Black Widow (4 page)

“What do we do?” the warden asked his deputy.

Just at that moment, Dave’s words started to slur to the point where they couldn’t be understood. He stopped kicking, and his eyes looked like white marbles as they rolled to the back of his head. Then there was no more movement at all. There were no more sounds.

The doctor checked his vitals. “He’s dead.”

“Look at his face,” somebody said. When everyone turned to look, each was caught off guard by what they witnessed: Dave had a smile on his face. An eerie smile like the one Jack Nicholson sported when he played the Joker in that Batman movie.

That night Isis lay in bed, unable to get the scene she had witnessed earlier out of her mind. She had experienced something that would change her forever. She had sat and watched the man whom she would have traded places with in a heartbeat die before her eyes. She hadn’t so much as shed a tear. She knew she couldn’t cry while at the prison, but she thought for sure she’d break down once alone. But she didn’t. By pretending to be someone other than herself, she had been so far removed from the person she really was that she had no idea if she could ever find her way back again.

Chapter 2

Necessary Arrangements

The next morning the weatherman had predicted the three H’s for the day: hot, humid, and hazy.

It was 10
AM
and Isis was still enveloped in her leopard-print comforter. The air-conditioning was set on sixty degrees, but she hadn’t slept well. She tossed and turned all night; her body and mind subconsciously fighting the sandman tooth and nail. During those rare rounds when the sandman did land a lucky punch to the chin and put Isis to sleep, the images of what the state had done to David—and the look on his face—would cause her to reawaken. Just when she thought she was about to get a few winks just before midmorning to compensate for last night, the phone rang.

Who the heck is this?
she thought to herself, reaching for the phone. The caller ID read “Department of Corrections.” After last night, she had thought that all of her business with them was over: no more trials, no more visits, no more collect phone calls. No more Dave.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Yes, I’m trying to get in touch with Isis Tatum,” a high-pitched, cheerful voice said. “Is this she?”

“It depends on who wants to know and why,” Isis snapped.

“Well, my name is Janet Smith, and I am calling from the Department of Corrections. Miss Tatum, we have in our possession the corpse of David Davis, and as you probably know, he had you listed as next of kin. We need to confirm whether you will pick it up.”

Isis was shocked. “Pick
it
up?” She finally got herself somewhat together. “The body?” She was now sitting straight up in the bed—confused.

“Yes, the corpse,” Janet Smith explained. “We have Mr. David Davis’s corpse. Most families usually like to pick it up and make their own funeral arrangements.” She paused. “Although there are those who simply like to let us deal with it. DOC policy isn’t usually to call the families; we just assume you know. Some families make arrangements beforehand. But when I didn’t hear from you…” Ms. Smith’s voice trailed off and lowered. “Look, I like to give a basic courtesy call because I know if it were a loved one of mine, I wouldn’t want the state to bury them in a box and just throw some dirt on them.”

Isis thought for a minute and let out a long sigh before she spoke again. “Yes,” she said, “I would like to claim…take possession of…”—Isis was having a hard time wording it—“…receive the body. Where do I go, and what do I need to do?”

“We generally like to have the paperwork done before the execution,” Ms. Smith said. “That’s why I’m calling you this morning. The body is at the Medical College of Virginia morgue, and if you can make arrangements to come or have it picked up within twenty-four hours, that will be fine. If not, then I’m sorry, but the state will have to dispose of it. I can let them know that you will be in contact with them.”

“Thank you, Janet. I mean for calling and all. I know you didn’t have to do that.”

“No problem,” Ms. Smith said, “but there is one other thing.”

“And what might that be, Janet?”

“You have to pay a fee before they will give you the body.”

“A
fee
?”

“I’m afraid so. There’s a two-hundred-dollar fee to have the body released to you, and they won’t take checks—only postal money orders.”

“That’s a crying shame. The state kills him, and I gotta pay
them
to get the body?”

“I know,” Janet admitted, “but they’re not my rules.”

That’s crazy.
Isis looked at the clock. “It’s getting late, and I’m going to have to get out of here if I’m going to make it on time. I need to start making some phone calls, I suppose. Again, thank you very much.”

“No problem.” Ms. Smith shared a few more details with Isis and then said, “Let me give you my extension just in case you have any problems.”

As soon as she had hung up the phone, it rang again.
What is it this time?
She peeped at the caller ID. It was her half sister, Phoebe.

Isis and Phoebe had an odd but strong relationship. Even though they shared the same father, they didn’t meet each other until they both were thirteen years old, at their father’s funeral. They were born four days apart; Isis was the elder. Those were tough times, especially for Isis, but despite their mothers’ hatred of each other, the two girls hit it off right off the bat. There was no jealousy between them. They were each just pleased to have an extension of their father in each other.

Phoebe’s mother, Brenda, didn’t want her daughter to have anything to do with Isis, the daughter of the woman who had murdered her lover, but the girls paid her no mind. They became thick as thieves—better than Siamese twins, because they were joined at the heart.

“Hey, sister,” Isis answered.

“Hey, sister, tell me what’s wrong.” Phoebe knew her sister had been through the fire, but she sensed an additional stress in her voice.

“How do you know something is wrong?” Isis tried to put a little pep in her voice.

“Because I’m your sister and you can’t hide anything from me, that’s why.”

“I just got a call from a lady from the DOC. She told me that I could come get Dave’s body.”

“Well, Ice, that’s good—isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but it’s just too much. It costs two hundred dollars just to get him from MCV. Then there’s the funeral. I mean, in all honesty, I never even thought about a funeral.”

“Well, sis, what did you think they were going to do with the body? I mean, after somebody dies, there’s always, always a funeral. I mean, you got people out there that have funerals for their dogs.”

“Yeah, I know, but…”

“Okay, sis, just relax. Let’s think about one thing at a time. First, we have to get him. I got my half,” Phoebe offered. “You got a hundred on you?”

“Yeah, but there’s more,” Isis said. “They said that his body was in a wooden box, and that we needed a truck or something or immediate arrangements with a funeral home, and I don’t get paid until next Wednesday.”

“Now that’s some shit right there,” Phoebe said.

“Which part: Having to pick the body up or me not getting paid until next Wednesday?”

“Both. Damn.” Phoebe sighed. “Wait, doesn’t Dave’s mother have a truck?”

Isis thought for a minute. “Yeah, you’re right. Good lookin’ out, sis. I’m going to call her now. Stay on the line. I’m going to call on the three-way.” Isis clicked over and dialed Ms. Davis’s number and then clicked back over to Phoebe, who sat silently listening in.

The phone rang three times.
Nothing beats a failure but a try
, she thought, knowing full and well that getting a favor from the woman was going to be like pulling teeth because Dave’s mother had never been a member of Isis’s fan club. After the phone rang three more times, Isis was about to hang up, but then someone picked up on the other end.

“Hello?” Ms. Davis answered.

“Hi, Ms. Davis, this is Isis.”

“Hey, Isis, how’re you doing?”

“I’m doing fine.” Isis took a deep breath and proceeded. “The reason I was calling you is because the people from the prison called me because Dave had me down as a next of kin along with you. But I don’t think they got an answer when they tried calling you.” Isis was lying about Dave’s mother being next of kin because she didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Dave would have never put his mother’s name on a list. Not after the way she acted once he was convicted of the crime. She never went to see him, not one time, and refused to take the collect-call block off of her phone.

“Damn, they did kill that boy last night, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, they did.” Isis was silent for a second or two, and then she took another deep breath before continuing. “They called because they need someone to pick up the body, so he can have a decent buri—”

Ms. Davis cut her off. “Look, I ain’t using not one iron motherfucking dime of my insurance money to bury that goddamn boy. Why can’t the state bury him? Shit, they da ones that kilt him.”

Most people would have been shocked to hear a mother speak like that about her child who had just passed, but not Isis. She had hoped the conversation would go differently, but when it didn’t, she wasn’t surprised. And even though she wanted to snap off on Ms. Davis, the woman was still the mother of the man she had loved for what seemed like forever. Besides, Dave wouldn’t have wanted her to; he would have done it his goddamn self if he could’ve!

“No. I mean they can, but it wouldn’t be much of a funeral,” Isis told Dave’s mother. “And he deserves way better than what they are going to give him if we don’t pick up the body. I think we need to get together and handle this.”

“Well, shit, I honestly don’t see why.”

Once again, Isis bit her tongue. “With all due respect, when he was out here, he was good to all of us. I just think that we should put him away nicely.”

“When he was out here? Phuh! That was years ago. Hell, he ain’t did shit for me in the past five years,” Ms. Davis barked. “And I know he was hustling in that prison too, and he ain’t send me not one red cent. Furthermore, that motherfucker knew he was dying; do you think he signed life insurance papers for me to be the beneficiary? Hell, no!” She raised her voice. “I’ma tell you something right now: They can bury his ass in a cardboard box and set his ass on fire for all I care. Like I said before—and I will say it again—I ain’t taking one dime of my hard-earned money to do shit for that nigga.” Dave’s mother finally took a breather.

Isis was about to get a word in, but Ms. Davis started back up again. “Shit! The nigga is dead; he ain’t gonna know nothing about no funeral or what was done with his body for that matter.”

What Isis wanted to say was: “That’s really messed up that you feel like that about your only son. I don’t remember you feeling that way when he was out here throwing bricks from the time he was twelve years old to pay your miserable ass’s bills.” She wanted so bad to set the record straight, but instead she told Ms. Davis, “I wasn’t calling you for any of your ‘hard-earned’ money anyway; I knew better. It’s sad. I only wanted to borrow your truck to pick up your son’s body. But forget it—you might charge me to drive it. It’s okay. I will find another way.” Isis hung up in Ms. Davis’s ear. She had wanted to tell Ms. Davis off for a long time and still hadn’t given it to her like she’d really wanted to.

Isis hit the flash button on the phone and clicked back over to Phoebe. “Phoebe, are you still there?” she asked.

“I’m here,” Phoebe said. “I can’t believe her.”

“I can,” Isis replied, and just then her other line beeped. She looked down at the caller ID screen on her phone. “Hold on; this is her calling back.” Isis clicked over to answer the incoming call. “Hello?”

“Did you hang up on me?” Ms. Davis snapped.

“Well, honestly, the conversation was over.”

I can’t believe this lady. I swear I wish she was his sister and not his momma. I would pull a Freddy Krueger and go through this phone receiver and get that ass!

“Look, you little bitch, I didn’t say ’bye yet. And was it something that you needed to say to me, because you sound like you was rushing off the phone and biting your tongue.”

“Ms. Davis, trust me,” Isis cackled. “You don’t even want to know.”

“Look, bitch, you ain’t Jack Nicholson; I can handle the truth. Spit it out.”

“Well, since you want to know what I think—”

“Ain’t shit your little young ass can tell me, because I done been through hell and back.”

“Look, Ms. Davis, I’m trying not to go there with you because sad to say, I know you are his mother.”

“No, let’s go there,” Ms. Davis said.

“Like I said—trust me, Ms. Davis, you don’t want me to take you there in the emotional state I’m in right now.”

“Oh, take me there, suga. Take me there.” Isis could feel Ms. Davis rolling her neck around through the phone. “But I’ll warn you, you might not be able to find your way back by the time I get done with you.”

Isis chuckled at Ms. Davis’s threat. “All I’m going to say is that one day when all the money, cars, and diamonds are long gone and you are old and sick with no one around to love or take care of your shitty butt, and the nursing assistant is being mean to your hateful self and not changing your Depend undergarments and she is the only familiar face you ever see, then maybe you’ll think about your son and all of the good things he
did
do and all the things he did risk for you. And when that time comes…and you’re at your worst hour…this is what I want you to do:
kill yourself!
”

Isis hit the flash button on the phone and began to laugh. For that brief moment, she felt good.

Isis returned to the line when her laughing fit was done. “Phoebe, are you still there?”

“I’m here,” Phoebe said.

“Hold on,” Isis said. “Give me another minute with that no-good so-called mother—she needs to know one more thing.” Isis clicked over and dialed Ms. Davis’s number again. When Ms. Davis picked up the phone, Isis clicked back over so Phoebe could get an earful.

“I thought you’d call back and apologize,” Ms. Davis said.

“You’d better think again. I called to tell you that there will be a funeral—and don’t bother showing your face.” This time when she hung up, she heard someone putting a key in the front door. Isis at first wondered if Ms. Davis had made her way over quick, in a hurry to make good on her threat, but shook off the thought. “Phoebe, is that you?”

“Yeah, I had got in the car and started on my way over here a little after I called you and you told me about the body and all. Somebody has to get you around. You are in no shape to be driving.”

As she entered the house, Phoebe bent down to pick up the mail that had been dropped through the mail slot. She thumbed through it, being nosey, before she stopped at one of the envelopes. “I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but you got a letter here from Dave. He must have written it the day before he died.” Phoebe handed the letter to her older sister.

Isis stared at the letter, shaking her head. This was all too much.

Phoebe took the letter back from her and put it down. “Look, sis, you don’t have to read it now.” There was a brief moment of silence before Phoebe spoke again. “You know what I was thinking? We don’t need that bitch’s truck anyway. We can just call a funeral home and get them to do it.”