Unconditional (10 page)

Most of their hands slid upward, which took my breath away.

“Yeah,” Joe said. “It's tough sometimes. I know. But there's one thing my grandma told me that day. Sometimes life is cruel. Makes you sad or angry, maybe even want to hurt somebody. But no matter how hard life gets . . .”

Joe swallowed hard, and tears swam in his eyes. He looked first at me, then back to the kids. “No matter how hard life is . . . you're
never
alone.”

Chapter Nine

The mood had
grown too somber—it was too much for me. For the children. Even Denise seemed at a loss for what to do or say next.

Then Joe clapped his hands in a cadence. The children and Denise followed his lead, clapping the same rhythm. When they were done, Joe smiled. “All right. I got some good news, and I got some bad news.”

The children cried out, “Bad news first!”

“The bad news is: Food truck's not comin' tomorrow.” He stood, walked around the gathering of children whose faces showed more than just disappointment. It was as if a lifeline had been snatched out of their hands. “The good news is . . .” By now Joe had reached the back porch where a large green tarp was laid over what appeared to be a small angular mountain. He pulled the tarp away, revealing stacked boxes filled with nonperishable foods.
“It's already here!”

The kids jumped from their places and ran to the porch. Joe handed each child a box, one at a time, speaking to them individually before adding to the whole, “Hurry up! PB&J when you get back!”

Keisha and Macon stood at the back of the line. Denise walked with the first recipients toward the back gate—the hole in the fence I'd walked through last week. I joined Joe and stood close enough to ask, “How are you doing all this, Joe?”

He seemed humbled by the question. “It's amazing what happens if you just ask.” I watched his eyes wander across the yard to where Denise stood watching the backs of the children as they headed home with their treasure. “Actually, my neighbor Denise came up with this whole thing. I'm just . . .” He pressed his lips together. Shook his head. “I'm just doing my part.”

Macon and Keisha had made it to the front of the line. Joe handed them their box. They walked away, only making it to the swing set against the back fence where they stopped, placed the box on the ground, and stood. Joe motioned for me to sit again at the table, and I did.

“Hey,” I said. “I'm . . . I'm sorry I disappeared on you.”

“I'm sure you had your reasons,” he said, sitting beside me.

I looked at Keisha and Macon, wondering what had made them stop. Keisha scribbled a note on her pad and showed it to her brother.

“Why doesn't she talk?” I asked Joe.

He sighed. “She used to, but she . . .” He turned his head so I would be the only one who could hear his words. “She's been through quite a lot.”

“Joe? Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“The other day I heard . . . someone . . . say something, and I don't know what it means.”

“All right. You think I might be able to help you?”

“Yeah.” I looked back at Macon and Keisha. The other children, who'd left minutes before, slowly returned to the yard. Two of the older girls sat at one of the tables and started talking with each other. Three of the younger children ran to the swing set.

I turned back to Joe. “This thing that I heard . . . it was like a song. Or a chant.”

Joe's brows came together. “All right.”

“It went, ‘Check out the OG.' I don't know what that means.”

“Who'd you hear say that?”

“Oh, just some kids over in the Commons.” The truth was, I wanted to know if there was any connection between what Macon had been saying while wearing the red hoodie and what Detective Miller had said about all the bangers wearing them.

“It means the ‘original gangster.'” He shook his head. “Most of the kids around here think that being a part of a gang is somehow cool. They don't get what it really means. That's why Denise and I are working so hard trying to make a difference.”

I looked back at Macon again, wondering again why he and Keisha had been out so late the night of the accident. Why he chose to hang out with someone like Anthony. And why, when Joe called his honor roll, he alone was left without a sweet reward.

My gaze shifted to Keisha. She remained next to her brother, silent. I smiled, and when I did, she waved her hand, coaxing me to come to her.

Joe smiled. “She wants you to come along.”

“To come along?”

“To take their food box home. That's probably what she's been waitin' on. You and me to be done with our talk. Keisha's respectful like that.”

I nodded. “Okay.” I stood and said to Joe, “We'll be back soon.”

I could have driven, but I decided it was too nice a day to spend in the car. Macon was none too happy, but Keisha seemed pleased just to be with me. We walked back toward the Commons, me lugging the box of groceries and Macon talking a lot of “tough stuff.” Keisha remained silent.

“So,” Macon said with swagger, “where is it?”

“What? Where is what?”

He looked at me as though I'd lost my mind. “You still owe me a quarter.”

I gave him the most incredulous look I could muster. “You're serious?”

Macon did nothing more than huff at me. He walked a few paces ahead to show his displeasure.

I sighed. If Macon were half as tough as he thought he was . . .

Keisha tugged on my sweater. I looked down at her. She had pulled a sketch pad from her backpack and flipped it open to one of the pages. Keisha had drawn a beautiful horse in colors of brown, black, and cream.

I stopped walking. “Wow, Keisha. Did you draw that?”

She nodded.

“That is an
amazing
drawing.” I looked at Macon, who'd rejoined us. “We've got us a little artist here, Macon.”

Macon acted unimpressed. “She's always drawing them dumb things.”

“There's nothing dumb about a horse, now, Macon. They're the most amazing animals.” I looked at Keisha. “Your drawing looks just like my horse, Cricket.”

“Stupid waste-a time, if you ask me,” Macon continued.

Keisha's eyes turned sad. She folded the cover of the sketch pad back over the drawing.

Furious, I turned back to Macon. “Well, no one asked you,” I said before placing my hand under Keisha's chin and turning her face upward to look at me. “I think it's beautiful.”

She smiled.

We continued on, past a large green Dumpster, where someone had recently tossed out several stained mattresses. In the warm autumn air, the odor of household garbage met us without apology. Macon and Keisha didn't seem to notice at all.

Just past the Dumpster, we were in sight of Macon and Keisha's apartment. I looked to the right, toward Anthony's. His front door was ajar. The mechanic's rags remained tossed over the wire along with a pair of blue Dickies. I stopped short, staring. Thinking.

“I don't think that's a good idea.”

I was startled back to the children standing in front of me. “What?”

Keisha held up her notepad. Macon read it, shaking his head. He looked at me. “She wants you to come inside. I
don't
think it's a good idea.”

“You want me to come inside?” I asked.

“She wants you to see her room. She's got lots of them drawings in there.”

“You'll have to go ask your grandma if it's okay.”

“She gonna say no,” Macon said. “She don't like
white
people in her house.”

“Wha—?”

Macon smiled. “Naw, I'm just playin'. I'll go see.” He took Keisha by the hand. “Come on, Keisha.”

Keisha walked alongside her brother, turned to look over her shoulder, and smiled at me. I returned the gesture.

Once they'd gone inside I looked around to see if anyone might be watching me. No one was.

I walked over to Anthony's front stoop and peered into the slightly opened door. “Hello?” I called.

No one answered.

I eased the door open with my foot, inched forward until I stood in the semidark foyer of the apartment. If he
was
there, I'd politely tell him he'd left his door open. It would be a plausible excuse. If he didn't . . .

A flight of shoe-scuffed stairs were directly in front of me, leading to a second floor. To the right was a small living room. Dingy. Paint chipping off the walls. The smell of motor oil and smoked cigars hung heavy in the air.

A portable television was near the doorway, sitting on top of two old fruit crates. On top of it was a DVD player and on top of that, a short stack of mail. I wanted to look through it, to learn as much as I could about this man named Anthony. This mechanic who owned a red hoodie and wiped grease from his hands with a red rag. I realized then that I still held the box of food in my arms. I set it down on the bottom stair, picked up the mail, and sorted through the envelopes.

All were addressed to Anthony Jones, 578 Shelby Avenue, Nashville.

I looked over my shoulder to the door and out to the common area. No one lurked nearby. The open door was surely providential. I decided to venture further into the apartment.

I peered down a hallway off from the living room, which led to an open back door. Only a buckling screen kept the flies out.

I moved down the hall, my heart beating like a stallion's. Fear pulled at me to stop, but I couldn't.

The first doorway on the left was a bedroom. It was as dark and foreboding as the living room. The windows were covered by a thin blue sheet stretched across tattered blinds and held up by thumbtacks. A mattress lay on the floor in one corner, disheveled linens and a blanket strewn across it.

A single lamp, left burning, illuminated a scarred dresser. I walked over to it. The floor creaked beneath my feet as I stopped and noted the items on top. A digital clock. A belt, rolled into a neat circle. A cheap plastic ashtray—the kind one finds on a café tabletop—with only the tip of a Black & Mild cigar and a few ashes.

I drew in a deep breath. From outside the window came the sound of children playing. Macon and Keisha would be looking for me soon, if not already. I had to hurry.

I slid open the top drawer of the dresser. Inside were several newspaper clippings. I removed them, flipping through each one.

WOMAN BURNED TO DEATH IN DRUG-RELATED FIRE
, the first headline read. Another read
21-YEAR-OLD KILLED IN GANG SHOOTING
.

One after the other, pictures of young black men stared back at me, each one dead. Killed by gang warfare. Violence. What was it Detective Miller had said to me?
This is the Commons. They throw a party if a boy makes his twenty-first birthday because he's defying the odds.

What was this obsession Anthony Jones had with gang warfare?

My breath became ragged. I returned the clippings. As I did, I spied a wooden cigar box toward the back of the drawer. I slid the drawer farther open, retrieved it from the shadows, and set it carefully on top of the dresser.

I pressed my thumbs under the lid to open it, but just as I did, I heard the front storm door creak as it was being opened. Nerves prickled my body, starting at the top of my head and rushing down my spine. Fear coursed through my veins. I turned quickly, dashed into the hallway, and out the back door.

The squeaking of the screen as it opened, shut, and slammed behind me would surely give away my presence in Anthony's home. Frantic, I ran the length of Macon and Keisha's building, then up the side, past the electric meters, to the drainpipe running down the front edge as quickly as my boots would allow.

I heard Anthony slam out of his front door.
“Macon!”

I leaned forward to look into the common area. Macon and Keisha stood where they had left me, looking perplexed. They'd both turned at hearing Anthony call Macon's name with such force and anger.

“I told you not to come in my house!” He pointed at Macon. “We gonna have to have a talk, boy!”

“What?” Macon asked, his voice squeaking defensively.

I took deep breaths, in through my nose, out my mouth, in an attempt to return my heartbeat to normal.

“You hear me?”

When Anthony's front door slammed shut, I darted toward the children, extending my hand to Keisha. “C'mon. Walk with me.”

Keisha readily took my hand, keeping pace as I hurried back toward Joe's house.

“Wait up,” Macon said, sounding authoritative. “What were you just doing?”

I shook my head, still barely able to breathe. “Just making friends. Now, let's go!”

Macon jumped in front of me, forcing me to stop. “You were in T's house.” It wasn't a question.

“No, I wasn't.”

“Aww, man! And you gave away our food!”

I looked down at my hands, felt my shoulders slump forward. Lord help me, I'd left the box in the foyer. I turned toward Anthony's apartment building, expecting him to be standing there, holding the box, ready to come after all of us. But the door was shut. There was no sign of T.

I looked back at Macon. “I'll get it back.”

“How? How you gonna do that?”

“I mean I'll buy you more food. I'm good for it, Macon, so just let it go, okay?”

Keisha wrote on her notepad:
ARE YOU OK?

I nodded. “I'm fine. I'll be fine.”

We started walking again. I kept my eyes focused on the road ahead, which stretched left to right on the other side of the apartment buildings. If we could just get there, we'd be that much closer to Joe's.
Why hadn't I driven?

“Naw, man,” Macon continued. “I wanna know. What were you just doing?”

Who did this child think he was, asking an adult such questions? “Nothing.”