Albert
Albert
I walked home after practice, which was right after school. Nobody’s home, which is expected, since I was what they call a latch-key kid. My mom works two jobs during the week and another on the weekend. I get home around six every weekday after a one-hour and fifteen minute bus ride. I put the key in the lock and wiggle the door open. It’s always slightly jammed, so I have to use my shoulder to shove it open. My book bag and gym bag drops to the floor as I flip down on the couch and turn on the television. I whip through the channels, hoping to find an episode of Tom & Jerry before I attack the refrigerator for milk and a big bowl of cereal. But, just as I went to change channels there was a news report about a body found buried near the 101 Freeway in Los Angeles. They said that some kids found a hand protruding from the dirt. They told their parents and they called the police. The victim was a black Male, five-foot eight, and thirty eight years old. The investigation would follow. That’s rough I thought. I switch to sports and watch for a bit before getting my bowl of cereal and taking a shower before tackling my homework.
After my shower, while drying off with a towel, the phone rings. As a hurry out I tuck the towel around my waist drying off my hands to pick up the phone. “Hello?” I ask, resting the phone on my shoulder, assuming that it’s probably my mom checking in on me.
“Hello, is this the Bryant residence?” a lady with a professional sounding voice asks.
“Yeah, why?” I ask, confused and curious as to what’s happening.
“Is Delores Bryant there?” She asks.
“No, she’s at work. Who is this?” I ask.
“My name is Detective Morales with the Los Angeles Police Department. Do you know what time your mother is due home?” Due home? What is this about? Why is a detective calling my mother?
“Yes,” I stammered. “She should be home around 8:00.” She says thank you and hangs up. What just happened? Confused, I dry off, throw on my pj’s, and do my homework.
About an hour later, the front door opens with a thud and my mom enters carrying bags of groceries. I help her load them into the refrigerator, smiling at my favorite box of cereal that she never manages to forget. As we chat about my day, I mention the call from the detective. Confused and concerned, she asks me if the detective mentioned what she wanted? Knowing nothing, I shrug my shoulders and we go back to discussing school and if my homework was complete and done to the best of my ability.
I woke up at six the next morning, as usual and go to school. As the day goes on I keep thinking about that phone call, and wondering why she didn’t call back at 8:00? Why did she want to talk to my mom? Did they call her at work? I tried to shrug it off but I just couldn’t. I thought basketball practice would for sure take my mind off of it but when I started playing the unanswered questions were still in the back of my mind nagging at me with every bounce of the basketball. Basketball was usually a great distraction, but today, today I wanted to be firmly grounded in reality.
My mind was racing as I got off the school bus. I felt bottled up. I thought I would sleep on the way home just to temporarily ease my mind and silence the questions. I jog home from the bus stop cutting the ten minute walk to five. I round the corner leading to my apartment building, where I am always greeted by a gangly tree in the front yard, desperately in need of a sip of water. Occasionally, I would walk over, pick up the watering hose and do the honors, but today was different. Today I heard a familiar cry and then a familiar howl and then my name being shouted from above. My heart pounds as I sprint up the stairs to the apartment. The heart wrenching sounds of my mom sobbing grows louder and louder as I stand in front of the door. Do I open it? What happens if I do? What happens if I turn around and walk away? Will the crying stop? Maybe I should go and find my dad? Maybe I already knew where he was, and now she knows because the detective finally called.
That pit in my stomach, the one that stirred inside of me all day, the one that kept me awake on the bus, was the hand of my dad found buried next to the 101 Freeway. My mom’s deathly howls echoing against the walls in our small apartment, shrieked like fingernails on a chalkboard, reminding me that the relationship with my dad was over.
