How It Went Down (14 page)

Big board of photographs: still, so still

Tariq:

STEVE CONNERS

I’m admittedly curious about the Tariq Johnson funeral coverage. It’s lunch hour, so I throw on sweats and power up the treadmill in my office suite. Flip on the news and start walking. Reverend Sloan headlines the press conference outside the church.

“Tariq Johnson’s death is inexcusable,”
he’s saying. His voice vibrates with intensity.
“Too many have struggled for too long to allow the justice system to ignore race-based violence.

“What Jack Franklin thought he saw, in his mind, justified taking lethal action—but what he saw was not the way things were. He didn’t take a second to think. This is action before thought, and he deserves to suffer the consequences.

“These allegations will not die, just because the police have chosen to release Franklin from custody. These allegations will not die just because authorities do not know Franklin’s current whereabouts. These allegations will be answered, and Jack Franklin must be held accountable.

I kick up the speed. Sloan speaks to the point well.

“The people of this community, the people of this nation will not rest until Jack Franklin is brought to justice for taking the life of one of our sons. Yet another of our boys has perished by the gun. Live by the gun, die by the gun they say. Well, Tariq Johnson had chosen not to live by the gun. Despite enormous social pressures to join a gang, to become a part of the destructive street culture that is eating through the hearts of our young people.”

The B-roll of the run-down section of Underhill where Johnson lived.

I haven’t been to Underhill in so long. I can’t put my finger on the last time. Maybe a few years ago, back when I would drive in to pick up Carla. But come to think of it, she usually just came to me.

From some things, it’s easier to avert your eyes.

The footage of the church shows all kinds of people coming and going. Leather-clad gang members, community leaders, young parents with small children in tow. The gang boys throw up signs and fists, looking tough and projecting a sense of power. There are all kinds of power—gang-type violent authority, sports type physical prowess and social prestige, material wealth and economic dominance, power that comes from leadership, or intellect/scholarship/knowledge. It’s what you buy into, in a sense. The kind of power you seek depends on your worldview—what is necessary to survive, and what is most important.

When I was young, I knew I could be anything. My skin wasn’t going to hold me back. Will doesn’t have that feeling, and all I’ve been trying to do is instill it in him. Everything I am, everything I do, is not
because of
my race, nor
in spite of
it … it’s irregardless of it.

Will keeps saying,
“I’m from there,”
like it’s something worth bragging about. I’m not a from-the-hood black man. I can’t understand the pride he feels about Underhill. The place is a dump. Look at it.

I punch up the speed. Time to really burn. The footage continues, on an endless loop. Same faces. Same story. Same message. Same gut-tugging feeling that it’s wrong, all wrong.

Sweat starts to pour from me. I pound the treads like I can somehow get ahead of it. I always get ahead. Except I can’t fight the feeling that there’s no running from this. No matter how far you get from a place like Underhill, it’s all still right on your heels.

NOODLE

Brick says, “Now.”

I step toward the cameras. My palms are sweating and my eyes are tight. We practiced this. I’m no wordsmith, but I’m just gonna do my best. Brick’s the boss, and here’s my chance to show him I’m still the right number two.

Reporters throw questions at me like hand grenades. I’m right in the line of fire.

“We were just kicking it. All in fun,” I answer.

“Wasn’t there a fight going on?”

“That was between us. Jack Franklin wasn’t no part of it. I don’t know what he thought he was doing.”

“But Tariq Johnson was armed.”

All I want is to say hell yes. But I can feel Brick watching me. It’s impossible to be anything but what he asked me to be. “No reason to think that. Question is, why was Franklin running up on Tariq?”

“Did Tariq Johnson rob the convenience store? Was it some kind of initiation?”

I scoff. “Nobody steals from Rocky, man. He takes care of this ‘hood. Nothing but respect.”

“Johnson is also suspected of assaulting another man that afternoon, Brian Trellis?”

“Tariq was the one defending himself, man. That light-skinned brother ran up on him. He was minding his own business; we was chatting.”

“Was there an argument?” The questions go around in a circle. I can barely see the faces for all the lights. But it gets to a place where I’m kinda having fun with it.

“Naw.” I shrug. “Sometimes we get loud, but we were just having fun. People see guys like us having fun and being excited, and they think we’re causing trouble. It’s prejudice, man.”

I’m on a roll. “Why’d Jack Franklin stop his car? Why’d he get out and roll up on Tariq? Ain’t no self-defense about it when you the one who walked up into the situation.”

“Was Tariq Johnson a member of your gang?”

My gang? I feel myself puff up a little. That’s right. “It ain’t illegal to be part of an organization,” I say. “You think anyone wearing red around Underhill deserves to get shot?”

On and on. I’m into it now. With all this attention, I can almost forget I hated the little fucker. Tariq dead might be doing me some good after all.

“Listen—” I’m about to lay some more knowledge on them, when the mob of reporters suddenly surges to my right. They pivot away from me like one animal, amid shouts of “The family’s coming out! There’s the mother.”

My eyes are a sea of fading bright spots. Brick steps up and slugs my arm. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

TYRELL

It’s some kind of slow motion freak show. Reverend Sloan steps away from the mikes. Their lights are so bright and flashing and I don’t know why I’m still standing here, except that it’s hard to believe what I’m seeing. The reporters grab for anything, like dogs after a bone. Barking just as loud. Right here on the steps of our own church.

The whole thing is surreal. Not just the fact that Tariq is gone, but the fact that the story is all over the news every night. This melee.

Noodle steps up to the mike. He starts talking about Tariq, and how wrong it all is. Noodle wasn’t exactly Tariq’s biggest fan. Why’s he up there talking about Tariq as “one of our own?” It’s all lies. Except—I don’t know. Maybe it isn’t.

I read in the paper about how they found Tariq with an 8-5 ring. A week or so ago, Tariq was talking about the Kings again. He got like that from time to time. We all did. And I talked him down off it, because that was our deal. Did he go back on me?

There’s no “all” anymore. We used to hold out, me and Sammy and Junior and T. Like the four musketeers. But with the Kings at least you always know where you stand. They make everything look easy.

I got dreams. Two more years to college, and I already get letters in the mail from all the historically black colleges, not to mention the state schools, and even an Ivy. I get straight A’s and my mom’s had me taking the SAT since I was twelve, just for practice. She saves up for the fee every year, because the lady she cleans for said that’s how her kid got into Harvard, high test scores. There’s scholarships I can get, Mom says.

She’s doing her best, but she doesn’t really understand. She’s lived on this block her whole life. She doesn’t know being smart isn’t enough. Working hard isn’t enough. I gotta get real lucky, and before I even get a chance to be the right kind of lucky, I gotta get lucky enough to live.

I got dreams. I don’t want to pack it up and settle into the streets.

But two whole years? That’s a long damn time to go it alone.

MELODY

I kinda wanted to go to the funeral, but kinda not. So I came to visit Sheila instead. We watch the coverage on TV. Apparently, her brother didn’t want her to attend the service, but there’s a TV in her room and it’s already on when I get there, which goes to show she does know what she’s doing. She’s not supposed to be watching, I bet.

She rocks toward the screen and away, staring quietly. People go in the church, come out. People make statements. Reporters. It’s a bit of a snooze, actually, because the cameras don’t go in the church.

When it’s over, the steps flood with mourners leaving. The camera catches Brick, Noodle and the 8-5 Kings exiting the church. Sammy’s there. Sheila points at the screen and whimpers.

“What is it?” I ask.

Noodle gets up and starts speaking—there’s a surprise. The other Kings cluster behind him in a bunched-up row of red.

Sheila points again, at the top left corner. All I see are Kings, but whatever she’s spotted breaks the funereal mood, sure enough. She laughs and claps until the picture changes.

TINA

Ashes

Ashes

Dust

Dust

Some kind of funeral thing

Ashes

Ashes

Dust

Dust

Nana says the earth takes us back when we are finished

Ashes

Dust

Earth

None of those things is Tariq

REDEEMA

Tina screams and clings to the tall silver gates. Took one look at all the headstones, all the grass, and started bawling. Barely a word outta the preacher, ’fore she bolted. Refuses now to step back inside the cemetery. Can’t none of us get close enough to touch her.

Surely they’ve paused the service now, since we all went running after her.

“Tina, come on!” Vernie snaps. She tries again to pull Tina off the gate. Tina kicks her in the shins. Vernie smacks at the child’s backside, like a reflex, but her hand just glances off.

Tina shrieks loud enough to curdle the blood of a ghost.

I pull my daughter back. “Don’t make her.”

My grandbaby’s wailing, out of control. It’ll be an hour before she has her head back. That tiny body is chock-f of stubborn. All of Vernie’s and all of mine combined. Came by it honest.

“Them’s hard gates to walk through,” I remind Vernie. She just glares at me. But I know. I’ve had plenty of practice.

My job today is to hold Tina close, so Vernie can do what needs done. Not just today, come to think. This baby thrives on her Nana’s magic touch. “You go on,” I tell Vernie. “I’ll stay with her. You go on and bury your boy.”

We’ll bury Tariq and it’ll be all right. I don’t know how, Lord, but it’ll be all right.

“Try to bring her up,” Vernie says. “I want her to see. It’s important.” She kisses my cheek and follows the others.

Vernie and the rest of the family retreat across the grassy slope, toward the grave plot that was meant to be mine. We’ll start saving for another one, soon as we can bear to. I got the feeling I’m gonna be around a while longer anyway. I’m needed here.

I watch till they disappear over the rise, then I heft my old bones down onto the sidewalk at the gates, close at hand but out of kicking range. Tina’s screams die down to whimpers once there’s no one left to impress. She’s just like her brother—enjoys a good audience.
Ain’t just a tantrum today, baby,
I want to say.
You got a right to scream like hell.
Tina looks to me, hands still sweatily gripping the bars. “We’ll just wait right here,” I promise. “Right here, baby.”

Tina lets go of the bars and comes to me. She lies with her head on my thigh. “You’re saving me a long sad walk, baby girl,” I tell her, smoothing back the hairs along the side of her face.

10.
DUST TO DUST

REVEREND ALABASTER SLOAN

The soft knock at the door is something unholy. I know the rap of her knuckles—how do I know this? Because I am a low man. Low enough to have imagined this.

Emerging from prayer is like surfacing from underwater. It drips off me, it lingers.

Not long enough.

Not nearly.

I cross the carpet, gathering static, I suppose, with my sock feet. Move the chain, lever the handle, ring the DO NOT DISTURB tab with the crook of a finger.

The door opens. She stands there, all young and round, in that clingy floral dress. I lean forward and she raises her face, but my gaze goes elsewhere for the moment. The hall is empty behind her. I have to take these things into account.

“Kimberly,” I say.

“Reverend,” she breathes, and it is a word like a firebrand stinging my skin.

“Call me Al,” I answer. “We’re friends now.”

Friends.

She lowers her lashes and smiles. I step aside to allow her to pass, not so far aside, just enough that she can slip through the seam between my chest and the doorframe. She brushes me with her fullness, and I wonder what it means to be able to touch that kind of perfection. I hope I’m not about to spoil her with the wrongness that is smothering me; the promise of her company is the only thing keeping me standing.

“Of course. Al,” Kimberly says. My name rolls off her tongue. She is killing me with her shy loveliness.

My room is a large bedroom suite, typical for me. When I have my staff in, we sit in the living area. They stay for hours; there is always work to be done. But I keep the bed closed off from them; some things are private. The bedroom door is open now, and I regret the oversight.

“Would you like a drink?” I offer, approaching the wet bar.

“Sure,” she says. “Whatever you’re having.”

I mix up a pair of strong whiskey cocktails. She goes to the window, peeks out. She moves around the room freely this time, exploring the luxuries with the wonder of a child. But she moves like something else altogether. Stirring, I ask, “How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” she says. Her fingers play along the gilded edge of the mirror above the bar. I swirl the whiskey, but I smell her perfume. “Almost twenty.”