by Zuri Day
“Damn!”
“Yep, damn shame.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
“What do you want to know?”
Carol took a load of whites out of the washer and placed them in the dryer. She placed a load of colorful towels into the wash and closed the door to her laundry room. Next to her totally updated and modern kitchen, and her en suite bathroom, the laundry room was her favorite place. Before joining Gabriella as her personal assistant, Carol lived in an apartment with no washer or dryer. During those Saturdays when she’d load dirty clothes into her preowned two-door Infiniti G and head to the Laundromat, she dreamed of a laundry room with a deep sink for soaking, shelves for storing, and a mesh net to lay her prized sweaters to dry. They’d knocked out a wall and added space to make the laundry room well worth the few thousand extra dollars it had cost her. Especially on days like today, with snow falling and temperatures continuing to drop, she was thankful not to have to trudge outside to have clean undies.
She’d entered the kitchen and was looking into the refrigerator for something to eat when her phone rang. “Hello, Mama.” She put the call on speaker.
“Hey, girl. Where are you?”
“Back home.”
“Already?”
“Yes, we just went up there for the New Year’s Eve party.”
“We? You and Alex went together?”
“I thought I told you that.” Hoping for enough ingredients to make a salad, she bent down to look in the vegetable bin.
“You may have, but if so I forgot. You said he got shot, right?”
“Yes.” Carol stood straight. She could tell by her mother’s question and tone that something else was coming; probably something that she wouldn’t like. “Why?”
“What is he, a police officer or something?”
“A bodyguard, Mom.”
Carol’s mother grunted. “I wouldn’t be messing with no man who had anything to do with the law. You can’t trust a brother who’d go against another brother.”
Carol relaxed. Sometimes she swore her mother came of age in the sixties, complete with dashiki and fisted Afro pick. That and the fact her uncle, Jean’s brother, had done prison time for what her mother felt wasn’t “really a crime”—though federal drug laws said differently—sealed her dislike for the men in blue.
“His job isn’t like that, Mom. He guards brothers, protects their lives. Besides, I thought you liked Alex; you two seemed to get along the night we came over there.”
“He seemed nice enough, but I’m just saying . . .”
“What exactly are you saying?” Carol’s phone beeped. She checked the caller ID. “Mama, let me call you back.” She clicked over. “Hey, babe.”
Alex sighed in reply.
“What’s wrong?” Carol walked from the kitchen to the living room and plopped down on the couch.
“I just came from the police station.” He filled her in on what happened. “No doubt he has to pay for what he did, but I feel bad for possibly sending a young man to jail for the rest of his life.”
“You won’t be sending him; his actions and the court system will. But I feel you. That’s a burden to carry.” Her mother’s recent comments floated into her mind. “How old is he?” Alex told her. “My God. If he lives to be, say, seventy-five, he’d be behind bars over fifty years; more than two thirds of his life!”
“Exactly.”
“What would happen if you dropped the charges?”
“They’ve been gunning for this man for a while now. The state has taken the case and will prosecute no matter what.”
“What about recanting your statement; going back and saying you aren’t sure it was him.”
“I can’t do that!”
“I guess not. But would that be any more wrong than sending a young man to prison?”
“Didn’t I just tell you how bad I felt about it?!”
“Don’t yell at me. I’m not the one who shot you!”
You could have listened to a concerto in the silence that followed.
“Alex, listen, I—”
“No, it’s all right. What’s a minor gunshot, a little blood spilled, huh? What does it matter that Blacks kill Blacks seventy percent of the time, that the jails are crowded with brothers who’ve wounded their own? They didn’t have a father. I get it. Their education was stunted and their job chances are slim. Nobody bounced a ball with them or taught them how to knot a tie. What happened to me is just a by-product of what happened to him. Well, let me let you go so I can go find some love for the muthafucka who shot me.”
Dead air.
“Alex?”
Carol slowly set down the phone, tears immediately and unexpectedly coming to her eyes. How had the best time she’d ever had in life turned sour so suddenly? How had she gone from sunshine to sadness in the space of one call? In other words, she asked herself, what the hell just happened?
Chapter 12
When a day went by without his calling, Carol thought that Alex was angry. After two days went by . . . she knew for sure. That second day she called, but left no message. But now, day three, she waited until she heard the sound of the beep.
“Alex, it’s me, Carol. I called to see how you were doing, and to apologize for what I said. It sounded judgmental and since I’ve never been shot, I have no right to tell you how to feel about it. I have more to say, but . . . not in a message. Please give me a call.”
She ended the call and went into her office, determined to get back into the flow of life. The holidays were over; the New Year had begun. Today she’d received an e-mail from Jeremy about the community center. Since other projects were on hold because of the weather, he planned for a group of volunteers to join the work crew and finish the interior. They’d fallen behind, but with the help of additional hands on deck, their goal of completing the center in time to host a Black History Month gala could be realized.
She reached for her phone. “Happy New Year, Jeremy!”
“To you, too, Carol!” Jeremy’s deep voice bounced against the walls of Carol’s neat office/library. Amazing how much her classmate now sounded like his minister dad. “How was LA?”
“Blue skies, warm weather . . . you know, the usual.”
“I’ll have to check it out.”
“You’ve never been to LA?”
“No.”
“How did I miss that?”
“Guess it never came up. And to be clear, I’ve been to California, to San Francisco and other cities in the northern part, but never to LA.”
“You’ll have to go; it’s pretty cool.”
“LA seems full of fakers, people perpetrating. I don’t fit in to all of that.”
“Everyone isn’t faking, Jeremy; there are some really wonderful people who live there.”
“I’ll get their numbers from you before I visit.”
“Ha! Please do.” She sat back, scrolling social network sites while she chatted. Jeremy was a good, upstanding guy, married with children; an example that all African-American men weren’t lost. He always made her feel good, which is why becoming a partner by investing in his business had been both a no-brainer and a fairly profitable, highly rewarding decision. “I got your e-mail about the community center rehab push this Saturday. Count me in.”
“Excellent. If we can get at least fifty volunteers on board we can finish the project in two weeks, giving the interior designers a week to apply the finishing touches in time for a February celebration. The tentative opening date is still the seventh, correct?”
“Yes, flyers and invites are going out this week, so no matter how it looks inside, we’ll be doing something that day! I hate it that we’re cutting it so close.”
“Life is exciting when lived on the edge.”
“After this is over, I’ll take my life a little less exciting, thank you.”
“I hear you. It has been a little crazy these past two months. Who are the featured guests? Anyone famous or noteworthy?”
&nbs
p; Carol flipped to another screen. “We’re mixing a little fame and noteworthiness with the extraordinarily ordinary. Some of our homegrown gospel greats will open it up, along with the mayor, who’s agreed to be a part of the ribbon-cutting ceremony earlier that day. We’ve reached out to Courtney Vance, David Alan Grier, and Byron Allen, all from Detroit, and asked for guest appearances. There’s some interest, but it depends on their schedules. And we’re crossing our fingers that the queen of soul will grace us with just one number.”
“Aretha Franklin? That would be amazing!”
“Yes, one of the women on the board says she’s good friends with her cousin. So . . . you know how that goes. We’ll see.”
“Of course, you could always drop a dime and get your girl Gabriella.”
“I knew she’d be too busy to make an appearance, but she has promised a sizable donation.”
“Cool.”
They continued talking and while Carol was thankful for the distraction, thoughts of Alex never strayed far from her mind.
“What’s up with you, dog?” Grant looked at Alex as he passed the couch on the way to the black leather recliner. “You’ve been in that same spot for the last three days.”
Alex gave him the side-eye. “I moved around. You just weren’t here.”
Grant reached for the remote and turned up the volume on the muted sports channel. “I understand, though.”
“You do?”
“Sure. If I’d gone to California, enjoyed eighty-degree weather for five days, and then had to come back here and wade through snow . . . I’d be mad, too. I don’t mind you staying here, but since the doctor said it was cool to travel, I don’t know why you came back.”
“He gave me a conditional release. But now that you mention it, I guess since Marlon is back home I could ask the doctor to refer me to a colleague in LA.” He frowned. The thought of leaving Detroit didn’t feel good. The last conversation he’d had with the only reason he’d stay didn’t feel good either.
“Man, the way you’ve been moping around, and the way you’re frowning right now, I’d get on the next thing smoking!” Grant paused, surfing the channels until he reached the NFL Network. “Unless there’s something more on your mind.”
This got Alex’s attention. “Like what?”
“I don’t know, dog; I’m asking you. From Christmas to when you returned from LA I barely saw you. Thought maybe you’d hooked up with a babe or something.” Silence, so much so that Grant muted the TV. “Is that what happened? Has a shorty come and gone, leaving a brother shook?”
“Nobody’s shook!” Forgetting about his healing wound, Alex jumped off the couch. And immediately wished he hadn’t.
“Sorry, man, I—”
“Hey, don’t worry about it.” He gingerly placed a hand on his side as he moved toward the kitchen.
“Alex, you all right?”
“I’m fine; just forgot about my condition for a minute, that’s all.” His phone buzzed. He looked down, ignored the call, and placed the phone back into his sweats pocket.
Grant followed him into the kitchen. “Look, I’ve got something to take your mind off of whatever is going on with you. It’s physical labor, but not enough that you can’t participate.”
“What type of physical labor; you want to play some ball or something?”
Grant passed him, reached into the fridge, and pulled out a beer. “Even better, my friend; even better.” He motioned to Alex, who nodded that he’d take a soda.
“When is it?”
“This Saturday. You game?”
“Why not?” Alex felt his phone ding; she’d left a message this time. Probably offering another reason why she sided with a criminal. “I’ve nothing better to do.”
Alex leaned against the counter, enjoying the feel of the soft burn as the ice-cold cola traveled down his throat. Grant had left the kitchen without telling him what he’d agreed to participate in on Saturday. On his last visit, the doctor had reminded him to take it easy. Didn’t matter. Whatever it was had to beat channel surfing and Internet games. Plus anything that would take his mind off Carol—how much he missed her and how badly he’d like to see her—was worth a little pain.
Chapter 13
They’d been at it since seven that morning; a group of almost seventy volunteers hammering, cutting, sanding, painting, installing this and removing that, following the instructions of Jeremy’s construction company foreman helping to build Detroit’s latest community center. The building was in a prime location, central to a lot of neighborhoods trying to come back after hard economical hits, standing as a beacon of hope with its promise of an auditorium, smaller reception rooms, tutoring cubicles, computer labs, exercise classes, basketball and tennis courts, and a jogging track surrounding the multilevel facility. For the past hour, Carol had been helping to install slate tile in what would be one of the more intimate reception rooms. When finished, the fireplace, cozy chair settings, and earth-toned slate would creative an inviting atmosphere to anyone using the space.
She sat back on her haunches and wiped an errant lock of hair away from her face. In the process a smear of white grout was left across her cheek. Never again would she doubt the worth of what she’d paid her renovators. Rehabbing a building was hard work!
“Almost done,” Jeremy said, coming up behind her. “Your work looks good.”
“Thank you.” Carol took a drink from a bottle of water as she stood to her feet. “What time is it?”
“Almost eleven; time for a break. You’ve been working nonstop for hours.”
“I didn’t realize so much time had passed.”
“Well, you know what they say . . .”
“Yes, I do, so you don’t need to say it again.” They laughed. Her stomach growled.
“You didn’t eat breakfast?”
“I did, but only cereal. What time is lunch?”
“Any minute now.” Jeremy looked at this watch. “A couple of the catering trucks have already arrived.”
One of the ways the restaurants had pitched in was by providing free food to serve the volunteers. They may have done the work for free; but they’d eaten well.
“Where are you setting up?”
“We’ve got two long tables at the back of the auditorium, the part still left to be finished.”
“Why don’t I go out and help coordinate this process. If we stagger out the time people eat, say just five, ten minutes apart, we can keep from having long lines and taking even longer to get back to work.”
Jeremy nodded. “That sounds good. You’re a great organizer. If this real-estate venture doesn’t pan out you might check into being somebody’s personal assistant.”
Carol rolled her eyes as the two walked out of the room and down the short hall into the main auditorium. As soon as she turned the corner, a pair of deep chocolate brown eyes stopped her cold.
Alex? What is he doing here?
One part of her wanted to push past him. She’d called twice and he hadn’t bothered to return either one. But the other part of her took in the look in his eyes, barely veiled passion mixed with remnants of anger. Or was it hurt? Last night, the latter had become a consideration, that she’d hurt him by seeming to want the man who’d shot him to walk free. That hadn’t been what she meant, but in retrospect, as she’d replayed the conversation over in her mind, that’s how it had sounded.
She walked over to him. “Hello, Alex.”
“Hey, Carol.” He spoke to her but looked at the well-built, dread-locked brother by her side.
“Alex, this is Jeremy, my business partner whose company is doing the construction for this building. Jeremy, this is Alex, a good friend of mine.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” Jeremy said, with hand outstretched. “Thanks so much for taking the time to help us complete this building. Your volunteering is greatly appreciated.”
“Looks like a project that will be good for the community. It’s the least I could do.” He spoke to Jeremy,
but looked at the jean-clad, grout-smudged piece of sexiness that hadn’t been far from his mind for the past few days.
“Alex, I’m heading over to get lunch ready to serve. There are several containers that will need to be brought in from the food trucks. Can you help me?”
“Sure.”
They walked a couple steps away from her partner before Carol asked, “Is this your way of apologizing for not returning my phone calls?”
“What do you mean?”
“Coming here; volunteering.”
He stopped walking. “Is this your project?”
She stopped, too. “Not mine alone. My partner’s construction company handled the major building. I’ve been involved in developing the programs and overall direction of the space.”
“I didn’t know that. Until you turned the corner, I had no idea that you were here.”
“Why didn’t you return my phone calls?”
He looked at her squarely. “I didn’t want to talk to you.”
Well, damn! Carol chewed on this honest-without-malice delivered tidbit of news as she continued on to the back part of the auditorium where several volunteers were standing. “We’re going to lay out the food on these two tables,” she informed them. “Let’s put the meats, sides, and breads on this table; salad, desserts, and drinks over there.” She turned to Alex. “Can you go with them to carry in the heavier trays? The ladies and I will go get the plates, napkins, and utensils.”
For the next thirty minutes, Alex and Carol were preoccupied with setting up, feeding, and then eating with the volunteers. They all either sat on the floor or stood in clomps of two to four people, chowing down on exquisite cuisine from some of Detroit’s finest restaurants. Alex sat at a table with two other guys while Carol stood munching a sandwich with the volunteer who’d helped her set up the drinks.
“Awww.” The volunteer looked over Carol’s shoulder to the scene beyond. “That’s so cute.”
Carol turned around to see Alex on his knees, blocking and dodging punches from a jean-clad kid of around three, four years old. The little boy’s face was in a scowl as he tried to land a humbling blow. When a fist landed on Alex’s broad shoulder, he rolled onto his back. “Man, you got me!” he groaned.
