Chapter 4
"Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire."
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
"Fire on Timid Deer Lane. Just twelve hours ago one of the homes in the Wuncler suburbs spontaneously combusted, destroying the residence and causing minor damage to surrounding properties. The homeowner and head of the house, local lawyer Thomas Dubois was found at the scene alive, and was taken into emergency care." Images of the family slid in a powerpoint like motion across the screen; A well dressed interracial couple, a bright eyed little girl with cork-screw curls. "His wife, Sarah Dubois, was declared dead, and is expected to have been killed in the initial blast. Reporting from Timid Deer, our very own, Martha Jones."
An asian woman with high cheekbones and straight hair filled the television. "Thanks Dan, As you can see behind me, the once proud home is a little more than smoking rubble, even the surrounding pavement is black with ash. And the street itself is littered with shards of glass-Woodcrest Firemen say this is due to the extreme, heat of the blaze."
"And what a blaze it was Martha, it burned the entire night, only smoldering when the national guard provided assistance to our WCFD." A spotlit helicopter, blades blurred, dropped what looked to be white powder from it's belly, dousing the burning home and the surrounding areas. "During the ensuing investigations, there have been many speculations as to what or who, caused this accident. Investigators first concluded this to be the result of worn pipes, but now it's suspected to be arson. Martha?"
"That's correct Dan-As police questioned neighbors, it was hinted that the fire, caused by a leak in methane gas, was no accident."
A thin woman with a prominent jaw and rollers in her hair appeared on screen before a shaking camera, arms crossed and head bobbing in self affirming nods. "They were always arguing, the Dubois. They would wake up the entire neighborhood with their hollering. I told myself, one of these days Judith, one of these days they'll sssnap..! That I did, and look at what happened? My son was calling me all night, worried sick. That he was!"
Another neighbor, with lips wrinkled in smug self adoration beneath a well trimmed mustache took to the screen. "It doesn't take much investigation to conclude the reason behind this, there was a vengeful lover involved. The wife was a closed curtain unfaithful woman, I should know, I'm an expert."
Then a slow spoken woman with a passively sweet expression on her plain face, unkept bangs brushing her brow in imitation of good taste. "Now Sarah was a gentle woman, always gardening and looking after the home, I would see her getting the mail from across the street. It's just a terrible thing, this is, to be killed by your own husband. Heaven protect the child and watch after her, she too was gentle."
The next person was filmed a little ways away from the camera, as though the crew was reluctant to get close. The grainy, early morning footage couldn't camouflage his poor complexion, or his bulging glass eye emphasized by sagging lids around his real one. As he spoke he spat, fevered with passion, and the sole african american witness brought further ratings to the usually dull local news station. "Well you listen here, I tried to tell all the lovely white folks that letting a coon with a degree move in is like washing your hands with shit, just an awful idea that only gets worse. That's how they get to you," He drawled in his grating, obnoxious voice, face suddenly damp with tears and perspiration. "Nigga's will talk white and infect the white man's schools, then find themselves the holy, pure light that is a white woman and corrupt her with their darkness."
He sobbed, bubbles of snot rubbed away with the back of his frowzy, spotted hand. "Sarah took him in like the wonderful pale skinned saint she is and gave him a half breed child, then what happens? His animal side gets out, the savage jungle side-" He couldn't finish, too caught up in his unwelcome, uncomfortable grief to spew further filth. "Why lord, why!?"
He suddenly grabbed a passerby, an elderly black man with rectangle rimmed glasses and a balding head. He pulled the protesting man into a tight hug, squishing the furious elder, who fought hard against the hold. "Dammit Ruckus! I should kick yo' ass for this-…!" His nice robe was used as a fuzzy snot rag, the trumpet blaring of a blown noise buzzing through the television speakers.
"Ooooh Robert!" The bigot wailed, and the news cut back to Dan, who needed a brief moment to contain his mortification. Then it was washed away by his friendly, morning smile. "Thanks for the scoop Martha, keep up the good work. Now on to Jason from Green Valley, whose video of his retrievers synchronized swimming went viral…"
Robert Jebediah Freeman turned off the television, wrinkles deepening as he frowned. "Damn anchormen.." He grumbled, dark lips fumbling over his uncomfortable, bleached denchers. He was a man who loved gossip, fed off of it, and if it had been any other family he would have eaten this speculation up. The fire, however, struck a little too close to home, and he wasn't so willing to indulge in shock.
Thomas Dubois was a buddy to play poker with, a soft man who just wanted to fit in, too belong. Even if it met spending his spare time with two old geezers.
It was far too difficult to accept the possibility of him actually trying to kill Sarah, the man was incapable of striking her, hell, he struggled to raise his voice. As for an affair...it wasn't so strange to imagine her having one. Robert hardly knew the blonde housewife, and his thoughts darkened with possibilities of hidden romance and an infuriating discovery. After moments of unrealistic, dramatized scenarios, the elder shrugged, deciding that perhaps Tom was driven into rage and did indeed, try to kill the blonde.
Women were crazy, and men were impulsive.
Robert was tired.
He turned the television back on, setting the remote on the table beside his leather lazyboy. He lifted his mug of coffee to his lips, breathing in the strong scent of caffeine before letting the hot liquid enter his mouth.
On top of all the confusion of the pervious night, Robert later received a call from the hospital, informing him that his oldest grandson had once again broken one of his arms. In an almost humorous level of hypocrisy, Robert couldn't comprehend how his two grandsons could get into troublesome situations so easily. He wasn't, and never had been, so careless with his actions, he was sure.
His cell phone chirped, and he snatched the android into his grasp, unlocking his screen and viewing the message. It was from his current dating app, a middle aged woman smiling from the top of the screen.
Hey baby! I'm gonna be in town the next couple days, can I stay with you?
The message was followed by a scandalous selfie and several kiss emojis, bringing a smile to Robert's wrinkle lined features. With all the stress lately, it would be nice to have a female around the house. That is, a female other than the ten year old soon to join.
Robert had gotten a call from the station saying that the Dubois had left their only child in his custody, of all people. He wanted to refuse, he already had two nappy haired brats to deal with, and he had refused, but the guilt tripping of the social worker pierced through his armor of self preservation. After a long, one sided argument, Robert finally consented, understanding it would be a while before the girl was actually moving in.
He had only ever raised boys, first his two sons, both of which despised him, then his two grandsons, who loved him but bewildered him. Becoming the guardian of the youngsters was Robert's opportunity to try again, to do right by these children.
But a little girl? That was far out of his comfort zone. Yes, he adored tiny Jazmine and her sweet smiles. She was polite and well behaved where his grandsons were notoriously rude and rebellious. He frowned, shaking his head dismissively. His feelings towards the girl were beside the point, he hadn't ever had experience with female children. What if he ruined her? Exposed her to too much? To too little?
The stress was too much for the old man, and he rubbed his temples thickly with his fingers, the wrinkled skin pliable.
He thought again of her bright green eyes, they way she'd chirp her morning greetings when visiting his house, how her nose would scrunch up whenever she thought something was 'icky'. She was well mannered, cleanly, impressionable, and radiantly optimistic.
His leather-like face twitched with a ghost of a smile, deciding that perhaps having a daughter wouldn't be so bad.
His phone chirped again, an email from the social worker that was probably concerning the adoption papers and what not. It unintentionally served to remind him of Ashley's unanswered message, and he grinned, neglecting to view the email and instead loading the social media site.
He began typing, nose almost touching the screen.
Sure thing baby girl, I've got a spare room just fo-
He hesitated, brows knitting together. There wouldn't be a spare room any longer, it would become the frilly, pastel escape for a little girl. He erased his message, contemplating a proper response. Ashley couldn't stay with him, not with the delicate situation at hand. Where caution wasn't the normal determining factor for his actions, it ate at his thoughts today. The shock wave of recent tragedy evaporated his self centered thoughts. Social workers would most certainly deem it inappropriate for a child to live in a house where strange women frequented.
Why don't you stay with your family? The sibling you mentioned? My house is a little busy. (winking emoji) (sweat drop emoji)
The message sent, and it was followed immediately by the sequence of moving dots beneath her photo, evidence of her typing a response. The dots vanished, then a chirp and the unfolded response filled his screen.
If you don't want me over just say so (frown emoji)
Robert couldn't tell if she was joking or not, and his past experiences with women led cautioned him against her possibly bitter text. He pulled thoughtfully at the loose skin around his mouth, slight stubble resisting the touch of his moving fingers.
He was beginning to feel the pressure in his head and stomach, the hot churning of anxiety. Robert's had always been horrible, and the growing stress of his duties towards Jazmine and his personal desires was toxic.
Sighing, he locked his phone and set it on the coffee table, abandoning the conversation for the distracting comfort of television.
Wuncler hospital, a day after the fire.
The walls and floors were pristine, and the entire place smelled sterile, the beeping of heart monitors and the busy quiet of the building occupying white noise. Nurses and doctors bustled off to their designated stations, patching up scrapes and minor injures, diagnosing simple illnesses and the occasional cancer scare, and delivering the occasional baby. The old, sick, and paranoid healthy gathered here, and still the hospital lacked typical activity. Not much happened in the small town off Woodcrest, the most important case currently being the well televised burn victim on the third floor.
No visitors were allowed, but the press didn't stop harassing the hospital staff, trying to get a scoop, even a hint of the updated situation to earn themselves a raise and heavy praise. One dedicated individual had even tried to scale the building, only to lose balance and fractured his collarbone. The doctor had a hay day lecturing that particular individual.
From the third floor, Thomas Dubois lay unconscious in a hospital bed, wrapped tightly in gauze and strapped to machine after machine. The slow, constant drip of his IV was the only movement in the still room. It had taken many hours of labor to pull him from the brink of death, and even then the doctor and nurses were unable to prevent the coma he had fallen into.
Despite his unaware, vegetable like state, the african american lawyer was still handcuffed to the bed, and a police officer stood guard outside his door. Unknowingly, Thomas had become what he had spent his entire life trying to avoid, a criminal. If he ever awoke, which was statistically doubtful, he would be tried and most likely convicted of murder, then sent off to the nearest high security prison.
His wife and pet were dead, daughter left alone in the world, and the entire situation undergoing a heavy investigation.
Thomas Dubois - a man who had ran from his past and hid from exaggerated fears, who had created a cushy, safe life for himself - would never again lay eyes on his child.
Jazmine shifted, the sneakered soles of her feet raising and lowering. The carpet beneath them was a crimson that grew darker as it stretched across the floor. Wooden pews, rich and well polished, divided and lined the space. Yellow beams of light filtered through dust and stained glass, painting the dark walls with a silencing glow.
Framed by podiums and a small piano, was the center focus of the building. A well loved carving of Jesus on the cross, gazing at the ornate ceiling above. Tentatively, she approached the holy figure, imagining herself letting all her tightly bound feelings loose and freeing the pain from her chest, seeking an answer, in the face of the holy figure above her.
Her feet stopped their movement, however, and instead she remained silent, expressionless. Her hands, which had been raveling and unraveling her fingers with the thin chain of an old necklace, fell limp at her sides. The silver cross dangled from her knuckles, glinting behind it's dark stain of soot.
She had expected to feel anger, betrayal, or maybe even a little nausea at the beauty of the house of god.
Instead, she felt nothing.
She was rooted to her spot, unaffected by the holy decorations. The lazy, afternoon call of a mourning dove sang from beyond the stain glass window. It's silhouette within a thick nest stood stark against the red pane. The sun was bright today, swathed in an unmarred blue. It was uncomfortably warm for someone clad in an oversized jacket. They had given one to her at the station, without her needing to say she was cold. It was pity given to a creature worthy of it.
The fingers of her left hand drew the necklace tight within her grasp, balling into a fist. The sharp, sterling silver cross cut into her palm, and the odd, hot cold effect of flowing blood bothered her little.
It was one of the items recovered from the fire, from her mother's corpse to be precise. They didn't tell Jazmine that bit of information, but she knew. She had been Sarah's daughter for ten years, and she had never seen her mother without it.
The squealing of the front door, then it's slam close. Footsteps and the occasional sharp inhale increased in volume, until Jazmine could feel the weight of the figure behind her. A hot, sweaty hand clasped her shoulder, and she turned knowing that she had taken too long on this wasted trip. The man that loomed above her was known to her as Mr. Carter, and his stoic features hid any sympathy he might feel. "Come on, kiddo," He grunted, cheeks flushed beneath his pale skin. The ginger was like her, his features were considered odd and mostly unattractive. She liked him, his parents had also died when he was young, and he didn't try and talk to her about her suffering. He treated her like a regular child, for the most part, and she appreciated his frankness.
"It's time to go."
His blue eyes flicked up to the crucified man above, and a line appeared between his brows. She reached up and took his warm hand in hers - an action he failed to address - and together they left the church, forms dark against the bright daylight.
From the passenger seat of his personal car, Jazmine rested her chin in her hand, staring out the window. The radio was off, as usual, and she doubted she could stomach music of any kind regardless. Bare trees, a few red tipped and budding with the beginnings of life, rolled past the glass. She could see her reflection through the sideview mirror and hardly recognized herself, curls limp and cheeks colorless. She hardly resembled the innocent child she was.
The strawberry blond driver cleared his throat, the badge on his chest glistening. She turned to face him, silent, and he spoke. "There's blood on your hand." It was phrased as a statement, without the hanging tones of a question. She was by no means obligated to answer, but he would be analyzing her response, verbal or otherwise.
"I cut it." She mumbled from behind her hair, looking down at the small, scabbing wound. A long, pregnant silence filled the closed space. Jazmine stared at her shoes, the dull, plastic rhinestones catching the light.
The pain was minority when paired with her many bruises and scrapes - she looked far more like a homeless kid than she had earlier that winter. Riley had made her dress up like a crack baby for some scheme he was pulling, and it had been fun, like a game. She had actually enjoyed pretending to be what she is now.
An abandoned nestling, still plush with down feathers.
They had told her where they planned on putting her, but she hadn't been listening. What was the point? She didn't know any of her relatives, or if she even had any, and if she was to be a foster kid then she would been given away to strangers. Scraps sold at a salvage yard.
The radio crackled to life, and Mr. Carter turned the volume up, lifting his walkie-talkie to his mouth.
Jazmine listened, but the message was delivered in a series of numbers, and a conversation failed to last longer than a minute.
Mr. Carter turned the car around at the next gas station, heading back towards the station. "What's going on?" Jazmine inquired, suddenly nervous.
He glanced at her, his resting expression one of irritation, although he felt none. "A visitor came for you back at the station, claims to be a relative."
The little girl took the news silently, leaning slowly back into her seat and drawing her small legs to her chest. She didn't know how to react. Happiness? Confusion? Anger? The news did nothing to her, she still felt empty. Blank.
With a half lidded stare Riley boredly clicked away at the computer screen, watching the bright colors of a game flood his senses. His thoughts didn't dwell too much on the other night's events, he was preoccupied compartmentalizing. The eight year old refused to address his feelings towards the ordeal, and instead focused on filling his time with mundane, mildly entertaining tasks.
At first he had pressed his brother for information regarding his whereabouts that evening, but after a heated argument and a demonstration in one armed martial arts, Riley dropped the subject.
His sibling was bruised and wore a heavy cast set in a sling, plain white and empty of signatures. School had started again today, but none of the Freeman clan attended. It was an unspoken understanding that their education would be put on pause temporarily, with everything going on. Albeit even if they had gone back to class, Riley knew his sibling wouldn't be receiving any signatures anyway. With how cruel he was to Cindy, how he had managed the Christmas play, and how brutal his playground tuffles were, kids strayed from his path. The only friend he had was little Jazmine, and it was clear she wouldn't be her cheery self for a while.
Riley glanced away from his screen, blinking the burning sensation from his eyes, and directed his gaze towards his brother. The ten year old had been going through his stuff all day, selecting books from his shelves and paper stuffed shoe boxes from the closet. All of his well kept, private items were laying atop the bed, some being marked with a large "B" in sharpy, the others returned to their designated locations. He did all of this without complaint, despite his injured arm, which he had taken out of the sling.
He wasn't speaking, had no music playing; just fumed as he silently proceeded through his unspoken, secret task. Riley noticed that the items that were most frequently marked with a "B" were the paper documents. He had once, while his brother was out of the house, snooped through those very pages, curious as to their purpose. Unfortunately his efforts were fruitless, his reading level was too low to make sense of the wordy, boring scrawl.
The urge to start conversation, to lighten his sibling's hard stare, overwhelmed him. Riley cleared his throat, which failed to gain the attention of the older brother. "So, uh, you talk to Jazmine yet?"
Huey froze, the only indication of his hearing. The book he was holding was probably the boy's favorite, and the afro-headed Freeman stared at it's cover with softening eyes. He then shook his head, placing it on his bedside table and properly responding to Riley.
"No. I haven't."
Riley frowned, spinning the desk chair to face his sibling in full. The window light streaked past the blinds, illuminating the dust in the room.
"I thought you was her friend?" He questioned, trying his best to refrain from insulting him. Lately, it had been like walking in a minefield when speaking with Huey - he had the bruises to prove it.
"She doesn't need me right now." The older Freeman began, mildly surprising the younger with his willingness to converse. "She's in mourning, and you know how sensitive she is. It's going to take some time for her to get over it. If ever." His tone was callous and almost annoyed, and it hid the fact that his brows lacked their usual furrow.
"That's a cold situation- her Daddy torched her momma, you could be a little bit sympathetic." Riley's arms crossed firmly over his small chest. He thought his brother would be the last person to say something so harsh.
"He didn't." Was the young, self proclaimed revolutionary's response.
"What chu mean 'he didn't'?" Riley mocked, scowling.
"You really think Tom killed Sarah? That Mr. Dubois could plot her murder? That man was terrified of prison! Use your head for once Riley."
The eight year old, offended, stiffened at the jab. "Niggah you gay! Use your head, Jazmine's mom and dad were always arguing, the whole neighborhood could hear. How many times has he been thrown out and sent crying to our house? Huh?"
Huey scowled, turning back to his books.
This pleased the eight year old, who was convinced he'd gained the upper hand in the argument. "Look at chu, you ain't got nothing to say, do ya?" A wet cackle escaped his young lips, full of glee and spite.
"I am not arguing with you about this Riley." Huey affirmed.
"That's cause you know you lost, bitch." He retorted, still brimming with mirth. It felt good to laugh, to win. He continued with spite. "Shoot, all I know is that Mrs. Dubois had it comin'. Cookin' her nasty ass cobbler all the time an' talking to gay ass pussies like Usher."
The older brother closed his eyes and sighed, the drawn out exhale an attempt to calm the anger visibly writhing beneath the surface. "Whatever." He relented, placing his books back on their shelves and gathering the "B" pile in his arms. The sprained one rested against the pile's border to prevent it from toppling over, and his healthy arm clutched it tight.
"What' chu doin with all that shit anyway?" Riley inquired, the harshness dissipating from his tone. Curiosity lit his young eyes as he watched, and his hands gripped the slick arms of the chair.
Tense silence. Huey adjusted the towering stack to balance better in his arms, then turned to leave, wobbling slightly as he crossed the bedroom. He had little difficulty navigating across Riley's sprawled assortment of clothes, toys, and shoes, despite the limited visibility and wavering load.
Riley followed, grumbling all the while and refusing to help as his sibling struggled down the stairs. It would have been futile had he offered, the older sibling rejected aid of any kind, seeing it as a contagiously habitable crutch. Independence was placed on the same holy pedestal as truth.
Huey made it safely to the first floor with his stack intact, then headed towards the back yard. The Freeman back yard was average sized, seemingly small when compared to the size of the sprawling house itself. It had two trees, one a towering pine and the other a ten year old oak. Between the trees, closer to the back door of the home, was a stone circular fire pit, designed for summer marshmallow roasting and hot dog cooking. The Freeman's hadn't used it once, however, it having been installed by the previous family.
Huey dropped the papers, shoe boxes, and occasional journals in the pit, the pile tall enough to stand just over the rim of the hole.
"What?" Riley questioned, standing still in the yard as his sibling headed towards the garage. "You gonna start a fire?" Huey ignored him and the younger waited by the pit, curling his stiff toes and lamenting his lack of shoes. Their normal color lacked in the colder weather, and with each passing minute they began to ache.
"Good." He mumbled, unheard by his sibling across the yard. "Imma 'bout to freeze."
The long, needle shaped leaves beneath his feet were dry and brittle, and the air still retained the lingering scent of smoke, a sobering reminder. He glanced down at the pile, reading a snippet of underlined text.
Ward Connerly is a Boot-Licking Uncle Tom
A Critical Look at Black Conservatives by Huey Freeman
He huffed, feeling a little annoyed. "Whatever nigga.." He mumbled.
Huey returned with the lighter. It was one of the long, plastic ones typically used for candles. It seemed abnormally large in his young hands, the knuckles of which were white. He ignited the gas with the quick motion of his thumb, a small yet steady flame flowering from mouth. The mass of paper and books lit easy, there being no moisture in the air due to the drought.
As the flame caught it grew, and in a matter of seconds the pile was reduced to blackened curls, popping and swathed in living heat.
Despite being gracious for the warmth Riley took a step back from the roar, glancing away from the flames to his older sibling. Huey's mouth was set in a firm line, and his eyes retained their normal glare. Yet there was a weakness to his form, a shudder in his loose clothes which could be mistaken for the wind. The proud child was trembling, eyes never leaving his creation, the glowing gluttony with ambitions beyond the clouds.
They stood side by side in silence, letting the flames subside, before Huey abruptly turned, and reentered the house.
Riley watched him leave, and remained rooted to the spot, beside the dying embers. The wind drifted past, the trees singing in tune with the splitting binds and boiling glue.
When they got to the station, Jazmine was told to sit in the waiting area and was left to her own devices. She clasped her small hands in her lap and attempted to refrain from swinging her legs. Respectful and polite - the struggle of every child no matter their troubles. Energy was simply too abundant, and boredom was the blight of the moment. The polyester floors shone as though they had been recently waxed, the white noise of the station doing little to ease suffocating feeling of silence when waiting.
Mr. Carter was no longer on duty, and had left, rubbing the top of her head on his way out. He had a dog that needed walking. The officer at the desk had been dutifully attending to a large book, jotting unknown things of varying importance down without a waver in her progress. There was no attempt at easing Jazmine's nerves, nonchalance the only expression flitting across her face.
The sound of a large door opening alerted Jazmine of oncomers. She glanced up from the floor and dropped her heels. She had been testing out her theory on how many tiles could be blocked with her right foot, and now abandoned the made up game in favor of people watching. The deputy who appeared down the hall was no stranger to her, he had come to one of her father's trials once - she recognized the handle bar mustache. He was of little interest, however, her mood still too low to take fascination at the shine of his head. Albeit the stranger sauntering beside him was familiar enough to make her blood run cold.
The woman wore a gray tweety bird sweatshirt with all the regality of trailer park trash, long, thin, hay colored hair strung up behind her head in a haphazard ponytail. Jean cut offs suffocated her bulging thighs, the visible skin pale and spiderwebbed with blue veins. Her legs thinned considerably past fat knees, muscle lacking calves giving way to bird like ankles. The fluidity of her movements was diminished by the squawking of her crocs, and she stood close to the uncomfortable middle aged deputy.
They stopped before the staring girl, and only when the sound of footsteps ceased did the stranger notice her. The familiar deputy seemed impatient to be rid of the clinging slime of a woman, and with a clipped tone introduced the two, neglecting formalities. "Ms. Dubois I'd like to introduce you to your new guardian - probably - Ashley Higgins. Ms. Higgins: Jazmine Dubois."
The woman smiled, the stretching of her face making wet sucking sounds as she spoke. Her teeth were straight and evenly spaced, tinted yellow and gray from a long standing affair with cigarettes. "Hi there little one! You can call me Aunt Ash, don't that have a nice ring to it?" She threw her head back and laughed, revealing an eye tattoo on her collar bone. "Hmmhmn," She finished, dabbing her eyes and nudging the dead faced officer. "Make's me sound like a mystery agent on the TVer somtin'."
Jazmine's eyes remained focused on the face, the horrible, impossible face, words and gestures ignored. Her small hands clutched the bench with force enough to stop blood flow, nails white beneath chipped polish.
She blinked, swallowing past the wall of emotions that left her stumped, aching and stupefied. The face, however groomed by week old smokey eyes and oily sheen, was the twisted reflection of her dead mother's.
The same hawkish nose, thin lips, and wide cerulean orbs framed by crows feet. Hell, even the laugh was similar, carrying subtle patterns of similarity only siblings could possess. This woman, this Aunt Ash, was an impossibility. Her parents didn't have any siblings, she didn't even think they had any parents. They had never spoke to Jazmine about their lives before she was born, back when they were kids, and she hadn't ever thought to question it.
She lowered her gaze to the floor, forcing her fingers to relax and hover away from her seat edge. She searched for peace within her, a raft to cling to if only for a moment.
Ashley turned to the Deputy, ponytail swaying. "She dumb?"
Jazmine's eyes darted back up, startled. Cerulean met jade, the latter beginning to mist over. "Well speak." Ashley prompted, hands planted on her hips in a smooth movement of authority. The ten year old girl wanted to hide, to retreat back into her massive curls and escape from the two towering adults before her. "'Llo," She mumbled, the sound stumbling across the air. Ashley's eyes narrowed, the corners of her mouth turning down in distaste. It seemed Jazmine wasn't making a very good first impression.
The Deputy had had enough, and cleared his throat, directing the woman's attention back to him. "So Ms. Higgins, if you do indeed desire custody your niece, you'll have to provide proper documentation. Place of residence, criminal background -"
"I've already given all that." She interjected, smiling in a way that was supposed to be sweet. "It just has to go through processing. Sweet JazJaz will be living with me in miami - won't you pumpkin?" She cooed, bony fingers taking hold of the young girl's cheek and tugging it forcefully. Jazmine flinched and escaped her grasp, eyes wide with vexation, then rubbed her reddened cheek. What am I, five?
The officer sighed at the uncomfortable display of affection, then continued speaking. "I see. Well despite that, it appears that your sister and her husband put their daughter into their neighbor's custody, an older man named Robert Freeman. We appoint guardianship to you, but if he fights for her you may not win."
This caught Ashley and Jazmine's attention. The child didn't know what to think, remembering the many antics she had been victim of due to the Freeman clan. Ashley seemed angered at the prospect, all attempts at chivalry abandoned.
She reached behind her and grabbed Jazmine with her frigid hands, who yelped as she was tugged into an uncomfortable embrace. Ashley smelled of cigarettes and axe cologne, sour and displeasing. Her body was a strange combination of bony and lumpy, and her chin dug into the child's scalp.
"I ain't gonna let my little biscuit get taken away from me! No sir!"
"Get off of me!" Jazmine incoherently cried, voice muffled by the gray sweatshirt her face was deeply lodged in. Her curls frizzed and puffed beneath her aunt's arms, caught painfully between the both of them.
Ashley reiterated her point, voice hard and blue eyes piercing the officer. "This child is mine."
Despite all his effort, and great it was, Huey Freeman couldn't rid himself of the terrible guilt he felt.
He understood emotions leaving his control such as that could cause him to miscalculate a step, make a mistake, and further endanger those closest to him; but the strength of reason was whipped away in the rip tide.
He closed his eyes against the memory of The White Shadow, his smoke stinking, tailored suit soiled from their fight and a wicked smile on his face. Huey grasped his injured arm tightly, despairing over his loss. Maybe I'm too young, He thought, Maybe I've taken on too much. Overestimated myself. He grit his teeth, and tried to ignore how helpless and lost he felt, like the child he was.
What was he to do? Where was he to go? It was clear he wasn't permitted to stay, he had failed to protect those around him, and his Mother would be ashamed.
From the hill he looked down upon the serenity of Woodcrest, springtime blooms and their lost petals filling the afternoon air, their scent masking the rot that had infected the suburbs. They were there, mourning below him as he watched from a forgotten perspective.
For an instant he considered staying, reluctant to leave the area he had chose to call home. He could disperse the darkness, the fires of his unrequited passion burning bright enough to vanquish the demons that have taken hold.
He could help them recover.
"I have no right to be here, to comfort them." He said aloud, the tangibility of his argument strengthening his resolve. He looked down to his chest, where his sprained arm rested in a navy sling. He had failed in his battle against the White Shadow, losing his chance for revenge. "I lost, and I can't sit around feeling sorry for myself. I have to get stronger."
Within the shadows of the Oak tree, Huey escaped the kiss of sunlight, eyes lost beneath his furrowed brows. From his olive shirt sleeve a red patch contrasted starkly, the opposite colors emphasizing a star.
When he leaves, he'd have to lay low, hiding from probing eyes. He'd have to find a way off the grid, where he'd be safe yet close. With airline security these days there wasn't a shot in hell a runaway would make it out of the states.
The child paused his thoughts, letting the cool air brush his cheeks in a soft caress. He inhaled deeply, eyes closing and the valley air of Woodcrest filling his nostrils. The smell was clean and subtle, and releasing a husky breath he let himself rest content in the scent he grew to love.
No, he resolved, retreating back into himself. He would not escape beyond the borders of his country. Huey looked back at his home, at the sprawled suburbs settled within leafless trees. He planned on returning, and continuing his rage against injustice.
At the Freeman residence, the head of the house stood in his living room, hand hovering over the ringing phone. He was hesitant to answer for reasons unbeknownst to him, and used his confusion as an excuse to avoid doing so.
The sun outside had long since set, and the living room was illuminated by the warmth of lamp light, a barrier against the natural darkness. Robert pondered over the identity of the person across the line, someone trying to reach him with desperation conveyed through the shrill of ringing electronics. I could be a salesman, a pretty lady - he wished - or an angry neighbor reporting the misadventures of his grand children. He disliked all but one of the possibilities, and finally forced himself to lift the plastic communicator from it's matching bed.
"Am I speaking with Robert Freeman?" A man's voice asked, snapping with authority.
"This is him.." the older man answered, turning to face the loud entrance of his youngest grandchild, who kicked the front door closed behind him. The child had headphones in and was bobbing his head to the beat, resembling a chicken with his thin neck and small shoulders.
"This is officer Carter of the WPD. I'm calling to inform you the the situation regarding you taking custody of a Jazmine Dubois has changed. A blood relative has been located, and she has claimed to be Jazmine's rightful guardian."
He took the news like one would a mouth full of lukewarm coffee, the lines of his face deepening and eyes scrunching in distaste. "Wh-what?"
Riley opened the fridge, then closed it, barking across the home. "YO GRANDDAD CAN WE GET SOME FOOD UP IN HERE OR NAH? I THOUGHT YOU WENT TO THE STORE?"
Granddad chose to ignore him, turning back towards the living room in an attempt to focus.
"Our records show you expressed displeasure at the idea of gaining custody over a third child, and a solution has been found."
"I thought Jazmine had no living relatives?" Robert rubbed his temple, mispositioning his gasses then correcting them. "What about the will?" He asked, grasping for control. It was true he didn't want the child, not at first, but further thought had changed his resentment into anticipation. He wouldn't admit it, never aloud, but a little girl may bring a level of calm into his wild life.
"Well Mr. Freeman, the will can be disregarded if a blood relative asks the government for custody."
Riley had crossed the room, and was now standing in front of his grandfather, shifting his feet irritably. "Granddad did you hear me? Look, I know your hearing ain't what it used to be, but da-darn, it seemin' like you ignoring me."
Robert sent a vicious glare towards the child, a face the promised punishment if he continued talking. He plugged his free ear with his index finger, pressing the corded phone closer to his head. "I'm sorry Officer…?"
"Carter."
"Right. But I just don't understand. Who is adopting Jazmine?"
The young boy perked up at the mention of his recently homeless neighbor, pulling out his earbuds and listening attentively.
Papers fluttered at the other end of the line. "A Ms. Ashley Higgins, sister to Sarah Dubois, maiden name Higgins."
Robert felt the blood drain from his face, and he dropped the phone, letting the plastic bounce then slide across the hardwood floor. It pulled the wire cord taught, and the phone bed came clattering down along with the end table, creating a loud ruckus. Robert swore and Riley jumped back, grabbing the phone before his grandparent could and bringing it to his ear.
"Aye wha's all this about Jazmine? She ain't gon be living whit us no more?"
"Damnit boy!" Robert exclaimed, snatching the phone away. He pressed it to his ear and apologies spewed from his mouth, only to falter at the dead tone at the end of the line.
He swatted his youngest across the back of his head, eliciting a loud wail of pain. "See what you did! He hung up!" Robert slammed the phone back into the dial box, crossing his arms. "Now what're we supposed to do?"
Riley rolled away from him and stood up, just a little taller than the sitting adult. "Oionno," He mumbled, before changing his tone. "Hey granddad have you seen Huey? He disappeared this afternoon an-"
"No I haven't seen your dumbass brother! He's probably out tryin to tell white people 'the truth'. Who cares? Go to bed."
The child shrugged then raced to up the stairs, cackling back, "Well if he don't come home, then I get my own room! Yeah-boy!"
I usually don't do end notes, so I'll keep this short. A lot happened in this chapter, and I'd love to hear what you think. If you review while logged in, I'll PM you and respond/thank you. I hope the OC's are acceptable, they ARE NOT the story's focus. I hope you all have a good week!