This Is My America(62)

When the police arrive, Mama waits by the door. Shaking. I meet her, wrapping my arms around her waist. I know she’s doing the same as me—putting her armor back on. I gaze up at her, then quickly look away. It hurts to see her forcing herself to be strong. Especially when Mrs. Evans was allowed to fall apart. Allowed to be human.

When I’m ready, I force myself to study Mama, because I need to learn that strength so I can pass it down, like a family recipe. An heirloom. A curse.



The officers walk toward us, black smoke and kindles of fire crackling behind them. Officer Clyde takes off his hat. I haven’t heard from him since my call earlier. He’s joined by two more officers and the firefighter crew. Beverly stands off to the side, her eyes huge. She pulls herself together and joins us. Relief pours through me.

“Ma’am,” Officer Clyde says with a sullen demeanor before he shakes Mama’s hand and introduces himself again.

“Officer Clyde.” Mama pauses. “Beverly.”

Bev’s face doesn’t show an immediate expression, but there’s a dazed look in her eye when she turns to the cross.

“We’ll take the cross down as soon as we can, Mrs. Beaumont,” Beverly says.

“Thank you, Bev,” Mama says. “How’s your mama doing?”

“She’s doing good, ma’am. I’ll tell her you asked about her.”

“Please do. Get the word out to the church and folks in Crowning Heights,” Mama says firmly. It’s code for “the Black community better meet about this.” I already have a plan formed on getting the word out tonight.

I can understand those who stayed away from us because of the criminal cases we were dealing with, but a cross burning is serious business. One that holds stories of blood and death. We should all be worried.



“Tell me, boy, does trouble always follow you?” Officer Clyde says to Steve. “You’re new to town, correct?”

“Stephen Jones,” Steve checks him. “I haven’t been called a boy since I was ten years old.” He says boy with a little smile, but the veins in his throat are pulled tight. He’s pissed. Calling a Black man a boy has its own racist history and connotation. Steve ain’t having it. “And no, I’m not from around here.”

I study Officer Clyde. If he’s comfortable saying “boy” to Steve, then he won’t be helpful tonight or with Richard Brighton.

“Stephen,” Officer Clyde corrects himself. “Sorry about that. I thought that Stephen Jones was an old lawyer in the South.”

“My father.”

Mrs. Evans stands alongside us, but it’s like she’s not here. Like fear struck her the moment she dropped to the dining room floor. She’s shook in a different way from us.

Perhaps because she’s never had to walk in fear. Every day my senses are on alert, expecting something to happen. Sure, I’m shaken. Scared. Never imagined something like this could happen so close to home. But deep down this feeling is familiar. It runs through my veins, the blood from every generation before me passing down this fear, coded into my DNA.

Mrs. Evans tugs at her shirt like she’s about to have a heart attack. I know she needs help right now, but I don’t have sympathy for her. All of this is happening to my family. Not hers.



I nudge Dean, steer his attention to his mom. He goes to her and whispers in her ear. She looks out at the shattered glass like he’s not there. But he’s able to get her to sit down.

“What are we going to do about this?” Mr. Evans asks. “We can’t have people living in fear. This town is better than that.” He rubs his beard and shoots a meaningful glance at Mrs. Evans when he notices she’s seated on the porch.

I wonder what this will do to Steve’s office space.

“You’re right,” Mama says. “We should keep this quiet till we know more.”

“We’re not keeping quiet,” I say. “We need a community meeting. To keep people safe.”

I think Mama is about to protest, but she doesn’t.

“We’ll keep watch,” Officer Clyde says.

I point toward the police car. “You’ve been here up until tonight. What’s that all about?”

“Tracy,” Mama says.

“That’s quite all right,” Officer Clyde says. “Whoever did this must’ve been watching for an opportunity.”

“Why pull back in the first place?” Steve asks.

“It’s been two weeks. We don’t have the manpower to keep a detail here forever. Best bet if Jamal comes home, and you fine people encourage that b—” He pauses. “You encourage that young man of yours to turn himself in.”



“My brother wouldn’t hurt anyone,” I say.

“That’s what court cases are for,” Officer Clyde says. “Running don’t point to innocence, if you ask me.”

“Nobody—” I say.

“Let’s focus on their safety,” Steve says. “This is a serious threat to the Beaumont family.”

Officer Clyde studies Beverly, who’s inspecting the smoldering wooden cross. The note is now placed in a clear plastic evidence bag. Beverly takes a few photos. The irony of a cross being used for such a disgusting act sickens me.