C H A P T E R • 37
I walked over to Harlem Hospital and waited in Obsidian’s empty room. At the mirror over the sink, I repositioned my mother’s funeral hat, which I’d finally grown up enough to wear. When I had adjusted it at the top of the bandage on my nose, the veil covered my discolored eye.
I found a plastic water pitcher and put it on the table with red roses and ribbons of ivy in it—what I had been able to buy and pilfer on my way over. I made them messy so they wouldn’t look like the stiff formations surrounding Cecelia.
Obsidian came back into the room wearing his street clothes. “Why is it only okay to give a man flowers when he’s all busted up?” he asked.
“I’ll remember to send you flowers when you’re better.”
“I’ll be taking them home when I leave today.”
“Do you think that’s a good idea?”
“I just need rest. You can’t rest in a hospital.”
He got close. “Girl, come here. Let me see. Turn. Turn the other way. Take that net off.”
I blushed warm. “It’s a veil. It’s my mom’s.”
“But how did you let it happen? Even if he had a gun, he had to get close enough for you to block him.”
“I saw it too late and only dropped a little. Otherwise, he probably would have broken my nose.”
“You say it isn’t broken? So, you were lucky this time. And there will be no next time.”
It was hard not to tell him I got a jab into Bobby with the throwing star. But, fine as he is, he’s still the police.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get to teach your guys to meditate Friday after they closed the bank. I’d like to do it when I come back,” I said.
“We can do it tomorrow. Same routine. You come between shifts. I like that it will flow organically.”
“Organic isn’t the word I would use. Slipshod, accidental, not serious. This isn’t something to throw at them. I want to be intentional about it.”
“Next time. This time I want you to land on your feet like we do. Take them with you where you go. Your recent adventures will give you some credibility with them. Word is you’re all over town being Lt. Summer Knight.”
“No. I’ve been all over town being a reporter. I can’t walk down the street without running into a story.”
“You were arrested. You had a gun at your throat. You found a dead body. You were punched out. That’s not walking down the street.”
“I’m trying to figure out how the pieces fit together. For instance, you know it was Heavy who killed Cecelia. Somebody paid him to scare her. She wasn’t supposed to die.”
“If you had told me before, we could have pulled him in and he would still be alive.”
“I didn’t know it before. And you’ve been out of commission. And this session tomorrow still sounds like a bad plan.”
“Sometimes plans can get in the way. It’s not like you have to practice, do you?”
“Yes. I practice all the time. What I do is called a practice.”
“Seriously. I want you to come now. What are you going to bring? Not any statues and flags I hope.”
“A bell.”
“Cool. The sound will allow us to focus.” He smiled. “In fact, what about a siren? That way they can feel the stress you’re going to talk about.”
I didn’t laugh and thought about it. “Interesting. Do you have one that’s not so loud? I’m interested in how sound figures in your world, actually. Thank you for the idea.”
“It’s not my world. You live in it too. You just don’t have to notice from your faraway Hollywood place.”
∗ ∗ ∗
When I got over to Seventh Avenue, I walked up to Ruthie’s and caught Riley and Joseph standing outside.
“When Mister Bell gets back, please tell him I need to talk to him. Tell him it’s about Viola.”
“Why don’t you wait for Marcus at the repast?” Joseph asked. “We’re going to pay our respects over at Elizabeth’s house.”
Riley said, “We didn’t make it to Bentas. Don’t like looking at dead people. You want a ride over?”
They waited for me as I walked around Riley’s green Chevy van. I read the stickers on the windows from University of South Vietnam, School of Warfare; two ribbons, one yellow and one black; and a bumper sticker announcing, Vietnam Vet, Proud to Serve.
In the center of the back window was a badge, crimson and gold for U.S. Ordnance Corps with text that read SERVICE TO THE LINE, ON THE LINE, ON TIME.
I took Riley’s arm as he helped me climb in and let him close the door, kind of like stepping through a time warp to some other place where gentlemen live.
In the Miller’s parlor, the mourners were eating and talking with their hats and shoes off, still waiting for those who were about the business of burying Cecelia. They were many generations. They were black and white and other. The men had established their own separate space in the back parlor. Women were in the front. Children were everywhere—some restless, some crumpled on laps or upholstered furniture.
I ate a little something.