by Ben Sciacca
“It’s nice to meet all of you,” Jim said. “I’m Jim Dawkins . . . Your grandmother works at our church . . . I brought some food for Thanksgiving—” He abruptly stopped speaking to stop the nervous words from gushing out of his mouth.
“Well, Mr. Jim needs to get going. You babies tell him thank you for the food and for stopping by to see us,” Wilma said.
“Thank you Mr. Jim!” the two little ones said in unison. Monique just sucked her lips in and stared at the floor.
The closure Jim was finally sensing was invigorating. He backpedaled quickly down the hallway. “I hope you have a wonderful Thanksgiving! Enjoy the food! Thank you for letting me visit with you! I hope to see you again!” Jim was almost shouting over his shoulder as he walked towards the door. He reached for the handle but stopped as Jamal wrapped his arms around his leg. For a second he froze. Jamal continued to hug him, his chubby face smiling up at him. Jim tentatively patted the boy’s head, like he was testing a stove to see if it was hot.
“Okay,” Jim chuckled. “Thanks for the hug there, buddy . . . I gotta go now . . .”
Jamal continued to hold on. Jim glanced at Wilma. He could feel his neck and ears flushing again. He laughed nervously.
“C’mon baby,” Wilma chided the boy and gently grabbed his arm. “Time to let Mr. Jim go home.”
Jamal released his grip and walked slowly back to his grandmother. Jim pulled the door open and gave the Thompson family one more quick look. “Nice to meet you,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Good night.”
Wilma, Jamal, and Janae were waving at him as he shut the door. With swift and deliberate steps he moved toward the stairwell. He kept his eyes on the ground and descended with the vigor of a man fleeing for freedom. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the silhouette of two figures just beyond the stairs. He heard some angry voices from the end of a hallway. Finally he made it to the bottom and shot straight out of the front door.
The frozen night wind slashed at him the moment he emerged, but he inhaled the frigid air gladly, like a drowning man bursting up from the depths. He whipped his keys from his pocket and clicked the toggle as he rushed across the yard to his car. Jim threw open the door, sat down, and fired up the engine. His heart swelled, a cocktail of relief and shame, with an unusual sense of heroism. Then he cursed. The ominous yellow light reappeared on his dash. The groceries were done, but he still had to get gas. The night wasn’t over.
5
THE DETECTIVE
5:45 p.m., Monday before Thanksgiving
MARQUAN COLE PUT HIS CAR IN PARK AND FROWNED. He looked out of the window as a sharp breeze tossed leaves across the street. The house to his right was more like a castle. The ornate stonework was immaculate. A warm orange light shone behind curtains in more windows than he could count. An elderly white woman, bundled under a thick brown afghan, stood angrily jabbing her finger at one of the two officers in her yard.
MarQuan inhaled a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. He rubbed his hands in front of the dash heater. He needed a moment to brace himself for the cold—and for the ire that Ms. Tessly was about to unload on him.
He opened his door and shrugged his way through the wind. Ms. Tessly’s shrill voice clawed its way into his ears like a parasite. He glanced at the two officers, standing just beneath her front patio. They were frozen like snowmen. Their faces were pink and flushed. They’d been standing there for a while.
“Ms. Tessly!” MarQuan bellowed loudly as he walked briskly up the long, bricked driveway.
The old woman pulled the hand she’d been waving wildly in the air back into her blanket for warmth. She shot her eyes over to MarQuan and grimaced. “It happened again, MarQuan!”
MarQuan smiled. “What happened, Ms. Tessly?”
“Some hooligans stole another package off of my patio! This is the third time, MarQuan—the third time!”
Officer Parks cleared his throat. “Detective Cole, we were just talking to Ms. Tessly about getting a description of the ‘hooligans.’”
“Did you see them, Ms. Tessly?” MarQuan pulled a notebook from his overcoat.
The old lady snarled. “I didn’t see them take my package, but I’ve definitely seen them.”
MarQuan clicked his pen and raised his eyebrow, urging her to continue.
“It’s that same group of black boys! We’ve been over this before. They wander around in the community—up and down the streets. Wearing their hoodies with their britches hanging off their butts. They’re like ghosts! As soon as I go to grab my phone, poof! They vanish! But they’re the ones—it’s either them or one of those Mexican construction crews. This isn’t rocket science stuff, gentlemen!”
MarQuan made a few pecks on his notebook. “Have you seen any of these people doing anything suspicious—seen them running off with someone else’s package, casing anyone’s property?”
Ms. Tessly groaned and shook her head. “No I haven’t, but that doesn’t matter, does it? Do those kids live over here? Do they work over here? I’m not a detective like you, but I’m pretty sure I can spot something suspicious. Besides, I’m not the only one. The Sandersons, Petersons, and Kirklands have also had some UPS packages disappearing off of their porches. With Christmas around the corner, this is only going to get worse. We shouldn’t have to worry about stuff disappearing out of our yards, should we?”
Officer Rudolph shifted his weight and spoke slowly. “She’s got a point, detective. What are those kids doing way over here?”
“I told her we’ve been patrolling around since her last call,” Officer Parks mumbled, “looking for black—looking for youth that look like they aren’t up to any good. We just haven’t seen anything yet.”
Ms. Tessly ignored Officer Parks and directed her focus on the detective. “I’m running out of patience, MarQuan, and I’m starting to wonder if you really care about this problem. People in Stone Brook are here in this community so that this type of stuff doesn’t happen. I have nothing against you personally, but I’m one incident away from filing an official complaint with your supervisor.”
She kept going, looking at MarQuan but talking to no one in particular. “No one should have to worry that their Amazon order is going to walk off their porch in the hands of some thieving thugs. At the next neighborhood meeting, I’m going to petition once again to get that bus stop moved another three blocks away. There’s no need to have a bus stop so close to Stone Brook. No one from here rides the bus anyway. Maybe the maids will have to walk a few more feet, but that might keep those kids from bothering our neighborhood. Either that or I’m going to need to pay for a gate at the end of my driveway—and that’s expensive!” She huffed in frustration. “I feel like no one is listening to me anywhere. It’s time to get something done about this!”
MarQuan looked at the ground for a moment before raising his eyes with the slightest smile. “I’m sorry about your packages, Ms. Tessly. I know that’s frustrating. If this is a trend, we’ll catch whoever is doing these things—I’m sure of that.”
Ms. Tessly offered a weak smile of her own. “I know that as a black man you’ve got to be tired of seeing all of these poor black kids getting arrested. I understand that—we all do. But wrong is wrong. This needs to stop. You told me you’d do something last time we spoke, and here we are again. So let’s do something about it.”
The detective sucked in his lips and stared at the old woman. The old lady matched his tense gaze for a moment but then looked away and shuddered in the cold. She spun on her heels and grabbed the doorknob to her home. The yard was bathed in light as she threw open the door.
“A cold night like this one would have been a great night for some mint tea,” she mumbled absently as she stepped back into her house. “Too bad my tea never made it.”
With that she closed the door, leaving MarQuan and the two officers in the cold darkness.
6
THE DRAMA
5:50 p.m., Monday before Thanksgiving
“AYE, MA
LIK!”
Habib, the store manager, waved at the young man. Bells clanged as the door opened and shut.
Malik nodded a hello. He was grateful to be inside where it was warm. He had been coming to this Shop ’n’ Snack since he was a little boy. The three aisles were familiar—staples in his life. He was only eighteen, but he had lived in thirteen different places. This convenience store was a consistent anchor for him. The smell of the hot dogs turning on the rotisserie, even the faint but sweet odor of the cigarettes Habib smoked in his back office, were things he enjoyed.
Habib was old and balding. He had a silvery mustache and a thin gold necklace. He had been running this small convenience store for as long as Malik could remember. Ordinarily he was at his cash register, secured behind bulletproof glass. At the moment, however, he was on his knees, unloading a box of motor oil onto a shelf. Some smooth jazz was playing on the radio. He hummed along absentmindedly as Malik walked over to the refrigerated section.
“Man, why are you out in this cold, boy?” Habib hollered over the aisles. “It’s freezing out there!”
“Grandma—she needs some butter and milk.” Malik yanked the refrigerator door open and grabbed a gallon of 2 percent.
“How’s Ms. Wilma doing?” Habib queried. “I haven’t seen her in some time.”
“She’s aight.”
Malik moved to his left and grabbed a box of butter. He looked over his shoulder as some car lights flashed through the store window. A black Lexus pulled into the parking lot and stopped at one of the pumps. Meanwhile, three figures in hoodies were shuffling down the sidewalk, moving toward the store. Clouds of breath emerged from their hoods, but Malik couldn’t see their faces.
Jim pulled up to the pump. He was grateful there were no other cars in the lot. His completion of this mission couldn’t happen any sooner. The idea of a hot meal with his wife and her parents filled him with warmth. He grabbed the car door and opened it slowly, wincing as a thin sheet of sleet stung his face.
“I hope these pumps take credit cards,” he muttered.
To his relief, they did. He swiped his Visa and began to fill his tank. The numbers on the pump rolled slowly, two or three digits a second. “C’mon, c’mon,” he mumbled. Two cars roared down the street, blaring music.
Jim looked up from the pump as he heard voices. Three young men in matching black hoodies were cursing and talking in snarls as they approached the store. One of them cast a look in his direction. Jim quickly looked away and back at the pump. He was close to a half gallon. Two gallons should be just enough to get him home.
The bells clanged loudly as the door to the store was thrown open. Malik looked over his shoulder again. His eyes widened slightly as he recognized the young men. It was Mike, Cam, and Tyrell from the local gang. He spun his back toward them and ducked his head.
Cam and Tyrell made their way in his direction. Mike remained up near the door, sorting through some candies.
“Good evening,” Habib said. He continued to shelve the oil.
Jim eyed the numbers on the gas pump. He tapped his foot and glanced back at the store. Through the big plate window he could see the kids in hoodies spreading throughout the store. He frowned. One of the young men had just pocketed something off the shelf.
Just then, Jim’s phone rang. He pulled it out of his coat. It was Mary Beth. He placed the phone back in his pocket. She’d have to wait until he was out of the cold and out of the neighborhood. She’d call back in a minute.
Mary Beth pulled the phone away from her ear. The call had gone straight to Jim’s voicemail. She placed her finger over the redial button but then set the phone on the table with a sigh.
“He should be on the road by now,” she said, shaking her head. She looked nervously back at her phone for a moment before walking briskly over to the refrigerator to get a bottle of water.
“Don’t worry, Mary Beth,” she whispered to herself. “He’ll be fine—just give it a few more minutes . . .”
She took a quick swig from her bottle and stared back at the phone.
Malik breathed slowly. He could feel perspiration forming under his stocking cap. He needed them to leave. Tyrell rounded the aisle and stopped for a moment. Malik turned his head slightly and pretended to be looking at some energy drinks.
Habib rose slowly to his feet to keep an eye on his customers. Mike shuffled off around the corner. Tyrell stared hard at Malik and narrowed his eyes. “Yo, Cam,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Who we got here?”
Cam squinted behind his glasses and shrugged.
Tyrell swatted his shoulder with the back of his hand. “I think that’s Malik.”
“Aye, is that you Malik?” Tyrell blurted out.
Malik kept his back turned to them. His heart and mind were racing. If he turned around, there would be no going back. He shot a glance to his left. Mike was between him and the exit. The milk in his hand felt like a gallon of lead. Habib, three aisles away, scratched the top of his head.
“You hear me talkin’ to you?” Tyrell growled.
Malik reluctantly turned around to face his fear. As he did so, Tyrell flashed a menacing smile. Cam took another step forward.
“See?” Tyrell said as he slapped Cam’s shoulder again. “I told you it was that clown, Malik. What’cha doin’ in here, lil’ punk?”
Malik swallowed and tried to gather his courage. “Grabbin’ groceries for dinner.”
“Yo, Mike,” Tyrell hollered across the store. “Come here, dawg.”
Mike rounded the corner with both of his hands jammed in his pockets. Malik was cornered.
Tyrell continued. “This is the dude I was tellin’ you about who got a jump on Alonzo last week.”
“That so?” Mike said.
“Aye!” Habib barked from across the store. “You guys need to chill out in here.”
“Shut up, Osama!” Cam hollered. “This don’t concern you.”
The three teens closed in tightly around Malik. For a moment he entertained grabbing his gun, but he didn’t like the odds. Running was the only option.
“Jumpin’ one of our boys is like a death sentence, son,” Mike said behind clenched teeth.
“I didn’t jump your boy,” Malik said as matter-of-factly as he could. “I got him off one of my boys. There’s a difference.”
Mike sneered and took another step forward. “You jumped one of our boys,” he growled. “We ain’t gonna let that pass.”
Malik had to make his move soon. Another step and any one of them could put their hands on him. Fortunately, Habib made his move first. “That’s it!” he said as he stormed back toward the cash register. “I’m calling the police.”
“Will you get Mr. Taliban to shut up, please?” Mike growled at Tyrell.
Tyrell yanked open a refrigerator door and grabbed a bottle of beer before racing toward the cash register.
Jim glanced at the pump. Just a few more seconds. He looked back into the convenience store. The store manager was walking with swift and agitated steps toward the front of the store. He snatched the phone from the wall. One of the young men was right behind him.
Malik glanced desperately over at Habib. The store owner was dialing 911 with sharp jabs on his phone. In his haste, he hadn’t latched the door to the bulletproof cashier box. Malik wanted to shout to warn his friend, but fear lodged his voice in his throat.
“Yes . . . hello . . . police . . .” Habib said. “Yes . . . I need for you—”
Tyrell dashed the bottle violently across the back of Habib’s head. The old man collapsed to his knees. His phone fell to the ground with a crash. He released a moan as his trembling fingers reached for the blood streaming from his skull. Tyrell raised his hand and backhanded him, and Habib fell behind the counter. Malik grimaced at the dull thuds as the young man kicked him.
Mike and Cam were temporarily distracted by Tyrell. Malik lifted his gallon above his head and hurled it to the floor. It ruptured, providing the moment of shock that he neede
d. As Cam and Mike flinched from the explosion of icy milk, Malik darted past them and rounded the corner of the aisle. Tyrell made a desperate grab through the register door, but Malik was already past him.
Malik raced hard toward the doors and burst through them. He turned to his left and to his right. Mike and his boys were shouting and cursing behind him. Outrunning them was not an option. Then he saw the black Lexus. A wide-eyed white man was ducking into the driver seat. Malik bolted toward the car and reached for the passenger door.
Jim fumbled for the door lock, but it was too late. Malik had jumped inside. The two men looked at each other. Then Jim’s mouth widened: Malik’s gun was in his hand. Malik didn’t remember pulling the gun out of his waistband, but now it was pointed straight at Jim.
“C’mon, man!” Malik yelled as he half-ducked under the dash. He held his gun near Jim’s stomach. “Get us outta here!”
Jim looked at the gun and then back out of the window. Tyrell and Cam were standing just outside the store with eyes full of fire. Sharp darts of breath shot from their nostrils. Mike shoved them both aside and raced toward the car.
“He’s gonna kill us, man!” Malik pleaded with wide eyes. “Let’s go! Let’s go!”
Jim was speechless. He fumbled wildly for his keys in his coat pocket. Malik depressed the door lock just a second before Mike snatched the handle. Mike angrily punched his hand up against the window with a great thud.
Jim turned his key in the ignition and threw the car into drive. Mike lurched backward as Jim accelerated hard to his left, tires squealing, and merged back onto the main road.
Malik was crouched on the floorboard, his elbows on the seat. Beads of perspiration formed on his face. He was breathing heavily, and the gun was shaking in his trembling hand. Jim looked down at him.
“Where are we going?” Jim shouted. “What do I do? Please don’t shoot me!”