Dread fell like a stone in his belly.
“When Sam…when he, um…”
“We don’t need to do this,” he urged, hating that she was bringing up the inevitable, that she was even strong enough to want to discuss it beyond what the police had told her.
“We do. I mean, I do. I need to know, Carlos,” she turned toward him, her brown eyes wide and pleading. “My husband was shot, and I just need to know how that could have even happened.”
He released his breath in a rush. “It was a drive-by,” he lied, hating himself for doing so. He was murdered at point blank range, he didn’t tell her. One of Sean’s buyers in a goddamn mask put a bullet in his chest. And I was right there, it could have just as easily been me, but it was your Sam. I had his blood all over my hands, but I couldn’t save him. “A freak accident downtown,” he kept lying, throat feeling tight. “You heard what the police said.”
“They said he was shot. They didn’t say how.”
Carlos knew how; he relived it a thousand times a day, every day, saw it in his sleep. The mask-covered, featureless face of the shooter was etched in his memory. He woke from his endless nightmares with the echo of the shot ringing in his head. Some mornings he even patted down his chest to make sure there wasn’t a hole in his skin, that there wasn’t blood gushing down into his lap like there had been with Sam. God, there had been so much blood, rivers of it, all over his hands. He’d bundled up the clothes he’d worn that night, stuffed them in a garbage bag and left them in the deep dark recesses of his closet, too afraid to burn them or throw them out.
Afraid. The word made his toes curl. He’d never considered himself a pussy, not before Sam had died on the floor, coughing his last unintelligible words through bloody lips, red droplets spraying onto his face.
“You’re a smart girl,” he was shocked by how hard his voice sounded. “You know what happens when someone gets shot. Spelling it all out for you won’t make either of us feel any better.”
Her brows pulled together, mouth twisting in that stubborn look of hers he knew so well. “I’m not a child.”
“No. You’re a grieving widow. Who doesn’t want the bloody details.” He shook his head and glanced away, out across the dark wall of the neighboring building. “I don’t know anyway,” he lied some more.
He could hear the soft rustle of her hair as a strong gust of wind snatched it over her shoulder. He thought he felt the very ends of it tickling against his arm. She had the softest hair…
“I want answers,” she said. “I just wanna know why…” she slapped her thighs in a helpless gesture. “Why this could happen. I’m so fucking angry.”
Didn’t grief happen in stages? Hadn’t he heard that? “I know,” he soothed, no longer able to resist the urge to push her hair back. He smoothed it along the crown of her head with his whole hand, as gently as if her were stroking a baby bird. “Shit happens that we can’t control,” it was a piss-poor justification, but it was all he had. “Awful, terrible shit.”
She made an amused snorting sound. “Mom wants me to ‘pray about it’. She’s tried to drag me to church. She took me crib shopping today - ”
“She what?” Carlos leaned forward in his chair. Diane Harris had never liked him much, and he didn’t blame her – her attitude had always been the product of his and Sam’s proximity to Alma. She was a hardass, sure, and maybe too superficial for his tastes, but taking Alma out baby shopping with her man five weeks in the ground? That bordered on cruelty.
“You know my mom,” she dismissed with a wave. But her voice quavered. He had no doubt that the shopping trip had not ended well, and that it was the exact reason she’d sought him out on a work night, looking for ‘answers’ he wasn’t willing to give her.
“I’m sorry,” she stood up suddenly, her chair screeching back across the concrete patio.
She moved fast, but Carlos was just that much faster, snagging her wrist before she could go dashing away. “Hey.” Her hair fanned out around her when she whirled in his direction. “It’s fine. You don’t have to run off.”
Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. He wondered if she’d ever stop being on the verge of crying.
“You can come talk to me anytime, Alma. I promise,” he told her, wishing she’d take him up on the offer.
She nodded and he realized his thumb was brushing lightly over the pulse point on her wrist in a soothing, unconscious gesture. When he released her, she lingered a moment, offered him a tremulous smile, and walked slowly back toward the gate. It was all he could do not to follow her: bad enough his eyes did.
3
The Harrises belonged to an unofficial social group called the old Marietta folks. No dues, no meetings, no membership cards or plaques or potluck dinners, but an unwavering sense of pride among a group of Marietta High School graduates who had remained in town, were still friends, and all dwelled in that upper tier of the middle class where lawn service was a must, but a Mercedes was a luxury. The homes just off the town square were old and beautiful, tucked away on sprawling lots amid cozy backstreets lined with trees.
Tom and Diane had a white clapboard colonial on a pie-shaped, full acre lot. This time of year, the oaks, cherries and maples were vibrant pops of orange and red against the lush green expanse of the lawn. It had a long, curved drive that gave the property a grand look, the house’s two and a half stories and three chimneys standing vigil over the street below.
The backyard was a maze of vegetable and perennial gardens, bordered by white picket fences that dripped honeysuckle vines. As a little girl, Alma had spent countless hours playing hide-and-seek amongst the benches and shrubs, had pitched pennies into the lion fountain and made wishes with eyes closed tightly. Diane had spent years cultivating her oasis: her iris, roses, and topiaries. There was a fat yellow koi that lazed about the pond Alma swore was as old as she was. And at the very back of the lot, an arbor grown over with wisteria, like something from The Secret Garden, was supposed to have been the spot for her nuptials. But she’d run off and married Sam instead. At the courthouse.
Through a golden autumn twilight, her breath fogged the window pane as she stared through the French doors of her parents’ home, all the way across the garden to the arbor. It mocked her. Look how well true love worked out for you. She pressed a hand over her still-flat belly, feeling achy and empty inside. The fetus wasn’t filling up the gaping, bloody hole Sam had left in his wake. Not even close.
“Can I get you something to drink, sweetheart?” her father’s face appeared above her own, reflected in the glass. Tom Harris had been a football star, back in those old Marietta days, and had become a successful insurance agent. Alma had his brown eyes, but had thankfully not inherited the big, square jaw and strong nose that, even in his khakis and sweater, with streaks of silver along the wings of his hair, still marked him as a high school jock. Sometimes, Alma wondered how the hell her parents had managed to give birth to a daughter like her; she hadn’t completely abandoned the adoption theory.
Beer was on the tip of her tongue, but she said, “I guess just some water,” instead, turning away from the doors.
The house hadn’t changed since she’d moved out three years ago: the same ivory, oatmeal carpet and champagne drapes, tasteful, traditional furniture. The dining room stretched before her, a study in beige and mahogany, the chandelier’s tear-drop crystals shimmering. Diane’s sister, Alma’s Aunt Liz, was in town from Knoxville, and she and Diane had laid out the table with the everyday china. The smells of herb roasted chicken and an orange-ginger rice that wafted from the kitchen made Alma queasy.
Tom went to the side table and filled a glass with perfectly formed ice cubes, pouring the most appropriate amount of water from a Brita filtration pitcher. When he put a cocktail napkin under the glass, her skin started to feel too tight, and by the time the water was in her hand, napkin and all, she was downright claustrophobic. At home, Sam’s clothes were still in the laundry hamper because she couldn’t be
ar to wash his scent from them, the coffee table needed dusting, the mail was cluttering up the counter beside the phone, where doubtless the message light was blinking. And by contrast, the stark, ever present perfection of her parents’ home was suffocating.
“How’ve you been feeling?” Tom asked as he poured himself a Scotch. He made a gesture toward her that she knew was meant to indicate her current state of pregnancy.
“Fine,” she lied with a poor attempt at a smile.
**
Marietta was an eclectic mix of old wealth, new couples starting out in transitional neighborhoods and seedy little pockets where the houses were rundown, and vandalism was less of an anomaly. It was a very typical suburban city in that respect. But thirty minutes south, the metropolis of Atlanta was a whole other breed of dangerous. Amongst the international headquarters of Coca-Cola, the new Aquarium, historic Fox Theater, High Museum of Art, and a hundred other cultural hot spots, crime and poverty festered in the shadows as in every other densely populated urban area.
And it didn’t matter the measures the police took, the drug trade was constant. Meth, H, Coke, X: you name it, there was someone pedaling it on a corner somewhere downtown.
Sean Taylor was not your average street corner dealer high on his own product. He’d played high school football, had been good friends with Sam, and then two years after graduation, he’d disappeared. No contact, no explanation. Until eighteen months ago when he’d been at Sam and Alma’s kitchen table one Sunday night for dinner.
Not a moment passed that Carlos didn’t kick himself in the ass for following his cousin out on the back deck for cigars that night. Sean had come to them with a proposition: a way to make a hell of a lot more money than they were mowing lawns and trimming shrubs. Sam had told his wife that he was going to work construction for his old pal Sean. Carlos had waited, hesitated, and had kept hold of his landscaping and bar jobs, but he’d succumbed to the lure. Or, more accurately, had tried to please his cousin.
Sean was the reason they’d been in the stairwell of a foreclosed commercial building in Atlanta the day Sam had been shot. Sean’s product had been the point of contention with the shooter. And poor Alma had no idea she’d lost her husband over a drug deal gone bad. The morose, damaged brunette was heavy on Carlos’s mind as he swiveled back and forth in his chair and waited for Sean to get off the phone with whoever he was talking with.
“…nah, we’re good. I can get you in to see the property tomorrow. Sure. Absolutely, bro.” If Carlos was living the cliché life of a Puerto Rican landscaper with minimal income, Sean was doing the polar opposite. He had the cultivated air of a black man doing very well for himself without any need to demonstrate that to the public in a flashy, obnoxious sort of way. Tall and lean and still in ball-playing shape, he always looked like he’d stepped out of a catalogue in pressed shirts and tastefully patterned ties. Rolex. Gucci belt. Stainless steel and glass office full of the latest computer technology. Caddy in the parking lot of his rented business condo. He looked every inch the successful Fulton county real estate agent, and nothing like the man who supplied yuppie kids and suburban dumbasses with all their chemical needs.
The charade was elaborate, and the paper trail doubtless reflected a legitimate agency. Carlos had wondered how that could be worth it; wouldn’t it be easier to sell on the fly out of the back of a car? But Sean had said that the big fish didn’t want to buy from small time thugs. Corporate types wanted corporate-type dealers. Which was why Mr. Taylor was so hugely successful.
Save for that whole getting Sam killed thing.
“Carlos,” he greeted, finally, as he disconnected his cell and set it on his desk. “Guess you got my message?”
He nodded and kept swiveling the chair back and forth, not really wanting to make eye contact.
“My buyer wants to have a rep meet you some time
after - ”
“I’m busy,” he blurted, not waiting for the full request. Something akin to panic was pressing on his chest, flight was winning out over fight, and he was filled with the unshakeable knowledge that he couldn’t do this anymore.
He’d never showed resistance like this to Sean – at least not to his face – so the dealer looked truly taken aback, though he masked it well, linking his hands together as he leaned back in his chair. “You gonna let me finish?” His tone was polite, which was more frightening than if he’d reacted with anger.
Carlos didn’t answer.
“You runnin’ scared now?”
He dropped his eyes.
“I know it was hard losin’ Sam, I do. I know that.”
Carlos swallowed the lump in his throat. “He was like my brother,” he said and Sean’s eyes stayed flat, face expressionless; he already knew that. “We were just supposed to be pushin’ some blow for you and then…” his voice shook. “I couldn’t even tell Alma the truth - ”
“Alma? His wife?” Sean frowned in a knowing sort of way. “So it’s not just about Sam, huh?”
He realized too late that he’d brought up Alma when he shouldn’t. Now Sean knew. “I…I don’t wanna hurt her anymore,” he said, ashamed.
“And how would you do that? Unless she was sweet on you. You movin’ in on your cousin’s girl? That it?”
Again, no answer would suffice, so he kept silent.
Sean coughed a laugh. “You know, Sam may’ve married her, but she didn’t affect his business decisions.”
“Well maybe she should have.”
“And maybe she’s just messin’ with your head, man,” Sean countered. He leaned forward across his desk, face hardening, brown eyes going wide with intensity. “I don’t care where you put your dick, Carlos. But your ass is mine. You signed on and you ain’t done till I say you’re done. You hear me?”
He shivered inwardly, a coldness washing over him that went all the way to his core. “I hear.”
**
The normally happy sounds of dinner – cutlery on china, heavy glasses thumping on the tablecloth, the little gummy smacks of chicken and rice and steamed veggies moving from plate to mouth – all worsened Alma’s nausea until she had her head between her hands, no longer caring that she looked the picture of rudeness. Her parents and her aunt had seemed content, however, to discuss the upcoming Thanksgiving food drive at the church, at least up until now.
“So, Alma dear,” Liz said, voice indicating she’d just taken a sip of wine and was good and vocally lubricated for whatever she had to say. “Have you been to the doctor yet about the baby? What did he say?”
Alma lifted her head in shock, eyes going wide. Her aunt was looking at her expectedly, fork in one hand, head cocked and dirty-blonde bob slipping from behind her ears. “You,” she licked her lips and glanced at her mother, “you told her?”
Diane’s eyes hinted at guilt, but only a moment, then she nodded, regal, sloped nose lifted high. “Of course. She’s your aunt.”
Alma felt betrayed. “How could you do this?” Diane had asked when Alma had told her, haltingly and over the phone, that she had married Sam. She supposed turnabout was fair play. But maybe, well…Liz and Diane were both looking at her with wide, green, expectant eyes…maybe she was overreacting?
No, she decided, shaking her head, she wasn’t. If Sam was still with her, his hand on her thigh beneath the cover of the table, rolling his eyes at the presumptuous dinner, she might have smiled and put a hand on her belly, talked about the baby as if it were the bouncing bundle of joy that it was supposed to be, rather than the burning reminder of all that she’d lost.
“I had an appointment last week,” she said, voice suddenly quavering. “Doctor Laramie said everything seemed normal so far. That I should watch my sugar intake…” she trailed off with a shrug, glancing back at her plate again. The sight of her meal left the underside of her tongue tasting salty, bile building at the back of her throat, but it was better than facing the two women across from her.
“That’s great,” Liz said, chipper. “How ma
ny weeks along are you?”
“Ten.”
“She’s had some morning sickness,” Diane explained. “Can you eat tonight, baby? Or do you feel too green?”
“I have ginger ale,” Tom said, and his chair scraped back across the hardwood. “I should have thought of that earlier. Sit tight and I’ll get you a glass.”
“Maybe you could just try the rice,” Liz suggested. “It’s easy on the tummy and you have to eat something, grow that baby nice and –,”
“May I be excused?” Alma pegged her mother with a pleading look, biting down on the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming.
Diane seemed taken aback. “You’re an adult, you can do whatever you want.” Her narrowed eyes didn’t lend any truth to the statement however.
Alma didn’t care. She fled: pushed up from the table and nearly jogged through the adjoining family room, up the stairs and somehow down the hall to her old room.
In the two years that she’d been gone, her mother had made some minor changes that gave the space a more guest-friendly feel – a new comforter and a Chippendale chair in the corner by the window – but it was still very much her room. The sun had set and when she flipped on the bedside lamp, warm, buttery light turned the yellow walls a cheery color. It was a large bedroom with the same plush, ivory carpet as the rest of the house, but the drapes here were gauzy and blue, the same as the throw pillows on the bed. Alma’s desk held tidy stacks of stationary, notebooks and two writing volumes. She passed her hand over the white, wooden surface, recalling the countless hours she’d spent hunched over a spiral notebook, pouring her heart and imagination into the pages. Once she’d married Sam, her life had become laundry, cooking and sex…but she missed writing. Missed it badly, she realized, as she flipped through the blank pages of a fresh notebook.
When she pulled the crystal knobs of the top drawer, she found her collection of favorite pens and all her old sketch pencils too. She’d had a flare for graphite drawing once upon a time as well. Her stomach clenched in an unhappy way and she slammed the drawer shut, refusing to dwell on anything negative that wasn’t related to Sam’s death. He had been her whole world; she didn’t need anything else.
Shelter Page 3
