“Protesting for civil rights isn’t worth the risk?” he shot back. “Do you even hear yourself? There’s no way I’m missing this.”
“You can’t go.”
“First of all, I’m a grown-ass man. You can’t tell me what to do. That’s the difference between you and me, sis. They’re not going to make me afraid. I’m not hiding. I’m gonna be seen and heard.”
“We’ll all go together. As a family,” Dad chimed in. “And your sister’s right, it could get dicey out there. You know there’ll be some young bloods out there getting up to no good, giving us all a bad name. I got caught up in all that mess back in the ’64 riots—tear-gassed and everything. All I’d hoped was that it would be better for y’all. But here we are again, fifty years later and ain’t nothing changed but the music. I swear it’s like we’re on a damn treadmill set to the highest setting and we just keep trying to climb, going nowhere fast,” Dad said, taking a giant bite of his peach pie.
My phone dings now with a text from Shaun. He’s sent a selfie from the march, standing in front of city hall with Mom and Dad.
I’m relieved to see that the crowd really is peaceful, so many faces filled with righteous conviction and purpose. Nonetheless, my cynicism creeps in. Ain’t nothing changed but the music. All the clever signs and chants, the people who showed up just so they could post it to their social media, what does it add up to? How many marches have there been? How many calls for justice? How many lawsuits? How many “national conversations about race”？ But then again, maybe this is something. No one had marched for Jimmy; no one had demanded justice. Instead, terror had chased our family out of town, paralyzed them in silence for decades. So maybe the marching, rallying, showing up, it serves a purpose. It says, We will not be invisible or afraid. We will not give up. And that’s not nothing. It might actually be everything.
Traffic is light this side of town, and I arrive at Tamara’s earlier than I intended. So after I park on the street, I take a detour and walk into the alley, the one behind the liquor store, the one Justin walked down on his way home from school. I expect something more menacing, but it’s just a dark narrow alley. There’s a pile of candles, sympathy cards, battered teddy bears, and fistfuls of deli flowers that serve as a makeshift memorial. I stand there alone and look left and right, imagine turning around and seeing the barrel of a gun. I open my mouth and scream—I scream for Justin and for Jimmy. I half expect to see the cops show up just then, but the only witness to my moment of madness is a stray alley cat with a nub tail rubbing himself against the brick wall. I trace the path Justin didn’t get to take that day, squinting my eyes to read the numbers on the line of crumbling brick row houses. When I see the bicycle on the porch—a blue Huffy lying on its side next to a set of concrete steps—I know it’s the right one.
As I climb the Dwyers’ porch stairs, my gaze lingers on the bike, the one Justin will never ride again. Before I can even knock, Tamara opens the door. She’s wearing a red Phillies cap with dried sweat stains along the rim.
“Hi, I’m Riley.”
I extend my hand right as she steps forward for a hug, and then we switch, her hand out, me stepping forward, and end up laughing at our awkward dance.
“I’m a hugger,” she says, and pulls me in for an embrace that lasts longer than I expected. Even though Wes warned me, I’m not prepared to feel her bones through her skin. She moves away and leads me across the threshold into the living room. All the blinds are drawn, and shadows fall over the room. It takes me a minute to see that the couches and chairs are filled with people. Three teenage boys sit on the floor, watching a video on one of their phones, the sound turned off.
Sadness casts a pall over the room.
“This is Riley Wilson from the news,” Tamara introduces me. “Riley, this is everyone. The entire neighborhood has been coming over and sitting with me. Less people today because of the march.”
“I was just watching some footage from the march. It’s a really strong turnout for Justin.”
“I wish I coulda kept it together to go. But no, it was too much—being the center of attention, having everyone looking at me… It woulda broke me.”
Wes rises from a giant lounger in the corner that reminds me of Gigi’s. He doesn’t hesitate before reaching out and hugging me as well. “Riley. Long time no see,” he jokes.
I allow his chiseled arms to engulf me, my cheek pressed firmly to his broad chest. Now, standing here in his embrace, our connection feels all the more intense, like he’s someone I’ve known forever.
“Do you need a drink?” Tamara offers. “Water? A Coke? We have plenty of food too; people have been dropping it off nonstop. So help yourself.”
I already feel like an intruder; I’m hardly going to grab a paper plate of green-bean casserole. “Thank you, but I’m okay.”
Tamara goes over to the small galley kitchen, opens the fridge door, and closes it again without taking anything out. She runs her hands up and down her jeans, looks around as if she doesn’t quite know what to do with me now that I’m here. Wes, who shadows his sister closely, puts his hands on her shoulders. “Take it a minute at a time, sis. You don’t need to do this right now if you aren’t up for it.”
“No, no, I can do it.”
Wes turns to me. “Do you want to see Justin’s room? We can do the interview in there if you want.”
I nod and follow the two of them a few steps down the hall. Hanging on the closed door is one of those personalized little Pennsylvania license plates that reads JUSTIN. Tamara prepares herself with a deep breath and then opens the door. She walks a few feet into the room, plops down on the bed. It’s covered with a pilly plaid comforter. She grabs a pillow, holds it to her face. “I keep coming in here and smelling his pillow. How long do you think it’ll keep smelling like him?”
“We won’t ever wash it.” Wes leans in and takes a whiff.
I take in the room—half-finished models of dusty dinosaurs perch on the shelves; an iconic, and apparently timeless, poster of Tupac hangs above the bed; a trombone case leans against it; and a tattered paperback, Of Mice and Men, lies facedown on the desk next to a small tank with one lone goldfish swimming in lazy circles. Loose socks are scattered around the floor. It already feels like a shrine.
Tamara’s red-rimmed eyes are focused on watching the fish in the tank. She doesn’t look at me when she speaks.
“I couldn’t have made it through the last week without this man, without my brother. Wes was there in the hospital with me when we finally let Justin go… when I told them to go ahead and pull the plug.”
“I couldn’t stay in there when they did it, when they unhooked him,” Wes admits.
“I was alone in there when my baby died. And then I couldn’t figure out how to leave. I crawled up on that bed and held him tight until the breath went out of his body.” She trembles and grips her brother like he’s a lifeline.
Then she fixes her gaze on me as if she’s remembered I’m there, standing awkwardly in the doorway.