Authors: Fha User
Craig gone, who would look out for her now? Who would nag her about
closing those garage doors? Who would change the oil in her car if she
needed it done or repair all the little things that needed doing when you own
a home?
While these questions flitted through his mind, something flickered in his
peripheral vision. To his right sat the broken mower Craig was supposed to
look at. Among the rusty red paint, some of its newer parts stood out and a
few silver bolts, nuts and rubber pieces lay near it, twinkling and shiny in the
bright afternoon sunlight.
Damn Craig, why didn’t you let me go with you this morning? Maybe, if
I’d been there I might have been able to help.
He didn’t finish that thought, realizing he could sit here all day and do the
“What ifs.” What good did that do now? Clayton quickly brushed those
thoughts aside, got out of the car and walked up to the front porch.
The woman was too trusting by far. Her front door stood wide open and
through the screen door he could see straight through the house. From this
vantage point he could see down the dimly lit hallway, and beyond that he
could see the kitchen. Sliding glass doors stood open to catch the afternoon
breeze. His dark glasses warded off the blinding sunlight overhead as he
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looked heavenward and took in a fortifying breath. Looking down again at
his feet, what he was wearing suddenly dawned on him.
“Damn, I should have changed. Changed to what? What does a person
wear when delivering bad news like this? Certainly not worn out, beat-up
sandals or bright orange and blue swim trucks.
To make matters worse, he was bare-chested under an old denim shirt,
which had lost its buttons in the laundry years ago. Well, he thought, it was
too late to change any of that now, and pressed the doorbell. When he did
this, his left arm brushed against the screen door by accident, and it swung
open.
It was open
.
Taking off his dark glasses, Clay placed them in his shirt pocket and peered
into the darkened house for signs of life. He pressed the doorbell again and
tried to push the screen door closed, but it popped open again. In addition to
the mower, it appeared the screen door also needed repair. There were a
number of small, but important, repairs to be made around this house.
Standing there looking around, he wondered who would do them. He
mashed the doorbell again, and this time he heard a feminine voice come
from somewhere within the house.
“Craig is that you?” he heard her call out. “Come on in honey, I’m just
getting ready for work, I’ll be down in a minute.”
Clay didn’t respond. He slowly entered the front entry hall and pulled the
screen closed behind him. There was a staircase on the right as you entered
the house, leading upstairs. The sound of running water could be heard up
there. The living room was directly to his left and beyond that the formal
dining room. In front of him, and at the end of the hall, was the kitchen. A
kitchen table sat in the middle of the floor and beyond the table, bright
yellow curtains framed a window above the sink. The curtains billowed in
and out on the afternoon breeze.
As he waited, his body reacted to the unpleasant task he was about to face.
A lump the size of a golf ball lodged itself in his throat and his hands shook.
Thinking hard, Clayton realized he didn’t know how in the world he was
going to do this.
24
FOUR
Upstairs, Vivian Simpson ran her hands through curly, dark auburn locks.
Her no-nonsense hairstyle was shoulder length and required very little
attention, which was just the way she liked it. Although she was too busy to
fuss with her own hair, Vi took pride in making sure everyone walking into
her salon walked out with spectacular hair.
She was an attractive woman with expressive light brown eyes. She also
possessed a pretty good figure for having had three kids, working out and
keeping fit because it made her feel good, not so much to attract any man.
Besides, between work and the kids, she was way too busy to think about
men. After applying a small amount of lipstick, Vi smooched her lips
together and peered into the mirror. Satisfied with her reflection, she turned
off the faucet and wiped her hands on a nearby towel. Blessed with flawless
skin, she’d never worn makeup over her coffee with extra, extra cream
complexion.
Just before leaving the bathroom, Vi pumped a dollop of hand crème into
her palm, switched off the light and walked through her bedroom. As she
zipped down the stairs, working the lotion into her hands, she was brought up
short. Vi was expecting Craig to be downstairs. He’d promised to look at
the lawnmower today, so she wouldn’t have to call the landscaper this
weekend. When she saw it wasn’t Craig, but his roommate and partner,
Clayton Marshall, standing in her living room, she was momentarily
confused.
“Hello, Mrs. Simpson.”
“Oh, hello Clayton I wasn’t expecting Craig to drag you over here to help
with this chore, but I guess he needed reinforcements. So, where is he
anyway?” She inquired and gave him a bright smile. Not waiting for his
answer, she turned away from him and picked up her purse from the desk in
the hall.
“I’m sorry to cut into your afternoon like this. I know you guys planned to
go down to the shore today. I’m just on my way to work, but if Craig wants,
he can take a look at it. If it looks like it will be too involved, it’ll keep till
tomorrow.”
Rummaging around in her purse for her car keys, she turned around to face
him and continued to have a one-sided conversation. Glancing at him, she
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noted his appearance. He wore bright floral swim trunks and an open,
tattered denim shirt. Dark glasses hung from the front pocket of his shirt. He
and Craig were about the same height, she noted, but Clayton was broader in
the shoulders, more muscular and mature looking than her son’s tall, lanky
swimmer’s physique. Also, much fairer than Craig, she supposed his clean-
shaven head and equally clean-shaven jaw managed to turn many female
heads. When Craig moved out and decided to be roommates with this man,
who was seven years older than him, Vi thought surely it would not last.
However, she’d been dead wrong. Over the past four years, Craig and
Clayton had lived together, worked together and become very good friends.
Clayton was so much a part of her son’s life that everyone knew him and
treated him like part of the family at their gatherings.
While all these thoughts ran swiftly through her mind, she glanced at her
watch. Absently, she realized, she was probably going to be late for work.
Not giving it too much thought, she continued to search for her keys. Her
sister, Cynthia, normally got in early and could easily open up. Shortly after
Vi opened the salon several years back, she had asked Cynthia to join her.
Cynthia was good with figures and handled all the books and financial
aspects of the business. Although, she’d gone to school and knew how to run
the business end just as well as Cynthia, Vi enjoyed the people side of her
business and stayed active ensuring her customers were totally satisfied with
each visit. In addition to Cynthia, Vi considered her small staff, Andre,
Nicole and Liana, some of the best stylists in the business.
Finally locating the keys in her purse, Vi pulled them out and swung them
triumphantly in the air. It wasn’t until she was ready to leave that she
noticed for the first time that Clayton hadn’t spoken a word, since he greeted
her and she’d come downstairs. Studying him closely now, she saw that his
eyes were red and his mouth was pulled into a tight, grim line.
“Clayton, what is it? Is Craig with you?” she inquired, looking past him
now. When she took a step toward him, he swallowed hard, his Adams apple
bobbing up and down in his throat.
“Mrs. Simpson,” he started and then fell silent. The only noise came from
a radio playing faintly somewhere at the back of the house. Vi became
instantly concerned, she knew things about this young man that he didn’t
know she knew. She knew about his awful childhood and how his parents
treated him as if they wished he’d never been born. Craig was very quick to
tell her Clay was very proud and refused to let his past color his future. It
was why her son admired this man so much. His strength and conviction to
turn his life around is what made him a good cop, one who was respected by
all his fellow officers. Vi welcomed Clayton into her home and invited him
to every family gathering they had because she knew he had no one. Just last
week when she called Craig’s apartment, he was out and Clayton picked up.
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Just before she hung up, she automatically invited him to the upcoming
Fourth of July BBQ. He’d thanked her and said he’d be there if he didn’t
have to work. Although, she really didn’t know him well, it was obvious
something was bothering him. Tentatively, Vi reached out and touched his
forearm in concern.
“Clayton,” she said, “do you need to talk?”
Clearing his throat twice, Clayton tried to dislodge the lump threatening to
close his windpipe. Forcefully, he cleared it on the third try and reached out
to capture both her hands within his own. The rose-scented lotion she rubbed
on her hands only moments ago teased his nostrils. Instead of feeling
slippery, he noted the hands he held were soft and small within his grip.
“Mrs. Simpson, something terrible has happened,” he finally said.
Searching her face, Clayton quickly decided the only way to get through this
was to just say it.
“There was a robbery this morning. Craig was caught in the middle of it
and got shot.”
“Craig’s been shot? How bad is it? Please, Clayton, take me to him.” Her
eyes registered instant alarm and she tried to dislodge her hands from his and
move toward the front door. But, instead of releasing her hands, he gripped
them tighter. She looked up at him and the confusion he saw in her eyes
made him swear viciously.
Dammit, she didn’t understand. After all the thought he put into this, he
hadn’t explained himself properly!
“Mrs. Simpson, I can’t take you to him. He…he’s dead.”
Two seconds. Three seconds. Five seconds ticked by. She continued to
stare at him as if he’d grown three heads.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
For the longest time she didn’t move, didn’t speak. Then, he felt the first
tremor when it hit. Her small hands, still clasped in his, began to shake as
the shock waves entered her body. Finally, she snatched both her hands out
of his grasp and covered her mouth. She stared at him, her eyes filling up,
glistening with unshed tears. He watched their light brown, gold-flecked
color change to a dark burnished gold, as the tears began to fall.
“Craig?” She uttered in a squeaky whisper of disbelief.
Clay began to ramble, running through what happened as if the hounds of
hell were nipping at his heels.
“He was on his way over here, when he stopped off to take care of some
errands. We think he walked in on a convenience store robbery. He was
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off duty, so he didn’t have his gun on him, but he never would have had a
chance to use it if he did. The gunman must have panicked when he came
in.”
“
Ohmigod.”
Her hands dropped slowly to her sides and clutched at the denim skirt she
was wearing, bunching the material tightly in her fists. She stared at him
wide eyed, before crying out.
“No! Nooooooo! Not Craig! Oh, please not Craig!”
Uncontrollable spasms replaced her normal breathing. Her right hand flew
up and she splayed her fingers across her chest, as if that gesture could seal
the hole that this mess was ripping through her heart. Suddenly, her body
began to jerk and her mouth dropped open, but nothing came out.
Clayton caught her in his arms just as her knees buckled. She fell hard
against his chest and he felt his sunglasses scrape painfully across his chest
on impact. Yanking them out of his pocket, he flung them across the room
and his arms tightened around her, as she slid toward the floor. He held onto