Stand Your Ground: A Novel (7 page)

She said that as if I might not understand how upset she was.

“I slept on the sofa and he slept on the recliner,” Delores continued. “He was still asleep when I came in here.” She looked up. “What about you? Did you sleep okay?”

It was another one of those questions that I would never be able to answer. So all I did was turn around, and over my shoulder I said, “I’m going to talk to Tyrone.”

Tyrone was in the family room, but he wasn’t asleep. He was on the edge of the recliner with his elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands, and his pain hanging heavy in the air. When his shoulders began to quake, I ran to him.

Crouching down, I held him, resting his head against mine.

“They killed Marquis,” he sobbed.

“I know,” I whispered, and cried with my husband.

“They killed my boy.”

“I know.” I held him, never planning to let him go.

“I wasn’t there to protect him.”

That was when I leaned back a little. “You have been the best protector, the best provider, the best father.”

“But I told him that he could go out last night.”

“He went to the library, Tyrone! A trip to the library shouldn’t be fatal.” When more sobs raked through him, I said, “This is not your fault; this is
not
your fault.”

For a long while, he said nothing. Just looked into my eyes, then pulled me onto the recliner with him. There wasn’t enough room in that narrow chair for the two of us, but we made it work. I wanted to be this close, skin close. Really, from this moment forward, I hoped that Tyrone and I would never be more than a few inches apart.

I whispered, “Did you get any sleep?”

“No,” he said. “What about you?”

I wanted to tell him that I’d slept deeply. Probably the deepest sleep I’d had in a while. But then I’d have to explain how in my sleep I’d searched for Marquis. So I just answered with a shrug before I went on to my next question. “How late did people stay?”

“Probably till about one, two. I don’t know, it was pretty late, but time doesn’t seem to matter right about now.”

I knew what he meant. I didn’t care about time—except that I wanted time to stop. Completely. Or even better, I wanted time to go back. Back to the moment when Marquis had come into our bedroom early yesterday evening and kissed me good-bye.

“I’m heading to the library.”

“I know you’re glad to get out of the house for something besides school.”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “Dad missed his calling. He shouldn’t be fixing anybody’s car. He needs to open a prison.”

I laughed, but I was serious when I told him, “Just don’t do anything to get locked up again.”

“I won’t, Mama,” he said before he kissed me. “You don’t have to worry about that. I won’t smoke another joint for as long as I live.”

And then he waved good-bye. And then he was gone.

Forever.

Tyrone broke into my memory. “I wish . . .” He stopped and pulled me even closer.

And I wished, too.

So for minutes, Tyrone and I just lay there together, wishing. Our hearts synchronized, the two feeling as if they were beating as one. And though I longed for Marquis, for the first time since my son died, I had a little piece of peace.

Then, “You know what I forgot to ask you two?”

His mother barged into the family room, her voice sounding like a scream as it invaded our silence. She stood over us as if she didn’t notice that her son and I were sharing a private moment.

She said, “Your pastor. Pastor Brown. Have you called him?”

I held Tyrone for just a moment longer before I pulled away. Tyrone was going to have to explain this one.

He let a couple of seconds go by before he said, “No, Mom. We don’t go to his church, any church, anymore. I told you that.”

And then he sprang up as if he had new energy.

“But why?” Delores asked.

Tyrone didn’t respond or turn around. He just stomped out of the room. So Delores turned to me. “What was that about?”

I pressed my lips together, pissed that she had interrupted us and pissed that she’d taken me and Tyrone to that place.

But the fact that Tyrone had just run out of the room, the fact that I sat as if my lips were sewn together, didn’t seem to be enough for Delores.

She pushed her fists into her waist. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

And then the doorbell rang.

I rushed to the door, swung it open, then did everything I could not to slam it shut in the face of the only person on earth who I could say that I came close to hating.

There stood Raj. Tyrone’s brother.

W
e stood there, Raj and I, just staring at each other. From his expression, I could tell that he was as surprised to see me as I was to see him, though I had no idea where his surprise came from. Did he forget that I still lived here?

“Jan.” He said my name and then paused.

I looked him up and down. At least he’d come dressed properly. In just a long-sleeved black T-shirt and jeans. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw him without one of the brown leather jackets favored by the Guardians.

“Jan,” he said again. “I’m so . . .” I turned around and walked away, thinking that he was lucky that I hadn’t slammed the door in his face.

“Who was at . . .” Delores paused as she peeked outside, and then answered her own question.

I was halfway up the stairs when I heard her say, “Come in, son.” I imagined that she pulled him into her arms and hugged him because of her next words. “I’m so glad you came.”

That was all I heard as I stomped down the hall and into our bedroom. As I stepped inside, Tyrone came out of our walk-in closet, dressed only in his briefs. But I’d just lost my son and I’d
just seen Raj, so not even my nearly naked husband caused me to pause. “Your brother’s here,” I said, forgetting all about how just a few minutes before we were lying together. So close.

I plopped down onto the bed, picked up my cell phone from the nightstand, and scrolled through. I wasn’t looking for anything or anybody; I just needed for my hands to be busy. Or else I might punch the wall or something.

“Janice, you knew he was coming.”

“Did you call him?” I asked; my accusation was all in my tone.

“Yeah, I did.” He gave me attitude back. “Because he’s my brother. He’s Marquis’s uncle. And he has to be here for that reason.”

I nodded, but when I looked up, my warning was in my eyes. “I don’t want any trouble, Tyrone.”

He pinched his lips together as if my words made him angry. “What kind of trouble are you talking about?”

I paused. What I wanted to say was
the kind of trouble that your brother causes whenever he’s around.
But I said nothing.

Tyrone heard my thoughts in my silence and shook his head. “He’s changed, Janice. You know that.”

There was a long pause before he added, “And if anyone should understand people changing, it should be you.”

I froze. By the time I looked up, Tyrone had marched to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. Even when I heard the sound of the shower, I just sat there, thinking about the low blow that he had just thrown.

I couldn’t believe I was sitting here, with a dead son, and arguing with my husband about his brother. I couldn’t let Raj come between me and Tyrone. Especially not now. And especially not again.

So I sat on the bed waiting and thinking of the right words to fix it with Tyrone.

His shower was too short; I wasn’t ready. When he came out of the bathroom and gave me a quick glance, I said nothing. Just sat, still trying to get the words together.

Behind me, Tyrone moved around, getting dressed. I knew him so well, I didn’t have to see him slipping the T-shirt over his head or sliding his arms through his shirt. I waited until I heard the zipper of his pants to stand, face him, and say the words that had taken me all that time to come up with.

“I’m sorry.”

He said nothing, looking at me as if he were measuring my sincerity. I guess I passed because finally he nodded, then beckoned me to come to him.

“I don’t want to fight,” I said as he held me. “I need you more than I ever have.”

“And I need you, too, baby.” He leaned back, and with his hands on my shoulders, he said, “But you’ve got to know that Raj is going to be here with me, for me. And for you.”

I tried to nod, but I couldn’t get any part of my body to respond to that.

When I didn’t say anything, Tyrone kept on. “He’s not like that anymore. He’s not violent, he’s not vindictive.” And then he added as if he were proud, “The Brown Guardians helped to change him.”

What in the world do you think the Brown Guardians are about?
They were all about violence; they were completely vindictive. I bit my tongue—literally—praying that would keep me quiet.

“Okay?” Tyrone said.

Somewhere from deep inside of me, I found the strength to nod.

He smiled. Kissed my forehead and said, “I’m going downstairs. You coming?”

“I want to get out of these clothes first.” I was so glad I had that excuse.

He kissed me again before he left me alone. And I returned to the bed. And sat. And wondered how was I supposed to get through this . . . with Raj Johnson in my house.

And now that he was here, the Brown Guardians weren’t going to be far behind. I had to stop it, but how? No one seemed able to stop them, not even the police; though I’d heard long ago that the Guardians and the police were flip sides of the same bad penny.

It hurt my heart, though, that I seemed to be the lone black person in Philly who saw the true colors of the Brown Guardians. They were heroes to so many, men who turned a wrong into a right. No one saw what I knew—that they were nothing more than motorcycle thugs, outlaws at best, terrorists for real.

And my brother-in-law was one of them.

But my son? He wouldn’t have chosen to ride with them when he was alive; I wasn’t going to allow them to recruit him now that he was dead.

Marquis Johnson was not going to be a cause for the Brown Guardians. No matter what I had to do.

I
had made the transition—I changed my clothes. The dress that I’d worn to the police station then slept in last night was in the middle of the floor, right where I had stepped out of it. I grabbed it, rolled it up, and then stuffed it into the small trash can by our bedroom door.

Reaching for my cell, I scrolled down to the number that I’d locked into my phone yesterday, then clicked to make the call.

When a female answered, I said, “May I speak to Detective
Ferguson, please?” She asked my name, and I told her and added, “I’m Marquis Johnson’s mother.”

I figured by now everyone down there had heard about the black boy who’d been murdered by the white man. And I must’ve been right because just like Tyrone had been yesterday, I was patched straight through to Detective Ferguson.

“Mrs. Johnson.” He called my name in a tone that sounded like we were friends. Nothing like the professional drone he’d used with us in the middle of Monday night. I hoped that was a good sign.

“Thank you for taking my call.”

“No problem; you just caught me. How may I help you?”

“I was wondering; do you have any more news about my son?” Then I paused because I needed new oxygen for my next words. “We’d like to . . . there are arrangements . . . I want to . . . prepare for . . .”

It didn’t matter that I couldn’t complete a coherent sentence; Detective Ferguson seemed to understand me. “No, Mrs. Johnson. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear to you yesterday; it’s going to take a couple of days.”

Had that only been yesterday?

He said, “We have to do an autopsy, and a toxicology report.”

“A toxicology report? Why? We told you our son wasn’t on drugs.”

“It’s routine, Mrs. Johnson,” the detective explained.

For the second time today, I was mad. Routine? There was nothing routine about the murder of my son.

“Mr. Ferguson,” I began, trying to come up with a comeback. “Do you have any children?”

There was a pause before he said, “No, ma’am.”

“Maybe that’s
why you can’t understand how offensive your words are and this whole process is.”

“I’m really sorry. I’m just doing my job.”

“And I’m just being a mother. I have to see my son. You don’t know . . . what it’s like.” I held back my cries. “I’ve lost him, and now I can’t even see him. Do you know how hard this is for me?”

“I can only imagine.”

“Is there any way for you to arrange it? For me to at least see him?”

He didn’t even try to hide his sigh. “No, ma’am.” He paused and added, “We can release his car to you,” as if that were a consolation prize. As if I would ever drive the Jeep I shared with my son again. When I didn’t bother to respond, Detective Ferguson finished with, “I give you my word, we’re doing the best we can.”

Without a good-bye, I hung up because that was the best that I could do. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I stared at the phone and wondered if I should call back. And this time beg. Beg until I got him to understand that I was dying to see my dead son.

But I decided to leave that alone for now, and instead, I stepped into the hallway, hoping that my brother-in-law was already gone.

For a second, I stood at the top of the stairs, but heard nothing. It wasn’t until I was halfway down that I heard Tyrone, Raj, and Delores in the family room.

So instead of turning to the right, I veered to the left. I’d hide out in the kitchen for a bit, and then go back to my bedroom if Raj wasn’t gone by then.

The moment I stepped into the kitchen, my stomach rumbled as if it were trying to tell me something. In my head, I calculated when was the last time I’d eaten. The days were running together, except it hadn’t been that many days at all. Today was
just Wednesday. Only about thirty-six hours since the beginning of my despair.

I wasn’t hungry in my head, but I needed to handle my body. So I dumped a single slice of bread into the toaster, then poured a glass of orange juice. Waiting, I leaned back against the counter, sipping, thinking, mourning.