Dying for Revenge (58 page)

Two weeks moved by on the back of a snail.

When Catherine’s taxi pulled up in the driveway at the house in Powder Springs I was downstairs in the basement. In jeans, T-shirt, and steel-toe work shoes. Sling off my arm. Groin no longer on fire. Dust mask on. Tools all over. Knives, cornering tools, electric drywall saw, scissors, sanding sponge, stainless-steel mud bucket, keyhole saw, utility knife, solid large sheets of drywall, a few sheets damaged.

There were also cinder blocks, the kind used in the islands to hurricane-proof a home.

When we were done, this basement would be more than just a basement.

Alvin White had just left to run to Home Depot, then he had to go by his apartment in Lithia Springs, see his wife and kids for a while before he came back to work a few more hours. He’d been there every day for the last twelve days, almost twelve hours each day. Showed up at seven in the morning with a cup of something from Starbucks in his hand. I had told him he could keep the rest of that money I had given him. Between fifty and sixty thousand dollars. Told him the money was his. Hard times were all over and maybe that money that had been paid to put me in the ground could do him some good. Do his family some good. Or his girlfriends. I joked and told him that I hoped the one who could cook would start a chicken soup business over in Buckhead. In exchange for that wad of cash he was helping me finish the basement. I was taking up a new hobby with Alvin White as my teacher. Most of the walls were up. Soon we’d install a toilet, paint, put up fixtures, then put down carpet and tile. He’d just left to make that run to Home Depot when Catherine and the kid came inside the house.

Steven came downstairs, happy to see me. I’d never imagined he’d be happy to see me. He had on his yellow and green footballer jersey, the number 10 and the name RONALDINHO across the back.

He came down and gave me some dap. I wanted to hug him, but I didn’t.

Behind him was a dark-skinned boy who had on new jeans and dark trainers, a new blue and white footballer jersey, the colors of Chelsea, the number 8 and the name LAMBARD across the shoulders. A worn soccer ball was under his right arm. The same soccer ball he used to kick on Berwick Street.

Nusaybah’s son. The boy whose mother was from Vanrhynsdorp was there. The son of a woman who had come from a peaceful town in the folds of the Matsikamma and Gifberg mountains was there. He was alive. They had found him.

He paused when he saw me. He knew me. He would always remember me.

I wanted to tell him that the man who had murdered his mother was dead. Wanted to tell the boy that I had killed the man with my own hands. Wanted to fall on my knees and tell the kid that his mother had died because of my obsession and fears, that she had died a senseless death.

I swallowed, nervous, and with a kind smile I asked, “How are you?”

“I am fine.”

“I am sorry . . . what happened to Nusaybah . . . I am sorry.”

He nodded at me, held on to his worn European football.

He said, “It was a man with red hair.”

“You saw him.”

He nodded.

I swallowed.

He asked me, “Will I stay here in America?”

“Do you want to stay here in America?”

“My new mum said that I can stay here in America if you say I can stay here in America.”

I nodded.

Catherine had brought home the child of another murdered prostitute. The child of a murdered friend. They were called whores, prostitutes, sluts, but they all had been somebody’s child. Like the boy. His mother was dead because of me. Catherine had rescued him from the system.

Maybe the problem was that she had changed and I hadn’t.

I looked at Nusaybah’s son, said, “I forgot your name.”

The boy smiled. “I want to be called Robert now.”

I nodded. His accent was more British than African, like his mother’s had been.

Then I looked at Steven.

I asked the kid, “Where is your mother?”

Steven pointed up, meaning Catherine was upstairs.

I said, “Show Robert the backyard. Kick the ball around a bit.”

“May I show him the bedrooms when we are done?”

“Sure.”

Steven smiled. “Robert, Mum said you can pick out your own bedroom.”

The boys took to the stairs in a hurry.

Upstairs I heard Catherine’s voice, that Parisian accent that would never get tamed.

She yelled, “No running in the house.”

“Okay, Mum.”

“Okay, Mum. Sorry.”

I walked up behind them. It was time to sit down with Catherine.

 

Catherine had on worn jeans and low-heeled shoes. She wore a red T-shirt that had UNITED KINGDOM across its front in blue and white lettering. She was in front of the dining room table, her hands on the back of a chair, her grip tight, stress rearing its head as she stared down at the FedEx, the label from DNA Solutions in her eyes. Tears formed in her eyes as she stared at the answers to X. Y. Z.

She asked, “Did you open it?”

“No.”

She turned and saw me. Her eyes widened a little.

She came to me and put the palms of her hands on my wounded face.

I looked in her soft brown eyes. Her fingernails were a little long, in need of a manicure, eyebrows needed to be arched again; her motherly and chic bob needed trimming but still looked nice.

She had had a busy and hard month, an emotional and rough time in Europe.

She asked, “Are you okay?”

“I should ask you the same.”

“You changed the front doors. You changed the back doors too.”

I nodded. “Better locking system.”

“They’re heavier.”

I nodded. “They’re solid.”

She pulled out a chair, sat down. The television was on. A small one on the counter. Looked like something about a movie premiere in New York,
Sex and the City
. I turned that off, took a seat.

I told Catherine, “What you did was brave.”

“I am not brave. I have never been brave.”

“Going back there and finding her son. That was brave.”

“I only did what was right.”

“You did for them what you did for my mother.”

“I only did what was right. I just want to do what is right.”

I nodded.

She motioned at the FedEx.

She said, “Open it.”

“It can wait.”

“You’ve come this far. My friends have died because of this.”

“Because of me.”

“No, because of me. Because of what I am ashamed of. Because of what I am afraid of. I have to be strong and face this as much as you have to face this. Open it and know what you must know.”

“About the kid.”

“No. About you.” She swallowed. “About Margaret. About the lie I put on Margaret.”

“What about my mother?”

She wiped her eyes. “Margaret was not your mother.”

I swallowed.

She shook her head. “Open it. Open it so I can take that lie off my friend’s memory.”

“Was there a Margaret?”

“Yes. I had a friend who was murdered. My best friend in life. She had a horrible death.”

“She was left dead in a Dumpster in Alabama. In Opelika, Alabama.”

“The story about Margaret is true. But Margaret . . . she was not your mother.”

“What are you telling me?” My voice softened. “Who was my mother?”

Her bottom lip trembled. “Open it.”

Killed in London. Attacked in the Cayman Islands. Ambushed in Huntsville. Then there was Antigua; I would rather have redone all of that one hundred times than suffer through this moment.

Shouts interrupted us. The yells of two boys having a ball playing soccer. Steven jumping up and down in victory, like he was Beckham, made a score over his best friend. They were reunited.

We watched them for a few moments. Our focus on the new kid.

I asked, “Will he be okay?”

“I’ll know in time. He cries at night. He has had a tough life.”

Our eyes went back to the FedEx. To the truth that had separated us for so long.

I said, “The kid. I’ve been jealous of the kid.”

“You’re jealous of Steven?”

“You’re good with him. Cook for him. A real mother with him. You never were like that with me.”

“I did my best with you. Do not be jealous of him. He is but a child.”

“I know.”

“When you were born . . . your mother was young. And afraid. She had had a hard life.”

I nodded. My mind on the FedEx, on Margaret, avoiding the truth I had searched for.

She hesitated. “When I went back to London, when I went to where I used to live, saw how I used to live, I can’t do that again. I can’t go back to being that person. Not with Steven.”

I swallowed my thoughts. “Where did you find Nusaybah’s son?”

“Outside Charing Cross. I cried my heart out. Robert was dirty, a child doing soccer ball tricks, walking London alone, sleeping on the concrete, begging strangers for scraps of food at tube stations.”

“Robert.”

“He wants his name to be Robert. He wants to fit in. We just want to fit in this world.”

“He doesn’t like me.”

“He’s afraid of you. What you did in London, when you attacked me, he remembers that.”

“I have a habit of making people not like me.”

“Play soccer with him. Ask him to teach you how to play. He loves soccer.”

“Maybe after we’ve done what we have to do.”

We sat there with the FedEx between us.

She whispered, “In London . . . when you came to kill . . . I lied to save my own life. If I had not lied, if I had died that day, then my friends would still be alive. This . . . all of this . . . this is my fault. I thought it would last forever, but a lie can only last so long. The truth will always find you. In time the truth arrives.”

Outside I saw two of the happiest kids I had ever seen in my life.

In the end we chose what battles we fought. We chose our wars.

We chose what we clung to. And we chose what we let go.

I picked the FedEx up and walked into the kitchen. I dropped my obsession, stuffed my fears inside the trash can. Did the same with the stacks of papers I had on my deceased problem from Detroit. Let that go as well. I looked back at Catherine. She was on her feet, wiping her palms on her sides.

I said, “Steven and Robert, the way they’re playing, they’ll be hungry soon.”

She spoke in a nervous tone, said, “I’m going to clean up the kitchen. Cook a big dinner.”

“You might have to drive to Publix and food-shop. Not much here.”

“Okay.”

I nodded. “I have a friend coming back.”

“You have a friend.”

“Guy named Alvin. We’re going to finish the basement. He’s a good carpenter.”

“You never had a friend before.”

“I know.”

“Will you stay here with us?”

“Until the basement is done. If that’s okay. After that, I’ll visit. But I won’t stay here.”

“Where will you go?”

“Promised a friend I would take her to Puerto Rico. Have to keep my word. Not sure where I’ll end up after that. Maybe go back to where they measure their weight in stones and their money in pounds. I’m more comfortable there. Haven’t really put that much thought into it. Day by day. For now.”

“So you will leave North America.”

I nodded.

“Europe is very expensive. Much cheaper to live here in America.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Would be nice if you were close.” She paused. “Steven would like that.”

I nodded.

She said, “I would like that too.”

Again I nodded.

“You are always welcome here.” She choked on her tears. “Son, you are always welcome here.”

A moment rested between us.

I asked, “What do you want me to tell people I am to Steven?”

“Tell them . . . tell them he’s your brother.”

I nodded. “I’ll tell them the other kid is my brother too.”

“He would like that.”

Steven and Robert were having a good time chasing each other around the backyard.

I said, “The man who killed your friends, the man who killed Ivanka and Nusaybah, I killed him.”

“You murdered him?”

“I killed him.”

“How did you find him?”

“I killed him. That’s all that matters.”

“You still . . . you are still working. You are still in that horrible business.”

We stared at each other a long while.

“Good.” She nodded. “Some people deserve to die.”

I nodded. Catherine did the same. She saw who I was. I saw corners of who she used to be.

Even the righteous wanted revenge.

I said, “Some people deserve to live.”

She wiped her eyes and nodded.

She went to the trash, moved the printer pages to the side, took out the FedEx box.

She held it in her hand. X. Y. Z.

She said, “I will keep this. For you. For Steven. In case either of you ever want to see what’s inside. He should know. And you should be certain. Whenever one of you wants this, it will be here.”

I nodded.

She wiped her eyes, wiped that vengeance from her face, took a deep breath before she looked around, saw the dishes in the sink, the carpet that needed vacuuming, and said, “This house is a mess.”

“Some. Sorry I’m not as tidy as I used to be.”

“And don’t wear those shoes on the carpet, Jean-Claude. This is nice carpet.”

I headed down to the basement, dug inside my back pocket, and took out a B.C. Powder, took that and went back to working on their house. Their house. One day I’d get my own. One day.

I’d figure out a way to get my own house again. And I’d get a dog. Never had a dog.

No matter how I got there, this was who I was.