, he couldn’t shake it, this guilt; couldn’t escape it.
He felt like he was submerged under dark water in the grip of an octopus, its eight arms holding him tight and painfully near the surface of the water where he could almost but not quite reach for air and take a breath. The guilt was a bowling-ball sized burr on his shirt, an oversized tick on his skin. A beetle furrowing under it. It followed him in the shower, on his way to work and on his way home. It never let go, forming a permanent cloud over his head that he could sometimes swear was literally there and that other people could see.
He helped kill a man.
Even if he did not deliver the fatal blow, he participated in the murder by failing to act. He turned out to be, as Mark had initially mentioned in concern, an accomplice after all.
When he found out that the guy had actually been innocent, he knew he would never be able to forgive himself. The guilt became a giant squid, looking him in the eye.
How to alleviate it? How to get rid of it?
He thought and thought about ways to help him break the grip of the octopus, to surface and breathe again.
He started going with Alice to church but found he just ended up feeling guiltier.
He tried praying and asking for forgiveness when he found a place and a moment completely to himself. This helped a little, but not enough. Still, he felt like if he kept making little prayer deposits he would have enough of a savings account to feel secure and be relieved of the debt that he owed to the family of this Thomas Gibson.
Murdered Colored Man Innocent.
When he saw the newspaper that night, the newspaper that Alice had in her hands and he realized their mistake, he nearly crumbled right there and then. Luckily, he was able to convince Alice it was just his empathetic broken heart. She would make his reaction fit what she knew of his emotional side and interpret his sorrow as him feeling bad for the poor stranger, when all he wanted to do was collapse from remorse.
Wasn’t your mind supposed to protect you from moments like these? Make you black out? Why couldn’t he just lose consciousness, then reawaken with no memory of the event?
But there was no protection, no hiding from it.
He had to do something.
He found himself compelled to attend the funeral of the boy. He sought out all the details, discovering it would be held just a few days after the unfortunate event, and not too far out of the way for him—about one hundred and forty miles and three hours there and back was nothing. His wife would think he was working. All he had to do was get dressed up; he didn’t think beyond that. Nothing else mattered but that he show up to that funeral. He had to say goodbye, had to apologize to the fellow secretly, and he felt like he had to be in his presence to do it.
When the time came, he entered the church, intending to stay in the back and make himself as invisible as possible, but it was not possible; his skin stood out like a roach on white rice. A few of the attendees watched him in curiosity but it did not matter to him; it hardly even registered. He quickly identified the victim’s closest relations and felt compelled to talk to them as soon as he could get a chance.
Although he had gotten many curious looks, it surprised him that no one actually stopped to question him when the service was complete. He was the one to seek out the bawling older woman who he assumed was Thomas’s mother.
He waited until she was near, then asked her if he could talk to her for a few moments. Her curiosity was probably greater than her need to stay in grieving mode for she allowed him to pull her aside. Her teary eyes held question marks on her chocolate-colored face. A younger lady was with her and stayed with her as they went off to the side, away from the bulk of the crowd moving out of the church.
“Mrs. Gibson?” he said. She nodded. He held out his hand and she took it. “I…I’m a friend of Tom’s and I just wanted to express my sincerest condolences to you.” He held her hands in his. The young girl with her watched him in suspicion.
“Why, thank you, son—I appreciate that. But who are you, if I may ask? How did you know my boy?”
George let out a breath and gave a small smile, throwing his hands in the air.
“Well, it was a chance meeting, and then we were connected forever. That’s the best way to put it.”
The woman smiled kindly at him.
“Well, that sure is sweet. I’m glad my Tommy had a friend like you.” She turned to the young girl. “This here is Candace, Tommy’s sister. Did you meet her already?”
“Actually, no.”
He put his hand out to shake hers. She finally raised her head so that the hat was not obscuring so much of her face. He noticed she was quite pretty.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, although her tone did not match her words, nor did her mahogany hand meet his for a shake. “What was your name again?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. George. I’m George.”
“And where did you say you met my brother again?”
“We met...” It was the first time he had to use his brain to think up a lie. Would she know if he said the wrong thing? A bar? My brother did not go to bars. Tommy did not buy gas from that station—he didn’t have a car. He remembered the obituary, and something about Thomas’s love for sports—basketball and football in particular.
“We met on a basketball court,” he said.
He was afraid Candace would ask which one but she remained quiet. Perhaps his answer satisfied her for now, and she did not want to make a scene or potentially invite more stress in front of her mother. She gave him a look that suggested their conversation was not over.
“I have something to give you,” he said impulsively to Mrs. Gibson. “Where should I drop it off?”
She looked surprised as expected, but gave him their address anyway.
He did not know exactly what he would bring them—flowers maybe—but he knew he was starting to feel better already despite fearing he’d feel more guilt with the sorrow of those Thomas left behind in his face. He gained hope he could make amends, even if it could never bring Thomas back or cancel out his crime. Only good could come of his intentions after all; he certainly couldn’t make things any worse.
***
When he visited the Gibsons, he had a bouquet of flowers in his hand, store-bought with a few handpicked additions from his wife’s garden. His heart warmed at the welcoming look on Mrs. Gibson’s face and her wide smile as she received the flowers. It was good to see, but still, not enough. He needed to do more.
He presented Candace with flowers as well and she took them with a small smile in return. He couldn’t tell if she meant it.
“Thank you,” she said. “But you didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to,” he replied. “I know Tom was a special guy and he really loved you guys. Even though I know flowers don’t do much, I knew I had to give these to you and your mother. He would have wanted me to, as a way of showing you he’s still around.”
He mentally patted himself on the back for the latter part of his mini-speech. Mrs. Gibson’s smile grew.
“Would you like to come in?” she said, inviting him into their modest home.
He had been perfectly content with standing on the outside looking in, but he could not turn away or deny any invitation or request from this bereaved woman. He could not risk offending her and undoing all of the positive energy he was beginning to feel as a result of her warmth toward him.
“I would love that, ma’am.”
He stepped inside their home. It was smaller than he was used to but it seemed comfortable and well lived-in. Mrs. Gibson gave him a small tour and he tried to keep a solemn face whenever a photograph of the handsome young man he helped kill smiled at him, but he felt himself in danger of breaking down every time—of suddenly blurting out that he was sorry he helped murder him. Thankfully, his guilt could easily be interpreted as sorrow at his death. Mrs. Gibson even gave him reassuring pats on the back at times making him realize that his face had morphed into something so pitiful that she put aside her own grief to comfort him. This only made him feel worse.
After the tour she sat him down on the mustard-colored couch in their small family room, sending Candace off to bring him something to drink.
“So tell me what you knew about my Tommy.”
He let out a breath for dramatic effect. He had prepared for such questions. He chose his words carefully.
“To tell you the truth, Mrs. Gibson, I didn’t have enough time with him. We met that one time, had a conversation, connected, played a few games and not long after…” He shook his head, looking away. “I can tell you this—I knew he was a good guy, and he had a bright future ahead of him. I really can’t tell you how stricken I am by this tragedy.” He put a hand to his head as he leaned down, his elbow resting on his thigh. “I’m sorry.” He breathed a sigh. “My sense of loss in no way compares to yours, but I know a great loss when I see one. It’s a shame what that girl did to him. You had a good boy.”
She nodded in pride.
“Yes, my Tommy—he was. Had a golden heart that one. Had such dreams, such hopes for his life. He wanted to help people you know, others like him. To get into college, get a better life for themselves. He wanted a job that wouldn’t keep him away from his future family like his own daddy—he’s a trucker, my Al. Out right now traveling to Georgia. Be back in two, three days.”
Candace returned with some water for both of them. She sat in the chair on George’s side.
“Where do you live?” she asked. George always felt like he was in the witness chair and she was a lawyer cross-examining when she spoke to him.
“I live in Bloomington.”
“And you traveled all the way to Chicago again to bring some flowers? Couldn’t you have had them delivered?”
“Candace…” her mother’s warning voice began.
“I’m just sayin’…”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Gibson, I understand your daughter’s concern. Partially.” He smiled at Candace. Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t mind talking to you and addressing any concerns you might have. I’ll drive down here anytime. This might sound silly, but being around you guys is almost like having Tom back again. I can see him in both of you.”
Mrs. Gibson looked touched. She smiled at him again, her eyes welling up with tears. George was not sure if they were tears of happiness at his choice of words or just natural tears of sadness as her son’s name came up again. Or both.
“You’re a sweet boy,” Mrs. Gibson said.
George thanked her then stood up to leave.
Mrs. Gibson rose as well. “Will you…come back sometime? I mean I know it’s out of your way but…”
George considered it: Mrs. Gibson’s husband was on the road, her daughter her only company. Candace and Thomas were her only children and perhaps for her, having George around felt close to having Thomas back as well, whether it was just by virtue of having another male in the house around the same age, or someone who supposedly knew Thomas and carried pieces of his life with him. How could he deny her?
“Anytime, Mrs. Gibson, anytime.”
“Good. You may join us tomorrow for dinner if you want.”
“How about lunch instead?”
She nodded in agreement.
They both saw him to the door, but Candace ventured further, seeing him off to his car. George suspe
cted she did it so that they were out of ear’s reach of her mother, and she would be free to say what she really wanted to.
“I don’t trust you or your story,” she said as they got to the car, looking him straight in the eye. “I don’t know why, but I don’t.”
“Candace, I can assure you, I have nothing but goodwill toward you and your family. Tom was a nice guy.”
“He doesn’t like anyone calling him Tom,” she said, folding her arms. “Reminds him too much of ‘Uncle Tom.’”
George shrugged. “We had a special connection. Maybe I’m the only one he allowed.”
Candace laughed and it wasn’t one filled with warmth.
“You really think of all people he’d let a white boy call him ‘Tom’ if it reminded him of ‘Uncle Tom’? You’re out of your goddamned mind.”
“Candace, what really bothers you about me? Is it because I’m white and the girl who caused all this mess was white too?”
He hoped he succeeded in shaking her off his trail.
She did not answer. She merely looked at him for a few seconds, storm clouds in her eyes. Then she dropped her folded arms.
“I’ll get to the bottom of this,” she said. “Your story’s fishy; you’re definitely hiding something.”
“Candace, I don’t know what else to tell you, but…”
She put her hand up.
“See you tomorrow since you insist,” she said, turning to go back to the house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The next day George was able to make it back to the Gibsons without stirring up suspicion in Alice. She protested, but he was easily able to suggest that work was demanding and he needed to put in more hours and make as much money as he could. It was true after all, although not that particular day.
When he got to the Gibsons, Candace was much nicer to him and Mrs. Gibson was as warm as she had been the day before. He suspected Mrs. Gibson had something to do with Candace’s change.
He had never had a conversation with let alone eaten with a black family before recently, and he was looking forward to it. And now that it felt like Candace was off his back, he felt more relaxed.