The Boy in the Black Suit (22 page)

Chapter 17

ONE STEP AT A TIME

H
IS NAME WAS
A
NDRE
W
ATSON,
and I knew him. Well, not really, but I had seen him once. As a matter of fact, the one time I saw him was the day I met Lovey at Cluck Bucket. He was the dude in line trying to get her phone number. The one that she hit with the snapshot joke and embarrassed in front of everybody. He deserved that, but even though I didn't know anything else about him, I'm sure he did
not
deserve to be killed.

My job was to set up the chairs and tables as usual, and of course help carry the superlight casket in. Me and Mr. Ray probably could've carried it by ourselves, but it happened to be the windiest day of the year and Mr. Ray didn't want to take no chances. So the usual pallbearer team came. Benny, Robbie Ray, and even Cork, sober, which was definitely a surprise. I hadn't seen him since everything had happened with my dad. He was on the
opposite side of me, so it was a little bit awkward as we carried the casket in, being forced to look each other in the face. Of course he did everything he could to avoid it, and in some weird way, that's all I needed to let it go. I knew he felt bad. I knew he was sorry, so there was no reason to hate him, especially at somebody else's funeral. If it was my dad's funeral, maybe it would've been a different story.

Inside the funeral home were maybe fifteen people. Mr. Whitaker stood at the podium, Andre's mother sat up front, and just about everyone else stood in the back, along the wall. Most of the people there had to be eighteen or nineteen, even though a lot of them looked much older. A lot of hard lives and young faces. I could bet this wasn't their first funeral, and it wouldn't be their last, and that Andre's was the next face painted on a neighborhood wall, or the next
RIP
tattoo.

Mr. Whitaker tapped the mic to make sure it was on.

“Good morning, everyone,” he said softly. “First let me say to Janine Watson, Andre's mother, that no one here feels the way you feel . . .” I swallowed hard hearing those words again. The same words that the minister said to me at my mother's funeral. The words that started this whole funeral-crashing thing. The preacher continued: “but we will do whatever we can to support you. Second, to all of you out there”—he nodded to the back of the room where we all were standing—“I have a few words, and they come on behalf of Janine, Andre's mother. She wants me to tell you that she knows you all loved Dre, but you have to let him go without trying to get revenge on anyone.”

I looked at Ms. Watson, and as usual, I counted the seconds before the breakdown. I knew there would be an explosion of tears coming, and I stood along the back wall with everyone else, waiting for it, watching her tremble and struggle to keep the pain down. It had been a few days since my last funeral, and even though I was doing okay—I mean, I had a girl, and my dad was making it—I couldn't help but slip back into my normal groove of being weirdly anxious to see the meltdown, to be comforted again by someone else's pain.

But before Ms. Watson crumbled, my phone buzzed. I slipped it out of my pocket and peeked at the screen.

1 NEW MESSAGE

Where are u?

I thumbed quickly.

Funeral home

Mr. Whitaker, meanwhile, noticing that no one seemed to care about what he was saying, decided to try a new approach.

“As a matter of fact, Janine, I think it would mean more if you came up and said it yourself.” He reached out his hand to her.

Ms. Watson walked up to the microphone. She was a young woman. She wore a black top and black pants and had a nose ring. She had dark circles around her eyes, a mix of runny makeup and no sleep. She looked out at everyone for a moment before saying anything. It was almost as if she was purposely meeting eyes with every single person there, the whole crew. She even locked eyes with me for a second, and I didn't even know Andre.

“Good morning.” Her voice was sweet, but shaky. “I just want
y'all to know that I don't blame none of y'all for this, but I need y'all to end it. No more of this mess. He was nineteen years old,” she said, her eyes filling quickly. She repeated, “Nineteen years old!” I felt itchy. Like, anxious. I knew it was coming, and it was going to be a big one. Maybe even the biggest one I had seen yet. Ms. Watson looked down at the casket and clinched the podium tight to try to keep herself from shaking.

My phone buzzed.

1 NEW MESSAGE

It was Lovey again.

Headed to work. I'm close. Come outside

Come outside? But Ms. Watson was so close! I tried to wait a few more minutes before I typed anything back, but Lovey texted again.

I got something for u
;-)

???
I texted, trying to stall.

Matt just come out!
she texted back.

I couldn't believe what I was missing, but I also couldn't not go outside to see what Lovey had for me. What can I say, the girl had me. I tried to slip out the door as quietly as possible, but the stupid breeze pulled the door open hard, slamming it against the wall, making a loud bang.

The entire funeral whipped toward me. I mean the preacher, the mother, and the twelve or thirteen hard-looking dudes in the back. Some of them turned with their hands on their waists, and at that point I threw my hands in the air, went straight into robot face, and slowly backed out of the door before something bad happened.

“Everything okay?” Lovey asked, as I closed the door softly.

She had her hair down and it was flying all over the place. She was wearing her grease-stained Cluck Bucket uniform, but to me she was all cute. Her hands were behind her back, obviously hiding something.

“Yeah, everything is cool,” I replied, still feeling dumb about the door, and anxious about what I was missing inside. “Wassup? What you got for me?”

Lovey pulled her hands from behind her back. “This,” she said, proudly holding a small flower pot. “A Sempervivum.”

She moved closer and placed the plant in the palm of my hands. I looked down at it, a star inside a star inside a star. It's funny, I didn't really notice until right then that I'm as awkward when I receive a gift as I am when I take a picture. Some people are really good at it. They can jump up and down and light their faces up whenever somebody gives them something. But not me. I didn't know what to say or do but look dumb.

“Um. Wow,” I said, staring into the pot. I gotta say, I never thought getting a flower as a gift would be cool. But for some reason, it was. “Thanks,” I said, reaching out with one arm to give her a half hug. Lame! I wanted a do-over so I could do a better job expressing how thankful I was.

We sat down on the steps.

“Are there any kind of instructions I need to take care of this? I mean, I've never had plants or anything.”

Lovey pressed her hand against my chest softly, just for a second, then said, “Just water it sometimes. Think you can handle that?”

I smirked. “Hmmm. I don't know. How about you come over every now and then and water it for me. I mean, you're already such a flower master.”

“Hmmm. I'll see what I can do, if you promise to make me more cookies. Y'know, a trade.” I knew she had a thing about my block, so the fact that she was even entertaining this idea of coming over was good enough for me.

“Ah,” I said, fully aware that I was smiling now. “Just cookies? I think I can work that out.” She had no idea what she was getting herself into. I was gonna cook her into a coma!

She leaned in for a kiss, but before I could meet her in the middle, the funeral home door flew open again, banging against the wall, scaring us both half to death. This time it was Mr. Ray.

“Matthew, what you doing? We gotta get the casket outta here.” Then he noticed Lovey. “Oh,” he said, surprised. “Hey, Love, didn't know you were out here. Um, Matt, you know what, I think we got it. Just take these for me,” he said, holding out a handful of leftover funeral programs mixed in with some cancer pamphlets. I ran up the steps and grabbed the folded papers. “Ya'll make sure to get out the way, we're coming out in a second,” he added.

Lovey got up, and the both of us stood on the side of the steps, waiting for the casket to be marched out. She grabbed one of the programs.

“Andre Watson,” she said to herself, staring at his picture, trying to figure out where she knew him.

“You remember him?” I asked.

Lovey looked and looked but couldn't figure it out.

“Remember that day in Cluck Bucket when I asked for a job and that guy was trying to get at you?”

Lovey's eyes got big.

“Oh my . . .” She put her hand over her mouth. “Jesus.”

The door slammed open again, and Robbie, Benny, Cork, and Mr. Ray came stepping out the double doors of the funeral home, carrying the casket, two on each side. It was a silent march down the steps, into the car. Behind them was Ms. Watson walking arm and arm with Mr. Whitaker. Her face was now covered in black streaks from her makeup, and the preacher was practically holding her up so she wouldn't fall down the steps. I had missed the explosion. I wasn't in the room when she shattered, sending me into some kind of warm trance that normally made me feel better about my life. This time I only got to see the aftermath of it all. The wobbly legs and the melted face.

She stumbled down the first few steps, clinching Mr. Whitaker's arm tight. Then she stopped and whispered something to him. He nodded and she took a deep breath and let go of his arm, and with the wind roaring and blowing hard, she slowly walked the rest of the way by herself. She wiped her eyes, but the tears kept coming as she went step by step, alone, to the car.

I looked at Lovey's face—plain, but still pretty. Her eyes filling with water because of both the wind and the funeral. Then I looked at the gift she got me. The Sempervivum, still small, just barely sprouting (if sprouting is what you call it), with so much life ahead of it. I thought of my mother, and felt the warm feeling again. Like the one I normally feel at the funerals, but it
was different this time. It was for a different reason. I reached for Lovey's hand as we watched the cars start, smoke blowing from the exhaust pipes, kicking brown and orange and yellow leaves up. Robbie Ray was in the front car, and Mr. Ray was driving Ms. Watson in the second, both men hanging their neon
FUNERAL
tags on the rearview mirrors at the same time. Teenagers stood on the steps and watched, some lighting cigarettes, others slipping fingers behind their sunglasses to wipe hidden tears. And Lovey wrapped her fingers around mine, and we both squeezed tight.

Acknowledgments

This is going to sound weird, but the only reason this book could be written at all is because my mother took me to a lot of funerals at a very young age. So . . . uh . . . thanks, Ma. And thank you to my Aunt Bud and Uncle Calvin, whose constant jokes (often­times about really hard things) flooded me with inspiration. This one is definitely for you both. My older sister, Dhimitri Gross, and my college homeboy, Christopher Smith, I appreciate you responding to the random calls and text messages about all the medical stuff. I mean, seriously, I totally get why you have to go to school to be a doctor. Nekeya O'Connor, thanks for the help with patois. Kia Dyson, thanks for pretty much being the muse for the character Love. And last, but surely not least, thank you to my awesome agent, Elena Giovanazzo (E Money), and my insanely talented editor, Caitlyn Dlouhy, for once again believing in me and my crazy tales.

Photograph courtesy of the author

Jason Reynolds is crazy. About stories. After earning a BA in English from The University of Maryland, College Park, he moved to Brooklyn, New York, where you can often find him walking the four blocks from the train to his apartment talking to himself. Well, not really talking to himself, but just repeating character names and plot lines he thought of on the train, over and over again, because he's afraid he'll forget it all before he gets home. He is the author of the critically acclaimed 
When I Was the Greatest
and
The Boy in the Black Suit
. You can find his ramblings at
JasonWritesBooks.com
.