Page 104 of Demo
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.
Chapter 28
Five years ago …
KNOX
“Where,exactly,arewegoing?” Lizzie asked nervously from the passenger seat. I reached over and put my hand on her knee, then gave it a squeeze. That only made her more nervous.
“I told you. I have two surprises for you.”
I saw her turn her face and stare at me, so I glanced at her, and then back at the road. Then back at her, then back at the road. “What?” I asked.
“Why are you doing that?” She pointed at my hand, which I skated up the bare skin of her fleshy thigh, and I just stared at her. I shrugged and moved my lips to form words, but none came out. I wasn’t sure exactly what she was asking.
“You don’t do that anymore.” Again, she pointed at my hand.
“What?” I asked, insulted, and tightened my grip on her. “Of course I do. I always do this.”
She was shaking her head before I even finished. “No, you stopped doing that a while ago. The last time you put your hand on my leg was right before you told me your Aunt Marla was sick.”
“You loved my Aunt Marla.”
“Ididlove your Aunt Marla. Hence, you getting nervous before telling me about the cancer and placing your hand on my leg, much like this,”—again, she pointed at my hand, which had gotten sweaty—“right before you broke the news. So, who’s dying?”
“No! Shit. No one!” I pulled my hand back and put it on the wheel. “No one is dying. Scout’s honor. I’m sorry. I’m just … I’m excited to show you something.” I looked back and forth between Lizzie and the road again, and her features seemed to soften.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to ruin this for you.”
“You didn’t.” I reached out and grabbed her hand this time. “I just hope you really like what I’m about to show you. It cost a lot of money, and it was a big commitment, and I didn’t really ask you before I did it. It sort of just happened.”
