Tyler Johnson Was Here(17)

Detective Bills pauses. “Ah. Marvin. Do you know Mr. Johntae Ray Smith?” He adjusts his black tie.

Mama stares at me with shock and horror washing all over her face, like a river after a storm.

My head hurts and my pulse pounds harder, heavier, faster. I can feel thudding in my ears. “No, I don’t. Sorry.”

The detectives look at each other in disappointment.

Mama asks, “What’s going on, officers?”

Detective Parker coughs. “Have you watched the news today, ma’am?”

She looks at me and then back at them. Mama nods. “Yes.” Her voice moves slow, panicked.

“Please just give us a call when your son comes back.”

Mama tries to catch her breath, like her thoughts are running marathons and she’s drained. “For what?”

“An anonymous tipster said your son was somehow involved with the events at the old Pic-A-Rag market.”

Mama shakes her head. “He was out working on a school project last night. That’s not true. It’s not true. He’s being falsely accused.”

“Ma’am, all people involved in what happened at that party are equally guilty. Just give us a call, please, when he’s returned.”

The detectives leave Mama with a business card, and then they’re on their way, back to wherever they came from. Perhaps some mountain, highly elevated above Sterling Point, where they can sit on their porches and overlook the entire city, taking notes and keeping track of all the boys and girls who are stuck in the hood, waiting to get in their way when they try to get out.

It’s not like Tyler to just disappear. He’s full of surprises, and we haven’t been as close lately, but this is something he’d never do. I want to fucking cry, but I swallow and blink the tears away. I can sugarcoat and decorate my thoughts in any way I want to feel better, but nothing will help because my brother is fucking missing.

Mama waits, stunned, with the door wide open before she slams it shut and comes after me, rage and terror beaming from every inch of her.

“That boy is dead,” she puffs out, reaching for her carton of cigarettes. “Go and get him from wherever he’s hiding. I’m getting my belt ready. I’mma beat that boy into another country.”

All I want to say to Mama is Keep calm. He’s innocent until proven guilty. But no words come out.

And the guilt is all over me, wrapped around me like a human-sized condom with no mouth hole.

I go to my room to grab my sneakers, but in the hall, I stop in front of Tyler’s room. All I see is his bedspread draped on the floor and a window cracked, with a row of half-drunk Gatorades on the ledge. There’s a breeze from the window that tickles the side of my face, and I can feel the panic boil my blood more than before.

Two dead and three severely injured. Remembering the newscaster’s words sends chills up my spine, and I pray to God that Tyler isn’t one of them. If anything, at this point, jail is better than being one of the dead or injured. I can’t get my stomach to simmer and settle down. Tyler is missing. Tyler is missing. Tyler is fucking missing.





? 9 ?


I take a deep breath and wipe my eyes and send Ivy and G-mo a text asking them to meet me in the park, and I get instant replies saying they’ll see me there.

The park is really just a fenced-in sandbox with a basketball court around the block from Sojo High. There’s a convenience store across the street, so it’s also the place where the employees take their smoke breaks. The park has an illustrious history. First, it’s where Ivy was conceived. Second, it’s where a famous graffiti artist once took his life after going through a difficult divorce—one that he really wasn’t prepared for since he was an alleged hard-core nine-to-fiver who spent too much time drinking and gambling in alleyways. And finally, it’s also where I met Ivy and G-mo. So, all this is to say that the park is our place.

As I pedal, I replay Dad’s most recent letter in my mind, because it is essential for me to not have a nervous breakdown, and the wind knocks me into gear, pushing me faster along the holey sidewalk, while the sun bakes me to a crisp, my T-shirt sticking to my back like papier-maché paste.


DATE: SEPTEMBER 23, 2018

TO: MARVIN D. JOHNSON (MY SON)

FROM: JAMAL P. JOHNSON

PRISON NUMBER: 2076-14-5555

MESSAGE:

Son,

It’s Daddy.

You ever feel like a superhero? Sure you have. I know what it means to be Superman now. What sucks is, like most superheroes, people will always think you’re a villain—the bad guy—when you think you’re being a hero. I bet you’d be a supercool superhero. Who would you want to be? Black Batman? Then I could be Black Robin, and we could be a team of black heroic villains all the time, conquering the world.

I see now why they take away your shoelaces and belts and stuff when you get here. I thought it was so they could still hold something over you, so they could take away your dignity. No. It’s so you can’t kill yourself no matter how bad it is, no matter how bad you feel. I guess making you live is part of the punishment.

It’s funny and sad to say this, but when I sit around in the courtroom, it feels like I am free, even though I am not. I feel like the lawyers and the judge and everyone are doing a job that involves me, but I am not involved. It’s only when they drag me back to my prison cell that they remind me that I am involved and that I am the devil.