Stand Your Ground: A Novel (13 page)

She stared at me long and hard before she rested her glass on the table. “Let’s not go there right now.”

“I know it sounds harsh, especially now. But maybe it’s because of what’s happened and I can’t stand the thought of losing someone else that I love. Women die because they wanted to believe their abusers had changed. Women who went back over and over again. Women who never left.”

“First of all, no one said anything about me getting back with Raj.”

I looked at her like I didn’t believe her . . . because I didn’t.

“We’re just friends again,” she said. “And I think people deserve a second chance.”

“He used up his second chance with you. His second, and third, and twenty-seventh and fiftieth.”

“Okay, it wasn’t that much. He didn’t beat me that many times.”

I raised my eyebrows. I wanted to ask her if her mother knew that she had somehow gone crazy.

She said, “Really, you know it was just five times.”

I slapped my hands on my thighs. “
Just?
You do realize that was five times too many, right?”

“Yes. And that’s why he and I will never be a couple.”

I twisted my lips.

“Plus, he paid for his crime,” she said, sounding like she was sad that he’d eventually been charged with simple assault.

That’s why I asked her, “You’re not sorry about that, are you?”

She said no, though her tone didn’t change.

“Well, to me, he got off easy.”

“I know that’s what you think.”

“He didn’t even serve the full year.”

She nodded. “But those anger management classes really did help him.”

“I can tell. He came right out of jail and joined the Brown Guardians.”

She said, “Well, if you’re gonna be angry, at least channel it in the right way.”

“Yeah, instead of beating up women, just kill men.”

She held up her forefinger and then wiggled it with her words. “There has never been any proof that the Brown Guardians have killed anyone.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?”

“No, but there isn’t any proof. And if they did kill someone, it’s always been about justice. They don’t go around mugging old ladies or beating up old men. There hasn’t been a single case”—she raised her hand in the air—“where that person didn’t deserve that justice.”

“And that’s the definition of ‘vigilantism,’ which is barbaric in addition to being illegal.”

She shrugged as if that was all right with her. But it wasn’t all right with me.

“I don’t think they’re vigilantes,” she said. “I just think they make wrongs right, and I respect that. And that’s where it begins and ends for me and Raj. I respect how he’s turned his life around, I respect what he’s doing with the Brown Guardians, I respect him, but we will never be together again.”

“I don’t know how you do it because it’s hard for me to even look at him.”

“Well . . . that’s not just because of what went down with me and him. It’s because of what went down between the two of you.” She let a moment pass, then, “So . . . how is Caleb?”

That was a quick left turn. I waited a moment before I told her, “I spoke to him the other day.”

“What!”
Her body shot up straight. “Seems like I’m not the only one who has some explaining to do.”

I held up my hands. “He called when he heard about Marquis. He was the one who told me about it being on the news.”

“And that’s all he said?”

“Yes.”

“So he didn’t try to get the two of you together or anything?”

“No. Well. Maybe.”

“Oh, lawd.” She fell back hard against the sofa’s cushions.

“Just to pray,” I explained. “That’s all he wanted to do. Get together to pray for me.”

She looked at me for a moment and then busted out laughing.

“That’s what he said.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter because I love Tyrone and I’m not going back down that road.” I paused and thought about that time. “For the life of me, I still can’t believe that happened.”

“It was a crazy tangle of situations,” Syreeta said. “You supporting me. Tyrone supporting Raj. Tyrone mad at you. You mad at Tyrone.”

I nodded. “I know it was my fault, I know I was wrong, but I will always say that if Tyrone hadn’t moved out, I would never have been with Caleb.”

She nodded. “I know.”

“I just wanted the right thing done. Raj needed to be arrested.”

“I should’ve been stronger,” Syreeta said. “I should’ve been the one to call the police.” She shook her head. “There are still times when I can’t believe that you turned in your own brother-in-law.”

“Well, you’re my girl; we support each other. That’s just what we do.”

“I know.”
Then she paused. “So, if Raj were to apologize to you . . .”

She left her sentence unfinished, so I filled in the words for her: “It would mean absolutely nothing.”

“Oh, come on! Why not?”

“Because what he did to me, he was just being dirty.”

Her eyes got wide. “Only after you made sure he was arrested and charged.”

I sat up. “So that was a reason to destroy his brother’s marriage?”

“Uh . . . yeah. You tried to destroy his life. And really, he was just trying to protect his brother. I mean, yeah, there was a part of him that wanted to get back at you. But I think there was also a part of him that was just looking out for his brother. Just like you were looking out for me.”

Of course, what Syreeta said made perfect sense. But I preferred to believe what I’d been telling myself for the last three years—that Raj was a low-down, woman-beating, dirty dog.

Syreeta said, “With what’s happened to Marquis, we all need to realize that life is more than too short, it’s too precious to waste on being mad at people you once loved.” She shrugged. “Tyrone and I found a way to love each other again; I hope the same for you and Raj.”

I said nothing, but Syreeta did get to me—a little. She laid her head on my shoulder and said, “We’re going to make it through this, right?”

I nodded, and without even looking at her, I knew that she was crying . . . just like I was.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I whispered.

“Me, too.” She sniffed. “ ’Cause I would hate for it to be Caleb that you were sitting with like this right now.”

She laughed, and I laughed, too, though she didn’t know how true her words were. I really was glad that she was here because with Tyrone never coming home, and with my heart so broken, I don’t know what I would have done . . . if Caleb called again.

T
here should have been more to do; at least I would have expected more to do when planning the funeral for my son. But it was all taken care of by the funeral home. And whatever they were missing, my mother-in-law and her pastor filled in. Sure, they tried to include me.

The first call came in yesterday morning:

“Hi, baby, I know it’s early,” Delores had said.

I confirmed her words when I glanced at the clock. Yup, seven on a Saturday was too early to be calling me—before. But this was now. And I never minded waking up. So that I could fall asleep again and pray that Marquis would come to me in my dreams.

Delores said, “What picture of Marquis do you want us to use for the program?”

I had no idea, so I’d rolled out of bed and had gone across the hall to the guest bedroom and awakened Syreeta. Then, the two of us sifted through all the photos on my phone. But that quickly became a gargantuan task. How was I supposed to choose one that was worthy of being part of the final tribute to Marquis? One that would represent all that he was? There was no way for me to decide.

So I left that choice to Syreeta, who texted a couple to Tyrone.

Then a few hours later, Delores called back.

“What scripture do you want to be read?”

I was no Bible connoisseur, but I loved the fourteenth chapter of John. That always gave me such hope, even in the middle of talk about death. “Can someone read that?”

“Whatever you want, baby. It’s about whatever you want.”

What I wanted was for time to slow down so that I didn’t feel as if it was rushing to the moment when I’d have to say my final good-bye to my son.

But time paid me no mind and Saturday turned to Sunday much too quickly. And so, today, I decided not to get out of bed, hoping that would slow down the quickening ticks of time passing by.

So when Delores called and told me that she thought Tyrone and I should at least go to church this morning since Marquis’s services were tomorrow, I told her, “No thank you,” and I didn’t move. When Syreeta came to my bedroom and told me to come down to the kitchen for breakfast, I said, “No thank you,” and I stayed in bed. And when Tyrone called hour after hour, checking on me, asking me if there was anything that I needed, I didn’t say too much. Really, after the third or fourth or fifth time, I even stopped telling him that all I needed was him.

But even though I tried to slow down time, it still moved. And now it was the evening before what would be another worst time of my life.

Those were my thoughts as I sat in the middle of my bed with my legs crossed in front of me. Syreeta had brought up a tray of Chinese food, trying to convince me that she’d prepared it, even
though I could almost smell the paper cartons that the food had been delivered in.

Syreeta had been chatting away, but my thoughts kept words from my mouth. My thoughts were all about what tomorrow would bring.

“Are you going to eat that egg roll?” Syreeta asked, though she had already grabbed it from my plate before I had the chance to tell her no. Then she chowed down on it and was halfway done when she said, “I hate to sound like a cliché, but you know you have to eat something, right?”

I nodded. “I will. One day. Soon. Maybe.” I pushed the tray away.

“Is that all you got for me?” Syreeta asked. She rolled off the bed and grabbed the TV remote from my nightstand. “If you’re not going to talk, maybe I can find some ratchet show that will make me laugh and make you curse, or something.”

She aimed the remote at the television, clicked it on, and pressed the channel button, then paused.

I didn’t look over at Syreeta, but I’m sure her expression was the same as mine as we stared at the image on the screen.

“He was my grandbaby,” Delores said. Her eyes were on the camera, so it looked as if she were talking straight to me. “And I’m glad we now know who killed my grandson. I’m glad that now there will be justice.”

I got on my knees and crawled to the edge of the bed as if that would give me a better view.

“Thank you, Ms. Johnson,” Clarissa Austin said, then turned to face the camera.

“That was Delores Johnson, the grandmother of Marquis
Johnson. And, as she said, the funeral for the seventeen-year-old is tomorrow. We still haven’t had a comment from Marquis’s parents, but the Brown Guardians have asked that we respect their privacy at this time. And we will.”

“That must be why there’s no one knocking down your door,” Syreeta whispered.

I nodded; at least the Guardians were good for something.

Clarissa continued, “But as we just reported, we have confirmed that seventeen-year-old Marquis Johnson”—and then a picture of Marquis filled the screen, the picture we’d sent to Delores yesterday—“was shot and killed by Wyatt Spencer.” Now a new photo. Of a white man. A dirty-kind-of-blond-haired white man. A kinda-dark-blue-eyed white man. That photo stayed on the screen until Clarissa signed off with, “We will bring you more as it comes in. Back to you in the studio.”

“Rewind that,” I told Syreeta.

And then seconds later, I listened to it again. Then I had her rewind it again. And again.

After the fourth time, Syreeta handed the remote to me and I let the segment play again, this time freezing it on the picture of the dirty-blond-haired, dark-blue-eyed white man.

Sitting shoulder to shoulder with my best friend, I stared at that picture. I stared even as I heard the front door downstairs open and close. I stared even as I heard the footsteps on the stairs and then in the hallway. I didn’t look up even as I felt Tyrone come to our bedroom door.

He stared, too. At me and Syreeta. And then his eyes shifted to the television screen. After a few moments, he moved and took the remote from my hand before he clicked off the television. Then he pulled me up and into his arms.

I can’t
tell you exactly when Syreeta slipped from the room. But by the time Tyrone laid me down on the bed, she was gone.

And my husband held me, wrapping his protective arms around me. My back to his front. He never said a word, and neither did I.

It was early, just eight o’clock or so. Too early to go to sleep. But not too early to be held by my husband. To be held by him in our bed for the first time since Wyatt Spencer had taken our son away.

I
t wasn’t until I was actually sitting in the front pew, the seat of honor that had been reserved for me and Tyrone and those who loved Marquis the most, that I realized I didn’t want to be here.

Not that I ever wanted to attend anyone’s funeral. But my own son’s? I just knew, I just knew, I just knew that this wasn’t happening.

If my mind had been right, I wouldn’t have let Delores plan this service without me. All of these people shouldn’t have been here. This should have been private. Just me and Tyrone. Maybe Delores and Syreeta. And because we were sitting in this church and I was feeling benevolent, I would’ve even let Raj attend. Maybe.

There should have been only three or four or five of us burying my dear son, without the spectacle that this had become.

Since the news report last night, this story had played over and over on just about every station.

At least that’s the way it felt this morning as we got ready. Tyrone had the television on, and the whole time, a picture of Marquis was plastered on the screen. While Tyrone sat on the edge of the bed watching, I dressed, trying my best not to look and then I got out of there as quickly as I could.

But I couldn’t escape, because downstairs in the kitchen, Syreeta had the TV on, too.

Apparently now, Marquis Johnson’s death was newsworthy since it had all the elements for good media drama: a white man, a black teen, a gun, a dead black teen.