Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery #3)

Chapter 38

APRIL 1968

It was just another Thursday. Jamila walked home from Salisbury Elementary School with Laura, her second-grade classmate. Laura had raven locks, rosy cheeks, and blue eyes and lived down the street. She had the kind of assets that would come in handy later.

At eight years old, neither of the girls thought about that now. They were too focused on more important things, like Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In, Lost in Space, Bill Cosby's latest record, the Beatles, and the Monkees.

"My sister gets Tiger Beat magazine," Laura said, making it sound like a secret sin.

"I wish I had an older sister." Jamila frowned and felt a stab of envy. All she had was a younger brother. And they barely communicated.

"I can bring the latest issue over tonight." Laura imparted the information with breathless enthusiasm.

Jamila shrugged. "Okay. C'mon by after dinner."

Laura jumped up and down, clapping her hands. "Yippee. See you later."

Jamila watched Laura get smaller as she ran down the street to her house.

Jamila walked in, greeted her mother, and went to her room to do homework. After finishing her homework, she helped with dinner chores—setting the dining room table, stirring the pots, checking the casserole. Her three-year-old brother, Bobby, sat in the living room, watching cartoons. Her father arrived home at quarter to six, looking tired.

"Hard day?" her mother asked.

"You don't know the half of it." Jamila's father tossed his jacket on the sofa and dropped beside it with a grunt. "I'm beginning to think I made a mistake."

"What do you mean?"

Jamila's father shook his head. "Doing legal work for farm workers. It's draining the life from me."

Jamila's mother stopped fussing over the stove and sat beside him on the sofa. Jamila was all ears. Little Bobby's attention didn't stray from the TV.

"What's got you so discouraged?" she said in a soft voice, though Jamila could hear her plain as day.

"It's the people I'm up against. Frankly, racism is endemic to this place."

"Shh. Keep your voice down." Jamila's mother urged, with a quick glance toward Jamila, who feigned indifference.

"I wonder how much longer I can keep this up. How much longer can I fight this system?" He gave Jamila's mother a long look. "I don't want our children growing up in a place where people feel entitled to call them niggers."

"Okay, tell me where they don't."

Jamila felt a twinge of anxiety in her gut. She hated to hear her parents argue or even disagree. It didn't happen often, but when it did, it upset her.

After a bit of back and forth between her parents, Jamila's mother rose and returned to the kitchen. She and Jamila prepared to serve dinner. At shortly after six, Jamila told her father dinner was almost ready. As she returned to the dining table, she saw the cartoon had been interrupted by an announcement. Her father rose to bring Bobby to the dining table. On his way, he raised the TV's volume.

"We interrupt this program to inform you that the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., has been shot outside his motel in Memphis, Tennessee. At this time, Reverend King is being taken to the hospital ..."

The announcement was interrupted by a crash. Jamila looked at her statue of a mother. The casserole dish and its contents had scattered across the floor, sending ground beef, tomato sauce and noodles everywhere. Amid the shards and food, Jamila's mother remained frozen. Never had Jamila seen such a look of sheer agony and panic on her mother's face.