When Saint Goes Marching In (10 page)

Saint looked around the restaurant again and sucked his lip and his thoughts continued to race. He folded and unfolded his hands, glanced at George and shook his head in disbelief.

“Saint, you were handpicked to not only do conferences. We would never bring someone like you into the trenches with only that in mind. You were hand selected to run the White Knights of the Round Table. This was based on your background, your career credentials, your charisma and the way you carry yourself. We needed someone dynamic who doesn’t back down from a fight but knows how to do it with dignity. We needed someone intimidating but approachable – someone intelligent but fun and sympathetic. You embody all of that.”

“George, in all honesty, I don’t know if I’m the man for the job. I mean, I have my family, it’s a great responsibility and…”

“You’re afraid of letting someone down. You’d have big shoes to fill. I understand. We’d already thought that out as well. Obviously, it is totally up to you but think about it long and hard. Besides, it won’t be happening right away anyway. There is still some time under our belts but it is approaching and we want
you
. We want you
badly
.”

Saint’s rubbed his forehead.

“Now, back to the topic,” George redirected. “I’m fascinated by your input and I’d like to know what you think of these.”

He passed Saint photographs of the murdered victims. A wave of nausea hit Saint instantly. He could feel the intense rage brought against them. He shut his eyes and swallowed the bile that threatened to roll in reverse waves up his esophagus, burning as it coated his taste buds.

“Are you OK? I know they are gruesome but…” George said.

“No, no it’s not that, George. I’m just…” Saint stopped himself. “I’m just a little sick from the plane ride is all.”

My God, this man truly is a maniac
.

Saint thought to himself as he looked at one man, a husband and father of three biracial children, with all of his fingers cut off. Saint looked at another photo of a beautiful Black teenage girl – she too, had been sexually assaulted and beaten to death. Her half Chinese, half white boyfriend was shot point blank in the head. The gore didn’t bother him. It was the emotions that flooded him like a tidal wave. Saint drowned in the sadness, hatred, pain and anger.

He grimaced as he watched George happily accept his large platter of grilled tilapia and hush puppies. Saint’s lips turned downward as George smiled and stabbed the fork repetitiously into the white, fleshy meat. Suddenly, as if feeling Saint’s disgusted gaze on him, George looked up and smiled sheepishly.

“What? I’m famished! I’m not with my Queen tonight, she usually cooks for me. Shit, I’m hungry!”

Saint burst out laughing. “When you curse, George, it sounds hilarious. It’s that British accent.” George’s outburst eased his tension and he leaned back in the sunken red booth seat. “Say it again!” he goaded.

George laughed. “You immature asshole.”

Saint laughed so hard that tears brimmed in his eyes, blurring his vision. “I needed this laugh, I really did,” he finally said with a sigh, as he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

His food finally came.

“Sorry it took so long, sir,” the short red-headed waitress said as she winked at him.

“That’s OK.” Saint frowned. He looked down at his sautéed garlic shrimp and sniffed the plate. “I don’t know if this is fresh or not.” He grimaced as the waitress walked away, not asking if they needed anything else. “It’s fishy smelling. It kinda stinks. I’m not eatin’ this shit.”

Saint pushed the plate away in repulsion.

“Saint, we’re in a chain restaurant, for God’s sake. This is not the Ritz we’re accustomed to. Eat your bloody food. We’re going to be up late tonight and you’ll need the energy,” George ordered with a huge grin and mouth full of food.

* * *

“Thank you for coming,” Mr. Clayman said as he opened up the front door to his infinitesimal Cape Cod brick home.

Saint and George walked inside. Saint ducked down, trying to avoid the low door threshold. They looked around in the small hallway. The kitchen was off to the right, under an arched entrance. The yellow and white tiled kitchen floor looked dated against the dark brown faux wood cabinets with brass knobs. An over-assortment of knick knacks filled the home and the smell of home-made chicken soup wafted through the humble, comfy dwelling.

Saint surveyed the area quickly as they were led into the living room. Immediately to the left as they entered it was a brick fireplace, a television in the corner featuring a burrito commercial and a stack of books, seemingly religious in nature. Saint looked down at the smashed gray carpet under his feet. He scratched behind his ear as he looked to the right and surveyed a selection of family photos that were neatly hung on the wall to his right.

He immediately gravitated towards the photo of Mr. Clayman’s Queen. A large wedding portrait of the couple, framed in elaborate gold stained wood, was at the center of the wall, surrounded by smaller photos of family and friends. Saint stepped closer to the image of the attractive couple and touched the photo with his fingertips. The sepia toned picture, slightly curled at one corner under the dusty glass, spoke to him. He looked into the dark, sorrowful eyes of the bride and the bright, elated ones of the groom. They seemed to both be in their early twenties. Saint admired their courage as he had George’s and James’.

He ran his fingers all along the frame, feeling the mixed emotions, trepidation and tormented love. The two had been in love for a long time and had struggled with it.

I want my Queen and I to get old together, like these two.
I want the cliché of sitting on our front porch and rocking, holding hands. We will. This is what love is all about. Sticking together through the good times and bad times.

“Saint? Saint, do you hear me?” George called out; breaking the trance Saint was in.

Saint looked over his shoulder at Mr. Clayman and George. They stared back at him with bewilderment on their faces.

“Yes, I apologize. I was just admiring your family photos,” he said as he made his way back over to the two men.

Mr. Clayman smiled weakly as he sat down on a small, tan leather loveseat. “Gentlemen, please have a seat.”

He coughed into a Kleenex. Saint looked closely at his face. Mr. Clayman’s eye was still black and blue, but healing. He knew that Mr. Clayman could spot him occasionally glancing back over at the photograph as he sat down next to George.

“We got married in 1982,” he said. “Iris wanted an old fashioned look to the photo so that is what we did.”

Mr. Clayman smiled. The stress had taken its toll on him. Smile lines, wrinkles and premature graying were the result of racial battling, hard work at a factory job to support his family and dealing with three young adult children who all had a sense of entitlement.

“Iris will be out shortly. Um,” Mr. Clayman looked around then picked up a piece of paper and handed it to George. The chair made a slow crunching sound as he leaned forward then back. “Here is the copy of the police report,” he said as he cleared his throat.

George glanced it over. “Mr. Clayman, thank you for allowing us to try to assist you. Unfortunately, what happened to you we don’t believe was a remote, random act. We believe the same perpetrator is targeting interracial couples, particularly, ones that are of Black women with non-Black men. Age doesn’t seem to be a factor, either. Can you tell us what happened? I’m sorry to have to have you relive it, but we…”

“Oh, I know,” Mr. Clayman waved his hand and smiled. “I knew I’d need to discuss it. Well, it was late.” Mr. Clayman sighed and ran his hands over his thighs. “Iris and I were in our bedroom asleep. We heard a knock at the door. We thought it was our son, Clifford. He sometimes forgets his key and…when he’s intoxicated, he’ll walk home from the bar up the way and leave his car behind. So, I got up to let him in and,” Mr. Clayman’s eyes watered. “I didn’t even look or check out the peep hole or window. I just assumed! I was still half asleep and…”

“You don’t have to blame yourself,” George said sympathetically. “You live in a fairly safe neighborhood and I don’t care if your door was wide open all night. That gave no one the right to come in and hurt you and your wife.”

Mr. Clayman nodded. “Well, I opened the door and saw this man standing there with one of those pull down hats on, the kind that only let the eyes show through. I was immediately scared, but it was cold out, so I ignored my gut instinct to try and slam the door shut. The guy said he was sorry for bothering me, but that his car had stalled and could he use my phone. I thought it was strange because most of the kids nowadays have cell phones and…”

“I’m sorry to interrupt…you said kids, what made you think he was a kid?” Saint asked as he pulled out a piece of paper and an ink pen.

“Oh, it was his voice and his jacket. He had on one of those bubble coats with one of those name brands I’ve seen. It was Fubu. My son has some of those clothes, so I thought he might be like eighteen or maybe twenty-one, twenty-two at the most.”

Saint nodded as he jotted the information down.

“So,” Mr. Clayman continued. “I asked him where his car was and he pointed to one about three houses down. I knew that that car belonged to our neighbor, Mr. Evans, so at that point I told him it was late and I couldn’t help him. He overpowered me at the door and barged in. He hit me in the head with something heavy, I have no idea what it was, but I blacked out. When I came to, I heard my wife struggling and screaming in our bedroom. I got to my feet…” Mr. Clayman quickly wiped a tear away. “I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize, Mr. Clayman. We know this was very traumatic,” Saint assured. “Just take your time.”

“I got to my feet and rushed to the bedroom and I saw he…he had his pants partially pulled down but the mask was still on. He was…shoving a bottle…inside…of her. He must have gotten it from our kitchen. Iris isn’t a wine drinker, but she had picked it up for her and me to have a toast for our anniversary that was coming up.” Mr. Clayman smiled. “She always tried to do different stuff each year, to keep things fresh I guess. She’s romantic.” He shrugged. “So, I charged towards the guy. He must have heard me and he got off of her and grabbed me. He beat the crap out of me. I heard Iris screaming. He was so strong. Back in my day, I used to get into my share of fights, especially when I drank too much.” Mr. Clayman wiped his nose. “I never had a problem taking a guy down, even the ones that were bigger than I. I was in the navy. I knew how to protect myself but this guy, even though he didn’t seem to be very big, it was like he had this amazing strength. His eyes, they were this strange bluish green color and one seemed lighter than the other but he never kept eye contact with me long enough for me to really get a better look at him. He didn’t have any tattoos or anything else I could see that would help identify him. I kept trying to look at him hard while he was beating the daylights out of me. Iris kept screaming and he slammed my head against the wall. I was losing a lot of blood and then…I guess he turned back to her. Our neighbor came over, thank God, and he fled out the back door. No one saw him or knew where he went and by the time the police arrived, he was long gone.”

“Did he say anything to you?” George asked. “Did he ask for anything while he was inside the house or make any comments?”

“I didn’t hear much but Iris said,” George stopped speaking and looked away as Iris entered the room, wrapping a worn, white robe tightly around her curvaceous body. Saint looked at the caramel complected woman, with her dark brown hair pulled back, thin strands of gray at her temples, and years of worry on her face. Her slightly sunken in face showed recent signs of weight loss.

“This is my wife, Iris,” Mr. Clayman said as she sat down next to her husband and placed her hand on his knee.