We Are Not Like Them(41)

I’m so sad about Justin. I didn’t mean what I said. I feel like we’re fighting. I don’t want to be fighting.

Are we fighting? Not exactly. I’m not mad at Jenny. Or maybe I am. I don’t know. I need to sort out how I feel before I talk to her, but I can’t think about that right now. I need her name gone from my screen. I’ll write her back later, from somewhere else. Anywhere else. I look at Tupac again and pick up the book lying on the desk. I remember reading Of Mice and Men in ninth grade too. I open to the dog-eared page, scan a few paragraphs. George and Lenny have just arrived at the farm filled with dreams. Lenny’s doom hangs over the scene. Tamara startles me when she returns right then. I drop the book in my hands to the floor.

“He was liking that book. I warned him it was a sad story. He didn’t finish it, so he’ll never know about that. That’s good, I guess.” She picks it up possessively and places it just so back on the desk. “I need your help with what to wear, if that’s okay?”

“Sure, you can wear whatever you’re comfortable in.”

She fingers the brim of the hat.

“Was that Justin’s?” I ask.

“Yeah, his favorite one. Can I wear it in the interview?”

“Well, maybe you can hold it in your lap.”

“Okay, come on, let’s go look in my closet.”

Tamara’s dresser is crowded with rows of framed pictures, and I peer at each one. Most are of Justin, as a toddler in an oversize Eagles jersey, an eight-year-old in a white first communion suit. Wes and teenage Justin at a Sixers game mugging for the camera in matching throwback Iverson jerseys, maybe the last picture they ever took together.

There’s also a lot of pictures of her husband. It’s clear where Justin gets his dimples, same exact one, left side. I know from my research his dad was a bike messenger who got struck by a car in Center City during a delivery. When she sees me hovering over the photo she comes closer. “That’s Darrell. My husband. Hard to believe he’s been gone four years now. It used to be the worst thing that ever happened to me. I couldn’t even have imagined something worse. And now here I am. It’s a blessing Dee’s gone though. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. He wouldn’t have survived losing his only son. I never thought I’d be grateful he was gone, but at least he was spared this.”

How much tragedy can one woman bear?

She sits on the double bed that’s so close to the wall the closet door only opens part of the way. “I keep thinking, maybe I should’ve been home more. Maybe this wouldn’t have happened. I was working double shifts at the Amazon warehouse over in Bucks County to save up some money. Justin and I were gonna take a trip to Florida. He’s never been on an airplane. Now he’ll never ride on an airplane.”

I hover over her awkwardly and then decide to take the liberty of sitting next to her on the neatly made bed, even though it feels too close. I wish Wes would come back, but I can hear him talking to someone else in the living room.

“That’s what gets me, what stops me right dead in my tracks when I start to think about everything he wanted to do and how he ain’t gonna get a chance to do it. If he were alive, he would have gone down to that march and made a big sign and screamed the loudest of all his friends. He saw good in the world. He was just a baby, but I know he would have changed things if he’d gotten the chance.”

“Maybe he still can,” I say, as much to Tamara as myself.

Tamara and I busy ourselves rummaging through her closet, both grateful for the temporary distraction of having a mission to focus on. We settle on a pretty navy dress that’s too big for her but looks nice anyway.

Five minutes before the broadcast, we’re in our spots in Justin’s room, facing each other as the bustle of sound checks and lighting adjustments carries on around us. Tamara self-consciously fluffs her hair, which has been covered, until moments ago, by Justin’s hat, which she grips in her lap. Her pixie cut suits her face; she looks a little like Halle Berry, and unintentionally glamorous, even with eyes that are dark pools of sadness.

“I’m nervous,” Tamara admits. “All these people watching, you know?”

“It’s going to be okay. I’m only going to ask you about Justin. All you have to do is talk about Justin, okay?”

“That I can do,” Tamara says, soft but resolute.

The control room beeps into my earpiece to count me into the start of the broadcast. I have a surge of nervous anticipation, like someone’s about to dump a bucket of ice water over my head. I shift my weight forward, wiggle my toes in my damp tights.

Candace’s husky drawl comes through my earpiece, describing the highlights of the day’s march. I picture the b-roll playing along, the footage I watched in my car earlier. There’s a short clip from Pastor Price’s speech, his familiar cadence rousing. It’s laced with the haunting quality of a eulogy. The broadcast returns to Candace, who sets up the KYX exclusive live interview with the victim’s mother.

Then, my cue from the control room: “You’re live.”

Tamara and I lock eyes. I give her the faintest of nods to reassure her. I see you, I got you.

“Thank you for being with us this evening, Mrs. Dwyer. We appreciate you doing it today, so soon after losing Justin. How are you doing?”

“As best as I can be, I guess. It’s a hard day. It helps that so many people marched for Justin today. That makes me feel good, to know people want justice for my son.”