We Are Not Like Them(59)

I hear a rustling outside and instinctively crouch down, move slowly to the back of the house. It’s become more of a tap; maybe I’m imagining it. I make my way over to the patio door. The curtains are drawn. I pause, crouched, listening. There it is again, louder this time. I dare to peek behind the curtain into the backyard. A shadowy figure stands less than a foot from the glass. My scream is so loud the door rattles.

“It’s just me, hon.”

The stranger’s features arrange themselves into Mrs. J, bundled inside a long puffy coat, her little yappy dog tucked beneath one arm. Shocks of bright red hair peek out around the fur-lined hood wrapped tightly around her face.

“I was up watching Jimmy Fallon and saw the light and figured it was you,” Mrs. J says through the door as I fiddle with the lock.

A blast of frigid air slams into me when I open it, though the snow seems to have stopped. I should take advantage of the lull and get the hell back to Cookie’s. Mrs. J hands me a small box. “I grabbed this when the UPS guy came the other day. I opened it. Just in case…”

Neither of us needs her to finish that thought. I pull up the cardboard flaps, look inside. Neatly folded on top of delicate tissue paper is the onesie I ordered after seeing it for 50 percent off on one of my mommy blogs. The fabric is as white and soft as a newborn bunny. Across the front it reads, “Hello, World!” in a graceful script. I’d forgotten all about it.

I turn on the porch light so I can show Mrs. J, and accidentally flip the backyard switch at the same time. The adorable little onesie falls to the floor as the sight behind her comes into focus.

Across the back fence, the fence Kevin and Matt spent an entire weekend building, there are three-foot-high letters, in bright red paint that drips like blood: MURDERER.

Mrs. J doesn’t even turn to look at the fence—she just stares at me, pained. “I already called my grandson. You remember—Bobby. He’s going to come paint over it this weekend.”

I can’t speak.

“Jenny, don’t you worry. We’re going to get that painted over, good as new.” Mrs. J gently pushes me inside. “Come on, it’s cold out here. Let’s get you indoors.”

I let myself be carried along back into the kitchen.

“I’m going to make you a cup of tea. Everything’s going to be okay. You hear me, Jen? It’s going to be okay.”

But it’s not. Nothing is okay. There’s no okay after this. There’s no okay after you’re the reason someone is no longer alive on this earth. I love my husband and I made a vow to stand by him for better or worse, but never did I think that worse would include my son being raised by a man who murdered a child.

No, Mrs. J, it will never be okay again.





Chapter Nine RILEY




That the grief is so physical, tangible, is a surprise. It’s heavy, as burdensome as the overnight bag pressing into my shoulder that I let fall to the ground with a thud in front of the Hertz counter. The clerk, a girl who looks like she’s barely out of high school, wears a bedazzled Santa hat over her bright pink hair. She’s drawn hearts around her name—Tiffany—on her name tag. Before she opens her mouth, I already know Tiffany is going to be too much, too perky, too cheerful.

“Heya, ma’am.”

Ma’am? I haven’t been called ma’am since I left Birmingham.

“Omigod, I love that nail polish color! How was your flight?! Ain’t it lovely out today?!”

Every single one of her sentences ends in an exclamation point. I don’t know what to latch on to first in that overwhelming greeting.

“Yeah, sure is warm,” I respond with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. Thankfully, while she’s looking up my reservation, she turns her chatter to her colleague at the neighboring counter, a prim elderly white woman with a helmet of blue-gray hair, who’s helping an older Black guy, decked out from head to toe in Miami Dolphins gear.

I fight the urge to look at my watch or tap the counter impatiently as Tiffany recounts her Saturday night in excruciating detail. Outwardly, I plaster my face with a polite smile. Inside, I’m screaming. No one cares!!! How could you possibly think anyone cares about any of this? Someone spilled wine on your new hobo bag. Oh, you poor little thing. My grandmother died six days ago. She’s gone, Tiffany. Gone.

The Dolphins fan shoots me a commiserating eye roll. He takes a step toward me, close enough now for me to see the keloid scars from old acne that dot his chin and smell the cigar smoke on his aqua-and-orange Starter jacket. When he opens his mouth to speak, I catch the glint of more than one gold crown.

“Hey, can you give me directions to the lynching memorial?” he asks in a slow, lazy drawl.

The clerk helping him, the elderly lady, interjects, probably to escape Tiffany’s inane ramblings. “I think you mean the National Memorial for Peace and Justice,” she corrects him, the patronizing tone unmistakable.

“Well, yeah, same thing,” he replies, throwing me a knowing glance. These white people.

The woman unfolds a large map and pulls out a plastic pen. “I’ll circle it here for you. It’s very close. About fifteen minutes from here.”

“I hear it’s pretty powerful,” the man says.

The clerk offers a vague nod. She obviously hasn’t been there.