I paused. What I wanted to say was the kind of trouble that your brother causes whenever he’s around. But I said nothing.
Tyrone heard my thoughts in my silence and shook his head. “He’s changed, Janice. You know that.”
There was a long pause before he added, “And if anyone should understand people changing, it should be you.”
I froze. By the time I looked up, Tyrone had marched to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. Even when I heard the sound of the shower, I just sat there, thinking about the low blow that he had just thrown.
I couldn’t believe I was sitting here, with a dead son, and arguing with my husband about his brother. I couldn’t let Raj come between me and Tyrone. Especially not now. And especially not again.
So I sat on the bed waiting and thinking of the right words to fix it with Tyrone.
His shower was too short; I wasn’t ready. When he came out of the bathroom and gave me a quick glance, I said nothing. Just sat, still trying to get the words together.
Behind me, Tyrone moved around, getting dressed. I knew him so well, I didn’t have to see him slipping the T-shirt over his head or sliding his arms through his shirt. I waited until I heard the zipper of his pants to stand, face him, and say the words that had taken me all that time to come up with.
“I’m sorry.”
He said nothing, looking at me as if he were measuring my sincerity. I guess I passed because finally he nodded, then beckoned me to come to him.
“I don’t want to fight,” I said as he held me. “I need you more than I ever have.”
“And I need you, too, baby.” He leaned back, and with his hands on my shoulders, he said, “But you’ve got to know that Raj is going to be here with me, for me. And for you.”
I tried to nod, but I couldn’t get any part of my body to respond to that.
When I didn’t say anything, Tyrone kept on. “He’s not like that anymore. He’s not violent, he’s not vindictive.” And then he added as if he were proud, “The Brown Guardians helped to change him.”
What in the world do you think the Brown Guardians are about? They were all about violence; they were completely vindictive. I bit my tongue—literally—praying that would keep me quiet.
“Okay?” Tyrone said.
Somewhere from deep inside of me, I found the strength to nod.
He smiled. Kissed my forehead and said, “I’m going downstairs. You coming?”
“I want to get out of these clothes first.” I was so glad I had that excuse.
He kissed me again before he left me alone. And I returned to the bed. And sat. And wondered how was I supposed to get through this . . . with Raj Johnson in my house.
And now that he was here, the Brown Guardians weren’t going to be far behind. I had to stop it, but how? No one seemed able to stop them, not even the police; though I’d heard long ago that the Guardians and the police were flip sides of the same bad penny.
It hurt my heart, though, that I seemed to be the lone black person in Philly who saw the true colors of the Brown Guardians. They were heroes to so many, men who turned a wrong into a right. No one saw what I knew—that they were nothing more than motorcycle thugs, outlaws at best, terrorists for real.
And my brother-in-law was one of them.
But my son? He wouldn’t have chosen to ride with them when he was alive; I wasn’t going to allow them to recruit him now that he was dead.
Marquis Johnson was not going to be a cause for the Brown Guardians. No matter what I had to do.
I had made the transition—I changed my clothes. The dress that I’d worn to the police station then slept in last night was in the middle of the floor, right where I had stepped out of it. I grabbed it, rolled it up, and then stuffed it into the small trash can by our bedroom door.
Reaching for my cell, I scrolled down to the number that I’d locked into my phone yesterday, then clicked to make the call.
When a female answered, I said, “May I speak to Detective Ferguson, please?” She asked my name, and I told her and added, “I’m Marquis Johnson’s mother.”
I figured by now everyone down there had heard about the black boy who’d been murdered by the white man. And I must’ve been right because just like Tyrone had been yesterday, I was patched straight through to Detective Ferguson.
“Mrs. Johnson.” He called my name in a tone that sounded like we were friends. Nothing like the professional drone he’d used with us in the middle of Monday night. I hoped that was a good sign.
“Thank you for taking my call.”
“No problem; you just caught me. How may I help you?”
“I was wondering; do you have any more news about my son?” Then I paused because I needed new oxygen for my next words. “We’d like to . . . there are arrangements . . . I want to . . . prepare for . . .”
It didn’t matter that I couldn’t complete a coherent sentence; Detective Ferguson seemed to understand me. “No, Mrs. Johnson. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear to you yesterday; it’s going to take a couple of days.”
Had that only been yesterday?
He said, “We have to do an autopsy, and a toxicology report.”
“A toxicology report? Why? We told you our son wasn’t on drugs.”
“It’s routine, Mrs. Johnson,” the detective explained.
For the second time today, I was mad. Routine? There was nothing routine about the murder of my son.
“Mr. Ferguson,” I began, trying to come up with a comeback. “Do you have any children?”
There was a pause before he said, “No, ma’am.”
“Maybe that’s why you can’t understand how offensive your words are and this whole process is.”
“I’m really sorry. I’m just doing my job.”
“And I’m just being a mother. I have to see my son. You don’t know . . . what it’s like.” I held back my cries. “I’ve lost him, and now I can’t even see him. Do you know how hard this is for me?”
“I can only imagine.”
“Is there any way for you to arrange it? For me to at least see him?”
He didn’t even try to hide his sigh. “No, ma’am.” He paused and added, “We can release his car to you,” as if that were a consolation prize. As if I would ever drive the Jeep I shared with my son again. When I didn’t bother to respond, Detective Ferguson finished with, “I give you my word, we’re doing the best we can.”
Without a good-bye, I hung up because that was the best that I could do. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stared at the phone and wondered if I should call back. And this time beg. Beg until I got him to understand that I was dying to see my dead son.
But I decided to leave that alone for now, and instead, I stepped into the hallway, hoping that my brother-in-law was already gone.
For a second, I stood at the top of the stairs, but heard nothing. It wasn’t until I was halfway down that I heard Tyrone, Raj, and Delores in the family room.
So instead of turning to the right, I veered to the left. I’d hide out in the kitchen for a bit, and then go back to my bedroom if Raj wasn’t gone by then.
The moment I stepped into the kitchen, my stomach rumbled as if it were trying to tell me something. In my head, I calculated when was the last time I’d eaten. The days were running together, except it hadn’t been that many days at all. Today was just Wednesday. Only about thirty-six hours since the beginning of my despair.
I wasn’t hungry in my head, but I needed to handle my body. So I dumped a single slice of bread into the toaster, then poured a glass of orange juice. Waiting, I leaned back against the counter, sipping, thinking, mourning.
At the same moment that the toast popped up, a voice behind me said, “Hey.” Both sounds made me jump a couple of inches into the air.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Turning around, I faced Raj. If I didn’t have such contempt for this man, he might actually be a little attractive in that Boris Kodjoe perfection
kind of way. Though that wasn’t my kind of man at all. I needed ruggedness, an obvious bad-boy attitude. Raj didn’t have that on the outside like Tyrone. What he had was worse; he had evil on the inside.
“You don’t scare me.”
He nodded. “You didn’t give me a chance earlier, Jan, but I really wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Marquis.”
Though there was little that I believed or trusted about Raj, I did know that he loved his nephew. Back in the day when he was my beloved brother-in-law, he was our go-to babysitter. Anytime Tyrone and I needed help with Marquis, Raj was there. But we were a long ways away from those days.
“Thank you,” I said, and then, turned my attention back to the toaster. If I could’ve thought of a way to be even ruder, I would have done it.
“How’s Syreeta?”
It had to be grief because I couldn’t remember ever being so angry this many times in one day.
I swung around, and with all the pain in my voice that came from losing my son, I said, “She’s good, Raj. Now that her face has stayed out of the way of your fists.”
It wasn’t enough for me that I could almost see the heat rising beneath his skin. No, since he was bold enough to come to my home, since he was bold enough to confront me, since he was bold enough to ask about my best friend, I had to go in. “And don’t ask me for her number so that you can track her down and beat her again.”
“I would never do that.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I already know she’s in Germany.”
That made me pause and get mad at Tyrone all over again. My husband and I had a deal; he was never supposed to tell his brother anything about Syreeta.
“Look,” Raj began, holding up his hands as if he were surrendering to me. “I didn’t mean any harm by asking about Syreeta. I just wanted to know how she was.”
“I already told you. She’s away from your fists.”
He pressed his lips together like he was holding back words. Then he had the nerve to say, “Please tell her I asked about her.”
“I’m not telling her a thing about you. If she’s lucky, she’ll die without ever hearing your name again.”
That got to him, I could tell. But it got to me, too. I didn’t want to talk about death right now—not even with Raj.
But it was just that I really didn’t like this man. He and I had fought a battle that he almost won. It had started because of my girlfriend Syreeta. I couldn’t even remember how many years ago it was when I introduced the two, but only months after the introduction, they’d become live-in lovers. That had lasted for years. Until their lovefest turned into some kind of boxing match that only Raj could win.
I would never forget that first call.
“Jan, please, come and get me,” Syreeta cried.
“Ree! Where are you?”
“At home. Raj got mad, and he hit me.”
“Oh, my God,” I said, not able to believe it.
“He beat me up,” she continued.
“I’ll be right there.”
I still had a couple of hours to go before I was supposed to get off from work, but I told my supervisor that I had a family emergency and she let me clock out. I raced to Raj’s apartment, and when I got there, I was shocked to see that my best friend had lied. Raj hadn’t beaten her up. He’d kicked her ass like she was a man.
There had never been a time when I shook as much as I did when I helped Syreeta toss a couple of things into an overnight bag. I got her out of there, but then the next decision was where she would go. She didn’t want to come home with me, and I agreed, thinking that my home would be the first place Tyrone’s brother would look. Not that I ever thought Raj would go up against his brother; still, I didn’t want to take that chance. So we checked her into a Ramada Inn.
When I was sure she was okay, I left her at the hotel and went home to find out from my husband what the hell was wrong with his brother.
Tyrone was just as shocked as I was, though, and he kept asking me, “Are you sure?” as if I couldn’t trust my eyes.
“I’m sure. And she needs to have your brother arrested.”
Tyrone had called his brother, not reaching him until the next morning, when Raj told Tyrone that he was at the hotel, picking up Syreeta.
“We just had a little lovers’ situation,” Raj had convinced Tyrone.
I was shocked, until I spoke to Syreeta.
“He said he’s sorry, and he won’t do it again.”
“Syreeta, you know that’s not true.”
“He means it. And I believe in giving everyone a second chance. I love him. And I know it won’t happen again.”
I had prayed that night that Syreeta was right; it turned out that she was wrong.
But even as I remembered that time and how awful it was, gazing at Raj now, standing in front of me with an expression that looked like I’d cut him, I wished I hadn’t talked about death.
It was just that every time I saw this man, I wanted to hurt him. He’d caused so much chaos—not only with what he’d done to Syreeta, but also by what he tried to do to me . . . and Tyrone.
“I’m sorry,” Raj said. “About everything, Jan, I’m really sorry.”
I didn’t know what it was. Maybe it was the grief that had my heart so hard. But all that came out of me was, “You’re right. You are sorry.”
“You’re not going to give me a break, are you?”
“No more than the breaks you gave to Syreeta. Let me see.” I held up my fingers as if I were about to count them off. “You gave her a broken nose, a broken arm, a broken—”
“I’ll leave now.”
I lowered my arms. “Do that.”
He took a couple of steps away from me and turned back. “I’ve changed.”
“I think Charles Manson says that every time he’s up for parole.”
“Wow!” He shook his head. “Well, I’ve heard that you’ve changed, too. I guess that’s something that you, me, and Charles have in common.”
He turned around and walked out, leaving me alone with that zinger ringing in my ears.
Damn!
My son had just been murdered and now I had to deal with this? There was no way I would be able to handle it.
No way.
Chapter 7
I was in this never-ending state of inertia. The clock ticked, but time didn’t move. My days became known by numbers and today was day three. The third full day of my life without Marquis.
But then I rolled over in my bed and felt the cool sheets. In my mind, I changed the number of this day. Now this became day two. The second morning that I woke up without Tyrone in the bed next to me.
I pushed myself up and once again wondered—where was my husband? Had another night passed when I’d slept alone? It wasn’t until I was sitting all the way up that I noticed a piece of paper peeking out from beneath his pillow.
Babe: I’m at Raj’s house. We’re working on a few things. Mama’s there with you. And I left the car. Call me the moment you wake up. Love you, babe. Need you. Call me.
“Love you, babe,” I whispered as I folded the paper in half. “Need you, too.”
My husband’s concern showed all through the note. He cared so much that he didn’t want me to be alone. But he didn’t care enough to be the one here with me.
Reaching over to the nightstand, I picked up my cell phone. I scrolled, then clicked, then asked, “May I speak to Detective Ferguson, please,” when the phone on the other end was answered.
And like yesterday, I didn’t have to wait.
“Ferguson.”
“This is Janice Johnson. I was calling to see when I would be able to . . . see my son.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Johnson,” he began in that friendly tone again. I’d expected something else this morning; I’d expected to feel as if I was becoming a nuisance. “I can check on that and get back to you.”
“Please do.”
Like yesterday, I hung up without a good-bye or a
thank-you. I didn’t have room for niceties as long as my son was being held hostage.
The tap on the door made me look up, and when I said, “Come in,” Delores stepped inside my bedroom.
“Good, you’re awake.” She was already dressed, today donning a black wrap dress. “I didn’t want to knock too early.”
“I was just getting up.” I raised the paper that I still held. “Tyrone left me a note. He stayed with Raj?”
Delores nodded as she sat on the edge of our bed. “Nobody is getting a lot of sleep around here.”
I didn’t bother to tell her that she was wrong about that. Breathing was almost impossible and eating was almost unthinkable . . . but sleeping? I was doing that well.
She continued, “They knew you weren’t comfortable with Raj and his friends being here. So, since they wanted to talk about . . . some things, they headed over to Raj’s house.”
My eyes narrowed.
Delores added, “Tyrone wanted me to stay with you and take you over to my place this morning.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “I hope Raj isn’t trying to talk Tyrone into doing something stupid.”
Delores popped off the bed, pursed her lips, and looked down at me as if I’d just insulted her because I’d insulted her son.
“You know that the Guardians are nothing more than vigilantes,” I kept on, not caring about how Delores felt. “And if they do something, that’s only going to make this situation worse.”
“I don’t know how anything can be worse than this, Jan,” Delores said, resting one hand on her hip. “How can anything be worse than Marquis being dead?”
It must’ve been the way I glared at her that made her say, “Look, I just think that everyone’s nerves and feelings and emotions are fragile right now and—”
“That’s not it at all. Even if this weren’t about Marquis, I wouldn’t want to be involved with killers.”
“They’re not killers!” But then, when I stared her down, she backed down. “Well, sometimes violence is what you need. Sometimes violence is the only language that white folks understand.”
I couldn’t believe this churchgoing, Bible-reading, scripture-quoting woman was saying this.
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