Malawi's Sisters Read online

  “You think so?” Ghana glanced at Ryan as he slumped in the chair by the bed.

  “Hey, I’m right here,” Ryan said. “I can hear you.”

  Jason looked at his brother then back at Ghana. “Just watch him. He’s a sneaky bastard.”

  Several weeks later, as she was leaving the unit, Ryan ran after her. “It’s really cool what you do,” he said. “You know, helping these guys. My brother jokes but he appreciates it. It makes a difference.” He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “I should take you to dinner as a thank you.” He grinned at her, those blue eyes glinting like they had a secret and would promise to share if she said yes. And she did. A year later, when her landlord decided to sell the house and kicked her out of the basement apartment in Southeast, Ryan asked her to move in with him. She had been sitting on his bed looking at apartments on his laptop. “I don’t have much room, but you could crash here for a while, if you want.” His eyebrow arched when she looked at him, then he shrugged and looked away. “Just if you want. No biggie.”

  “Sure.” And that was that.

  Dating a cop wasn’t easy. Carrying a gun belt around all day, working shifts. Ghana was convinced all cops suffered from a lack of sleep. It was no wonder so many lost control. He could be moody sometimes, but she could, too. Sometimes he didn’t open up when she knew something was bothering him and she tried not to push. It could be up and down, but that was life, that was relationships.

  Ghana checked the time. He should be home around four-thirty, having worked the early shift to cover for a colleague. He didn’t expect her to cook dinner, but she often did. Whatever she could do to make his life easier, she tried to do. Besides, she loved to cook.

  With the pizza in the oven, she turned on the television and opened her email, but only scanned the list of unopened messages, feeling suddenly overwhelmed. A news channel made noise in the background and then she heard Malawi’s name and looked up at the TV. A picture of her sister smiled back at her, her skin glowing, so alive. A selfie she had taken at the beach and posted on Facebook. Tears filled Ghana’s eyes. A man Ghana recognized, a friend of her father’s, was on the screen saying the family was in mourning and would release a statement soon. “Please keep them in your prayers and demand justice for Malawi Walker.”

  Justice? Ghana thought for a moment. The shooter had been a white man. The news report said he still hadn’t been arrested. Three days had passed since the shooting. She remembered Kenya had called, several times now. But she rang her father first and he answered immediately.

  “Did you talk to Kenya?”

  “No. I just saw the news.”

  “Teddy is organizing a news conference at his office for Monday morning. I want you to be there.”

  “Of course.”

  “Please, Sweetheart, call your sister.”

  Ryan came in just as she said goodbye to her father. “Something smells good,” he said.

  “Shit, the pizza.” She ran into the kitchen and turned off the oven, pulling the pan out expecting the pizza to be burned, but the crust was a golden brown and the toppings sizzled delightfully. Ryan kissed the back of her neck then disappeared into the bedroom. He would stay there for a while, separating himself from his day of work and his evening with her. In those first weeks together, she had encroached on his space, eager to be with him; arguments came out of nowhere, until one day he shouted at her, “Fuck, Ghana. Can I just be alone for five fucking minutes?”

  They stopped talking for several days while she moped. Then one evening, he snuggled up to her on the couch, gently kissing her mound through her yoga pants before placing his head in her lap.

  “Baby, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice fading into her thighs. His hand caressed her knee. “I don’t know how to explain.” She felt his chest expand and contract. “I want to be with you, but sometimes . . . sometimes I just need some space.” Another breath. “So much shit goes down in a day for me and I need silence. Just for a minute, you know?”

  And from then on she let him transition as he needed, not pestering or asking questions he didn’t want to answer. Keeping his world of blue confined to a place she didn’t go unless invited.

  When he finally reappeared in sweatpants and a T-shirt, she was still in the kitchen gazing at the pizza cooling on the stove. “I am starving,” he said, then stopped. “Baby?”

  “Li’l Sis was shot by some white man who didn’t even ask what she wanted.” She looked at Ryan who was staring back at her, his face stricken as if she had slapped him. She started to shake, wanting to apologize, afraid of what she had just said out loud: A white man shot my black sister. She hadn’t been able to talk to him about it, hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the significance. A white man shot my black sister. Ryan took a step back, his eyes shifting around the room as if searching for something. He started to speak then closed his mouth.

  “I don’t mean—” she began, but he cut her off.

  “Nah, it’s cool,” he said and shifted around her, not touching, getting the pizza cutter from the drawer and making slices, grabbing a plate from the shelf and taking two slices to the couch. He flipped through channels and ate.

  She sat next to him, a foot away and he asked without looking at her, “So you finally ready to tell me what happened, exactly?”

  Ghana recounted the story: Her sister had run off the road and sought help at a nearby house where the owner, a white man, shot and killed her. Ryan stopped eating and took her hand. “Baby, I love you, okay. This isn’t a black and white thing. He was a fuckin’ asshole with a gun and he deserves to be locked up for life. I’d kick his ass no matter what shade of white, brown or yellow he was.”

  “But the news is saying it was a hate crime.”

  Ryan frowned and scratched his head, but said nothing. She continued, “The Black Lives Matter people, they’re planning a protest march.”

  “They don’t know it was a hate crime. If he just shot without looking, then he didn’t know she was black. It makes no sense.”

  Ghana nodded. “Yeah, but what if he did know? What if he did see who it was and shot her anyway? We only know what he’s saying. How do you shoot someone in the chest without seeing their face?”

  “Baby, not everything is about race.”

  She stiffened and moved away from him. He didn’t understand. He wasn’t black. He didn’t get it. Rising, she told him she was going to see her sister. “She’s been trying to call me. I should go see her.”

  Ryan sucked his teeth and reclined into the couch, grabbed the remote and said, “Right.”

  She considered kissing him but the moment passed and instead grabbed her purse and keys and rushed out.

  Kenya’s house was bigger than the one they’d grown up in. Ghana rarely visited her sister and was last here a year ago; she’d almost forgotten what it looked like. There were no fences or sidewalks in this neighborhood, just manicured lawns stretching to the road, tall trees and white mailboxes at the end of every driveway. No sirens, no stop lights, no overflowing trash cans. She surveyed her sister’s home: the rolling lawn up to the front door with the cherry blossom tree in the center, the large bay windows on the ground floor and the line of windows watching from the second floor, the two-car garage and the fancy door with the stained-glass paneling. Ghana waited several moments before getting out, feeling self-conscious in her old Honda Civic.

  As she locked the car, the front door flew open and Kenya stood open-mouthed. “I’ve been trying to call you.”

  Ghana nodded, tears filling her eyes. She cut across the lawn and, in a rush, Kenya’s arms were wrapped around her, squeezing tight, her sister’s face crushing her cheek. For a moment she couldn’t move her body, but simply allowed her sister to squeeze. Slowly, she found her arms and slid them around Kenya, feeling her sister’s slim waist and the ribs in her back. So thin, she thought, and pulled her sister closer.

  “Oh god, Kennie. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I’ve been such an ass.”


  Kenya hushed her and continued to hug tighter before gradually loosening and leaning back to look at her.

  “Look at you,” she said. Her sister’s judgment scanned her dreadlocks, her new flower tattoo winding from her shoulder to her neck. Kenya had made it clear she hated tattoos when Ghana came home after her freshman year in college sporting the Chinese letters for “love” on her shoulder. Kenya had said they looked dirty. But today, she simply shook her head and hugged Ghana again overwhelmed by relief at seeing her sister.

  “Come in, come in,” she said, taking Ghana’s hand and pulling her inside, pausing in the foyer where Ghana slipped off her sandals. She stopped by the den where Junior was playing video games and told him to say hello to his Aunt Ghan-Ghan. He lifted his head and smiled keeping his hands on the controller. Ghana could see the irritation fill her sister’s eyes, and squeezed her hand. “It’s cool. He’s a kid. That’s what kids do.” Kenya rolled her eyes but smiled, then called upstairs to Charlene, who came bouncing down the steps yelling her joy at seeing her aunt.

  Ghana tried to swing the girl around, but laughed at her feeble attempt. “You’ve grown so much!” Charlie stood several inches taller than Ghana remembered. She was a beautiful blend of both her parents, with her mother’s poise and her father’s cheekbones. Her niece wanted to sit with them, but Kenya sent her back upstairs so she and Ghana could talk first. Charlene’s disappointment slumped over her shoulders as she dragged herself back up the staircase.

  “She’s gorgeous, Kennie!”

  “She needs better focus in school, but she’s a good girl.”

  Ghana stopped herself from scolding her sister’s criticism. She wasn’t here to fight. Kenya gripped her hand too tightly as she led the way into the kitchen. Ghana wiped away tears, overcome with an array of emotions at seeing her sister, at realizing how much she had missed her niece, at the reason that had brought her to Kenya’s door. Her sister finally released her hand and offered tea. Ghana nodded.

  “Sidney left this morning to meet a client in L.A.” Kenya spoke as she filled the kettle and set it back on the plate. “He’s traveling more and more these days. I’m kind of glad he’s gone right now. I feel like such a mess. It’s best he’s not here.” She took a white teapot from the cupboard and placed it on a colorful tile heat-plate. “I was at Mama’s this morning. God, she’s a complete mess. You need to call or go see her. And Daddy, have you talked to him?” She pulled two mugs off the rack and put them on the counter next to the teapot. “I’ve been on the phone with the funeral home and, oh my God, it all just seems so unreal. And have you seen the news? Have you seen what they’re saying? One report said she was drunk. These people were talking as if they know us. As if they knew her. And the man who shot her. They haven’t arrested him. Can you believe that? The police are saying it was justified. The whole Stand Your Ground thing. It’s horrible, Ghan. Just horrible.”

  Kenya stood by the stove visibly shaking. Ghana rushed over and hushed her sister, holding her close. “I got you,” Ghana whispered. “We got this. We’ll get through it.” A short moan slipped from Kenya’s lips and the pair stood in a tight embrace until the kettle’s scream separated them. Ghana returned to her seat at the table, wiping her palms across her damp cheeks. Kenya placed a box of tissues on the table between them, taking one to dab her own face.

  “You two were so close,” Kenya said.

  “We were all sisters,” said Ghana, grabbing a tissue to wipe her nose.

  Kenya closed her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “We were all sisters.”

  14

  Malcolm beckoned the bartender to order another round, but Joe shook his head, downing the last of his whiskey sour. “I gotta get home. Liz will get mad if I miss dinner again this week.”

  Malcolm nodded. “Okay, brother. Thanks for sitting with me.” It wasn’t his habit to have drinks before going home, but after last night he was reluctant to go home. Bet’s anger and her pain had been unbearable. He ordered another drink for himself. He knew she was hurting, lashing out at him simply because he was the one who was there. She wanted him to wallow and be sad with her, only he couldn’t. The loss was too profound. He had to keep climbing or he would tumble into an abyss; already he was struggling to scale a wall with no grip—he couldn’t stop Bet from falling, as well.

  “Judge Walker.” Someone called his name and he looked around. A young attorney he’d seen in his courtroom many times was making his way to the bar where Malcolm sat. The man’s face was solemn, worried. “Judge Walker, sir, I just want to say—”

  Malcolm raised his hand. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything.” He offered a wan smile. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  The young man lifted his chin in acknowledgment. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “No, but thank you.” Malcolm looked at him. “I’m going to finish this one and head home.”

  The man leaned against the bar and said nothing for several moments, then, “I admire you, sir, and support you all the way.”

  Malcolm shifted in his seat. “Darryl Reeves, right?”

  The man nodded. Malcolm knew he was admired by many up-and-coming African American attorneys and he did what he could to coach and guide them, but today he just wanted to quietly drink this last drink and be left alone. “Thank you,” he said softly and lifted his glass. The young attorney touched his two fingers to the side of his forehead in salute and wandered away.

  Admired. Honored. Respected. Though not at home. At home he was a piece of shit. That’s what she’d said. “You’re a piece of shit, Malcolm Walker. The honorable piece of shit.”

  They hadn’t been home from the airport five minutes and she’d laid into him. All he’d asked was that she take the lead on the funeral arrangements. He couldn’t do that, make arrangements to bury his child. No parent could, but he needed her to stop popping pills and do something constructive. Kenya had called him earlier in the day to say her mother had taken a bath, and beef stir-fry was in a covered pan on the stove. Bless her. He couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. He’d finish this drink, then go home.

  “Well, look who it is,” said a woman’s voice close to his ear.

  Malcolm looked up and standing where the young attorney had been was a woman he didn’t recognize. Tall, shapely, rouge a little too bright on her brown skin, black hair swept up in a bun on the back of her head. “The Honorable Judge Malcolm T. Walker.” She offered him a broad smile revealing large teeth. “You don’t remember me?”

  Malcolm shook his head, running through in his mind faces from the courthouse. He smiled. “Sorry. No, I don’t.”

  “You dismissed a case against me for prostitution.”

  At this, Malcolm caught himself glancing at her hips and breasts, and forced his eyes to focus on her face. This woman was no prostitute.

  She chuckled. “That was a long time ago. I’m not in that business no more.” She settled on the stool next to him. “In fact, it was you who inspired me to do something more with my life.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. He thought back to when he was a new judge in District Court, presiding over countless petty theft, prostitution and drug possession cases. He still couldn’t recall her face. “How did I inspire you?”

  She waved at the bartender flashing long red nails. “Made me see the error of my ways,” she said, giving another deep throaty chuckle. “The cop who arrested me didn’t have enough evidence. I wasn’t on the street. Did private escort services. I forget the details now, but what I always remember is you telling me, ‘Young lady, you have more to offer this world than your body. Do something more productive with your mind.’ I thought about that for days after.”

  The bartender asked what she wanted and she ordered a Jack Daniels with soda water.

  “It’s on me,” Malcolm said. “And I’ll have another.”

  “No one had ever suggested I had a mind. So, thank you for that.”

  “You’re welcome.”
She was attractive, he thought, but would be prettier without so much make-up. He wondered if her breasts were real or enhanced. When their drinks arrived he offered a toast. “To new beginnings.”

  “Sherry, by the way. My name’s Sherry Jackson.” She downed half her drink. “I saw the news. Don’t matter how successful we get, we can’t seem to catch a break.”

  Malcolm watched her take another sip and circle the top of the glass with her forefinger.

  “We’ll always be a target,” she said glancing at him.

  He wouldn’t talk about his daughter. Not to her. Not to anyone. “What do you do now?” he asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “What kind of business are you in now?”

  “Oh.” She grinned at him. “I’m a stenographer. The lady—and it was always a woman when I was in and out of court—she always fascinated me. Sitting there taking notes on everything being said. I took the money I’d saved and went to school. Got a certificate as a court reporter and eventually set up my own business. Always hoped to run into you, but somehow our paths never crossed.” She arched her eyebrows. “Until now.”

  “Congratulations,” he said, raising his glass. “I’m proud to have been part of your transformation.”

  They sat in silence for a moment and then she said, “I had a son who was murdered by a cop.”

  Malcolm’s heartbeat stuttered then lurched into an erratic beat. The urge to run almost overwhelmed him but he remained still, watching the condensation slide down his glass.

  “It’s hard to talk about, I know,” she continued. “For a long time, I just wanted to die. Seemed like no one in the world understood what I was going through. But there are more of us out there than we can count.”

  She fell silent and his breathing steadied. “What happened?”

  Sherry inhaled, her chest rising and falling. “He was smoking weed. Just being a stupid teenager, really. A group of them were hanging out on the street near a park and these two cops came by and started messing with them, lining them up, patting them down.” She took a slow sip of her drink. “I wasn’t there. His friend told me about it. Why he started to run, who knows, but Tye took off down the street. The cop ran after him and shot him three times in the back. He didn’t have no weapons on him and no other drugs. Made no sense. I mean, I know he was doing wrong, but he was fifteen. Did he have to die?”