Losing Hope (10 page)

He wanted to complete the revolution. That was what he'd told the suspicious villagers through an interpreter. The interpreter was Kisu, the educated and brawny son of the old and respected chief. RiChard had met Kisu during a summer semester he'd spent at a university in London. The two had remained close friends ever since.

It was my fifth trip abroad with RiChard and my first and only to the breathtakingly beautiful land of KwaZulu-Natal, a southeastern province in South Africa. Apartheid had ended the year before, but violent skirmishes were not unheard of as the diverse nation tried to figure out precisely how to divvy up this thing called freedom. The people of the Zulu nation were no exception as shaky truces and unsteady political partnerships formed.

RiChard had wanted to be in the middle of it all, calling and singing for social justice beside village elders and chiefs, as if he had lived his whole life alongside them, waiting for this monumental moment in history. He'd planted himself in the rural communities in the rolling mountains, wanting to start there and work his way to the more urban townships.

He'd wanted me there to witness the mighty shaking and trembling of a newly free generation seeking to make new imprints, try out new wings. It was history in the making, he said, and we could help make sure it was made right. So I came, overcoming my fear of flying on yet another tiny, ancient aircraft while holding my breath, too scared to pray. I came, exposing my stomach once again to tastes and textures I'd never known existed. I came, dazzled by the colorful, intricate beadwork of the Zulu women; amazed by the colorful, intricate beauty crafted by the Creator Himself in the vast virgin landscape.

It was around this same time of year, I remembered. Just after the famous sardine run of the summer—when schools of the small fish rushed up the rich coastline, followed by more seabirds, dolphins, and sharks than one could imagine; and right before the yearly Reed Dance Ceremony of early fall, when the young women of the Zulu nation would parade by the thousands before the Zulu royal family.

I was both awestruck and anxious, entranced and terrified at being there with RiChard. My contradictory feelings had become the constant, the one sure thing of my life.

I could not talk to RiChard about the fears I had about fighting for social justice so far from home—and so close to violence. I could not talk to him about what “social justice” even meant, or how to even fight for it. I could not talk to him about not having a true address or missing my mother or wondering if I really should have given up my full ride at school to get a “life experience education,” as he called it.

He already had a college degree. And he could use his fieldwork in foreign lands as fodder for his thesis—or even a doctoral dissertation.

Above all, I wondered if we even had a true marriage.

Yes, he told me he loved me, but I often felt like he loved the idea of me. Me, a partner, a shoulder, a witness, an extra hand to help with the dirty work of cleaning up the world's messes.

I wondered even then if he ever just saw
me
. Sienna.

That trip to KwaZulu-Natal was the last trip I made overseas.

After the incident that led to the village chief giving RiChard Kisu's lion's head ring, I knew I would never travel with him again.

I'd reached my breaking point.

 

 

“Roman St. James is in Mrs. Gillespie's class. . . . Yes, I'll hold.”

Thinking about RiChard and that ring had reminded me that Roman had never made it to school yesterday. Calling myself being clever, I was on hold with his school's secretary, waiting for her to check the attendance log for the day.

If that boy had skipped school again, I was going to take away everything he owned that had a plug, a charger, a push button, or sound.

“Okay, Mrs. St. James?” The ancient secretary cleared her throat as she got back on the line. “I do not see Roman marked present for the day.”

“Thank you,” I murmured into my cell phone, feeling an emotion that I could not name.

I was pacing the lunchroom of Holding Hands, the only one in there at twelve thirty—a true testament to the hard work and dedication of all of Ava's staff.

Seemed like I was the only one not getting anything done today.

“Call Roman.” I used the voice-activated calling feature on my cell, unable to get both my mind and my fingers working together in unison to key in his number myself. Roman immediately answered.

“Ma, I know why you are calling, and I know why you are upset,” he said quickly into my ear before I even had a chance to say hello, “but I'm getting Dad's ring back today. This fight is bigger than school.”

And then he hung up.

I had not gotten a word in.

Of course I dialed back, again and again, leaving all kinds of messages on his voice mail. Of course he did not answer.

For the second time today, I was left with a phone ringing nonstop in my ear, with answers just out of my reach.

“Sienna, you okay?” A woman named Tynice entered the lunchroom and pulled a bag out of the fridge. She studied me with half interest. I realized my hands were shaking.

“Yes, I'm okay. Just dealing with my son,” I managed to breathe out.

“Good luck with that one.” Tynice shrugged her shoulders and looked away from me. She grabbed a plastic fork out of a drawer and headed back out of the room.

I knew that Tynice had two sons, both incarcerated. One for selling drugs and the other for aggravated assault.

“Lord, I have to do something.” I did not know where to begin. I did not know where Roman was or what he was about to do.
Or what someone could do to him.

Foolishness.

He had that same streak, that same look in his eyes at times as his father.

With my heart pounding, I did the only thing that came to mind. I called Leon Sanderson at our neighborhood's Police Athletic League center.

He was a cop. He cared about Roman.

He was the only person I thought could help.

“I have a good friend who works in this district. I'm sure he'd be familiar with that gang of boys Roman's looking for.” Leon studied the scene outside his car window, straining his neck to scour the streets around us. “We'll get it all sorted out.”

“Thank you for helping.” My gratitude was genuine.

The two of us were in Leon's late-model Altima, riding through the neighborhoods that made up Park Heights. When I'd called the PAL center, I found out Leon was off. However, the message I left must have gotten to him immediately, because he called me back not fifteen minutes later. Before I'd even finished telling him that Roman might be in trouble, he told me he was on his way to me. That was about an hour ago.

“Don't worry, Sienna.” He glanced over at me before focusing back on the streets and sidewalks around us. “We're going to find your son, and I'll talk some sense into him myself. I don't like this missing school business and hunting down trouble. That's not the Roman I know. But don't worry. He'll be okay.”

His words were meant to comfort me, but his expression only increased my anxiety level. Leon was usually pretty laid-back, spitting out corny jokes and cheesy one-liners. At the moment, however, his face held no humor; no smile sat on his pursed lips. The worry lines etched around his eyes mirrored mine.

A sound like a whimper escaped from my mouth, but Leon did not seem to notice. I followed his gaze to a group of young men standing near the door of an abandoned corner store.

“No, that isn't him over there,” he murmured, seemingly talking more to himself than to me. “That boy in the red has the same book bag as Roman, but that's not him.”

It was a small detail that Leon noted, but it spoke volumes to me. It was the third such detail he'd pointed out in passing during our drive through Park Heights. He seemed to have noticed little things about Roman that I thought only I'd been aware of. Not in a creepy way, but more like someone who took an interest in getting to know his mentees one-to-one. Roman was at the Police Athletic League center at least two or three times a week. Leon, I'd just learned, was there every day, on eleven-hour shifts during the summer months.

“How long have you been working for PAL?” I had to ask something that took my attention off of my worry for a moment. The intensity of my fear for Roman's safety was getting to me.

“Oh, I've been working at PAL centers for the past eight years.” He slowed down again, studying another group of young men. This group had congregated on a porch about six blocks away from Yvette's house. “I used to be in homicide.” He fell silent.

He continued talking after speeding up again, satisfied that my son wasn't among the congregants on the porch. “But after seeing so many young black men dead and cold, I decided I wanted to try to catch them while they were still alive and warm. And record free, if you know what I mean.” He glanced over at me. “Working at the center is a great thing. I can try to make a difference before it's too late. I'm like a social worker, but with a badge.”

We both gave a slight chuckle at his observation. In the quick moment of his smile, I noticed something was missing. The sparkle.

“What happened to your gold tooth?” I could not contain my curiosity or hide my disdain for his golden canine, even in that moment.

“Oh, that thing.” He shook his head. “It's just a cap. I put it on only when I'm at the center.”

“What? To get some kind of street cred or something?” Sarcasm seemed to come too easily to me.

“Not really . . .” He was no longer smiling. “It just helps me to remember my brother while I'm working with the youth. No matter how tough the wannabe gangster, no matter how many fights break out in the game room, I can look in the mirror and remember why I have to be where I am and do what I do.” There was a solemnity to his tone as he looked straight ahead, no longer scouring the streets, like he had been seconds earlier.

I said nothing in response to his comment. I could tell neither one of us wanted to dig up the real story behind his gold cap and his work at the PAL center.

“Speaking of gold,” Leon said, breaking our shared silence, “tell me about this ring you said Roman went after. It is something special to him, I'm assuming.”

“It was from his father. My husband.”

“Husband? You have a husband?” The man recoiled so forcefully, one would think I'd just said I had the Ebola virus. I almost waited for him to kick me out of his fine leather car interior to keep the husband germ from spreading.

“I . . . It's . . . a long story. I haven't seen him . . . Roman and I haven't seen him,” I said, quickly correcting myself, “since Roman was almost two months old.”

Seven weeks and one day old, to be exact.
I remembered holding my infant son in my lap for our five-and-half-hour red-eye flight to the West Coast. April 23, 1997. The last time either one of us saw RiChard. I closed my eyes to shut out the memories that came with that date. Dayonna Diamond's birth date, I remembered.

Roman told people that he'd never been on a plane before. I never bothered to correct him, because he didn't know about his trip to San Diego with me. There was so much I hadn't told my son, so much I needed him to believe. That his father wanted to be a part of his life was a lie I'd made myself believe so that both Roman and I could survive without him.

“Sounds like you need to work out some things,” Leon quietly commented before sliding back into our mutual silence.

If only he knew . . .

We were circling back around on a narrow street when I reached out my hand and touched Leon's arm. “Wait. Stop. Back up.”

Leon had just driven past him. I'd almost missed him myself. It wasn't that I did not recognize my son. Of course I knew my only begotten.

I did not recognize his gait.

A few inches away from six feet tall and a few pounds away from being overweight, he usually carried himself like a slumping, big teddy bear, head down, shoulders hunched, as if to somehow hide in plain sight.

Now rage and grief had combined to make him a soldier marching vigilantly to his own demise.

My son was not a natural-born fighter. There was no way he could take on a gang of vicious thieves. Especially ones that were armed.

I hurt for him. In his foolishness, in his pain, I hurt for him.

The car pulled to a stop right beside him. He was so focused, he did not even notice Leon's beeping.

I rolled down the window.

“Roman!” All I could get out.

He looked at me, frowned, and kept moving forward with his death march.

Leon got out of the car and opened the back passenger's side door. “Get in.”

Leon did not yell or scream, but there was a threat in his words, nonetheless. Roman heard it too. Without missing a beat, he turned back toward us and plopped down into the backseat.

Nobody spoke for the entire ride back to my office. Leon pulled up to my little Aveo in the parking lot but motioned for Roman to stay where he was.

“Ms. St. James, I know you want to talk to your son, but if it's okay with you, I want to have a few words with him first. Continue on with your day, and I can bring him home to you this evening.”

I looked at my fourteen-year-old, seething in the backseat of the officer's personal car. Roman almost looked rabid, like he would leap and bite at the slightest wrong move.

“You can take him, and I'll deal with him later.” I nodded.

I watched as the car roared off, my son still steaming in the backseat.