Ritchie had also left a message on the answering machine that morning in his new broken cadence: “Be strong, man . . . this is going to . . . blow over soon. I’ve still . . . got your back.” Jamie had watched Mike bend his head close to the machine. She wondered if he ever wanted to switch places with his best friend, to erase that quick, spontaneous nudge that had sent Ritchie walking through the doors of police headquarters, into the path of the shooter. She didn’t know how to ask him, though. The words that had always flowed steadily between them had dried up like a shallow riverbed in the summer heat. All she could think about was the possibility of the looming indictment, and she knew it was the same for Mike.
Three months ago, the guys had been competing in one-armed push-up contests—Ritchie was the record holder with eight, but Mike had been gaining on him fast—and cruising the streets and giving talks at schools. Their lives had stretched out in two smooth, parallel lines. Now both men were deeply scarred in different ways. But at least Ritchie had a chance of getting better. Hope hadn’t deserted him, the way it had Mike.
“Do you want to call Ritchie back?” Jamie had asked when Mike continued to stare at the machine after the message ended.
Mike had shaken his head. “I’ll go visit him tomorrow,” he’d said. “Drop off a freaking tofu dog.” He’d tried for a light tone but couldn’t pull it off.
“Good,” Jamie had said. She’d reached for him at the same moment he’d turned to walk away. He never even saw her outstretched arms. After he left, she’d stood still for a long moment, feeling so hollow she ached to collapse to the floor.
The previous night she and Mike had been in bed, lying on top of the covers in their underwear because it was so hot, and Mike had suddenly rolled onto his side, kissing her deeply. She’d kissed him back, glad for the connection, and then he’d climbed on top of her and yanked down her underpants and abruptly plunged into her, before she was ready. She’d gasped, but had put her arms around his back, feeling his body grow slick with sweat, grateful for the contact.
But it didn’t feel like lovemaking. It felt like he needed to release something and she was a handy receptacle.
The sad memory fell away as Jamie looked at the clock. The news conference was scheduled to begin in less than half an hour. It would be held at a park near Jose’s mother’s apartment, where Jose had learned to ride a bike, a reporter had said. Jamie tried to focus on the image of Jose attacking another boy, punching him repeatedly, but the image of him as a little kid, a smile wreathing his face as he learned to pedal, kept intruding.
Jamie could hear the treadmill squeaking in the basement, and the sound of ESPN, and she hoped Mike would keep running and watching baseball instead of tuning in to the press conference. It wouldn’t be good for Mike to see the boy’s mother on television, to bear witness to her anger and pain.
Jamie went into the kitchen and saw the plate with Mike’s sandwich still on the table. He hadn’t eaten a single bite.
“I’m bored,” Emily called from the living room, drawing the word out to three syllables. “And Eloise spilled her apple juice.”
Jamie rushed to clean it up, grateful to have something to do, some small task with a clearly defined outcome. Jamie was just wiping up the last drops when the phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID to make sure it wasn’t a reporter, sighed, and answered it.
“Honey?” It was Mike’s mother. His parents still lived in New Jersey, in the house where Mike had grown up. Jamie liked them well enough, even though their conversations always circled the same familiar ground. Mike’s mother talked about weight—who among her friends had gained or lost a few pounds, who was trying Paleo and who was cheating on the Zone—and Mike’s father was obsessed with the weather. He’d spend ten minutes telling you about a storm front gathering over Ohio, then hand the phone to his wife as if you’d had an emotional conversation that had left him drained and unable to carry on.
“Hi, Gloria,” Jamie said.
Gloria’s voice was always high and anxious, but even more so now. Jamie pictured her pacing around her small living room. Gloria always tried to burn calories while she talked on the phone.
In the week since the shooting, Mike had been checking in frequently with his parents. He’d wanted them to hear about it from him rather than on television, since the story had made the national news, but Jamie worried about how the conversations were affecting him. When he was a kid, his mother had tried to make Mike wear a knitted cap whenever the temperature dropped below sixty. A cold portended pneumonia in her mind, and a stomachache always meant appendicitis. Mike downplayed his job to her, saying he spent a lot of time at his desk doing paperwork and that he always wore a bulletproof vest. Sometimes Gloria’s fretting annoyed Jamie. Other times, it made her mourn her own mother, and what might have been.
“I was thinking we should come down there and help,” Mike’s mother said.
“Oh, no,” Jamie said without thinking. “I mean,” she quickly qualified, “things are going just fine here, really. I bet this is all going to be cleared up in another couple weeks.”
“Are you sure?” Gloria asked. “I’ve just been so worried.”
“I know,” Jamie said. She kept her voice light and steady. She had to dissuade Gloria. If she were here, fluttering around Mike and insisting he eat and ferreting out the problems in every situation, like a woodpecker boring into a tree to pull out insects, Mike might snap. He seemed so close to it anyway.
“Gloria, I promise you we’re all doing fine,” Jamie said. “How about we plan a trip up there later on this summer? We’d love to go to the shore with you.”
“I’ll make cannoli,” Gloria said immediately.
“That sounds wonderful,” Jamie said, reaching around with her free hand to rub the back of her neck, where knots seemed to have taken up permanent residence. It was exhausting to have to provide comfort and reassurance to someone when you so badly needed it yourself. Her father had called a few times, and had also offered to come stay with them, which she appreciated, but she knew he wouldn’t be much help with the kids—and having more people crowding into the house would add to the stress level.
She eased off the phone a few minutes before the news conference was to begin. She could still hear the sound of the treadmill and Mike’s heavy, rhythmic footsteps. She went upstairs, to their bedroom, shutting the door in case one of the kids tried to come in and she had to change the channel quickly.
The news channel was already broadcasting footage of the scene. Dozens of people crowded onto a patch of concrete encircling the park. The playground equipment behind them was outdated—metal monkey bars and swings and a few slides. One lone, scraggly-looking tree decorated a corner.
In a hushed voice, a reporter holding a microphone was narrating what was about to happen: “In just a few minutes Lucia Torres, mother of the teenager shot to death by D.C. Police Officer Michael Anderson, will hold a press conference here at the park where her son loved to play. Gathered together are family, friends, fellow church members, and neighbors of the Torres family, including Roberto Sanchez, who lives next door.”
The camera panned back to reveal a fiftyish man wearing dark glasses and a red T-shirt. He was holding a handmade sign that said: JUSTICE FOR JOSE.
“Mr. Sanchez, can you tell us a little bit about Jose?” the reporter asked.
“He was a good kid,” Mr. Sanchez said.
“A good kid,” the reporter repeatedly somberly.
Wasn’t there going to be any mention of the fact that Jose was fighting? Jamie wondered if anyone had thought to check how bad the other boy’s injuries were. Could they get a doctor to testify that the kid might’ve been killed in the assault? Would that justify Mike’s using deadly force? She’d have to mention it to the lawyer.
“Ms. Lucia Torres is approaching the podium,” the reporter said, and Jamie leaned forward to get a bet
ter look at the woman. She was tall and slim, and wore a simple black dress and sensible black heels. She walked quickly, with determination, flanked by several other women—maybe sisters, or friends. Ms. Torres’s head was held high and her expression was restrained, but Jamie could tell turmoil raged within her. In a strange flash of recognition, Jamie saw something of herself in the woman.
Ms. Torres stood at the podium, her large brown eyes passing over the crowd. She nodded a few times to people, then leaned forward and began to speak. Her voice was strong and clear.
“When will it stop?” she asked.
She let the silence gather for a long moment. “Too many of our boys have been killed because of the color of their skin. I ask you this: If my son had been white, would the police officer have drawn his gun so quickly?”
A few people in the crowd shouted, “No!”
“My son liked to watch cartoons,” she said. “Jose’s favorite foods were pizza and chicken burritos with molé sauce. He went to the grocery store for me every week, because he didn’t want me to have to carry the bags home. He watched after his younger brother when I had to work. He was a good boy. I love him.”
Her voice broke on the second to last word of her speech, but she kept staring straight into the news camera.
“None of us mothers expect to be here, before news crews, talking about our kids whose only crime was to be brown or black,” she said.
It’s not like that! Jamie wanted to cry. Where was the mention of Mike’s clean record of nearly two decades on the force, his award, the respect he had in the community? Mike had never discharged his weapon in the line of duty before. Mike had once given a boy a ride home late at night after he’d discovered the kid alone in an unsafe area.
“No one can bring my son back,” Ms. Torres said, her voice swelling. It seemed to leap out of the television and fill the room. “So now all I can ask is for justice for Jose.”
She stepped back from the podium and reporters began shouting questions.
A voice soared above the chorus: “Ms. Torres, the longtime partner of Michael Anderson was shot in front of police headquarters just a few months ago, an attack Anderson witnessed. Do you think emotional trauma could have played a part in the shooting of your son?”
Ms. Torres reached for the microphone. “Perhaps,” she said. “But that won’t bring back Jose.”
Another reporter shouted: “Will you be filing a civil lawsuit?”
A woman who’d been standing just behind Ms. Torres leaned forward and gripped the microphone: “We have no announcement at this time about a civil suit.”
At this time. Jamie felt nausea rise in her gut. She thought about their meager assets. The house, the old minivan, a tiny retirement account . . . Could they be held personally liable?
Her stomach heaved. She ran to the bathroom just in time to retch into the toilet.
By the time she made it back into the bedroom, the news conference was over, replaced by a daytime talk show. Fortunately the hosts had moved on to another subject: Fourth of July crafts. Jamie sat there dully, watching a woman demonstrate how to put a candle in a glass vase and layer red, white, and blue sand around it for a festive centerpiece.
At least their children were safe, she thought. She could endure anything, as long as she had Mike and the kids. She thought of Ms. Torres, walking through the park with her head held high, images of her son riding his bike swirling around her like ghosts, and she wiped away tears. No matter what pain she was in, no matter what she would have to endure, it shrank in comparison to Ms. Torres’s.
Jamie had to hug her children, to hold them close and feel their soft little hands, to kiss their chubby cheeks. She opened the bedroom door and almost screamed. Mike was standing there.
“Did you see it?” he asked.
She put a hand over her racing heart and nodded. “It wasn’t . . . that bad,” she lied.
“Oh, come on,” he said.
She reared back her head. “You watched?”
“I turned it on in the basement,” he said. Their basement wasn’t finished, but Mike kept a small television and old sofa down there along with his exercise equipment.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She was sorry for lying, sorry for not urging Mike to see that police psychologist after all. Sorry for not recognizing her husband hadn’t been ready to go back to work.
He shrugged, a small, defeated gesture. “I need to take a shower,” he said.
The doorbell rang, and Jamie felt her pulse quicken. What now? She had the sudden, wild thought that Mike’s parents had driven down from New Jersey. But no—it would be impossible for them to get here so quickly. Maybe it was a reporter, or someone serving a subpoena, or a friend of Ms. Torres’s who’d been at the press conference today . . .
“I get it!” Eloise shouted, and Jamie began to run down the stairs.
“No! Eloise, please let me—”
It was too late. Eloise had pulled open the door, giving Jamie a clear view of their front stoop from her vantage point midway down the stairs.
Jamie sank down onto a step as men began filing into their house. Five of them, in total. All Mike’s good friends from the police force. They weren’t wearing their blue uniforms, which meant they’d all arranged to take the day off, which must’ve been quite a feat. Arun Brahma was with them, holding a huge bag from KFC. Another man carried a few liters of soda.
“Is Mike around?” asked a guy named Shawn. He and Mike had joined the force at the same time. Along with their partners, they sometimes met up for coffee in the morning on slow days. He’d had dinner at their house before.
Jamie nodded, as a tightness filled her chest. She heard Mike coming down the stairs, and she shifted aside to give him room to pass.
“Hey, man,” Mike said. He reached out and slapped Shawn’s palm, then Shawn pulled him in for a hug. Suddenly Mike was surrounded, swallowed up by the men.
It was, Jamie thought as she bent her head to hide her tears, as if Mike’s fellow officers had heard a silent signal. An officer-needs-assistance call that they’d all rushed to answer.
•••
“Ma’am? Excuse me? Are you deaf?”
Lou blinked and looked up at the guy standing on the other side of the counter. He was young, with a goatee and a Bluetooth phone bud in his ear. Those always confused Lou; she never knew if customers were talking to her or to someone on the line, and sometimes, like today, she guessed wrong.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“A skinny double latte, extra foam,” he said.
When did the word please begin to disappear from our vocabulary? Lou wondered. Only about one in every ten people even bothered to thank her for making their coffee. She swallowed a yawn and decided to treat herself to a latte, too. Usually smelling coffee for so many hours put her off it, but today, she desperately needed a jolt. Jamie’s house was so hot she hadn’t caught more than a few hours’ rest. She’d taken to dozing on the living room couch, next to one of the fans she’d bought at Home Depot, but even with the windows open, the air was stifling.
“Hello, miss?” Was the customer actually snapping his fingers at her? Maybe she was moving a little slowly, but come on, she thought.
“Your latte’s coming right up, sir,” the barista working next to Lou said. He took the cup out of her hand and poured in two shots of espresso before adding milk. “Let me get you a free scone to make up for the wait.”
“No carbs,” the man said.
“Our apologies, then,” the barista said. “Enjoy!”
The customer walked out, and Lou turned to her colleague, a middle-aged guy who’d lost his job in finance a few years earlier and, after six months of filling out applications and with one kid on the cusp of college, had found himself on the other side of the counter. “Thanks,” she said. “I’m moving a little slowly tod
ay.”
“No worries,” he said. He winked at Lou. “I gave him decaf and full-fat milk. Do you want to take your break now?”
Lou laughed. “Sure.” Normally she walked around the block to soak in the fresh air, but today she felt too exhausted to do anything more than take her latte to a corner table. Unlike restaurants, where there was a clear ebb and flow of customers based around mealtimes, the coffee shop always seemed busy. It wasn’t until Lou sat down heavily, releasing an involuntary sigh, that she realized the depth of her sleep deprivation. Her vision was actually a little blurry. She rubbed her eyes and wondered if she could put down her head to steal a catnap.
“Excuse me.” The woman standing in front of her was holding an iced tea and smiling. “I just wanted to say I thought that guy was really rude. You handled him well.”
“Oh,” Lou responded. “Thanks.”
The table next to Lou’s was empty, and the woman plopped down. “Is it really only five o’clock?” she asked, unwrapping the cellophane from a package of cookies. “I feel like it should already be tomorrow. Want one?”
Lou hadn’t realized it, but a cookie was exactly what she wanted. Normally she didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but today she craved sugar.
“Thanks,” she said again, reaching for the sweet in the woman’s outstretched hand.
“Long day for you, too?” the woman asked. She smiled brightly at Lou and didn’t wait for an answer. “Hey, are they hiring here?”
“I’m not sure,” Lou said. She took a bite of cookie, tasting lemons and sugar. “I could check with the manager.”
“Oh, don’t get up. I know you probably don’t get many breaks. This place is a madhouse,” the woman said. “I can ask for myself. Do you mind, though . . . is the job okay?”
“Yeah, usually,” Lou said. “The hours are flexible.”
The woman nodded. “Oh, I’m Kaitlin by the way.”
“Lou.”
“Nice to meet you. Here, have another.” She passed a second cookie to Lou. “I’m an artist,” Kaitlin said. Lou blinked at the sudden turn in conversation, but Kaitlin didn’t seem to need any encouragement to keep talking. “But not a real one, I guess. No one pays me for my paintings. I don’t know, my older sister keeps nagging me to get a steady job. That’s why I asked about this place.”
Things You Won't Say Page 15
