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Titus was also aware that he was no longer a shoulder for his former teammate to cry on or a listening ear for him to share his problems. The badge on his chest had slammed that door shut.
Men like Scott, men consumed by their egos and their desire to assert dominance at the top of hierarchies only they could see, didn’t have the capacity to set aside their petty aspirations even in the face of death.
Titus wanted to grab Jamal by the collar of his old-school Houston Oilers jersey and yell at him, “Why the fuck do you think I ran for sheriff?” But that wasn’t the only reason, was it? Red DeCrain’s voice whispered in his mind.
“I give you my word we are going to do a thorough review,” Titus said. “I guess that’s going to have to be good enough for Calvin and Dorothy and their living son right now,” Jamal said. “Lavon,” Titus said. “What?” Jamal said. “Their other son. His name is Lavon. I was home visiting when he was born. I was the fifth person to hold him after his mama and his daddy and his two grandparents. They were afraid for him because he was born with a slight heart defect. Doctors went in and fixed it. Now he’s a twelve-year-old ball of fire. Likes to draw. Before I was sheriff, I was over at Calvin’s for
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When Titus had shared that anecdote with his college roommate, the kid, who was from Trenton, New Jersey, had asked whether or not Charon was stuck in a time loop from 1958.
Right
His huge squarish head blocked out the fluorescent light in the ceiling.
Lol
Titus thought the only place where segregation was practiced without reproach besides the church on Sunday morning was a funeral home. Both were the last bastions of Ole Southern social conventions.
He kept thinking about purification by immolation. It seemed like that was the only thing that could remove the stain of those images from his mind, his heart, his soul. Burn the phone. Scald his eyes with hot oil. Put Spearman and Latrell on a pyre and reduce them both to ashes, then scatter those ashes to the four winds. Erase all proof of their existence and the things they had done. But the children in those pictures deserved to have their story told. They deserved justice. Whatever that was these days.
Jesus Christ
Waiting for the world to shed tears for your pain was like waiting for a statue to speak. So you filed the reports, you answered the emails. You carried on as best you could.
“Terrible people can do good things sometimes. But they like doing the terrible things more.
When they were kids, around the time they got their driver’s licenses, Titus and Cal and Big Bobby had talked about looping a rope around that statue that sat in front of the courthouse and dragging it down off its pedestal and down the road to the dump. If Titus closed his eyes, he could see the cloud of sparks that would have followed Big Bobby’s ’84 red and black Dodge Ram as they dragged that hunk of tin and copper slag down Route 18. But talk was all it had been. The jejune declarations of young boys trying to find their way as men. Black boys who may not have been able to truly
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Gilby took Titus’s hand when he reached the table that was also her de facto throne. Her grip was stronger than he had anticipated. Years of chopping vegetables, rolling dough, and rendering chickens had given her hands deep strength, the kind that didn’t wither with age. He wondered why her hands had retained their power and his father’s had become distorted. They both had worked with their hands. But only Gilby owned her time. She could rest whenever she wanted. Albert’s hands had been tethered to another man’s whims.
“You tell Patrice I said don’t charge you for nothing. You get the special platter.” “You ain’t gotta do that, Miss Gilby,” Titus said. “I know. I ain’t gotta do nothing but stay Black and die, but I want you to have a good meal.
He could despise Latrell’s actions without reveling in his death. Those two things were not mutually exclusive.
“I heard about the shooting on the news. I was scared something had happened to you, big head,” Albert mumbled into his neck. The bristles of his father’s beard rubbed against his bare cheek. The sensation took him back to his childhood.
Say what you will about her, but Kellie never had a problem with aggression. In fact, she craved it. If she had been in his bed last night, he’d— Stop it. You got a good woman. Appreciate that, he thought.
There's LEVELSSSS to this shit
As he was opening the door to the SUV, his phone vibrated. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the screen. “Huh, that’s a surprise,” he said under his breath. It was a text message from his brother. It was only two words long. you alright Titus sent back his response in kind. Yeah, I’m good. Okay.
Titus loved his brother, but he hated that he seemed to think he had a monopoly on grief.
“Pop,” Titus said as he brushed past his father and went into the house, “faith broke my fucking heart.”
“This is Titus talking now, not the sheriff. You ever say anything about Helen Crown again, you gonna wake up with your teeth down your throat. You feel me?” Titus said. He stepped back and replaced his sunglasses and his badge.
“Just for curiosity’s sake, what were they saying?” Titus asked. Marquis stretched again, and this time his back popped. “They was saying you was lying about Mr. Spearman. That you didn’t know your ass from a hole in the ground. Then one of them called you an uppity nigger. So I sat down my rum and Coke and picked up that barstool and made them think about their life choices.” Titus didn’t want to laugh. He knew he shouldn’t, but it came out unbidden and unbound. Soon Marquis was joining him. They hadn’t shared a laugh in a long time. It echoed through the holding cell like a church bell. As
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“How long y’all been messing around now? Ten years? You need to go ahead and marry that girl,” Titus said, instantly realizing he sounded just like his father. “Like you gonna marry Darlene?” Marquis said. He winked at Titus.
Oh!
“How does Elias fit in this?” Carla asked.
Do these people know anything
“Didi,
Who
