“That tat on your hand, that’s Black God’s ink, ain’t it?” Buddy Lee asked. Ike studied his hands. The indistinct drawings of a lion with two scimitars above its head on his right hand and the word RIOT on his left had been his silent companions since his second year in Coldwater State Penitentiary.
Ike put his hands in his pockets.
“That was a long time ago,” Ike said. Buddy Lee sucked his teeth again.
“Where’d you do your time? I did a nickel at Red Onion. Some hard fellas out that way. Met a few BG boys out there.”
“I don’t mean no harm, but it ain’t really something I like to talk about,” Ike said.
“Well, I don’t mean no harm, but if you don’t like talking about it, why don’t you get the tat covered up? Shit, from what I hear, they can do that in an hour,” Buddy Lee said. Ike took his hands out of his pockets. He looked down at the black lion on his hand. The lion was standing on a crude map of the state.
“Just because I don’t wanna talk about it doesn’t mean I want to forget about it. It reminds me of why I don’t ever wanna go back,” Ike said. “I’m gonna leave you with your boy now.” He turned and started to walk away.
“You ain’t gotta go. It’s too late for me and him,” Buddy Lee said. “Too late for you and your boy, too.” Ike stopped. He half turned back toward Buddy Lee.
“What you mean by that?” Ike asked. Buddy Lee ignored the question.
“When he was fourteen, I caught Derek kissing another boy down by the creek in the woods behind our trailer. Took off my belt and beat him like a runaway … like he stole something. I called him names. Told him he was a pervert. I whupped him till his legs was covered with welts. He cried and cried. Saying he was sorry. He didn’t know why he was like that. You never got into it with your boy like that? Never? I dunno, maybe you was a better daddy than I was,” Buddy Lee said. Ike adjusted his jaw.
“Why we talking about this?” Ike said. Buddy Lee shrugged.
“If I could just talk to Derek for five minutes, you know what I’d say? ‘I don’t give a damn who you fucking. Not one bit.’ What you think you’d say to your boy?” Buddy Lee said. Ike stared at him. Stared through him. He noticed tears clinging to the corners of the man’s eyes, but they didn’t fall. Ike ground his teeth so hard he thought his molars might crack.
“I’m going,” Ike said. He stomped toward his car.
“You think they gonna catch who did it?” Buddy Lee shouted after him. Ike picked up his pace. When he reached the car, the minister was just leaving the parking lot. Ike watched as he creeped by in a jet-black BMW. Rev. J. T. Johnson’s profile was sharp enough to slice cheese. He never turned his head or acknowledged Ike and Mya at all.
Ike jogged down the driveway. He caught the minister before he turned onto the highway. Ike tapped on his window. Rev. Johnson lowered the glass. Ike dropped to his haunches and extended his hand into the car.
“I guess I should thank you for preaching my son’s funeral,” Ike said. Rev. Johnson grasped Ike’s hand and pumped it up and down a few times.
“No need to thank me, Ike,” Rev. Johnson said. His deep rich baritone rumbled out of his chest like a freight train on greased tracks. He tried to pull his hand away but Ike gripped it tight.
“I’m supposed to thank you but I just can’t.” He gripped Rev. Johnson’s hand tighter. The minister winced. “I just gotta ask you, why did you preach the funeral?”
Rev. Johnson frowned. “Ike, Mya asked—”
“I know Mya asked you to do it. What I’m asking you is why did you do it? Because I can tell you didn’t want to,” Ike said. He tightened his grip on Johnson’s hand.
“Ike, my hand…”
“You kept talking about abominable sin. Over and over. You thought my son was an abomination?” Ike asked.
“Ike, I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to say it. I might just cut grass for a living but I know an insult when I hear it. You think my son was some kind of monster and you made sure everybody at his funeral knew it. My boy was less than five feet away from you, and you couldn’t shut the fuck up about how his sins were forgivable. His abominable sins.”
“Ike, please…” Rev. Johnson said. A line of cars was forming behind the good minister’s BMW.
“You didn’t say nothing about him being a reporter. Or that he graduated top of his class at VCU. You didn’t talk about him winning the state basketball championship in high school. You just kept talking about abominations. I don’t know what you thought he was, but he was just…” Ike paused. The word caught in his throat like a chicken bone.