Stand Your Ground: A Novel (9 page)

And then there were the bookcases, the two that he’d built with Tyrone. A project to earn a Boy Scout badge when he was just ten. It was an ambitious task that Marquis was so proud of when he finished. Especially once he stuffed the shelves with dozens of his favorite books.

My son. The reader.

That was when I closed his bedroom door.

Maybe I would have been able to go inside if Tyrone were here with me.

But he was not. So this was a big enough baby step for today. Now there was something else that I had to do.

I
t hadn’t taken long to shower and dress. It was easy to move fast when you couldn’t wait to get out. So no more than twenty minutes after Delores left, I pulled out of the driveway, and with a couple of quick lefts and then right turns, I was on I-76. The morning rush hour was drawing to an end, so it only took a little over fifteen minutes to maneuver my way to University Avenue.

I edged my car into a “No Parking” zone right in front of the Spelman Building, then I turned off the ignition.

The Thursday-morning pedestrian flow was in full swing as folks rushed to be at their desks before nine a.m. But even though
there were plenty of people, I hardly saw them. Instead, my eyes, my focus, were on the windows.

This was so silly, I knew that. But silly hadn’t stopped me. I kept peering at the building and wondering if there were any way for me to find out which window framed the room that belonged to the medical examiner. And where exactly was the morgue? Was it on the first floor, the second floor, or in the basement?

Yeah, this was definitely silly, but as silly as it was, I felt close to Marquis. Closer than I’d felt since he walked out of our home on Monday.

I leaned back in the seat even though I was sure Philly’s Finest would soon be cruising by, telling me to move or get a ticket. Maybe they would let me stay if I told them that I was here to be near my dead son.

Closing my eyes, I took my mind inside that building and imagined the halls. I roamed through the space, checking each room until I found Marquis.

And then I sat with my son and wondered how he felt. Was he cold? Or was he hot? Was he aware of all of this? Or any of this? Could he see me? Feel me?

Did he know how much I loved him?

Shaking my head, I opened my eyes. “This is ridiculous.” I needed to start my car and get away from this place. But it was my head that wanted me to leave; my heart told me that it was all right—I could stay.

I picked up my cell and clicked on the number that was locked in my phone. The rings were long like they always were and then, “Girl, can you say perfect timing? I just walked outside of my classroom. What’s up!” Syreeta sang.

Her voice was filled with all kinds of cheer; she had no idea that I was about to ruin her day, her week, her month, her life.

“Hey.”

“Jan,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

We’d only been friends for eighteen years, since our sophomore year in high school. But we had a heart connection that felt like we’d been together since birth. And that connection meant that I knew her and she knew me.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“I’m at school, getting ready to go in the lounge. What’s wrong?”

“I have something to tell you, but I want you to be by yourself.”

“Okay, I’m going in there now.” There were a few seconds of silence before Syreeta said, “What’s wrong?”

I took a deep breath, though I didn’t take my eyes away from the building, away from the windows.

“I have some bad news.”

“Is this sitting-down bad news?”

Even though she couldn’t see me, I shrugged. Did it really matter if she was standing or sitting? What was the best position to hear the worst news of your life?

“It doesn’t matter and I’m not going to drag this out.” I paused. Others had spoken these words to me, but this was the first time the words would pass through my lips. I pushed them out. “Marquis is dead.”

It was her turn to pause. “Marquis who?” she said.

I waited because I knew her response was nothing more than shock. After a couple of seconds, she added, “Please, Jan. Please take that back.”

“I want to. I can’t.”

“Oh, my God,” she cried. “What happened?”

I began at the beginning, chronicling my nightmare. I took my best friend through every step of my horror—from the police coming to our door to this moment. “And I decided to call you because I think I’m going crazy.”

“Of course you are. Oh, my God, Janice.”

The sorrow in Syreeta’s voice pumped up the potency of my pain, reminding me once again of just how much this hurt. A tear seeped out, blinding me just a bit, obstructing my view of the place where my son lay, and I blinked that blockage away.

“Are you sure he’s dead?” Syreeta asked.

That wasn’t a dumb question. Because how many times had I asked myself the same thing?

“Yes, honey. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t comfort me; I’ve got to comfort you. Oh, my God. I’ve got to come home. When’s the funeral? When are we . . .” She paused and sobbed, “Oh, God!”

I wanted to hang up and just let her cry alone. Just let her get it out so that when she called me back, we’d be able to talk. But there was still one more thing that I needed to tell her.

“I have some more news.”

“What else could there be?” she cried. “Nothing will ever be as bad as this!”

“This is not that bad . . . or maybe it is. I don’t know.” I took a breath. “Raj asked about you.”

Silence.

“And he knows you’re in Germany.”

More silence.

“I’m sorry, Ree. I think Tyrone told him. I asked him not to, but I’m sure it was because he’s—”

“Tyrone didn’t tell him,” she whispered. “I did.”

If anyone had peeked into my car at that moment, they would have called the EMTs. Because I’m sure with the way I sat there, with my eyes closed, my mouth open, and my face contorted, I had to look like I’d just had a heart attack.

“Jan! Are you there?” Syreeta shouted into the phone.

“Uh . . .”

“I know what you’re gonna say, but I knew he was worried about me and I wanted him to know I was safe. So I called him, and I call him . . . sometimes. Not often, but . . .”

She stopped as if she had explained it enough. There was so much I wanted to say, so many lectures I wanted to give. But all I said was “I understand.”

“Do you really?”

No, I thought. “Yes,” I said.

She must’ve felt that now she had my permission because she went on to ask about him. But I was too grief-weary to say anything except, “I think he’s stirring up trouble. Tyrone stayed at Raj’s place last night and I think they’re trying to organize something.”

“Good! They should! The Guardians will find out who did this and they’ll take care of it. I know you don’t like Raj or the Guardians, but they got started for exactly these kinds of situations and you’ve got to let those men do what men do.”

Her words were so similar to what Delores had said to me.

“I really want to be there with you,” Syreeta said.

Suddenly, all I wanted was to be alone. Just me and Marquis. “Can you call me later?”

“Of course. What time?”

“Anytime. There’s something I have to do now.”

“Okay. And, Janice, I’m so sorry, and I love you.”

“I know.”
Then I hung up. For a moment, I took my eyes away from the building and looked down at the phone. But I didn’t want to spend time trying to figure out the nonsense of grown folks. This time was for me and Marquis.

So I put down my phone and stared at the building for a little bit longer. I did that mind-tour thing again, sat in a room with my son, and then I started the ignition.

I rolled the car away from the curb, and I headed . . . I didn’t have anyplace where I needed to go. So I headed to the place where I didn’t want to be.

I headed home.

M
y despair worsened when I saw Raj’s truck parked in the driveway. I edged my car next to the truck, then marched to the front and unlocked my door with an attitude.

But then, there stood my husband, at the bottom of the stairs with outstretched arms. And I ran into his embrace.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” I said as Tyrone held me the way I needed to be held.

“Mama said that you went to the supermarket; why would you do that with all of the food that we have here?”

“No . . . I just needed . . .” I backed away from him. “I just didn’t want to go to her house. And I knew your mom wasn’t going to let me stay here alone, so I made that up.”

“I told her not to leave you.”

“And she didn’t want to.” With a sigh I turned into the living room. I waited until Tyrone sat down on the sofa with me to say, “I’ve been suffocating with all of the people; I just needed some space.”

He nodded and took my hand. “So where did you go?”

I thought about it for a moment, then said, “To the morgue.”

His eyes stretched wide. “They let you see Marquis?”

“No, I didn’t go
inside. I just needed to be close to him.” I gave Tyrone a sideward glance. “You know what I mean?”

He nodded, and I leaned over, resting my head on his shoulder. He sat back and held me. “Not being able to see him is killing . . .” I paused. This situation had definitely made me more aware of my words. “It’s so hard not to be able to see him.”

“I know.” He squeezed me tighter.

It was amazing the way Tyrone changed the sounds of silence that were in the house now. I was still cloaked in the black shroud of sadness, but with Tyrone here, I kinda had the feeling that I’d be able to shake that off one day, maybe like twenty or fifty years from now.

Then Tyrone pushed me away and interrupted our peace.

“Where are you going?” I asked when he stood.

“I need to take a shower. I came home to change.”

I blinked. “You’re going in to work?”

He shook his head. “No, I’ve got to get back to Raj’s.”

My eyes narrowed as I slowly stood, too. “Why? What are you doing over there? Why do you have to be over there every day, every night?”

He paused and then said, “We’re making plans.”

“For what?”

“Just for some rallies and protests, Jan. We’re making calls now. Trying to get some advice.”

“Advice about what?”

“We need the police to release the name of the man who murdered Marquis. They were supposed to do it right away, and we’re going to make sure that happens.”

“Tyrone, I really don’t want you involved—”

“How can you say that?” he asked, not letting me finish. “I’m already involved. It was my son who was murdered.”

“And he was my son, too, but if you go down to the police station and start trouble—”

“First of all, this isn’t about trouble. This is about getting the police to do the right thing.”

“And you know that nowhere in this country can black people force the police to do anything.”

“Well, we’re gonna try.”

“And that’s what scares me. Because if you confront the police, they’re not going to back away. They’re going to beat you up, then lock you up. I can’t, Tyrone. I can’t be grieving for Marquis and worried about you.”

“There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“I would’ve believed that before Monday night.”

“I can take care of myself.”

I nodded. “And I believe that—except for when the police are involved. And I won’t be able to live if something were to happen to you, too.”

He paused and softened his tone, but not his words. “Well, I’m sorry, Jan. But this is all about justice for me.” I shuddered when he added, “And I don’t care what price I have to pay.”

I rubbed my arms against the chill that his words ushered into the room.

He said, “Don’t you want justice for Marquis?”

I stayed quiet for a moment, thinking. What was it that I wanted? Finally, “I do. I want justice for my son. But I want my son more than I want justice.”

His eyes were thin slits when he asked, “What does that mean? What do you think the police will do?”

“I don’t know. But don’t you remember that case where a body disappeared from the examiner’s office?” I didn’t give him a chance to answer. “It’s
bad enough that we’ve lost Marquis. But if his body disappeared and I couldn’t lay him to rest . . .” I shook my head. “I don’t know what I would do.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“How can you say that? Look at what
has
happened. With what happened to Marquis, we now know that the improbable is possible.”

He didn’t even take a breath before he said, “Well, you know what? If they keep Marquis, if they don’t return him to us, if they lose his body, it doesn’t matter.”

I pressed my hand against my mouth, shocked at his words. “How can you say that?” I cried.

“Janice, our son is already gone. None of that is going to bring him back, but if I can do something about
why
he’s gone, then I’ve got to do it.”

“But all I’m asking is that you wait. It’s just been a few days. Why can’t you wait and see what the police will do?”

“I already know what they’re going to do. Hell, they’re already doing it. They’re protecting the man who murdered our son. So there’s nothing inside of me, as a black man in this country, that will let me wait.”

Tears sprang into my eyes as my mind filled with all kinds of visions of what was about to happen.

His voice was calmer when he said, “I understand how you feel, but you’ve got to understand me.” He placed his hands on my shoulders and made me face him. “I’m a man. And they took my son. And now they have to do the right thing. Or . . .”

I waited for him to finish his sentence, but he just stood there as if he’d given me a complete thought. “Or?”

He shook his head and then turned away from me.

“Tyrone.”

He kept moving, out of the living room, and then I heard his footsteps as he trotted up the steps.

“Tyrone!”

By the time I couldn’t hear him anymore, tears had dampened my cheeks. Standing there, I put all kinds of finishes on Tyrone’s sentence.

Or . . . we will find the man who did this.

Or . . . we’ll turn this city upside down.