Courtship: A 'Snowflake' Novel

by Nia Forrester

  Six-pack, she thought reflexively.

  Guys at her school were always going on and on about getting a six-pack, thumping themselves in the stomach with the flat of their fists and grimacing like bodybuilders. She had always thought it was silly and didn’t see what the big deal was about.

  Now, she saw what the big deal was about.

  “C’mere.” Ibrahim extended a hand to her and she went to him, taking it.

  “Lie down with me?” he said. “Just for an hour maybe.”

  Jada nodded like an automaton. She briefly considered taking her top off. He wouldn’t stop her if she did, would he?

  But his mood was a little off, and something told her that sex was the last thing on his mind.

  They lay on their sides, spoon-fashion, Ibrahim behind her. She thought she could feel his semi-hardness nestled against her because he was only wearing basketball shorts, and she was in thin, lounging sweatpants.

  “Don’t let me sleep too long,” he said against her neck. Jada’s skin tingled at the sensation. “Just maybe an hour or so.”

  “Okay,” she said, her voice a croak.

  She lay there, his solid arm around her, and tried to relax. But she was too aware of the mass of him. His chest rising and falling against her back, the smooth, dark hairs on his forearm and even the slightly musky night perspiration scent of his skin.

  She moved a little, and his arms tightened slightly, like he didn’t want her to unexpectedly slip out of his grasp.

  Occasionally, he sighed, and the expelled breath stirred the hair at the nape of her neck and made her shiver. He lay very still, but Jada could tell, he wasn’t falling asleep.

  ~~~

  Jada must have fallen asleep herself, but she was only aware of it when she was startled awake. Ibrahim was sitting up, sliding away the arm that had been beneath and wrapped around her.

  Groggy, Jada turned onto her back and looked up at him. His expression was still odd and hard to read. He looked like he was a million miles away.

  “Ibrahim,” she said, her voice gentle. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he said, lying down, but he avoided her gaze.

  Then he sat up again to check the LED clock. Jada rolled over to check the time herself and saw that it had only been about forty minutes or so since they first lay down.

  “You’re jumpy,” she insisted. “What’s going on?”

  He put his head on the pillow next to hers. They were facing each other now, their faces only inches apart. He opened his mouth as if to answer, then shut it again. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t to respond to her question.

  “If anything ever happened to you,” he began, “if anyone ever … put their hands on you …”

  “Why would anything happen to me?” She touched his face.

  The question was instinctive, but something about it made him smile. Almost. It approximated a smile, and it didn’t reach his eyes. He pressed his lips to hers.

  “No reason,” he said.

  Then he was sitting up again.

  Jada followed suit.

  “Are you leaving already? I thought …”

  He put a hand at her cheek, his thumb brushing her lips.

  “Yeah. I gotta … There’s something I need to do,” he said. “I just needed you to help me … forget the world for a little while.”

  “Did you?” she asked. “Forget the world.”

  “When I’m with you?” he said. “Yeah. Always.”

  He reached for his shirt and shrugged it on, then looked around for his sneakers. He slipped his feet into them and leaned over to kiss her on the forehead.

  “You snore,” he said winking at her.

  And then he was gone.

  36

  Then

  There hadn’t even been time to mourn the dead.

  Ibrahim had remained there for a moment, on his knees, staring at Breonna. Her face, purple and battered, was slack. She didn’t look like herself. There was a speck of blood on one of her front teeth. He had the urge to wipe it clean with the tail of his shirt, to smooth back her hair which was matted and tangled near her scalp.

  While he was there next to her, he dimly registered that his brother had turned and gone back out to the front of the house. He heard Manny’s voice, loud and urgent, waking everyone up, ordering them to bag up, and clear everything out.

  Ibrahim knew he should have gotten up and gone to help them, but he didn’t want to leave her alone.

  “Bree,” he said, though he didn’t know why.

  She was gone. Anyone could see, she was no longer there and what remained was just the mortal shell of a person who had once been but was no more.

  He didn’t touch her again.

  Soon, there would be cops and crime scene technicians all over the house. Once all the contraband was out, he, his brothers and his father would have to think of a way to report this. His father owned the house. They would have questions for him.

  Manny was gone for what felt like minutes but was probably much longer. When he returned, he rested a hand lightly on Ibrahim’s shoulder.

  Prophet, he said. His voice was gentle. You can’t be here. Neither one of us can be here.

  They both had criminal records, and though the neighbors wouldn’t say a word to the cops under almost any circumstances about who and what they had seen at the house, there might be fingerprinting, and a full investigation. Or maybe not. Breonna was a girl from around the way. She had a reputation for hanging out with bangers, and her boyfriend of the moment was known to be violent and possibly unstable. Maybe they would give everything a cursory glance and close the case by nightfall.

  No one cared about girls like her.

  C’mon. We gotta go, Manny said, this time sounding much more insistent. Now.

  The front room of the house was almost unrecognizable. All that remained was the furniture, the television and the dirty stained carpet. Glancing back over his shoulder and down the hallway as they left, Ibrahim saw that the kitchen had been cleaned up, too.

  Manny shouldered open the front door, and Ibrahim noticed that he didn’t lock it before they left, didn’t even close it fully.

  At a payphone in a nearby corner store, Manny paged Zac and when he called back, told him that they’d found Breonna, and that they should all meet back at home.

  Breonna’s aunt Brittany was still there when they got back, which was a surprise. Even in his numbed emotional state, part of Ibrahim expected that she would have cleaned them out while they were gone. Found some valuables and taken them to the pawn shop while they were out looking for her niece. But no, she was still sitting where they had left her, on the sofa, wringing her hands, and picking at a scab on her elbow.

  It made Ibrahim think of all those weeks back, Bree lying on his bed, massaging her elbow. He had a suspicion then that she had been hurt, but he wasn’t thinking about saving her. He was thinking about Jada, the girl he was falling in love with, and who was going to help him save himself.

  You find her? Brittany asked, getting up out of her seat as they entered.

  Her eyes, almost always flat and dull and weary, for a moment brightened with hope.

  ~~~

  He only stuck around long enough to make sure he knew the story they were telling, in case he was asked.

  It was only a matter of time, but his father would be questioned since he was the owner of record for the property.

  What he would say was: he had a damn hard time finding people to live there because of the drug activity in the neighborhood. It was a terrible thing.

  Yes, he sometimes rented it on a short-term basis, because he needed to pay the mortgage. Matter of fact, he rented the house out to some tenants who had skipped out on the rent, leaving it partly furnished.

  No, he didn’t know what they did for a living. He didn’t ask questions, so long as they paid their rent. And they had, up until recently.

  No, he didn’t know where they were, but he sure would apprecia
te finding out since they owed him money.

  Yes, the house was locked and secure last time he checked.

  No, he didn’t know how Breonna or anyone else could have gotten in.

  Yes, he knew her. Knew her well and for a long time. Knew her mother, knew her aunt.

  No, of course he had no idea who hurt her. And what a damn shame, what a damn shame somebody did her like that.

  Breonna’s aunt Brittany listened to the plan, her eyes darting back and forth among them.

  But what about my baby? she asked. We can’t just leave her there! We can’t just …

  Somebody found her, Manny said. They’re calling 911.

  What? Who? What you mean? You found her!

  Nah, Manny said with a straight face. He looked directly into Brittany’s eyes. We didn’t find her. ‘Cause we wasn’t never there. Somebody else found her.

  While Ibrahim had been in the room with Breonna, Manny hadn’t just commandeered the cleaning. He had paid an old head they knew who sometimes got high to say he went to the house to smoke and found Breonna. He would say the door was unlocked when he got there, and that he had no idea who might have lived in the house except that as far as he knew, lately, no one did.

  Ibrahim watched the conflicting emotions flit across Brittany’s features. He saw her anger, that they hadn’t called someone the moment they found Breonna because, maybe she wasn’t gone quite yet? Maybe she could have been saved? And he saw when she reflected that if it hadn’t been for them, for the Carters, she might not have found Breonna for days more.

  And finally, he saw her resignation. Breonna was gone. Nothing was bringing her back, and these men were the only ones who had ever been good to her. Hadn’t Breonna told her? Prophet was her best friend. So, she wouldn’t do anything to get these men in trouble.

  After all, she had been the one to bring trouble to their doorstep. Breonna had brought that trouble.

  Ibrahim felt like throwing up. They—he and his father and his brothers—were too good at this. Had stitched things up too effortlessly.

  I understand, Brittany said. The tears on her face hadn’t even dried yet, but she was falling in line. You wasn’t never there.

  The room seemed to silently sigh with relief. Ibrahim went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face.

  Manny said someone was reporting it right now. Had they gotten there yet? The police and paramedics? Or was Breonna still lying there, alone on that dirty mattress with her ruined face?

  It had been a little over a week earlier, just like he told her aunt, that he’d seen her. It was while he was out running, much later than he usually ran. He rounded a corner to see her on the block, coming toward him, her long mane swinging jauntily from side to side as she walked.

  Lookin’ for me again? he’d teased her, running in place.

  Nah, she said twisting her lips and neck in a parody of a chicken-head. Ain’t e’ry chick out here checkin’ for you, man.

  He’d laughed and pantomimed someone receiving an arrow to the heart.

  But how you doin’ for real? he asked.

  I’m doin’ good, Prophet, she’d said nodding for emphasis. Doin’ real good.

  He didn’t think it at the time, but now he wondered at how she said that. It didn’t ring real, or true. Like maybe she knew it was what he wanted to hear, because things were going well for him, and he would be too exasperated, too impatient with her to listen to anything else.

  And in truth, he didn’t want to hear anything else. Because Jada had just told him a few nights before about a little sit-down with her parents. They were concerned, they told her, by how serious things were getting with him. And wondered whether it wasn’t too much too soon, and whether she had considered how he might fit—or not—into her plans for her life.

  They’re so dramatic, Jada had drawled.

  But Ibrahim knew they weren’t. They were right. Their daughter was going somewhere, and she had to start thinking long and hard about who might and might not be equipped to go there with her.

  So, seeing Breonna that morning? It had barely even registered on Ibrahim’s emotional Richter scale. He had been thinking about where Jada was going in life, and whether he could handle it if—as her parents were suggesting—she had to get there without him. He had been thinking that he couldn’t lose her, and that he had to focus even more because he would do whatever it took to make sure that didn’t happen.

  Surprised to hear a choked sob escape his lips Ibrahim grabbed a towel off the nearby rack and stuffed it into his mouth, allowing himself one—but only one—loud, primal, anguished scream. Breonna thought of him as her best friend. And in the final weeks of her life, he thought of her as a lurking nuisance.

  Brittany said Kwame had answered the door with cut and bruised hands. That’s how confident he was that what he had exacted on Breonna was nothing but a routine ass-whupping. Like he’d given her God only knew how many times before. That motherfucker had answered the door.

  Ibrahim felt a rush of sick shame that he knew he would always feel, whenever he thought about Bree. He should have looked out for her, but he didn’t. Because it would have been too messy, too time-consuming and ultimately take him further away from the life he wanted and pull him back to the one he was trying to leave behind.

  When the sobs were exhausted, he washed his face again, returned to the living room and told Brittany and his family that he needed to go. They all looked at him funny—and justifiably so—because where the hell was it so urgent for him to go in the middle of a full-blown crisis?

  At the thought of not being able to leave the house, he felt his heart begin to race, his chest rising and falling more visibly.

  He a’ight, Manny said, studying him closely. He could always read Ibrahim better than anyone. Let him take a minute.

  His father called after him to keep his pager close.

  Ibrahim nodded. Then he grabbed his keys and drove straight to Jada’s school.

  He waited almost half an hour for lunchtime, near the park where they sometimes met, and when Jada was nowhere in sight, but he spotted Lisa, he asked where she was.

  Home, Lisa told him. And she must have seen something in his eyes or on his face, because she asked him the same thing Jada would later ask. Is something wrong?

  Nah, he said. Just wanted to see her, that’s all.

  Even though there was every likelihood her mother would be home, he went anyway. Because if he was to do what he knew he had to do, he wanted to see her first.

  Once it was done, it would be a secret he had to keep, even from her.

  And to keep the secret about what he had to do meant accepting that what he and Jada had now—which was the truest and purest thing in his life—would never be the same.

  37

  Now

  Raj and Ibrahim are sitting by his pool. They have been there for hours now, baking themselves in the warm sun, looking out at the horizon.

  Twice, the woman who served them breakfast comes out to ask whether they need anything. Each time, Raj looks to Ibrahim, and he demurs. The second time, Raj smiles at the woman and tells her he will call her if there’s anything they need. He holds up his cellphone to demonstrate to her that he has the means to do so. It is Raj’s way—unfailingly polite always—of asking that they not be disturbed again.

  The wife, Patricia-who-likes-to-be-called-Trish, stops by in a breeze of light perfume and wispy blonde hair. She is lean, wiry and looks precisely the way one would imagine a yoga instructor should look. She registers almost no reaction except polite disinterest when Raj tells her that Ibrahim is someone he has known for more than twenty years.

  She doesn’t ask any questions, nor offer even the barest expression of surprise when Raj says they have only just reconnected after a long time. When she leaves them, she tells Raj she will be late returning.

  Ibrahim watches her walk away, in her pink yoga pants and baby-blue tank and tries to picture her and Raj as a couple but can’t. Ev
en when they were right next to each other, Ibrahim could not picture it. And with no further information than this, Ibrahim senses that his friend made a mistake in marrying Trish. He suspects Raj looks at Trish each day and thinks the same thing.

  “How long has your son lived in Redwood City?” Raj asks, breaking their long silence.

  “He moved there more than a year ago,” Ibrahim says.

  “And you’ve visited him since then?”

  “At least twice a month.”

  “Yet, this time, this visit is the only one when it occurred to you that you worked there. And that we ate Indian food and talked about life in a little house, right there in your son’s neighborhood.”

  “Crazy, right? How memory works. It just came to me out of nowhere. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before.”

  Raj shakes his head. “It all just slipped your mind? I don’t believe that.”

  “What’s your theory, Aristotle?”

  “You need something from me, maybe. Something that only I can provide.”

  Ibrahim looks at him. “You mean like … what? Money?”

  Raj shrugs. “Maybe. But that’s too easy.”

  “Too easy.” Ibrahim gives a short laugh and looks around them. “For you, it is.”

  “You know what I mean. If money were all you needed, you would have resurrected me from your consciousness long before now. Although … where money is concerned, you only need ask.”

  “Okay, so what do you think I need?” Ibrahim asks partly to humor his friend, and partly because he really is curious.

  The comment about ‘only needing to ask’ for money he tucks away for later deliberation. He isn’t sure he could make himself do that.

  “Maybe you need the same thing I do,” Raj says.

  “Which is? You’re still cryptic as hell, man. That much hasn’t changed. So, tell me. What do we both need?”

  “To get in touch with our younger, more hopeful selves.”

  Ibrahim considers this, and Raj continues.

  “Do you know,” he says matter-of-factly, “that you are the very last genuine friend I made?”