Without Faith (6 page)

My alarm clock read 6:23 a.m. but the heavy pounds on my door told me that someone had a matter that could not wait until sunrise.

“Hold on, I'm coming,” I shouted, half asleep and barely aware that I was wearing my old granny robe and bright orange head scarf. Not exactly the look I usually go for when answering my front door.

“I said I was coming!” I hollered, getting rather irritated by the continued knocks on the door. “Goodness gracious,” I mumbled to myself as I finally grabbed the knob and swung it open.

“Sister St. James, I'm sorry for all the knocking. I know it's early, but I wanted to make sure that you heard me. I didn't have your phone number to call in advance.”

He was not wearing his brown trench coat or fedora, but it was him nonetheless.

Laz Tyson.

“Brother Tyson?” I wiped the sleep from my eyes and tried to remember if I'd wiped away the dried drool stain that always ran from the corner of my mouth to my chin whenever I woke up. I did not know if a camera was about to appear behind him and I knew I looked a hot mess.

“Can I come in?” Laz seemed oblivious to my appearance and instead was looking past me, checking out the artwork hanging in my foyer.

“Is that a Faith Ringgold or a Romare Bearden?” he asked as I stepped aside to let him in.

“Uh, actually, neither. It's a Sienna St. James.” I grinned, joining his gaze at the poster-sized multimedia-framed collage I'd hung in my entryway. I'd started it when I was in high school and added to it over the years; bits and pieces of my life, scraps of charms and other found objects, all arranged to look like a crowd of people of various shapes and hues.

The witnesses of my life.

For years, I'd kept it under my bed; but when I moved into my current house, it was the first thing I unpacked and hung.

“That corner is empty.” He pointed to the plain white paper that peeked glaringly from the bottom right side.

“Yeah, that corner has always been empty. I'm waiting for the right thing to put there to finish it off. I'll know it when I see it.” I did not feel like explaining that the missing element in the picture was me, that I had not yet found the right piece of paper or object that would best represent me at the edge of the crowd.

Laz studied my collage a few moments more, one finger resting on his bottom lip, before turning to face me fully.

“So, clearly, Ms. St. James, I did not come wake you just to discuss your hidden art talents.” His tone was light, but his demeanor was somber.

“It
is
early.” I nodded.

“Yes, but it's important.” He paused, and I wondered what this man, who barely spoke to anyone at our church, had come to say to me. Did he somehow know that I had studied his news report about the kidnapped girl? That his filed story had been running and rerunning through my head? I realized that despite seeing him on television daily, I never knew he was so tall in person. His eyes were a subtle shade of gray, his skin as smooth, rich, and brown as apple butter. A fresh fade with precision-cut sideburns and a meticulous goatee rounded out his face, giving him a sharp definition that seemed to match his pointed on-air persona.

I was still trying to make sense of this early morning interruption. Laz did not have me waiting for an explanation for long.

“Sister St. James, about an hour ago, I got a call from an old colleague of mine who now works for a television station in Las Vegas. He was about to break a story and contacted me for some background information, which I did not want to give before speaking to you first.”

“Um, Brother Tyson—”

“Please call me Laz.”

“Okay, Laz, I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.”

Laz looked away and sucked in a deep breath before meeting my gaze again. “Sister St. James—”

“You can call me Sienna.”

“Sienna, are there some young people from our church missing along with a rental car?”

“Wh . . . what? What are you talking about?” I felt my heart skip two beats as a strangling feeling began crawling up my spine and stopped at the base of my neck. “Do you know where my son Roman is? Las Vegas? And who is this reporter? What breaking news? Is it on now?” The questions came out my mouth as quickly as they formed both in my mind and in the pit of my stomach. “Is my son okay?”

“Whoa, whoa. Slow down.” Laz offered a calming smile—a smile that almost calmed me until I reminded myself that this man was a skilled investigative reporter who knew how to get the answers he wanted.

He had not shown up at my front door at almost half-past six in the morning if he did not want something.

“Ms. St. James—I mean, Sienna—I am not trying to alarm you, or get you prematurely worked up. Yes, I am a reporter, but I am a fellow church member as well.”

Was the man reading my mind? Probably my body language, I decided, forcing my shoulders to relax so as not to look defensive. He may have come here looking for answers, but I needed to get answers of my own.

“Perhaps we can sit down and talk. I'll tell you what I know, and you can tell me what you know.”

I glanced at the mahogany grandfather clock—a housewarming gift from Ava—that graced the other side of my basement level entry foyer.
6:31.
My first client was not due for another two hours, and I had already been planning to cancel while I tried to figure out where my son was.

And Laz apparently had answers.
And questions.

“Come on up to my kitchen. We can talk while I fix a quick breakfast.” I finally closed the door behind him. I was nowhere near hungry, but my gut told me I needed strength for the journey.

“The artwork continues.” Laz nodded as we left the entry level of my townhome and headed to the kitchen/ living/dining area of the second floor.

At my old home, I'd kept on display the many artifacts of RiChard: trinkets; indigenous handmade crafts; colorful, mysterious pieces from every corner of the world that dotted my residence like scattered puzzle pieces that were supposed to make the whole of my life.

My new home had none of that.

I'd been brave, willing, disgusted enough to instead hang out the four major paintings I'd completed over the years, oil portraits I'd created based on random snapshots I'd taken; one of Roman as a sneaky toddler thinking he was not being watched as he stuck his entire little hand into a freshly baked cherry pie; the Wildwood, New Jersey seashore; an elegant elderly black woman dressed in all white, sitting at a bus stop in downtown Baltimore; and a purple, orange, and black-spotted butterfly I'd spotted years ago on a nature walk with my son.

“You're gifted, Sienna. These pieces are exquisite.” He was standing in front of the lady on the bus stop picture, his head cocked to one side, his finger resting back on his bottom lip.

In the nearly two years since I'd been in my new home, nobody had commented—or even seemed to notice—my work, not even Roman. Not even Leon. A part of me wanted to feel honored, flattered at Laz's observations, but there was too much business at hand that needed addressing for me to give in to vain glory.

“Coffee or tea?” I mumbled as I slammed a metal skillet on the stove to fix a quick batch of scrambled eggs.

“Hot chocolate.”

“My kind of man,” I replied without thinking, feeling immediately embarrassed for such a flirty response that I had not meant. I closed my eyes, as hot tears seared the back of my eyelids for some inexplicable reason. “I mean”—I opened my eyes again to face him—“I have no ill will toward anyone who respects chocolate.”

“Now that's
my
kind of woman.” Laz was all smiles as he nestled onto one of my breakfast bar stools at my extended granite kitchen island. His eyes seemed to pierce through mine, as if he was looking for something in them that would tell him all he needed to know.

I turned away and let out an overdone chuckle, hoping that was the end of the awkwardness I'd created; but as I reached for my secret stash of Godiva hot cocoa,
The Soul Mate Show
flashed through my mind.
Chocolate. Kwan/Brayden's licking lips. Silver.

Bang.

I jumped at the memory of Brayden's last words on the show, so much so that I dropped onto the floor the collection of mixing bowls for which I was reaching. The loud clatter of metal sent both of us springing into action, our heads and hands bumping as we gathered the bowls from the floor.

Oh no, he thinks my nerves are rattled because of him.
I could tell by the subtle smile of victory that lingered on his lips as he settled back into his seat. I rolled my eyes to myself, opting to fix toast and whatever was ready-made in my refrigerator instead.

I needed to get some answers and then get this man out of my house.

“Yogurt? Fruit salad?” I grabbed some containers out of the refrigerator. “You can make your own parfait.”

“You are a beautiful woman.”

His directness caught me off-guard, but I was not going to be thrown anymore.

“What do you know about the whereabouts of my son?” I sat in the chair next to him, ignoring his comment and refusing to try to figure out why his finger was resting on his bottom lip again as he studied me. Whatever he was studying, he came to a quick conclusion because he straightened up in his seat, cleared his throat, and began talking like the reporter I saw on the news every night.

“An old colleague of mine works as an investigative reporter for an affiliate out in Las Vegas. He's been working on a story about underage gambling at some casinos. I got a call from him a couple of hours ago telling me that he was following a story about three boys from Baltimore found at a blackjack table at one of the high-end hotels.”

“And you know that—”

“It was your son, his cousin, and the pastor's nephew.” He leaned back in the chair.

“Okay, so we get them on the first plane back home and punish them for the next decade. I don't get what the big deal is. Why the ‘breaking story' as you called it?” I was minimizing how I felt about this revelation, but I had to for the sake of this man. I did not know where this was going.

“It's not that clean or simple, Sienna.”

“Clean?” The word jumped out at me.

“The rental car they were driving would be considered stolen if reported.”

“I'm sure my son was not driving it.” Like that meant anything. I knew it wasn't a good situation.

“And there was . . . a large amount of money and some illegal substances hidden in the trunk.”

I grabbed the edge of the counter, willing myself not to faint. “The police . . .” I couldn't get out the rest of my question.

“There are no police involved. Yet.” Laz spooned a large glob of vanilla yogurt into the tall glass I'd put in front of him and then dropped several grapes and melon slices on top. The fruit salad had been left over from Ava's impromptu lunch, I recalled, the same lunch when she'd told me I needed a man.

I knew why. I wanted Leon there with me. He would know what to do. And he would find a way, a reason, to hold me close to him, I imagined. But he wasn't there. I had to handle this moment on my own. First, I exhaled. Then I tried to make sense of what Laz was saying.

“The police aren't involved
yet?
What does that mean?” I held my breath.

“Like I said, my friend is an investigative reporter, like me. He was the one who found the boys and brought it to the attention of the casino security, who made the other discoveries, the cash, the drugs. Now, it is
not
in the hotel's best interest for the police and media to get involved because they freely let the boys come and play without checking IDs, which is supposed to be their policy. And, to be honest with you, Mitch is only interested in breaking the story if the boys had major dirt on them, so it doesn't just look like he's reporting about some teen boys trying to have a night on the town in Las Vegas. That's not the type of breaking news that will boost his career. At least the kind of career Mitch is aiming for.”

And the kind you're aiming for too,
I wanted to say. “Okay, I'm still trying to follow you,” was what I said instead.

“He called me to see if I could unearth any dirt on them that would give him a real story.”

“If you came here to find out if Roman is a mass murderer or a drug kingpin, you can go ahead and finish your breakfast and leave. There is no story here for you.” I tried to find the name for the emotion I was feeling, but I could not even begin to get my thoughts organized enough to get beyond one word.

“Sister St. James, I know Roman is a good kid and that the last thing he needs is to have his name smeared all over the news. That's why I came to you. And only you. The other two? Not so clean.”

“Clean. There you go with that word again.” I shook my head, wondering why I even let that man into my house at six-something in the morning. Talk about a day crasher. Then, I realized what he was really saying. “Wait a minute, is this some kind of threat . . . no, I mean, warning? Did you come here to try to warn me that my son is about to make the news somewhere across the country because of who he is with and what they have in their pasts, and you're trying to help me brace for the onslaught of gawkers and media that's coming—that you have a role, a helping hand, in?”

“It's not my job to judge the news, or mediate the news. It's just my job to report it.”

“So you are giving your journalist friend the dirt, and then going to produce your own story here since there's a Baltimore connection.” I wanted to believe that I knew all there was to know about my nephew given his positive changes as of late, but who knew? And Tridell Jenkins? I'd had a bad feeling ever since Roman told me he was going. “Get out my house, Laz. No, Brother Tyson. No
Mr.
Tyson. You are not acting very brotherly toward a church family member right now.”

He must have already known that he was about to be kicked out because he was already standing. Before he left the counter, he dropped his business card next to his untouched yogurt parfait. I marched behind him, escorting him to my front door. He opened it but then turned back around to face me.

“I know it may not seem like it, but I really am here not to wrong you or your son, but to provide support. Why do you think I came here first before calling Mitch back?”

“You haven't called him back yet?”

“No, I haven't, and for the record I was not planning on telling him anything about your nephew, Skee-Gee's, record, or Tridell Jenkins, um, other life; but it's only a matter of time before Mitch gets his own information, and once he does, the news market here in Baltimore will catch on and I'll be obligated to report, whether I want to or not.”

His eyes pierced mine as he continued. “I came here first thing today to warn you about what is coming down the pipes because I respect you. I've done enough investigating to know that you've been through a lot yourself and I know you are simply now trying to live a peaceful, quiet life. It's about to get a little loud right now, and I want you to know that I am here for support.”

Without a warning or a blink, he grabbed me in for a quick hug; not a full-frontal hug, but still a little more than the harmless shoulder-to-shoulder embraces typical of Sunday morning greetings at church. It was over before I could protest or realize that he'd already let go and was heading down my front steps.

“And I meant what I said, Sienna. You are a beautiful and gifted woman.” He looked back.

I was frozen, but I realized what was bothering me about what he'd said, aside from the beautiful/gifted remark. I unfroze long enough to call after him.

“Wait a minute, what do you mean you know that I have been through a lot?”

He didn't bother to answer me, just bounded down the steps.

I think five minutes passed before I realized that I was still standing in my doorway; that Laz had finished running down my steps, had gotten in his car, and pulled away.

I think another five minutes passed before I realized that another car had pulled away right after Laz left. A familiar face that had been watching out of earshot the whole scene—the hug—at my front door from a few parking spaces down.

Leon.

He'd come to talk to me, but had not even bothered to get out of his car after seeing Laz leaving, hugging me at sunrise.

I slammed my door shut.

What was I supposed to do with the information Laz had given me? Call Yvette? Call my mother?

Call Leon?

I crawled back into my bed.