by Nenny May
At about 3:15 A.M., her tears had dried, her throat had been hoarse and her lips had stopped wobbling. And she’d been hugged almost by a warm curiosity that wanted to know what living with cancer would entail. She wasn’t the first one to come down with the disease, neither was she going to be the last in the world, but it didn’t change the stabbing pain it left in its wake. Despite that, she’d revisited the question regarding her hair. Was she going to wait for it to fall out? Or was she going to cut it herself? At this point, she’d been seated by the edge of her bed, both hands massaging her scalp, gently tugging strand after strand. Her eyes had strayed to the empty packet of L&M cigarettes. What was that saying… old habits die hard? She didn’t know what to feel about her decision to fall back on cigarettes. It had happened. She’d reached for her purse earlier that night at 10:00 P.M., or so, and she’d just started with one stick, and then another, and then another. And in between she’d consoled herself with a sour realization that she would die either way, smoking wasn’t going to change anything.
Each stroke of the humming razor seemed tougher than the last; some strands even tumbled into the sink. She’d risen from her bed earlier that night, wondering whether Michel had gone through a similar internal conflict? If he had at such a young age—ten to be precise—then who was she to fall less than him? He’d lost the battle to cancer, but he’d gone out fighting, she had to do the same. She wasn’t ready to let cancer get the best of her.
Each stroke poured gasoline onto the spark of fear in her belly. She didn't know what people would think, what her cousin would think. There was a feeling in her gut that said, “no,” it warned and wailed her to “Stop!” while she still had it in her, and another in her heart that said, “yes,” with a sense of terrifying freedom, the voice in her heart claimed she was making the right decision. She was torn, but let her hands run the rumbling razor over her hair. She wanted it gone, all of it. She wanted a fresh start.
Christina watched stubble skin emerge and her transformation from her tired beauty to the girl with cancer become a reality. It was a title she'd tried to run away from, The girl with cancer, but it was a title she was wise to embrace. She had the face that would eventually land a new job and get her back on her feet, she had the heart and the fiery passion, and her hair or medical status wasn't going to be a determining factor.
She flipped the switch on the wall and ran her hand over her naked head, instantly regretting it. But it was good regret. After all, there was never progress without a little regret. And so she stood there, razor off, eyes running over her new reflection and fingers clutching the edge of her sink. She was there for the longest time, thinking, coercing herself to step out into her new decision. It didn’t look all that bad. She kept telling herself, even if she didn’t believe it. She’d made progress.
That morning, she’d screamed into her bathroom mirror. Christina cried as if her brain was being shredded from the inside. Emotional pain flowed out of her every pore. She’d crouched down and begun to pick up chunks and chunks of hair that decorated her bathroom floor like a carpet. She didn’t believe the voice in her head and now she was bald, holding her hair in her hands. She wasn’t sure what time of the morning it was, but it was before the crack of dawn. Christina cried and the world turned into a blur, and so did the sounds, the taste, the smell. Everything was just gone for a flutter of a second. She'd paused trying to hold back the strange feelings rumbling inside her but she couldn't. She wanted to accept it, that this was her reality, but she couldn't. Everything was moving too fast, changing too fast.
That morning, in the confines of her bathroom, she'd cried like her spirit needed to break loose from her skin, desperate to release an elemental rage on the world. As she stared befuddled at the white wall in front of her and tried to review her hasty decisions she begun to feel a tension and anxiety build up. And just before the panic could eat her alive, she’d risen on legs of concrete and she’d carried herself to her phone by her bed and called Grace. It was impulsive. She needed someone and she hoped that someone was still there for her.
On the fourth ring, Christina had regained her steady heart beat by breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth. She’d been ready to shut off her phone and sit alone with her new decision, but then, Grace had answered in a shallow tired voice.
“I cut it.” Christina had wailed in a trembling voice. “All my hair… I haven’t been up to talk because I didn’t want to talk about the cancer, but yeah… I’ve been avoiding you because I have cancer and I cut out all my hair…” There was silence at the other end of the line. Christina had pulled the phone from her ear, checking whether she was still connected to Grace, she was.
“I had a miscarriage, Christina.”
Everyone had been talking about it, the rumor surging through the halls of 28th precinct that Detective Mathews was being reassigned to the Harrington case. When Detective Harrington had first heard this, he’d been on his way to his office. He didn’t think the two rookie officers’ chit-chatting by the window had acknowledged his presence. How would they, they’d had their back to him. They’d mentioned something about Lieutenant Watson taking the executive decision the previous afternoon. Harrington hadn’t been able to make it back to the precinct the previous day. Lord knew if this were true and he’d been able to poke his head into work, he would have done something to stop it. The previous afternoon after his brief conversation with Christina Gresham, Detective Harrington had done something… out of character to say the least. He hadn’t wanted to return to Harlem all too soon. To a case that was waiting for him to bring forth a lead. He’d wanted to go back to the basics. To return to a time where Lawrence was still his father, to a time before he’d run off to college and set off on a track that in years to come deprived him of his last goodbye to Lawrence.
So, he’d returned to Manhattan Valley to his childhood home. Unlike Papa Daniels, the building he’d grown up in had been renewed. What was once a three story brick building with moss growing out of the sides, out of date windows and a street barren of cars aside from two run-down ones had been transformed to a four-story made of cladding and sleek modern windows. Much to his chagrin, it had been lined with cars. Back then, Barron had been one of many neighborhood kids that would kick a ball around the street in baggy pants and a stained shirt. Perched by the curb, in the driver seat of his SUV, Harrington over and over revisited that single flutter of a memory. It gave him courage; just enough to climb out into the glare of the afternoon sun and on slow legs approach the new branded glass doors.
Inside, he’d had to register his presence. He’d still taken the stairs, uninterested in the new fancy-shmancy elevators. Even the stairs had been repainted and enhanced with picture frames hung up of its grinning residents. He didn’t know how to feel about the sense of community he’d turned his back on. He didn’t know how to feel about not being able to recognize the families he’d grown up around. He’d only recognized one, from the image at the top of the stairs. It was his family, the one he’d left behind. It was a grinning portrait of Lawrence, Juliana and Claire. It had been taken just outside their apartment door, much like the rest of the pictures he’d walked by.
His jaws clenched, he reached for the image. On a closer look, he couldn’t help but mutter beneath his breath, a picture is worth a thousand words. Lawrence’s smile seemed forced; but that could just be in Harrington’s head, perhaps he’d just been tired? Juliana seemed to be gazing off into a distance, at a neighbor? And Claire…had a… how would he put it… mischievous smile as if hiding something. No, this had to be in his head. Nevertheless, he’d hung the picture back on the wall and pulled out his phone camera. He’d snagged three good shots before a woman coughed behind him. He stepped aside.
“Oh, sorry.”
“It’s okay, are you new here? We have portraits of new members. The one you were looking at had been of the Harrington family. I live three doors down from them. I’m Rosaline King, but you can call m
e Rose.” The woman spoke faster than she walked. “It’s unfortunate, what happened to Lawrence. It’s all over the news, that poor family.”
“Yeah.” Detective Harrington forced.
“They’d had some problems, nearing his gruesome end, but even he didn’t deserve that.” She’d reached her door.
“Problems?” The elderly woman nodded.
“From mailroom gossip, I’d picked up on quite a few things.” The woman mirrored Claire’s smile from the picture and Detective Harrington felt sick to his stomach.
“Like?” He egged her on.
“Lawrence had been struggling financially in his last few years. And his wife didn’t exactly have the best reputation after her neighborhood affair.” Harrington winced. He didn’t want to hear this. That afternoon, he’d felt like a coward, for not wanting to believe what he was hearing. That afternoon, he’d chucked it up as mere neighborhood gossip and nothing more. Juliana hadn’t had an affair. Lawrence wasn’t bankrupt and for heaven’s name, he didn’t even know why Claire had been grinning like that in the damn picture, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to.
“Would you like to join me inside? I’m making tea.” He shook his head managing a smile.
“No thanks, I should get back. But it was nice meeting you Rose.”
“Lovely meeting you too, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Barron,” Was the only thing he’d been willing to offer. She nodded thinking nothing of it.
Cracking open her door, he’d watched her disappear inside before he’d taken three doors from hers to his old home and knocked. Once, twice; no answer. He’d remained there; he hadn’t come all that way, to not get into his own home. He’d peeked beneath the carpet if Juliana still had a habit of leaving a spare key. She did. And so, he let himself in, feeling almost too tall for his old home. Shutting the door behind him, Rose’s words had paid him an unwelcomed visit.
Lawrence Harrington had been financially struggling. He didn’t know what to make of that… He did. He gave room to his regrets, and once he did, they nearly overwhelmed him. He’d let his father struggle while he’d strived in an ignorant bliss.
Twelve years, he’d been away for twelve years. He’d been out of their lives, his father’s life for twelve years. No wonder he wasn’t capable of anything besides guilt and regret. Had Lawrence been hurt that his son had withdrawn himself from his family? He had to be, the poor man had to have deliberated over this in his last days. Had he tried to reach out to Barron? Why hadn’t Barron reached out? He wished he had. He would have made a difference. He would have been able to do something to aid his father’s situation and now, he had to live with his decisions, the consequences of them. He didn’t want to, the thought of that hurt. Everything hurt, if he were being honest.
He took a step further into the living room that was somewhat the same as he’d left it. Sure they’d changed the furniture and curtains, but the décor remained the same; the chairs still faced the television that backed the window. The kitchen still retained its island layout and hung about the home, Juliana and Claire still had up pictures of him, pictures of the whole family. Pictures before he’d erased himself. He hadn’t taken his time to scrutinize each old picture, but he’d perched by the oversized family portrait Juliana had forced them to take a week before his resumption as a freshman at California State. The nostalgia that gushed in his veins prickled his eyes. That day, he’d wondered why she was making such a fuss. Almost as if she’d known then that it would be the last picture of their whole family. Twelve years ago, a single tear ran down his cheek. He hadn’t even smiled properly, merely flashed his teeth and stared at the camera counting the seconds till he was out of his parents grip. His heart was in a knot and it hurt. He’d been a teenager, stupid, childish… an eighteen year old that thought he was an adult. He wasn’t then and even now, he was yet to get his hands on the whole adulting thing.
His eyes shifted and once more he soaked in his surroundings. He blinked and the tears had fallen in generous streams. Lawrence never got the chance to return to that, to the home he’d built, to the family he’d raised. Alone in the middle of his childhood living room, he’d tortured himself by wondering just what that was like? What it had been like for Lawrence to leave and never return and what it had been like for Juliana and Claire? Had they been together when they’d heard? Droplets dripped down his chin.
Juliana had entertained an affair… the thought made him sick to his stomach. Had it been because of the strain of Lawrence running bankrupt? Had it just been a financial transaction? He didn’t know if that was better or worse. His mother selling her body to make ends meet because Lawrence hadn’t been able to.
He continued further into the house, not bothering to poke his head into each room. He’d taken the short hall to the last door at the end, his old room, it was locked. He wondered whether Juliana had left his things as he’d left them before he’d taken off for college. That had to be the case; why else would his bedroom door be locked? Had it been turned into a guestroom and rented out for petty cash? Why hadn’t Juliana or Claire reached out to him about everything they were dealing with, he could have made a difference. Not much, but he could have helped!
He would talk to Juliana about everything at the funeral. Rather than trying the door to his room again, he’d turned, taken a single hand over his dampened cheeks, wiping them dry and headed to Lawrence and Juliana’s room... Juliana’s room with a gulped breath. It was bigger than the rest of the rooms. The master-bedroom. There weren’t pictures of Lawrence up on the wall, not anymore, from what he could tell. In different spots of their aqua walls were squares of fresh paint over where pictures had hung protecting it. What had Juliana done with them? And so soon? The man hadn’t even been buried… cremated yet and she’d done away with the pictures on his wall. It didn’t sit right with him. Or had she been traumatized with the news, so much so that mere pictures haunted her? Why then hadn’t she gotten rid of the one in the living room? Or the one on the stairs? They weren’t that much; at best it would take her a few hours.
That afternoon, wondered whether or not to include his mother as a suspect in the murder of his father… She didn’t meet the suspect profile. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t have gotten her lover to execute the act?
The following morning, however, he’d pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind and concerned himself with the matters in his workplace. The claims that Detective Mathews would be taking his place. He’d taken it as a mere rumor and continued on towards his office, calling for Slater when he’d gotten there and when he hadn’t been able to get a hold of the criminalist, he’d entertained questions concerning the whereabouts of Robert Slater and the reports and transcripts they’d last talked about.
A knock at his open door distracted his thoughts. Inconsiderately, he’d called out to Slater. Though, glancing up, Detective Harrington recognized his colleague, Detective Bennett Mathews. He was a large man with a million-dollar smile and a firm jaw. “I’m sure you’ve heard?” Mathews walked with an air of arrogance. It agitated Barron Harrington. Particularly because Mathews had been running his mouth off to the media and doing nothing to get even the slightest bit of knowledge on the Harrington case. He would have to talk to Watson about his decision if indeed it was set in stone. For the love of everything sweet and tender, Detective Harrington hoped that weren’t the case. “You’re off your father’s case. Watson wasn’t too comfortable with having you front and center. It’s bringing… bad press.”
“Watson cut me off because of bad press?” That didn’t seem like Watson… Did it? Detective Harrington hardly had the time to entertain the press, unlike Mathews. Harrington worked with his head down. He was efficient and precise; the media didn’t need to know each detail about his case, at least not from him. Mathews on the other hand sought the media’s approval for his actions and decisions; he would take any chance he got to appear on a new station assuring the public that 28th precinct had everythin
g under control.
“It was a difficult decision, but this is what’s best. But it’s not all that bad; I’m considering keeping you as my deputy.” Detective Harrington wasn’t comfortable with that. He would have to follow protocol and wait for information to run through Detective Mathews before it got to him. That would delay his pace on Lawrence’s case. He couldn’t have that, not with all he was juggling. For one, he hadn’t intended to be at the precinct for too long. He still had his father’s funeral at 10:00 A.M. He couldn’t deal with this. And so, he didn’t.
“Whatever, has Slater said anything about the transcripts I asked for?” Bennett Mathews nodded; he’d occupied one of the two seats by Detective Harrington’s desk.
