by Robin Allen
Ramion pulled out a fresh legal pad from the center drawer of his desk. “Let me get some information before I call down there. When was he arrested?”
“Early this morning.”
“Who was the arresting officer?”
“I don’t know.” His father removed his brown fedora and placed it on the desk. Raymond never went anywhere without a hat.
“What is he charged with?”
“Sexual assault and resisting arrest.” Raymond scratched the top of his head.
Stunned, Ramion shook his head. He couldn’t imagine Uncle Walt defending himself, let alone raping someone. Ramion was very fond of his uncle, remembering the times Uncle Walt stayed with them when he was growing up. They’d stay up late, watching old movies. “I’m going to make some phone calls,” Ramion said. “Don’t worry, Pops, we’ll get him out.”
After calling the Fulton County Detention Center for his uncle’s booking number and the exact charges, Ramion called the district attorney’s office and spoke with the Kent Fitzpatrick, the assistant district attorney assigned to the case. Ramion learned that his uncle had been arraigned without bond, and convinced the assistant district attorney to agree to a ten-thousand-dollar bond. The man also promised to quickly process the paperwork. Ramion made one more call to a bonding company, then drove his father over to the jail where they waited until Walter was released.
“Uncle Walt!” Ramion called out when he appeared looking disoriented and angry. Walter stumbled toward his nephew and brother, cussing and mumbling.
“Thank y’all for getting me out,” he said. Narrow, thin and dark brown, Walter closely resembled his older brother, Raymond, although he still had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair.
They walked out of the building to Ramion’s car. “What happened?” his nephew asked as he drove out of the parking lot.
“I was sleeping when a knock at the door woke me up. Nobody was home but me, so I went downstairs and opened the door. Some damn police officer was standing there, looking mean and nasty He said he had a warrant for my arrest.”
Walter stopped to cough. “Got any cigarettes?” he asked Raymond.
“Man, you know I ain’t smoked in a coon’s age.”
“Ramion, stop and get me some cigarettes,” Walter demanded.
Through the rearview mirror, Ramion made eye contact with his uncle sitting in the backseat. “Okay. Now what happened when you talked to the cop?”
“Look, I was half-asleep and half-drunk. I told him he had the wrong man, and I just closed the door on him. That no-good cop kicked the door in, handcuffed me and dragged me outta my own house like I was a murderer.”
“Some of the police are crazy and crooked,” Raymond said.
“Them womens, they about to drive me crazy,” Walter complained.
Ramion stopped at a convenience store and waited while Walter went inside to buy cigarettes. Walter had already opened the pack of Marlboro cigarettes and lit a cigarette by the time he got back into the car. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”
“Go right ahead,” Ramion said.
At Walter’s ranch house, he fumbled with his keys and opened the door. The house was empty except for a few pieces of stray furniture.
“Them damn women! They done cleaned me out! That’s why they had me arrested.”
“Uncle Walt, I have to ask, did you rape Hayley?”
“Hell no, I didn’t rape that fast-ass girl. I tell you, they’re some scheming women.”
“What are you talking about, Walt? They’re young girls!” Raymond said.
“They aren’t innocent girls, Raymond. They were grown women who learned how to scheme and connive from their mama. They were all going on thirty. Especially that Hayley.”
“These are some serious charges, Uncle Walt.”
“I know, boy, I know. I need you to help me. I done got mixed up with the wrong womens!”
Chapter Eight
Ava found Sage in the bathroom, in the Jacuzzi garden tub, surrounded by bubbles. Her head pressed against a water-filled bath pillow, Sage’s eyes were closed, and apricot facial scrub was smoothed over her face. Toni Braxton’s smoky contralto voice floated softly from a CD player in the linen closet. A fragrance-scented candle burned with the pungent scent of jasmine.
“Sage!” Ava whispered.
Sage had relaxed in the swirling, warm water, drifting off into a hazy sleep. She vaguely heard Ava’s anxious voice and slowly opened her eyes to see Ava standing over her. Tears shimmered in Ava’s eyes, black mascara rimmed her eyes, and lipstick was smeared across her cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” Sage sat up, immediately alert and concerned.
“Daddy’s sick,” Ava said, perched on the edge of the rose-colored tub. She hung her head low, her eyes reflecting her fear. “It’s very serious, Sage.”
A picture of Aaron Hicks flashed through Sage’s mind—the man she remembered from her childhood, not the repentant man she’d seen a few months ago. Always a big man—tall, broad and burly. When she was eight years old, Sage had called him Mr. Giant and rubbed her face against his scratchy beard. But later, as she’d grown older and her body had begun to change, so had their relationship. Sage had quickly come to hate him for rubbing his face against hers. His beard no longer tickled. It scratched her tender skin and induced tears she dared not shed. Hands probing places he shouldn’t be touching, he would press a finger firmly against her lips, his eyes narrowed and glaring, warning her to keep quiet.
She had been powerless against the giant. She’d never forgiven him, but she’d learned to forget until a few months ago, when her mother brought Aaron and all those memories back.
Sage shook her head, sending the ugly memories spiraling back to the hidden corner of her mind. She pressed the white button on top of the Jacuzzi tub to turn off the jet sprays swirling the water to a frothy roar.
“What’s the matter with him?” Sage asked, careful to sound concerned.
“Mommy says he has cancer,” Ava said in voice crackling with pain.
“I’m sorry, Ava,” she said, chastising herself for the thought that it was nothing less than he deserved. “What kind of cancer?”
“Throat.”
“Has it spread?” Sage wiped the cream off her face with a wet cloth.
“It’s bad, Sage. I can tell in Mommy’s voice that she’s scared,” Ava said. Her tone shifted from fear to confusion. “He was fine just a few months ago when I saw him at Christmas. I can’t believe he’s that sick.” She was quiet for a few minutes. “Aaron’s going home. He’s dropping out of school.”
Sage stood up in the garden tub. “When are you leaving?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Hand me my towel, please.”
Ava gave her sister the thick mauve- and blue-striped towel. Sage stepped from the tub and, after drying herself, wrapped the towel around her body. She sat on the vanity chair and poured Opium body lotion into her hand, then rubbed it over her arms and legs.
“Come home with me, Sage?”
“I can’t, Ava. You know how busy it is at work.”
“Just for a day or two.”
“I can’t, honey. I’m sorry.”
“That scar on your arm still looks fresh,” Ava said, momentarily distracted by the triangular-shaped scar on her sister’s upper right arm. “How did you get it, anyway?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sage irritably replied, a glimpse of the last night she spent at home flashing through her mind.
Too absorbed by her personal pain to notice the muted expression of anger on Sage’s face, Ava released a long, loud sigh. “Sage, please come home with me.”
“Ava, I can’t, so stop asking me!”
“You mean you don’t want to,” Ava said, angry tears beginning to roll down her face. She stood up, yanked the door open and announced, “I’m going to pack.” She slammed the door behind her.
Sage slipped a nightgown over her shoulders and wra
pped a robe around her. She sat down in front of the vanity mirror, picked up a brush and began drawing it through her curly black hair. “You don’t understand, Ava. Your father’s a bastard, and I hate his guts.”
* * * * *
The Scrabble board sat on the floor between them. It was partially filled with red-lettered square tiles, making words horizontally and vertically. The plastic bag of yet-to-be-played letters was near Sage’s feet, next to the red Webster’s dictionary. It was Sage’s turn to make a word, and she pondered the seven letters she had drawn.
“You going to play today?” Ramion asked, dramatically pointing to his Movado sports watch.
“You in a hurry to lose?” Sage countered. She placed several letters on the board and scored double points for placing a letter on a starred square. “That’s twenty-four points.”
“So it is,” Ramion said, writing the score down under her name on the pad. She was not only winning, she had made her play on the spot where he’d planned to place his letters. “Just because you’re on the cover of Atlanta magazine, you think you got it going on.”
“I do,” she said, grinning from ear to ear. “And you must think so, to have bought all those copies. You spent a small fortune on those magazines.”
“Who else is going to buy them?” He played his letters and recorded the score. He was still ten points behind. “I took some out to Mama and Pops; they were so proud. Mama wanted to know why my name wasn’t mentioned. She said, ‘What’s that significant other stuff supposed to mean?’”
Sage laughed, as she had when Ramion brought fifteen copies of the March Atlanta magazine to her office at the Governor’s Mansion.
“I told her that was me. She just laughed and said, ‘That’s why you need to go on and marry that girl.’”
“It was a great article,” Sage said. “She didn’t misquote me or take anything I said out of context.”
“That’s rare,” Ramion said.
“I know. That’s why I have such a hard time getting Cameron to agree to be interviewed,” she said. “The photographer shot a nice photo too. The behind-the-desk shot made me look professional, didn’t it?”
“Made you look like you were running things,” Ramion said.
“If Cameron heard you…”
“He’d admit there was some truth to it, and he’d be right. Besides, you deserve the favorable coverage, baby. Don’t you doubt it for a minute! The only negative thing about you being on the cover is that people know who you are, they know what you look like.”
“So what?”
“So the world is full of crazy people. Just be careful out there, especially at night.”
“I always am, and I always win.” Sage played the last letter, finishing the game and beating Ramion.
“Only in Scrabble.”
With both hands, Sage swept the letters from the Scrabble board into a small plastic bag.
“How’s Ava doing?”
“She’s a mess. Doesn’t even sound like herself. She’ll probably come home later this week. Aaron’s out of the hospital, but they’ve only given him a couple months.”
“Is she going to move back home?”
“I don’t know.”
Ramion stood up and walked into his kitchen. He flipped the light switch on and opened the refrigerator door. “Want something to drink?” he asked, reaching for a can of beer.
“Bring me a Coke.”
Ramion returned to the living room and handed her the cold soda. She was curled up on the sofa, scanning the television channels with the remote.
“May I have the remote?”
“A man must have his remote,” Sage laughed, tossing it to him.
“I want to catch the news. Want to see what’s happening with the Bennet trial. I would have been defending him if I hadn’t left.” He leaned back against the sofa, swallowing some of his beer. “My father came by my office the other day.”
“Oh, yeah? Did you go to lunch?”
“No. It’s funny. Every time he sees me at work he says the same thing: ‘Boy I can’t believe you’re a lawyer.’”
“A big-time lawyer,” Sage corrected.
“Anyway, he came by because my Uncle Walt had been arrested.”
A brow raised, she said, “Really? Have I met him?”
“No, he wasn’t at the family reunion. He’s my father’s baby brother. Used to be around a lot when I was little. Uncle Walt even lived with us for a while. I got him a bond and out of jail.”
“What was he arrested for?”
Ramion hesitated only a moment. He was in the forbidden zone, that zone in her past she never would discuss. “Rape,” he said in a quiet voice.
“Rape? My God, Ramion, who made the charges?”
“Hayley.”
“Who is she?” Sage asked.
Ramion was getting deeper inside the forbidden zone.
“Who is she?” Sage repeated when Ramion didn’t answer. She locked eyes with him, waiting for his response.
“His stepdaughter.”
“Umph, umph, umph. I’m sorry, Ramion, I can’t have much sympathy for a man who’d take advantage of an innocent girl. I hope you’re not going to represent him.”
Those words so vehemently uttered more than confirmed what Ramion had always suspected was at the root of her hatred of her own stepfather. “Sage,” he said gently, “tell me what happened. Tell me about you and Aaron.”
She set the can of Coke on the table with a loud thud. “Why? I don’t want to remember it. I don’t want to talk about the past.” Her voice rising, she said, “It has nothing to do with today.”
Silence settled between them as they quietly watched the news, neither of them really listening to the media report.
“Are you going to represent him?” she asked abruptly.
“He’s my uncle. I have to help him.”
“Did he do it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“And if he did? Think about Hayley. Think about what she’s feeling. Or isn’t that important?” She sat up from the sofa and put on her shoes.
“Are you going home?”
“Yes! I can’t believe you’re going to represent him.”
“He’s family. I’m an attorney; I don’t have a choice.”
“Of course you have a choice,” Sage said, taking her leather coat from the hall closet.
“He’s my uncle,” Ramion said, his arms outstretched. “Don’t you understand?”
“You always have a choice,” Sage said again, her eyes as hard as granite.
* * * * *
“Damn! Her car is still there,” Edwinna complained as she drove past Ramion’s house. The digital clock on her dashboard read 1:10 a.m.
“I knew I shouldn’t have come with you. We’ve been driving around the block for the last hour,” Savannah grumbled.
Edwinna puffed on her cigarette. “She usually goes home. She doesn’t stay all night. Even the weekends.”
“She’s crazy. You’re crazy. And I’m crazy to be out here with you. Take me home, girl. I’m tired of this shit.”
“All right, Savannah, but I’m not giving up yet.”
* * * * *
Sage heard voices when she entered La Touissant Gallery, but she didn’t see anyone. The receptionist area was empty, but there were signs of Tawny’s presence: a lipstick-stained glass beside the phone, invitations stacked on the desk and a sheet of labels in the typewriter.
Sage followed the voices and the hard-driving, thumping beat of a rap song. She recognized the song as one of Ava’s favorite songs of the moment that she played often. Dr. Dre’s gritty voice led her into the main gallery where she found Tawny climbing a fifteen-foot ladder with the aggressive assurance of a brakeman hopping a freight train about to roll down the track. The ladder teetered precariously as Tawny strained toward the ceiling, plugging and unplugging lighting cords.
“What are you doing?” Sage asked.
“What does it look like I’m doin
g?” Tawny replied as she unscrewed a lightbulb. “I’m changing the lights.”
Sage looked up at the track of studio lights. No bulbs were burned out. “Why?”
“The lighting isn’t strong enough for my opening tonight.”
“Looks bright to me,” Sage said.
“No, the photos have to pop, so we need higher wattage,” Tawny said, scampering down the ladder to gauge the effect. “What do you guys think?” Tawny asked the receptionist and gallery intern who were helping with preparations for the opening.
“Much better,” the receptionist said.
“Photos will definitely pop,” the intern agreed, looking around the room at the black-and-white photos on the walls, of the civil rights movement, taken by a famous photographer.
“Perfect,” Sage said teasingly.
“Okay, Ms. Power Player,” Tawny said. “You know how serious I am about my showings.”
“I know, girl. That’s why your gallery is the hottest place in town.”
Dressed entirely in leather—black leather pants, black leather blouse and a leather skullcap—Tawny said, “Uh-huh, so how come I haven’t got the cover of Atlanta magazine?”
“They just haven’t called you yet,” Sage said.
“Come into my office,” Tawny said, taking quick steps. “I’ve only got a few hours to get ready, and I still have a lot to do.”
Sage inquired about the painting she’d seen in November. “What did you find out about the painting of the three women?”
“Connie can’t get in touch with the artist or the man’s wife. So if you want it, it’s yours.”
“What a generous gift,” Sage said in jest.
“Funny, Sage. I can let you have it for one thousand dollars,” Tawny said, as they entered her office. The painting was leaning against the wall, along with several others. “Excuse the mess, but I’m shuffling everything around.”
Sage peered at the vibrant, colorful depiction of three women, with a twist of contemporary realism and abstract flare. “I’ll take it,” she said. “It’s really an amazing piece. I almost believe I see them moving.”
“Yeah,” Tawny said, with a quick glance at the artwork. “By the way, I know someone who can help you find post-Civil War paintings by black artists. His name is Austin Gallagher. He knows that period like the back of his hand,” Tawny said, handing Sage the man’s business card.
