The Unwilling(82)

“He said we’re barely family.”

“Do you really think he believes that?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Aren’t you, though?”

I drove the car in silence.

I had no kind of answer.



* * *



It took twenty minutes more before the tall buildings of downtown Charlotte rose in the distance. At a stoplight outside the city line, Chance said, “Turn here, man. Take me home.” He seemed frustrated and troubled, and at his house, oddly embarrassed. “I’d go with you if I could—wherever you’re going. It’s my mom, is all. She only has two hours between jobs. I told her I’d come home for lunch.”

I said, “Hey, brother. All good.” But I knew him well enough to understand his thoughts. Things were getting real …

“What will you do next?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe you should do nothing at all. How about that for a change? Go to class. Graduate.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Chance looked at his house, still struggling. “That man you saw on Tyra’s street … How close were you?”

“Ten feet, I guess.”

“Just sitting in his car?”

“Watching the condo, I think.”

Chance studied my face as if some kind of answer might be written there. “Call me later?”

“Sure. Course.”

“All right, then. Bye, Becky.”

We watched him into the house. “What now?” Becky asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe you’re looking at this wrong. The whole thing.”

“How so?”

“So far, it’s been about Tyra. That’s been your focus. Who did she make angry? What did she do that got her killed?”

“Yeah, because she is, in fact, the one who got killed.”

“How well do you know your brother?” Becky asked.

“I don’t understand.”

She took my hand, and shrugged sadly. “Maybe Tyra’s murder is not about Tyra at all.”



* * *



Becky’s insight was blindingly bright, and simple enough to open the door to an entirely new line of thought. From the beginning, I’d considered little but Tyra’s life and choices. It’s why I’d gone to the Carriage Room and to Sara’s condo. Becky’s modest question turned all that on its head. I truly did not know Jason at all; he’d told me as much. Even so, I’d assumed that the distance between us was born of mere circumstance, of war and distance and time apart. On that first day at the quarry, he’d said a brother should know his brother. But what effort had he made? We’d spent one day out, one day with the girls.

I am not a good person …

He’d said that, too.

“Where are we going?” Becky spoke for the first time since I’d pulled into heavy traffic. Before that, she’d been patient, and I’d used the time to turn Jason like a plate: brother, soldier, convict. Beyond the memories of our shared childhood, I knew only that he could be cold, violent, and dismissive.

Swim away, little fish …

“There’s a restaurant,” I said. “Soul food and Korean.”



* * *



The restaurant smelled exactly as I remembered: tobacco smoke and collards, the faint, familiar odor of barbecued beef and fermented vegetables. We took stools at the counter, and an old black man called out from the grill.

“Charlene! Customers!”

A round-faced, wide-hipped woman pushed through a swinging door, a smile on her mouth as she ambled along behind the counter. “Well, now, aren’t you the cutest little white people?” Cracks appeared in the purplish lipstick, and a pen materialized from behind her ear. “What can I get you on this fine day?”

“Coffees,” I said. “And a word with Mr. Washington.”

I nodded toward the old man, and her smile faded, sudden suspicion in her eyes. “You know my Nathaniel?”

“We kind of met last week. I’m Jason French’s brother.”

“Oh, Lord, that one. I should have seen it, just from looking at you.” The suspicion drained away. The smile returned.

“So you know him?” I asked.

“The good and the bad, though with him, the bad was not so bad, and the good was awfully good. Nathaniel!” She barked the cook’s name, her eyes all over my face. “Come see what the cat dragged in.” The old man mumbled something about burning the mush, and Charlene sighed in false exasperation. “That man…” She poured two coffees, and put the pot back on the burner. “You know, I don’t believe what they say about your brother. Newspapers. Television.” She made a sour face.

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, now, don’t misunderstand. I don’t know your brother enough to say I know him. He did have a prison spell, and did get into the drugs. But killing that girl?” She shook her head. “He sat at that counter too often, had dinner in my home a dozen times. Then there’s what he did for my boy.”

“Darzell,” I said.

“Ah, you’ve heard of my Darzell.” Her eyes lit up. “You want cream with that, sugar?” She pointed at Becky’s mug, then slid along a tin creamer without waiting for an answer. “You know, your brother saved his life.” I put down the coffee, and she said, “Mmm-hmm. They met on the bus to Parris Island, and were thick as thieves right off the bat. Same hometown, same streak of wild and ready. Parris Island is twelve weeks of hell, but they bunked together, trained together…”