Dying in the Dark (4 page)

“My worries include grocery bills, too, kid. How about going easy on that cereal and supplementing it with some toast and a couple of bananas.”

“Things are
that
bad?” The smile dropped from his face, which brought one to mine.

“No, I'm just playing with you. Don't worry about it.” I was so used to watching every dime, I'd scolded him without thinking about it. Things weren't bad enough yet to deny the boy a bowl of cereal when he wanted it. But Jamal can definitely pack it away, and I remind myself daily that he's a growing boy. He's taller and heavier than I am and obviously takes after his father's side of the family. Thank God, height and weight are the only things he inherited.

“So what you doing today?”

“I was going to catch a game later on with Jake, if that's okay with you.”

“Sure.” I monitor my expressions whenever Jake Richards's name comes into our conversation, so I kept my eyes glued to the paper. Jake and I are friends, more than anything else, and I've made sure that Jamal understands the limits of our relationship. With the intuition about your love life that only your child possesses, he probably sensed the unspoken, but he knew enough to keep it to himself.

“He's got tickets for the Nets tonight at Continental Arena. If they end up going to the play-offs, Jake said he'll get tickets to that,
too. He'll pick me up and drop me off later. So what's going on with the car situation?” he asked in the same breath.

“Sick of the bus, eh?”

“I really miss the Blue Demon.”

“So do I.” We gave a collective sigh, and then laughed at our mutual grief over the loss of our old Jetta, whose violent demise had saddened us both. The Demon had become a member of our small family—a coughing, raspy, embarrassing member, but kin nevertheless.

“Rayson's Used Cars has a Black History Month sale on. I'm going to take the bus over and see what I can do. Who knows? Maybe I'll pick you up at Jake's tonight in our new car. I'll call and let you know what happens.”

“For real?” Excitement shone in his eyes. So much for the Demon's memory.

“Say a little prayer.” He clasped his hands, closed his eyes, and for an instant I could see the little boy who once knelt beside his bed at night. I studied the paper to keep him from seeing what was in my eyes.

‘Anything good in the
Ledger?’
He gulped down his juice and topped off another glass.

“Not really, but—” I stopped midsentence. A funeral announcement in the Death Notices section had caught my eye. I don't usually read the obituary page; life can be depressing enough without reminding yourself of the Great Beyond, but this one jumped out at me. It was a simple obit. The kid hadn't lived long enough yet to get a full paragraph; a few basic sentences was all he got.

CECIL JONES, 17, FEBRUARY 3, OF NEWARK.

BELOVED SON OF BRENT LISTON OF NEWARK.

FUNERAL SERVICES WILL BE HELD AT 6:00 PM ON SATURDAY,

FEBRUARY 8, AT MORGAN'S FUNERAL HOME, EAST ORANGE.

There was no mention of Celia or how he had died. Beloved son of Brent Liston. That was a laugh.

“What about your father? Do you have any contact with him?”

“Every now and then, my old man comes by.”

Disgusted, I slapped the paper down on the table, which, of course, got Jamal's attention. He picked it up and read the section I'd left open.

“Wow! Damn! That's cold! I wonder who took CJ out?”

Red flags popped up. “So you, uh, knew Cecil Jones?”

Jamal shrugged and turned to the sports pages. I took his silence to mean that he did. ‘And what makes you think somebody took him out, Jamal? The paper doesn't say anything about the way he died. He could have been ill or been hit by a car. Why do you think he was murdered?”

He shrugged again, his defensiveness telling me he didn't want to talk.
Don't ask too many questions, Ma. Don't get too close.
You walk a thin line when you parent a son alone. You know you can't overprotect him, yet you always want to.

“So where do you know him from?” I said, my voice unnaturally calm.

Jamal glanced up at me. “So where do
you
know him from?” The comment was just this side of fresh, and there was a hint of a smile on his lips, but I chose to ignore it. I choose my battles these days, and
this one wasn't worth an opening shot. “School,” he said after a moment. “I know him from school.” He picked up the sports pages again, a defense against more questions.

In the last few years, many good things have happened in Newark and East Orange, the small neighboring city where I live. NJPAC, the arts center that they built a couple of years ago, has changed the mood here forever. Despite naysayers who swore that nothing decent could come out of this city, music, art, and poetry are bringing people back. Property values are rising, carjacking is down, and there's pride in people's voices when they say where they live. There are, of course, still those folks who have their doubts. I took it personally when they tried to change the name of Newark Airport, which it had been for years, to Liberty Airport. People raised so much hell, they ended up calling it Newark Liberty Airport. It's a mouthful, and it still rankles. At least we had the power to raise some hell.

However, there are ominous signs here, too. A few months back, a child's battered body was found in the closet of a filthy basement. His two little brothers, also starved and beaten, had been left for dead. It was a kick in the face of the city, and everybody felt the city's shame. It doesn't say much for a place when children are starved to death and nobody notices. There was a big funeral for the boy, and hundreds of people showed up. Funerals, though, are always for the living, and this one was held to assuage people's guilt. A death like that leaves its mark on a city like mine; it's a reminder that we have a long way to go.

There is also graffiti on walls and abandoned buildings that remind those who know how to read it, that gangs are back—if they ever left. They were around when I was a kid, and for a hot minute,
my brother Johnny belonged to one. But weapons have changed, and a “beef” between boys—or girls—can mean a funeral.

I can't afford a private school for my son, and there's no controlling who he comes into contact with in the public school he attends. He's the kind of kid who makes friends easily, and his friends run the gamut. Some like sports and are into computers like he is. They're headed for college and know they have a future. But those are the boys who always seem to end up getting shot over nothing, standing in the way at some rally, strolling down the street on a Saturday night. The good ones always seem to be the ones who end up with a bullet in the back.

There are also kids in Jamal's life who I'd rather he didn't know. He's been friends with some of them since grade school, when they didn't seem too bad. He's always been able to see the good in people, to find gold glimmering in dirt. But that ability, to peer into somebody's soul and see something worth saving, can get you into trouble and for a young black man, trouble will get you dead.

Some nights I can't sleep for worrying about him. Black boys can't make a false move because second chances are hard as hell to come by. I worry about him knowing kids on their way to jail or the graveyard; I don't want him going along for the ride. Even in death, I didn't want Cecil Jones anywhere near my son.

It was time to fire that opening shot.

“So you know Cecil Jones from school? I don't like to hear that, Jamal. Was he one of your friends?” I raised my voice loud enough to show I meant business and to get his attention from behind the paper. He folded it and laid it down on the table.

“CJ didn't go to my school, but he knew guys who do, so he used to hang out there a lot.”

‘And CJ, as you call him, was a friend of one of your friends?”

He hesitated just a tad too long. “No, Ma, Cecil was not a friend. He was just a dude I knew. Everybody knew him. He hung with a bunch of guys that I definitely try to avoid. So don't worry about me.”

“Of course, I worry about you! This kid has been stabbed by who knows what and you know the kids he hung with! Why shouldn't I be worried?”

“So he was stabbed?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head sadly and said in a subdued voice, “Ma. Here's the deal. You don't want guys like CJ and his boys thinking
you
think you're better than them, right? So you stay out their way, you watch your back when you're around them, you don't get too tight with them, but you still acknowledge them and stuff. You give them their props and show them you have respect for them. You're cool with them.” His face took on a weariness that I'd never seen before, and in that instant I could see him as a grown man, laying down the truth as he knew it to somebody who needed to hear it.

‘And you were cool with Cecil Jones?”

“Yeah, I was cool with him. I used to be cool with one of his boys in fifth grade, but not anymore. Now it's just enough to get me by. Like I said, he didn't really go to my school, but he was around. I think he dealt drugs or something.”

“Oh God! So you know guys who deal drugs?”

“Ma, what do you think?” He gave me a look that was at the same
time helpless and incredulous, reminding me again just how grown he had become.

‘And who were his boys?”

He avoided my eyes, and then said after a minute, “This guy named DeeEss, the kid I used to know.”

‘And don't anymore, right?”

He nodded. ‘And another one called Pik, dudes like that.”

‘And they deal drugs, too?”

“I don't know. I told you, I avoid those guys. They probably do. Yeah, they do. Enough of the third degree! I'm not a suspect, okay?” There was a hint of annoyance in his voice that I ignored.

“Do you know his girlfriend?”

“Cristal?” His eyes lit up when he said her name, which, I knew from observing men, wasn't so much recognition as acknowledgment of a certain kind of woman. I started to say something about his attitude, but decided to let it be.

But I did add as innocently as I could, “So her name is Cristal, like the champagne?”

“I guess so, Ma, that's what they call her anyway. I don't know!” He threw up his hands in a dramatic gesture of helplessness and picked up the sports page again, which told me I wasn't going to get anything else out of him.

“Thank you, Jamal.”

“For what?”

“For being honest with me.”

“You're my mother, I have to be honest with you.”

“Have you ever tried drugs?” I asked after a moment, my eyes piercing his.

“No, Ma. Do I act like I do drugs?” He did a half-ass imitation of somebody high on something that made me smile despite myself. “There's no way I'm going to be into drugs living with somebody who's always in my business.”

‘And you know I'll stay in your business.”

“Yeah, how well I know,” he said with a smile that told me that despite his attitude he was glad I was. “Now tell me how
you
know Cecil Jones?”

‘A case.”

“What kind of a case.”

“He came to my office.”

“Why?”

“He had something he wanted me to do for him.”

“What?”

“It doesn't matter now, he's dead.”

‘Are you going to find out who killed him?”

“I don't know yet.”

“Ma, just be careful, okay? Promise me?” he said with so much concern it made me smile because they were exactly the words I always said to him.

After our talk, I decided I'd better make it my business to attend Cecil Jones's funeral later on that day. I was certain his friends—this Pik guy, DeeEss, and Cristal—would show up, and I needed to check them out, for Jamal's sake as well as for my own. But first I had to attend to the “car situation” as Jamal put it. After last night's experience, I had no intention of waiting for a bus. I showered, dressed, and splurged on a cab to Rayson's Used Cars.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
he day was clear but cold,
and I didn't want to spend any more time than absolutely necessary strolling around a used-car lot. Drawn by my fond memories of the Demon, I immediately walked to the section marked pre-used Volkswagens to start my search. Buying a car is a bit like falling in love: You know it when it happens. The Demon's replacement had to be worthy of its predecessor; I knew what I was looking for.

A thin, aggressive man descended on me the moment I walked into the lot. His name tag said “Frank,” and his suit, a bright blue number with an odd shine to it, was a size too big. His pug nose seemed a bit too small for his face, and his fingernails were bitten to the quick. With a patronizing grin and one of the worst cases of halitosis I'd ever experienced, he began running down the “virtues” of each of the ugliest cars in the lot. The losers he was pushing couldn't hold the Demon's hubcaps.

“How about a Yugo?” he finally asked, after detailing the “winning points” of the last of the sorry group. “Considering your limited price range—” he stopped midsentence when he saw the expression
on my face. My “limited” price range was the very best I could do. The insurance on the Blue Demon hadn't amounted to squat, and I'd had to go into my home equity loan, which I'd taken out to help pay for Jamal's college tuition, to give me the extra edge.

Poor as I was, though, I had my pride. As I tried to come up with a pithy response that would put him in his place, I spotted
the
car, tucked away in a far corner of the lot. It was parked midway between a ten-year-old Volvo and a two-year-old Chevy. It was a newer, sleeker, cherry-red version of the Blue Demon. I was in love.

“How much is that one?” I said to Frank as I pointed toward it in a trance.

More than you've got
was written on his face, but he didn't respond to my question.

“How much did you say it was?” I asked him again.

When he told me, I took a deep breath and began calculating what I would need to cut out of my life. No more manicures, pedicures, or trips to the Biscuit; I'd have to depend upon the kindness of Wyvetta Green. No more ribs or apple pies from Costco. No more trips to Red Lobster or Chinese food from the restaurant down the street. McDonald's would be out of my range. Bath oil and foot massage lotion from the Body Shop would be luxuries of the past. Was I really willing to give it all up?