by Briana Cole
“What? Some kind of threatening note?”
“No, not that. It’s . . . just please read it.”
Detective Terry sat back, her eyes quickly glossing over the words in front of her. She remained quiet as she read, and I watched intently for any kind of reaction that would let me know how she was receiving the information. She was good. Not even a tensed jaw or furrowed brow or any kind of outward display of her thoughts.
When she was done, Detective Terry sat the paper on her desk and looked at me again, as if she were waiting for more.
“Well?” I prompted.
Detective Terry lifted a hand in the air. “Well, it’s interesting that’s for sure. But I’m not quite sure I follow what you want me to do.”
“What do you mean ‘what do I want you to do?’ Help her. She’s in trouble.”
“Whoa, whoa let’s hold up a minute.” Detective Terry held up her fingers as she counted. “Number one, we don’t have jurisdiction anywhere in Texas so we can’t very well just go stomping around in someone else’s backyard. Number two, what makes you think this note is actually for real?”
“Why would anybody send a fake letter asking for help?”
“Money, revenge, attention.” Detective Terry said it like it was obvious. There could be a multitude of reasons.”
I shook my head, doubtful. “No, there wouldn’t be any reason for anyone to do this to First Lady Davis,” I said gesturing to the paper. “Everyone around here knows what she has been through. She’s like a pillar of this community because of the Word of Truth Christian Center.”
Detective Terry sighed and leaned on the desk. For the briefest of moments, her eyes flickered back to the letter before focusing on me again.
“What I’m saying,” she tried again, this time her voice a little gentler, “is that there is really no reason for someone to play some kind of cruel prank. Sometimes it’s just self-gratification. I just don’t want you or Ms. Davis to get your hopes up about this. It just seems really suspect.”
No, that wasn’t true. Couldn’t be. I knew for a fact she was wrong.
“Have you told anyone else about this?” she asked. “Your husband? Other friends?”
I don’t think it was the right time or place to assure her I had no other friends. So, I just shook my head in response. “No. I haven’t told anyone. I wanted to bring this to your attention first because it’s so serious.”
“Okay.” Detective Terry’s smile was warm as she reached down and slid the paper back in my direction. “Well I do appreciate you showing me this and again I wish there was more I could do—”
“Detective Terry, please.” I tried again, refusing to pick up that paper. Picking up that paper meant what? I was going to just stuff it in the trash? Ignore it? Pretend it never arrived? I at least had to try. “Can you just . . . take a look into it? I don’t know if you have any friends in Dallas or anything that can maybe look around up there or something.”
“What exactly are they looking for here?”
“My friend.” My voice cracked under the healing grief. “My best friend. She isn’t perfect, by no means. And she’s not without fault in this whole mess. But still, she doesn’t deserve this.” I picked up the paper, my fingers trembling over the words. Please help. My eyes squeezed shut against the threat of tears. She was in trouble. And her life was hanging in the balance. “Even if you think with all your heart and soul that it’s not her, would it really hurt to just . . . make some calls so someone can look and see for sure?”
When I paused again, my eyes met Detective Terry’s who seemed to have softened under my words. Still, she said nothing as if she were really contemplating my request. But, the little shred of hesitancy was etched on her face and her fingers drummed the armrest of her chair.
Suddenly remembering, I reached into my purse and fished out my wallet. “Wait, before you say anything,” I said, fumbling through the folds of black leather for something in particular. “Just please take a look at one more thing.”
Finding what I needed, I held the wallet out to her so she could see the photo for herself.
His picture was in one of the plastic sleeves, by no means a professional, but still intimate enough to capture the moment. I hadn’t been back long from my honeymoon when I took the picture. I believe it may have just been a random day I was babysitting for Kimmy, but Jamal had been looking too angelic in his little swing, sucking on his closed fist, his eyes large and curious at the ‘wondrous’ sight of low-hanging plastic toys in his face while music billowed from the speakers in a relaxing lullaby. It seemed the shutter had captured the sheer innocence, youth, joy, and miracle of this little boy’s birth and often looking at it to this day made my soul cry.
“This is Jamal,” I said, sadly as Detective Terry peered at the image in my outstretched hand. “He’s only a baby. I’m his Auntie and Godmother. I look at him and I feel that special love people have for children. No, I don’t have my own here anymore, but if this little boy is alive and in some kind of danger, he deserves a chance. Even if you don’t do it for Kimmy. Please, Detective, just do it for Jamal.”
We shared an aching moment of silence and I had just about given up hope that I had moved the woman still perching quietly at her desk. Until, slowly, she nodded her head, and her smile was one of sympathy and understanding.
“I’ll make some calls,” she agreed, and I sighed in relief. “But,” she held up a finger to stop my inner celebration. “I can’t make any promises. You understand? I usually don’t deal with cases like this.”
“I understand. Thank you so much.” Remembering the letter again, I added, “Can you please keep this as quiet as possible? Kimmy says not to trust the Dallas police because she thinks they’re in Leo’s back pocket.”
Detective Terry gave me a little thumbs-up. “Got it.”
I maneuvered my car through a stop sign as I eyed the familiar brick stone houses peppering the street. I should’ve prepared myself. A feeling of nostalgia settled on me like a stale blanket. I remembered how I had loved the neighborhood with its manicured lawns and family-oriented charm that looked like something out of Pleasantville. Even now, I rolled past a group of preschoolers scampering across the rubber mulch of the neighborhood playground; their shrill screams of joy dancing in the autumn breeze. It was as if time had stood still. I was tempted to squint through the mist of tears and search for my own children among the grinning faces.
Sunlight spilled through the windshield and sent a welcoming stream of light across my downcast face as I eased into the cul-de-sac. Everything felt familiar. Down to the cluster of shirtless teenagers jostling through a friendly game of basketball. They paused to let me pass through. I didn’t bother meeting their curious gazes.
It was once a nice area with rows of neat houses and safe streets. An ideal little suburb in which to bring up children and build plans for the future. The place offered the promise of hope to the working families who moved in during the seventies and eighties. Each house was more or less the same and had its own miniscule frontage that passed for a garden, which was lovingly tended to add a picture book quaintness. I smiled, remembering the different scenes that had become part of my childhood. During the week, the lady of the corner lot home pruned and watered; on weekends her husband got out the lawnmower and tidied the grass while the kids pitched in and did their bit to keep up the image the family wished to present. Seduced by the assurance of a good life, the residents worked hard and dreamed their dreams. Neighbors knew one another and cheery smiles, friendly waves, and cordial greetings were the normal exchange whenever they met. Children went to school, studied, played and grew up together, all striving to uphold their parents’ expectations of excellence. Happiness and laughter were woven into the fabric of the neighborhood and its progress was small but evident.
Unfortunately, the good start did not guarantee continued advancement. Life happened in large doses, affecting most of the population. Somewhere along the way,
families were afflicted by misfortune and sadness. Jobs were lost or a spouse took off. Perhaps it was an illness, bereavement, or an addiction that caused the downfall of families, extinguishing all hope.
Children eventually left dysfunctional homes in pursuit of their own dreams. What remained could not sustain a vestige of its former radiance. The neighborhood was now old and run down, much like its habitants. Once a picture of optimism, it was now a portrait of despair. Derailed prospects and broken dreams eroded the landscape. Rot set in, spreading its malevolent tentacles throughout the place. Unkempt residences reflected their habitants’ disinterest in their surroundings, advertising the fact that they were past caring. The low crime rate merely implied that even criminals knew there was nothing to take from this community.
One of these derelict houses had belonged to my family, or what was left of it. There was a time when things were perfect, before my father left, unable to bear the household responsibilities while keeping his little side chick satisfied. Before my mother had to work in a demeaning, exhausting job that wrung out whatever little piece of woman remained in her. Before I began spending so much time at my Aunt Pam’s, and then later, at Kimmy’s house, I spent time trying to force myself to forget my own broken existence.
As I approached the house, I noticed the bits of paper caught in a frantic dance with the overgrown grasses and shrubs. Even nature had succumbed to the pressure of inertia that bullied the neighborhood into submission. Uneasiness gripped me the moment I climbed my front steps. I saw my mother through the half-open window walking about the room with a cigarette in her hand and a scowl on her face. The paint on the porch was peeling. The entrance door had long since lost one of its hinges and it needed a special knack to get it open. Turn the handle, lift and a solid push. It also needed a good wash to remove the accumulation of grime from all the many years of passage. I fumbled for my key and let myself in.
The cluttered entrance had cardboard boxes and large plastic containers everywhere. Packages had always inhabited our space and more had been added over the years. These boxes did not indicate movement; rather, they represented a sort of permanence. Unlabeled and uncatalogued receptacles for junk; anything and everything found its way into these containers stacked in piles about the place. Long since unopened, their jumbled contents were forgotten. It would have been quite a feat to find anything, so it was lucky that occasion never arose.
It wasn’t a hoarder’s house. If someone came and cleared the debris, nothing would be missed. It was just too much for my mother to tackle alone, but, hell, it wasn’t like she had ever really considered it.
The neglect in the house was tangible; its presence was evident everywhere, permeating every nook and cranny, touching each item, ingrained in the grubby walls, faded drapery, and stained, frayed upholstery. It was obvious no one gave a damn about the disorder, well no one except me of course. Carelessly misplaced items of clothing and magazines were scattered about and overfilled ashtrays were forced to disgorge their contents, adding to the litter of already messy surfaces. The smell of stale cigarette smoke hung about the fetid air. Dirty dishes lay on the dining table and filled the kitchen sink, begging for attention as did the rest of the untidy house.
“That you, Adria?” my mother yelled out.
I didn’t answer and began to walk up the stairs to my room. The fridge door slammed shut and my mother came out holding a glass of wine in her hand. I didn’t bother looking at her as I climbed the stairs, but out of my peripheral, I saw her standing there in her ill-fitting, faded polka-dot robe, and bedraggled bedroom slippers. Since my dad left us, she had been so different. I didn’t even recognize this woman anymore.
I made it to my room and closed my door, tossing myself on my bed. I was mentally and physically drained. Plus, I knew it was the calm before the storm. But I wouldn’t be long anyway. I was going over to the Davises’ home. Kimera had invited me to dinner and I often looked forward to the refuge. Not to mention, her brother Keon was fine as hell, not that he ever paid any attention to me. The sudden thought of Kimmy brought a smile to my face. What would life have been like if my best friend wasn’t there for me? Hell, my own father had a new family and hadn’t bothered to see how I was. Granted it was hard to deal with my hostile mother when he tried to visit once or twice in the beginning so to be honest, could I really blame him for his absence?
Kimmy and I were damn near inseparable, how we were together whenever possible, whether we stayed at the mall hanging out in the food court, or sneaking in the movie theater to catch every show on one child’s ticket. What kept me entertained was that Kimmy was a PK, or preacher’s kid, as she was known in school. Not that she cared. She probably was the most rebellious between us, as if she was on a mission to prove how “cool” she was. When we got in trouble (which was pretty often), chances are it was because of her. Nevertheless, that was my girl and I loved her for it.
“My sister for life,” I had promised, to which Kimmy pledged the same.
“I’ll always be with you.”
Keon was the very last person I had expected to see at the cemetery. I was still mentally exhausted from my little quick trip down memory lane so I could only really sit in the car and watch him through the windshield.
His head was bent down and his lips were moving, but I couldn’t tell if he was talking to the girls, or praying. He had a bouquet of sunflowers in his hand though he had not placed them on the grave just yet.
I wasn’t sure how long he had been there, nor could I be sure how long he was going to stay. As much as I didn’t want to interrupt his private visit, I stepped from the car and made my way across the stone walkway.
He heard me approaching, I’m sure, but still, he did not look up to acknowledge me. Without thinking, I joined his side, not standing too close as to accidently touch him but close enough our presence was undeniably as one. Not that it mattered, but to our girls we were a united front. Even in the midst of our discord.
“I feel them,” he said quietly.
“They’re always here.”
“I don’t understand how you have the strength to come.”
“I don’t,” I admitted. “But my heart is here so I have to.”
“I feel like, I didn’t come like I should have because part of me was embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed? Why?”
Keon shrugged. “I couldn’t save them. I failed them. And I failed you, Adria.”
I still kept my eyes on the gravesite at our feet but I felt his eyes turn to look at my profile. I wished like hell I knew what he was thinking.
“You’re looking better,” he observed. “I’m glad the hospital helped.”
I nodded. “Me too.” And because I felt so compelled to, I murmured, “Key. I am so sorry.”
Keon shook his head against my apology. “No, I’m sorry. I was wrong. I don’t think I could ever understand what you must have been going through because I was too busy going through my own shit dealing with this.” He reached into his pocket and held a business card in my direction.
I looked down, instantly recognizing the pale blue design of Dr. Evelyn Waller’s practice.
“I’ve been going to sessions,” he affirmed with a hesitant smile. “Never thought I would need to do anything like this and to be honest, I didn’t really see the benefit. But, she convinced me to come talk to her for a few hours. Well those few hours turned into every other day.”
My heart swelled. “I’m very happy for you,” I said with a smile. “Seriously. I don’t know what I would have done without Dr. Evelyn. I hate that I talked myself out of going. I guess I was just trying not to face my own demons.”
Again, we eased into comfortable silence. “I want us to go together,” Keon said. “And, I want us to start going back to church. We have to do this, for us. For our girls, Dria.”
More silence. I was so engrossed in everything we had been through, I couldn’t help but wonder was there even hope for us? We had gotten to a ba
d place and me, well I was damaged, utterly and completely damaged. Could I ever be enough for him when I wasn’t even enough for myself?
Then, I felt Keon shift and dip his hand into my pocket to find my fingers. Lacing his with mine, we just stood there for a moment longer, as if relishing the silent reassurance.
“I have to tell you something,” I started, turning to look at him. “Your mother got a note.”
“A note?” He was clearly not following where this sudden statement came from. Or why.
I nodded. “Yes. From your sister.”
Chapter 18
Kimera
“Do you have any regrets?”
I turned to look at Kareem directly. We had just finished another quickie, this time standing up in my closet. We had gotten dressed and lay across my bed, me at the head and he at the foot. It felt nice, Kareem’s companionship. I think I had been so focused on getting out that I hadn’t noticed I was craving someone to talk to. Kareem was easily filling every one of those voids.
On top of that, the man was a pure protector. I needed that too. He had spoken with Leo and apparently, someone had smashed a brick through the back-patio door and shattered the glass the other day. Shit had startled all of us because we didn’t even realize someone was able to get on the property. But Kareem had sprung into action, trying to make sure me and the boys were safe. Though a few days had passed and they still hadn’t found out who had done it, Kareem was around me more than ever, just to make sure. And that comforted me.
I rested my head on my hand, reflecting on the question he had just asked. “Do I have any regrets? That’s kind of obvious, right? I mean doesn’t everyone have regrets?”
Kareem nodded. “Right. I guess I should rephrase and ask what are some of your regrets then.”
“Well how much do you really know about me?”
“I want to hear it from you,” he countered. “Not what Obi and Leo have said about you.”
