Read Online Of Blood and Sorrow by Valerie Wilson Wesley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Valerie Wilson Wesley
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son?” The young one shot his question out, his eyes recording everything that flitted across my face.
“When I took him to school this morning,” I lied with everything I had.
Coates gave me his card. “Please call us when your son gets home tonight. He may have witnessed the murder or seen the killer.”
“Or had something to do with the crime,” the rookie added.
SIX
W
HERE IS MY SON ?
I drove around the block like a crazy woman, then parked on a parallel street and waited to see if the cops were still there. I was shaking so hard, I couldn’t dial my boy’s cell number. Finally, I did and there was no answer, of course. I called the house again, hoping he had snuck in without my knowing it or fallen asleep, and when nobody answered, I sat there like a fool listening to my own voice telling me I wasn’t home.
Where the hell did he go?
In case the two cops were still lurking around, I grabbed a dirty raincoat I’d stuffed in my trunk, walked around the block, then snuck in through my back door like a thief, hoping my neighbors wouldn’t call the police.
“Jamal!” I wailed, even though I knew he wasn’t there. I ran into his room, then stood in the middle of the floor trying to calm myself down. He must have left something, somewhere. I turned on the light and sank down on the bed trying to remember what was in its place and what was missing. The Nets backpack Jake had bought him last fall was on the back of the chair where he always hung it. I rifled through it, not sure what I was looking for, and found nothing. A sheet of homework had fallen on the floor next to the chair with yesterday’s date on it. Had he even gone to school today? Had he gone and come back? Hotshot PI couldn’t find her own kid.
The bed was neatly made. Late-rising Jamal never had time to make it in the morning; usually, he pulled the sheets up right before he climbed into bed at night. The sheet and blanket were tucked in tight, hospital cornered like my brother had taught me to do, like I had taught Jamal.
What were the last words I said to him?
Stay mad. I love you anyway.
Would they haunt me forever?
I searched his closet, frantically tossing clothes on the floor, looking for nothing and everything. Sneakers. (More pairs than he’d need in a decade.) T-shirts. (Where the hell did these wife-beaters come from?) A month’s worth of dirty drawers and socks stuffed in a pillowcase. (How had I raised such a pig?) I smiled at that, then cried, then made myself focus again.
What was missing?
Dress slacks, the beautiful sweater I’d bought him last fall. Remembering how he loved it brought more tears. But why had he taken it in the middle of the summer? What had he been thinking?
I went through the top of his closet searching for his duffel bag, the one I’d ordered from L.L. Bean when he’d gone to that computer camp, the one with his initials embroidered on it, the one I couldn’t find. The cops hadn’t said what they’d found in Lilah’s car, but that had to be it. It had two sets of labels—name, address, telephone number on them—when I’d sent him off to camp, every bit of information a person would need to find him.
If you want to live with your jackass of a father, then go right ahead and do it!
I called DeWayne, but there was no answer, so I left a message at his home and on his cell phone, telling him to call me back. He occasionally traveled during the week, so I wasn’t surprised he wasn’t home. He was also of that generation that left their cell phones off. Eventually, he’d check for messages. I didn’t say why I’d called, that Jamal wasn’t here. I didn’t want to hear his mouth about the way I was raising his son.
Damn him to hell!
Was he right?
I ran downstairs and snatched a list with the telephone numbers of Jamal’s friends off the refrigerator. I left messages for the boys I knew he hung with even though it wasn’t quite nine. No teenager worth the name would be home now.
“When I took him to school this morning,” I lied with everything I had.
Coates gave me his card. “Please call us when your son gets home tonight. He may have witnessed the murder or seen the killer.”
“Or had something to do with the crime,” the rookie added.
SIX
W
HERE IS MY SON ?
I drove around the block like a crazy woman, then parked on a parallel street and waited to see if the cops were still there. I was shaking so hard, I couldn’t dial my boy’s cell number. Finally, I did and there was no answer, of course. I called the house again, hoping he had snuck in without my knowing it or fallen asleep, and when nobody answered, I sat there like a fool listening to my own voice telling me I wasn’t home.
Where the hell did he go?
In case the two cops were still lurking around, I grabbed a dirty raincoat I’d stuffed in my trunk, walked around the block, then snuck in through my back door like a thief, hoping my neighbors wouldn’t call the police.
“Jamal!” I wailed, even though I knew he wasn’t there. I ran into his room, then stood in the middle of the floor trying to calm myself down. He must have left something, somewhere. I turned on the light and sank down on the bed trying to remember what was in its place and what was missing. The Nets backpack Jake had bought him last fall was on the back of the chair where he always hung it. I rifled through it, not sure what I was looking for, and found nothing. A sheet of homework had fallen on the floor next to the chair with yesterday’s date on it. Had he even gone to school today? Had he gone and come back? Hotshot PI couldn’t find her own kid.
The bed was neatly made. Late-rising Jamal never had time to make it in the morning; usually, he pulled the sheets up right before he climbed into bed at night. The sheet and blanket were tucked in tight, hospital cornered like my brother had taught me to do, like I had taught Jamal.
What were the last words I said to him?
Stay mad. I love you anyway.
Would they haunt me forever?
I searched his closet, frantically tossing clothes on the floor, looking for nothing and everything. Sneakers. (More pairs than he’d need in a decade.) T-shirts. (Where the hell did these wife-beaters come from?) A month’s worth of dirty drawers and socks stuffed in a pillowcase. (How had I raised such a pig?) I smiled at that, then cried, then made myself focus again.
What was missing?
Dress slacks, the beautiful sweater I’d bought him last fall. Remembering how he loved it brought more tears. But why had he taken it in the middle of the summer? What had he been thinking?
I went through the top of his closet searching for his duffel bag, the one I’d ordered from L.L. Bean when he’d gone to that computer camp, the one with his initials embroidered on it, the one I couldn’t find. The cops hadn’t said what they’d found in Lilah’s car, but that had to be it. It had two sets of labels—name, address, telephone number on them—when I’d sent him off to camp, every bit of information a person would need to find him.
If you want to live with your jackass of a father, then go right ahead and do it!
I called DeWayne, but there was no answer, so I left a message at his home and on his cell phone, telling him to call me back. He occasionally traveled during the week, so I wasn’t surprised he wasn’t home. He was also of that generation that left their cell phones off. Eventually, he’d check for messages. I didn’t say why I’d called, that Jamal wasn’t here. I didn’t want to hear his mouth about the way I was raising his son.
Damn him to hell!
Was he right?
I ran downstairs and snatched a list with the telephone numbers of Jamal’s friends off the refrigerator. I left messages for the boys I knew he hung with even though it wasn’t quite nine. No teenager worth the name would be home now.
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