27. Chapter 27
“Is it actually possible that in a city this large there is absolutely nothing going on?” Zack is slouched all the way back in his desk chair, his neck craned at an unhealthy angle as his head dangles off the back of the chair, his arms and legs splayed out to the sides. He uses his pointer finger to push his black-rimmed glasses back in place and then twirls himself around in circles.
We’ve been in a news dead zone for two days now. This happens every once in a while, where nothing … and I mean nothing newsworthy occurs. Of course, we have feature stories tucked away and topics that aren’t timely that we pull out for when we have slow news days. But when it’s quiet on all fronts—nothing coming over the police scanner, no political hubbub, the schools are quiet, government is operating as it should—it just gets … weird.
And boring as all hell.
Monty is using the down time to organize photos on his computer, and George appears to be napping, with one elbow resting on his desk and a fist holding up his head, with his eyes closed. From the smell wafting back here from the front of the office, I assume Dee is painting her nails.
Even EJ is bored, because he came out to shoot the shit with me. He’s got one ass cheek resting on my desk as he tosses a stress ball back and forth from one hand to the other. “Seriously, though,” he says, “how is nothing going on?”
“It’s just one of life’s great mysteries that we will never understand,” I answer, now that I’ve assumed the same position as Zack, but without the spinning.
“Don’t jinx it,” Monty says quietly from his corner. EJ furrows his brows in question and Zack pops his head up with a “Huh?”
“He said, ‘Don’t jinx it,’” I answer, my head still dangling over the back of my chair. “Once Cherice realizes there is nothing going on, she’s gonna come out here and assign one of us some boring piece about something stupid and irrelevant just to take up space in the newspaper. Like the local impact of global warming, or how gardening lowers blood pressure, or a dreaded weather story.”
A “shhhhh” comes from Monty who, without turning around, mumbles under his breath, “The first snowfall is coming. Let’s hope she’s too preoccupied with literally anything else to think about that.”
“What’s so bad about a weather story?” EJ whisper-shouts.
I turn my head toward George when I hear a light snore escape his mouth, or nose, then turn back toward EJ. “It’s the same goddamn story every time. I mean, we live in western New York. We get snow. We’ve gotten snow since the establishment of the city back in 1790-something, or whenever the hell us white people stole it from the Iroquois. But every year we do a story before the first pending snowfall about driving precautions, shoveling safety, how the stores are selling out of shovels-”
“Seriously?” Zack asks.
“Seriously.”
Dee chimes in as she makes her way toward us. “Even I have gone with Monty to take pictures of ice melt on the shelves at the hardware store. Bor-ing.”
“Come to think of it, I do recall laying out a package last year with photos of shovels and rock-salt,” EJ adds.
Monty finally turns and looks at EJ this time. “Do you ever actually read any of the stuff we submit, as you’re designing the pages?”
“No,” his answer is immediate.
“Really?”
“Yep.”
“You’re not at all curious about, oh, I don’t know, any of the news going on in the city in which you live?”
“Nope.”
Monty and I make eye contact, and I shrug. “Interesting,” he says, then turns back to his computer.
“What’s this, a coffee klatch?” Cherice’s voice comes from behind me and we all jump and straighten our posture.
“What’s a coffee klatch?” Zack asks as he rights himself in his chair and swivels closer to his desk.
“Ask George!” Cherice shouts loud enough to wake George with a fright, causing his head to drop off his fist and bounce off his desk with a little thud.
“Ask George what?” he responds, rubbing his forehead and blinking the sleep from eyes, while also smacking his dry lips together.
“Never mind,” Cherice answers. “Anyway, are we in a slump?”
“No,” EJ and I answer at the same time.
“Nope,” Zack responds with a pop of the “p.”
Dee just scurries back to the front of the office.
“Nah, it’s not a slump,” Monty says casually as he leans back in his chair and crosses an ankle over a knee, folding his hands in his lap. “Just waiting for the day to start. It’s early, yet.”
George finally comes back to life and attempts to throw us all a bone. “Cherice, this would be a great time for me to debut a piece I’ve been working on about obesity rates in the city. Did you know the prevalence of obesity is 21 percent higher within the city limits than it is in the suburbs?”
“Who cares?” Cherice says at the same time I respond, “You don’t say!” and Zack offers, “Must be all those garbage plates!”
With a raised eyebrow, Cherice glares first at Zack, then at me.
“I think it’s pretty fascinating,” Zack says in a quivering voice.
“Oh, really?” she replies, still looking at me. “What about you?”
I point at myself and mouth “Me?” to which she nods. I clear my throat. “As someone with a little, you know”—I raise my hands and make air quotes—“junk in the trunk, I, personally, would totally read about how fat this city is. I mean, I think it would actually make me feel better.” Then I look around Cherice and point at Monty. “Him, too.”
“Gee, thanks,” he mutters as this shitshow continues to play out.
We are all quiet for a moment as Cherice seemingly ponders George’s pitch, all the while rapping her nails on the top of my cubicle.
“Nah,” she says. “Let’s do a weather story. Who wants to go with Monty as he gets some photos of the plows at the highway department, and talk to the drivers?”
Monty groans. I swivel away from her and start typing nonsense into an open Word document. George simply stands up and heads toward the bathroom. Smart.
Zack didn’t act fast enough, so he’s sitting there staring at Cherice, and I hear a low “Ummmm,” coming from him.
EJ chuckles and puts his hands in the air. “Don’t look at me. I don’t know how to spell.” He stands up, pats my shoulder and whispers, “Good luck” as he heads back to his office.
“Zack,” Cherice points at him. “Go with Monty. I want 500 words on how the city is prepping for the first snowfall later this week.” Then she turns on her bare heel and trudges out of the bull pen.
I let out the breath I had been holding as Monty stands with a sigh, puts on his coat and slings his camera over his shoulder. “Let’s go, kid,” he says to Zack as they both zip up their coats and head toward the door.
I hear Zack say, “Only 500 words? Piece of cake.”
Then Monty laughs, at the same time I do.
The rest of my workday has been eerily quiet. I just finished typing up a small police brief about a theft from a little cinema downtown and decide to head out. Monty and Zack aren’t back yet, and Dee left a while ago. Cherice is holed up in her office doing God knows what, and I have no idea where EJ is.
“Well, George, I’ve had about as much fun as I can stand for today, so I’m gonna call it a night,” I say as I button up my coat. “You going to be much longer?”
He doesn’t look up from his computer as he answers. “Eh, shouldn’t be too late.”
“OK, well, see you tomorrow,” I say as I sling my purse across my body and head out.
“Bye, Lyzbeth,” I hear him reply.
As soon as I exit the building the bitter cold hits my face. Damn, I know snow is coming soon but, holy hell, how did it get so cold so fast? Why haven’t I moved south with my mom and sister? I don’t dwell on that question long enough to come up with an answer, because I know it has to do with a certain contractor I can’t seem to pull myself away from.
I hug myself as I walk the block to where my car is parked. Of course, I wasn’t lucky enough to get a spot right out front today. I hit the button to unlock the car as soon as I’m rounding the driver’s side, then pull the door open and jump in as fast as I can, slamming it behind me and quickly starting the engine. I give it a second to warm up before I adjust the heat and feel just a little warmth start coming through the vents.
After buckling up, I pull onto the roadway and feel the car thud a few times before I stop. “Sonofabitch,” I mutter, then realize the car is tipped slightly toward the rear passenger side. I put the car in park and hop back out and run around to find my suspicion confirmed.
A flat tire.
“Of course,” I say to no one at all.
I walk around and get back into the car, slam the door, and then slam the steering wheel because it makes me feel better. OK, I’ll just see if maybe EJ has a few minutes to come put the spare on. In the freezing fucking cold. I’ll be embarrassed as all hell to have to ask him, but I’ll pay him or feed him or something.
But there’s a nagging feeling I have, like perhaps I don’t have a spare, because I recall a time a while ago I got a flat and Knox changed it, and he later said something about getting a new spare tire for the trunk and, well, I never did.
I get back out of the car and walk around, pop the trunk and, again, suspicion confirmed. “Fucking shit mother-trucker son of a—errrr!” I yell into the universe, then run around, yank the door back open, duck back into the driver’s seat and beat the steering wheel some more.
“Why? WHY can nothing ever go right?” I scream alone in my car as my meltdown continues.
OK, Lizzie. Calm down. Pull yourself together.
You know what, I’ll just call AAA. That’s why we’re members, right? I’ll just call them and sit here in my nice, warm car while I wait for someone to, I dunno, tow me back to the apartment, I guess? They don’t just travel around with spare tires, do they?
I dig through my wallet looking for my membership card. I shuffle through my credit cards, a few random store rewards cards, the little pocket on the side … Nothing. Maybe it’s in the glove compartment?
Nope.
I lean back in my seat, close my eyes, grip the steering wheel and attempt to shake it, but really all I’m doing is shaking myself. And then I tip my head back and laugh. I laugh and laugh and laugh because I don’t want to cry.
I am about to resign myself to sleeping at the office because I will drink my own piss before I call Knox for help, when I see lights blink in my rearview mirror. I look up and I see it again. I see big, bright lights coming from an exceptionally large vehicle, and it appears to be trying to get my attention. And it’s pulling up behind me …
I fling the door open and jump out, arms flailing. “YES!” I jump up and down. “Yes, I need your help!” Not that the driver of the tow truck can actually hear me, but I’m hoping he—or she—gets my point.
And they do, because the truck pulls into the parking lot that is just short of where I’m parked, then turns its wheels and backs up to my vehicle. I’m hugging myself and hopping from foot to foot as the truck is maneuvered into position. I reach into the car, turn it off, grab my purse and keys, and shut the door before I walk around onto the sidewalk and toward the cab of the tow truck, feeling like I just may kiss whoever hops out, regardless of their gender.
The door opens and a dark-skinned man jumps down and starts walking toward me, and I immediately begin. “Thank you so much! I found it like this, with the flat. And of course I don’t have a spare, and God only knows where my AAA card is. Come to think of it, maybe we didn’t renew the membership? Anyway, I was thinking of taking up residency in a nearby bus stop, but I really don’t need pneumonia—or hepatitis—right now so, needless to say, if you didn’t show up I’d be—”
And then the man steps out of the way of the lights so I’m not being blinded by them anymore, and I see it’s Anthony King. Jerome’s older brother.
“Oh! Um,” I look down.
Anthony is pulling thick gloves on his hands as he looks from me to the car. “You said you don’t have a spare?”
I shake my head. “No. Uh, no spare.”
“You live close? A tow will cost you if you live too far outside the city.”
I shake my head again. “No. I just, I live only a few miles from here.” I point behind me, as if that’s supposed to be a clue for him. “I work at—” and I point up the block toward the ROC Record office, but, of course, he knows where I work.
He nods. He’s wearing one of those thick insulated flannel jackets, but it’s not really a coat, so he must be freezing. But if he is, he doesn’t show it. “I’ll just get the car hooked up,” he says coolly as he pulls his black knitted hat further over his ears, and he starts to walk in the direction of my car.
“Um, hey,” I say, causing Anthony to turn partly, so he’s half looking at me over his shoulder. “You don’t have to help me. I mean, I can go back into the office and call someone.”
He looks me up and down, his expression unreadable, then looks out toward the street, then back at me. “I know,” is all he says as he makes his way toward the back of his truck and starts pulling chains. After a minute, without stopping what he’s doing, he says, “Door’s unlocked.”
Slowly, I walk around the truck and head over to the passenger side of the cab. I have to grab a handlebar on the side while I put a foot on a high hitch-step and pull myself up, grabbing the door handle on my way. It swings open awkwardly, and I hoist myself inside.
No wonder he’s not wearing a coat, it’s hotter than holy hell in here! The heat is blasting through the vents with such a force it’s blowing my hair back. I wait approximately one minute before I reach over and turn the dial down, and relief immediately washes through me.
It smells sweet in here, like apples and cinnamon, and I see one of those air freshener clip things shoved into one of the vents.
I feel the truck rock a bit as Anthony gets the car secured in place, and I glance around the cab like the nosy bitch I am.
I see a picture clipped to his visor that looks like it could be of his family. Anthony is standing with one arm around a woman and the other holding a little kid on his hip. I can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl, but he or she has short, wildly curly hair and is wearing footie Halloween pajamas. They all look happy.
The driver’s side door swings open, and Anthony jumps in with much more grace than I did. He slams the door, and since I turned the heat down, it’s eerily quiet in here. And awkward. He pulls his hat and gloves off and tosses them on the console between us. As he reaches over his shoulder for his seatbelt, he speaks.
“Good thing you didn’t drive on the flat. The rim looks fine. I can’t see where the puncture is, but you should be able to get it repaired or get a new tire put on in the morning.”
“Oh, great! Thanks.” I look at him. Then out the windshield. Then at my hands.
“You got someone who can take you to get a tire in the morning?”
“Uhhh,” I ponder this for a second, and then I let out a little laugh. “That’s kind of a loaded question. But the short answer is, I’ll figure it out.”
Anthony looks at me with no emotion. “Look, why don’t I drop the car off at a nearby shop, then I’ll drop you off at your place. In the morning, call the shop and tell them you left the car there, they can fix or replace the tire, and then all you have to do is get a ride there to pick it up.”
I’m nodding. “Yes, please. That’s … That’s a better plan than whatever the hell I thought I was going to do.”
“Where do you live?” Anthony asks as he picks up his phone and pulls up a map application.
I give him my address, which he types into the phone. “OK, I see where you’re at.” He scrolls around the neighborhood on the map for a second. “So, it looks like there’s a place just a block from you, but I’ve never dealt with them before. A few blocks north is a shop I use all the time. I know they’ll be fair with you—”
“Take it there,” I interrupt him, and he looks at me. “I trust your judgment.”
“OK,” he says, then drops his phone in the cup holder and pulls away from the curb. There are several moments of silence before I hear his voice again. “You cold? I can adjust the heat.”
“Actually, I turned it down when I got in here. I’m sorry, that was probably rude.”
“That’s fine. I had just come from another call and was outside for a bit and was freezing so I cranked it.” Anthony is driving with his left hand, and his right elbow is on the console between us. He is leaning onto his elbow but, because the cab is so big, he’s not at all invading my space.
There is more awkward silence, then he speaks again. “For someone who writes a lot of words, you sure don’t speak many.”
I clear my throat, then bring a hand up to my neck, and I’m sure he can feel the nerves radiating off me. “Oh, there are plenty of words I want to speak, I’m just not sure if I’m supposed to.” He gives me the side-eye before looking back at the road and turning down a side street. “You know, the lawyers would probably advise against it.”
Anthony shifts in his seat. “The lawsuit has been dropped.”
Because I can’t stand the idea of lying to him, or even faking surprise, I confess, “I know. I talked to the police chief.”
He nods.
“But, also, I wasn’t sure what you want, or don’t want to hear from me. I guess I thought maybe I’ve said enough, as far as you and your family are concerned.”
Anthony sits up straighter and rubs his chin with the hand that’s not on the steering wheel. He’s silent for another moment before he quietly speaks. “Jerome was a good kid. There were thirteen years between the two of us, so we were close in a different way than I imagine siblings who are closer in age are. Our dad left when he was only five, so I tried to play a fatherly role for him. I think that may have been more to my benefit than his, sometimes. I needed to feel useful, to both Jerome and my mom.” He looks over to me, then back at the road. “But then Janelle got pregnant, and my attention was focused elsewhere.”
“Is that her?” I point to the picture, and he nods.
“Yeah, that’s Janelle and Martine. Marty, for short.”
I smile. “I like that. You have a beautiful family.”
Now he smiles. “Thank you.” He turns down another side street, and I recognize where we are. We must be getting close to the shop.
“Janelle got pregnant when we were just dating. I knew I wanted to step up. I wanted our family. And that meant I had to back off Jerome. I saw him changing, saw his personality shift, saw the guys he was hanging out with. I tried to talk to him, tried to spend more time with him, especially since he was turning into a young man. He was a teenager, and he had no one. My mom was working two jobs. Jerome just kind of fell through the cracks. God, that sounds so terrible when I say it out loud.” Anthony scratches his head and I hear his fingernails scrape across his short-cropped hair. “But it’s true. The poor kid just …”
Anthony trails off, then clears his throat. “I found drugs in his backpack, once.”
At this confession, I turn my head and look at him, but he’s still looking out the windshield.
“I picked him up after school one day, and I could tell he was high. I went through his backpack and found a few joints, which, whatever. But then I found a little baggie with white powder in it. I don’t even know what it was. Is that crack? Cocaine? Heroin?”
I shake my head. “I have no idea.”
Anthony pulls into a lot with a bunch of vehicles in various stages of repair, in front of a building that has several closed garage doors and a small office-looking space, and maneuvers the truck so he can unload my car into a spot that isn’t blocking any entry or exit. He puts the truck in park and unbuckles his seatbelt, but before he gets out, he continues.
“I never told my mom about it. I all but beat the shit out of Jerome. Told him I would end him if I ever found anything like that again on him, and he promised he wasn’t doing anything other than smoking a little weed. But he promised he wouldn’t sell or carry any more drugs. Did I believe him?” Anthony shrugs. “No, not really. But Janelle had just had the baby, and I was exhausted. It was easier to believe he was telling the truth, and he was OK, and I didn’t have to worry about him.”
He pulls his hat back on and starts sliding his hands into his gloves. “When I got the call from my mom that Jerome was …” Anthony stops to swallow, “… that he had been killed in a drug raid, I couldn’t tell her.”
We lock eyes, and I’m not sure what to say.
“She knows now. She knows he wasn’t innocent. And it broke her heart as much as losing him did. But she knows. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell her before the lawsuit and before she brought you and the police into the mix.”
I’m dumbfounded by his confession, his feelings of guilt, and above all his apology.
Anthony swings the door open, but before he can jump out of the cab, I reach out and grab his forearm, and he looks over at me.
“In news writing, we carefully choose punctuation so as not to put too much emphasis on a statement, so it doesn’t influence how the sentence is received. So, if I’m quoting someone who said, ‘The guy was running really fast!’ and I put an exclamation point at the end of the sentence, it makes it seem like the guy was breaking sound barriers with his speed, as opposed to simply pointing out that the man was moving quickly.”
Anthony just stares at me.
“Don’t let his ending punctuate his entire life,” I say. “Jerome was sixteen, and sixteen-year-olds do stupid things. The only thing he’s guilty of is making some poor choices, which we all make. But not all of us have such dire consequences.”
Anthony holds my stare, then quickly turns and jumps out of the cab and gently shuts the door. After he unloads my car and gets back in, he drives me to my place in silence, where he drops me off. I offer a sincere “Thanks,” and then he drives away, with nothing else said between the two of us.