The Final Play

by Shelly Ellis

  “What stuff?” Derrick persisted.

  Jayden anxiously glanced at Morgan, who nodded, encouraging him to continue. “He said that if he didn’t leave and meet up with some dudes he used to work for, that they were gonna . . .” He sucked his teeth. “Basically, they were gonna do somethin’ to him and his mom . . . to his little brother and sister.”

  “Do something?” Derrick repeated.

  Jayden dipped his chin in a quick nod. “He was scared. He was scared if he didn’t go, they would do what they said they were gonna do. He didn’t wanna take the chance. He said since he stopped working for them, that they weren’t sure if he was a snitch now. If he would tell the po-po what was goin’ on. He had to prove that he was still down for them, that they could still trust him.”

  Derrick suspected he knew who “them” was: Dolla Dolla and his crew.

  “What did they want him to do?”

  Jayden shrugged. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. I don’t think he knew either, but he was supposed to meet some dude somewhere up in P.G. to find out. That’s where he was headed last night, but I don’t think he’s still there.”

  “Are you telling us the truth?” Derrick asked. “Are you telling us everything you know, Jayden?”

  Jayden nodded again, looking solemn. “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Jayden. You can head back to class,” Derrick said.

  He and Morgan watched as Jayden opened the office door and walked out of the room.

  “So it’s what we thought it was,” he said as the boy shut the door behind him.

  “Yeah. Cole is back to being mixed up in all that shit.” She shook her head in exasperation. “Do you really think that son of a bitch threatened to hurt Cole and his family?”

  “I don’t see why he wouldn’t. Dolla Dolla has done it before. He’s not known for being the most forgiving when he thinks someone may double-cross his refrigerator-lookin’ ass.”

  “Damnit,” Morgan mumbled. She slouched back in her chair and began to crack her knuckles, a gesture she always did when she was lost in thought.

  Watching her, he went soft on the inside. He could tell she was stressed out about Cole—probably even more so than him. He wanted to rise from his chair, walk around his desk, and rub the tension out of her shoulders. He wanted to kiss her frown and worry lines away from her brow and cheeks and tell her they could only try their best and things like this were out of their control. But he had broken her heart one too many times. She was done with him. He would have to keep those thoughts, caresses, and kisses to himself.

  “What do we do now?” she asked. “P.G. is a big county. He could be anywhere, Derrick.”

  He threw up his hands helplessly. “I have no idea.”

  “So we just . . . what? Keep waiting?”

  His cell phone began to buzz and he glanced at the screen. His eyes widened when he saw the phone number, and he grabbed it and raised it to his ear.

  “Who is it?” Morgan asked.

  “Cole’s mom,” he said, holding a finger to his lips as he pressed the green button to answer. “Hey, Mrs. Humphries. Did you finally hear from Cole?”

  “My baby! My baby! Oh, Lord!” she cried. He heard sobbing and hiccupping on the other end, making his stomach drop to his sneakers.

  Oh, hell, Derrick thought. What happened now?

  “Mrs. Humphries, what’s wrong?” he asked. “What happened to him? Is Cole okay?”

  She finally sniffed. “The police called,” Cole’s mother croaked on the other end of the line. “They . . . they arrested him this afternoon.”

  Derrick closed his eyes and sank back in his chair. It wasn’t the best-case scenario, but at least the boy wasn’t dead.

  “I know that’s upsetting,” he said, trying to pacify her. “But if Cole is in police custody, he’s not wandering—”

  “He shot somebody!” she screamed. “The cops said he followed a man to his home and tried to rob him. They think he wouldn’t give Cole what he wanted, so Cole shot him. My boy shot another human being, and now they don’t know if the man is gonna make it!” She let out another tortured sob.

  Derrick sat shell-shocked as he listened to Cole’s mother. Morgan squinted at him, confused by his stunned silence.

  “What? What is she saying?” Morgan whispered frantically.

  “My boy could get charged with murder, Mr. Miller,” Cole’s mother continued. “He could go to jail forever, and I don’t . . . I don’t understand. Why? Why would he do something like this? He’s gotten into trouble before, but shooting someone? This isn’t him!”

  “Do you know what station they took him to?”

  “No,” Mrs. Humphries said, sniffing again. “They won’t . . . they won’t call me back. They won’t tell me anything.”

  “Okay,” Derrick said, rising from his chair. “I’ll make some calls. I’ll find out and I’ll call you back.”

  “All right,” she whimpered before hanging up.

  “You look like you were just hit by a bus, Derrick,” Morgan said. “What the hell happened?”

  Derrick took a deep breath. “The cops have him. Cole may have killed someone.”

  “What?” she shouted, shooting to her feet. “Oh, Jesus!”

  “I gotta find out where he is. Figure out what the hell happened. I have a few contacts in the Metro police that I work with. Maybe they can help. Can you give me a few minutes to make some calls?”

  She nodded limply. “Sure. Sure, what . . . whatever you need,” she murmured before staggering out his office door.

  For the next half hour, Derrick called every cop he had ever worked or argued with in the course of running the Institute, hoping he could get more info on Cole. Finally, he got one on the phone who was willing to talk to him, to help him.

  “Thanks for doing this, Sergeant Mitchell,” Derrick said.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the gruff cop muttered over the phone. “So what’s the perp’s name?”

  “Cole Humphries. He’s a student here.”

  A long pause followed, along with the sound of clicking computer keys. “Yeah, they brought him in about three hours ago,” Sergeant Mitchell murmured. “He’s still in holding.”

  “What’s the charge?”

  “At this point, attempted murder that could be bumped up to first-degree murder if the victim dies . . . attempted robbery, possession of a weapon during the commission of a crime of violence . . . yada, yada, yada. This is some heavy stuff. It looks like your kid is going away for a long time, Derrick.”

  Derrick’s heart sank.

  “And I’ll say something else . . . when that kid aims to commit a crime, he aims high,” Sergeant Mitchell murmured.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean . . . I could be wrong, but I’m lookin’ at the name of the victim in the records and it . . . it looks like it’s Jamal Lighty. Ain’t he high up in the mayor’s office? The deputy mayor or something?”

  At those words, Derrick swore the wind was knocked right out of him. “Who . . . who did you say?”

  “I said Jamal Lighty. He’s the guy your kid might’ve killed. Can you believe that?”

  Derrick didn’t respond. He was too shocked to utter a word.

  Chapter 5

  Ricky

  “Is this your first, too, Ricky?” Mary Biles asked with a knowing smile.

  “Huh?” Ricky said, adjusting the cool washcloth on Simone’s forehead as she lay on her side in the king-sized bed in one of Mary’s guest rooms.

  Simone gritted her teeth and groaned through another contraction, squeezing his other hand like she was trying to squeeze juice from a lemon, crushing the bones in his fingers. He tried not to wince. It hurt like hell, but she was in much worse pain than he was.

  “I said, is this your first baby?” the elderly white woman asked, pulling up a wooden rocking chair on the other side of the bed. “I know it is for Simone. I was wondering if it was for you, too.”

  “Uh . .
. uh, yeah,” he answered shakily.

  At least, he thought it was. He was pretty sure that out of the many relationships and one-night stands he’d had in his thirty-one years, this was the first baby he’d ever made. And he was eagerly awaiting his first son’s arrival. Maybe that’s why he was so nervous. Maybe that’s why in the nine hours since they had arrived at Mary’s house, he seemed incapable of doing anything right—or Simone made him feel that way. He’d been trying to coach her through her labor, but nothing he did seemed to help her.

  “Stop,” Simone muttered when the contraction finally waned. She shoved his hand and the washcloth away from her. “Just stop!”

  She then let go of his other hand and turned onto her other side on the mattress, closing her eyes as she exhaled.

  “Okay, if you don’t want the damn washcloth, then what do you want? Huh?” he asked impatiently. “More ice cubes? You want me to rub your back?”

  “No,” she whimpered, sounding a lot like a sullen child at that moment. “I don’t want anything. Nothing, all right?”

  That wasn’t true. He knew she wanted her mother and her sister right now.

  Because he’d had to stay away to not draw Dolla Dolla to her, Simone’s sister and her mother were the ones who had taken her to her Lamaze classes, purchased baby clothes and diapers, and helped her set up the nursery. They were the ones who were supposed to coach her through this. Now they were dead, and he was starting to feel like an unsuitable replacement.

  “I just want this to be over and done with,” Simone said between clenched teeth. “God, I want it to stop!” she cried.

  He looked pleadingly at Mary. “Are you sure you can’t give her anything? Nothing for the pain?”

  Mary shook her head. “We have to let this run its course. Women have been doing this without the assistance of drugs for millennia. We’re stronger than you think. Birthing mothers always hit the point where they think they can’t go any further, but they always do. She can handle it. Trust me. And a natural childbirth is what she wanted. She was adamant about that. Weren’t you, Simone?”

  Simone moaned in reply as she was struck with another contraction. They seemed to be coming back to back now. Mary leaned toward her and held her hand. “Don’t forget your breathing, dear. You’re doing fine.”

  “No, she’s not doing fine! She’s fuckin’ miserable! What if she can’t do it?” he persisted. “Shit! She’s been in labor for more than twelve hours. She’s exhausted. Can’t you see that? Maybe we should take her to a hospital. Maybe they could give her some—”

  “Shut up!” Simone shouted, making him stop short. “Just shut up! Go somewhere, Ricky! Anywhere! Please? I don’t need to hear you arguing. You’re not helping!”

  He gritted his teeth and balled his fists at his sides.

  “Why don’t you take a little break,” Mary whispered, rubbing Simone’s shoulder. “I’ll take over for a bit. We’ll be fine.”

  Ricky tossed the washcloth onto the night table, turned, and stalked out the bedroom.

  He walked down the hallway, through a beaded curtain into a kitchen that was filled with knickknacks, that had an array of potted plants on the counters and windowsills.

  Part of him wanted to hop in his car and drive away. To hell with this shit, he thought. He’d risked his life for her, saved her, and now she was treating him like this?

  The other part wanted to charge back into the bedroom and yell at Simone. He wanted to shout at her that he was only trying to help.

  In the end, Ricky did neither. Instead, he sat at the kitchen table, slumped forward in his chair, rested his elbows on his knees, and closed his eyes—trying to get his roller coaster of emotions under control.

  “Everyone handles pain and stress differently,” Mary called out twenty minutes later.

  Ricky sprung upright in his chair. He opened his eyes and looked around him dazedly. He must have dozed off, which wasn’t surprising. He’d only had a few snatches of sleep since yesterday. He had been coasting on an adrenaline high for so long. He guessed he was long overdue for a crash.

  He stretched and yawned.

  “She doesn’t mean what she says,” Mary explained, walking to the kitchen sink with a plastic bowl. She lowered the bowl into the stainless steel sink and turned on the water to rinse it out. She then took the bowl and walked toward her fridge. She laughed. “I wouldn’t take it personally.”

  “I’m not taking it personally,” he muttered, wiping sleep from his eyes.

  “Oh, men and your pride!” She snorted as she pulled out a tray of ice cubes and loudly shook the ice into the bowl. “Yes, you are! But let me tell you, most fathers get their feelings hurt during delivery. You aren’t unique. That’s part of the process, too.”

  He eyed the old woman. Her gray hair was long and scraggly, like bleached straw. She wore an oversized T-shirt, cargo shorts, and pink Crocs with mismatched socks. She looked like one of those homeless women you saw hanging out in front of grocery stores with carts filled to the brim with junk.

  Yet, there was something reassuring about her. He didn’t know much about her medical abilities, but the eccentric old woman seemed kind. She had a comforting air about her that made him understand why she would cater to pregnant women and usher babies into the world. He now understood why Simone had chosen her for her midwife.

  “You love her and you hate seeing her in pain. I get it,” Mary continued.

  She was right. It wasn’t just seeing Simone writhe and groan hour after hour that ate away at him; that part was bad enough. But he also knew about the emotional pain she’d suffered last night and was still experiencing. It seemed like a double whammy to endure physical agony, too. Couldn’t Simone get a break?

  “But she’s gotta go through it to get the baby out, Ricky. It’s nature’s way. It doesn’t look, feel, or sound good, but it’s perfectly natural.” She tilted her head and beamed. “And I just checked her. She’s dilated nine centimeters. The last centimeter will be here before you know it. The baby should be out soon. Come in when you have yourself back together, when you’re ready. Despite what she said, we’re gonna need your help with this.”

  He gradually nodded again.

  After Mary left, he rose to his feet and staggered to the sink. He turned on the faucet and splashed his face with cold water. He stared out the window for a couple of minutes before walking through the beaded curtain and back down the hall to be by Simone’s side.

  The labor dragged on for almost another hour before Mary announced, “You are ready to push, my dear.” She pulled her hand from between Simone’s legs and removed her latex glove. “You are fully dilated. It’s showtime.”

  Ricky felt simultaneously excited and terrified. He gazed at Simone, whose brow and T-shirt were soaked in so much sweat that her curly pixie hair was pasted to her brow and her shirt clung to her like a second skin. She had been grunting and whimpering, crying and moaning through the pain. He found it hard to believe that she would have the strength to sit up, let alone deliver their baby, but it didn’t look like she would have much of a choice.

  “We can do this any way you wish, sweetheart, but I find many women prefer to bear down in a kneeling position. Let gravity work to your advantage. It’ll be like taking the biggest, best poop you could imagine! Your man can hold you from the front while I handle the back end,” she said cheerfully. “Onto your knees, honey.” She pointed to Ricky. “You sit on the bed in front of her, Ricky. Wrap your arms around her waist and hold her. Bear her weight as she pushes.”

  Ricky did as she ordered. He helped Simone get on her knees between his legs then sat on the bed, facing her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and she wrapped hers around his shoulders.

  “One second, folks,” Mary said. “Let me get everything in place.”

  He watched over Simone’s shoulder as Mary fiddled with supplies on her night table.

  “I’m scared, Ricky,” Simone whispered against his ear, drawing his attention
. A lone tear trickled down her cheek. She sniffed. “What if I can’t push him out?”

  “Don’t be scared, baby. I’m here. I got you,” he whispered before kissing her neck and rubbing her back. “I promise. And you’ll do fine. You heard what Mary said: Your body was meant to do this.”

  She let out a shaky breath.

  “Speaking of bodies . . . I think it’s funny as hell that you’re gonna deliver him this way.” He smiled. “I mean . . . isn’t this the position that got us here in the first place?”

  She let out a laugh that quickly turned into a moan that had her clinging to his shoulders.

  “All right,” Mary said, getting into position behind her. “As soon as the next contraction starts, I want you to push with all your might, sweetheart. You hear me? And don’t forget to breathe!”

  Within seconds, Simone was pushing. Each time, he and Mary counted off simultaneously to let her know how long to push. Each time, Simone would grunt or yell.

  “One more! One more, Simone!” Mary cried. “One more big push, honey. Your boy’s almost here!”

  Simone did as Mary ordered and this scream was the loudest. It sounded like a screech. Ricky swore his ears were ringing and probably would be hours from now.

  “There!” Mary said and Ricky heard the baby’s cries next. Mary held his son aloft. She grinned. “Take a look at your baby boy, Mommy and Daddy!”

  Ricky lowered Simone to her side. They both stared dazedly at the slimy, crying infant that Mary held. He was pink and tiny. He wriggled and pumped his little fists with each wail.

  I’ll be damned, Ricky thought with awe. I’m a daddy now.

  “Would you like to cut the umbilical cord, Ricky?”

  He gradually nodded.

  An hour later, the cord had been cut and Simone was stitched up. The sheets had been changed. Simone, who could barely lie down without moaning hours earlier, had taken a quick shower and was now wearing a fresh tank dress and nursing their son. She wasn’t in agony anymore. She looked dog-tired, but happy. For once, she looked happy.