“Because the girl is only three,” he said, blunt, so matter-of-fact.
Miriam cringed. How he had said “girl.”
“Look.” Dr. Cobb folded his hands neatly on the massive desk in front of him. “I see a lot of cases like these. Too many, in fact. Abandoned children. Bad homes.”
It took all of Miriam not to stand in that moment. But for the life of her, she couldn’t help but hold up a lace-gloved hand. “My father is Myron North. The first Black homicide detective in this city. My husband is a captain in the United States Marine Corps. This suit?” Miriam grabbed at her collar. “Vintage Chanel. That girl wants for nothing. Nothing.” Miriam’s hand shook with fury.
“Now, I’m not saying that’s the case here,” he went on flatly, as if she hadn’t spoken, as if he hadn’t heard one word of Miriam’s emphatic proclamation of her family’s humanity. “I’m talking in general, understand.”
Miriam realized, with relief and horror, that her worst fear—Joan’s being taken away from her—was no more than fantasy. She doubted that this man would ever give a damn about the life of a Black child.
He continued, nonchalant, seemingly unfazed, his dry tone never breaking. “And she’s young.” He waved a hand. “It won’t affect her. At least not mentally. She’ll be sore for a few days. I recommend warm baths. Oatmeal baths. There will be some discomfort, of course. Urination may be painful, but the meds will help with that. Given her age, I will prescribe a very small dosage of pain medication for that. Bring her back in if the pain worsens or you see any blood in the urine. But it would be rarer than Halley’s comet appearing thrice in a season,” he said. “A three-year-old remembering her own rape.”
So help me, God, Miriam thought. Do not kill this white man. Compose yourself. Get it together. Ask him about counseling.
Just as Miriam opened her mouth, Dr. Cobb stood up and said, “Have a great weekend, folks,” then opened the door for them to leave.
CHAPTER 9
August
1988
August could almost hear her mother’s voice saying, “Don’t you go stalling that car now, August. Be easy with her. That’s the last gift Myron ever got me.” The 1950 Cadillac Coupe de Ville was the color of fire. August wondered if that made her more of a chariot or a bomb today.
August made a slight right down East Parkway toward the Mount Zion Baptist Children’s Hospital entrance and saw bright November sunlight. She checked the rearview mirror to see if the turn had disturbed Joan. She wasn’t asleep. She hadn’t made a sound the whole ride, but her eyes were open, looking out the window into the middle distance, her head leaning against the side of her car seat.
August had half-obeyed Miriam. Instead of ice cream, she had taken the girl to nearby Rhodes College. Had walked her along the campus green, had pointed out the large oaks, the ivy covering the alabaster stone of the school buildings. August hadn’t even known where she was going until she was already in the school’s parking lot. She felt as if she’d been driven by some unconscious force within herself, something that was reminding her that it wasn’t just Joan’s or Derek’s futures that were on the line. It was hers, too. Her goal of following in her mother’s footsteps.
As August walked the green, holding on to her niece, she thought about how the picturesque November day in no way matched the shame of the situation. The ivy looked like gold coins climbing up the tall buildings. The trees’ orange leaves glistened in the slight wind, giving the trees the appearance of sparklers igniting. To August, the day looked like a goddamn celebration.
God certainly had a sense of humor.
August drove toward the light, scanning for her sister and brother-in-law. The least she could do was drop them off, keep Joan safe by her side for the duration of the appointment, then pick them up, neither of them in any fit position to drive. With Derek gone, the house had been deathly quiet while she watched Joan.
“I need a motherfucking medical fucking doctor to look me in the eye and tell me my daughter going to be just fine,” Miriam had said that morning, bleary-eyed and half-comatose at the breakfast nook. August had never heard her sister curse. Never before heard this kind of flatness in her voice. Devoid of life. Joan, all the while, had attached herself to her mother’s hip like a blood tick.
August brought the Caddy to a complete stop outside the entrance, engine idling. She scanned the horizon. A row of hickory trees graced the western side of the hospital in a neat line.
She caught sight of her sister coming from a smaller, side entrance to the west of the main doors. It was hard to miss her—Miriam was steady approaching her due date. She was following Jax up to where the sidewalk met the pavement. August signaled right. She eased the car into first and made her way across the parking lot.
Jax turned then, not toward August—he hadn’t seen her car yet—but back toward Miriam. In a moment, she had caught up with him. He was saying something August couldn’t make out. She squinted in the morning light, cursing herself for having left her sunglasses on the goddamn kitchen table at home. The sun was blinding, reflecting off the trees with gold brilliance.
She shifted the car into second and pressed on the gas a bit. She’d never liked the damn Yankee much no way, and she didn’t like the way he was gesturing at her sister now.
She was nearly there. Then—a quick movement. And Joan started screaming, a terrible, desperate sound. August’s foot slipped off the clutch and she stalled out the car.
Jax’s right arm was outstretched as if he were reaching for an Olympic torch. Except, instead, his hand was clenched hard around her sister’s neck. And he was squeezing it. August saw her sister’s feet kick out. The nigga was lifting her off the ground!
“God’s”—and August uttered the same exact curse she had used when she found her mother dead in the garden—“cunt!” She fumbled with the ignition. Tried to start the car again, but because God was an angry one, it stalled for a second time. “Fuck!” August screamed.
Jax was still choking her sister.
“Fuck this,” August declared, unstrapping her seat belt. She left the driver’s-side door wide open. Keys still in the ignition, she sprinted toward them. She could see that Miriam had her hands over Jax’s in an attempt to pry his fingers loose.
A few feet away, she realized she may be tall, just a hair shy of Jax, but she didn’t weigh nearly enough to punch this man in the face, and it feel anything more than a slap. But Jax had his back to her. She could tackle him. Use the weight of her running to propel her human basketball of a self into him.
And she did just that. Shoved her body into Jax’s back with everything she had.
Jax fell.
So did Miriam.
But August was there to catch her, break her fall. She allowed herself to fall to the ground, and let her sister topple over her. She made sure her sister’s midsection was protected, bracing her hands to receive the full weight of Miriam and the baby.
How she had catapulted her frame to both subdue Jax and save her sister, August would never truly know. But she wouldn’t thank God for it. Not a chance. He had allowed all this to happen, August figured as she lay on the cool asphalt, her sister on top of her, heaving and gasping for breath. Because what kind of God lets an auntie leave her screaming niece in a car?