Meals from Mars

by Ben Sciacca

  Officer Briggs looked down at his notepad. “Ms. Thompson called the police about thirty or forty minutes ago, claiming that her grandson, Malik, was missing. We believe that it’s possible he was involved in an assault that took place at the gas station earlier this evening. She indicated to us that she had sent him there for some groceries and that he never came home. A witness in the parking lot says that there were four people inside the store besides the owner. All four were wearing hoodies, so the witness couldn’t identify anyone. Three fled on foot. One fled in a black Lexus sedan.”

  “Jim Dawkins drives a black Lexus sedan,” MarQuan said.

  Ms. Thompson shook her head. “My baby wouldn’t hurt or rob nobody. He’s not like that—”

  “Of course he wouldn’t,” Officer Jenkins mumbled.

  MarQuan pulled out his notepad. “Did Malik know Jim?”

  “No. They’ve never met before. Jim arrived here a few minutes after Malik left to get me the milk and butter.”

  “How do you know Jim?”

  “I just met him for the first time today,” she replied. “People from his church—well, it’s actually the church where I work—they’ve been bringing us groceries for the last month or two.”

  “So you and your grandson have no relationship whatsoever with Jim Dawkins?”

  “No.”

  “The timeline puts Malik at the gas station at the time of the assault,” Jenkins interjected, trying to change the subject.

  Ms. Thompson balled up her tiny fists. “I’m tellin’ you he wouldn’t hurt nobody. Habib is a friend of his. He’s known that man all his life.”

  “He’s run before, Ms. Thompson,” Briggs said. “This isn’t his first time to do something stupid and run. You don’t think it’s suspicious that he was there when all of this happened, and now he’s just vanished?”

  Ms. Thompson looked up at the officer with a pained expression. MarQuan spoke up for her. “What are you suggesting?”

  “He has two priors,” Briggs said, looking at Ms. Thompson. “One for theft and one for possession. When he was caught stealing, he took off running and was apprehended a few blocks down the road.”

  “He was barely ten years old then,” the woman said desperately. “He was a boy and he was scared. Some friends dared him to steal some candy bars, and when the police showed up he got scared and ran.”

  “And the marijuana?” Jenkins said. He rested his hands on his hips.

  “Foolishness,” she replied. “About four years ago he got mixed up with some boys that smoke. A lot of boys smoke that nasty stuff. But he doesn’t do it anymore.”

  “It’s in his nature,” Briggs said. “He was involved in what happened tonight. He’s ‘missing’ for a reason. We need to find him and ask him some questions.”

  “Where do you think he could be?” Jenkins asked.

  Ms. Thompson dropped her head and shrugged. “I tried to call him for the last couple of hours but it just goes to his voice mail. I called his best friend, and he said he hasn’t seen him tonight. I tried to call his mama’s house too. I don’t know where he is.” A few tears emerged in her aged eyes. MarQuan wanted to place a hand on her shoulder but thought better of it.

  “Covering for your grandson isn’t going to help!” Briggs was suddenly impatient. “Protecting him is only going to make all of this worse.”

  “Why do you think I’d call y’all if I was covering for him?” she replied. “Now what kinda sense does that make?”

  “Ms. Thompson,” MarQuan asked softly. “Where’s Malik’s mother?”

  She sniffed, shook her head, and stared at the floor.

  “His mama,” Briggs said as he rolled his neck, “has a good rap sheet of her own. Two counts of possession, incident of public intoxication, and some other fun stuff. Like I said, it’s in his nature—apples don’t fall far from the tree.”

  MarQuan glared at the policeman and cleared his throat. “Sounds like you two almost have this whole thing figured out.” He turned his attention back to the woman. “Ma’am, we need to find Malik. Jim Dawkins has gone missing as well. I spoke with his wife earlier this evening. She has no idea where he is. Do you have any idea at all where he might be?”

  Ms. Thompson continued to stare at the floor and dab at her eyes and nose with a handkerchief.

  “Detective,” Jenkins asked cautiously, “are we dealing with more than the assault incident at the gas station?”

  MarQuan sighed and stood to his feet. “I don’t know.” He took a look at his watch. “What I do know is that we’re about nineteen hours away from having to fill out two missing-persons reports.”

  11

  THE INTRODUCTIONS

  10:15 p.m., Monday before Thanksgiving

  MALIK HELD HIS HANDS OUT in front of the fire for a moment and let the heat warm his palms before he stuffed them back in his pockets. They had stacked all of the logs between their chairs. The flames cast shadows that danced eerily on the walls around them. Tiny snowflakes pelted the windows. He looked over at Jim, who was staring into the fireplace as if he were in a trance. The silence, like the darkness, was suffocating.

  “So what do you do, man?” Malik asked.

  Malik’s voice entered into Jim’s wandering mind and shook him like a man roused from a deep sleep. “Huh?” Jim replied. “What’d you say?”

  “I mean, what do you do for a job? You must have a nice job driving a car like that.”

  “I’m a lawyer.”

  “Dope.” Malik shrugged. “Let me guess—you live up in Meadow Glade?”

  “No.” Jim paused. “Stone Brook.”

  Malik whistled and shook his head. “Wow! A lawyer from Stone Brook. You ballin’, ain’t you, man?”

  Jim felt disoriented by the conversation. He chose to poke the fire with a stick instead of responding. But Malik wasn’t finished. “So why were you in Edgewood, man? You there for a taste or somethin’?”

  “A taste?”

  “Why were you in Edgewood?” Malik repeated. “There aren’t too many dudes that look like you in my neighborhood for real—unless they’re lookin’ for some particular purchases.”

  Jim looked confused. “Particular purchases? What’s that mean?”

  “Come on, man!” Malik said with a smirk. “I ain’t stupid. White dudes like you don’t roll into Edgewood unless they’re cops or they’re lookin’ for drugs or some sexual healing.”

  Jim frowned. “It’s not like that. I was dropping off some groceries for an old lady and her grandkids.”

  Malik was silent for a moment, and then he burst out laughing. “Wait! What? Were you bringing groceries to Wilma Thompson?”

  Jim nodded.

  “Are you from Mars, man?”

  “Yeah—I attend Mars Chapel. Why? How’d you know that?”

  Malik shook his head in disbelief.

  “What is it?” Jim asked again.

  “Man . . .” Malik looked Jim in the eye. “Wilma Thompson is my grandmama.”

  Jim’s face was shrouded with confusion.

  “I’m Malik,” he said softly. “I’m her grandson.”

  Jim remained silent for a moment. Then he cleared his throat. “I’m Jim—Jim Dawkins. I’d shake your hand, but you kidnapped me with a gun, broke my phone, got me lost in the middle of nowhere. So . . .”

  Malik ignored him. “Did you deliver the groceries, or are they still in your trunk? I’m starving.”

  “No,” Jim replied. “They’re at your grandma’s house. I brought y’all stuff for Thanksgiving dinner.”

  Malik pursed his lips and looked back out the window. “Well, man, this is messed up, isn’t it?” He watched as a log popped a lone coal out onto the hearth. “I bet you wish now you had kept all that food and stayed home tonight, don’t you? Now you’re in the middle of nowhere, stuck with a kid with a gun, freezing your butt off. Bet you didn’t see that one coming.”

  “My wife told me to stay home.” Jim was getting more irritated by the minute
. “I should’ve listened to her.”

  Malik flashed a wry grin. “She didn’t want you in the dangerous neighborhood at night, did she? Too many thugs with guns? Usually you people do your food drop when it’s light out. Then you shoot your selfies with the smiling and grateful black kids and roll home. Hopefully you at least got your picture with Jamal. He loves to smile. Did you get your pictures, man?”

  Jim frowned. “It’s not like that. I thought you liked the food. Someone said your grandma needed some help. We’re just trying to help.”

  “Yeah?” Malik asked. “Who told you we needed help? Pam and Sammy?”

  “Pat and Sally,” Jim corrected him.

  “Whatever,” Malik replied. “Did they tell you that?”

  Jim’s lips tightened. “Yes they did.”

  “And where’d they get their info from?” A surprising burst of bold anger emerged as Malik spoke. “Let me ask you this—before today have you ever met my grandma?”

  Jim shook his head.

  “So how do you know that we need groceries, then?”

  “Well—do you?” Jim fired back.

  Malik shrugged. “Even if we did, have any of you people ever asked us what we want to eat? Let me tell you something, man. People in my neighborhood don’t like hummus, dude. That stuff tastes like dirt. But I guess y’all think everybody likes it, because we get a tub of the nasty stuff every week.“

  Jim could feel his temper rising. “So, are you saying you guys don’t want the food? Because I can talk to Pat and Sally and we can end that tomorrow.”

  “What I’m saying,” Malik said, “is that I don’t want to be your charity case. You ain’t helping us for real. I mean, look at us right now, dude. We could freeze here in the next day or so if someone doesn’t find us, right?”

  Jim nodded.

  Malik continued. “Well, what if someone drives by in a few hours in a big ol’ truck and they see us. But instead of getting us out of here they just throw us a blanket, take a picture with us, and then drive off. How’d you feel?”

  “I don’t get it,” Jim growled.

  “Man, if the dude in the truck really cared, he’d get us up out of here. A blanket ain’t gonna help us for real. Plus it’s disrespectful for a dude to do that when he could do so much more.”

  “So, what are you saying?” Jim snapped. “Do you want us to bring food every day, except punt on the hummus?”

  “I think you’re missing the whole point, man. We don’t need your charity. How about giving my grandma a job where she could actually take care of herself? How about treating her like she is somebody. We don’t need your groceries. My grandma would like to buy her own groceries with her own money. You feel me?”

  “What’s that got to do with me?” Jim asked. “You want me to find her a job or something?”

  “How long have you been at Mars, huh?”

  “Since I was about five or six,” Jim replied. “So for almost thirty years. Why?”

  “Because,” Malik said, “my grandma has been working there for thirty-six years. Do you know what she does there?”

  Jim sighed loudly. “I don’t know. I’m guessing she works in maintenance or something, right?”

  “Yessir.” Malik slapped his hands on his thighs. “You got it! She’s been scrubbing your toilets, vacuuming your carpets, and cleaning up your messes for longer than you’ve been alive. Man, there’s been like five different pastors up there since she started working. But all that time she makes a sorry ten bucks an hour. Now y’all got a pastor up there who’s barely thirty, and he’s making more money in a year than my grandma can make in six. She works five, sometimes six days a week. How much does your new pastor work? One, maybe two days a week? Come on, man! You think that’s fair? You think that’s right?”

  Jim’s mind was racing. Malik was undeterred. “So, Grandma hits some hard times for real, right? Gotta take care of her four grandbabies on ten bucks an hour. And so a few folks—who don’t even know her, mind you—say, ‘Let’s start bringing her a box of groceries once a week. I bet that’ll make her happy. I bet that’ll help for real.’” Malik realized he was laying it on thick. He decided to pause for a moment.

  Jim had learned in the courtroom that anger was one emotion he could not afford to get the best of him. Malik was obviously passionate about this, and he knew there were few statements he could make at the moment to douse the flames. So he scratched his chin for a second and then chose his words carefully.

  “You’re right, Malik. Thirty-six years is a long time. Let me ask you something. Did your grandma ever ask for a raise? I mean, did she ever share her struggles or remind her supervisors that she’s been there as long as she has?”

  “Yeah,” Malik replied. “Twice. Years ago she said she asked for a raise. The church told her there wasn’t any money for something like that. But at that same time they were doin’, like, a big ol’ expansion for their youth group building or somethin’. She just wanted a few measly dollars more an hour.

  “The second time she was told no too. Same answer. ‘There ain’t no money.’ But again, they were rollin’ out a new retirement plan for church staff. Most of them hadn’t even been there for more than five years. She didn’t get offered the retirement benefit or a raise, but she got the privilege of cleaning up the trash after the staff party where they announced the benefit. My grandmother has been workin’ there since she was almost sixteen. But it looks like she’s gonna be there until she’s seventy because she’s got no retirement. No way to step away. So, your church thinks they’re givin’ us some help, but really? You’re just keeping us in a ditch and throwin’ us some blankets.”

  “Okay,” Jim responded. “But then why didn’t she just find another job? If she doesn’t like the pay, then why not just move on?”

  “Work where, man?” Malik responded with raised eyebrows. “There ain’t no good jobs in Edgewood. All the jobs that pay anything are over on your side of town. When my granddad split, my grandma had to drop out of college to take care of her kids. She left them with her mom, worked, and came home. She never went back to school. A woman her age with no education ain’t gonna get a better job for real. That’s just how it is.”

  Jim opened his mouth to offer some commentary about Malik’s granddad leaving the house, but he thought better of it. Malik eased his feet closer to the hearth to warm his toes. The momentary silence was refreshing. But Malik wasn’t finished.

  “I just don’t understand why she doesn’t matter to y’all.” Malik gazed hard into the flames. “I mean, thirty-six years is like a legacy, man, and almost nobody there even knows her name. Your pastor can go out of town and see the world for a month if he wants, right? They call it a sabbatical or something like that. My grandma got real sick one time, and y’all almost fired her after she was gone for more than a week. I just don’t get that kinda stuff. Does she matter? Your pastor still calls her Wanda. That ain’t her name, and she’s old enough to be his mama, but he calls her Wanda! And she still has to call him ‘Pastor Jones.’ He could give the sorriest sermon on Sunday and people wouldn’t care for real, but if my grandma ever left the church bathroom a mess before the service, then she’d pry be gone.”

  Jim stared at Malik. The vacant look on the young man’s face caused him to wonder if Malik was just talking to himself at this point.

  Jim glanced at his watch. It was almost 10:45. He wondered if help would ever come. He shuddered slightly and for a moment wished he had a blanket.

  12

  THE FEAR

  10:45 p.m., Monday before Thanksgiving

  THE CONVERSATION REACHED AN AWKWARD LULL. The crackling fire and the groan of the cabin under the lashing winds were the only noises. For the time being they were warm enough. But they were still stuck together, each with his own thoughts.

  Jim thought back to when he had been trapped in an elevator. He was barely thirteen years old. He could hear voices above him and knew that it was just a matter of time befor
e someone heard the alarm and his yelling and came to help him. This was different. No one was around—even if they were, if he stepped outside, the raging wind would throw his voice back down his throat the moment he opened his mouth. His phone was gone; Malik’s was dead. Compared to this, Jim would relish being stuck in an elevator again.

  Malik didn’t mind the silence. In his tiny house with three younger siblings and the blaring television, silence was a rare and wonderful gift. Many nights he was woken by blaring sirens roaring down the streets or by shouting in a neighboring apartment. Other times it was the pop-pop-pop of gunfire somewhere down the block. Rare moments of silence afforded him an opportunity to read and to think.

  He hadn’t intended to get so loud and defensive with Jim earlier. Ordinarily he was more respectful around adults, and he almost always felt a particular kind of awkwardness around affluent white people like Jim. His own brashness had surprised him. But his discovery of Jim’s mission of charity in his community roused some monstrous emotions in him. The strong words of his Uncle Keith came to his mind.

  A fool will argue over almost anything, Malik. Don’t be a fool. But a good man will never run from a good argument. Not from anyone or for any reason. With that stuff between your two ears, the Lord gave you good sense to fight and win a good argument. He also gave you those two fists you have to fight a good fight—but only if the stuff between your ears isn’t enough.

  Largely because of his uncle’s influence, Malik had thrown himself into a variety of good arguments. And as far he knew, he’d won them all. For other reasons he had thrown himself into his own fair share of good fistfights as well.

  When Malik was younger, he spent three straight summers living with Uncle Keith. As a budding teenager, he found those summers to be as formative and invigorating as any time in his life.