Terrence
December 23, 1941
The doorbell rang. Terrence’s heart stopped. He turned on his lamp and checked the clock on the nightstand. Ten thirty-five.
Momma called from the front door.
He knew who it was. He’d felt hunted all day. Even if he didn’t see the hunters chasing him, he knew they’d find him. No place to hide. Should he run? Crawl out the window? How could he do this to Momma? And on the same day she found out Daddy was dead.
“Terrence! I said come here!”
Shuddering at the sound of fear and anger in her voice, he turned off the light and shuffled out of his room. “Yes’m?”
Momma stood by the sofa, straight and rigid, except for hands that twisted a handkerchief. The gold cross she’d worn since he could remember caught the lamp light and shone against her dark skin.
Two cops hovered over her. A tall, skinny one took notes while the second cop watched Terrence walk into the living room. He must have been the leader of the two—his uniform was perfectly creased. All business.
Momma’s voice broke as she asked, “Where’d you go this afternoon after you left here, son?”
The clock on the wall tick-tocked and he wished he could just listen to it for a while longer. What was he supposed to say to her?
“Terrence, I’m talking to you.”
“Nowhere, Momma. Just walking.” He hated lying to her, but not as much as telling her the truth.
The beanpole cop continued to take notes.
“I’m Lieutenant Jackson,” the creased cop said. “We’ve spoken to a witness … a Nobu Kimura? Son of the man who was beaten up at the park?”
Terrence’s eyes flashed wide open, but he caught himself. Crossing his arms, he stared at the floor.
The cop continued. “Yeah, he gave us three names. We’ve already picked up your friends Joe Grant and Ray Morrison earlier. They said it was your idea. Now, care to change your story any?”
Momma wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “Terrence? You wasn’t there, was you? Tell them where you went.”
He couldn’t stand the hope in her voice, trust that he’d been somewhere else, not where the cops were accusing him of being. He broke down. “I’m sorry, Momma.”
With reddened eyes, she searched his face, looking ten years older than she had a second before. Her lips quivered. “What’d you do, son?”
“I … we … Ray, Joe, and me. But it wasn’t my idea! They … we beat up a man at the park. I’m sorry. I tried to stop them, but they wouldn’t listen to me, Momma.” He searched her eyes for forgiveness, even a tiny bit. But she covered them with her kerchief.
“Why, Terrence? Why’d you go and do a thing like that?” She rubbed her cross.
“’Cause the Japs killed Daddy, Momma. I had to do something. So I got back at a Jap—”
Her eyes widened and she gawked at him like he was a stranger in her house. “What you say?”
“A Japanese man. I needed to get back at a Japanese man. For Daddy.” It sounded so stupid now. He felt his heart pounding in his neck, his temples. “But like I said, when I realized what we were doing, I tried to stop them.”
“For your daddy? No, no. I don’t believe this.” She wouldn’t look at him and held her stomach like she was going to be sick.
Lieutenant Jackson drew his handcuffs from his belt and grabbed Terrence’s hands. The cold metal stung his wrists.
“Boy, you didn’t do nothing but shame your daddy tonight,” Momma cried.
He wasn’t sure what hurt more—Momma’s words, or getting handcuffed in front of Momma in their own house.
“We’re going to have to take you in, son,” Boss Cop said.
Son? The word punched him in the gut. I ain’t your son. Only one man called me son. His throat clutched so tight it pressed down on his heart. Daddy would never call him “son” again. He wanted to lash out at the cop. But he knew to stay quiet. Daddy had told him before, “You don’t never talk back to no police. You understand? You do whatever they tell you to do.”
“You’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Michio Kimura.”
Attempted murder? “What do you mean, murder? I didn’t kill no one,” Terrence said, panicked. “Just wanted to rough him up a bit.”
“Mr. Kimura is in the hospital. In a coma,” Jackson said. “Not sure if he’ll make it through the night.”
“Oh, dear God,” Momma cried.
Jackson grabbed his arm and pushed him toward the door.
When Terrence turned to say goodbye to Momma, he caught the twinkle of lights on the tree they’d bought that morning and shook his head. Still trying to keep things normal. Momma and the girls must’ve decorated that tree while Terrence was out beating that man. Neither act brought Daddy home.
Just that morning. A lifetime ago.
A dozen handmade ornaments dangled from the branches. Shapes cut from red and green paper were clustered at Missy’s height. Near the top hung a single glittered ornament, cut in the shape of an angel.
He recognized Patty’s writing. “For Daddy.”