by S. A. Cosby
“I don’t know. It’s my last day off from the hospital so I wanted to do something nice with her, but I can’t think of anything,” she said. Ike sipped his coffee again. He thought about suggesting they go to Kings Dominion, but he didn’t want Mya to snap at him again. Lately, any input he had about Arianna was met with disdain.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he said. Mya knocked some ash off her cigarette into a teacup she was using as an ashtray.
“I don’t know. I can’t seem to get my brain to work.” Ike didn’t touch that one. Mya took a long drag off her cigarette. The tip glowed red like a dragon’s eye until she exhaled.
“I don’t think they are ever going to catch them,” she said. Ike looked up from his pancakes. She had folded the paper and put it on the table. Her honey-brown eyes seared into him.
He let out a sigh, finished his coffee, and got up from the table. He’d lost what little appetite he had. He went to the sink and rinsed out his cup before putting it in the dishwasher.
“What?” Mya asked.
“What do you mean ‘what’?”
“That’s your ‘something is bothering me’ sigh. What is it?” Mya asked
Ike leaned against the counter.
“Derek’s daddy came by the shop last week.”
“What did he want?”
Ike sucked his teeth. “He told me the cops had marked Isiah’s case ‘inactive.’”
“I know. I talked to Detective LaPlata on Monday. It’s been two months as of last week,” Mya said. Ike closed his eyes. He hadn’t talked to LaPlata since right after the funeral. He hadn’t been out to the grave, either.
“Well, Derek’s dad thinks we should go looking for them,” Ike said.
“Are you?” Mya asked.
“What? Go looking for them? You know I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” Mya asked. Ike worked his jaw. He listened to the ligaments pop.
“You know why. I made you and Isiah a promise. If I go looking I might find them. And if I find them, I’ll kill them,” he said. The words came out plain and without much inflection. She’d known him since he was fifteen and she was thirteen. Mya knew he wasn’t exaggerating.
Ike waited for her to say he couldn’t do that. He stood there waiting for her to say let the cops handle it. He waited and waited. The ice maker kicked in, breaking the silence.
“I’m gonna go wake up Arianna,” Mya said finally. She stubbed out her cigarette in the teacup. She rose from the table, then slipped up the stairs.
Ike watched her climb the stairs. Her steps seemed weighted down by a burden she obviously thought she was carrying alone. Maybe Mya was right. Maybe he didn’t deserve to grieve Isiah. It didn’t seem fair for a man to mourn someone abundantly that he had loved so miserly.
Ike grabbed his lunch container and was about to walk out the door when his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the screen. He didn’t immediately recognize the number, but it was his work phone so he answered.
“Hello.”
“Hello Mr. Randolph, this is Kenneth D. Adner at Greenhill Memorial Cemetery.”
“Yes,” Ike said.
“Sir, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but we have a bit of a problem with your son’s grave.”
“The funeral home said everything was paid for. My son had set up a prearrangement,” Ike said.
“No, sir, it’s not about the payment. I’m afraid there’s been some damage to your son’s grave.”
“What kind of damage?” Ike asked.
“Sir, I think you should come down to the cemetery. I don’t think this is something we can discuss on the phone,” Kenneth said.
Ike had expected to arrive at his son’s grave (that phrase would never sound right to him) and see a large chunk missing from the headstone. He knew how pieces of gravel became ballistic projectiles when launched by the blade of a riding mower. That was why he had all his guys bonded and insured. Perhaps he would see a huge chunk of grass missing. The result of an overzealous groundskeeper testing out a brand-new weed trimmer. Ike worked in the dirt. He knew there were only so many ways to damage it.
He hadn’t expected anything like this.
He and the manager were standing side by side at the foot of the grave. The manager was pale as the belly of a fish. His blond hair was slicked back with so much product a fly would break its neck trying to land on it. He was sweating despite the AC in the office being on arctic. That had been Ike’s first indication that the issue with the grave was more extensive than he had first thought.
Ike walked over to the headstone. It was a double stone with both Isiah’s and Derek’s names carved into the black granite. Someone had cracked it in two. Probably with a sledgehammer. Once they had cracked it they had decorated it with their own views on homosexuality and interracial relationships.
DEAD FAGGOT NIGGER. DEAD NIGGER FAGGOT LOVER was sprayed on the two halves of the stone in neon-green spray paint. They had also sprayed it on the grass over each grave.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this, Mr. Randolph. Of course, we will replace the headstone. The grass will be a bit more difficult,” Kenneth said.
“Dig it up and replace it with sod,” Ike said. His voice sounded like a recording to him.
“Well, yes, I guess that is one solution,” Kenneth said.
“I want the grass fixed today. Go ahead and move the stone now. My wife is supposed to be coming by today. I’ll tell her one of your trucks ran into it.”
“Yes sir, of course. I again want to sincerely apologize. Greenhill accepts full responsibility for this unfortunate event,” Kenneth said. He tried to smile sympathetically. Ike caught his eyes and the smile died on his lips.
“Get the grass done today,” Ike said. He started walking toward his truck. He left the manager and his golf cart at the grave. He felt strange. He was well acquainted with his rage. It lived inside him like a demon waiting for moments like these. Seeing the stone should have released it like a hungry beast freed from a cage. The familiar sensations associated with it weren’t immediately present. His vision hadn’t taken on a crimson sheen. His stomach wasn’t doing yoga poses in his guts. Was this the numbness people talked about? That crippling feeling that took over your body when you were finally pushed beyond your limits.
Ike got in his truck and dialed his office.
“Randolph Lawn Care and Landscaping, Jazmine speaking. How may I help you?”
“Jazzy, go into my office. There’s a receipt on my desk. On the back of it there’s a telephone number. Text me that number.”
“Okay. Good morning to you, too, boss.”
“Get the number, Jazzy,” Ike said.
“Alright. Hey, you okay? You don’t sound—”
Ike ended the call.
* * *
Buddy Lee pulled into the parking lot of Sander’s Grab and Go. He thought the name of the place didn’t exactly match the actual layout. It was built like a Tastee Freez or a Dairy Queen. There was an order window and a pickup window, both with a plexiglass sliding door, but there were also a bunch of bright-red picnic tables littered across the front of the building. Buddy Lee figured the name kinda fit. You could grab your food, then go to a table.
Ike was sitting at one of the tables near the far end of the building. Buddy Lee put the truck in park and loped over. Ike was eating from a red-and-white-checkered paper container. He tore into a piece of fried fish, then took a sip of fountain drink.
“Hey,” he said after washing down his food.
“I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again,” Buddy Lee said.
“Have a seat,” Ike said. Buddy Lee hesitated, then took a seat. He picked up a plastic menu from the tabletop and started perusing it.
“What’s good here? I’m so hungry my stomach is hitting my backbone,” Buddy Lee said. Ike pulled out his phone and sat it on the table.
“The catfish is good. They got fried okra, too. Do
n’t mess with the cornbread. It’s hard as a brick,” Ike said. He took another sip of his drink.
“If you invited me up here to apologize for telling me to get the fuck out your office, I accept. I don’t think either one of us are in our right minds these days,” Buddy Lee said without raising his head from the menu.
“I’m not apologizing,” Ike said.
“Alright, this gonna be an awkward date then,” Buddy Lee said. Ike wiped his hands on a thin brown napkin. He leaned on his forearms.
“I need you to know everything I said the other day was true. About being responsible. I built my business from scratch. From nothing. I’m proud of that. I’ve worked hard every single day since I got out, to make a good life for my wife, for my son,” Ike said. He paused. The laughter of a group of teenagers two tables away filled the space the pause had made.
“How you become a landscaper anyway? No offense, but you don’t strike me as a flower lover,” Buddy Lee said. His head was still buried in the menu.
Ike looked down at his hands. At his tattoo. Some white boys in a truck with a lift kit so high they probably needed a ladder to get in the damn thing and a Confederate flag decal in the back window rolled through the parking lot. They left a trail of black smoke in their wake.
“Took it up inside. They had classes on it. It got me out my cell. When they cut me loose I realized it’d give me space on the outside. Nobody wants to make small talk when it a hundred degrees and you got a pole saw in your hands,” Ike said. The Confederate boys parked their truck. They got out and walked to the order window. One of them gave Ike a look, saw something in his eyes he didn’t like, and quickly looked away.
“It got to where after a few years I started thinking it was why I was put here. You know how they say everybody good at something, right? But planting flowers and trimming shrubs, that shit ain’t what I’m here for. That’s not what I’m good at. Not really,” Ike said.
Buddy Lee raised his head.
“You didn’t call me because the catfish here is so good, did you?” Buddy Lee asked. Ike pulled his phone out of his pocket and placed it on the table.
“When was the last time you were at the graves?”
Buddy Lee put the menu aside.
“Eh … I was planning on going this week, but work got crazy. I mean … shit, man, I haven’t been since the funeral,” Buddy Lee said. Ike touched his phone screen and slid it across the table. Buddy Lee closed his menu. He picked up the phone and stared at the screen.
“What the fuck is this?” he said.
“What it look like? The motherfuckers who killed our boys went and pissed all over their graves,” Ike said. Buddy Lee slid the phone back toward Ike. He ran his tongue across his bottom lip.
“You think the punks who killed them did that?”
“Who else would do it? Isiah and Derek weren’t famous. Nobody would know they were … different just by reading their headstones,” Ike said. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. Buddy Lee hunched forward and leaned across the table.
“Let me guess. Now you ready to do something about this,” he said. Ike thought he heard the hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“I was all set to let the police handle this. Even though I knew they probably wouldn’t find out who did it. I was willing to let those motherfuckers get away with it because the promise I had made to my wife and my son was more important than getting even. But then they had to go and fuck up his grave. And it was like I realized, what good is the promise if my son is dead and my wife looks at me like she wishes I was the one in the ground? It’s like you said. That cracked-up headstone is my boy asking me what the fuck am I gonna do about this,” Ike said.
He had closed his eyes. Isiah’s face floated up from the depths of his memories. Isiah at four hours old. At seven when Ike had started his bid. At sixteen when he’d gotten his driver’s license. At twenty-seven on the slab at the funeral home with most of his head blown away. He almost believed the line of bull he’d fed Buddy Lee. It would have been beautiful if Isiah had sent him a ghostly message from beyond. But Ike didn’t believe in any fairy-tale paradise in the sky. His boy was dead. He would be dead longer than he had ever been alive. The truth was, deep down inside, Ike had always been afraid it would come to this. Maybe subconsciously he wanted a reason to break his oath. In that case the tombstone was just a convenient catalyst. An unexpected means to an end. After everything he’d said to Buddy Lee last week, he had to feed him that line of crap. Make him think he’d struggled with this decision.
“Hey, you preaching to the choir. When you wanna get started?” Buddy Lee said. His eyes shined like wet concrete. Ike opened his eyes.
“Just so we on the same page. If we gonna do this I need your head clear. You gonna have to cut back on the drinking until this is done,” Ike said.
“Hey, don’t worry, a few cold ones ain’t gonna—”
Ike cut him off. “You’re drunk right now and the sun’s still up. I’m not going to war with somebody who can’t hold their liquor.”
Buddy Lee sat back in his chair.
“That bad, huh?”
“You smell like you slept in a mason jar full of shine,” Ike said. Buddy Lee laughed.
“That sounds about right. Alright, I’ll lay off the sauce.” Buddy Lee had no idea how that was going to work, but he’d give it a try. For a little while.
“One more thing. I don’t know what the boys was into, but it was bad enough somebody killed them over it. We start poking around this then things are probably gonna get nasty. Now, I know what you was saying the other day, but I want to make sure you understand what this is. Once we start, I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to find these sons of bitches. If I gotta hurt some people, then that’s what I’ll do. If I have to punch somebody’s ticket, I’ll do it. If I gotta crawl a hundred miles over broken glass just to get my hands on these motherfuckers, then that’s what I’ll do. I’m prepared to bleed. Are you?” Ike asked.
Buddy Lee leaned his head back and stared up at the sky. The clouds danced across the horizon, taking on vaguely familiar shapes. A horse, a dog, a car, a face with a crooked smile just like Derek’s.
He lowered his head and locked eyes with Ike.
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” he said.
EIGHT
Buddy Lee parked his truck next to Ike’s in the parking lot of Ike’s shop. He started to lock it, then stopped. If anyone stole it, they would just be taking on his troubles. Ike unlocked the passenger door and Buddy Lee climbed in the cab. Ike put the truck in gear and they backed up, turned around, and merged into traffic.
“My truck gonna be okay there? I don’t want it to get in the way.”
“It’s fine. I told Jazzy it was cool.”
“Where we headed?”
“I figured we would go to Isiah’s job. The cops told me he got a death threat last year. I called my wife and she gave me the address. Good a place as any to start, I guess,” Ike said.
Buddy Lee felt the old familiar twinge working its way up from his guts but he pushed it away. He wanted a drink. Hell, he needed a drink. They drove in silence for a few miles before Buddy Lee couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Hey, can you play some music?”
Ike touched a button on the steering wheel with his thumb. The cab of the truck was filled with the angelic falsetto of the Reverend Al Green singing about the good times. Buddy Lee sat back in the passenger seat and drummed his thin fingers on his thigh.
“I don’t suppose you’re a fan of country, are you?” Buddy Lee asked.
Ike grunted. “Why, because I’m Black?”
Buddy Lee ran a hand through his wild locks. “Well, I mean, yeah. No offense or nothing. Just don’t know many of your kind that are into country.”
“You say ‘your kind’ again and I’m gonna throw you out this truck,” Ike said. He didn’t raise his voice or look at Buddy Lee.
At first Buddy Lee thought he might have misheard him. When he caught Ike
’s reflection in the rearview mirror he was confident he had indeed heard him correctly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean nothing by it. Shit. Sometimes my mouth runs away from my head.”
“When you or some other white boy says ‘your kind’ it’s like I’m some fucking animal that you trying to put in a cage. I don’t like that shit. So that’s your one,” Ike said.
“My one?”
“Your one. I’m gonna let it slide because, like you said, we both might be in a weird state of mind. But the next time you say something like that I’m going to chin-check you,” Ike said.
“Hey, man, I said I’m sorry. I ain’t gonna tell you no lie and say I got a lot of Black friends, because I don’t. I know some boys that I’m cool with. But I don’t think I could call any of them if I had to bury a body,” Buddy Lee said. Ike gave him a quick glance before returning his attention to the road.
“I’m not a racist or nothing. Just don’t know a lot of Black people,” Buddy Lee stammered.
“I never said you was. You just another white boy that don’t have to worry about people like me and the shit we go through,” Ike said.
“Look man, the only color that really matters is green. Look at you. You got your own business. You ain’t got a boss you gotta threaten to get some bereavement time. You got a nice house. I live in a shitty-ass trailer in an even shittier trailer park. You doing alright. Hell, you’re doing way better than me. And you’re pretty Black,” Buddy Lee said. Ike gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles popped.
“You don’t know how hard I had to work to just be doing alright. You say you believe that shit about green being the only color that matters, right? So, let me ask you this: Would you switch places with me?”
“Do I get the truck? Because if I get the truck, hell yeah, I’ll switch places with you,” Buddy Lee said. He let out a low chuckle.
“Oh, you get the truck. But you also get pulled over four or five times a month because ain’t no way your Black ass can afford a nice truck like this, right? You get the truck but you get followed around in the jewelry store because you know you probably fitting to rob the place, right? You can get the truck but you gotta deal with white ladies clutching their purses when you walk down the street because Fox News done told them you coming to steal their money and their virtue. You get the truck but then you gotta explain to some trigger-happy cop that no, Mr. Officer, you’re not resisting arrest. You get the truck but then you also get two in the back of the head because you reached for your cell phone,” Ike said. He glanced at Buddy Lee.
