Derek was different. Whatever rot that lived in the roots of the Jenkins family tree had bypassed Derek. His son was so full of positive potential it made him glow like a shooting star from the day he was born. He had accomplished more in his twenty-seven years than most of the entire Jenkins bloodline had in a generation. Buddy Lee’s hand began to shake. The photo fell from his fingers as the tremors worsened, working their way through his hand. The photo floated to the floor. Buddy Lee put his head in his hands and waited for the tears to come. His throat burned. His stomach was doing cartwheels. His eyes felt like they wanted to burst. Still no tears came.
“My boy. My sweet boy,” he muttered over and over as he rocked back and forth.
FOUR
Ike sat in the living room sipping on some rum on the rocks. He’d changed out of his suit and was wearing a white tank top and jeans. Despite the ice, the rum burned as it went down his throat. Mya and Arianna were taking a nap. In the kitchen, containers full of chicken, ham, and mac and cheese were spread across every available surface. A few of Isiah and Derek’s friends had brought vegetarian barbecue. Whatever the hell that was.
Ike brought the rum to his head and finished it in one huge gulp. He winced but kept it down. He considered getting another one, then changed his mind. Getting drunk wasn’t going to make things easier. He needed to feel this pain. Keep it fresh in his heart. He deserved it. In the back of his mind he’d always thought that he and Isiah would come to an understanding. He just assumed time would thaw the glacier between them and they would both experience an epiphany of sorts. Isiah would finally understand how hard it was for his father to accept his lifestyle. In turn, Ike would be able to accept that his son was gay. But time was a river made of quicksilver. It slipped through his grasp even as it enveloped him. Twenty became forty. Winter became spring, and before he knew it he was an old man burying his son and wondering where in the hell that river had taken him.
Ike held the empty glass to his forehead. He should have walked across that goddamn glacier instead of waiting for it to melt. Sat down with Isiah and tried to explain how he felt. Tell him he felt like he had failed as a father. Isiah, being Isiah, would have told him that his sexuality had nothing to do with Ike’s shitty parenting skills. Maybe they both would have laughed. Maybe that would have broken the ice.
He let out a sigh. That was a nice fantasy.
Ike sat his empty glass on the coffee table. He sat back in the recliner and closed his eyes. The recliner had been a gift to himself. A place to rest his weary bones after ferrying bags of peat moss and mulch all day long.
Ike’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked the number. It was one of the detectives who were supposed to be working Isiah’s case.
“Hello,” Ike said.
“Hello, Mr. Randolph, this is Detective LaPlata. How are you holding up?”
“I just buried my son,” Ike said.
LaPlata paused.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Randolph. We are doing everything we can to find the people who did this. To that end, would it be okay if we came by and talked to you and your wife? We are trying to see if any of Isiah and Derek’s friends or associates have reached out to you. We’re having a hard time getting them to talk to us,” LaPlata said.
“Well, you’re cops. A lot of people don’t like talking to cops even when they’re innocent,” Ike said. LaPlata sighed.
“We’re just trying find a lead here, Mr. Randolph. So far, we can’t find anyone who has a bad word to say ’bout your son or his boyfriend.”
“They were … they were married,” Ike said. More awkward silence clogged the line.
“I’m sorry about that. We talked to your son’s employer. Did you know he had a death threat sent to him earlier this year?”
“I didn’t know that. Me and Isiah … we weren’t as close as we could’ve been, so I don’t think there’s anything I’m gonna be able to help you with,” Ike said.
“What about your wife, Mr. Randolph?”
“This isn’t really a good time to talk to her,” Ike said.
“Mr. Randolph, I know this is hard but—”
“Do you? Did somebody shoot your son in the head, then stand over him and empty a clip into his face?” Ike said. The phone creaked in his hand as his grip tightened.
“No, but—”
“I have to go, Mr. LaPlata,” Ike said. He hit the END button and put the phone on the coffee table next to the empty glass.