Excerpt The Secrets We Hate
ONCE UPON A MURDER
KNOX
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy…
What once used to be my solace, my comfort, felt bitter on my tongue as I tried—and failed—to finish my prayer.
I always got stuck at that particular part.
Thy will be done. For as long as I could remember, my father never missed a day reciting The Lord’s Prayer.
Sometimes, he walked through the house, into each room, talking to God.
Or he would sit on the sofa, in the dark, mouthing the words as he stared at the black television screen.
He repeated it when he arose, on his way out of the house, before he ate every meal, and on his knees by his bed.
“God’s will is right. It’s as simple as that.”
The last words he’d spoken to me … well, whispered because the throat cancer had ravaged his vocal cords, replayed on an endless loop in my brain.
If I closed my eyes long enough, I could envision him sitting on the back pew of the church, bobbing his head and bouncing his leg as he played the electric guitar to a congregational song.
He didn’t sing much, but when he did, people listened.
And he made sure he told everyone—even the shitty people—about the goodness of the Lord.
Too bad Black River Falls was full of shitty people. My father was dedicated but he wasn’t immortal. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t reach everyone. Even if he did, the decision to be good or evil was theirs alone.
“Thy kingdom come,” I whispered, trying to start again where I left off. I squeezed my eyes shut, taking a deep breath. “Thy …”
“Will be done.”
My eyes flashed to the voice beside me. My son, Chaquille, squeezed my shoulder, nodded at me, and finished the prayer in a resolute, unwavering voice. No whispers. No shame. No doubt that what he’d just said was the truth. When he was done, he met my gaze and smiled. “Amen.”
I opened my mouth to thank him and to assure him I was fine.
Yet, in that moment, I was incapable of a simple show of gratitude because the words clogged in my dry throat, rendering me utterly speechless.
And while I was grateful the man that I’d raised was strong enough to see me at my weakest state, I was also terrified that the mask I’d carefully worn for years had slipped in front of him.
Swallowing the hard lump in my throat, I stared straight ahead. The brown casket that housed my father’s body was centered in the middle of the funeral home’s biggest reception room. The visitation would begin in less than ten minutes, but Bobby had given us time alone before other people arrived.
Chaq took the seat next to me. Dressed in a fitted black shirt and matching pants, he looked polished, yet subdued.
He wore my father’s favorite loafers and his gold Rolex.
Hard to believe the boy who wouldn’t wear shorts for fear that he’d get stung by a bee was now a grown man, a college student with money in the bank and a side hustle as a traveling barber.
Crossing one leg over his knee, he sat in silence, looking at the casket.
After a few minutes, he said, “Papa was a good man.”
Glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, I waited for him to say more.
He sighed. “Taught me a lot about life, about spirituality. Hard to believe he’s gone.” A tear drizzled down his cheek, but he made no move to wipe it away. “But I’m glad I had him for as long as I did.”
When Harlow left Michigan to move back to South Carolina, she’d done so with my blessing because I knew she needed the support of her family.
We’d always co-parented by putting Chaq’s needs first, which meant being flexible and maximizing his time with me when he wasn’t in school.
It definitely wasn’t an ideal situation, but we’d made it work.
And since they lived close to my father, Chaq was blessed to get to know him on a level he wouldn’t have had he stayed in Michigan with me.
“About a year ago, I asked him about Grandma,” he admitted.
The subject of my mother rarely came up after she embarrassed our family by fucking my dad’s boss and trying to hide the paternity of my sister, Faith.
It had been years since I’d seen her, and I only heard from her on Christmas.
The annual cards were my only indication that she was still alive, but they were so impersonal they might as well have been from a stranger.
Curious about where this conversation was heading, I asked, “Why?”
“Because I wanted to know.” He shrugged. “You never talk about her.”
I don’t want to talk about her now. I had complicated feelings for my mother.
She wasn’t a good person. She was selfish, incapable of truly showing love or affection.
I hated her some days, missed her others.
Last week, I was indifferent. Today, I was bothered by her absence.
When my mother left town, it was almost a relief because she’d taken her toxicity with her.
But she’d abandoned me during the worst time of my life, and she’d never returned.
Not for Chaq’s birth.
Not for college graduation.
Not for any significant moment of my life.
I couldn’t forgive her for that. I also couldn’t deny that I’d hoped she would’ve shown up for Dad’s funeral. At the same time, I still loved her. It hurt like hell when she walked away.
“It is what it is,” I said. “She left.”
“Papa said the same thing.” A moment passed before he added, “He also said that he forgave her, that he never regretted their life together, that being a father to you and Aunt Faith was his greatest blessing.”
Tears stung the back of my eyes, but I willed those muthafuckas to dry up.
I didn’t want to talk about Faith, and I damn sure wouldn’t give my mother anymore energy.
Especially today. Yes, my father was a good man.
But what did that get him? A wife who tolerated him for his paycheck, then betrayed him in the worst way?
For all the good that he’d done in his life, the tithes he’d paid, he died alone … in an empty house.
Chaq chuckled. “Every time I went to Papa’s house, he made me a fried bologna sandwich. Ordered me to eat that shit, too.”
I rubbed the back of my head, grateful for the change of subject. Unable to help the smile that tugged at my lips, I murmured, “That shit’s terrible.”
My father was meticulous, so detail-oriented, and organized.
Before he died, he’d planned his own homegoing.
After his death, Bobby delivered a package to the house.
Inside were several envelopes. One contained a full obituary as well as a shortened one for the newspaper.
Another held the blueprint for his lakefront property, the deed to the house, and the mortgage paperwork.
All his bills were sorted in alphabetical order, too.
The life insurance information was in another manila envelope.
And the final one contained a letter for me with explicit instructions for the arrangements.
I wasn’t surprised to read that he didn’t want a big—or long—service.
Not at a church or a funeral home, but at the cemetery.
He’d actually threatened to haunt me if I invited more than the thirty people on the guest list he’d included on the back of the letter.
Not one to waste time or money, he’d instructed me to forgo a formal repast and cook his favorite breakfast in his honor before the funeral.
And even though I hated the smell of bologna, I fried that shit up and ate it.
For him. I also followed his direction and scheduled the visitation for one-hour and warned everyone—especially Mother Hawkins—that there would be no long remarks.
Chaq raised an eyebrow. “Did you eat one this morning?”
“I did,” I responded.
“Surprisingly, when I asked Papa why he liked fried bologna so much, he said he didn’t care for it.”
My eyes widened. “Did he tell you why he ate it every morning? And why he made me eat it?”
“Told me he liked to remember where he came from. Somehow, fried bologna was his reminder that things did get better in life and that all things happened for a reason.”
I shook my head, still reeling from the revelation. “That doesn’t make any damn sense.”
Nodding, Chaq mused, “Maybe it was his way of acknowledging the past and how far God had brought him.”
My father grew up poor. He’d never known his father and his mother wasn’t the best either. Enlisting in the Navy was his way out. And when he left his hometown of Ypsilanti, Michigan, he’d vowed never to return. He’d kept that promise to himself.
I felt Chaq’s eyes on me, but I didn’t turn to him.
“Sometimes it’s hard to see God in our grief,” he said.
“You’re like Papa in a lot of ways, but you’re so different.
I love you, Dad. You’ve never let me down.
Always there. Always honest. Even when I don’t want to hear it.
So I hope you don’t mind if I return the favor. ”
I nodded for him to continue.
“You’ve been through a lot, but you still manage to be a damn good father to me and a better man than you give yourself credit for.
Some people might’ve buckled under the same pressure.
You rose to the occasion. But … the part of you that refuses to accept that death is part of life is holding you back from the peace that you’re seeking.
The best gift you can give Papa is to not waste the time you have left blaming yourself for things you couldn’t control. ”
The weight of my son’s words almost seemed too heavy for me to bear, definitely too hard for me to believe. Still, I couldn’t help but stare at my son in awe for having the courage to tell me the truth. With no fear.
I gripped his shoulder, pulling him into a hug. “You’re a much smarter man that I am, son. Papa would be proud of you. I am.”
Harlow approached us, a soft smile on her face. “Hey.” She raked her nails through Chaq’s hair and placed a sweet kiss to his forehead.