“And Raj said that the medical examiner still has our baby.”
But then, Tyrone rushed from the living room to where we sat. “They don’t have our son anymore,” he said.
Syreeta and I looked up with matching frowns.
Tyrone reached for my hand, pulled me up, and as he wrapped his arms around me, he said, “We don’t have to wait anymore, baby. We can go see our son.”
I didn’t dare lean away to ask him if his words were true. Because I would’ve been so hurt if somehow his words had gotten jumbled in my head and he hadn’t just told me that I could see Marquis.
“Are you saying that the ME has released him?” my best friend asked for me.
Tyrone leaned back just a little so that he could look at me, but at the same time, he still held me as if he knew I needed his strength. “Yes, I just got the call. This is one of the things we’ve been working on, but I didn’t want to tell you. Didn’t want to get your hopes up.”
“So you got the police to release him? For real?”
“We did,” Tyrone said, glancing at Raj. “It just took a little bit of—”
I didn’t even let him finish before I wrapped my arms around his neck. I wanted to say thank you aloud, but I couldn’t get words past the clog in my throat. “Where is he?” I asked. There were tears in my eyes and a smile on my face, the manifestation of all that I was feeling: elation . . . I was going to see my son . . . devastation . . . I was going to see my dead son.
“They sent Marquis where I told them . . . to Marshalls Funeral Home. That’s where you wanted him, right?”
I had never thought about where I would send the body of anyone that I loved. But Marshalls was a staple in our neighborhood.
“That’s fine,” I said. “Can we go now?”
“Yes.”
That was all I needed to hear. I didn’t even look around for my purse. Tyrone would be with me; I wouldn’t need a wallet, I didn’t need makeup. I just needed to go.
Spinning around, I was the first one to the door, but as I grabbed the knob, three voices behind me shouted, “Wait!”
I turned around and frowned. As long as I’d waited, I couldn’t imagine why these people were standing there, telling me to wait.
It was my best friend who stepped up. “I know this has been tough, girl. And I know your heart is broken. And I’m going to be with you all the way.” She paused. “But I am never going to go anywhere with you while you’re dressed like that!”
Her words didn’t make sense. Until I looked down, and took in my bathrobe and slipper-covered feet.
Really? If they hadn’t been here, would I have walked out of the house dressed like this?
I looked back up, then down again. And when I raised my head and looked into their faces, I laughed. I mean, I really laughed. I leaned my head back and let go of a big one. I laughed in a way that I’d never thought would happen again. I laughed until tears came out of my eyes.
Chapter 10
I waited for the appropriate time. I waited until after Vincent and Pamela Marshall met us at the door of their funeral home and led us into a room where Tyrone, Syreeta, and I sat on one side of the table and the funeral-home directors sat on the other.
I waited until the Marshalls gave us their appropriate condolences and then waited through all of their promises of how they were going to take care of us and our son. I let them get through all of that, not really hearing too many of their words, before I asked the only question that was important to me. “Is Marquis here now?”
“Yes.” Pam nodded solemnly. “He arrived just an hour ago,” she said as if my son had come to her place of business of his own volition.
Again I let an appropriate moment pass. Then, “I want to see my son.”
Vincent Marshall nodded. “We’re thinking that we’ll just need a few days. We’ll work straight through the weekend and you can have the funeral on Monday. I know that’s soon, but you’ve been waiting so long. And it would be a week since.” He paused, and when neither Tyrone nor I responded, he asked, “Is Monday a good day, or do you want a little more time?”
I shrugged because I hadn’t thought about any of that. There was only one thing on my mind. I said, “We haven’t decided.” Then I looked at Tyrone for confirmation. When my husband nodded, I continued, “What I’m saying is that I want to see Marquis. Like right now.”
I startled both Mr. and Mrs. Mortician. At least that’s what I thought by the way they pushed back in their chairs, then with wide eyes glanced at each other as if my words were blasphemous.
“Well,” the wife began.
“That’s quite unusual,” the husband finished. “Marquis is not ready for you. We have to prepare him. And like I said, we’re willing to work over the weekend.”
He went on to explain all the things a mortician had to do, and it all sounded like blah, blah, blah to me. Didn’t he realize that I didn’t care about the length of time my son had been dead and the need for embalming? He didn’t need to be cleaned up for me.
I wanted to see Marquis, hold Marquis, kiss Marquis before they drained the blood from him. I had to see my dead son for myself.
When the mortician paused, I said, “I know this is unusual, but I really want to see Marquis before . . . before . . . before he’s not there anymore.”
Now the morticians didn’t just glance at each other. They looked at Tyrone and Syreeta as if they were asking for help. As if they were trying to say that one of them needed to explain to me that my son was already gone.
But I hadn’t lost my mind. These were the thoughts of a mother.
My husband said, “We’ll only be back there for a few minutes,” as if he understood my need. “Just take us to our son.”
I could’ve hugged him, kissed him, but all I did was thank him with a squeeze of his hand.
There was another round of glances, but they could have looked at each other all day. I had waited all this time. A few more minutes, a few more hours, a few more exchanged glances didn’t mean a thing to me.
Mr. Marshall tried one last time. “We just want him to be ready for you.”
“He’s my son. He’s ready now.”
With a sigh and a nod, Mr. Marshall stood, and his wife did the same. Tyrone held my hand as we followed them, but it wasn’t until we were at the door that I realized that Syreeta was still sitting at the table.
“Come on,” I said, wondering what she was waiting for.
She shook her head. “No. This first time. This is for you and Tyrone.”
Now I shook my head. “You loved him, too. Come with us.”
I knew without even looking at Tyrone that he was nodding his agreement. When Syreeta stood, I was relieved. I wasn’t going to be able to do this without her and Tyrone. I’d need them both, one on each side to hold me up.
It was the longest walk down that hall, to the room at the end. Mr. Marshall paused for a moment, as if giving me a final chance to change my mind. I nodded and he opened the door.
I would never be able to recall what the room looked like or what else was in it. Because my eyes focused right away on the long table at the far wall in front of us. A table with a body covered to his neck by a white sheet.
The place where my son lay.
Like I had hoped, Tyrone stood on one side and my petite friend was on the other as we made the slow jaunt down the center of the room.
As I walked, my eyes didn’t even blink.
Even though seeing Marquis was all I’d been able to think about, I’m not sure what I expected. Sure, I figured that plenty of tears might fall, and I might even pass out.
But it wasn’t like that at all.
“Marquis,” I whispered when we finally stood over him. “What happened?”
The heat of my emotions were behind my lids, but not a tear dropped, though my heart cracked. I knew that I would never be the same.
But even with all of that pain, there was something else.
There was an
angelic peace over Marquis. He looked like he was asleep. He looked like he was happy.
He looked like he’d seen the face of God.
And with that, there was nothing for me to cry about.
I tried to lean forward but Tyrone and Syreeta each had their own vise grip on me.
“I’m fine,” I said, shaking from their grasps. When I was free, I waited just a moment, then leaned down and lifted my baby’s head and held him to my chest.
He was so cold, he was so stiff, all the things I imagined a dead body to be. None of the ways that I ever expected to see my son.
“I’m so sorry,” I told him as I rocked him, even in that awkward stance. “I’m so sorry that I wasn’t there to save you.”
Closing my eyes, I set my mind free and I saw all the hopes and dreams I had for Marquis: his graduation from high school, then college, probably graduate school. Eight years from now, he would’ve had his doctorate, though never once had Marquis said anything about a Ph.D. But now, as I held him in this state, I could see that.
I saw the doctorate that he would never receive, the run for president of the United States of America that would never happen. I saw his wedding and then his children, my grandchildren who would never come from his loins. I held my son and imagined his destiny, a destiny that would never be.
As the first tears warmed my cheeks, I said a little prayer thanking God. Because even if God had told me on the day that Marquis was born that he was going to walk this earth for this short while, not even living to celebrate his eighteenth birthday, I still would’ve told God to bring him on. Because these had been the best seventeen years of my life.
Thank you, Lord, I said inside. Thank you so much for what you gave to me.
“Jan,” Tyrone whispered in my ear. “Come on, baby. Come on.”
Tyrone wanted me to let Marquis go and I knew that it was time. So I kissed the top of his head, then gently rested him back onto the metal table before I stood up straight.
With the backs of my hands, I flicked every single tear away. I didn’t want to cry anymore. Tears didn’t ease the pain anyway. Tears only drained me, and now I needed to get myself together. Because over the next few days, whatever I did would be my very last acts for Marquis.
So, no tears. Just strength.
“Okay,” I said to Tyrone and Syreeta. My eyes were still on my son when I said, “I’m ready.”
With a final kiss to Marquis’s forehead, I turned and hooked my arm through Syreeta’s.
She sobbed as we walked toward the door, and now I was the one who held her up.
But then . . . I’d taken at least a dozen steps before I noticed that my husband wasn’t by my side. “Tyrone?” I whispered his name.
Together, Syreeta and I turned and saw Tyrone right where we’d left him—standing over Marquis. His shoulders shook, and for just a moment, he wailed.
“Oh, God!” Syreeta tried to pull away from me, but I didn’t let her go.
“I’m going to get him,” she cried.
I shook my head. “No. He needs time with his son.”
Syreeta hesitated as if she wasn’t sure that she should trust my words. But then she stepped back and held my hand as sobs raked through my husband’s body. Just like Syreeta, I so wanted to go to him. But just like Tyrone knew what I needed, I knew what he needed. Even though he wasn’t really alone, it was just him and Marquis. Father to son. Man to young man.
There were things he had to say, and really, if I had been stronger, I would’ve left the room altogether. Given him complete privacy. But I couldn’t leave. I had to be here for Tyrone . . . just in case.
Time passed, though I didn’t count the seconds or the minutes. I just watched my husband until he finally stood erect. His back was still to us, but I could see that he was wiping his tears away before he turned and faced me.
Now I could move toward him, and he moved toward me. We met in the middle and he grabbed me so hard and squeezed me so tight . . . it was just what I needed.
He sighed and leaned back.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No.” But he took my hand anyway, and we turned toward the door.
I held out my other hand to Syreeta, and the three of us left the room, though I was the only one who paused and looked back. And said a silent good-bye to my son.
Chapter 11
It was the peace that God had given me that allowed me to have enough strength to sit. To sit and listen to the morticians talk about the next steps.
But sitting was all Mr. and Mrs. Marshall were going to get from me. Because once we left Marquis and returned to the conference room, all I could do was sit. And nod as Mr. Marshall asked all kinds of questions about caskets, and programs, and flowers—all of which came at a high price.
It was surprising the way Mr. Marshall spoke about death. As if it were an everyday occurrence. I guess for him, it was.
After what sounded like a soliloquy, Mr. Marshall pushed back from the table. “Well, now that we have all of that down, let’s take a look at caskets.”
He moved, his wife moved, Tyrone moved, Syreeta moved . . . and I stayed. When they looked back at me, I shook my head. “You do that, Tyrone.”
He nodded, then kissed my forehead. “Stay with her,” he directed Syreeta.
As they left the room, she sat next to me and held my hand. She said nothing, at first. Then, “You sure you don’t want to go back there?”
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
She waited a moment. “Okay. But you know, Tyrone doesn’t have the best taste. I’m just sayin’. I don’t want to see my godson in some green casket that looks like we’re burying Shrek.”
At first, my eyes widened, but then when I took in the seriousness of her expression, all I could do was giggle. And she giggled, too. The two of us were a giggling glob of a mess when the Marshalls and Tyrone walked back into the room.
Their confusion was in their frowns and Syreeta and I did our best to straighten up.
Tyrone’s eyebrows were still bunched together when he sat down and said, “I picked out a nice one, baby.”
That was it! The two of us busted into a laugh that shook the funeral home’s walls.
The Marshalls and Tyrone stared at us as we buckled over with laughter. And every time I tried to stop, all I could think about was Shrek.
But finally we were able to sit up straight and our laughter turned to snickers, then just a few giggles. The Marshalls and Tyrone sat like they were the only adults in the room, and when Syreeta and I finally got it together, Mr. Marshall continued, as serious as he was before. “The last thing we have to cover is where will the services be held? At your home church?”
That sucked every remnant of laughter out of the room.
Tyrone said, “We don’t have a home church,” in a tone that made me wonder why I hadn’t addressed this with the Marshalls alone.
Because every time our home church was mentioned, every time Tyrone was reminded of my infidelity, no matter where we were, no matter how good our marriage was now, it felt like we went straight back to that time when my marriage was closer to being over than surviving.
“Well, you are more than welcome to have the services here. Would you like to see our chapel?” he asked as if he were about to take us on a tour of Disneyland.
“I’ll let you know what I decide.” Tyrone spoke without conferring with me. On every other inquiry, we were a team. But on this one, Tyrone was the head of the household. His words were enough; my opinion didn’t count.
Because of my unforgivable sin.
“We’ll have to know as soon as possible,” Mrs. Marshall said. “We have to put the location on the program, and if you want to have it here, we have to be prepared,” she explained, as if she were readying herself to host a party.
“I’ll let you know. Tonight,” my husband said. “We’ll either have it here or at my mother’s church.”
Tyrone pushed back from the
table, the signal that this meeting was over. When he reached for my hand, I breathed again. And when he held me close, I thanked God.
There were handshakes and good-byes and more condolences before Tyrone, Syreeta, and I stepped out of the room.
The halls of the funeral home were as silent as . . . a graveyard.
But then we stepped outside. And were accosted by shouting voices and blinding flashes. By the time my eyes adjusted, I saw four, maybe five people in front of us. With cameras. And microphones. Only one I recognized—Clarissa Austin.
“Mrs. Johnson!” she said. “I’m very sorry for your loss, but did you ever expect to find yourself in the center of one of these cases?”
I’d always told Marquis that there were no dumb questions, but I wanted to turn back into the funeral home and go tell my son that I was wrong. Because this was one of the dumbest questions ever asked.
And I wanted to tell Clarissa that, too.
But Tyrone put his arm around me. “No comment,” he said as he led me with quickened steps around the side of the building.
“Are you working with the Brown Guardians to force the police to release the name of the man who shot your son?”
Tyrone shoved me into our car while Syreeta jumped into the back. Before I could catch my breath, Tyrone was in the driver’s seat, gunning the engine before he sped out of the parking lot.
As we drove away, I watched Clarissa along with the other reporters become smaller and smaller in the side-view mirror.
“What was that?” I asked, once I couldn’t see them anymore.
“Hold on.” We were about two blocks away from the funeral home when Tyrone pulled over to the curb. The car was still running, but he grabbed his cell, scrolled through his messages, then slapped his hand against the steering wheel. “Yes!”
“What?” Syreeta and I asked at the same time.
“Clarissa Austin, one of the reporters back there, worked with the Guardians and now the police are going to release the name of the man who murdered Marquis. They still haven’t said when, but we’re close, babe, we’re close. And once we know who it is . . .”
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