Kenya frowned unsure how to respond.
“Nobody chooses to be gay any more than we chose to be black.” Ghana dumped the spoon in the sink.
“But . . .”
Ghana waved her hand in the air. “No buts. Some decide to be open and honest about who they are, and others decide to keep it private, but they don’t choose to be gay. What’s wrong is that kind of thinking.”
Holding in her irritation, Kenya watched her sister sling her bag over her shoulder and lean out the sliding glass door to say goodbye to the kids, then watched them trail inside asking about dinner, turn the television to the Cartoon Network, and argue as they always did about what show to watch. Her sister’s immediate dismissal burned, but as she listened to her children she saw that nothing about her son had changed, yet everything about him had changed. The real question was whether or not she had what it would take to change.
36
Malcolm sat outside the house, a small one-level white stucco with a small grass yard and a concrete path up to the front door. No media trucks were here anymore. Malawi was old news. He looked up and down the quiet, unassuming street, not the place of breaking headlines. He envisioned Malawi running into the light pole, in the dark, trying to avoid a dog or cat running across the street. How familiar had she been with this neighborhood? Clearly, not so familiar to expect to be shot and killed. She’d probably been afraid. His baby girl had been afraid of the dark for a long time, longer than Kenya or Ghana. Though, sweet and sassy at three.
“Daddy, I’m just gonna lay here with you, ’kay.” She didn’t ask. She told him what was about to happen. “There’s a storm outside and I’m gonna lay with you, now.” Her body would thump its way in, not quiet and subtle, but boisterous, bouncing the bed, pulling the covers, making her presence known. She was sleeping with Daddy. Not Mama. Sometimes she slept in between them, but Bet liked her space. She didn’t like to be crowded and discouraged the girls from sleeping in the same bed with them. Their bed was a haven away from the children. But Malawi discarded what her mother said and pushed her way into the bed anyway, knowing her daddy wouldn’t push her out, knowing he would reach out his arm for her to grab and gently pull her in, cradling her in his chest, feeling her tiny feet push against his thighs, her warm cheek pressing into his skin. He treasured those moments and they’d made him forget all the reasons why he so badly wanted a boy.
He could see her walking up the path and knocking on the screen door. He could see her body being thrown back onto the ground, her head hitting the stone path. He shouldn’t think these thoughts, but they came uninvited and played out in his mind.
A flatbed truck was parked on the curb outside the house, and Malcolm assumed it belonged to Jeffrey Davies. A dirty green truck with rust spots spattering its sides. He imagined sticking a knife into the tires, but that would be pointless.
The weight of the handgun in his lap felt ten times its actual weight. When he had arrived at the motel, he searched online for gun shows in the area and found one in Fort Lauderdale, about an hour’s drive away. The vast array of weapons overwhelmed him when he walked into the auditorium, keenly aware that he was one of only a handful of black patrons walking through the expanse of weaponry. A petite busty brunette sold him the gun. She caught his eye and flashed him a wide smile as he passed, so he stopped and looked at the selection on the table.
“What you looking for?” she said cheerily. Her face was deeply tanned with eyelashes far too thick and long to be real.
“Not really sure,” he said, eyeing the array of weapons. “A handgun. Something not too complicated. Reliable.”
The saleswoman pitched a variety of guns, picking each one up and displaying it like jewelry. Springfield. Ruger. Smith & Wesson. Glock. He liked the Smith & Wesson with the thumb safety and, after holding it in his hand, aiming it at the floor, he decided it would do.
He was a little surprised at how simple the process had been. He completed a form, giving his father’s name and the address of the cheap motel just outside Palm Beach where he was staying. She seemed unconcerned about the paperwork when he offered cash. “Just a formality, really,” she said, and threw in a dozen bullets for free.
He would only need one. Maybe two.
He sat in his car across the street from Jeffrey Davies’ house where his little girl had been shot dead. The county prosecutor finally arrested the man almost two weeks after the shooting, but released him that same day on bail. So much had been said in the media about whether or not he was guilty; some believed he had a right to shoot; others said he was guilty of first degree murder. But the prosecutor cited lines from the Stand Your Ground law. Such bullshit! No man, especially one with a gun, should feel threatened by a young woman, weighing less than one-hundred-and-twenty-five pounds and armed with a cell phone that likely didn’t get any service. All the words and the political posturing. It was all bullshit. The local attorney he’d hired was doing the best he could, but Malcolm couldn’t wait for the court system. He knew how long that process could take. Today, he would make it right. An eye for an eye. A life for a life. Davies for Malawi. That seemed fair.
He ran his fingers along the plastic grip to the cool metal of the slide. He’d never fired a gun before but he had no fear as he imagined firing a bullet into Davies’ brain.
37
The crowd was electric. Such an unoriginal description, but it was the only word that came to Ghana’s mind. Electric. She could feel the energy, hot and alive, charging through the crowd on invisible wires. She felt buzzed as she looked out at hundreds, no thousands, of people chanting and singing in between speakers, and cheering as each person called for action. This must be what Martin Luther King Jr. had felt when he stood before an audience in 1963. The clock tower stood watch against the powder blue sky and the Capitol dome shimmered at the far end of Pennsylvania Avenue. Voices echoed through the loudspeakers. The Reverend Curtis Bishop had come from New York City to lead the march, his words echoing the peace marches of the sixties. He was not as tall as Ghana expected, but he held himself erect like a military officer. Reverend Bishop never rose to the status of the Reverend Doctor King, but as a young man he marched with the slain leader, and in the decades since had continued to shout for justice for African Americans wherever it appeared to have been denied. This was his march—the Peace and Justice March—organized by him along with a coalition of civil rights organizations, demanding justice for the young unarmed black men and women who had died at the hands of police, self-proclaimed vigilantes, and fearful white citizens. Ghana was proud to be standing with him and his supporters.
She was one of many on the platform at Freedom Plaza. Though she had followed the news accounts of one death after another, seeing so many survivors gathered together on the podium shocked her. Speaking now was the mother of Tamir Rice. Her son had been carrying a toy gun that the officer said looked real. The woman began to cry causing Ghana to tear up. She swallowed a lump in her dry throat and hoped she’d be able to speak when it was her turn.
She heard her name and stepped forward, placed her hands on the lectern to steady herself and took a breath. Her parents had been invited to attend, but her mother hadn’t responded to the invitation, so the organizers contacted Ghana, who gladly accepted, though now, looking at the audience she feared she would stumble and appear foolish on national television. Several microphones from various television and radio stations were angled at her mouth. The organizers suggested just a few comments, five to ten minutes tops. She thought about the note cards in her jacket pocket, words she’d scribbled down, read and reread hoping they made sense, hoping she would be able to convey a message of peace.
“What a beautiful crowd,” she said and a cheer blossomed around her. She took another breath and fumbled in her pocket for her cards, but decided she didn’t need them; all the words were firmly in her mind. She leaned forward and said, “My sister had no gun.” She paused. “No weapon. She was no threat.” Another pause. �
��She simply needed help. And what she got was two bullets; one in the shoulder and one in the chest. Why?” She cleared her tightening throat.
Several voices rang out in the audience. “Because she was black!”
“Yes,” Ghana responded. “Yes, because she was black. Simply because of the color of her skin. Because she was a black woman at a white man’s door.”
Yelling and cheers again filled the air.
“When are we, as Americans, going to look at one another as human beings? Not as a skin color. Not as a religion. Not as someone different and therefore threatening. But as a people. Human beings trying to live, to be happy, to find love, to be at peace. Together. When will we be at peace with one another? When will this race war end?” She inhaled. “I don’t want my sister’s death to be yet another meaningless killing. I want this tragedy, this heartbreak, to have meaning, to be a path toward peace, toward ending this violence against one another. I call on every human being, every American, to demand peace.”
The crowd burst into applause and cheers, and began chanting, “We want peace.” Ghana stared at the faces, the placards and fists pumping the air. Chills ran through her. She stepped aside and accepted a hug from Reverend Bishop. People were smiling and nodding, grabbing her hand and thanking her. She moved near the back of the platform, her mission accomplished.
When all the speakers were done, they marched along Pennsylvania Avenue to Congress where Reverend Bishop expounded on his message of peace and justice. Ghana inhaled the cheers and the singing around her, her body tingling with electricity. Something good would come from this. Surely it would.
38
It was time, he thought, though Malcolm wasn’t sure what to do with the gun. He considered sliding it into his waistband like they do on television, but that wasn’t his style. He didn’t want it to slip out. He imagined grabbing the gun and a bullet firing spontaneously into his leg. Instead, he put it in his pants pocket and it banged against his thigh. Malcolm removed it and made sure the safety was on. Nice and safe. He adjusted his glasses and placed a straw fedora on his head—a slight disguise—got out of the car and crossed the street, taking each step carefully, slowly. He walked up the path. At the front door, paint was peeling off the frame and the screen was dented near the bottom. To the left below a single window was a flower bed with several small green shrubs and a lawn of brown grass. He pulled the wobbly handle and envisioned Malawi doing the same. Opening the screen door to knock was hardly suspicious activity. With his fist, he pounded on the wooden door and stepped back so Davies could see this was not a young woman he could bully, but a large man he should be scared of. His throat was dry and he tried to swallow. In case Davies opened the door shooting, Malcolm was poised, ready to drop to the ground and roll into the shrubs, though it would be a dumb move for the man to repeat himself.
Several moments passed and Malcolm knocked again, hitting the wood harder, louder. Finally a voice shouted from the window. “Who is it?”
“I’m from the courthouse. We need to talk.” Malcolm looked at the window but couldn’t see a face, just the shifting of a curtain. He smiled anyway hoping Davies would be convinced and open the door.
“I talked to my lawyer already,” the voice said. “Who are you?”
“Just need to discuss a few administrative things. It’ll just take a minute.”
Another moment passed and Malcolm considered kicking in the door, but unlike the screen, the wooden door looked pretty sturdy. Then it opened. Malcolm instinctively retreated a step, but the man had no weapon. He wore a striped cotton shirt, rolled at the sleeves, worn thin from wear, and loose-fitting faded blue jeans. His face, suspicious, wary, was heavily lined through his cheeks and forehead, his gray hair long to his shoulders and a thinning beard flecked with gray. He was not a young man and Malcolm was unsure, now, what he had expected. This man was old, weary.
“My attorney said not to talk to no one.”
“I understand.” Malcolm swallowed another dry lump. “Can I come in?”
The man frowned, hesitated then made way for Malcolm to pass over the threshold. He entered a darkened living room, a worn brown couch along one wall, a low wooden coffee table slightly askew in the middle of the room, in the corner near the front window, a large television set with an antenna sticking out the top, and a brown leather armchair positioned a few feet in front of it. The leather was cracked and Malcolm wondered if it was fake. Pleather, he thought. This was where the man was sitting when he heard Malawi at his door. Malcolm looked around for the shotgun, but it was likely hidden away, under his bed perhaps. Davies stared at him, his brown eyes too close together. Malcolm wasn’t sure what to do now that he was inside.
“Well?” The man waited.
Malcolm needed to sit down. “May I?” He pointed to the couch.
Davies nodded and seemed to ease somewhat, his hunched shoulders shifted away from his ears.
Malcolm positioned himself on the edge of the couch, the inner springs squeaking wildly as if he’d squashed a mouse in the cushions. The gun was heavy in his pocket, pressing against his thigh.
Davies remained standing.
“Jeffrey Davies,” Malcolm said, taking the hat and placing it on his lap. The man continued to look at him with that same tired expression. “Jeffrey Davies,” he said again with more conviction, mustering up the courage to say his piece. He removed the clip-on sun shades from his glasses to reveal his face. “You killed my daughter.”
For a moment nothing changed. Davies remained standing, his face stuck, then his eyes widened and he backed away, panic shifting the muscles in his face into horror. The realization he’d allowed the girl’s father into his home, perhaps gauging how much time it would take to get the shotgun before Malcolm went in for the kill. But Malcolm’s desire to inflict unspeakable pain had faded. He looked at the man’s bare feet, his twisted toes clinging to the faded rug.
“You should be in jail right now.”
“I’m calling the police.” Davies grabbed a phone sitting on a small side table next to the armchair and began to dial.
Without thinking, Malcolm leaped up, pulled the gun from his pocket and aimed it at the man. “Dial the number and I swear to God, I will blow you into hell.” His entire body was shaking and he hoped Davies couldn’t see it. “Drop the phone. Now.”
Davies had hit two of the three numbers, his finger poised to press the last one. Malcolm’s large size was palpable standing in the home of this small man. He didn’t need the gun. He could reach out and choke him with one hand. Watch the life in him fade away. The man’s fear hit Malcolm in his chest, making him feel winded. He gripped the gun with both hands, steadying his aim, daring Davies to complete the call.
39
People were walking randomly now, not as a unit with signs held high, but as a ragged mass heading home, broken signs piled around trash cans and an occasional flyer fluttering in the breeze. Still buzzing from the event, Ghana meandered south from the Capitol building toward the Metro. No fancy Town Car to take her home like the one for Reverend Bishop.
She passed a tiny park with luscious green grass and inviting brown benches. D.C. was a beautiful city in the summer, she thought. No skyscrapers to spoil the view of white billowy clouds above the trees. Even the blocks of stone-and-glass federal buildings appeared majestic in the sunshine. On days like this she was hopeful that what good there was in the world would overcome all the bad shit that was happening. Surely, people would hear this call for peace and respond in a positive way.
Along the route, a few police officers lingered by their vehicles, casually chatting with each other, likely waiting for the crowd to completely dissipate.
Waiting for the walk sign, she spied two patrol cars parked askew half a block down the side street she was about to cross. Two officers stood on the sidewalk. Ryan was working today. Overtime because of the march. The chances she would stumble upon him were slim, but one of the cops had his height, his build. She de
cided to see if it was him. As she started to walk, a loud crash erupted, like the sound of a metal trashcan, and the two officers backed up. She didn’t see anything. Another bang and from seemingly nowhere half a dozen men in black hoodies crowded the narrow street throwing rocks at the two cops. One man held what looked to Ghana like a metal pipe and he swung it wildly at the officers. One officer was hit with a rock and dropped to the ground while the other pulled his gun but was hit from behind by the metal pipe. Ghana screamed. She spun around, waving her arms, looking for the numerous cops she’d seen along the route, but that was a block or two away. People glanced at her but kept walking. She turned back to see both cops on the ground, two men kicking them. In the distance she heard a siren. One hooded man ran toward her and she shouted at him, “What the hell are you doing?”
As he approached, she saw he was not a man, but a kid, fourteen or fifteen at most.
“Fuck the police,” he yelled. “They’re killing us. It’s our turn to get them back.”
Horrified, Ghana watched him run across the street and disappear into the Metro station. The siren roared louder to the scene and the remaining boys scattered, though two were caught by the arriving officers. Two police vehicles blocked the street, their doors gaping wide. An arriving officer stopped her.
“I just need to know if it’s Ryan.” She was shaking as if the weather was cold. “Is it Officer Evans? Ryan Evans?”
The cop, an older light-skinned man, shook his head sympathetically. “I don’t know for sure, Ma’am. I need you to step back.”
“I saw one of the boys who did this,” she said. Her throat was closing, tears building. “He was a kid. A dumb, stupid kid.”
The officer took her information in the event she may be needed as a witness, and he promised to call if Ryan was one of the officers who was attacked. But she knew he wouldn’t call. He likely wouldn’t remember his promise in all the chaos. She pulled out her cell phone and called Ryan’s number, hoping she was mistaken, but there was no answer. An ambulance arrived from the other end of the street, and she watched as the EMTs carried the two men into the emergency vehicle. A crowd had formed now, people milling around trying to see what happened, snapping pictures. Standing on the sidewalk, she called Cass. She wasn’t making any sense, her words tumbling over each other, her hands shaking, tears blurring her vision. “You have to come get me in your car. We need to follow the ambulance. I need to know if it’s Ryan.”
Malawi's Sisters Page 19
