Authors: Will Allison
I lifted Sara to lay her flower on the casket. Juwan’s parents were just a few yards away. I avoided looking at Tawana until we were clear of the canopy. People were coming up to her now, offering condolences, but her eyes were like an empty stretch of road. She was no more there than Juwan was.
The next morning, Sara asked me to take a different route to school, one that didn’t go past the cemetery.
“So he just stays there under the ground forever, all by himself?”
“It’s not really him,” I said. “Just his body. But we don’t ever have to drive by there again if you don’t want to.”
I had to park three blocks away from school, near the train underpass. When we came up the hill, students were waiting to cross the street as a school bus tried to squeeze past the cars that were parked between the corner and the sign that read no parking from here to corner. Somebody honked. Standing in the crosswalk, Warren just smiled.
“I’m learning the limits of my authority,” he said. Then he called after me, asking if I’d changed my mind.
Sara wanted to know what he was talking about, so I told her.
“Do it, Dad,” she said. “You know so much about traffic. You’d be the best crossing guard ever.”
She lobbied me all the way across the school yard and up the stairs to her classroom.
“All right,” I said finally, seduced, as I’d been so many times, by the prospect of her being proud of me. “Fine.”
On the way out, I stopped by Warren’s office and said I’d take the morning shift. He gave me a crash course right there at his desk, then said he’d send a link to an online training video.
“It’s not such a bad job if you can manage not to take things personally,” he said.
* * *
That night Liz was an hour late getting home, and when Sara and I met her at the station, she was beat.
“Could we just go sit down somewhere?” she said.
There was a chill in the air. We stopped for coffee and hot cocoa, then headed to the little park across from the train station. On the way, Sara told her I was going to be the new school crossing guard.
“My husband, the Good Samaritan,” she said. “Can they sue a crossing guard if a kid gets hurt?”
I think she was only half kidding. Seeing Rizzo at the funeral had her even more worried than before. “It’s like he’s taking Juwan’s side,” she’d said. “You know, you and Sara could have been killed, too.”
We sat on a bench while Sara ran off to play with Kate, a girl she knew from summer day camp. In between sips of coffee, Liz asked what time I’d have to be at school. I put a finger to my head and pretended to shoot. I was supposed to be there at 8:45, which meant less morning time for her and Sara.
“My mistake. I’ll switch to afternoons.”
Sara and Kate were marching through a water fountain that had been turned off for the season. Sighing, Liz reached for my hand without taking her eyes off the girls. She said she’d been thinking about the funeral a lot, that if she were ever standing in Tawana’s shoes, the last thing she’d want was regrets about not spending enough time with Sara.
“Look at her,” she said. “She’s not going to be like this forever, and I’m missing it.”
“You’re the best mom I know,” I said. “And you’re not missing any more than any other mom who gets off that train.”
“I don’t care. It’s not enough.”
Before Sara was born, we’d decided that the path to a sane life was for one of us to stay at home, so I’d quit the accounting firm where I worked in the business tax division and gone into business for myself. Our intention was to trade places at some point, but Liz’s career took off, and by the time we got to New Jersey, what we had was an unfair, half-sane life: I got to work at home and spend afternoons with Sara; Liz got a full-time job and an hour-long commute, plus the pressure of being chief breadwinner. It’s true that she could have quit and done something else, part-time, or closer to home. I could have gotten a regular job again, with benefits. We could have moved somewhere cheaper, where we’d be able to get by on a tax accountant’s salary. So far, though, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to give up her job, and neither of us was in a hurry to make do with less.
Now she was telling me she liked the idea of being an independent consultant. Of all the possibilities we’d considered, that was the one she kept coming back to.
“Then quit,” I said. “We’ll make it work.”
“You always make it sound so easy.”
Over by the fountain, Sara and Kate had stopped to see Kate’s baby sister. Kate’s mom was pushing the stroller back and forth. Liz left me sitting there and walked over for a look.
“You must like being a big sister,” she said to Kate.
Kate smiled. She was letting the baby squeeze her finger. When her mom said it was okay for Sara to do the same, Sara reached into the stroller, but cautiously, like she was testing hot water.
“Can you believe
you
used to be that small?” Liz said.
As the baby’s hand closed around Sara’s finger, she shook her head.
“I know,” Liz said. “Me, neither.”
While I manned the intersection the next morning, Sara stood at the school yard’s wrought-iron fence, calling out to her friends as they arrived, “Hey, look, it’s my dad!” I couldn’t seem to get the hang of it, though. The training video, which I’d watched three times, said to use voice commands for pedestrians and hand signals for traffic. My impulse was to use both, all the time, and I kept forgetting to lower the stop sign. The kids from the high school didn’t help, crossing the streets everywhere
except
at the crosswalks.
A little before nine, Sara was on her way into the building with her classmates, waving, when a black SUV started up the hill. At first, I didn’t even register the flared fenders. It wasn’t until I saw the four wheels in back that it dawned on me—another one of those unexpected second chances, like seeing Juwan again. This time I wouldn’t get carried away. I knew just what to do. I stepped into the street and held up
the sign, hoping he wouldn’t recognize me. As he looked from side to side, trying to figure out why I’d stopped him, I memorized his license plate and the address of an auto body shop advertised on his door.
Fifteen minutes later, I was on my way to Derek’s Custom Auto Body. The address was in Orange, along one of the routes we took to school. If that was where he worked, and if he’d been headed to work from his home, his commute overlapped part of ours, only in reverse. My plan was to call the police with an anonymous tip once I made sure he was there. I’d decided not to file a complaint; I didn’t want him finding out my name, and I didn’t want the police knowing I’d been involved in another traffic incident on the day Juwan was killed.
The shop was just south of the cemetery, between a shuttered Delta station and a ragtag row of houses set close to the curb. I parked around the corner on the off chance he might recognize the station wagon. Several vehicles were out front, including the Suburban. Several more, in various states of repair, were visible inside the garage. There was also a small showroom with a plate glass window. A wall of wheel covers rose behind the counter where the Suburban guy stood talking to a customer.
On the drive over, an idea had begun to take hold of me, slowly, like a drop of oil pooling in a puddle: My run-in
with the Suburban guy was no more a mere footnote to the accident than the accident itself was an isolated, out-of-the-blue event. On the contrary, it had been the culmination of that whole afternoon, in which A led to B led to C. Things had started with me flipping off the cop and ended with me cutting the wheel. In between was this guy. If it hadn’t been for him, maybe I wouldn’t have overreacted to Juwan. Maybe everything would have turned out differently. In any case, it was preposterous that
I
had ended up being the only one in trouble with the police. Wasn’t threatening someone with a gun just as bad as threatening someone with a car? And didn’t it count for anything that his actions had been premeditated and mine had not?
I was rehearsing what I’d say to the police when I noticed a pay phone on the corner where the gas station used to be. I decided to use it instead of my cell phone, so my number wouldn’t show up on caller ID. I got out and crossed the street. The customer was leaving the body shop. Lighting a cigar, the Suburban guy opened a newspaper on the counter. I dialed 911 and told the dispatcher I had an anonymous tip. When she realized I was talking about something that had happened the week before, she told me to call the department’s nonemergency number.
“That or Crimestoppers,” she said.
There was no phone book, so I dialed information and asked the operator to connect me. While I was waiting, the Suburban guy closed the paper and made his way into the garage.
“Essex County Crimestoppers,” a voice said. “Sergeant Carrera speaking.”
“I don’t have to give my name, right?”
“No, sir. At no point will I ask your name.”
The sergeant said I’d be assigned a code number, which I could then use to call back for updates on the case and to collect my reward if my information led to an arrest. I said I wasn’t after a reward, I just wanted to report someone, and proceeded to tell him what had happened, minus the part about flipping off the cop. I told him the reason I was calling anonymously was that I wanted to protect my family. He said he understood.
“But a case like this,” he said, “where there’s no crime in progress, where it’s just going to be your word against his, I’m sorry—you’ve got to file a complaint before we can do anything.”
“Then couldn’t you just leave me out of it altogether? Get him for an illegal handgun?”
“You know it’s illegal?”
I’d been hoping so, just as I’d been hoping they’d find drugs if they searched the Suburban. “Can’t you run a check?”
“Sir, we don’t even have a name.”
“I could get it.”
“Look,” he said, “we can’t just show up and search the guy without probable cause. We’d still need a complaint.”
I told him I’d think it over and hung up. The Suburban guy was talking to a mechanic in the garage. Possibly there
was a business card with his name on it back at the register. But it still wasn’t worth filing a complaint. He hadn’t cared that there was a child in the car when he’d shown me his gun. It was hard to imagine him having any compunction about coming after me or my family. What was to stop him from driving by the house one night, shooting it up?
By now he’d noticed me at the pay phone, watching him. He stopped talking to the mechanic and fixed me with a stare. He didn’t seem to recognize me, though. I returned his stare long enough to convince myself I wasn’t afraid of him, and then I went home.
When I picked Sara up, I told Warren I needed to switch to the afternoon, like I’d promised Liz; the fringe benefit was that I probably wouldn’t be crossing paths with the Suburban guy at that hour. I made sure not to drive past his shop on the way home. I didn’t drive past the cemetery, either.
Sara asked why I’d changed shifts.
“So we’ll have more time with Mom in the morning,” I said.
“Is she going to quit her job?”
Liz hadn’t said anything else about quitting to me. “Did she tell you she was?”
“No. She just asked me would I like it if she worked at home.”
“Would you?”
“I think you both should.”
I said that would be great, but one of us needed a regular job. I was starting to explain health insurance when she interrupted.
“Hey, isn’t that the mom from the funeral?”
We’d just passed a woman on the sidewalk that led into our neighborhood. I slowed down and looked back, a knot already forming in my stomach. After the funeral, I’d been hoping never to see Tawana again, but here she was, in jeans and a too-big sweater that might have been Juwan’s, carrying a shovel.
“Sweetie,” I said. “I think you’re right.”
And for a split second, before I realized Tawana must have been headed for the memorial, I thought she was coming for
me
.
“Why does she have an axe?” Sara said.
“I think it was a shovel,” I said, reminding myself that Tawana had no reason to blame me.
“Dad, I’m not stupid. It was an axe.”
I circled the block and came up behind Tawana again. It was an axe. She was holding it near the blade, its long wooden handle swinging at her side. She looked determined to get wherever it was she was going. It occurred to me that if she tried to hurt herself, there was no one else around to intervene. I put the window down.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Are you all right?”
She kept walking. I couldn’t tell if she even knew we were there. How far had she come? I wondered. Why was she on
foot? Why hadn’t anyone stopped her? At that point, I decided the best thing to do was call the police, and this time I wasn’t ashamed of the impulse. I sped up, put the car in the garage, and took Sara inside. As I was closing the curtains in her room, she asked what was going on. I said I wasn’t sure, but I wanted her to stay away from the window. Then I parted the blinds and waited. A couple of minutes passed. Tawana came around the corner, walking with more purpose now, carrying the axe with two hands. She crossed the street into Clarice’s yard. When she reached the tree, she didn’t hesitate. She planted her feet, drew back, and swung with all her might. There was a dull thud. A crow lifted off from the branches above her. She swung so hard she fell, knocking over some flowers. The axe was lodged in the tree. At first it wouldn’t budge. She had to choke up and use both hands to loosen the blade. As soon as it was free, she took another swing. She swung as if she intended to fell the tree with one blow, as if her life depended on it. I took out my phone.
“She’s trying to kill Sicky!” Sara cried. “Stop it!”
I found her banging on the bathroom window, trying to get Tawana’s attention. I pulled her away, telling her I’d take care of it, and hurried downstairs. Tawana ignored me as I crossed the street. There were grass stains on her knees, leaves stuck to her sweater. Her hair, burnt orange in the afternoon light, was unkempt. The tree trunk was nicked with axe marks. Now that I was out there, I wished I’d gone ahead and called the police first. I wasn’t worried about the axe so much as simply having to face her.