As the Wicked Watch(21)

“Lacerations over her entire body, and burned.” My words formed an image in my mind that stunted my breathing. “Just imagine your worst nightmare for your child, then multiply that by two,” I said. “That’s why I’m having the girls over today. I need a distraction. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“There is a special hell for people who harm children,” Mom said. “If somebody did that to one of mine, they wouldn’t have to worry about prison. I’d kill ’em.”

“Mom, you know I hate it when you say things like that,” I said.

“I’m not playing,” she said.

I know she wasn’t. My mother grew up around guns. Her father and brothers hunted, and though she was never formally trained how to shoot, she always kept a gun in the house. In Chicago, there’s a lot of talk about Black people illegally owning guns but very little discussion about Blacks who legally keep what they see as protection in their homes. They aren’t the face of the NRA or the gun enthusiasts who trot out their weapons in open-carry states. Legal gun ownership has been portrayed in the media as a white male privilege. The face of illegal trafficking of guns across state lines is that of a young Black man, and that has influenced perceptions about those we see as victims and perpetrators.

There is a fifteen-year age difference between my mom and dad, but keeping protection in the home was one thing they could agree on. However, if me or one of my siblings ever fell victim to a killer, U.S. Army 1st Lt. Robert Manning would likely beat my mom to any act of vengeance against someone who would harm his children. My father is one of those quiet men people warn you never to cross. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen that side of him, but I’ve heard his siblings retell stories at our house during the holidays and backyard barbecues after downing a few Lone Star beers. In a bad situation, he was the one they called on. I refer to him as the Warrior, because he’s always encouraged me to fight for what I want, for what I deserve.

“Anyway, Jordan, I was calling to tell you about Drucilla.”

My heart pounded. “What?”

“She’s fine. I just wanted to let you know that she’s not going to be able to make it home for Christmas. She’s coming home in mid-January. I’m hoping you’ll be able to get some time off and come home then, too. But make sure you check with her to get the dates right.”

“Oh, no! She’s not going to be home for Christmas?” I was disappointed. For the first time in my career, I had Christmas Eve through the day after New Year’s off work, and I’d been looking forward to seeing my little cousin.

“No, she won’t be on her job for a year. She couldn’t get the time off,” Mom said.

“Okay, well, thanks for the heads-up. I will definitely plan on coming home then,” I said, but failed to mention it would be difficult, if not impossible, to get time off just two weeks after the holiday break.

January was months away, but the thought of seeing Drucilla made me smile.

“All right, I’ve got to get ready for church, myself,” Mom said. “I know you’ve probably got a lot to do to prepare for your company, so I’ll let you go. Try to enjoy yourself today.”

“Okay, love you, Mom. Thanks for tracking me down. Smooches.”

“Love you, too.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and as I was about to hang up another call came in. It was Pamela Alonzo.

Remember, you promised yourself you’d answer.

“Hello, Pam?” I asked.

Silence.

“Pamela, is that you?”

“Yes,” said a voice I didn’t recognize. “It’s me.”

Her breathing sounded stunted and hollow, as if air wasn’t passing through her lungs but through a hole in her heart instead. The emptiness in her voice was palpable.

What do I say? My heart breaks for you. No, don’t say that. I’m praying for you. Yeah, well, who cares?

Finally, I managed, “Pam, I’m so, so unbelievably sorry.”

“Thank you, Jordan. Were you there? When they found my baby?” she asked. “Were you there that day?”

“Yes,” I said, measuring my words. “I got a tip that morning . . . but I didn’t know . . . until the news conference yesterday.”

A lie.

“I can’t . . . tell . . . you how . . . devastated . . . I am,” she said, struggling to talk and breathe at the same time.

By now I, too, struggled to breathe. My face became hot and there was a ringing in my ears as I desperately fought back my own tears. I didn’t want to cry on the phone with Pam. I didn’t feel I had the right to. How could I know what she was feeling? I’m not a mother. I lost my favorite cousin, whom I loved like a sister, but what Pam was experiencing had to be twenty times worse.

No matter how many times I’d seen it before, this level of trauma and pain was gut-wrenching. I wondered how a person managed not to collapse into a vegetative state and wither away.

I took a deep breath and tried to speak, but thankfully Pam spoke first.

“The police don’t know nothing! They asking me if I know who could’ve done this? Why would I know that?” Pam screamed and sobbed. “Why would I know that?”

I recognized what she described as a standard police question. But how do you tell that to a grieving mother?