Dark Corner (9 page)

Jackson folded his arms. "Sure did. Couldn't believe it
myself. I ain't stopped by to chat with the new resident, yet.
I might do that"

"I wonder who moved in there? And why? I mean, if it really is haunted."

"Can't speculate," Jackson said, and David had the distinct impression that Jackson could speculate all right, but he wasn't going to share his ideas with a guy he'd only met
five minutes ago, no matter whose son he was.

"Doc Bennett's quite a man," Jackson said. "But he's got
some tales in that big brain of his. Folks love to swap stories,
but that doesn't mean they're all true"

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Nice meeting you, Hunter. You take care, and holler if
you need anything."

"Thanks for stopping by," David said, but Jackson had already hustled into his car. He roared away down the road.

David pushed the lawn mower to the tool shed, behind the
house. After he stored the machine inside, he stood in the
middle of the backyard. Insects buzzed around him, reveling
in the freshly cut grass. He waved them away.

From where he stood, he had a glimpse of Jubilee.
Sunshine glimmered on a window.

Who would move into a place like that? The house was a
wreck, and it was creepy as hell.

Was it truly haunted, or had Franklin only been sharing a
fabled piece of town lore?

He was not sure he wanted to know the answers to his
questions.

ahlil Jackson was scheduled to work at Mac's Meat and
Foods that afternoon. The store was located in a brick
building, next door to a Laundromat, on the corner of Davis
and Taylor. When he was younger, Jahlil and his friends used
to love stopping by Mac's on the way home from school, to
buy ice cream and candy. Now, the sight of the store's big
red-and-white sign made him want to punch someone.

"You're late again!" Old Mac barked, the minute Jahlil
walked inside. Old Mac stood behind the gleaming meat
counter, wearing a crisp white apron. He was a short, bald,
white man, in his sixties, with faded tattoos on his wiry forearms. He raised his watch and tapped it. "What time are you
supposed to be here to work?"

"Four, I guess," Jahlil said.

"Four? It's four-twenty, little Jackson!"

"I got held up by some things," Jahlil said. This guy was a
trip. What difference did it make if he was twenty minutes late?
There was nothing going on there that demanded Jahlil's attention. He was only a stock boy, he didn't own the stupid store.

Old Mac grunted. "Mop the aisles. There are some boxes in the back that need to be broken down and disposed of too.
And pick up the lot. You forgot to do that yesterday, little
Jackson"

"Fine. And my name's Jahlil." He stormed away into the
back room.

Jahlil was sixteen, and this was the third job he'd held in
the past four months. First, he'd worked for the town
grounds crew, cutting grass and weeds, and cleaning up litter, and he hated that job and quit. Then his father got him a
job at Shirley's Diner, as a busboy, and that lasted only a
week, because there was no way he was going to clean up
after folks. His dad had lined up his latest gig, too, here at
Mac's Meat and Foods, and he'd been there about a month.
He hated it there. Old Mac was a mean bastard who ran the
place as though he were a sergeant and the employees were
his soldiers. A Vietnam war veteran, Old Mac seemed to
have forgotten that the war had ended a long time ago.

The only reason Jahlil had kept the job so far was because
he was sick of Dad hounding him. To be honest, he didn't
understand why he had to work at all. The fellas he hung out
with didn't work, and their folks didn't harass them about it.
Dad was always riding him about being responsible and
earning his own money. Jahlil understood all that responsibility shit, but he didn't think it was something for him to be
concerned about right now. He was only in high school. Why
couldn't he enjoy being a teenager?

When Jahlil raised that argument, Dad would cite his low
grades, the same reason he gave for not allowing Jahlil to
drive. Dad was full of explanations and excuses. It was impossible to win an argument with him.

He wished his mother were alive. Things would be different if she were here. She never would have forced him to
work....

He had to stop thinking about how much he missed her.
His chest had gotten tight, a sure sign that tears would follow soon.

He was outside picking up the lot-collecting trash, in
other words-when the fellas came through. T-Bone was driving his mama's old blue Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight, and
Poke was riding shotgun. A hip-hop joint rumbled from the
car stereo, the latest song by the gangsta crew from Jackson,
Jacktown. T-Bone had been playing the album so much
lately that Jahlil was convinced he would soon wear down
the tracks on the CD.

The plate-glass windows of the store-plastered with
handwritten signs advertising sales on ribs and chicken-vibrated in unison with the heavy bass booming from the
speakers.

Jahlil set his broom and dustpan against the store's brick
wall, and went to see his boys. T-Bone lowered the music's
volume a few notches.

Jahlil had grown up with T-Bone and Poke. They were the
same age and in the same grade, but they looked as though
they lived in different worlds. Both T-Bone and Poke sported
a gold tooth and earrings, and they had tattoos on their arms
and chests. Fake platinum hung around their necks. T-Bone's
hair was braided in cornrows, and Poke had a puffy, wild afro.

Jahlil's father would not allow him to get a gold tooth,
wear an earring, get a tattoo, rock more than one gold chain,
or sport a hairstyle other than a low-cut fade. Dad was too
damn strict. When Jahlil argued with him about it, Dad
would say, "Why you wanna look like those 'hood rats, boy?
They ain't even gonna graduate from high school." Although
Jahlil didn't like Dad's 'hood rats comment, he had to admit
that he was right about his boys dropping out. Both T-Bone
and Poke promised that they weren't going back to school
this fall.

"Hey," T-Bone said. Jahlil smelled beer on his breath: a
bottle of Coors, wrapped in a paper bag, was wedged between T-Bone's thighs. "What's up with you?"

"Working this tired-ass job," Jahlil said. "That fool Old
Mac's getting on my nerves"

"We 'bout to play ball," Poke said. "You comin'?"

Jahlil chewed his lip. He really wanted to play ball and
hang with the crew. But if he ditched his job, Old Mac would
tell Dad, and Dad would never shut up about it. It would be
one more thing he'd hold over Jahlil's head to explain why he
wouldn't allow him to do something, like drive a car.

"Let Old Mac pick up his own trash, man," T-Bone said.
"We been picking up white folks' trash for centuries."

Jahlil didn't bother to mention that almost everyone who
lived in Mason's Corner was black, and chances were, any
trash littering the parking lot had been dropped there by
black people. But T-Bone was forever talking some quasimilitant shit.

"We cruised by the court, man," Poke said. "Andre's there"

"For real?" Jahlil said. Andre, though he didn't actually
deal dope, always had weed on him, and he was cool about
sharing with them, probably because he lived with T-Bone's
sister.

"Yep," T-Bone said. "So what's up? You gonna hang, or
you gonna slave for the white man?"

Jahlil looked toward the store. Old Mac stood beside the
front entrance, arms folded across his chest, glowering at
Jahlil.

The decision was easier than Jahlil had imagined.

I ain't working for you no more, Jahlil thought. Tell my
dad, I don't care. I hate you and your stupid store.

"Let's roll," Jahlil said.

T-Bone laughed. "That's my nigga."

Jahlil didn't bother to look back as they rolled away.

Chief Jackson got a call he loathed almost as much as notification of a crime: Old Mac, calling to say his son had
ditched work.

"I've got to let go of your boy, Chief," Old Mac said.
Jackson heard genuine regret in his voice. "I've given him a chance, but he doesn't want to work. His attitude stinks, and
I can't depend on him."

Jackson paced the floor of the small office at headquarters, the phone pressed against his ear. Across the room,
Deputy Ray Dudu glanced up from the tabloid he was reading.

Jackson settled into his swivel chair, turned to face the
calendar on the wall. He didn't like to let folks see him
upset.

"Okay, buddy," Jackson said. "I get you. Thanks for giving my boy a shot. Apologize for the trouble he's caused
you"

"I don't want to tell you how to raise your son, Chief, but
he's headed down a dangerous path. Those hoodlums he
hangs out with-"

"Mac, I've got to go" Jackson did not want to let Old
Mac get started about the "hoodlums" that were Jahlil's
friends, because then Old Mac would start complaining
about people loitering in the parking lot of his store, and
then he'd begin to rant about crime in general in Mason's
Corner-he would go on and on. "I'll stop by and chat with
you later, hear?"

Jackson hung up. He checked himself from throwing the
phone across the room. His son ... he did not understand
him. He just didn't.

"Jahlil having problems at work?" Deputy Dudu said.

"Something like that," Jackson said, turning around. He
didn't like to discuss family business with outsiders, especially with someone like his deputy. Deputy Dudu was a
good guy and a top-notch cop, but he was an odd one.

Deputy Dudu unfolded himself from the seat behind the
desk, and it was like watching a praying mantis maneuver
out of a crevice. Light-skinned, Dudu was tall and lanky,
with a small head that seemed out of proportion to the rest of
his body. He was fastidiously neat, clean shaven, with big
white teeth. His uniform was spotless and pressed, the creases of his slacks almost as sharp as blades. His shoes
were so shiny that Jackson half believed the deputy wore a
new pair each day of the week.

Dudu leaned on the edge of his desk. In his gigantic,
bony hand, he held an issue of one of those wacky tabloids.
Dudu read the tabloids zealously, the same way Jackson's
deceased wife used to devour paperback romance novels.

"You know what the problem could be?" Dudu said. He
tapped the cover of the publication. "Extraterrestrials from
Venus. It says in here that Venusians-aliens from Venusare beaming signals to Earth, to scramble brain waves, and
that our youth are especially vulnerable. It could explain
your boy's erratic behavior, Chief."

Jackson only stared at him. Dudu was serious, that was
the worst part. He believed all of that alien crap. Heck, Dudu
believed everything he read-the more bizarre, the better.
Dudu's fascination with all things weird ranged from the
tabloids to the lurid horror novels that he kept stacked on his
desk.

At times like this, Jackson was astounded that he had
hired this man as his deputy. Perhaps his brain waves had
been scrambled when he'd given Dudu the job three years
ago.

Jackson stood and hitched his belt. "I got to make a run.
Hold it down, hear?"

"Let me know if you want more details about how the
aliens-"

"Later, Deputy."

Jackson pushed Dudu's madness out of his thoughts, and
focused on his son. He needed to find him, and he had a
good idea where Jahlil had gone. There weren't many places
in town where youths could hang out.

He drove down Main Street, made a right on Pine Lane,
and pulled his cruiser up to the basketball court. A group of
young men, most of them bare-chested, played ball.
Onlookers leaned against the fence.

Jahlil was on the court playing. He spotted Jackson's car,
and Jackson could see his son mouthing the words, Oh shit,
my dad's here.

Jackson didn't climb out of the cruiser. He wanted to
avoid causing a scene and embarrassing the kid in front of
his buddies. Doing something like that would only make
Jahlil resent him more than he already did.

Though I don't understand why the boy resents me at all, he
thought.

He tapped the horn.

Jahlil sauntered to the car, looking cool, putting on a
show for his friends, as if to say, No problem, everything's all
right, fellas, I can handle my dad. Finally, he got in and
slammed the door.

Silent, Jackson pulled away.

As he drove, Jackson watched his boy from the corner of
his eye. Jahlil looked so damn much like Paulette, his
mother, that Jackson's heart kicked. Jahlil had his mother's
chin, eyes, nose, and lips. He had inherited Jackson's sturdy
build and low, even voice. Sometimes, when Jahlil talked,
Jackson thought he was listening to a recording of himself
from twenty or so years ago.

Jackson took them to a quiet area on the outskirts of the
town. He parked on a bluff that overlooked the Coldwater
River. Years ago, Jackson would bring Jahlil here, to fish.
Those were happier times.