The reckoning, p.6
The Reckoning, page 6
“I’m glad, too,” Gramps answered. “I should have brought you here long before now. You come from strong people, Lamar. You gotta know that. You got that good, tough stuff inside you, too. And you gotta know and you gotta believe that. And stop hanging round kids like that Ray.”
“You know what I wanna do, Gramps? I wanna do a documentary on you,” Lamar blurted out. “I didn’t know all this about you.”
“A documentary?” Gramps asked quizzically.
Lamar held his breath, wondering what his grandfather was going to say about having a documentary done about his life.
“What for? What kind of documentary? My life ain’t worth no documentary.”
“Yes it is, Gramps. All that stuff you been telling me about. The civil rights days and all that. It’ll make a good documentary.”
“You think so?”
“I know so, Gramps.”
“Umm. That might be interesting. You’re gonna use your camcorder?”
“Yes. It won’t be a documentary like the one about Ida B. Wells. But it’ll be a good one,” Lamar said confidently.
“You’re something, Lamar,” he told his grandson. “I’ll start getting myself together to make it easy for you. Yeah! That’s a good thing. My grandson thinking enough of his old granddad to do a documentary on him. You can’t beat that. See, that’s what I mean by seizing the time!”
Lamar had never given his grandfather a fist bump before. But this time he did.
“How’s it going?” Jeff wanted to know. Lamar sat at a table in the school’s media center next to his friend.
“I think it’s okay. What about you?” he asked Jeff.
“I changed what I was gonna write about,” Jeff told Lamar.
“Why? What’re you writing ’bout now?”
“I’m still working it out. But I want to write about something that is really meaningful. So I decided to do an outline about alcoholism.”
“Alcoholism?” That really caught Lamar’s attention.
“Yeah!” Jeff answered, leaning closer. “Did you see Days of Wine and Roses, starring Jack Lemmon?”
Jeff didn’t wait for Lamar’s answer.
“It’s about a character named Joe Clay and his wife, Kirsten, who become alcoholics, and their lives tumble out of control because of it. It’s a great movie. Lee Remick plays Kirsten, and Jack Lemmon is Joe Clay.”
“That’s a heavy subject, Jeff. But it sounds interesting.”
“You gotta have something that offers real content, you know,” Jeff informed Lamar.
Lamar wondered why Jeff had chosen alcoholism as a theme. Is someone in his family an alcoholic? he thought. Lamar was curious, but he didn’t want Jeff to feel bad.
“In my outline,” Jeff continued, “the alcoholics will be a middle school student and his girlfriend. I got a good start on it.”
“An alcoholic in middle school?” Lamar asked Jeff. “You don’t mean they’re real alcoholics, do you?”
“No. Not like adults. But if they keep drinking, they could be,” Jeff answered.
“Um…cool,” Lamar said, somewhat relieved. He couldn’t imagine someone his age being an alcoholic like those he saw on the streets sometimes.
“So you think it’s a good idea?”
“Yeah, it sounds like it, Jeff. I wanna see how you write it.”
Jeff beamed at Lamar.
“I’m going to do a documentary on my grandfather,” Lamar offered, now anxious to share his good news. “He was a civil rights leader when he was in high school. I’m gonna tell his story and my grandmother’s, too. They worked together.”
Lamar waited for Jeff’s reaction. But Jeff didn’t respond at all. He stared at the notepad that he had placed on the table in front of him.
“My grandfather was one of the leaders of the civil rights movement right here in Morton,” Lamar went on. “He got arrested and everything. I wanna get the whole story in a documentary.”
“But, Lamar, I thought we were gonna do a movie together?” Jeff interjected. “What about our project?”
“We’re still gonna do it. Ain’t nothing changed. I’m still writing an outline for our project. When we both finish, we’ll decide which one is the best, right? This is something else I’ll be working on.”
“So, what’s the purpose of the documentary?” he asked, glancing side-eyed at Lamar, obviously agitated.
“What’s the purpose? Jeff, I’d be capturing history. History that took place right here in Morton. It’s my grandparents’ story.”
Jeff looked away and Lamar wondered what was wrong.
“What’s up?” Lamar asked as Jeff rose from his seat and headed for the exit.
“Nothing,” Jeff answered in an unconvincing voice. “I’ll be glad when I graduate so I can leave this town. Morton is the pits.” With that, Jeff exited.
Lamar sat at the table, wondering what had just happened. Then it came to him. Civil rights and Morton. They don’t go together with a lot of folks around here, he thought. Too many people still holding on to the old ways. That’s why I can’t visit Jeff and why Jeff ain’t allowed to visit me. We can only share our friendship at school. Maybe that’s why Jeff said he’d be glad to move away.
“Lamar, Principal Deloria wants to see you in his office,” a student who had just entered the media center told Lamar, startling him. “He said to bring your book bag,” he added, leaving as abruptly as he had entered.
“Take my book bag?” Lamar asked. “What for?”
Ms. Hamilton, Mr. Deloria’s secretary, had just completed a telephone call when Lamar entered.
“Go right in to see Mr. Deloria,” she told Lamar. “He’s waiting for you.”
Principal Deloria was seated at his desk, a stack of papers in front of him. He rose when he saw Lamar. His office was a foreign place to Lamar. Unlike some of the other students, he had never had to go to the principal’s office to be counseled or disciplined. He looked around to see what it was like. He wished he had his camcorder.
“Hi, Lamar,” Mr. Deloria said. “Your parents want you to come home.”
“Come home?” Lamar asked.
“Yes, your father called just a few minutes ago. He’ll explain why when you get there.”
Lamar’s mind started racing. What’s up? What’s going on? He put on his backpack and turned to leave.
“Lamar…,” Principal Deloria called to him. Lamar turned around.
“You take care, all right?”
Looking confused, Lamar said, “Yes, sir,” and left.
On the way, he wondered why his parents wanted him to come home. Students weren’t allowed to use cell phones during the school day. So, as usual, his cell phone had been turned off. But he decided to check to see if anyone had tried to call. He saw his dad’s cell number, but there was no message.
Dad probably remembered I couldn’t use my phone at school, he thought. That’s why he called the school office.
What’s up? What’s going on? Did Kyra have to come home, too? The questions kept on coming.
As he approached the house, Lamar saw a police car parked in front. Now his mind really started to race. He ran the remainder of the way and rushed inside. His father stood talking to two police officers. Kyra sat on the sofa; her arms were wrapped around their mother, who was sobbing. It all seemed surreal, so different from what it had been like before he had left for school.
Everything had been normal. His mother and father had gotten their usual early start for work. Lamar had even put up with another of Kyra’s dress downs when he forgot to remove his plate and glass from the dining room table following breakfast. Now no one noticed him as he stood in the doorway.
“Something’s wrong here, Sergeant Ford,” Lamar’s father told one of the officers, obviously rattled. “Something’s wrong.”
“I guarantee you we’ll look into it, Mr. Phillips,” Sergeant Ford said, trying to reassure Lamar’s father. “I give you my word on that.”
“Where is he now?” Lamar’s dad inquired in a subdued voice.
“He’s at the hospital. That’s where he was taken, and that’s where he expired.”
Expired? That word hit Lamar like a bolt of lightning. His knees buckled and his heart beat rapidly. He knew what expired meant. He had heard that word on the television news. Sometimes, the teachers at school used it. He knew it meant someone had died. But who? His mother and father were there. So was Kyra. Was it Uncle Robert? Aunt Eloise? Everyone knew what had happened but him. He rushed over to his father.
“Dad! Dad!” he called out, frantically pulling his father’s arm. “What’s going on? What happened? Who died?”
Lamar’s dad placed a large hand on his son’s shoulder and looked him directly in his eyes.
“Gramps is dead, Lamar. Somebody shot and killed him this morning.”
“What? Gramps is dead?!” Lamar asked to make sure he had heard correctly.
“Yes, son, he is,” his father said in a definitive voice.
Gramps is dead! This must be a dream, Lamar thought. Gramps can’t be dead! This must be a dream. It will soon end and everything will be normal again. The police officers won’t be here. Mom and Dad will be at work. Kyra will be at school practicing for a debate or attending a meeting. Soon, this frightening, nightmarish dream will be over. Everything will go back to the way it’s supposed to be.
But seeing Kyra comforting their mother reminded him that it wasn’t a dream. Seeing the police officers talking to his father did, too.
It must be true! His beloved Gramps must be dead!
As the tears rolled down his face, Lamar wanted to ask questions, to say something, to say anything. But the words just wouldn’t come. He felt like he wanted to scream. He couldn’t do that either. Crying was all he could do at the moment. So he cried. Long and hard. The tears streamed down like a water faucet turned fully open. His father grabbed him and held him close. Kyra and his mother held on to each other. The Phillips family tried desperately, fiercely, to cope with the heart-wrenching tragedy that had been thrust upon them. Pain, anguish and a profound sense of loss filled the room. The two officers stood statue-still, not knowing what to do or say.
“Another Black person killed by White violence against Black people!” Kyra yelled out, breaking the long moment of silence and closeness. “If it ain’t the police, it’s a crazy White person! Why did that man shoot my grandfather?”
The two officers, extremely uncomfortable, looked away.
“I ask again, why he killed my grandfather?” Kyra demanded.
“Well, that’s something that’s gotta be looked into,” Sergeant Ford answered.
“Something is wrong,” Kyra told her father. She left her mother and walked to where her father stood, still embracing Lamar.
“The man who shot Gramps can’t get away with this, Dad!” she cried. “He can’t!”
“There will be a thorough investigation,” Sergeant Ford spoke up, trying to assure the family again. But no one wanted to hear that now. The sergeant continued anyway. “We will find out the truth.”
“Yeah! Right!” Kyra snapped at him, and walked back to the sofa to comfort her mother again.
“Is the man who shot my father under arrest?” Lamar’s dad inquired, looking directly at the sergeant.
“He’s being questioned now,” Sergeant Ford answered.
“Questioned? He should be in jail for shooting my grandfather,” Kyra shouted, leaping up again. “He should be in jail!”
“We can drive you to the hospital to view the body if you’d like,” Sergeant Ford offered, ignoring Kyra’s declaration.
“Yeah! Yeah!” Lamar’s dad answered quickly, moving around the room aimlessly, as if he didn’t know what to do. “Yeah. I wanna see him,” he told Sergeant Ford again, nodding his head up and down. He walked slowly toward the door.
“I’m going with you, Daddy!” Kyra hurried to catch up.
“I wanna go, too!” Lamar called out. “I wanna go!”
“No, son. You stay here with your mother. We don’t wanna leave her alone.”
Lamar’s dad gave him another long embrace, then planted a gentle kiss on his wife’s cheek, and he, Kyra and the two police officers left.
Lamar walked to the sofa and sat down next to his mother.
“What happened, Mom?” he asked her painfully. “Who shot Gramps?”
Lamar’s mom sat upright and stared across the room.
“They say he and a White man got into an argument. The White man said your grandfather threatened him with a gun. So he shot him in self-defense.”
“What?! Gramps didn’t own a gun,” Lamar responded automatically. “I ain’t never seen him with a gun. He wouldn’t harm nobody. Not Gramps.”
“I know. I know,” Lamar’s mother answered solemnly. She rose from the sofa and walked to the window and peered out toward the street.
“Where did this happen, Mom?” Lamar asked, following her.
“Near Highway 76,” she answered. “Papa must have been on his way to Thomasville.”
Lamar’s mother reached for her son and held him in a firm embrace. They both cried as they clung to each other.
“I loved that man.” She cried out for her father-in-law in a loud, pained voice. “I loved that man. He would do anything for anybody. He was a good man.”
“I was just getting to know him,” Lamar added, disheartened by the thought of his grandfather not being around anymore. “I was just getting to really know him.”
Everyone in Morton now knew about the death of Joshua Phillips. That evening, the Phillipses’ house was packed with people who had come to offer condolences. Members of their church had come. Neighbors and coworkers were there.
Piled high on the Phillipses’ dining room table and kitchen counter were platters of fried chicken, potato salad, cooked vegetables, salads and drinks that church members had brought.
The house was full of chatter. Most folks talked about the kind and thoughtful man Joshua Phillips had been. Some shared stories about their experiences with him. Others told how Joshua Phillips had helped them out of one crisis or another. They all agreed their friend shouldn’t have been killed the way he had been. Gunned down for no reason. It just wasn’t right, they all said. But Lamar didn’t want to talk. He didn’t want to talk at all. All the glowing accolades wouldn’t bring his Gramps back. And that was what he wanted more than anything: his grandfather back.
As the conversations continued, Lamar walked slowly out into the front yard and sat on the wooden bench his father had built. He wanted to think about his grandfather in quiet solitude. Remember him. How he looked. How he talked. How he walked. How much he loved his Gramps.
Again, he wished it were all a dream. He closed his eyes tightly and prayed that his grandfather’s death had been a mirage, something unreal, an optical illusion. The dream would end and his Gramps wouldn’t have been shot and killed. His grandfather would appear with a smile on his face, driving up in his blue Chevrolet to pick him up for another visit. He would sit his grandfather down and interview him for his documentary. He closed his eyes even tighter, wishing, hoping for a dream.
“You’re praying or something?”
The voice startled him. He opened his eyes and saw T.C. standing in front of him.
“Naw. I was just thinking about Gramps,” he responded. “I didn’t hear you come up.”
“I was quiet ’cause I thought I saw you praying.”
T.C. sat next to his best friend. The sadness on T.C.’s face was apparent, too. For a while, he just sat next to Lamar and stared at the ground, sometimes sneaking a peek at him. He couldn’t think of anything to say. He couldn’t think of anything to do. Suddenly, angrily, he banged his knee with his right hand.
“That’s some messed-up stuff, killing your granddad like that,” he yelled out, rising from his seat. “And that White man saying your granddad tried to shoot him! No way. It’s a lie! That’s so messed up! That’s so messed up!”
T.C. sat back down again. He didn’t know whether the spontaneous outburst had made things worse. At least he had done something. He had expressed the outrage he felt.
The two longtime friends were silent again. Like everyone else in their community, they were trying to comprehend the incomprehensible—the senseless loss of another Black life.
“They say there weren’t no witnesses,” T.C. finally said, kicking a pebble with his foot. “So it’s just that White man’s word. You know how this will go down.”
“He ain’t gonna get away with killing Gramps!” Lamar jumped up from the bench and thrust a fist into the air as if he were hitting a menacing foe. “He just ain’t!”
“I’m with you, Lamar,” T.C. assured him. “We should call Reverend Al or that lawyer that represented George Floyd’s family. I forget his name.”
Suddenly, a patrol car pulled into the driveway. Sergeant Ford emerged and walked toward Lamar and T.C.
“Is Mr. Phillips home?” he asked.
“He’s inside,” Lamar answered after a long moment.
“Can you ask him to come out here?” Sergeant Ford said. “I don’t wanna disturb all those people.”
Lamar walked quickly into the house and returned with his father. Sergeant Ford escorted Lamar’s father to his patrol car and the two got inside.
Lamar wondered, What does Sergeant Ford want? When he looked up, he saw Kyra dash from the house and rush to the car.
“Let’s check it out,” T.C. suggested to Lamar.
“Dad and Kyra got it,” Lamar answered.
They watched as Kyra leaned against the car so she could hear what was being discussed. Suddenly, in a quick motion, she slammed her hand against the car so hard Lamar was afraid she had broken it.
