Pieces of Why Page 4

  There was something Keisha wasn’t telling me. A cold prickle ran up the length of my body. “Why are you acting so strange?”

  Keisha poked her finger into the split seam of her purple beanbag chair. “Tia,” she said at last, “if I knew something about your father . . . something my mom told me last night . . . would you want to know? I mean, if it was bad news, would you still want me to tell you?”

  I drew in my breath.

  There’s nothing new to say about a dead man.

  Of course I should say yes. But once I knew, there would be no taking it back. Ever. I felt like a little kid, wishing I could cover my ears tight and sing nonsense syllables at the top of my lungs.

  “Say it,” I said, at last. “Quick, before I chicken out.”

  Keisha nodded, as if she understood. She took a deep breath. “Your father isn’t in prison for armed robbery,” she said. “He’s in prison for . . .”

  Murder.

  “. . . murder.”

  I’d thought the word even before Keisha said it, but how could I know that? It wasn’t even true. I shook my head. “No . . . that isn’t . . . Ma told me what happened . . .”

  The facts came back like puzzle pieces before you put them together.

  1) My father had gotten drunk and robbed someone.

  2) He’d had a gun and used it.

  3) He hid from the police and fought them after his arrest.

  4) There had been a trial.

  5) This wasn’t my father’s first arrest. He’d had a series of smaller arrests that made the judge decide he’d run out of chances.

  6) Ma had decided the same thing.

  7) I’d never been given a choice.

  I didn’t say any of that out loud.

  Keisha studied her feet. “Well, if she didn’t tell you that he killed someone, then she didn’t tell you the whole story. Ma said it was a big deal around here and that’s why your mom hates to go out in public.”

  I could feel tears pricking the back of my eyelids. My father had killed someone? That couldn’t be true. But even as part of my brain denied the idea, another part knew this was real.

  Who else knew? Ms. Evette? Ms. Marion? People in the neighborhood? Everyone besides me?

  “No,” I said, trying to force the truth back into hiding. “Ma wouldn’t lie to me about something this important. And besides, I’d know. Sure, I was a little kid, but I was still there!”

  Keisha shrugged. “You told me you don’t remember your father, so maybe that includes . . . what he did.”

  “What did your mother tell you?” I said, forcing the words out of my mouth. “Who did he kill?”

  Keisha shook her head. “She wouldn’t say. Ma thinks you already know, and she said if you weren’t telling, then I’d have to wait until you were ready. But I was sure you wouldn’t have hid something this big. Not from me.”

  I shook my head. “I know my father robbed someone, and Ma said he was armed, but . . .”

  Ma didn’t always tell the truth.

  Keisha paused. “You know, there’s a way we could find out exactly what your father did, if you really want to know.”

  Her gaze slid to her computer.

  The idea made my blood run cold, but I always told myself not to be a coward. Like walking through No-Man’s-Land: Keep moving forward, no matter what.

  Could I do that now?

  “Okay,” I said at last.

  “Here goes,” Keisha said. She typed in Lyle Frank, murder, New Orleans, robbery. I couldn’t help wondering what kind of list I’d have behind my name when I got older.

  We both held our breath.

  Whatever happened had been horrible enough to make Ma ashamed, even in our own home. Had he killed someone she’d known? A priest or nun? What if he’d killed a police officer?

  But even with all of those horrible thoughts running through my brain, I didn’t expect the last piece of the puzzle until it clicked into place.

  Lyle Frank Charged with Murder of Girl, 12.

  Blood rushed to my toes, my ears thrumming with the dull roar I’d heard right before I fainted. Keisha made a strangled noise, and then she angled the laptop away, but I reached out and turned the computer screen back toward me.

  Child Dead After Fatal Robbery.

  Family Mourns Loss of Beloved Daughter.

  Lyle Frank Convicted of Murder, Sentenced to Life.

  The list of links went on and on. I clicked one, forcing air in and out of my lungs, and then she was there looking back at me: the girl my father had killed.

  Danielle Morton.

  She looked a lot like Keisha. She had deep brown skin, sparkling dark brown eyes, and she wore her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her T-shirt had a treble clef on it, with butterflies taking the place of the notes on a scale.

  “No,” I whispered. “No, no, no.”

  My fingers reached out to touch the screen.

  I clicked on another link and then another, and they were like pieces to a whole new puzzle, falling into place.

  1) My father’s mug shot.

  2) A photo of Danielle’s family leaving the church after her funeral.

  3) An article about Danielle’s school releasing pink balloons in her memory.

  4) A grainy picture of my mother leaving the courthouse after my father’s sentencing.

  5) My father in an orange jumpsuit, being led out of the courtroom, his hands cuffed behind his back.

  The whole story was laid out in a hundred different versions, but all the facts remained the same. My father had been out drinking. He’d broken into the Mortons’ house late at night, shot their only daughter during the course of a robbery, narrowly escaped through a back window, and then hid from police before being caught.

  And as a footnote?

  Lyle Frank is the father of a four-year-old girl.

  Eight years ago, I’d been a footnote in an article about murder.

  I slammed the laptop shut.

  “Are you okay?” Keisha asked.

  I shook my head.

  My temples throbbed, and I opened Keisha’s window to get some air, but all I could do was look out over the streets of New Orleans, knowing that somewhere, a family had been destroyed because of what my father had done.

  “Keisha,” I whispered, “I have to get out of here.”

  All morning I’d wanted to get to Keisha’s place, but now all I wanted to do was leave.

  “I’ll go with you,” Keisha said, her face a mask of worry.

  I shook my head. “Please. I need to be alone. I just have to . . . get out.” Silence hung in the room, but Keisha has my back, even when she doesn’t like it.

  “Okay,” she said at last, “but don’t you dare do anything stupid, and if you let anything happen to you, I’ll be so sore, you won’t ever hear the end of it.”

  I could only nod.

  Keisha watched me escape out the window, and I saw the worry in her eyes. I felt bad, but not bad enough to stay. I climbed down the fire escape, ducking under the overhanging limbs of the magnolia tree.

  If Keisha had asked, I couldn’t have said where I was going, but somewhere deep inside, I’d already made up my mind. I was drawn by a powerful force, like the Mississippi River flowing relentlessly into the sea.

  CHAPTER 9

  My father had killed a girl.

  The sun was high in the sky now, and it beat down on me as I ran, sweat soaking my neck, trickling along my spine. I sprinted past my block, but kept on going. A few open windows let out the sounds of babies crying and mothers hollering. Dogs barked in the distance.

  I needed to find that baby’s mama.

  When school was in session, Keisha and I had walked past the baby’s house every day. Sometimes there was music escaping from within—songs with syncopated
beats and tinsely chimes. There were often people coming and going, and not a single one of them seemed to speak English, so we didn’t know where they were really from or how they’d ended up in New Orleans. Ma said maybe they were Ukranian, but I’d heard Ms. Evette say she thought they might be from Poland.

  Now people were gathered in the yard, all dressed in black. It had never occurred to me that anyone else would be there, and I felt stupid for not guessing as much. Just because me and Ma didn’t have any friends or family didn’t mean other people didn’t have them.

  I hid behind the wide trunk of an oak tree, panting from my hard run, watching the people come and go. The front door was wide open and guests lingered on the steps and around the iron gate. Their lilting voices were hushed, saying words I couldn’t understand. Some of the women wore dark veils, and the men had solemn faces. What would they think if they knew I was hiding there, watching them?

  In front of the house was a makeshift shrine with candles, teddy bears, cards, and flowers, and it made me ashamed that I hadn’t brought anything. There was only one thing I had to give that anyone would care about, and I pictured myself standing there, singing something beautiful next to that wall of sadness—singing “A Note to God,” the same song I’d sung at the Presbyterian church.

  Grant us the faith to carry on

  Give us hope when it seems all hope is gone

  I’d watched videos of Charice performing this song, and I’d tried to capture the way she closed her eyes and drew out each note until it was so deep and full, it overflowed. Usually, I could do the same, but now I wondered if these people would want anything I had to offer.

  I thought about what Ms. Marion always told me: It takes beauty to make beauty. Love yourself and your voice will be a gift to others.

  But Ms. Marion had no idea how messed-up my life was. Who could love that?

  Outside, people moved to and from the memorial fence with quiet ease, laying down their small offerings before turning away, while my heart ached. I knew it was time to go back to Keisha’s apartment before she got too worried and told her mother I’d gone. Whatever answers I thought I’d find here were swallowed up by a single thought: I shouldn’t have come.

  Turning, I stepped away from my hiding spot behind the oak tree. From somewhere inside, a strong smell was wafting out through the open windows, unfamiliar spices drenching my senses. I wrapped my arms around myself and breathed in deep, tasting something tangy on my tongue. Then I reached out with one hand to steady myself against the rough, gnarled bark of the tree trunk. I felt eyes on me, and glanced up.

  That’s when I saw her.

  At the window on the second floor was the Raven woman. She wore a tattered black shawl and her dark, flowing hair spilled around her shoulders. Her face looked as gray as the worn sidewalk, and her eyes said things about grief I couldn’t bear to think about. Made me suck in my breath, fast and hard.

  Her gaze rested on me. Did she know who I was? Or did she see a little kid, too shy to come forward and honor her son?

  She pressed one palm against the glass.

  Every inch of me wanted to run, but I stared back. The only thing I could do was to hold her gaze without allowing myself to flinch.

  CHAPTER 10

  WHEN I GOT back to Keisha’s place, I napped fitfully, curled up on the couch with the sound of the outdoors drifting in through the open window. I imagined I was Danielle Morton—still alive—and tried to see my life through her eyes. I listened to the cars and trucks passing on the street and the clang of people’s steps on the fire escape. I heard old Nana Whiskers calling for her cat, and Tyrone Rathbone yelling at Werner Mayfield, who always parked in front of the fire hydrant. I smelled the garbage truck as the men loaded the rubbish, and I could almost taste the odor on my tongue. I shut my eyes tight and let every detail of the day wash over me, painful and brilliant all at once.

  At five o’clock, Ms. Evette came in and sat down beside me. She put one cool hand on my forehead. “Do you think you’re up to singing at June Fest? Maybe you should stay here instead. I’d be happy to keep you company.”

  Keisha was sitting at the opposite end of the couch, and I knew what she was thinking. That afternoon, Khalil from choir had texted her, wanting to meet up after our performance. Keisha had never made plans with a boy before, not like this, and best friends didn’t miss that kind of thing. What if something went wrong and she needed me? And if things went right, who would she tell?

  I forced a smile. “I’m just tired,” I lied. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I’ll take a shower and get ready to go.”

  Ms. Evette hesitated, but I got up and headed to the bathroom without waiting for her answer.

  Keisha caught my arm as I went by. “I’m glad you’re coming tonight,” she said. “I know you’re upset about your dad, but I’d bet you anything we’re the only ones who know. Nothing’s changed. You’ll see.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure you’re right.”

  But as much as I wanted the truth about my father to disappear like water circling down the drain, I already understood that wouldn’t happen.

  Like it or not, life goes on, Tia Rose.

  That’s what Ma always said. But even that was a lie.

  For some people . . . it didn’t.

  By the time we left for June Fest, the stifling heat had died down a bit and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Jerome was laughing his bubbly baby laugh, and Keisha was playing peek-a-boo with him behind her mother’s back. Her dad, Dwayne, whistled as we walked.

  Ms. Evette and Dwayne had met in high school, and the way Dwayne told it, he’d been the biggest geek in the whole of New Orleans, with thick glasses and buckteeth. Dwayne said he’d had a crush on Ms. Evette even in high school, but he couldn’t get up the courage to ask her out until he’d grown into his teeth. Now he had huge muscles and a shaved head, and no one would ever think he’d been a scrawny kid with acne.

  Watching the two of them walking hand in hand made me think things might not be so bad, but as soon as we arrived at the festival, I felt the tension in the air.

  June Fest was an annual community gathering held outdoors, in the courtyard beside the old Catholic church. The Catholics didn’t organize the event, but they lent out their courtyard since it was a nice, safe place. The area was large, and there was an ivy-covered wall surrounding the yard, so you could relax instead of always looking over your shoulder.

  Every year there was a different theme. Last year was a carnival theme, and this year’s theme was supposed to be literacy, but it had obviously been changed at the last minute. The courtyard walls were decorated with baby-blue ribbons, and a huge banner proclaimed, SUPPORT VICTIMS OF VIOLENCE. Giant posters were emblazoned with the same photo of the baby that had been in the newspaper, and someone had set up a wall with hundreds of photographs on it, all of them victims of violent crime. My heart thrummed with nervous tension. Somewhere on that wall I’d find Danielle’s picture.

  I stopped, sucking in a deep breath, and glanced at Keisha, but she was studying the crowd, probably looking for Khalil. I wished I’d stayed behind like Ms. Evette had said, but it was too late to change my mind now.

  Dwayne carried a long card table for Ms. Evette’s jewelry, and me and Keisha carried the boxes with her mother’s hand-carved creations. Ms. Evette found a spot in the front and put out her sign—EVETTE’S TREASURES—and then she set about arranging each necklace and earring real artistically. The whole time Dwayne stood behind her, laughing and moving stuff out of place so she’d swat at him. Dwayne will do just about anything to make someone laugh.

  On one side of Ms. Evette, Lyle Pots was selling stationery and on the other side, old Mrs. White had embroidered pillows for sale. They both greeted Ms. Evette, Dwayne, and even Keisha, but when it came to me, their eyes slipped away.

  “C’mon,” Keisha said, oblivious. “Let�
��s check things out.”

  I followed, trying not to imagine people staring.

  Keisha and I moved past the risers where we’d perform and the podium where community leaders would make their speeches. The New Heaven Baptist Church had a bake sale booth, and the YMCA’s literacy program was painting faces for the little kids. There were animal balloons and hair braiding, and someone had rented an old-fashioned popcorn machine. It should have been fun, but it wasn’t.

  “That’s the kid whose father shot that poor girl.”

  “I’m surprised she showed up tonight.”

  The hair on my neck stood on end. All around me I caught slips of conversation I wasn’t meant to overhear, and I could tell Keisha heard them too. She pulled me along the way she usually dragged Jerome, so fast he had to toddle on his tiptoes.

  We made our way over to a booth near the back of the courtyard, where a woman I didn’t recognize was setting out handmade soaps. I grabbed one and held it to my nose, inhaling its floral scent. Felt good to smell something nice, and my shoulders relaxed a bit. I wondered if this was what aromatherapy meant. Me and Keisha had read about that once in a magazine. The headline had said 10 Ways to Pamper Yourself but all the ideas had cost money, like getting your nails done or going to the movies.

  “Try this one,” Keisha said, handing me a white soap labeled PEPPERMINT. I could tell she was trying to distract me, and I wanted it to work. We sniffed lavender, sea mist, green tea, patchouli, coconut, lemon-lime, and vanilla. Finally, I picked up a cucumber-scented soap, feeling the smooth weight of it against my palm, but the woman in charge of the booth snatched it away.

  “That’s enough,” she snapped.

  Keisha and I both looked up, our jaws falling open.

  “Go on,” the woman said. “If you’re not buying, move along.”

  She was staring straight at me. I turned and walked away, willing myself not to cry. For a moment, Keisha just stood there, and I thought she was going to argue, but then she followed me instead.

  “What a nasty woman,” she said when she’d caught up to me.