Page 7 of Demo
I climb the stoop of our—my—building, and as I’m fishing my keys out of my purse to unlock our mail slot, my phone chimes a familiar ring, causing my scalp to prickle and my palms to go clammy.
I pull my phone out of my purse to read the text fromCaptain Banana Hammock:
I know you sometimes work late Fridays, so can you text me when you get home so I know you’re alive? Cuz if someone mugs you and leaves you for dead, I’d like to take the bed back and stop sleeping on my dad’s sleeper sofa like an asshole
I swallow hard and send him back a middle finger emoji.Is that enough indication I’m still alive, dickhead?
I slide the phone back in my bag and collect the mail: a Verizon bill, a flier for someone running for Supreme Court justice, more spam. I tuck it under my arm and head upstairs.
I can hear Kennedy barking inside before I even slide the key into the slot, and the second I open the door to the small space he’s jumping and whimpering and just all up in my grill.
“All right, all right!” I say as I drop my things on the counter and give attention to this annoying animal. He’s just another thing Knox insisted on having, and then left with me. I don’t know why Knox didn’t just bring him to his dad’s with him, because Kennedy has an unhealthy attachment to Knox and has been barking incessantly ever since he moved out.
We’re not sure what mix Kennedy is. He was a stray Knox couldn’t shake from one of the construction sites he was working at and, I think, was kind of a kindred spirit. He was a little lost, a little restless, a little needy, and a little skittish. The veterinarian thinks he has some Australian Shepherd in him, but I’ve always thought his black and white fur is too short.
Kennedy barks when I’m making something to eat because Knox always used to give him scraps. He barks when I’m in the bathroom because Knox used to crap with the door open. He barks when I leave, and he barks when I come back.
Once inside the apartment, I wish I had stayed longer at work. Knox and I used to trip all over each other here, but now that I’m alone, it feels entirely too big.
The door to the apartment opens right into the kitchen, and when I’m done welcoming Kennedy, I walk over to the fridge, weaving around the damn dog every step of the way, and take out a beer and a container of leftover chicken lo mein. I also pick out a Styrofoam takeout container that’s been in there all week, open it, and see there’s a dried-up piece of beef inside.
“All right, mutt. Here,” I mumble as I put it on the kitchen floor, and Kennedy scarfs it down.
I take my dinner into the living room, which is really just on the other side of the kitchen island, sit on the couch and set my food down on the coffee table in front of me. I ask Alexa to turn on Spotify, and a familiar Kings of Leon song plays.
I like to have sound all the time because the silence is too empty.
I pull out a stack of papers from under the coffee table and start rifling through them. I tend to keep prominent articles and stories that keep coming up handy in case I need to reference them. Just like now.
I finally find what I’m looking for and spread the newspaper out in front of me as I cross my legs on the couch and sit back with my dinner. Kennedy, having finished his meal, jumps up on the couch beside me, which is something I said I’d never let him do, and rests his head in my lap. For once he is quiet.
I begin reading:
A several-months-long investigation into the sale of meth concluded Tuesday when the City of Rochester Police Office raided a southside home that ended in gunfire and left the main suspect dead. Sixteen-year-old Jerome King was shot three times in the chest during the raid on State Street.
“While I am proud of the hard work of our city’s Drug Enforcement & Investigation Unit, I am also saddened that the life of a young man ended tragically today,” said Police Chief Bryan Scott. “It is this department’s belief that every youth in this city has the possibility of a great future ahead of them, but unfortunately, some are tempted to enter a life of drug use and abuse.”
The chief also touted the department’s zero-tolerance policy on drugs.
“I must remind residents the war on drugs continues in this city,” he said.
Neighbors in the city’s Third Ward say King was a familiar face. Celia Stewart said she saw the young man hanging around with a group of men who were older than him, and he appeared to be involved in drug activity.
I think back a few months and try to remember what happened in the days and weeks after the raid. I remember getting the call from Mrs. King the day the article was published. I remember her anguish, her insistence that her son was not involved in this drug case in the least. Her certainty.
And I remember believing her. But why did I not follow up?
I rummage through some more papers and find my notes from the case, and some sort of investigation analysis saying all the evidence pointed to King. Drugs in his system, on his person; days he skipped school coincide with dates of sales.
I sit back, and Kennedy lets out a human sigh. With my pointer finger, I stroke the fur along his snout several times.
I know exactly why I didn’t ask any more questions or pay better attention. That was right around the time Knox moved out, and I was completely consumed by what was going on in my own life. It’s not like me to just go along with one side of the story, or to simply believe the police chief. Especially the police chief. But I was too distracted by my anger and hurt, even more than I am as of late.
But I forbid myself from thinking of Knox tonight.
Not even a little bit.
Not even for one split second.
