LONG, Sheldon R. On January 5, 2002 Sheldon R. Long of Baltimore. Beloved husband of Jenellis Long (nee Simmons); loving stepfather of Anastasia and Contessa Simmons, son of Ramona K.M. Gilbert and the late Brandon Long. Funeral will be Friday, January 11 at Bartholomew Baptist Church on East Chase Street. Interment to follow at King Memorial Park.
“Huh?” I blinked trying to make sense of this new bit of information. I quickly went back to the Web site of Laz’s news station, knowing that if there was a news story tied to Sheldon’s death on this date, there would be some record.
There was.
He had been murdered.
Stabbed multiple times, the victim of an apparent robbery as he was found missing his wallet and a watch. A young gangbanger had been arrested and charged with the crime, though he vehemently denied responsibility. Sheldon had been found lying next to several trash cans in an alley in East Baltimore.
I felt dizzy, trying to put the pieces together in a way that made sense, uncertain if or what to do with these dots I was connecting.
There was a short video of the news story accompanying the article. I clicked play and a teary-eyed, younger Jenellis filled the screen. As it was a public library, the volume had been set to mute. Didn’t matter, no sound was really needed to watch the coverage of Jenellis shaking her head, tears flowing down her face. She pointed to two girls standing behind her, her head still shaking as I imagined her saying, “He’s gone. What are we going to do?”
Two girls.
I froze the frame, wishing I could zoom in. Anastasia “Silver” Simmons stood there weeping, a little girl at the time. She was holding the hand of her sister, Contessa, I assumed from the death notice.
Silver and Gold.
The other girl was standing slightly behind her mother, her face partially blocked by her mother’s movements, but she appeared to be about the same height and size.
Twins?
It was possible. Very likely, I concluded. Silver and Gold. The man working on The Block had alluded to some tragedy happening to Gold. Assuming that she was really Silver’s sister, I did another search for Contessa Simmons on the news Web site.
Another story surfaced. The burned body of a young woman with that name had been found in a burnt-out car two months ago. No arrests had been made, no leads, no nothing. There were no pictures of her in the article, and no other information about her life, employment, or family.
My gut told me this was no coincidence, that this was the same Contessa Simmons who had the stage name “Gold.”
Silver’s sister; most likely even her twin.
Lord, what am I in the middle of—and why? I rubbed my temples, feeling a headache blossoming somewhere in the center of my brain and radiating outward. I realized then that I could not remember the last time I had eaten.
I had been surviving on pure adrenaline and nerves.
“Excuse me, ma’am.”
I jumped to a start as a finger tapped my shoulder.
“Huh? Oh, yes?” I turned to face a wiry-looking older white woman who had curly blond hair and a look of severity on her well-defined features.
“Your one hour of computer use is nearly completed. This is your five-minute warning.” She walked away, disappearing into the stacks with a loud echo of her heels.
I needed to get back to my son. Thankfully, I’d memorized my library card number back in grad school days and I was certain I had enough prepayment on it for printing. I sent all the news articles I’d found to the printer before shutting down each window.
Then I went back to Roman’s blog.
The final post. It was the shortest entry.
I’ve got $1,000 saved up! I leave for Arizona next week. Haven’t figured out where to go from there, but once I do, it’s a wrap, folks!
My heart sank as I blinked back tears. There was nothing there that told me where he could have gone. He had not even known where he was going. No clues. No direction.
I heard loud footsteps echoing toward me. I knew the librarian was on her way back to tell me my five minutes were up. I shook my head, and reached for the mouse to shut down this last open window.
But something caught my eyes.
A comment.
The top of the page noted that there was a single comment from a viewer beneath this last post. I started to scroll down to the end to read it, but the footsteps were getting closer. A second set was with them, probably the person who had signed up to use the computer after me, and the librarian was coming as the enforcer.
“Let me print this out,” I decided, clicking on the printer icon before logging off.
“Finished,” I said aloud, smiling at the approaching librarian and a man in a dirty jacket trudging beside her. I had my things gathered and was out of the way before she even had to say a word. I was not in the mood or mindset to explain anything or interact with anyone.
I just wanted to get to my son.
I nearly ran to the public printer, getting some raised eyebrows and angry snarls along the way as I stepped on a couple of toes, brushed past a few shoulders.
I did not care.
I was close to finding out something about my son’s whereabouts. I needed to see that comment I’d sent to the printer. I grabbed the papers that were actively coming out of the printer and started sorting through them.
“I’m sorry.” A young woman with long, cinnamon-colored dreadlocks interrupted my task. “I just sent my paper to this printer and I think you might have it in your hand.”
“Okay, hold on.” I didn’t even look up at her as I easily plucked out the news articles on Sheldon and Contessa. Economic Policies of Eighteenth-Century Maryland. Huh? I wrinkled my face at the next sheet. “I guess this is yours?” I held it up for the young woman.
“Yes, that’s the title page. The rest should be coming.”
I watched as the printer spit out more and more sheets, knowing that my son’s final blog post with the unread comment underneath would not be coming out until her paper finished printing.
“How many pages is your paper?” I asked as the printer kept rolling out sheets.
“Oh, it’s my dissertation.” She smiled. “Two hundred and thirteen pages.” She beamed. “My printer at home broke, and it’s cheaper to print it here than buy a new one. Broke college student, you feel me?”
Don’t get me wrong; I was proud that sister girl was about to get her doctorate degree, but as I sat there waiting for all 213 pages to finish printing, a part of me felt like I was going to start rolling on the floor, screaming, shaking.
I needed to see this comment on my son’s last blog post.
“Oh, no,” the doctoral candidate murmured.
“What is it?” I followed her eyes and felt my heart drop. The printer had stopped.
“Is it out of paper?” I groaned.
“No. Looks worse than that.” The young woman groaned even louder than me. “Paper jam.”
“Oh, that’s easy to fix.” I grabbed the last sheet, which was hanging out of the printer halfway and gave it a hard yank. It gave easily, but then the next paper came out in shreds, followed by more shreds and more shreds. I grabbed what I could, started pressing buttons, and banged on the side of the mammoth machine.
“What are you doing?” the woman shrieked.
Red, green, and yellow buttons started flashing all over until a loud beep sounded. Then the machine shook, rumbled, and shuddered before falling eerily silent and still.
“You broke the machine and you messed up my dissertation!” The girl looked ready to do some damage to me as strips and shreds of paper hung from both of her hands. I heard loud footsteps echoing toward us.
“Is there a problem?” The librarian from earlier was marching toward us, her frown directed solely at me.
“I’m sorry. The paper was jammed. I tried to fix it, but, but I need to go.”
A small crowd was starting to gather as the young woman began hurling insults at me. I had to get out of there
. I needed to get to another computer.
“I’m sorry,” I said again as I began pushing past all of them. The doctoral candidate threw up her hands and screamed. The librarian called for help. I pushed my way out of there as what looked like an army of security guards seemed to be marching toward us. Guess I won’t be able to come back here for a while. I shook my head as I jogged out of the building and ran to my car.
I needed to get back online.
I needed to know what that single comment under my son’s blog post said.
As I got into my car, I recalled that we were supposed to be having dinner at Mother Spriggs’s house. Skee-Gee would be there, I consoled myself. Maybe he might remember something Roman said or did that would offer some more clues to his whereabouts. Plus, maybe the elder lady had a computer somewhere in her house. Perhaps a grandchild or another younger relative lived there with her. Young people always seemed to have a way to connect to cyberspace.
“Sorry,” I yelled out at the tiny Mini Cooper I nearly hit as I pulled out of my parking space. As I checked my rearview mirror to ensure that I had not cut anyone else off, I noticed a red Lexus three cars behind me.
I knew it was a long shot, that the events of the last three days had done a number on my nerves; but I firmly believed that I was being followed. I sped up and made a quick left turn onto West Mulberry Street. The Lexus continued straight down Cathedral Street.
“Lord, I think I am officially going crazy.” I wanted to laugh at myself for being so paranoid, but I did not have time to do so. I pushed my foot on the gas pedal and headed back to East Baltimore, where Sadie Spriggs called home.
Chapter 35
I pulled up to the tiny stone-front row home on East Preston Street just as the sun was calling it quits for the day. The block blossomed with activity, people walking here and there, neighbors sitting out on their front stoops. The area around Mother Spriggs’s front door was swept and tidy, with two labeled trashcans turned upside down next to her steps. A NO TRESPASSING sign was tucked in one of the two front windows, and a small birdhouse painted in multiple pastel colors sat on the side of her top step. Also on her top step lay a bag of candy, an unopened package of hot pink beads and a skinny plastic comb, as if someone had been sitting there about to braid a little girl’s hair.
I hope there is a computer somewhere in this house, I prayed again.
The door opened before I even knocked. “My grandma said come in,” a little girl of about eight or nine answered. I recognized her from the children’s choir at church and remembered that there had been a funeral for the girl’s mother last year. I had not known that Sadie had taken the little girl—I thought her name was Jessica—in.
“We’re back here,” my mother called. I followed her voice to the dining room, where a full-sized dining table was surrounded by my family and several church members. The house was narrow in width, but long in depth.
“Hi, Sister Smith, Deacon Evans, Mother Greene.” I nodded at familiar faces from our church. My mother and Yvette were helping Mother Spriggs put out platters of foods.
I had never seen my mother and sister work together so effortlessly without so much as a grumble between them. I guess Mother Spriggs’s prayers and songs really work. I shook my head, remembering leaving all three of them in the basement of my mother’s house the other night for the Spirit-filled intervention. I tried not to feel left out.
“Hi, Mom.” I kissed her cheek. “Hi, Yvette, where’s Skee-Gee?”
“He found some video games upstairs with one of Mother Spriggs’s grandsons.”
“Do you know if she has a computer here?”
“I don’t know, why?” Yvette looked at me like I was crazy.
“I might have come across a clue to Roman’s whereabouts, but I need to get back online.”
“Oh, you have to check with Mother Spriggs, I guess.” Just as quick as she had looked my way, her words and attention were directed back to my mother. “Mom, can you pass me that bread basket?” she beckoned.
“Here you go,” my mother replied. “Sienna, give us a hand with the utensils, please.”
My feet were glued to the floor as irritation swelled within me. “Are you kidding me?” My voice was slightly louder than I meant it to be. “Yvette, when you did not know where your son was, you were in a panic, calling every phone number you could think of. Mom, this morning you were fussing at me for not calling you with updates about Roman that I don’t even have. My son is still out there, and the two of you seem like you couldn’t care less.”
“Sienna, calm down.” My mother frowned as she opened a gallon of fruit punch to pour into a punch bowl. “The whole reason we’re here for dinner is to have prayer for Roman’s speedy return. We did not tell you because you try so hard to be independent with these things. We were afraid that you wouldn’t show if you knew that’s why we were all gathering.”
I looked around the dining room, realizing that everyone at the table was staring at me. Sister Angie Smith, one of the ushers who always chided Roman about wearing his hat in church, was nodding and smiling. Deacon Evans, a handsome eighty-year-old man, eyed me solemnly. He wore a hunter green church suit complete with a paisley handkerchief peeking out in a crisp triangle from his lapel pocket.
“Yes, chile, that’s why we all are here.” Mother Greene nodded, her cane balanced in her hand as she sat at a chair in the corner of the room.
“And, Sienna”—I heard a little bit of the bite back in Yvette’s voice—“the reason why I am not worried about Roman is for the simple fact that Skee-Gee isn’t. As much as our sons bump heads, you know that Skee-Gee loves Roman like a little brother. If Skee-Gee thought Roman was in danger, you know that he would fight to the death to make sure he was okay.”
“That’s right,” my mother echoed. “When I saw Skee-Gee coming out of the airport and he did not look the least bit worried about Roman, I knew that I need not get worked up either. It’s hard, Sienna, but I have faith. Roman is his mother’s child. He may be strong enough to go out on an adventure, but he is smart enough to know where his home is, where the people who love him are, and he’ll be back home soon enough.”
My mother and I stared at each other a few moments.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Mmm, hmmm.” She turned back to add a two liter of ginger ale to the punch bowl.
I savored the moment, knowing that was my mother’s best attempt at complimenting and comforting me. Even Yvette respected the moment, as she quietly handed me the bread platter to put onto the table, instead of throwing it at me in her usual way.
“Praise the Lord, you made it here.” Mother Spriggs came out of the kitchen, a plate of crackers, cheese, and grapes in hand. She was wearing all white again, from the turban on her head to the white orthopedic shoes on her feet. The woman still gave me the heebie-jeebies, but I knew that was simply her style. “Some more people from church are coming. We’re going to give them a few more minutes to get here and then we’re all going to pray, pray, pray. And because we believe that God hears and answers our prayers, we are then going to have a celebration feast and sing songs of praise. Amen?” She turned back into the kitchen, humming.
I sighed, not quite sure what to do, but wanting to get out of the spotlight of attention. Plus, I still needed a computer. “Excuse me,” I murmured as I headed toward the stairs. I climbed up to the second floor and found Skee-Gee in a front bedroom, a video game controller in hand. Mother Spriggs’s grandson, a pudgy fourteen-year-old who wore thick eyeglasses and stuttered except when he was singing solos for the church youth choir, sat on the side of a bed. He kept quietly reaching for the controller in Skee-Gee’s hands. Skee-Gee, for his part, simply batted the younger teen’s hands away.
“Hold up, Vern! I got them bonus points and two extra lives. That’s how you do it, son.” He swung the controller again out of reach as Vern tried in vain to reclaim his property.
“Aunt See, how are you?” Skee-Gee grinned at me b
efore shooting down something else on the TV screen. The television wobbled on a rickety old metal stand at the foot of the bed. “Bam, got that mutha!”
“Sylvester Grantley III,” I demanded in my sternest tone, “do you know where Roman is?”
“Naw, man!” He narrowed his eyes at the screen, shooting down what looked like choppers and tanks. “Got it! Yes!” he shrieked.
I walked over and pulled the plug to the TV.
“Aunt See, what you doin’?” He glared at me, jumping to a stand. Vern blinked quietly, his eyeballs as big as quarters behind the thick frames.
I narrowed my eyes at my nephew, who stood three inches taller than me. “I’m going to ask you one last time. Where is my son?”
Skee-Gee collapsed back down on the bed. “I don’t know Aunt Sienna. I swear.”
I sat down on the bed next to him. “Just tell me what you do know.”
Skee-Gee curled up his top lip, and threw the controller at Vern, who flipped it over in his hands. Vern looked at the unplugged TV, looked at me, and did not move another muscle. Both of our eyes were on Skee-Gee.
“Look, Tridell and I told him we were only going to go on the mission trip so that we could get to Vegas. That was our plan all along. First, Roman was talking like he wasn’t going to go with us; but then all of a sudden, last week, he told me that he was in, that he was going.”
Last week. That was when Roman stopped posting on his blog. My heart skipped a beat. I had to get to a computer! I needed to see that comment underneath his last post!
“First,” Skee-Gee continued, “I couldn’t figure out why he even bothered to come. It was like he was hanging back, waiting for something. He kept checking the time, checking his phone. Seemed like he was kind of nervous. When we got busted, he almost seemed relieved. In fact, he didn’t even seem stressed out again ’til we was sitting on that plane waiting for take-off to come back home. I thought it was only ’cause he was nervous about flying—you should have seen him on that first flight to Arizona.” Skee-Gee chuckled. “Well, Minister Howard had a mix-up with his seat five rows behind us. While he was talking with the flight attendant and some dude who was refusing to move, Roman kept checking his phone, and then he got up and scooted right past me and Tridell, who was too busy crying about getting caught. So I says, ‘Cuz, where you going?’ and he looked at me and said, ‘It’s all cool. I’m going to find my pops.’
Without Faith Page 19