This Is My America(63)

“You haven’t updated me about my break-in. This could be the same guy,” Steve says. “We should be worried someone might be coming after the Beaumonts.”

“He didn’t do this,” Officer Clyde says.

“How can you be certain?” I ask. “He could be dangerous.”

“Because he’s in our custody right now for questioning. Sheriff Brighton called him as soon as he got word that’s who we were looking for.”

Steve and I study each other. This must be news to Steve also.

“Is there a reason we weren’t called?” I ask.

“I planned to update you in the morning. Then when I received word about this”—Officer Clyde points at the cross—“I made sure to aid Officer Ridges.”

“If it wasn’t him,” Steve says, “we should be worried more people are involved.”



“This won’t happen again.” Officer Clyde puts his hat on as he gets closer to inspect the damage with Beverly.

“How can you promise that?” Mr. Evans asks.

“We don’t have Klan out here, probably some kids playing a joke—”

“This isn’t a joke,” I say. “You should check for prints. Look into this.”

“I plan to.” Beverly gives me a quick glance. “I’ve turned in Angela’s phone I found out by the Pike.”

I nod at the cover story she must have made up for me.

“There might be other suspects at least for a cross burning like this,” Beverly says.

The same suspects floated to me, knowing that Richard Brighton was under arrest but his minions were free to take action like this.

“I’ll take some nights watching the house.” Beverly walks toward us.

“Not sure if we have the budget for that.” Officer Clyde follows Beverly back to us.

“Seems to me you certainly had the budget to have someone watch the house for Jamal,” Steve says.

Officer Clyde takes his hat off again and puts it to his side.

“I’ll see if I can get overtime approved by the sheriff for tonight in case someone thinks about coming back. But you might want to stay away until things calm down.”

“Thank you, Officer Clyde,” Mama says.



Officer Clyde helps the firefighters put up the particle board we use during hurricanes over our broken window.

I take photos of the cross so I don’t feel helpless, then move closer to the windows, but I can’t get the image of the burning cross out of my mind. If it wasn’t Richard Brighton, then who?





TAKING CHANCES


The house is nearly silent by midnight. The only other sounds are the soft click of Steve on his computer before he shuts it down and goes upstairs to Jamal’s room. Mama’s letting him sleep here for the night. It took some planning after the police left, but Pastor Jenkins from church agreed to help lead a meeting tomorrow evening at the community center where I hold my workshops.

Dean and I pace by the large kitchen window, hiding behind its pitch-blackness. Instead of the smell of Mama’s kitchen, I’m overtaken by a damp, smoky smell that’s seeped through the broken window. A stain that will be more than charred black grass outside.

I check my cell, watch the online confirmations for tomorrow’s community meeting grow with each refresh. Hoping for a text from Jamal, but nothing. I send a few messages to Tasha, who’s freaking out. Then text Quincy last, because I know he’ll hear about it from Beverly.



I grab a glass of water at the sink, letting the water overrun before I notice how long I’ve been standing here.

My phone beeps and Dean glances over. Instinctually, I turn it over in case it’s Jamal. Just another text from Tasha.

Come stay at my house. Bring Corinne and your mama.

Maybe tomorrow. Steve Jones is staying in Jamal’s room. Bev is watching out.

This is scary. Stay safe.

I will. Love you.

Same.



I tuck my phone in my pocket. Dean eases his arms cautiously around my shoulders, resting his head on top of mine. The clock ticking in the background reminds me that Dean will have to leave soon. I’m at least grateful that the uneasy feeling that was churning inside me, the one that screamed in fear but was overpowered by the need to be brave, has finally calmed down, like a smooth ocean wave after high tide. Rocky and shaky, but softening up with each faltering wave.



Air catches on my neck from Dean’s even-patterned breathing as I sort through how to solve this all.

“When I saw Richard Brighton, I looked into his car while he was in another building. He had flyers recruiting white folks. Like he’s rallying a hate group. Then this cross burning. Hear anything more from school?”

“No. You know people don’t talk to me. Do you think Chris did this?”

“Who else? Before, when we didn’t know who Richard was, it was between him and Chris, but now that we know it’s his uncle, there’s no other obvious suspects.”

Dean takes another heavy breath, resting his chin on my shoulder now. “We won’t find out tonight. Don’t let it control you.”

Tears escape. They travel down my cheek, and it’s getting too difficult to breathe normally.

Dean holds me. He touches my face, tracing his thumbs down to my neck and then back along my cheek. I watch him, knowing I won’t have to speak. I don’t want him to pull away. He has a glint in his eye, watching me. Tears are now pouring out. His thumbs can’t keep up, so he stops. The next tear trails down my face, and Dean kisses it away, then another.