Say Her Name by Stefani Deoul

Author:Stefani Deoul [Deoul, Stefani]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781612941622
Publisher: Bywater Books
Published: 2019-10-25T16:00:00+00:00

FOURTEEN

And that’s pretty much it. We thank Lolo for her time. Yvonne reappears, tells us Detective Tsarnowsky has been called away, and ushers us out of the building.

We exit to a dark, frigid, almost night, but we all stand shivering in it for another moment. Somber. Reflective. Pained. Yeah, mostly pained. A few weeks ago, we would have just gone to Platitudes, ordered fries, and took comfort from each other. But tonight I am too fragile to bring it up, and no one else does either.

Instead, we all start walking for the closest subway, Vik peeling off first. Ari and Imani should be next, but Imani stays with Jimmy as Ari ducks down alone.

I feel a tap on my arm. As I turn, I see Joe, moving his closed hands one over the other, the top one in a circular motion, like an old-fashioned grinder. “Coffee?”

Every inch of me wants to cup my hands over my ears and shake my head no, but I don’t. Instead I meet his eyes, nod yes, calling out to Imani and Jimmy who are now nearly half a block ahead, “Hey ’Mani, Jimmy, I’m gonna go grab a coffee with Joe.”

They turn. Imani says something to Jimmy I can’t hear, but definitely isn’t a, “we’ll come too,” as they wave back in acknowledgement.

Plan confirmed, Joe and I hustle up the street. At first, I thought he was quiet walking with us because the meeting was so intense, and even though that is most likely true, I suddenly realize he’s not so much introspectively quiet as he is nervous, edgy, his eyes darting, looking desperately for a place for us to go inside and sit, which is naturally, even in the city, suddenly nowhere to be found. We walk block after block, his unease increasing my agitation with every step.

Finally a beacon, and we escape into one of those ubiquitous New York City, open 24/7 bodegas, where there’s always something for everyone, hot salad bars, cold salad bars, paninis, snacks, and, most importantly, at least in this one, an upstairs loft space for dining. Joe buys himself a Coke, but I just shake my head. I want whatever this is to be over and done. And then again I don’t.

Dread is a very not-so-funny thing.

We get upstairs and find it is mercifully empty.

Taking off scarves, gloves, and coats before I dash down and into the bathroom buys me at least ten more minutes before I have to face the inevitable. But now it’s here. Out of ways to delay, we sit on opposite sides of an only slightly grimy four-top tucked in the far corner.

Joe turns, reaching behind him to his coat, fishing out what is now a fairly creased envelope. He sets it on the table and pushes it forward, halfway toward me. Then takes his right hand, closes his fist, places it over his heart, and moves it up and down. I watch his face as he signs. He’s sorry, very sorry.

I stare at the envelope as if I touch it, it will burst into flames, or maybe I will.

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