This Is My America(17)
I take deep breaths, swallowing up the panic that’s racing to my brain. I try and push down the memories of the time they came for Daddy. Thank God Corinne wasn’t born yet. She didn’t have to see him dragged by his neck through the house by police. I screamed nonstop when Jamal opened the door and the cops pushed him aside. They rushed Daddy, threw him on the ground, and shoved a knee in his back.
Daddy told me he wanted to lie still, but your body does the opposite. Survival. Someone’s holding you down, you want to ask why, yell out in pain. They beat his head down, expecting with each punch he was supposed to take it in silence. Each cry he made, they hit him harder until he shut his mouth and they cuffed him.
Mama was stuck between fighting for Daddy, holding on to her pregnant belly, and keeping me calm. My scream ricocheted in the background as they read his rights, accusing him of murdering Mr. and Mrs. Davidson.
Corinne never held that memory, but I know she feels it in everything we breathe. It’s in the polite nods across the street we have to make, the way our family turns down our music when there are others around. Say yes ma’am and no sir. Leave our jackets and backpacks in the car when we go shopping.
It’s in the way I carry myself that tells our story now. I can’t risk being accused of anything. Because if something goes wrong or missing, I know it’s in the back of someone’s mind that maybe I had something to do with it. And it’s in the way that the voice of the strongest woman I know stumbles when saying, “Hello, Officer” as she walks through the visitation gates to see Daddy.
Only recently has it been cemented in my mind and made clear that acting civil, being deferential, doesn’t matter. It’s like Mama has always said: Black lives don’t matter enough to them. That evidence is live and in color, on every news channel in America.
I’m snapped back to the present as they yell, “Police! Open up!”
Mama goes for the door.
“Mama, no,” I say. “Not until we see they have a warrant.”
“Baby, no. This ain’t a workshop. This is real life. Look at Corinne.”
Corinne is shaking, terrified on the steps.
Mama pushes me behind her, then cinches her robe’s belt and loosens the chain lock, before cracking the door open. A flood of blue and red lights streams through the house, and then a bright light flashes in Mama’s face. She steps back and blocks it with her hand. When she does this, she’s shoved back by the sheriff, John Brighton, pushing the door open more, gun drawn. His face is stern, red-fleshed around his neck. He has the same strawberry-blond hair, like an older version of his son, Chris—shorter, but with a matching body type, more fluff than muscle. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was frightened.
We should be the ones who are afraid, not him.
“We’re here to take in Jamal Beaumont, ma’am.” He shoves a warrant in front of us.
I suck in my teeth. All my training to review the warrant slips my mind as fear snakes up my legs and freezes me from moving. I look up to Jamal’s room. Behind my shoulder, his door slowly opens to a crack. I’m reminded of his odd behavior. Jamal must’ve gotten into a fight. I look to Corinne, praying she won’t cry out for Jamal on the stairs.
With my arms folded, I finally settle my list of what I should be doing as I make eye contact with Jamal. I only see a sliver of him, but it’s like I can read his mind. That thing that siblings always have ingrained in their DNA—never rat on each other—lips sealed. The blood I saw tonight will never be mentioned. They wouldn’t wait for his side of the story.
I step in front of Mama, making sure to only keep the door ajar. Mama digs her nails into my skin accidentally. It helps me focus on staying silent. If I’m calm, Mama will be, too.
“Let me review the warrant, please.” I take the warrant from Sheriff Brighton’s hand, but I’m not fully reading it. I’m stalling.
The house creaks as Jamal scuffles around in his room. The rusty glide of his bedroom window opening sends prickles down my spine. Mostly sounds I’ve gotten used to when he comes home by curfew, only to scoot out the window to stay out later. I’m not sure if I’m thinking it, but I swear there’s another thump outside.
In my head, I imagine Jamal jumping off the roof and sprinting away. I keep my face stone-cold. Because no matter what my brother might’ve done, I’m not gonna let them take him away from us.
With every delay, it’s another second for Jamal to escape. I will him to get to the river trail and up through the hills, running the route he takes every day to train during track season. He knows every nook and cranny in the dark because we’ve played hide-and-seek in the woods for years, and my brother is a master at it. I pray the sheriff doesn’t have tracking dogs and Jamal can cut through the woods to the other side of the highway and catch a bus.
“It’s late, Sheriff,” Mama says behind me. “Come back tomorrow.”
“Get your boy.” Sheriff Brighton’s voice has the same sharp bite to it as his son’s.
Behind the sheriff, a squadful of cars are parked outside our house. Some cops are posted by the cars, others putting protective gear on.
“What the hell,” I whisper under my breath.
Mama’s back is as rigid as a board as Corinne joins us in the entryway. I don’t know what to do, because the warrant looks legit. I want to run to Corinne, to be by her side and block them from Jamal, but I know it won’t make a difference. Corinne’s weight pulls on me. I know it’s more important to keep her away. Keep her safe.