Unconditional (7 page)

The snow cones were taken from the box tops and had been inhaled before we ever left the sidewalk. I placed the nearly empty containers on one of the tables, then stood on the sidelines, watching Denise move freely among these angels, talking with them about their week and gathering the green slips of paper and holding them tenderly between her slender fingers.

At some point, Joe dashed toward the back door as though he'd forgotten something inside. As he got close to the steps, he stumbled, but not as though his foot had tripped on a stone or a crack in the cement. This was more like his body had given out, but only for a second. Looking from him to Denise, I saw that the moment had not gone unnoticed by her either. I couldn't help but wonder again about the medical apparatus I'd seen in his room. Something was wrong. I could sense it.

But a minute later he returned, looking vibrant and carrying the saxophone. “Y'all ready?” he called out.

Cheers erupted from the children. They formed a semicircle on either side of Joe and Denise. I remained safely tucked away near a tree so scrawny it would snap in two if I leaned against it for the support I felt I needed. So I held tightly to the strap of my purse instead.

Joe and Denise began a stomp-clap rhythm. The kids joined in and a chant started. “His name is Snuffy, yeah, and he's a clown, yeah, when he gets jiggy, yeah, he break it down! Go, Snuffy! Go, Snuffy . . .”

One of the children, who appeared to be about ten, maybe even as old as twelve, stepped to the center of the half circle. He performed a serious “robot” while the others encouraged him with their clapping and cheering.

I watched, motionless, part of me desperately wanting to be a part of the revelry. Another part refusing. But inside,
something
began to rip. To tear away. Something that had long ago gone numb. Something bitter and confused. I wasn't ready to let it go completely, but the new sensation felt good all the same.

Snuffy returned to the line as the song continued. “His name is Papa, yeah, and he's a clown . . .”

Joe looked at me, eyebrows shooting up in delight. He grinned like a boy in a candy store as the children continued. “Go, Papa! Go, Papa!”

Joe eased into the center of the group, placed his lips around the mouthpiece of the saxophone, and blew a lazy jazz tune. He was immersed wholly in the moment, and I couldn't help but laugh. When he stopped, he faltered again. Around his abdomen, sweat marked his tee in small patches.

Denise leaned over and spoke to him as the children now called on the name of Bernie, keeping rhythm, not missing a beat. Denise's face showed concern. While I could not hear what she said, I could tell it was serious.

Joe shook his head no. Then he nodded and flinched. A nagging feeling washed over me. Something was horribly wrong here. The joy surrounding the children, emanating from their song and laughter, was tainted by something floating just out of reach but coming closer. Something they didn't seem to be aware of.

“Her name is Sam, yeah, and she's a clown . . .”

Attention had suddenly turned to me. I jerked to the reality I may now have to do more than stand on the outside looking in. In their way, the kids were welcoming me into their group, making me one of their own. Trusting me with these moments of their lives. And this scrawny tree couldn't hide me.

Joe threw his hand over his mouth, clearly pleased with this turn of events.

“Go, Sam! Go, Sam! Go, Sam!”

With the exception of the whirring inside my ears, everything grew quiet around me. I couldn't breathe, couldn't find enough air to sustain my lungs' need to expand.

What did these children want from me?

What would I be
required
to give?

“Uh . . .” I said.

The backyard was now completely still. Awkward. The children appeared confused. Joe looked concerned.

Denise was the first to move. “Uh . . . uh-uh! Uh . . . uh-uh!” She swayed from side to side, creating a new song and the dance that went with it.

She smiled as the children joined her. “Uh . . . uh-uh! Uh . . . uh-uh!” they shouted until everyone doubled over with laughter.

Joe extended his arms outward, smiling sympathetically. “And the white girl goes down in flames,” he teased, clapping.

The kids applauded, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I nodded my thanks toward Denise, who winked in return. I looked to Joe for a sign of what I was supposed to do next, but he didn't seem to read my thoughts.

“All right,” Denise said. “Homework!”

“Awww . . .”

“Let's go. C'mon! Get your book bags.”

The children found their places without further argument. Denise and Joe had obviously been working with them for some time. Books, paper, and pencils were pulled from the book bags and deposited unceremoniously onto the tables. Denise began to walk around them, quietly orchestrating “homework time.”

I found a place at an unoccupied table and sat to observe. Joe joined me there.

“So, what have you been up to, girl?”

“Nothing really.”

“C'mon now. You can't say that. I saw it on your business card. You're a children's book author?”

I shook my head. “No. I mean, yes. I was. But I . . . I stopped writing three years ago.”

Joe's brow furrowed, the pain in his eyes reflecting what I felt in my heart. I'd lost so much more than just a husband when Billy died. I'd lost my purpose. The very thing I'd always wanted to do—and had done—but only for a short period of time.

Joe opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, one of the children eased up beside him and tugged on his shirt sleeve.

“What's up, Bernard?” Joe asked, the tone of his voice calm and coaxing.

“I'm thirsty, Papa Joe.” The child—a rascal with a round face and dark eyes—smiled up at Joe.

Joe nodded, conceding. Our grown-up conversation was over. “I gotcha, big man.”

Joe stood, scooping Bernard under one arm like a sack of potatoes. He ambled toward the back door, weaving once in his steps. I watched as his free hand hovered over his left side, fleetingly, as though he wanted to press into it but caught himself. He turned toward me again. “Don't go nowhere, now. We got a lot to catch up on.”

I nodded but said nothing.

Joe opened the back screen door and set Bernard down. As the boy scurried in, Joe grasped the door's facing with a hand and squeezed.

“Yes, we do,” I said, though I knew he couldn't hear me.

Chapter Seven

After the door
closed behind Joe and Bernard, I shifted on the bench to better watch the activity at the tables. Denise stood over one of the children, pointing to a workbook splayed before him and speaking gently. I couldn't make out the words, but her manner was encouraging, not only to this child but to all the kids.

Beyond them, on the last table, one lonely snow cone rested in its cardboard container. I thought of Keisha and of how Macon had taken most of the candy I'd meant for her. She'd looked so disappointed, though I had a hunch this was not unusual behavior from her older brother. In fact, I suspected that, to his way of thinking, the candy had been meant for him all along.

I walked past Denise and the studious children. Lifting the snow cone I said, “Hey, Denise? Tell Joe I'll be back in a little bit.”

I didn't bother to ask if I could take the snow cone. I knew she and Joe wouldn't mind, especially if they knew where I was headed with it.

“Okay, baby,” she said.

I walked the length of the ivy-laced fence, between the chain-link and the unpainted boards of the privacy fence, to a place big enough for anyone—child or adult—to pass through, to the front of the house and to the street where my car was parked. Mattie's apartment was only a couple of streets over, so within minutes I was back at the apartment building. This time I parked closer to where I now knew Macon and Keisha lived. When I stepped out of the car, snow cone in hand, I paused to observe a group of older age girls skipping rope, chanting and laughing. Watching them reminded me of the song I'd heard Joe and Denise sing with the children, making me wish I'd done or said something more than “uh.”

I wondered why these girls were not a part of Joe's group. Age, perhaps? Had Joe and Denise not started what was obviously their mission here until recently? And if so, what happened to cause Joe to want to be a part of all this?

As I stepped around the corner of a building and came within earshot and eyesight of Macon and Keisha's home, I heard Macon's laughter. It reverberated through the common area and bounced between the lines of freshly washed clothes. Anthony's front storm door slammed open, hitting the wall and rattling the bars. I watched as Macon dashed out of the dark apartment, proudly sporting a man's red hoodie. It hung on his body two sizes too big as he performed an impromptu dance between their two buildings.

“Boy!”

I stepped back behind the corner of the apartment building, inching my head around the edge to see Anthony storming after Macon. He no longer wore his do-rag. His hair was neatly braided into short cornrows. A large tattoo stood prominent on the side of his neck, something I hadn't noticed before. He wore only a muscle tee, his work pants, and boots.

Macon turned to look at the man he obviously admired, though I couldn't imagine why. “Yo, yo!” Macon chanted. “Check out the OG, holdin' it down out here!
Yeah!”

Anthony strode toward Macon, grabbed him by the shoulders. He glanced in my direction, which caused me to duck behind the wall before peering again. Anthony jerked the hoodie from Macon's body. “Don't you
ever
let me catch you wearin' this again, you
hear
me?” He wadded the hoodie with his hands. Even from where I stood, I could see the veins bulging along his neck.

The hurt registering on Macon's face met head-on with the anger and indignation in Anthony's. I couldn't quite read T. Was this anger because Macon had gotten into his personal possessions? Or was it like that of a father trying to raise his son not to cross some line, some boundary? Clearly the red hoodie was more than just any piece of clothing. This one, I began to see, tied the young men in this neighborhood together.

“Man, what's
wrong
witchu?” Macon's voice rose an octave higher than usual. “I was just playing!” He was wounded, not by Anthony's force so much, but by his displeasure. Anyone could see that.

“Go home, Macon!”

“Man, I'm sorry, all right?” The words echoed between the buildings.

Anthony turned, and I stepped out of view one more time, but only for a second. When I looked again, Macon stood dejected, arms extended at half mast by his sides, clearly wondering what he'd done wrong.

My breath came quickly as Anthony glanced around, searching for any witnesses to the moment. I did the same, but the few people who were in the common area just didn't seem to notice.

Anthony's eyes ran past where I stood behind the brick wall, undetected. I was grateful that I had not arrived a minute or even a second earlier, that I had stopped long enough to watch the girls skipping rope.

“Boy,
git
inside that house,” Anthony said, pointing to Macon's door before storming into his own.

I took another breath, rested my head against the brick wall, and stared straight ahead to the side of the next building, no different from this one. It was then I realized my hand was wet and sticky. I looked down. The cup holding the snow cone had been crushed. Red slush dripped over my fist and onto the dead grass below.

I didn't return
to Joe's. I decided I'd call him later. I had something important to do, and when I told him about it—
if
I told him about it—I was sure he would understand.

I drove straight home and much too fast. Once there, I ran inside and made a beeline for the upstairs office where I kept the file that held everything to do with Billy's murder. Every newspaper article. Every card from the officers, detectives, and hospital staff. Every note I'd made while talking to one of them on the phone.

I flipped the top of the file open and shifted papers around until I found the business card I needed. Signs of the rain from that night hadn't faded—the card was torn in a couple of places, puckered in others. But the information was still easy to read:

DECTECTIVE BRENT MILLER, HOMICIDE
METRO NASHVILLE POLICE DEPARTMENT
DIRECT LINE: (615) 555-7206

I dialed the number, but it went to voice mail. I hung up without leaving a message. I then pulled a phone book from a drawer and dropped it unceremoniously on top of a scattering of bills and past-due notices I hadn't cared enough lately to deal with. Dust whooshed up from the surrounding desk. I located the address for the police department, all the while wondering why the detective didn't have it on his card. Perhaps he liked a game of cat-and-mouse. If he did, I was in luck. I tried three pens before I found one with enough ink, and I jotted the address on the back of the card.

I grabbed a knee-length hooded sweater from my bedroom closet, then ran down the stairs to the kitchen. There I grabbed the keys to the truck from the key-shaped wooden holder Billy had crafted and hung next to the sink. I replaced them with the keys to my car.

The needle on my car's gas gauge was edging dangerously near “E,” but more importantly, I wanted—no, I
needed
—to be as close to my husband as possible right now. To smell what little bit of his scent was left there. To picture him sitting beside me as I drove down the now darkening country road toward the neon lights and skyscrapers of Nashville.

Locating the block of government offices wasn't difficult, but finding a decent parking place was. I drove up one level of the municipal parking garage after another until, frustrated, I found a space that wasn't marked “Reserved.” Nervous tingles ran up my spine as I walked to the elevator. The heels of my western boots echoed in the cavernous garage, which only added to the ominous feeling I'd had since watching the encounter between Macon and Anthony.