Chapter 23 Maurice
From almost the moment he touched down, Maurice’s phone did not stop ringing with familiar names. Even at five in the morning, the texts and voicemails didn’t stop. He cycled through all the covert messages of encouragement and love.
That scared and defiant boy he was all those years ago couldn’t recognize their love then.
He’d been so lonely, so consumed by punishing himself, that he hadn’t allowed himself any comfort.
He walked through the airport, so quiet at that early hour, and listened again, seeking the voice he most wanted to hear.
He tightened his grip on his carry-on, his head aching from lack of sleep. His body was wired.
He followed the signs to the transportation center, unprepared for the slap of cold that assaulted him. A few hours ago, he’d been in Puerto Rico, where the night sky had been exploding with fireworks. Here, the morning was a dull, dark gray smear across the sky.
The train to the transportation center was quick, barely giving him time to cycle through his messages. He listened to his voicemail next.
“Hi, Mr. Martin. This is Jasmine—Monique’s daughter.”
He stilled and turned toward the window, listening closely.
“She made it back and is at her friend’s place. My aunties said she hadn’t reached out to you yet, but I wanted you to know she was safe. I think they’re—Jay, what is it again?”
“Shiva,” a male voice said in the background. The voices became muffled. “Who you talking to?”
“Get off my bed—I’m serious.” A soft thud. A laugh.
Jasmine came back on, breathless. “Okay, here’s the plan.
Dr. T and the Thriving with Cancer group are going to Montrose Beach for this sunrise reflection thing.
Then they’re heading to the temple for services.
I’ll text you the address once they confirm it.
It all has to be done in twenty-four hours, and from what Mom has said, Chickie will go sometime this morning. ”
There was a small pause.
“Auntie Don said you were getting a car. So, pick her up from there. That way Mom can’t say no. You know how she is.”
The message ended. Maurice stood there and held the phone against his chest. His breath was uneven. Not shaky but full of anticipation for things he didn’t have words for.
He played Jasmine’s message again.
By the time he found the rental counter, filled out the paperwork, and got the keys, he’d listened to the voicemail three more times. Every detail had been accounted for, even his presence.
He stepped into the parking garage, and Chicago introduced itself. The wind wasn’t just cold. It was a blade, cutting through him like his jacket wasn’t even there. Deb had warned him, but he still wasn’t ready.
The rental car’s heating system was like operating a spaceship.
Traffic crawled. Concrete rose on both sides of the highway that he had to look up just to see a strip of dark sky giving way to a gray dawn.
Like at Graterford. But he had keys now and could leave whenever he wanted. That thought made him smile.
The hotel wasn’t far from the airport. Close to where he needed to be. Exactly the kind of place Deb would pick. The room had one bed. A desk. A window overlooking a wide, busy street.
He was in a new city on the first day of a new year. This was pretty momentous. After dropping his bag, he sat at the foot of the bed and pulled out his phone. Still no response to his text to Monique. But there was a text from Jasmine.
JASMINE
Hi, Mr. Martin. This will probably seem weird, but do you know anything about furnaces?
He stared at the text, trying to make sense of what was happening. Was her child asking him to come to their house without Monique’s permission?
MAURICE
I know a few things. What’s the address?
An hour later, Maurice stood outside a brick bungalow near a park that he just knew was a knockout when the wind and ice weren’t trying to peel folks’ skin off.
Monique’s home had a raised basement, a stone porch, and sat on a narrow lot on a working-class, tree-lined street.
Had to be a hundred years old, easily. Just the type of house Maurice liked to work on.
The kind of home Deb’s program was built for.
A place that Monique had lived in her entire life.
He climbed the stairs and knocked on the door.
A tall, lanky young man with Monique’s eyes answered the door. “Mr. Martin?”
“Maurice is fine. You must be Justin.” He stuck out his hand. Justin took it. “Great to meet you.”
“Yep,” Justin said, stepping aside to let Maurice in. “Thanks for coming. Auntie and Avery sometimes come through and do things here and there. Mom usually deals with the mechanical stuff, but—” He stopped. “You know…”
“I know. It’s okay. I’m glad you called.”
The house was warm and lived in. Hardwood floors that needed refinishing.
Built-ins and walls in need of a coat of paint.
Photos of the twins throughout the years on the mantle and walls and every flat surface, birthday parties, graduations, Monique young and smiling. Lifetimes documented on the walls.
“Oh wow! You’re really here!” a young woman with rainbow braids and Monique’s smile said in greeting.
“You said you needed help.”
“I did. The furnace is in the basement. The house isn’t getting as warm as it should.”
“She’s complaining because she goes to school in Nashville and forgot how cold weather works,” Justin said.
“You can mind your business.”
Maurice chuckled. “Show me the thermostat first, please.”
Justin took him back into the living room, where he pointed to an analog thermostat that was set to eighty. Just moving through a couple of rooms, the house told Maurice more about itself.
A draft had greeted him in the entry but was coming out of the bedrooms. Windows probably needed caulking.
And a thermostat update might be in order.
Maurice then followed the kids down the wooden stairs to the partially finished basement.
The mechanics sat in a corner of the open room with its exposed beams and concrete floor.
He knelt beside the furnace and listened. Rhythmic knocking. Metal on metal. He already knew but still had to ask. “When was the last time this has been cleaned?”
The twins looked at each other and shrugged.
Maurice pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. He checked the filter and blower, then the pilot.
“Blower bearings are dry. That’s the knocking. And your filter’s clogged.”
“Is it expensive to fix?” Jasmine asked quietly.
Maurice saw worry on the young woman’s face. The kind of worry that he’d worn too many times himself, when money was thin and pockets were stretched even thinner.
He shook his head. “Nope. Just needs some grease and a new filter.” He stood. “Do you have any three-in-one oil, like you might use for a bike chain? And where does your mom keep the extra filters?”
“There might be some oil in the junk drawer in the kitchen or the garage,” Justin said. “But I don’t know about filters.”
“Looks like I’ll need to hit the hardware store. What else can I help with before I go?”
Twenty minutes later, Maurice was back with a filter and oil.
The twins watched him work. He lubricated the bearing. Changed the filter, checked the gas connections, and tightened the panel. The knocking stopped.
“It should be warmer in a little bit. Then you can turn the thermostat down.” Maurice wiped his hands.
“What do we owe you?” Jasmine asked.
“Nothin’. I got it.”
“We can’t let you—”
“You didn’t let me do anything. I wanted to help.” Maurice looked around the basement and noticed things. Water stains on a wall. Exposed wiring. Stairs in need of tightening.
He couldn’t help it, the noticing.
“You see anything else?” Justin asked, watching him.
“No. Not really.” Maurice paused. “I’m sorry. I work in construction. A reentry program where we teach folks coming out of prison how to renovate houses. I’m used to looking at what needs repair.”
“Mom never asks anyone to fix anything,” Jasmine said. “Does it herself or just lives with it.”
“I noticed.” Maurice headed up the stairs. “I got a three-month filter, so you should be good for a bit. I can show you how to change it.”
“I’ve been doing some stuff, and Auntie has been visiting more with Avery. They fix some things.” Justin preened a little.
In the kitchen, as he washed his hands, he noticed the faucet dripped and the backsplash needed re-grouting. Small things. Repairable things. Things Monique probably didn’t have the time or money to address.
“You hungry?” Justin asked. “We were gonna order a pizza.”
Maurice checked his phone. It was a little after four in the afternoon. “I should get going.”
“You can stay,” Jasmine said.
Maurice hesitated.
“Please?” Justin said. “We want to thank you. And honestly”—he shrugged—“I’ve got questions.”
“Yeah? About what?”
“About why you flew to Chicago.” Justin gave him a tight, apologetic smile. “And other stuff.”
Maurice looked at these two kids. Almost twenty. Not kids anymore. Adults who loved their mother and were trying to figure out if he was worth her time. He understood that. “Okay. Pizza sounds good. What can be here in a half hour?”
They sat at the kitchen table. Jasmine insisted her pizza choice was the best for introducing Maurice to Chicago pizza. Justin promised to choose the next place.
Something shifted in Maurice’s chest at the small bit of acceptance and promise of spending more time together.
“So,” Justin said, sitting down with a pitcher of water and glasses. “You were in prison?”
“Justin!” Jasmine hissed.
“What? I’m just asking. Most people who work in reentry are systems-impacted themselves. Why are your flabbers all gasted, Jas? It’s called deductive reasoning. You go to college.”
“It’s rude, Justin. Just blurting out stuff like that.”
“It’s okay,” Maurice said. “Yes. I was fifteen when I went in. Thirty-seven when I got out.”
“What did you do?” Justin asked.
“Back then, they called it voluntary manslaughter.”
“So, you killed someone by accident. That’s what manslaughter means, right?” Jasmine asked quietly.
Maurice nodded.
She leaned forward in her chair. “But why voluntary?”
Maurice let out a long sigh. “The voluntary part is because it was violent, and I never apologized. He was beating my mom. Had been for years, and he beat me too. I walked in on a fight and tried to stop him.” Maurice paused. “I didn’t mean to kill him. But I’m not sorry he’s dead.”
Silence.
“Damn,” Justin said quietly.
“My mom went through something like that,” Jasmine said, and Maurice froze. “Our dad. He wasn’t physically abusive but… he wasn’t good to her either.”
Maurice nodded. “She told me. A little.”
“And you know about the cancer?” Jasmine asked.
“Yeah.”
“And you’re still here.” Jasmine had a smile in her voice.
“Yeah.”
“Why?” Justin leaned forward. “I’m not trying to be rude. But you met her five days ago at a wedding in Puerto Rico. Now you’re in Chicago. In our kitchen. Fixing our furnace. Why?”
Maurice took a breath. “This might sound insane, but I’m here because I love your mother. And when she needed to be here for Chickie, I couldn’t just stay in Newark. I had to show up.”
“Even though she doesn’t know you’re here?” Jasmine asked.
“Especially because she doesn’t know. She didn’t ask me to come. She probably doesn’t want me here.” Maurice looked between them. “Your mom’s whole life has been taking care of other people. I want to be someone who takes care of her. Even if she doesn’t think she needs it.”
The doorbell rang. Pizza. Justin got up to answer it. Came back with two large boxes. They ate in silence for a moment.
“What are your intentions?” Jasmine asked finally.
Maurice almost laughed. “Your mother asked me the same thing. On a beach in Puerto Rico.”
“And what did you tell her?”
“That I intended to keep showing up. To be patient. To love her however she’ll let me.”
“And if she doesn’t let you?”
“Then I’ll still love her. Just from a distance.” Maurice took another slice. “But I’m hoping she’ll let me stay close.”
“She’s been hurt a lot,” Justin said. “By our dad. By cancer. By people leaving.”
“I know.”
Justin sat up tall, squaring his shoulders. “So if you’re gonna hurt her—”
“I won’t. At least not on purpose. But I’m human. I’ll mess up. I’ll say the wrong thing. I’ll disappoint her sometimes. I already have…” Maurice met Justin’s eyes. “But I won’t leave. That’s the one thing I can promise. I won’t leave.”
Jasmine’s phone buzzed. “Mom’s heading back. Getting a ride home with El. She’ll be home in fifteen.”
Maurice stood immediately and started gathering their paper plates.
“You don’t have to run,” Justin said.
“Not running. But I don’t want her coming home and finding me in her kitchen without her permission.” He stopped. “I want to respect her space. Her home. I’ll see her tomorrow.”
Jasmine walked him to the door. “Thank you,” she said. “For the furnace. For the pizza. For showing up.”
“Of course.” Maurice stepped onto the porch. Cold hit him again.
“Maurice?” Jasmine called. He turned. “She’s gonna lose it when she sees you tomorrow. In a good way, I think. I hope.”
Maurice smiled. “Guess we’ll find out.” He walked to his car and drove back to the hotel. But not before writing down the address and making a mental list of everything that the house needed. Everything he could fix for her. If she’d let him.