This Is My America(59)

I close my eyes to picture him in the police station. Then our interaction in the grocery. The hate in his eyes was the same. My breathing gets labored. I suck in air to calm myself, but my panic grows.

I don’t forget a face. Spent my whole life observing everything around me. It was him. I didn’t catch it before because he was so far away, his sunglasses and hat covering his eyes.

I race to Jamal’s car, dumping my groceries in the back, then lock the doors. I scroll through my phone, searching the Liberty Heritage for a New America staff directory. I find a Richard Brighton. Google his name. His image is as clear as day. Brother to Sheriff Brighton.

I check my other phone, not having heard from Jamal recently. At a stoplight, I blow up his phone with desperate texts. With the hot, dusty air outside rushing in through the open windows, I feel like I’m riding in our evacuation bus all over again. I shut the windows because I don’t want those memories to chase me home.





GUESS WHO’S COMING

TO DINNER?

Promptly at six, the doorbell rings. I loosen my two-twist strands before opening the door. Mama insisted I wear a summer dress. Corinne, too, although we couldn’t stop her from wearing her favorite cowboy boots. I force a smile at the door so any evidence that I was terrified earlier disappears. But inside I’m spinning, each move I made today still bouncing in me like a pinball looking for a safe place to land.

Three smiling faces greet me: Steve, Dean, and Mr. Evans. Followed by a sullen Mrs. Evans. Dean towers over them all, wearing my favorite blue-checkered shirt, the one I got him for his birthday. Mr. Evans lets them enter first, his arm around Mrs. Evans. More pushing her in than ushering.

“Welcome,” Mama calls out from the stairs, dressed nicely, like she hasn’t been on her feet, cooking. She greets everyone with smiles but gives Mrs. Evans an extra-long hug.



“All right, all right. I told you I was coming, Lillian.” Mrs. Evans laughs. “I’m not going anywhere, so you can stop hugging me.”

Mama has that way about her. She claims her cooking is her visible weapon—praying’s the invisible one.

I immediately glance over at Dean, who gives me a half-cocked fake smile that lets me know it was an ordeal getting here.

“Who is this young lady?” Dean says over my shoulder. Corinne’s playing shy at the bottom of the stairs.

“It’s me, silly.” Corinne gives a bashful laugh.

“You clean up well, little sis.” Dean picks her up for a hug.

At the table, Mama leads us in grace. All heads bowed and thankful at a break from everything causing pain. Mama’s cooked a traditional New Orleans meal. In the middle of the table is a mound of boiled crawfish, with corn and potatoes. She overdid the crawfish because it’s the last of the season. Then red beans and rice, corn muffins, and okra. Plates pass around, a miracle the way it washes away fear from earlier.

Steve’s laughing, talking, shoving food into his mouth and sucking down crawfish. As dinner goes on, though, you can tell he’s fading away.

“I should’ve had you over sooner. Not like me at all.” Mama smiles, but it’s a heavy one. Weighted. Painful. Steve’s sitting in Jamal’s seat after all.

“Understandable. I went right to work on the case. Barely had time for anything else. Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Evans, for the use of the office space,” Steve says. “I can do some real work there.”



“What exactly are you doing?” Mrs. Evans dabs her napkin at her mouth before placing it on the table.

“Judy—” Mr. Evans places his hand over hers.

“I’d like to know. Because all I see is trouble. We’ve never had break-ins before.”

“That’s not Steve’s fault,” Mr. Evans says. “We talked about this.”

“I don’t mean any trouble.” Steve waves his hands. “I’m doing my job.”

“I didn’t have y’all over here to argue with each other.” Mama puts her hand on the table. “Let’s not start a war before we even have dessert.”

“I don’t mean to disrespect your home,” Mrs. Evans says. “But since he’s here, I want to know more about this business that’s going on upstairs, from Mr. Jones himself. There’s a difference between someone who might mean well with their social justice interests and actually having proper legal training.”

“I can assure you, my Harvard law education and my work for my father’s legal clinic, Innocence X, have given me the adequate skills to take on this case.” Steve sits up and covers his chuckle at her knowing so little about his background.

“I, uh—” Mrs. Evans hesitates.

“I don’t intend on causing trouble, but some people don’t want me to be successful. We’re a nonprofit with highly trained lawyers; we work for people without the funds to successfully support their cases. I believe every person has the right to a fair trial, regardless of income.”



“That’s all fine.” Mrs. Evans’s face turns a shade of red. “I’m not saying I disagree, but sometimes organizations like yours stir up problems. Like all those anti-cop workshops Tracy does. People get riled up, making nothing into something, and I don’t need to have my family mixed up in that.”