Unconditional (5 page)

She nuzzled my shoulder. “Hey, Cricket,” I said. I stroked her forehead and leaned over to kiss the top of her muzzle. “How's my girl?”

I ran my hand up her cheek, down to her shoulder. I stepped closer, laid my head against her, drew in the scent of horse and hay.
Billy.
“Strange day today, huh?” I asked, as though she had been with me from start to finish.

My purse hung heavy in my hand as I walked into the barn, past a few bales of hay and some small farm equipment, and through the area where Billy had done his woodworking. His “thinking hobby,” he called it. I'd not touched a single item since he'd died. The wood shavings, the hand tools, the half-finished birdhouse—it was all there.

Over on the wall, mounted, was the first big fish Billy had reeled in when he was a boy. Too big for eating, his daddy had said. This was the kind you show off. We'd had a playful tug of war over it after we married, Billy teasing me that we should hang it over our bed, while I was determined it would reside absolutely nowhere in our house.

Oh, God . . . if you'd just let him come back for one hour, I'd hang it anywhere he wanted. I swear. Just one hour.

I stepped over to where Billy had kept the record player that had been with him since high school, and an 8-track tape player he kept “just in case they ever come back.” We'd bought a locker at Home Depot, a place for Billy to keep his box of LPs by Hank Sr., Loretta Lynn, and Kitty Wells—a honky-tonk heaven on vinyl if ever there was one. After he died, I hung Billy's work jacket and his army duffel bag over the open door of the locker and set his scuffed white hard hat on the table beside them.

On a whim, I removed the jacket, pressed it to my face, and inhaled. It was losing his scent, though I could still make it out if I tried. A single tear slipped down my cheek, whether because of my losing Billy or the jacket losing his scent, I don't know. Maybe a little of both. I hung it up again and then allowed my fingers to skip over the scratches along the top of the helmet. I walked to the bottom of the stairs, flipped a switch, and waited the millisecond it took before the loft's lights flickered on.

With a sigh, I started the climb, one step at a time, feeling as though my body weight was more than I could carry. Stopping at the top, I allowed myself to take the room in. I hadn't been here in nearly a year. Cobwebs billowed from the corners of the ceiling. Framed covers of my books and awards hung on open studs. Along one wall, my paints and pencils stood in white containers, faithfully waiting for their artist to return. Empty Mason jars for washing out my brushes collected dust in a corner. Nearby was the drawing I'd pretended to be so interested in the day Billy had come home to chickens in the coffee mug cabinet, kept warm by a thick blanket of dust and neglect. The old farm kitchen table that doubled as my work station stood scarred and forgotten. Overhead was the chalkboard where Billy had always left love notes for me.

DANCE LIKE NO ONE'S WATCHING.

WHO LOVES YOU MORE THAN ME?

PLEASE, PLEASE GO TO THE BANK TODAY.

DON'T FORGET MY JEFFERSONS IF U R GOING 2 TOWN.

The last one he'd written had not been erased. Would
never
be erased.

THIS WILL BE YOUR BEST ONE YET. LOVE ALWAYS, B.

Pinned to the large corkboard under the chalkboard was a photograph of Billy and me. Him sitting on a hay bale, me behind him, arms draped over his shoulders. If I closed my eyes, I could still feel the warmth of his skin, the soft cotton of his shirt.

I drew in a shaky breath and let it go as I moved closer to the corkboard. Sketches I'd been working on were now covered by the ones I'd drawn the year after Billy died.

A dark man in a red hoodie. Back turned, faceless head twisted. Looking back. Taunting me. Daring me to know who he was. Why he had killed Billy.

A dark alley, lined with Dumpsters against block walls. Billy's blood pooled in the center. Yellow tape cordoning off the spot where a lifeless body lay.

The front of Murphy's Liquor Store, where Billy had made his last work call.

The place where I had hoped, just hours ago, to die too.

Chapter Five

Bright sunshine spilled
through the gauzy lace curtains that draped over floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows. Morning songbirds had been chirping for hours, but for the most part I'd ignored them, pulling the thick quilts up high and burrowing beneath them. The night before I'd placed my cell phone on top of a book my mother insisted would help me in my time of grief. Mostly the book was gathering dust on the small bedside table.

When the phone rang, I pushed back the covers, raked strands of hair from across my eyes, and reached into the chill of the room for the phone. I nearly knocked over the horse-shaped lamp, grabbed at it to keep it steady, and looked at the caller ID.

Unknown Caller.

I'd left my number with the hospital. Thinking it could be a nurse updating me about Keisha, I answered. “Hello?”

Sirens blared in the background. City life met my ears before I heard an angry boy say, “You broke your promise.”

This was definitely not Keisha's nurse. “What?”

“And you owe me a quarter for this call I'm making.”

I rolled onto my back, now recognizing the caller. “Macon. No. No, I'm still coming up there.”

“Too late. They done sent us home.”

I pushed the covers off me, swung my legs over the bed, and dropped my feet onto the wide pine floorboards where my dusty footprints made a path from the door to the bed, from the bed to the closet. “You're home?”

“Yeah. And you just made a
big. Fat. Liar
outta me.”

“Uh . . .” I darted across the room to my dresser, jerked open the top drawer, and pulled out a ribbed long-sleeved tee.

“'Cause I told Keisha you was comin' to see her.”

His voice was raised. Angry. I looked at the '70s throwback wall clock. It was nearly eleven. He had every right to be mad.

“Looked her in the eye!” he continued.

I thought I heard him giggle, but it could have been a sob. “Macon, I am so, so sorry . . .” I grabbed the pair of jeans I'd hooked over the end of the wrought iron bed—mine and Billy's with its heart-shaped railings across the footboard and headboard—stepped into them and said, “Actually I was just on my way to the hospital. I wanted to stop by and pick up something special for Keisha.”

“Something special?”

I put the phone on speaker, tossed it on the bed, and kept talking. “Absolutely.”

An old brass coat rack—one Billy and I found at a flea market and bought for under five dollars—stood next to the window. One of my cotton shirts hung next to the one Billy had worn the day before he'd been killed. I reached for it. “What would she like?”

“Well, whatcha got? Maybe some candy?”

I dug my arms into the sleeves, and adjusted the shirt on my shoulders. “Sure. What kind does she like?”

“Bring her some Reese's. And some M&Ms. I
love
—I mean, she
love
them things.”

“I can do that.” I stood in front of the gilded mirror that had come out of Billy's grandmother's house and started brushing my hair before catching it into a low ponytail and tying it off with a scrunchie.

“And
pizza!
” he said, almost too excitedly. “Bring some pizza.” He paused. “With ham and mushrooms.”

“I just need your address,” I said, digging in my purse for something to write with.

He gave it to me. “It's in the Commons. The projects,” he said. “You know where
that
is?”

I didn't know
exactly
, but I figured it had to be close to Murphy's and that my GPS would take me there. “It'll take me about forty-five minutes to get there, okay?” I said, totally guessing.

“Just don't forget to come.”

“I won't. I promise.”

Other than last
night and the night Billy died, I'd never been on that side of town. And never in the daytime. East Nashville. Poverty rose around me like the stink from the over-flowing Dumpsters. White-framed houses looking as though they would collapse under their own weight ran along both sides of the streets. Busted windows were replaced by cardboard or sheets of particleboard. Fat, paint-sprayed graffiti tainted some of the homes, bringing the only hint of color to an otherwise gray existence. Chain-linked fences—some without the chain-link—separated the sand-spewed sidewalks from the dirt-filled yards where, if any grass dared to grow, it was soon choked out.

I drove past a recreational area that was nothing more than a concrete slab enclosed by a two-foot-tall brick fence. About six boys played basketball around a hoop with no net, while at least twice that many scantily dressed girls sat on the bricks, legs crossed, watching their every move. My window was down, and I could hear hip-hop music playing from somewhere, nearly drowning the calls of the girls.

“All right, now!”

“Get it in there, Tyree! Shut it down!”

I rolled my car to a stop at the sign, looked beyond the girls and the players long enough to see a group of three boys standing in front of an abandoned house where the front porch had caved in. They seemed to sense me staring at them, and they turned and glared my way.

My breath caught in my throat. Not at the obvious loitering around a crack house, but that all three wore red hoodies.

The car behind me honked, startling me.

My GPS had told me to turn left and I did, taking me right past the boys. They continued glaring at me, their expressions making it clear that I didn't belong there. Nervous, I looked straight ahead and noticed a crooked, green street sign:
WHITE STREET
.

“Turn right,” the navigator told me.

I swallowed hard as I continued my way up the street, looking for 1820. I found it on the left but kept going; the smell of pizza from the passenger's seat told me I had something else to do first.

Besides, there wasn't any way this house on White Street could be Joe's.

It just couldn't be.

The address Macon
had given me was a grouping of neglected two-story, Colonial-style brick buildings that appeared to hold six apartments each. The structures ran around the perimeter of the block, their backs creating a common area in the center where clothes billowed on wires stretched this way and that. The scents of detergent and fabric softener blended with the pungency of both stale and fresh cigarette smoke and Dumpster trash. Somewhere, someone was smoking a joint—the odor of it wafted through the air where children played on primary-colored playground equipment. Near them, young black mothers stared at the red-haired white woman carrying a pizza box and a bag full of candy.

Along the stoops outside the barred doors and windows, older women sat in cast-off kitchen and living room chairs. One such woman—thin and frail with brows arched over suspicious eyes—looked emptily in my direction. She pulled a cigarette out of a pack sitting next to a bottle of liquor wrapped in a brown paper bag. Wind chimes above her head tinkled in the breeze. The woman looked up as she struck a match that instantly went out. As I neared her, I heard her lament over what was obviously her last one.

“Well, how 'bout that,” she said when I got near enough to hear. “She
did
come.”

The storm door of the apartment burst open with Macon running through it. Keisha hobbled behind him. I smiled at her, and she weakly returned the gesture. She looked much better than she had the night before. Her hair had been brushed into two large pigtails that danced whimsically on both sides of her face. She wore a pair of jean shorts, a pink tee, and a lightweight jacket. Macon sported jeans and a bright-green polo shirt. They were both clearly happy to see me.

“'Bout time you showed up!” Macon said, grabbing the pizza and candy from my hands.

“Well, it's nice to see you too,” I said, somewhat taken aback by his brazenness.

“Boy, you better mind your manners!” the woman warned.

“We were 'bout to fall over, man,” he said, dropping the box and the sack to the cement stoop before sitting beside it, tearing into the candy first.

Keisha remained in front of me. I saw a small pad of paper in one hand, a black colored pencil in the other.

“Hi, Keisha. Remember me?” I asked, squatting down to better see her. My eyes swept over the bandage along her forehead. I wanted to touch it but didn't dare.

She nodded, eyes never leaving mine until she started writing something on the pad. When she turned it toward me, I read:
YOU HELPED US
.

I couldn't help but wonder why she wrote rather than spoke, but I nodded without questioning it. “Yes, I did.” I smiled. “It's nice to meet you, Keisha. I'm Sam.”

Keisha gave me a sweet smile, stronger than the one before.

“Keisha,” the woman called. “You better get on over here if you want any-a this.”

Keisha turned to see that her brother had already fairly well devoured much of the candy I'd brought. He'd also opened the pizza box and had removed a slice.

“Boy,” the woman continued. “You act like you ain't never seen pizza nor candy before.”

Macon's mouth was so full, he could only roll his eyes. Keisha shook her tiny head and moseyed over to join him. I stood, daring to look at the woman who did nothing to hide her attempt at sizing me up.

She laid the butt of the unlit cigarette between her lips. “Name's Mattie,” she said around it. “It's a good thing whatcha done fo' my babies.”

“Anybody would have done it.”

She guffawed, pulling the cigarette from between her lips. “No. Dey wouldn't.”

Mattie turned to look down the sidewalk where I continued to stand. I followed her gaze. A thickly-muscled man was stepping onto the stoop of an apartment in the building next door, heading inside. “Hey, T! You got a light?”