Hilton had no answer, and he didn’t try to make one up.
“How did he find out where I live?” Dede wondered aloud.
“Jesus, Dede, what do you think? Real estate records, driving records, voter registration. The damn newspaper published your birthdate in that profile, remember? With a name and a birthdate, there’s a hell of a lot people can find out.”
He sounded callous, even to himself, but he couldn’t disguise his frustration. She’d never taken the threats seriously enough. He wished she’d been more careful when she talked to the reporter, that she’d used her head. Hell, the story even mentioned that they lived near Coral Gables, and mentioned Kaya and Jamil by name. It was a wonder it had taken the son of a bitch this long to find them.
“We have to tell the kids,” Dede said, her voice nearly lost again. “It’s time now.”
“Tomorrow. When they get back,” Hilton said.
She exhaled deeply, and he felt her head rise and fall on his lap. “I’m so numb, so drained. I think I’m going to bed.”
“It is getting late.”
She tugged at his pant leg. “Will you come with me?”
Hilton paused a millisecond too long before answering, and his silence seemed eternal. “Sure I will. Give me a few minutes.”
She released his pants with a yank and pulled herself to her feet abruptly, walking toward the hallway. “I just thought, after all this, it would be nice for my husband to hold me. I’m not going to force you,” she said.
“Now what’s that supposed to mean?” Hilton asked. He didn’t have the energy to stand and walk after her. He wasn’t in the mood for a tantrum, so he let his head rest on the sofa back and he stared up at the countless patterns etched in the popcorn ceiling. They hadn’t made love in ages, but he hoped that was far from her mind tonight. Sex would be a chore now, not a comfort. “I said I’d come. I’m coming.”
She paused in the hallway’s track lighting and faced him.
“Will you stay the night, or do you plan to slip out at two A.M. and sit in front of the television?”
“Oh, Jesus . . .”
“Just answer me. I don’t want you there if you plan to get up. That wakes me up. I know exactly when you leave.”
Hilton’s temper flared. He could feel Dede’s yearning for a healing hand even from across the room, and he was yearning too, but her selfishness made him angry. “You know I can’t sleep. I’m supposed to lie there awake all night?”
“Just forget it, Hilton. I’m not going to beg my own husband to spend the night with me.” Her voice cracked at the end, betraying the approach of tears, but he didn’t move to follow her into the bedroom. No, she would have to cry, then. She was the one who chose not to understand. She didn’t know what it meant to have the dreams. To her, sleep was an escape; he snorted out loud, imagining such a thing. She didn’t know how lucky she was.
The sound of her sob, muffled through the wall, surprised him with its depth and intensity. He felt guilty, cruel. After a night like tonight, was it really so selfish for her to want him there with her? Was it really such a sacrifice? His thoughts were growing muddled. Dede was right in what she’d been saying about him; he was changing, in small pieces. He was losing himself.
“Baby, I said I’m coming to bed, okay?” he said, sounding overly gentle. But when he tried to open their bedroom door, he found it locked.
Hilton walked through the house, turning off light after light until only one lamp in the living room threw a pale yellow glow across their white leather furniture and scuffed wooden floor. He sat a moment listening to Dede’s sobs from the back of the house, his eyes stinging each time he heard her solitary pain pitch to a wail. Then he found the remote control and switched on the television set. Ten-thirty. It was time for “The Jeffersons.”
CHAPTER 12
Dede’s cries fill up all of the space around him and create space of their own, woven from threads of pain, despair, desperation. She sounds as though she has been pierced in half, peering at death’s face. She needs him. They all need him.
“Dede, I’m sorry,” he says. “Where are you?”
In an instant when his mind is overrun by images and sounds, he is plucked from the living room and finds himself standing in the middle of a busy highway in the overpowering light of day, making him shield his face with his palm. He recognizes a Chevron gas station and a Lexus dealership and knows he is standing between lanes on South Dixie Highway in a sea of shining cars. Gridlock. Sunlight bounces from chrome all around him in a bright glow. The drivers are pounding their horns, but he can hear Dede’s cries inside the noise, calling to him. She is screaming his name in a chilling rote, repeating it like it’s the only word she knows.
He tries to search for her face through the windshields, but all of the cars’ windows are charred black; he can’t see inside even when he presses his face to them. He tries to open the car door of a black Audi that looks like hers, but the handle flips out of his hand uselessly, locked. The next car is also locked, and the next. None of the drivers respond when he taps on the windows. The car horns blare in his ears.
“. . . Head-on crash . . . Did someone call for help? . . . whole front end is smashed . . . There’s children . . . Jesus, where’s Rescue? . . . Woman’s screaming her head off. . . driver is history, a goner. . .”
No, he’s not supposed to be here wandering on the roadway, Hilton realizes. He has to turn away, go back. But back where? He hears Dede’s screams rising again, then falling in a near-hoarse hysteria, calling his name between sobs. Again, he tries to open a car door that won’t yield to him. The lines of cars are endless, bumpers touching and nudging, three lanes in each direction as far as he can see. He should not be here. But where does he belong? Where is Dede?
Her screams make him shiver. Those screams tell him she is beyond comforting, beyond consolation or salves. He only wants to see her. He continues his search beneath the heat that makes his feet drag across the asphalt and forces him to gasp to breathe. The carbon monoxide from the cars, heavy in the air, is choking him. He is drowsy. Sleep.
Up ahead, towering above the smaller cars, he sees the grill of a worn, ancient black hearse with headlights beating defiantly into the sunlight. All of its windows are black too, but he begins to run toward it because he knows he has seen this hearse before.
He can hear Dede’s screams more loudly as he nears the awful hearse with its phantom driver. He is not the only one running toward it, he sees. Doors from cars on all sides of the hearse are being flung open, with people he knows and yet does not know jumping from their cars to follow Dede’s screams. A player is offside against the Colts, a radio announcer is saying. The Dolphins. From a radio, he hears a violent wave of boos.
“. . . omigod, omigod, omigod . . . I’ve got a cellular in the car. . . Get them out. . .”
Hilton’s limbs feel drained, and he stands motionless on the roadway as people push past him as though he isn’t there. A car has crashed into the back of the hearse, splintering the back windows around the perfect white curtains. He cannot discern the make of the car behind the hearse because its front is mangled, crushed against the bigger vehicle. A man, the car’s driver, is hugging what was once the hood of his car, his arms spreadeagled across it like the embrace of a tender lover. A jagged hole is shattered in the windshield from where the man once sat, and his passage left the glass coated in blood.
He is a black man. His face is unseen, twisted toward the opposite side, held by tangled bloody shreds of his neck. Hilton believes he knows him. Yes, he must.
Dede’s next scream seems to be in his ear. “Hillll-ton!”
There she is, sitting in the car’s passenger side, within an arm’s reach of lifeless legs dangling through the glass. Her hands are clamped to her cheeks in horror, her seat belt binding her chest. Through the windshield’s spiderweb of cracked glass, he sees her face streaked with tears and her mouth twisted in an unspeakable agony. Then there are more screams,
from the back of the car. Kaya and Jamil are there, wide-eyed (he has seen those saucer eyes before), with Kaya pounding her seat as though she is insane, trying to claw her way from the car. Jamil is whimpering like an animal, arms wrapped around his knees as he rocks in place beneath his shoulder strap. Their roller skates are thrown haphazardly across the seat. They’re wearing seat belts, both of them. Good kids, he thinks. Good kids.
“Dad-deeee . . .” one of them cries, or both.
He has seen this day, lived this day, sometime before.
He sees his yellow sports Timex on the dead man’s limp wrist, the waterproof one Dede gave him for his birthday two years ago that can flash the time in London and Los Angeles and Madrid. He sees his imitation snakeskin belt winding through the loops of the dead man’s jeans. The dead man is him.
He is frozen, speechless. Even his thoughts have fled.
He feels eyes watching him, so he whirls around to look at the hearse. He sees someone beyond the back window’s curtains, a pale powdered face in black sunglasses and a cap emerging from the cool darkness of the vast vehicle’s interior. The man raises his hand and beckons him in a slow, languid gesture. His thin-lipped smile is assuring, nonthreatening.
Come, the man mouths to him with an exaggerated motion of his lips. Hilton hears a voice that fills his senses, though no sound could possibly reach him through the glass: you see now that you must come.
Come.
Hilton’s shoulders drop, and he nearly staggers to his knees on the hot roadway because he is so tired. Dede’s voice is beginning to sound far away, and he can no longer hear Kaya or Jamil as he watches the hypnotic hand. What is he doing here? He should be resting inside the coolness, releasing himself to it.
What’s done is done is done is done.
He takes one step toward the hearse, then another. With each step, his limbs feel lighter, more free, his breathing is easier. So this is all, he thinks. This is all.
Something jars his focus as he lifts his leg to take the third step toward the hearse’s soothing call. A white Jeep to the right of the hearse has a vanity license plate, which he reads in a shocking instant. The bright green letters of the Florida plate spell out one word: NIGLET.
No, not yet, he remembers. You forgot about him. You forgot about Charles Ray.
When the name sinks into his psyche, he sees a grin so evil it is nearly unhuman, ageless rows of teeth gleaming with an ancient hatred. The grin of a man who would steal lives, who walks with no other purpose.
Suddenly, the screams from his family pour into his ears with the force of a shattered dam. When he looks at the hearse again, he sees three pairs of hands scratching for life against the glass. The powdered man’s face is gone; instead, Dede stares back at him in a face knotted with fear, mouthing his name in wretched silence.
CHAPTER 13
“Can we name him, Daddy?”
“He already has a name. His name is Charlie,” Hilton said, wrapping the leash around his palm with a yank so the seventy-five-pound dog would sit after his parade in front of Dede and the children. Obediently, the German shepherd rested on his haunches and took shallow breaths while a huge tongue swung from his mouth; the dog’s sleek coat was all black except for a gray and brown patch on his forehead. Charlie looked up at Hilton expectantly, waiting for his next command, ignoring the others. They were gathered in the front yard beneath the sprawling branches of the ficus tree.
“Is he really a guard dog?” Jamil asked, leaning in to study him.
“He just retired. Go on and pet him, Jamil. He has to get used to all of us because hell be living with us now.”
Kaya didn’t look impressed, her arms folded across her chest. She’d begged for a cat many times, and this apparently was not a welcome substitute. “For good?” she asked.
“Probably. We’ll see how things go.”
Uncertainly, Jamil extended his small fingers toward the dog’s mane of bushy fur that looked like a muffler around his neck. Charlie eyed him warily.
“Just do it, Jamil,” Hilton said. “Dogs can sense when you’re scared. Pet him. Hurry up.”
Charlie submitted to the kneading of Jamil’s fingers without reaction or movement, as though affection were something the animal tolerated rather than craved. He kept his brown eyes on Hilton.
“He’s not very friendly,” Kaya observed.
“He’s not supposed to be friendly,” Hilton said.
Kaya made a face, and Dede hugged her and brushed her cheek against Kaya’s. “Remember, Charlie’s not like a regular pet.”
“No kidding.”
“You pet the dog, too, Kaya,” Hilton said. “Pet him so he can get used to your scent. I’m going to teach you to walk him, too. Go on.”
“Yeah, right,” Kaya muttered, not moving.
Hilton snapped to look at her, and she froze with the knowledge that she’d gone too far. Even Jamil looked nervous, continuing to rub the dog’s fur.
“What did you just say?” Hilton asked. “Is this funny to you? Is this a joke?”
“No, Dad,” Kaya said softly, forcing herself to meet his eyes.
“You want to make light of someone threatening this family?”
“No, Dad,” Kaya said, her voice unsteady this time. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, rolling her eyes skyward as though he were a fool. Ungrateful little—
Hilton felt a foreign impulse to hit her, but he didn’t move. “Then pet the damn dog like I told you to and stop giving me your lip, or I’ll knock that sass out of you. Move your hand, Jamil.”
Hilton glanced at Dede, and he saw in her face that she believed he was being too rough on them. But she kept her mouth shut, thankfully. For once, this time she would trust him to take care of business and work with him instead of against him. Lately, even that seemed too much to ask of her. What had gotten into her? All weekend she’d been undermining him, questioning his logic with childish objections until he found himself asking: Is it me?
Was it so unreasonable to want the best alarm system installed in the house, no matter what the price? Was it so outlandish to teach Kaya and Jamil how to load the shotgun and show them exactly where he would keep the boxes of rounds, so long as they knew the weapon wasn’t a toy? And no, until further notice, the kids would not be allowed to stay at their friends’ houses after school until the end of the workday like they usually did. Dede’s mother had agreed to pick them up each day, and that was that.
Now he was even getting resistance from Kaya, who was usually a faithful and clear-thinking ally. Only two weeks before, at Antoinette’s funeral, he’d felt like he and Kaya were friends who understood each other. She’d been so composed, even through tears, holding his hand during the church ceremony. Other mourners sat around them, but he’d felt as though he and Kaya were the only ones who were really there. Everyone seemed to be gazing at them rather than at Antoinette’s frozen face in the open casket, as if the church mourned for this father and daughter. He’d felt dazed even hours after the funeral, but Kaya’s resilience buoyed him.
Now Hilton felt alone. They just didn’t get it, none of them. They didn’t appreciate what he was doing for them, what he was going through. Hilton was so angry, his head ached.
“Daddy, how come somebody wants to hurt us?” Jamil asked. Already, after a moments contact with the dog, Jamil suppressed a sneeze. Allergies. Well, he’d just have to deal with it.
“Because some people are jerks,” Kaya said in a tone Hilton believed was meant for him. He let it go, not glancing her way.
Dede sat on the edge of the coral wall facing them, stretching her bare legs out beneath the dress she wore, an African fabric made up of a swirl of purple shades. “I send a lot of people to jail, Jamil. They don’t like it, so they make threats sometimes. This man is especially mad because he doesn’t like people like us, African-Americans, because we’re not like them.”
“Like that dumb kid behind our house who called me ‘nigger’ that time,” Jamil sa
id with a sour face.
“Just like that,” Dede said.
Hilton and Dede had debated at length about whether they should move into this neighborhood, where no other blacks were in sight. They’d lived farther north before, in an all-black neighborhood slowly on the decline as drugs began to creep in. They’d had a choice between taking this older house or moving into a new development in the north area that was home to professional black families; the charm of a coral facade and hardwood floors won over the bland new house, but the move hadn’t come without incident. One neighbor tossed his garbage into their yard for a month, and then Jamil ran crying into the house one day because a bigger boy had called him a nigger. When Hilton confronted the boy’s father, his neighbor studied him with indifferent eyes and mumbled something about kids being kids. Hilton hadn’t exchanged words with their bordering neighbor since.
In some ways, Hilton had felt that earlier incident was a good lesson for Kaya and Jamil—and maybe they could learn from this new crisis. Racism was out there, and Hilton figured it was better for his kids to grow up knowing it rather than fooling themselves into thinking everything was wonderful because they could drink from any water fountain or sit in classrooms next to little white kids. Maybe, in the end, this son of a bitch after them was doing his family a big favor. He’d make them stronger.
“Is he going to come here, Daddy, and try to get us?” Jamil asked, looking up at Hilton with eyes as expectant and trusting as the dog’s.
dad-deee
Hilton’s jaw hardened; he felt the reassuring tautness of Charlie’s leash. “No one’s going to hurt anybody in this family,” he said. The next words came unprompted: “As long as I’m alive.”
Hilton tensed and whirled around from where he sat on the couch when he heard a shuffle of footsteps behind him in the living room’s darkness. Instinctively, his hands curled into tight fists until he saw Dede standing behind the couch in her Snoopy nightshirt. She hadn’t worn it since . . . he couldn’t remember. A better time. In the soft light from the television set, he saw her tired features, a face that had once made him smile when visiting his imagination during the day. The only thing Hilton felt keenly now was his own weariness.