If I Should Die (18 page)

“How long will you be here?”

“Not much longer. As good as it is, there’s nothing like being home, cooking your own food and sleeping in your own bed.”

She waved her hand around the room, taking in the small bed with its flowered coverlet. The window had matching drapes and there was a lamp, radio, small television, and a VCR. All it needed was a shelf or two of books and it could have been a well-appointed dorm room on any campus.

She wanted to go home. I nodded but said nothing. Did she know that her sister planned to take her to Washington to live? Maybe not. One step at a time, her sister had said. The main thing was for Deborah to recover,
then I suppose they’d deal with the other issues later. One step at a time.

“You’re coming home. That’s wonderful, that’s good news.”

I wondered if her sister had already closed up the apartment, packed her belongings, and shipped them to Washington. If she had, might this cause a relapse? Martha had been very closemouthed about her plans whenever I spoke to her, had refused to even stay in Deborah’s apartment, preferring a downtown hotel where she said it was safe. When I asked, she never said that Deborah had improved to this point.

I saw a fight looming between these two. But right now Deborah looked great. And she was talking.

“Take a look at this …” She pulled the collar of her blouse aside. The scar looked like a long deep scratch, visible in the arc of her neck. “Doctors did a good job, didn’t they?”

“They did more than a good job. This is a miracle.”

I gazed at the scar and knew then that what the old folks said was true: “Death could be dancin’ in your face but you make it on over to that hospital, honey. If you go in squawkin’, they guarantee you’ll come out walkin’.”

But I didn’t mention this because when she went in, she wasn’t squawking. She barely had a pulse and her blood pressure was the lowest they’d seen in a patient in a long time. They not only brought her back, but there was little physical evidence of the horror she had gone through.

“Another thing,” Deborah said as she settled back in her chair. “Someone from the police department came here to talk to me. Asked a lot of questions about what happened before that man assaulted me, wanted to know if he said anything. How am I supposed to remember what he said, if he said anything? Even if that memory
returns, I don’t intend to speak to the police or anyone about it. Ever. It’s over and I want to forget it.”

She twisted her fingers and I watched her face change and I cursed Danny Williams again and again. For his ambition and his “don’t give a damn as long as a case gets solved” attitude. But why would he still want to question her? What was he after? Finally, I said, “Don’t worry. I’ll let your sister know what’s happening. She can call the precinct and lodge a complaint. The goal is for you to get well, not to be subjected to any harassment.”

She calmed a bit and smiled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to start yelling …”

“You weren’t yelling.”

“Well, I’m sorry.” She rose from the chair and began to pace the floor. There wasn’t much room to walk and I wondered if she did this often. “I’ll be all right once I get back to work, get busy again.”

“You’ll be fine, Deborah. You’re all right now. You’ve been through a lot, but you’re coming along all right now.”

I guided her back to the chair by the window and held her hands until she calmed down. “You’re coming along fine,” I repeated.

She looked at me closely and I knew what she was asking.

“Deborah, I’ve never lied to you. Never. You are getting better. Soon you’ll be one hundred percent.”

She closed her eyes. Then: “Will you come see me again?”

“I’ll come tomorrow.”

“No. Sundays are the only days.”

I looked around the room. “Do they permit telephones?”

“I suppose they do, but up to now, I haven’t needed one.” She was relaxed now, able to smile at the joke.

“Well, I’ll contact the nurse’s station. Maybe they
can call you to the phone. Meanwhile, I’ll speak to your sister and have her go to the precinct. There’s no reason why Danny Williams should be harassing you.”

She looked at me and shook her head, the silver in her tiny earrings glittering in the fading afternoon light.

“No. His name wasn’t Williams. It was Honeywell. A Detective Tad Honeywell, who said he knew you. Very charming. And, let me tell you, girl, he was something to look at.”

W
hen I came in from class, the message light was blinking on my answering machine, and even before I took my shoes off, I pressed the button hoping to hear Tad’s voice. Instead, the message that came on was so explicit I wondered where the caller got his ideas from. He couldn’t possibly be capable of doing all the things he suggested. Still, I lowered the volume so that the voice lost depth and took on the insubstantial quality of a small, squeaking rodent.

It was a long call and I thought of speeding it up until a phrase caught my ear: “…  then we’ll take care of your father and your nephew …”

I replayed it, pressed the save button, and removed the tape. The calls were coming in more frequently now but the phone company had had no luck tracing them. Probably because whoever it was was calling from a public phone. I hadn’t cared because I assumed they had come from the precinct in reaction to the lawsuit.

This message was a death threat.

When the phone rang again, I picked it up on the first ring.

“What’re you doing this evening? Feel like coming out?”

“Tad?”

“Well, who else would be calling to—never mind, let me start again. How about having dinner? I know a great chef over at a cozy Riverbend apartment overlooking the river …”

“Really?” I whispered, already putting my shoes back on and slipping the tape into my bag. “What’s on the menu?”

“You’ll see when you get here. Take a cab. I’ll have the wine chilled, the candles lit, and dinner on the table by the time you ring the bell.” There was a pause, and his voice softened. “Mali, I’m sorry about the other day.”

“I’m sorry also, Tad. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Even as I said this, I was grabbing my jacket.

I needed to tell him about this latest message, this threat against my family, and find out if it related to the lawsuit or my interest in the choir murders. Either way, it was something to take seriously.

The choir murders. I was throwing a few things into my shoulder bag and paused when I realized I had used Danny Williams’s own phrase. The Choir Murders. Nice neat file name but what the hell was happening with it?

I looked at the file on my desk and on the way out, impulsively swept the large envelope into my bag already stuffed with hairbrush, toothbrush, red silk teddy, and some strawberry-flavored personal stuff—just in case.

Somewhere along the line, I’d get around to asking about Tad’s visit to Deborah and we could go over Erskin’s notebook. But all of that would come later in the evening, probably more toward morning. First things first.

Dad took on a grim look when I mentioned where I was going.

“In my day,” he said, “young men came to the house, or at least to the door, to pick up their date for the evening. They might even have a few words with the family before stepping out. But, of course, that was in my day—horse-and-buggy era—so don’t let me interfere with anything you want to do.”

I wanted to count to ten under my breath before I answered but that would’ve taken too long.

“Dad, please,” I called to him as he made his way toward the kitchen. “It isn’t as if you hadn’t already met him, or didn’t know him.”

I heard the door of the fridge slam shut and the rattle of jars and dishes and wondered how he could still be hungry so soon after dinner.

“Technically,” he called, “you’re right. I did meet him. But I really don’t know him.”

I waited for him to continue but felt my stomach tightening. I was thirty-one years old, not thirteen. Most women my age were already married to or divorcing their second husbands or sprouting a second crop of kids. In nine short years, I’d be looking in the mirror at a forty-year-old face and body and trying to figure out what had happened. Or more to the point, what had
not
happened, and how I had allowed my life to drain away.

Dad returned to the living room and made his way to the sofa with a small tray loaded with spectator food—beer, soda, chips, and a couple of hard-boiled eggs. He turned on the television and settled himself in for the Knicks game. Alvin would soon come down to keep him company.

And once Patrick Ewing hit the court, it wouldn’t matter if I stayed home or not. I could go into cardiac arrest right there in front of the set, and if it happened before halftime, I would be out of luck.

“Dad, can we finish this discussion when I return?”

He snapped the sound off and looked up, noticing my heavy shoulder bag. “What do you have in there? Books, I hope. The semester’s ending and I don’t see you burning the midnight oil.”

“Dad, I just spent the entire afternoon after class in the library. The print was starting to swim before my eyes. I can stand to take a break.”

He hesitated, then said, “Well, call me if you’re gonna be out late.”

I reached over and kissed him on the forehead. “I’ll be careful. Don’t worry.”

It had gotten dark fast. The trees were thick with new leaves and the streetlights only filtered through at intervals as I walked toward Seventh Avenue. Most of the houses had their windows shut and curtains drawn against the evening. Cars were parked bumper-to-bumper on both sides of the street, and despite the warm weather, there were no dog walkers or cars passing through. I was the only one on the block.

Twenty feet away from the confluence of Seventh Avenue’s bright lights and busy arena, someone came up behind me. Fast and quiet.

“Give it up!”

Before I turned, his hand was already at my shoulder, pulling the bag away.

“No! No! Let go of me!”

He snatched at the strap but my fingers were frozen to the body of the bag.

“Fuckin’ bitch! Let it go! Give it up! I’ll kill you!”

“No!”

One strap broke as he jerked the bag, the force pulling me off my feet. I fell down, screaming. Two men crossing the avenue looked back, then came running.

“Yo! What’s goin’ on? You all right, sister?”

“Help me! This man is—”

“Look, brothers, mind your business. This my woman and she got somethin’ belong to me. Okay. So step off.”

I was on my feet now and trying to ease an inch at a time toward the avenue, toward lights, toward more people.

“No—wait a minute. I don’t know this man! He’s trying to rob me. He’s a thief. Call the police!”

I pressed the bag to me, staring at the man who wanted it. A dark, wiry man of about thirty with thin braided hair who was actually grinning at the other two. Grinning in a brotherly way.

“You know how it is … You break up with your old lady and—”

I stared at him, openmouthed, then at the two men, one of whom had begun to hesitate, wondering if he had done the right thing.

“Well, look, brother, I don’t know. I don’t get between no man and his woman …”

I couldn’t believe my ears. This thief. This bum, this son of a bitch, was actually convincing them that it was all right to do what he was doing.

“Walk me to the corner,” I said to them, “and we’ll find a cop and settle this right now. I’m telling you this man is trying to rob me!”

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere, bitch. You comin’ back home with me!”

I saw the two men glance at each other. This thief was convincing.

The taller of the two shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, brother, but you ain’t got to disrespect the sister, you know, callin’ her out her name and knockin’ her down ’n’ stuff. You ain’t got to—” Then he looked closely. “Heyyyyy, I thought I seen you before. You hang
uptown, but I seen you in the joint. Come on, Nightlife. You know this ain’t your woman. Sister got too much style. And I mean, you just got out, man. Just got out. Drop it, okay? ’Less you like it better on the inside liftin’ them weights.”

Nightlife had been holding onto the broken strap but dropped it cold.

“What that prove, motherfucker? You seen me in the joint, so what that prove? You smarter ’cause you out now? Your big-ass mouth wider than the Lincoln Tunnel. Who ast you?” He reached inside his jacket. “I got somethin’ for a runnin’ mouth!”

“Now wait a minute, Night—don’t be gittin’ crazy …”

The men backed away, instinctively raising their hands as they moved out of Nightlife’s orbit. Just then I waved my arms excitedly and yelled, “Police! Over here! Over here!”

The two men glanced around, bobbing and weaving as if they were on a basketball court.

“Is the 911?”

“Uh-oh! Cops! I ain’t in this shit, let’s split!”

They took off, hustling in different directions as Nightlife quickly stepped back, scanning for the cruiser.

In that half second of confusion, I raised my foot and planted a hard kick to his groin. When he fell to his knees, the knife in his hand clattered to the pavement and I kicked it to the curb beneath a parked car. Then I raised the bag. “Is this what you wanted?” I slammed it hard against the bridge of his nose, and again across the top of his skull. He was still doubled over when I ran to the corner and a passing gypsy screeched and stopped on a dime.

As I scrambled into the cab, I yelled, “Get a Jay Oh Bee, a job, you fuckin’ asshole!”

I peered through the rear window as we pulled
away and saw him still on his knees, holding his stomach and gasping for air.

“Slight disagreement?” the cabbie asked in a flat voice that implied he’d seen a whole lot worse in his career.

I rubbed my knees. My stockings were shredded and my jacket was torn at the elbows.

“You might say that,” I whispered. “I’m going to the Riverbend Apartments. 140th Street and Fifth.”

I was trying to brush the dirt from my skirt when the cab turned the corner at Fifth Avenue and 141st Street and pulled up in front of the Riverbend complex. Modern, gray stone, terraced structures of fourteen stories or so running for several blocks facing the river and the Harlem River Drive. Trees and planters lined the avenue and not even a candy wrapper marred the sidewalks.