by Ben Sciacca
After nearly ten minutes of silence, Jim finally released a loud sigh, closed his eyes, and let his chin fall on his chest. Malik looked over at him and studied his troubled face.
“You scared, Jim?” Malik asked softly.
“Scared of what?” Jim asked, his eyes still closed.
“Scared that we’re gonna die out here tonight.”
Jim wiggled his clenched jaw back and forth a few times before speaking. “I’ve been scared all night, Malik. Scared to drop off the food in your neighborhood. Scared to go in your apartment complex. Scared to buy gas at that station. Scared when I saw you and those other thugs running toward me. Scared when you jumped in my car with your gun. I’ve been scared driving into nowhere on a freezing cold night with no food, no phone, no fuel, and no plan. And now that we’re stuck here in this cabin and there’s probably no help around for miles, I’m still scared. I have no clue what’s going to happen to me.” He opened his eyes and looked at Malik. “Are you scared?”
Malik gave a slight shrug. “Yeah. A little, I guess. So you were afraid to come into my neighborhood, man?”
Jim laughed. “Are you really asking me that right now? The whole reason my wife didn’t want me coming to Edgewood is because of exactly what happened. She didn’t want me to get mugged or carjacked. It wouldn’t have been a big surprise if maybe one of those things happened, right? But I got the double whammy tonight, didn’t I?”
“Man! It ain’t always like that for real!” Malik replied. “Those three clowns in the store were gonna mess me up. I was in that store to buy my grandma some groceries, not to rob nobody or jack your car. That was outside of my control. Besides, I bet you drive down to Edgewood 364 other nights out of the year and nothing close to those things happens. You might have some dude come up to you and try to bum some change or offer you a taste, but gettin’ robbed and your car stolen—nah, chances of that happenin’ again are like zero, man.”
“Yeah?” Jim replied. “Well, it did happen, didn’t it? The main reason people from my neighborhood don’t come to Edgewood is because they’re scared to death of something like this happening. And what you and those punks at the gas station did tonight isn’t going to help a whole lot, is it? You didn’t really help change the statistics.”
Malik’s brow furrowed. “Quit saying ‘people from my neighborhood’ and just say it like it is: ‘white people.’ White people don’t like coming to my neighborhood. White people are scared of Edgewood. Scared of thugs, pimps, drug dealers, and hoes, right? I’m guessin’ you saw one of those on every corner, didn’t you? Everywhere you looked, right? Because that’s what people from my neighborhood are . . .”
Jim shook his head. “It isn’t just white folks from Stone Brook who are scared to come to Edgewood. I have two black friends in my law firm. Neither of them would set foot in your neighborhood without some serious concerns—some serious fear. I’ve heard them talk about Edgewood and this side of town, and they aren’t fans.”
Malik paused. “Did it ever occur to you that people from my neighborhood are scared about rollin’ up in your neighborhood?”
“Whatever,” Jim replied. “When’s the last time someone has had their head bashed in by some thugs in Stone Brook? When’s the last time someone had their car stolen at gunpoint when they were filling up their tank?”
“Robbery and thugs ain’t the only things to fear. There are other things people like me gotta worry about. Stuff you wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?” Jim leaned back, as Malik leaned forward. This would be a hard story to tell—and just as hard for Jim to hear.
Malik wiped the sweat from his forehead. The September sun hung high in the afternoon sky. The grass in his yard was golden and brittle after three straight weeks without rain. He kicked a clod of it and unearthed a small cloud of gray dust. It twisted around his shoes in the light breeze.
He squinted and put his hands over his eyes, hoping to see Uncle Keith’s car come around the corner. His uncle was always on time; that’s why Malik came outside ten minutes early. He didn’t want to miss his opportunity to spend time with the man.
He squatted down and picked up a stone, rolling it around in his palm as he whistled awkwardly. Just then he heard a honk. He smiled as he saw his uncle approaching in his old brown Mercedes.
Malik raced toward the car, waving his hands. Uncle Keith flashed him a big grin and pulled up alongside the curb. His car was old but meticulously clean and shiny. Malik opened the passenger door and jumped inside. Uncle Keith placed his powerful hand on his nephew’s shoulder.
“You ready to roll out of here and get your grandma?” Uncle Keith asked in his low and gravelly voice.
“Yessir,” Malik said. He latched his seat belt and wiggled comfortably into the weatherworn leather seat.
“Well, let’s do it then.”
Uncle Keith came around a lot. He was large and handsome with a clean-shaven head and a well-groomed goatee. He had recently accepted a professorship at a college out of town, but he made it his habit to regularly drive back home and check in on his sister and her two kids. His backseat was almost always filled with boxes of books and manila folders stuffed with papers. His dark brown satchel, containing his laptop and lecture notes, was situated on the floorboard behind his seat. As a man who had served in the Marines for ten years, he carried himself with great dignity. He was a man the block respected, the prize of the Thompson family.
“So, you want a chance at five dollars?” Uncle Keith said as he elbowed his nephew.
“Oh yessir!” Malik chirped. He loved it when his uncle played one of his trivia games.
“Now, how old are you?”
“C’mon, Uncle Keith!” Malik said with a laugh. “You know I’m eight years old.”
“Eight. Eight.” Keith slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “I just keep forgetting how you’re growing up.”
They pulled up to a traffic light. Keith forgot about his game with his nephew for a moment as he watched two young men arguing and fussing about ten feet from the vehicle. Malik could hear their profanity through the closed window. One of the kids was shirtless and covered in tattoos. Both of them had pants sagging six inches below their waists. Keith just shook his head.
“Don’t end up like those two knuckleheads right there, son,” Uncle Keith said sternly as he gripped the steering wheel. “Because where are those two boys going?”
“Going nowhere, sir.”
“That’s right,” Keith said proudly. “Going nowhere.”
“I still want to get those five dollars,” Malik prodded. “Don’t forget.”
Uncle Keith smiled as the light turned green. They moved up the ramp and onto the interstate. “Okay. Okay. Five dollars if you can answer five questions. How’s that sound? It’s all or nothing.”
Malik nodded. Uncle Keith snapped his fingers twice. “All right. For starters let’s do a little geography—yeah, that sounds good. You tell me, Mr. Malik, what’s the capital of the United States of America?”
Malik grinned. “Ah that’s easy, Uncle Keith. Washington, D.C. I’m gonna take all your money if you keep giving me questions like that.”
“No sir. The first question is always an easy one. Question number two. It’s a spelling question. Spell for me the word ‘ridiculous.’”
Malik closed one eye and gathered his thoughts. “Ridiculous. R. I. Umm. D. I?”
“Is that a question?” Uncle Keith asked. “Because there will be no lifelines here, sir!”
“No! No!” Malik said, waving his hands. “R. I. D. I. C. U. L. Uhhhh. O? U . . . S! Ridiculous!”
“Whoa! Uh-oh! Malik Thompson is two for two, baby. But can he keep up under the pressure?” Keith gave Malik a playful shove.
“Bring it on! I’m ready!” Malik shouted. “Those five bucks are gonna be all mine!” Malik cherished these moments with Uncle Keith. He loved how effortlessly and freely he wove his car in and around the other vehicles. H
e felt like they were racecars. No one could pass them, and no one could stop them.
“Well, you know,” Keith said warily, “no trivia game can exist without at least one good math question, right?” Malik’s eyes widened slightly, and then he frowned. Uncle Keith held his finger in the air. “But remember. The questions only get harder. So, do you want to have that math question now or save it until last?”
Malik sighed. “I’m not too good at math. Might as well give it to me now and try to get it over with.”
“That’s not the attitude of a winner there,” his uncle chided him. “You need to believe. I didn’t become a college professor hitting a bunch of softballs. No sir. Every now and then you need to step up to the plate and take on a real challenge.”
Malik nodded. “Okay. Give it to me then.”
“If your mama pays you $1.25 every day to do the dishes, how much money will you have after seven days?” Uncle Keith shot a quick glance at Malik. A slight smile furled at the edge of his mouth.
“Man! I wish Mama would pay me to do the dishes.”
“Hush, boy! Don’t let this math question put any nonsense in your head.”
Malik put both hands on his lap and started tallying the amount with his fingers. “Whoa!” Keith said, shaking his head. “Put those things away, son. No sir. I said no lifelines.”
“Ah c’mon! I can’t add without using my fingers. You gotta let me. Please!”
“No sir,” Keith said firmly. “Use what the good Lord put between your ears. Fingers or no fingers, a man has got to be able to do some basic math.”
Malik sighed and threw himself back in the seat, but he straightened himself quickly when he saw his uncle’s disapproving stare. His shoulders sank slightly, and he gazed glumly out the window. The landscape had changed drastically. The throb and grind of the city were behind them. There were no more little homes, abandoned strip malls, or battered brick buildings. Here there were far more trees shrouding large houses nestled comfortably in rolling hills. Most of the cars were passing them now. Uncle Keith had both hands on the wheel. It appeared that his carefree spirit had fallen away somewhere a few miles back on the interstate.
“Come on, Malik,” his uncle said. “You can’t have all day. Fifteen more seconds and I need your answer.”
“Uh. Okay. Ummm.” Malik had numbers swirling in his head. He couldn’t organize them the way he wanted. He ached to use his fingers.
“Five seconds.”
“Eight dollars and twenty-five cents.” Malik spouted the answer with desperation.
His uncle frowned and shook his head. “No. Come on, son. Think about it. It’s not that hard.”
“I told you,” Malik retorted. “I can’t count without my fingers. I just can’t.”
“Well. It looks like my five dollars are safe for another week or two. If only you hadn’t given up and shut down, you might have just given your brain a chance to solve the problem.”
“Ah come on!” Malik pleaded, even though he knew his uncle wouldn’t change his mind. “Give me another problem. Give me another chance. I’ll get it this time.”
Uncle Keith turned on his signal and got off the interstate. They merged onto a spacious two-lane road. Malik loved this part of the drive. The houses in the neighborhood were large. The yards were lush with green grass and ornate bushes. Malik liked to imagine what it would be like to wake up in the morning in one of those gigantic houses. He envisioned his mom fixing him a hot breakfast in her big kitchen before he went outside to play under the shade of the large oak trees. He could imagine riding his bike down the sidewalk and waving to folks walking their dogs and jogging. There were no burned-out homes or houses that were boarded shut. No one’s grass was waist high. There was no trash along the curbs or angry graffiti spattered on the walls. He always felt a little more at peace here.
But Uncle Keith’s behavior was different. He was constantly checking his mirrors. At every red light, he’d always pause an extra second before accelerating once the light turned green again. This was curious to his young nephew.
“Did you tell Grandma we were coming this time?” Malik asked.
“Yes. She’s expecting us in the next couple of minutes.” Uncle Keith shot a glance at the clock on the dash. Just ahead was the bus stop where Malik’s grandmother waited each afternoon. Sitting on the bench, waiting for the bus, were two older African American women and a Hispanic man wearing a hard hat and eating a sandwich. Malik watched them as Uncle Keith drove by. He pictured his grandmother getting dropped there each morning at 8:00 a.m. and then getting picked up again in the evening. This was her routine. He was glad they could pick her up today.
Mars Chapel was just eight blocks ahead. Malik could see its elongated steeple looming above the trees in the distance, the white cross rising prominently in the sky against a rolling backdrop of fluffy clouds.
Just then, Uncle Keith let out a slight sigh and took a long glance in the rearview mirror. Malik looked at his uncle and then slowly turned to look over his shoulder. He spotted the white and black police car behind them. It was riding close to their rear bumper. Malik glanced back at Uncle Keith, who continued to grip the steering wheel with both hands and shoot frequent glances into the mirror.
“Come on,” Uncle Keith said under his breath. “Just move on by, friends.”
They drove almost six blocks this way. Uncle Keith even slowed down a little bit, but the police car continued to tail him.
The light ahead turned yellow. They had plenty of time to make it through the intersection before the light turned red. But Uncle Keith hit the brakes. They decelerated rapidly.
Malik looked curiously at his uncle’s agitated face. “You okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine, son.” Uncle Keith turned to his nephew and offered a wink.
They waited for the light to change, and Uncle Keith turned on his signal. He tapped his ring finger on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. Malik wanted to take one more look behind them but decided not to. The light turned green, and they slowly took their right-hand turn onto the road that headed up to the church. The squad car took the turn as well. Uncle Keith frowned.
Just ahead was a gas station. The speed limit sign said 15 mph; they were about to enter a residential area. Just then they heard the shrill chirp from the police car. The blue flashers on the roof of the squad car lit up. Uncle Keith mumbled something indiscernible under his breath and slowly pulled his car into the gas station parking lot.
Malik swallowed and turned his head just slightly to see if the police were following them. They were. His uncle pulled into the nearest open spot and put his car in park.
“What do they want, Uncle Keith?” Malik asked. “You didn’t do anything.”
“It’s going to be fine, son.” Keith’s voice sounded calm—but his eyes betrayed something else.
The police car stopped in the center of the parking lot. Its lights flashed around off of the walls and gas pumps. Malik spotted the cashier inside the gas station as he leaned forward to see what was going on. A white woman stopped filling her van, hurriedly replaced the nozzle, and drove off.
The police did nothing for almost two minutes. Malik couldn’t stand the mystery. “What are they doing?” he asked. “Why are they just sitting there?”
“Tough to say,” Uncle Keith replied. “In a situation like this you just need to stay calm, son. We didn’t do anything wrong. Just need to relax.”
“Yeah. But Grandma is going to start wondering where we are.” Malik pointed at the clock on the dash.
“Nothing we can do about that at the moment,” Uncle Keith said, drawing a sharp breath through his nose and slowly exhaling it.
The doors on the police car opened. A squat and stout officer emerged from the driver side. He was young, and his hair was buzzed low on the sides. He had a finely trimmed red mustache and a pair of Ray-Bans affixed to his face. His partner exited the car on the passenger side. He was tall and gangly with a mop
of strawberry-blond hair. He squinted awkwardly in the afternoon sun. Both of them approached the vehicle slowly.
Uncle Keith lowered his window as the stout officer approached his side. He offered a cautious smile as the policeman came into view. “Afternoon, officer,” he said kindly. “There a problem?”
The officer flexed his jaw. “You got a taillight out.”
Malik watched as the lanky officer rounded to the other side of the car and looked at him through the window. He didn’t like the man’s grim face—or the large black gun on his hip.
“Really?” Uncle Keith replied. “I didn’t know that. I can get that fixed right away. Thank you for letting me know.”
“You work over here?” the officer queried gruffly.
“No,” Uncle Keith answered calmly. “We’re over here to get my mother at the church up the road. I’m a professor over at—”
“Can I see your license and registration?” the policeman interrupted in a monotone voice.
Malik leaned forward to take a better look at the man questioning his uncle. The church steeple in the distance appeared to be growing out of the top of his head like a strange appendage. The officer’s face was taut and unflinching.
“No problem,” Uncle Keith responded. He reached for his glove box.
“Whoa! Easy there fellah.” The officer placed his hand on his gun and unclasped the holster.
“Huh? Oh, no,” Uncle Keith said. “I need to get my registration from my glove box.”
“Nice and slow, then,” the policeman said, his eyebrows tightened on his face. “Nice and slow.”
Uncle Keith looked at the officer and then over at the glove box. He reached his hand and slowly opened it up. The officer kept his hand on his gun. Malik took another glance at the policeman outside of his window, and then back at the officer next to Keith. For a moment he imagined what a cat must feel like trapped between two angry dogs.
Uncle Keith pulled out an envelope and removed the registration papers before handing them to the policeman. “License?” the officer said flatly.