by Ben Sciacca
Jim just stared at Malik with his jaw set.
“Zero!” Malik continued. “Not one call. We’re talking about places like Burger King, man. My cousin wasn’t too proud and waiting for a specific kinda job. He just wanted a job. Period. I mean, how long would you keep lookin’ for a job before you got desperate?
“You’re married, right?” Malik was getting as worked up as Jim. “What would you do if absolutely nobody would hire you? I mean literally nobody. You sayin’ you wouldn’t hustle to feed your family . . . to stay alive? Look, I’m not sayin’ that Ricky didn’t make a mistake sellin’ that dope, but should he pay the price for that for the rest of his life? He and his boys broke into a Radio Shack one night after it was closed. He didn’t shoot or hurt nobody. A year and a half in prison is a consequence, man. But doesn’t he deserve a second chance? They let him out, but he basically got the death sentence. Anybody could tell him no because of his past. He was completely jobless and eventually hopeless. It’s tough enough to find a good job just being black, but you put a felony record on top of that? You’d have a better chance getting a job with a turban on your head and a button on your chest that says ‘I love the Taliban’ than you would checking that box that says you’re a felon! And that’s messed up!”
“What’s Ricky up to now?” Jim asked.
“He’s locked up again,” Malik said matter-of-factly. “A man has to eat. He gave up on the job hunt and started hustlin’ again and got busted. He’s serving another three years. One more offense and he’s gone for good.” Malik stopped for a minute and looked down at the floor. “But he’s pretty much gone for good already.”
Jim thought about Sam lying bruised and battered in the hospital bed. The same angry feelings stirred in him again. But he also thought about Ricky. What if Ricky and his friends had jumped Sam?
As if on cue, both of their stomachs growled at the same time. “Speakin’ of being desperate,” Malik said, breaking the tension, “I’m starvin’.”
15
THE DAWN
7:02 a.m., Tuesday before Thanksgiving
THE NIGHT PROGRESSED IN SILENCE. Fatigue and the warmth from the fire slowly overcame Jim and Malik, driving them to a restless sleep. Now and then Jim woke with a start and raced to resuscitate the dying fire. His sudden movements startled Malik before he settled back into a slumber. They repeated this process throughout the night as it crept closer toward the dawn.
Eventually, Jim woke up and moved to the window. He rubbed away the thin layer of ice on the glass with the sleeve of his fleece. Sheets of snow rushed and swirled past him outside.
“Still bad out there?” Malik asked with a yawn.
“Yep,” Jim said. He spun away from the window and back toward his seat. “I’d say it might be getting worse. I’ve honestly never seen anything like this.”
Malik looked at the firewood. The stack was uncomfortably small. He started counting the remaining logs but quit because he knew the number would only discourage him more.
“So, what do you think they’re sayin’ out there?” Malik asked.
“Who?” Jim asked.
“Everybody,” Malik said. “Haven’t you been thinking about it on and off? I mean, you’re like this big-time lawyer from Stone Brook. That has to make the news, right? People care about stuff like that. I bet it won’t be long before they have the FBI lookin’ for you.”
Jim exhaled a slow breath and spoke glumly. “I keep thinking about my wife and what she’s doing. She’s probably just sitting downstairs on the couch right now, worried sick. That’s what I keep thinking about.”
“Yeah,” Malik said softly. “Sometimes I think about my grandma and my brother and sisters. They gotta be worried too. But outside of them I doubt anyone cares a whole lot for real.”
Jim frowned. “Come on. You have some friends, your mom, some other family. I bet they’re worried too.”
Malik gave a slight shrug. “Maybe. But I imagine that you disappearing has created some real interest. What was the name of that white girl from Stone Brook who disappeared, like six years ago? Ah man, I can picture her face. It was like Mindy . . . Mandy . . .”
“Mandy Swanson,” Jim replied. “What about her?”
“I just remember that was on the news like every night for almost a year. I mean, ‘Mandy Swanson, from Stone Brook, was with her college friends in Jamaica for their spring break,’” Malik said in his best news anchor voice. “She and her classmates were at a nightclub when she mysteriously vanished . . .”
“So what about it?” Jim interrupted. “That was a sad situation. My wife and a lot of people that I know were really upset about that. They never found her.”
Malik offered up a wry smile. “I just remember her parents were on the news a bunch, crying and offering up money for information. They had like the FBI and CIA over there in Jamaica trying to find her, trying to find clues. It was a big deal. I mean, it was like a reaaally big deal. Everybody everywhere was talking about Mandy Swanson.” He paused for a moment, then leaned forward and looked at Jim. “If this thing here gets dragged out much longer, won’t be long until the whole country starts talkin’ about you.”
Jim’s forehead furrowed into wrinkles. He glared back at Malik. “You think all of that with Mandy—all of this—is funny or something? People tend to get upset when people disappear. That’s perfectly normal. It means they care!”
A corner of Malik’s lips curled up into a smile. He weighed Jim’s comment in his mind. “I guess that’s what that means, maybe.”
“What else could it mean?” Jim asked. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
“Do you see it making the news if I don’t reappear in the next day or so?” Malik slowly turned his eyes to Jim. “Can you see someone on the news announcing, ‘Malik Thompson, from Edgewood, has been missing for three days. His family last saw him heading to the Shop n’ Snack at 5 p.m. to buy some milk and butter’?”
“Maybe,” Jim said. “Probably.”
“Come on man!” Malik said. “That ain’t a story for real. And even if they did show it, most people would think, ‘Ah. Edgewood. Yeah, he probably got merked or killed on his way home.’ Then they’d change the channel or wait for the sports updates. But if they threw your face up on the screen, people would turn up the volume and they’d want to know more.”
Jim shook his head, but Malik wasn’t done. “I’m for real! When they show a black kid’s face on the news most nights, what’s it usually about? Come on, Jim. What’s it about?” Jim lowered his eyebrows and stared into the darkness. Malik rapped Jim’s knee with the back of his hand. “What’s it about, Jim?”
Jim wasn’t about to speak. He felt like he was being badgered on the witness stand. Malik waited a moment and sighed at his companion’s silence. “Robberies. Murders. Drugs. Rape. Arrests. Dropping out of school. Right? That’s why you see black boys like me on the news. Black boys disappearing ain’t news, Jim. That’s just what we do. But when Mandy Swanson from Stone Brook disappears, it’s national news. Shoot! That news probably went global. Why? ’Cause rich white girls from Stone Brook don’t disappear. That got everyone’s attention.”
Jim balled his fists up on the inside of his coat. Malik stared at him for a moment, waiting for him to speak, and then looked away.
Suddenly the cabin was illuminated with a faint pink glow. Malik jumped up from his chair so quickly that it fell over with a crash. He rushed to the window and rubbed away the icy film with his hand. A small, bright ball of fire glowed low in the sky behind a thick branch of pine needles.
With his nose just an inch from the glass, Malik could feel the cold outside. But he stood there with a smile and closed his eyes. He had never been happier to let the sun shine on his face.
16
THE DISCOVERY
7:33 a.m., Tuesday before Thanksgiving
THE SUNLIGHT SLOWLY FILLED THE CABIN, which was as welcome to Malik and Jim as a rescue chopper. As each minute passed
, the shadows slowly eroded down the walls until they disappeared altogether. Jim was invigorated with hope. With the sun came the possibility of deliverance and being reunited with his wife. Inside the cabin, however, it was still tremendously cold. The heat from the fire dissipated not more than six feet from the fireplace.
Malik started to pace awkwardly in front of the fireplace. Jim watched him curiously. “What are you doing, Malik?” he finally asked. “Why are you walking around like that?”
“Maaaaaan,” Malik said with a slight grimace. “I gotta use it!”
“Use what?” Jim asked, perplexed.
“You know, man . . . I’m in a tight, dude.”
“In a tight?” Jim shook his head. “I’m lost, Malik. What’s going on?”
Malik exhaled a long breath with his cheeks puffed out. “Come on, man. You know what I mean . . . I need to use the bathroom! I’ve been holding it for hours.”
“Ohhhhh,” Jim said perplexedly. “Why didn’t you just say ‘I need to use the restroom’? I’m guessing there’s some kind of toilet in the back. If not, you can always go outside.”
Malik stared at Jim, his head cocked to the side, his eyebrows raised. “You crazy?”
Jim shrugged. “You know what they say: ‘There’s nothing like peeing in the woods.’”
“Nobody I know says that! How long before Frosty the Snowman knocks on that door and asks if he can come inside and warm up? It’s too cold,” Malik mumbled. “I ain’t peein’ outside . . .” He walked quickly toward the back of the cabin.
In the light of day, the cabin was larger than they had realized. There was a small kitchen with a sink and a tiny gas stove. Some dilapidated wooden cabinets sagged precariously against the walls. In the far rear corner Malik discovered a door that he hoped was a restroom. He cautiously opened it and was relieved to see a small toilet. But then he looked up and frowned.
Jim was stirring the embers in the fireplace when Malik returned from the bathroom. Jim noticed the glum look on his face. “All better?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Malik said. “It’s just an old nasty hole in the ground pretty much.”
“Better than nothing, I suppose,” Jim replied. He threw one more log on the coal bed and stood up. “I think I might be in a tight too.”
“If you need it, there’s some Ku Klux Klan toilet paper hanging on the wall above the toilet,” Malik said, slumping back in his chair.
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.”
A few moments later Jim returned to the fireplace and sat down next to Malik. “Not a big fan of the stars and bars, huh?”
Malik turned to Jim. “Is that what you call that redneck flag?”
Jim tightened his lips and nodded slightly. “You mean the Confederate flag. Some people call it the Stars and Bars.”
“You a fan?” Malik asked.
Jim shrugged. “Not really. I mean, I don’t hate it, but it’s not like I have one flying in my front yard. My friends and I used to have Confederate-flag belt buckles and stuff back when we were in high school. A couple of guys had it on the back of their pickup trucks. I guess we thought they were cool.”
“Yeah?” Malik said crossly. “Well, I hate it.”
“Hate’s a strong word,” Jim replied.
“That’s a flag for haters, man.”
“Why’s everything about race with you?” Jim said. “Not everyone who has that symbol on their car—or in their bathroom, for that matter—hates black people. That’s a pretty big stereotype.”
“Wasn’t that flag originally flyin’ for people who were fightin’ to keep slavery legal? Man, I studied the Civil War in school. Shoot! I wrote a whole paper on that flag for my history class.”
“Not everyone who fought for the South in the Civil War owned slaves or were fighting to keep slavery legal,” Jim protested. “The war was bigger than slavery. A lot of Confederate soldiers were fighting for other things that had nothing to do with it. Again, you’re generalizing and stereotyping.”
“Okay,” Malik said. “But how many of the people who were marchin’ behind that flag were fighting to end slavery?”
Jim rolled his eyes. “I think you’re being too sensitive about the whole thing, Malik. I’m glad that slavery is over. That was an embarrassing and ugly part of our past. But there’s more to that flag than just slavery. To a lot of good folks, it’s part of their heritage—their heritage of standing up for their rights. It’s a part of their history. Doesn’t everyone’s history have some good and some bad in it? A lot of the folks who fly that flag are remembering the good.”
“I totally disagree, man. You’re tryin’ to make the whole thing sound complicated, but it’s really pretty simple.” Malik was calm but resolute. “When you see old footage of Klan rallies with black dudes swinging from trees by their necks, you always see that flag right there beside them. The white people who were throwin’ rocks and cussin’ at peaceful protestors during the Civil Rights Movement were toting that thing with them. It’s a banner for hate and always has been.
“Have you ever seen a black person with a Confederate flag on their belt buckle or hangin’ in their bathroom? You said some people are proud of it because it’s part of their history or heritage or whatever? Well, it’s part of black people’s history too. And for us it’s a symbol of hate and pain. The people who flew that flag and marched for it back in the day, whether it was the Civil War or the civil rights movement, felt a certain kinda way about black people. Whoever owns this place does too—I bet he’d flip if he knew a black kid just used his nasty bathroom . . .”
Jim exhaled a frustrated sigh. Malik continued. “My grandma says some folks from Mars have the flag on their cars—even one of the elders does. That doesn’t sit right with me—I mean, I haven’t read the whole Bible, but you think Jesus would wave that flag? Do you, Jim?”
Jim rubbed his temples for a moment and then threw his hands in the air. “Let’s just agree to disagree, Malik. I’m done—”
“If we run out of firewood,” Malik growled, with flames in his eyes, “I’m gonna snatch that flag off the wall and watch it burn! Put that thing to good use.”
Jim waited in awkward silence for a few minutes. The wood crackled away in the fireplace. Malik’s jaw eventually slackened.
“So,” Jim finally asked, “what’s the plan, Malik?”
Malik said nothing. His mouth twitched slightly. Jim continued. “Back when you first jumped in my car, I thought you might kill me with that gun. You scared me to death. I drove down that highway and listened to everything you said because I figured you could pull that trigger any minute. But shortly after we got here, I realized you weren’t a killer. I don’t believe you’ll shoot me, Malik. It’s the cold outside that’s holding us both captive right now. But this freak storm is going to pass, and the temperatures are going to rise again. Then what?”
Malik frowned and kicked at a small coal that popped out near his foot. Jim kept talking. “I’m not going to stay here when it warms up. I’m going to go home and see my wife.”
“You can leave whenever you want,” Malik said. “I don’t care.”
“So what are you going to do? You can’t stay here forever.”
Malik shrugged. “The difference between you and me is you got something good to go home to. The police are waiting for me to turn back up because they think I’m one of the guys who rolled on my man, Habib. Those same cops want to lock my butt up for carjacking you too. So, there’s that. But if they don’t get me first, I still got three angry dudes who got a score to finish with me. So I ain’t in much of a rush to get home, man. I think I’ll just stay here . . .”
Jim weighed Malik’s words for a moment. It confused him that this kid was talking like his life was over already. He looked at his watch. It was almost eight o’clock. He wasn’t sure whether the sun would burn away the ice, and he wasn’t certain there was enough gas in the car to get more than five miles down the gravel road and
on the country highway; but his mind turned toward making a plan.
Malik took a look at the pile of logs left on the floor. There were five left.
17
THE LECTURE
8:37 a.m., Tuesday before Thanksgiving
DETECTIVE MARQUAN COLE COVERED HIS MOUTH for a yawn. He wandered slowly down the hallway with a few sips of lukewarm coffee left in a Styrofoam cup. A young lady in pajama pants and a goose-down jacket stood in the middle of the hall trying to pull on a pair of fluffy mittens.
“Excuse me,” MarQuan asked. “Where is Lecture Hall Three?”
“Right around the corner there,” the young woman said. She pointed to her right, a mitten still dangling off one of her hands.
“Thank you,” he acknowledged with a slight nod. He followed her directions and found himself outside Lecture Hall Three. He slowly opened the door and quietly entered. A man’s voice filled the large room. Close to one hundred students were scattered about. The auditorium was old, warm, and musty. MarQuan spotted a seat nearby and sat down.
Professor Keith Thompson was on a stage, seated behind a sizeable wooden desk, his notes scattered in front of him. He was winding down his lecture for his morning sociology course. “Violence is a curious thing,” he said, lowering his head and peering over his glasses at the class. “We should rarely condone it or excuse it. But recent times have caused us to think about it more thoroughly, haven’t they? Particularly when we think about violence within our communities. Many of us are befuddled by some of the recent incidents of police brutality toward people of color. We’ve all seen the news or the YouTube videos, haven’t we? A lot of people are upset that the very ones hired to protect and serve are the same ones using their authority and power to abuse and to kill. Folks have rioted over these events, demonstrating violent behavior to let the police know that they’re weary of the violence. Paradoxical behavior, some would say.