didn’t see any. As far as police presence was concerned, I was it.
Etta Mae Tompkins’s house was small but tidy-looking, with a well-kept fenced front yard. A few traces of the earlier tragedy were still visible. A scrap of yellow police tape lingered on a gatepost. When I stepped onto the porch, I could see that someone had gone to the effort of trying to scrub the fingerprint dust off the door frame, but a practiced eye could still see grubby gray traces marring the otherwise white trim around the doorbell. A mop and bucket filled with dingy reddish water reeking of Pine-Sol sat next to the doorway. The screen door was closed, but the inside door stood slightly ajar. As I raised my finger toward the bell, I heard the sound of a female voice coming from inside.
“I know he was important to you and your people, PastorMark, and you’re welcome to have whatever kind of memorial service for Shawny you like,” the woman was saying. “And if I can get a ride, you can bet I’ll be there. But the funeral is mine, and that’s final. It don’t matter what LaShawn would or wouldn’t have wanted, neither. He’s dead, you understand me? LaShawn is dead and gone and he gets no say in the matter. Oh, you’re right. King Street Mission was his place and all, but it’s not my place. Funerals is for the living. Bible Baptist is my church, with my pastor and my people. That’s where I’m having it, and that’s final!”
A man spoke then. I couldn’t make out the individual words, but his tone sounded conciliatory.
Just then a second white van pulled up outside the little house’s front gate and parked just behind the first. A magnetic sign affixed to the van’s door announced: meals-on-wheels. A tall black man with a bald head and amazingly wide shoulders stepped out. Then he reached back inside and lifted a small cooler out of the backseat. Excusing himself, he shouldered past me on the front porch, pulled open the screen door, and stepped inside.
“It’s me, Etta Mae,” he called. “Mr. Dawson with Meals-on-Wheels. I’m here with your food.”
“Come on in, Mr. Dawson,” she replied. “You know the way. Janie, Mr. Dawson’s here from Meals-on-Wheels. Could you help him put it away?”
Janie, I surmised, was likely to be Etta Mae Tompkins’s longtime neighbor, the one Maxwell Cole had interviewed. Obviously this was a very full house. It seemed to me one more uninvited guest probably wouldn’t make much difference. After only a moment’s hesitation, I followed Mr. Dawson inside.
The small entryway also reeked of Pine-Sol. I wondered ifPastor Mark’s most likely unanticipated arrival had interrupted someone intent on the grim task of trying to erase from his mother’s walls and floors the bloody evidence of LaShawn’s untimely passing. Dried blood isn’t easy to remove, however, and subtle remnants of stains and splatters still lingered. I guessed that it would take new plaster, paint, and tile to do the job completely. A framed poster depicting Jesus in His crown of thorns hung on the wall next to the door. Real blood now marred the printed surface, meaning that would have to be replaced as well.
Beyond the entryway I could see a white man with long, flowing gray locks. He seemed to be in full retreat. “I’ll be going, then,” the man I assumed to be Pastor Mark said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“And I’m sorry for yours,” Etta Mae conceded. “I know Shawny was a big help to you.”
As Pastor Mark made for the door, I had to step into the living room in order to allow him to pass. I knew I’d need to interview Pastor Mark eventually, but now was not the time.
The living room was tiny, just big enough for two chairs. Between them was an occasional table with a single lamp. A small color TV set with no sound sat perched on top of an old-fashioned and apparently dead console set. And that was all. A large black woman with a halo of wiry gray hair was seated in one chair with a
Etta Mae Tompkins’s house was small but tidy-looking, with a well-kept fenced front yard. A few traces of the earlier tragedy were still visible. A scrap of yellow police tape lingered on a gatepost. When I stepped onto the porch, I could see that someone had gone to the effort of trying to scrub the fingerprint dust off the door frame, but a practiced eye could still see grubby gray traces marring the otherwise white trim around the doorbell. A mop and bucket filled with dingy reddish water reeking of Pine-Sol sat next to the doorway. The screen door was closed, but the inside door stood slightly ajar. As I raised my finger toward the bell, I heard the sound of a female voice coming from inside.
“I know he was important to you and your people, PastorMark, and you’re welcome to have whatever kind of memorial service for Shawny you like,” the woman was saying. “And if I can get a ride, you can bet I’ll be there. But the funeral is mine, and that’s final. It don’t matter what LaShawn would or wouldn’t have wanted, neither. He’s dead, you understand me? LaShawn is dead and gone and he gets no say in the matter. Oh, you’re right. King Street Mission was his place and all, but it’s not my place. Funerals is for the living. Bible Baptist is my church, with my pastor and my people. That’s where I’m having it, and that’s final!”
A man spoke then. I couldn’t make out the individual words, but his tone sounded conciliatory.
Just then a second white van pulled up outside the little house’s front gate and parked just behind the first. A magnetic sign affixed to the van’s door announced: meals-on-wheels. A tall black man with a bald head and amazingly wide shoulders stepped out. Then he reached back inside and lifted a small cooler out of the backseat. Excusing himself, he shouldered past me on the front porch, pulled open the screen door, and stepped inside.
“It’s me, Etta Mae,” he called. “Mr. Dawson with Meals-on-Wheels. I’m here with your food.”
“Come on in, Mr. Dawson,” she replied. “You know the way. Janie, Mr. Dawson’s here from Meals-on-Wheels. Could you help him put it away?”
Janie, I surmised, was likely to be Etta Mae Tompkins’s longtime neighbor, the one Maxwell Cole had interviewed. Obviously this was a very full house. It seemed to me one more uninvited guest probably wouldn’t make much difference. After only a moment’s hesitation, I followed Mr. Dawson inside.
The small entryway also reeked of Pine-Sol. I wondered ifPastor Mark’s most likely unanticipated arrival had interrupted someone intent on the grim task of trying to erase from his mother’s walls and floors the bloody evidence of LaShawn’s untimely passing. Dried blood isn’t easy to remove, however, and subtle remnants of stains and splatters still lingered. I guessed that it would take new plaster, paint, and tile to do the job completely. A framed poster depicting Jesus in His crown of thorns hung on the wall next to the door. Real blood now marred the printed surface, meaning that would have to be replaced as well.
Beyond the entryway I could see a white man with long, flowing gray locks. He seemed to be in full retreat. “I’ll be going, then,” the man I assumed to be Pastor Mark said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“And I’m sorry for yours,” Etta Mae conceded. “I know Shawny was a big help to you.”
As Pastor Mark made for the door, I had to step into the living room in order to allow him to pass. I knew I’d need to interview Pastor Mark eventually, but now was not the time.
The living room was tiny, just big enough for two chairs. Between them was an occasional table with a single lamp. A small color TV set with no sound sat perched on top of an old-fashioned and apparently dead console set. And that was all. A large black woman with a halo of wiry gray hair was seated in one chair with a
Similar Books
