Death's Door

Meat stood at the front window. He had been there ever since Lieutenant Jones had left. He wanted to go over and wait with Mrs. Jones, but he was aware that he, the nephew of the kidnapper, would be the last person the family would want to see.

He sensed that his mother had come into the room—he smelled cooking grease. He thought she probably sprayed herself with it, the way other women spray themselves with cologne to make themselves appealing.

“It’s not,” he said. He looked at his watch. “It’s six o‘clock.”

“Yes.” He paused. His voice grew even harder. “Your brother kidnapped her.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” his mother said, but she didn’t sound convinced.

“Neiman’s no kidnapper. He was always the best one of the children. Mama said he was the only one that didn’t give her any trouble. ‘Why can’t you be more like Neiman?’ she was always asking us.”

Meat’s voice was cold. “I just hope they’re still alive.”

“Don’t say such things. Of course they’re alive. Come on in the kitchen, Albert. I fixed pork chops—the way you like them.”

There was no way Meat didn’t like pork chops except still attached to the pig, but for once he wasn’t hungry.

“Can you imagine how this makes me feel?” he asked coldly. “To have Herculeah kidnapped by my uncle?”

Meat’s mother stood in silence for a moment. She dried her hands anxiously on her apron.

To divert him, she said, “Oh, Albert, when you came in, you were very excited about something.”

“Finding out Uncle Neiman had kidnapped my best friend—my only friend, might I add—put the whole thing out of my mind.”

“Well, it was nothing that would help us find Herculeah.”

“Tell me.” She was still drying her hands. “I’m as worried about Herculeah and Neiman as you are—maybe even more so.”

Meat sighed. “I found a picture of Uncle Neiman in the newspaper.”

“I can’t believe it. We take that. I missed a picture of my own brother.”

“Mom, he was in a crowd of people. I would have missed him too except he stood out because of his hat. That hat!” He shook his head. “I’ll never forget that hat in a million years.”

“I won’t either. I started to throw it in the trash can and then I thought, why, what if the trash collector took a liking to it—you did—and wore it around town and ...” She couldn’t finish.

Meat’s mother went on quickly, “Go on about what you saw.”

“Do you remember about a week ago when they had the parade to raise money for Habitat?”

“Nobody’s safe anymore.” She paused to remember. “And didn’t it have something to do with drugs? The mayor’s trying to clean up the city and the drug dealers don’t like it?”

“Well, the paper didn’t actually say that. What it did say was that it was a professional job, and if the mayor hadn’t had on a bulletproof vest, he’d be dead.”

“Nothing. Standing on the corner, waiting for the parade to get by so he could cross the street, I imagine. There was a reporter on the other side of the street, and just as the mayor’s car went past Uncle Neiman, there were some shots, and the reporter snapped the picture.”

“I hope I didn’t throw that paper out,” Meat’s mother said. She started into the kitchen.

“Oh, wait. I made a copy of it. What’d I do with it?” He found it on the floor of the hall, by the coat closet.

As she looked at it, Meat peered over her shoulder. “See, Mom, everyone in the picture is looking at the mayor in horror—they thought it was another Dallas—except Uncle Neiman. He’s looking up, like he sees something interesting in the building across the street.”

Meat continued. “And whoever saw that picture thought Uncle Neiman had seen him.”

“But Neiman has terrible eyesight. He can’t see from here to there.” His mother pointed to the back door.

“Yes, Mom, but whoever’s trying to kill him doesn’t know that.”