When Alex heard where John’s memorial was being held she knew she had to be there. Jamilah objected. “Omolola, do you think that is wise given everything that’s happened?”
“It’s because of everything that’s happened that I have to be there, Mama.”
“Then I’ll go with you.”
“No, you stay with Cerena. I have to do this alone.”
It seemed an ominous cloud hung over Mount Paran Baptist Church in Inglewood despite the warmth of June. There had been a constant flow of traffic all morning of those coming to pay tribute to the life of a fallen hero. A dark hearse with small American flags waving from either side of the hood was anchored outside the church. There was a line of cars behind it also standing ready to attend to the bereaved family once the service concluded.
Inside the sanctuary over a hundred mourners had gathered and sat solemnly as the organist played a litany of music Barbara Mitchell had selected that would honor her son’s life the most. John was never the churchgoer that his mother was. But on those rare occasions, when she insisted, he was there sitting right beside her, clapping and singing as if he’d always been there. She sat in the front pew, staring directly at the open casket that held John’s lifeless body. Hank sat on one side of her and her eldest son, Anthony, sat on the other. Their shared sorrow eased the tension between Barbara and her inconsolable daughter-in-law Lorraine, who sat on the opposite side of Hank with Chloe on her lap and holding on to John Michael’s hand. Lorraine’s parents, Liam and Madeline, sat behind them. Milton Toliver, Sam McFarland, and several police officers and marshals were also in attendance.
Alex stepped into the sanctuary and almost immediately drew inquisitive whispers and accusatory stares. The gossip that John and Lorraine’s rumored separation was careening toward divorce court and that there was another woman involved was now verified with her presence. Despite concerted efforts at understated glamour, with her hair pulled back and dressed in a simple formfitting sleeveless black dress, Alex still found herself to be a ready target. She stopped and glared back at those nearest the door and took a few moments to gather herself. Swallowing apprehension she continued up the aisle toward the casket to say a final good-bye.
Barbara Mitchell turned around when the disruption reached her ear. She knew from everything Hank was finally able to tell her that this was the woman at the heart of all of her anguish. Letting go of Hank’s hand she stood up slowly. He tried to grab her arm and she yanked it away. All eyes watched her as she stepped into the aisle and stopped Alex in her tracks. Hank stood up behind her. Barbara’s tear-stained eyes and grief-stricken expression raised the curtain on her years.
“Mrs. Mitchell, I’m so—”
Before Alex could complete her condolence Barbara slapped her so hard across the face it caused her to lose her footing and stumble a bit. Hank pulled his wife back and Anthony rushed to assist.
“You’re the reason he’s dead! My son . . . my baby boy,” Barbara cried. “You’re not welcome here.”
“Mrs. Mitchell, I—”
Barbara lost all decorum and began screaming. “Get out! Get out! Get out!”
Alex looked to Hank as if he would somehow come to her defense. He shook his head. Alex trembled as she caught sight of Lorraine and Chloe and John Michael and knew that her decision to come here had been a terrible mistake. She backed up a few steps before turning and running out of the church.
She ran up the block until she happened on a bus stop and took a seat on a bench. Catching her breath and drying her eyes she recalled the grieving faces of John’s children. Even though she knew of them somehow they hadn’t seemed real until now; their loss, their pain, was palpable.
Busses came and went. Passengers boarded and she sat. Finally, she spied the headlights of the hearse being escorted up the street by a platoon of motorcycle police. For fear of being seen she scurried behind a tree as the motorcade of cars passed. As the processional wound down she hailed a taxi and followed them to the cemetery. The mood at the cemetery was as somber as that in the church. Alex asked the cab driver to wait a safe distance away from the others as she witnessed the ritual of the last rites and the lowering of John’s casket into the ground. Her pain, her tears, were no less ardent.
After a few minutes she instructed the driver to take her to the bank in Monrovia where she had her safety deposit box. It was almost an hour’s drive, but it gave Alex enough time to decide what she had to do next.
She sat staring at the contents of a manila envelope: a letter to Tirrell Ellis, pictures of Cerena. Racked with guilt, she thought about all the children who may have lost fathers because of her dealings in Atlanta, and John Michael and Chloe, who’d lost their father when he was trying to protect her. Given what she’d caused to happen to Tirrell and his family, maybe she could be absolved of her sins in some small way if he were to know about Cerena. Pulling the letter out and tearing it up she put the pictures back inside the envelope and sealed it. She crossed out Betty Ellis’s name and addressed it directly to Tirrell.
By the time she made it back to the tiny apartment she and Jamilah had transitioned to the day was well spent. The old was giving way to the new. A fresh start was on the horizon. Alex walked into the apartment, kicked off her shoes, and sat facing the window staring out at the orange, yellow, and crimson hues of a summer sunset. The view above the San Gabriel Mountains was nothing short of breathtaking, but all Alex could think about was another love lost.
“There you are,” Jamilah said, coming in from the bedroom. “I was beginning to worry.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I had some things to take care of and time got away from me.”
“How was the service?”
Alex smiled sadly. “I wouldn’t know. John’s mother was so angry with me she kicked me out of the church.”
“Omolola, I wish you would have allowed me to go along with you.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference. The end result would have most likely been the same.”
“The service was at eleven,” Jamilah noted. “It’s almost seven. Where have you been all this time?”
“Believe it or not I went to the cemetery.”
“Why torture yourself, daughter?”
“I had to say good-bye. Then I drove around in the cab and did some thinking. It felt so strange being out in the open for the first time and not being afraid.”
Jamilah sat down in a chair facing Alex. “I for one can hardly wait to leave this godforsaken mess behind us. You are going to love Nigeria.”
Alex sighed. “That’s one of the things I was thinking about. Now that Xavier is dead and we’re leaving the program nobody’s chasing us anymore. We don’t have any reason to run.”
“You want to stay here in California?”
“Not necessarily. There are a couple of other places we could go. I think I’ve paid enough. Maybe God will give me a break now.”
Jamilah stood, leaned into Alex, and kissed her forehead. “Maybe you should give yourself a break, daughter.”
“Where’s Cerena?”
“I fed her and she’s asleep. Can I fix you something to eat?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Alex pushed herself up from the sofa and went to the room where Cerena slept. She tiptoed inside and watched her. “I did something today that I can’t tell your nnenne. I don’t know whether I should have or not, but it’s done now. I sent your father pictures of you; I just hope I don’t live to regret it.” Alex’s eyes misted. “L’abe igi orombo . . . N’ibe . . . N’ibe . . . ”
Jamilah stepped up behind Alex, wrapped her arms around her and joined her in the song. “N’ibe l’agbe nsere wa . . . Inu wa dun, ara wa ya . . . L’abe igi orombo . . . Orombo, orombo . . . Orombo, orombo.”
Alex leaned in and kissed Cerena. “Sleep tight, my angel.”
Despite all that remained from the wreckage of the past months it was a strangely peaceful moment. It was as close to normal as most anything else.
>
Epilogue
The Eastland Avenue neighborhood seemed more quiet than usual. Tirrell Ellis emerged from the brick-front house he still shared with his grandmother to retrieve the mail. Because of the brutal attack he’d suffered two years prior he now had to walk with a cane and the limp favoring his left side. He nodded to a neighbor across the street who was also checking her mail. The box was filled with grocery store coupons and bills, but a manila envelope addressed to him caught his attention.
He hobbled back into the house and laid the bulk of the mail on the dining room table. He eased himself down into a chair and before opening the envelope he held it up to the light to see if he could tell what it contained. When he opened it, four pictures fell out onto the table. He stared intently at the images of the baby girl in the photographs whose hazel eyes were the reflection of his own. He turned one over. All that was there was the name Cerena and the date May 15, 2009. For some inexplicable reason he felt a tug that he hadn’t expected. He checked the envelope for a return address and read the postmark from Monrovia, California. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the baby, rubbed his hand over his faded haircut and whispered, “Alex.”
“Tirrell, are you all right?”
Tirrell looked up to see that his grandmother Betty had come in from the kitchen. “Uh, I don’t exactly know what I am right now, Noonie.”
“What’s the matter?”
Tirrell handed her the pictures. She wiped her hands on the towel she carried, sat down in a chair beside him, and carefully examined the images. “Cerena,” she said aloud. “Whose child is this?”
“Who does she look like to you?” he asked.
The stout woman pulled on her reading glasses and thoughtfully rubbed her fingers over her lips and then traced the outline of the photograph. “She looks like you when you were a baby.”
“Congratulations, Noonie. I think you’re a great-grandmother, again.”
“What?” The woman’s stunned expression spoke volumes. “Tirrell, where did these pictures come from?”
“They came in the mail,” he responded. “In this envelope. It has a postmark from California.”
“California?”
“I think Alex Solomon sent them. I think that girl is my daughter.”
“Oh, Tirrell, what would make you say such a thing?”
Tirrell leaned intently toward his grandmother. “Don’t you see, Noonie? Alex made a deal with the Feds and got ghost. Two weeks ago we hear on the news that Xavier Rivera is dead. Now all of a sudden I get this in the mail. If it’s not from her, who could it be from then?”
Betty Ellis removed her glasses, shook her head, and closed her eyes. Tirrell awkwardly pulled his lean six foot one inch frame up from the table and limped to the kitchen without his cane.
“Tirrell, what are you doing?”
“I’m gonna call Kevin. He’s a DA. If Alex Solomon is alive and if that girl is mine then I need to find her.”
“No, Tirrell,” Betty admonished.
“What do you mean no? If Alex sent me those pictures she did it for a reason.”
Betty stood up from the table, pressed her hands together, and walked over to him. “That woman was nothin’ but trouble from the day you met her. For all you know this could all be some kind of hoax or scheme to get back at you.”
Tirrell scoffed. “Get back at me for what, Noonie? I ain’t got nothin’ left that she wants.”
Betty lovingly cupped her grandson’s face in her hands. “Baby, after all the hell that woman put this family through you can’t hope to find her and bring her back into our lives.”
Tirrell pulled away. “I don’t give a damn about Alex Solomon,” he snapped. “If that girl is my daughter I have a right to know. And, if Alex gets in my way I’m gonna do what I should have done two years ago.”
“Tirrell—”
“I mean it, Noonie! I’ll kill her! This time, I swear to God. I’ll kill her!”
Urban Books, LLC
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Avenging Alex Copyright © 2014 Lewis Ericson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-6016-2400-0
First Trade Paperback Printing January 2014
This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.
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Avenging Alex Page 20
