RIP Victor Edwards 1975-1992

It was the last Saturday of the month, and the neighborhood gathered at the Short house. The mix of music and chatter could be heard down the block of Maple Street. People gathered, bringing treats and libations. The family home’s doors were open in the front and the back, and the air was filled with pleasant greetings. No one was a stranger here, even the newcomers to the neighborhood.

Through the front threshold, people entered to find children playing board games in the living room. There was a long side table where Sherri Short displayed her famous desserts. German chocolate cake, coconut rum cake, banana pudding, and pies of every flavor. People who brought additional food left them here. Store-bought cookies, foil wrapped casseroles, and plates of finger food together made for a tantalizing buffet.

In the kitchen was usually where Derrick, the youngest of the short children was usually stationed, making and pouring drinks for folks like a professional bartender though he was only 16. Fruit punch, sweet and unsweet tea, and a collection of liquor. If Christina, the eldest Short child, was home for the weekend, there may even be a tray of jello shots in the fridge for those who knew to ask.

On this Saturday, she was out back helping her father with the meats. James Short, the patriarch, manned the grill. Burgers, hot dogs, and with pressure from the younger folks, eggplant and tofu. With his daughter by his side, a steady stream of protein went from grill to plate to hungry mouths. Like a well rehearsed dance, Christina gathered what was done cooking and carried it out into the party, returning with empty plates and requests for more. Every once in a while, she gave her dad a quick kiss on the cheek.

Sherri Short, the matriarch, lounged on the patio furniture, surrounded by the ladies. Her labor was done, having run the oven for nearly three days straight making her desserts and cleaning the house for this monthly get together. In this circle, they gossiped and laughed. Stories about what their kids were doing, where so-and-so was going to college, who they saw walking with who down the street, and what the new Target opening up in the neighborhood would mean.

Amidst the sea of friendly, smiling faces, there were always a few less comfortable ones. Parker, tall, pale, and polo-wearing, was one such face this Saturday. He was Christina’s boyfriend, soon to be fiance. He tried to mingle, but mostly busied himself by watching Sherri’s glass and being prompt to ask her if she wanted him to fetch a refill. On his way, Parker and Christina would cross paths, lean into each other, and exchange private whispers. The ring box in Parker's pocket felt heavy. When could he get Mr. Short alone? When could he ask for his permission?

The Short household on the last Saturday of the month was the place to be. At first it had started small with a few of the new families, newly moved from overseas or more southern states. It was Sherri’s idea when they had first moved into the old three-bedroom townhouse, as a way to make friends and to shrewdly advertise her husband’s contracting business. She never said it was a way to show off how far they had come. She didn’t need to. Their guests and friends from across the highway could feel it as they made their way to the house.

James Short knew that walk well. He had grown up on the other side of the highway. The only son to a single father who cobbled together odd jobs like painting, moving, and fixing drywall. If TaskRabbit had existed in the 70’s, that’s what James Sr. would be, a man who did odd jobs. He was a quiet man who went from one job to the next. That was his big picture. He didn’t dare dream to build a business, or network, or think about repeat customers. He wanted to keep his head down and work not worry about who he knew. It was all about who you knew, James’ mother had said before she left. It had stuck with him, and growing up, James had wanted to prove to him that they could be bigger.

His father was not at the cookout. He had passed earlier in the year, and with him, true knowledge of the secret to the Short family success.

~

James Short methodically cleaned his grill. From the backyard, he could hear the voices of his wife and daughter cajoling guests to “Make a plate! Bring it with you!” The party was over. Trash was being taken out, cups gathered from every surface, and the few remaining people loosely held glasses of the harder stuff as they lounged on the living room couch.

Neil was one such guest, a friend from the before times. He still lived across the highway, and always made the trip over each month, though he and James rarely spoke. Around him on the sofa were some of James’ other contractors. Buddies and colleagues getting together for a drink at their boss’ house.

Eventually, Sherri would approach the crew, arms akimbo, and tell the group of bachelors that they didn’t have to go home, but they couldn’t stay here. They would laugh politely at their boss’ boss, and slowly filter out the door, Neil last. James came in as they left and briefly met eyes with Neil across the living room. One man coming in, another going out. They shared an understanding.

James worked with Neil. He couldn’t not employ one of his oldest friends, but the two rarely ever spoke anymore. Not after that night. Seeing Neil at work, in his home, at project sites, James was reminded of his past and how it festered like a cancer in the pit of his stomach.

All around him was the evidence of a merry neighborhood, of a successful family. The narrative of a man who worked hard to bootstrap himself to a better place. A family man. James would never forget the feeling of closing on this house, of holding his baby daughter for the first time, of attending the high school graduations of his three kids. All around him was the story the world saw, and underneath it all was the truth. All of this began with a foolish, reckless action taken by a teenager who thought he was being the man his father couldn’t be. It began with a hit.

In the din of the afterparty, James sat on his own sofa for the first time that day and closed his eyes. Victor was always with him in the darkness. Victor’s smiling face as he turned around unawares. Victor’s eyes changing from confusion to fear. Victor’s agonized groan as the knife had gone in. Victor’s hands over his own, over the hilt of the blade. Victor’s breath smelling of cheap beer, mingling with his own smelling like cheap vodka. James didn’t drink anymore.

“Sherri,” he called from his seat. “I need to tell you something.”

Sherri bustled in the kitchen. He could hear the running of water and the clank of tableware.

“Sherri,” he called again, louder.

“Mr. Short,” Sherri approached him playfully, “next time, tell your grown children to help their mother out before they leave for whatever the hell they do on Saturday nights, especially, Derrick. Where does he think his living-at-home-self is going when–”

James was crying. This was the second time Sherri had seen him cry.

“I need to tell you something.” His mouth was contorting, the words coming out mumbled through a fierce frown.

Sherri said nothing. She slowly lowered herself to the armchair adjacent to her husband. Her hands were carefully folded. Her face composed. “No.”

“Sherri–”

“Stop it. Whatever you’re going to say, whatever is on your conscience, I don’t need to hear it.”

James felt he had been stabbed. Maybe he deserved it.

“I committed a–”

“I said I don’t need to hear it!”

“Sherri!”

“My God, James! Unless the words out of your mouth are not about landing you in jail and robbing your wife and children of their father and source of income, I don’t want to hear it.”

“How did you–”

“You thought I never knew? You think this is news to me? Have you been in this neighborhood? People around here can’t keep their mouth shut even if they never say things outloud. I knew! I knew from the beginning. You don’t grow up where we did and not hear people talk about that night.”

Guilt became shock became confusion which returned to guilt. James slumped into the couch. The energy mustered for his confession deflected with nowhere to go. “You married a man who doesn’t face the consequences of his actions.”

“I married a man whose actions have had the consequences of changing my life, of making me laugh, of giving me children, and of being able to send my children to college. Those are consequences.”

“So is going to prison.”

“For what?”

“For killing–”

“No, James! For what purpose? Who do you think you’re serving by serving time?”

James was silent. It was selfish. He knew Sherri thought it was selfish to turn himself in, and he agreed that it would only serve to unburden his own conscience. But it was also the right thing, the lawful thing, to turn himself in. And the right thing was also the wrong thing to leave his family stranded. How could it be both right and wrong to properly account for the crime he committed, even if it was almost thirty years ago? “It’s the right thing to do.” His voice was small.

Sherri’s back straightened. “Don’t you dare leave me alone, James Short. You want to talk about accountability? About the right thing to do? How about keeping your promise to stay by my side? How about providing for your family? Christina’s about to get married! Derrick is still in school! Don’t you dare leave us, James Short. Don’t you dare leave this family alone.”

“Like I left Victor’s family alone?”

The name hung in the air between them, perhaps as close to a confession as Sherri would allow.

“His family is not my concern.”

“Shouldn’t it be mine?”

“More than your own?”

“Our success is built on their loss!”

“And what will paying for it now bring them? What will two families without fathers do for the world, huh?”

“Victor never got to be a father.”

“And going to prison will solve that, will it?”

No. It wouldn’t. James knew. He didn’t need to say it outloud for Sherri to know he knew.

“It’s late,” Sherri rose from the chair. She reached out to touch her husband’s shoulder, but it didn’t quite make it before she turned. “Let’s get ready for bed.”

~

The 91st precinct sat in the middle of Sixth Ave, a six story building, beige, nondescript. An American flag hung above its entryway with double doors at the top of a short three step stoop. There were cop cars parked outside and an officer at the top of the stairs. He is what law enforcement calls a station house guard. James had Googled the term that morning along with other legal terms he might use in his confession. “Murder.” “Manslaughter.” “Self Defense.” “Intent.”

James couldn’t see the name of the officer from where he stood diagonally across the street under some neighboring scaffolding, just far enough that the officer would have to turn his body to fully face him. He could see that the officer stood with his hands in his vest. When people walked past, the officer would tip his head, or even remove a hand to wave. He was friendly, non-threatening. It was not what James had been taught about cops, but it made him feel better about possibly approaching him.

The officer had been there since James arrived at 11:12am. Sherri had already left with Derrick to church when he woke. No doubt, she had left him sleeping on purpose, so he would miss any godly messages about atonement. With the house to himself, James took a slow morning, made himself coffee and breakfast, and went to enjoy the pleasant spring day outside. He hadn’t intended to end up here, but his legs carried him unconsciously to his old neighborhood, to his old house, and from his old house, down the route to the precinct, a path he had last walked as a 17 year old boy with his dad.

“Say you were at home. Say you didn’t know the kid. Say you were with Neil, because you were with Neil that night. Say you’re studying for your GED. Say you work.”

Now he was here again, without his father to tell him what to say, instead with Sherri’s words ringing in his mind. “Don’t you dare leave me alone, James Short.”

At 11:30, when he still hadn’t entered the precinct, when he had observed the officer greeting passers-by for almost twenty minutes, James left his post to buy a pack of cigarettes. People smoking cigarettes were not loitering. People smoking cigarettes were not suspicious. A disguise despite the fact that he didn’t smoke.

James lit cigarette after cigarette, letting each of them burn down between his fingers. The butts littered the area around his feet. He pondered the distance between himself and the building, between himself and his family, between himself and his guilt, between himself and a type of freedom.

At noon, James wondered if there would be a changing of the guard. He wondered if there was some kind of ceremony he would be able to witness. Another cigarette butt fell to the floor. He had just four left. Should he smoke one? Would he become a smoker in prison? People spoke of cigarettes like currency in prison. At least that’s what he had observed on the TV shows. TV shows Victor never got to watch. What would Victor think of streaming?

James lit another cigarette and took a hesitant inhale. The smoke hit the back of his throat, bitter and harsh, but also sweeter than he expected. He coughed on the exhale, and tried again, trying to drag it out like he had seen his contractors do on break. James didn’t know much about the effects of nicotine on the brain. He knew it was addictive, but no one ever talked about the lightheadedness he was experiencing. Like being happily dizzy, lightly drunk for a brief moment. James was brought back to that night when he last consumed alcohol. Substances had changed his life before, maybe it would give him courage again to do what needed to be done today.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. The time read 12:22pm. Sherri texted she and Derrick were on their way home from church, and would he like to join them for brunch? A family tradition, a life he had built, a life beckoning him to return.

James pocketed his phone and pulled out another cigarette.