CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Guilt.
Or as his wife would say, “contrition”—or some other long-ass useless word she would use when a perfectly simple and shorter word would do.
No matter the word, he couldn’t shake it, this guilt; couldn’t escape it.
He felt like he was submerged under dark water in the grip of an octopus, its eight arms holding him tight and painfully near the surface of the water where he could almost but not quite reach for air and take a breath. The guilt was a bowling-ball sized burr on his shirt, an oversized tick on his skin. A beetle furrowing under it. It followed him in the shower, on his way to work and on his way home. It never let go, forming a permanent cloud over his head that he could sometimes swear was literally there and that other people could see.
He helped kill a man.
Even if he did not deliver the fatal blow, he participated in the murder by failing to act. He turned out to be, as Mark had initially mentioned in concern, an accomplice after all.
When he found out that the guy had actually been innocent, he knew he would never be able to forgive himself. The guilt became a giant squid, looking him in the eye.
How to alleviate it? How to get rid of it?
He thought and thought about ways to help him break the grip of the octopus, to surface and breathe again.
He started going with Alice to church but found he just ended up feeling guiltier.
He tried praying and asking for forgiveness when he found a place and a moment completely to himself. This helped a little, but not enough. Still, he felt like if he kept making little prayer deposits he would have enough of a savings account to feel secure and be relieved of the debt that he owed to the family of this Thomas Gibson.
Murdered Colored Man Innocent.
When he saw the newspaper that night, the newspaper that Alice had in her hands and he realized their mistake, he nearly crumbled right there and then. Luckily, he was able to convince Alice it was just his empathetic broken heart. She would make his reaction fit what she knew of his emotional side and interpret his sorrow as him feeling bad for the poor stranger, when all he wanted to do was collapse from remorse.
Wasn’t your mind supposed to protect you from moments like these? Make you black out? Why couldn’t he just lose consciousness, then reawaken with no memory of the event?
But there was no protection, no hiding from it.
He had to do something.
He found himself compelled to attend the funeral of the boy. He sought out all the details, discovering it would be held just a few days after the unfortunate event, and not too far out of the way for him—about one hundred and forty miles and three hours there and back was nothing. His wife would think he was working. All he had to do was get dressed up; he didn’t think beyond that. Nothing else mattered but that he show up to that funeral. He had to say goodbye, had to apologize to the fellow secretly, and he felt like he had to be in his presence to do it.
When the time came, he entered the church, intending to stay in the back and make himself as invisible as possible, but it was not possible; his skin stood out like a roach on white rice. A few of the attendees watched him in curiosity but it did not matter to him; it hardly even registered. He quickly identified the victim’s closest relations and felt compelled to talk to them as soon as he could get a chance.
Although he had gotten many curious looks, it surprised him that no one actually stopped to question him when the service was complete. He was the one to seek out the bawling older woman who he assumed was Thomas’s mother.
He waited until she was near, then asked her if he could talk to her for a few moments. Her curiosity was probably greater than her need to stay in grieving mode for she allowed him to pull her aside. Her teary eyes held question marks on her chocolate-colored face. A younger lady was with her and stayed with her as they went off to the side, away from the bulk of the crowd moving out of the church.
“Mrs. Gibson?” he said. She nodded. He held out his hand and she took it. “I…I’m a friend of Tom’s and I just wanted to express my sincerest condolences to you.” He held her hands in his. The young girl with her watched him in suspicion.
“Why, thank you, son—I appreciate that. But who are you, if I may ask? How did you know my boy?”
George let out a breath and gave a small smile, throwing his hands in the air.
“Well, it was a chance meeting, and then we were connected forever. That’s the best way to put it.”
The woman smiled kindly at him.
“Well, that sure is sweet. I’m glad my Tommy had a friend like you.” She turned to the young girl. “This here is Candace, Tommy’s sister. Did you meet her already?”
“Actually, no.”
He put his hand out to shake hers. She finally raised her head so that the hat was not obscuring so much of her face. He noticed she was quite pretty.
“Nice to meet you,” she said, although her tone did not match her words, nor did her mahogany hand meet his for a shake. “What was your name again?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. George. I’m George.”
“And where did you say you met my brother again?”
“We met...” It was the first time he had to use his brain to think up a lie. Would she know if he said the wrong thing?
A bar? My brother did not go to bars. Tommy did not buy gas from that station—he didn’t have a car.
He remembered the obituary, and something about Thomas’s love for sports—basketball and football in particular.
“We met on a basketball court,” he said.
He was afraid Candace would ask which one but she remained quiet. Perhaps his answer satisfied her for now, and she did not want to make a scene or potentially invite more stress in front of her mother. She gave him a look that suggested their conversation was not over.
“I have something to give you,” he said impulsively to Mrs. Gibson. “Where should I drop it off?”
She looked surprised as expected, but gave him their address anyway.
He did not know exactly what he would bring them—flowers maybe—but he knew he was starting to feel better already despite fearing he’d feel more guilt with the sorrow of those Thomas left behind in his face. He gained hope he could make amends, even if it could never bring Thomas back or cancel out his crime. Only good could come of his intentions after all; he certainly couldn’t make things any worse.
***
When he visited the Gibsons, he had a bouquet of flowers in his hand, store-bought with a few handpicked additions from his wife’s garden. His heart warmed at the welcoming look on Mrs. Gibson’s face and her wide smile as she received the flowers. It was good to see, but still, not enough. He needed to do more.
He presented Candace with flowers as well and she took them with a small smile in return. He couldn’t tell if she meant it.
“Thank you,” she said. “But you didn’t have to do this.”
“I wanted to,” he replied. “I know Tom was a special guy and he really loved you guys. Even though I know flowers don’t do much, I knew I had to give these to you and your mother. He would have wanted me to, as a way of showing you he’s still around.”
He mentally patted himself on the back for the latter part of his mini-speech. Mrs. Gibson’s smile grew.
“Would you like to come in?” she said, inviting him into their modest home.
He had been perfectly content with standing on the outside looking in, but he could not turn away or deny any invitation or request from this bereaved woman. He could not risk offending her and undoing all of the positive energy he was beginning to feel as a result of her warmth toward him.
“I would love that, ma’am.”
He stepped inside their home. It was smaller than he was used to but it seemed comfortable and well lived-in. Mrs. Gibson gave him a small tour and he tried to keep a solemn face whenever a photograph of the handsome young man he helped kill smiled at him, but he felt himself in danger of breaking down every time—of suddenly blurting out that he was sorry he helped murder him. Thankfully, his guilt could easily be interpreted as sorrow at his death. Mrs. Gibson even gave him reassuring pats on the back at times making him realize that his face had morphed into something so pitiful that she put aside her own grief to comfort him. This only made him feel worse.
After the tour she sat him down on the mustard-colored couch in their small family room, sending Candace off to bring him something to drink.
“So tell me what you knew about my Tommy.”
He let out a breath for dramatic effect. He had prepared for such questions. He chose his words carefully.
“To tell you the truth, Mrs. Gibson, I didn’t have enough time with him. We met that one time, had a conversation, connected, played a few games and not long after…” He shook his head, looking away. “I can tell you this—I knew he was a good guy, and he had a bright future ahead of him. I really can’t tell you how stricken I am by this tragedy.” He put a hand to his head as he leaned down, his elbow resting on his thigh. “I’m sorry.” He breathed a sigh. “My sense of loss in no way compares to yours, but I know a great loss when I see one. It’s a shame what that girl did to him. You had a good boy.”
She nodded in pride.
“Yes, my Tommy—he was. Had a golden heart that one. Had such dreams, such hopes for his life. He wanted to help people you know, others like him. To get into college, get a better life for themselves. He wanted a job that wouldn’t keep him away from his future family like his own daddy—he’s a trucker, my Al. Out right now traveling to Georgia. Be back in two, three days.”
Candace returned with some water for both of them. She sat in the chair on George’s side.
“Where do you live?” she asked. George always felt like he was in the witness chair and she was a lawyer cross-examining when she spoke to him.
“I live in Bloomington.”
“And you traveled all the way to Chicago again to bring some flowers? Couldn’t you have had them delivered?”
“Candace…” her mother’s warning voice began.
“I’m just sayin’…”
“It’s okay, Mrs. Gibson, I understand your daughter’s concern. Partially.” He smiled at Candace. Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t mind talking to you and addressing any concerns you might have. I’ll drive down here anytime. This might sound silly, but being around you guys is almost like having Tom back again. I can see him in both of you.”
Mrs. Gibson looked touched. She smiled at him again, her eyes welling up with tears. George was not sure if they were tears of happiness at his choice of words or just natural tears of sadness as her son’s name came up again. Or both.
“You’re a sweet boy,” Mrs. Gibson said.
George thanked her then stood up to leave.
Mrs. Gibson rose as well. “Will you…come back sometime? I mean I know it’s out of your way but…”
George considered it: Mrs. Gibson’s husband was on the road, her daughter her only company. Candace and Thomas were her only children and perhaps for her, having George around felt close to having Thomas back as well, whether it was just by virtue of having another male in the house around the same age, or someone who supposedly knew Thomas and carried pieces of his life with him. How could he deny her?
“Anytime, Mrs. Gibson, anytime.”
“Good. You may join us tomorrow for dinner if you want.”
“How about lunch instead?”
She nodded in agreement.
They both saw him to the door, but Candace ventured further, seeing him off to his car. George suspected she did it so that they were out of ear’s reach of her mother, and she would be free to say what she really wanted to.
“I don’t trust you or your story,” she said as they got to the car, looking him straight in the eye. “I don’t know why, but I don’t.”
“Candace, I can assure you, I have nothing but goodwill toward you and your family. Tom was a nice guy.”
“He doesn’t like anyone calling him Tom,” she said, folding her arms. “Reminds him too much of ‘Uncle Tom.’”
George shrugged. “We had a special connection. Maybe I’m the only one he allowed.”
Candace laughed and it wasn’t one filled with warmth.
“You really think of all people he’d let a white boy call him ‘Tom’ if it reminded him of ‘Uncle Tom’? You’re out of your goddamned mind.”
“Candace, what really bothers you about me? Is it because I’m white and the girl who caused all this mess was white too?”
He hoped he succeeded in shaking her off his trail.
She did not answer. She merely looked at him for a few seconds, storm clouds in her eyes. Then she dropped her folded arms.
“I’ll get to the bottom of this,” she said. “Your story’s fishy; you’re definitely hiding something.”
“Candace, I don’t know what else to tell you, but…”
She put her hand up.
“See you tomorrow since you insist,” she said, turning to go back to the house.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The next day George was able to make it back to the Gibsons without stirring up suspicion in Alice. She protested, but he was easily able to suggest that work was demanding and he needed to put in more hours and make as much money as he could. It was true after all, although not that particular day.
When he got to the Gibsons, Candace was much nicer to him and Mrs. Gibson was as warm as she had been the day before. He suspected Mrs. Gibson had something to do with Candace’s change.
He had never had a conversation with let alone eaten with a black family before recently, and he was looking forward to it. And now that it felt like Candace was off his back, he felt more relaxed.
The food turned out to be quite tasty and he had to stop himself from insisting he come down to lunch or dinner every other day just to have a bite.
He saw Candace smile for the first time as they were sitting down at the kitchen table, eating, talking about Tom. She had a beautiful smile, and a beautiful laugh. And her eyes had a way of sparkling as she did both.
He found out she was nineteen and that she worked as a secretary. She was sharp and witty, and once, he caught her singing as her mother opened the door to him although she started humming instead when he came in. She had a beautiful voice.
They started going on short walks after eating, where she spoke about her mother and her brother. Then they started talking about other things. Once, she darted out of the house, and when he asked Mrs. Gibson why she left so quickly, she explained Candace had a bus to catch. He then offered her—and insisted she pass his invitation on to her daughter—his own driving services when he was around and they wanted to go somewhere. He insisted it was no problem, he didn’t mind a few more minutes with them. Mrs. Gibson appeared touched once again.
A white man chauffeuring us,
she said.
Well I’ll be.
He smiled at her.
Candace ended up taking him up on his offer every now and then, and on their drives, he learned about her hopes and dreams, her desires and fears. They were becoming great friends.
George knew he was on dangerous ground but he didn’t care; he really liked her and enjoyed spending time with her.
All his life thus far he had tried not to be like his father, but he knew it was there in him—this wandering eye. He thought that by marrying Alice he had proved himself to be a more worthy, stable partner. That he was better than his rolling stone of a father who had impregnated several girls over his life, two or more of them at the same time. His father eventually left his mother heartbroken and alone, scandalizing her in the process, and leaving her to take care of him by herself.
His mother talked about being so despondent during her pregnancy when she found out about his father’s first indiscretion, that he was sure some of her emotions had influenced him in-utero making him insecure and needy by nature. Then he grew up watching his mother struggle to provide everything for him.
His mother had a wistfulness about her that he wished he could lift. He never wanted to be the type of man that did that to a woman.
George wasn’t even sure how many half brothers and sisters he had; he hadn’t met them all. Nor did he particularly care to come face-to-face with more of the carnage left behind by his father, seeing in their eyes what would surely be in his—the unanswered letters, the promises broken.
His mother had tried to protect him from his father, realizing too late what kind of man he was. He had already proven himself to be a lousy romantic companion, but she also saw that he was a worthless paternal figure and did not want her son to be hurt or influenced by him. But George had insisted on being in contact with him in some way or other, trying to form some type of relationship.
And then one day, his mother had finally gotten his father to agree to take him out to watch a baseball game. George was about six years old at the time, and he remembered being so excited about this special day. He got ready early, even cleaning behind his ears and tying his own laces to make sure he was neat like his mother tried to get him to be so his father could see he was a good boy and would like him better.
His mother called and confirmed the pick-up time: four o’ clock.
George asked his mother every couple of minutes what time it was.
It’s only two fifty-seven George—why don’t you sit down and watch some of the television?
Now, George it’s only three o’ nine. There’s plenty of time left. Just relax!
It’s three eighteen honey—counting the minutes won’t make him come any faster!
Three thirty-one. Three thirty-eight. Three forty-two.
He realized now that back then, she did not have the heart to tell him to just shut up—he was so excited, so happy, she had no choice but to indulge him. She even had trouble hiding her own happiness on his behalf.
Finally, George could contain himself no more. He got up from the couch and stood by the door. His mother took pity on him and opened the door, sitting outside on the porch with him. He kicked his legs in excitement, back and forth beneath the chair.
At four-eleven, his leg-kicking slowed down. By four twenty-three, his legs had stopped kicking completely as he stood, looking eagerly down the road.
At five o’ clock, his mother was trying to get him to go inside but he pulled away from her and kept looking longingly down the empty road. At five-twenty, she physically removed him from his seat and toward the door to go inside despite his protests.
“But I might miss him!” he said, and somehow, her face said to him that he already had, although her mouth said: “He’ll blow his horn if he comes.”
“But he’s still coming, isn’t he?” George asked as the door shut behind him.
“I don’t know sweetie,” she said, but even then he knew she was lying.
There were no apologies, no explanations given. He heard his mother shouting into the phone later at who must have been his dad. But all she said was “he forgot” through clenched teeth when she talked to him later.
After that incident and his subsequent depression, his mother refused any more promises from his father. But George never gave up.
When he was old enough, he tried, unsuccessfully, to meet him, talk to him. All of his attempts were met with lukewarm responses, if any at all.
And then finally, after trying to get him to at least meet his first serious girlfriend, Selena, and being denied, he gave up.
All he had to show over all the years was a pair of tennis shoes his father had sent to him when he was about nine. Still, they were a cherished pair of shoes. George wore them until he could wear them no more without being ridiculed. And even when they were beyond wear, he kept them.
His father was shifty, indifferent, and unreliable, a liar and a cheater, but he was still his father. George still longed to be accepted by him someday, still felt a kind of love for him even though he was determined not to be like him. He would be his father’s opposite.
***
George had been seeing Selena since their senior year in high school and throughout their first year of college. He’d had a few green, casual relationships before her, but they were simple and puppy-like, setting the stage for more mature, longer-term ones. He thought he was really in love with Selena, convinced they would marry someday. She was everything he wanted in a woman—cute, smart, and she adored him as far as he could tell. But Selena had a bit too much of an independent spirit for his liking. So much so, that she ended up transferring in their second year of college because it suited her needs more. George had been taken aback, having fully expected her to stay with him—how else could they make their relationship work? She was only a few states away but still, George got nervous with distance. He knew she was doing what was best for her, that she didn’t move because of him “breathing down her neck” like she’d told him before—just that the other school offered more of what she was looking for in terms of courses and school size.
George planned to give their relationship his all—or most at least; after all, he really did love her, and she, him, as far as he could tell. They exchanged phone calls, letters. He visited her every now and then. He hoped it would all be enough, but he found himself needing more. He longed for more immediate and readily available contact.
The phone calls, letters and visits continued into his first year with Alice. Alice had caught his eye and from the minute he saw those stunning eyes, that beautiful hair, that inviting smile, he knew he had to have her. Plus she seemed to have such independence in her eyes, and he had an irresistible desire to tame it, make her need someone else. He would make her his.
Alice had found one of Selena’s letters to him once, and naturally, angrily confronted him about it. He was able to lie his way out of it, and pretty smoothly too, so he thought.
An ex,
he said, although he had never actually broken off his relationship with Selena.
She’s still in love with me I guess, and can’t really accept that I’m with you now. Christ, and it’s been over a year! Honestly, if I didn’t know her, I’d be afraid of her stalking me but she’s harmless. She’ll get it.
Well, you need to make it more clear to her! Alice had told him. She has to know that this is inappropriate. You’re just not hard enough on her. George, I know you can be a softie sometimes, but you’ve got to put your foot down.
George finally broke it off with Selena not too long after the incident to ensure she did not show up on campus for a surprise visit although she had never visited before; George had encouraged her not to, promising to be the one to travel for their meetings. But even if she’d surprised him one day, he knew he’d have nothing to fear; the story was established with Alice. He would brush off the visit the same way he’d brushed off the letter. Besides, as far as he could tell, the campus was on his side. No one would tell their suspicions to Alice.
In any case, he thought it safer to make Alice his only girl; she was a good substitute.
He was convinced neither girl suspected the magnitude of his relationship with the other, so none would be hurt by it.
All’s well that ends well.
But Alice seemed to always suspect him of something.
“Why do you have to have so many female friends?” she had asked him once. He proceeded to tell her about his childhood, displayed his emotional side.
“What guy do you know chats about his feelings like this to another guy? Girls lend a sympathetic ear; they’re more compassionate. Guys would be like: ‘Man, are you gay?’”
He could tell she understood where he was coming from but still, she saw no need for him to maintain such close relationships with them now that he had her. She was always afraid things would go further with one of them, but didn’t she get it? She was not enough; she could never be enough. How could one person be everything to another?
He realized then that he and his father were similar in some ways. He liked a lot of different women around him too, attractive ones that he could form platonic friendships with. But unlike his father, he didn’t sleep with them. Even if he knew some wanted to take things further, he would always respect his current relationship. Not that he would never make a friend a lover of course; it was all about timing. And if there was another way he differed from his father, it was that he actually cared about the women he got involved with. He was emotionally vested in their relationships—friends and girlfriends alike—and ideally, he would have liked to maintain relationships with all of them throughout his life. He loved them all in different ways, to varying degrees. They were all precious to him. And that was one reason he could never turn some of those friends into lovers. He would rather keep them around on one level than take things further and risk having the relationship go awry and lose them completely.