Not to the Swift

Chapter 11

Anguish filled the void in the Washingtons' apartment. An oppressive hush hung in the air, as if silence had become an unwritten rule. Brief snippets of conversation were tolerated, but no one dared break the code by discussing emotional matters.

René stayed shut up in her room. George checked on her early in the morning and sat next to her on the edge of her bed for a few quiet minutes. She hugged on his arm, and he heard her sniffle once or twice.

LaTasha busied herself in the kitchen, reorganizing and cleaning out cabinets—unnecessary work, but something to keep her mind occupied. The doorbell rang around ten, and LaTasha answered. A muffled conversation carried to where George stood.

Chris's room.

He hadn't been able to make himself enter yet. He leaned on the wall across from the door adrift on a constant shifting stream of memories.

Six years old. Some folk were shootin' each other up a few blocks away, and Chris asked what the fireworks were for.

The look on his face when I got enough money together for him to get an iPod for Christmas. It was like a gift from on high.

Chris laughing at one of my jokes... the way his smile made everyone else happy too.

Peeking in on him, seeing him dig into his schoolwork with such diligence and manly determination. It never came easy for him, but he worked so hard to make up for it.

George stepped forward and turned the handle. A few comic books and items of clothing were scattered on the floor, and some of Chris's artwork occupied the desk next to schoolbooks. His bed looked thrown together in haste, not made but at least tidied up. A few toy soldiers and robots stood watch from a shelf above the bed, a two-by-four George had mounted to the wall a few years back.

A combination of smells struck George when he entered. Like deodorant and dirty laundry and teenage boy all mixed together. He sat on the bed, frail and weary, feeling suddenly all of his forty-five years of hard work on behalf of his family.

All your working, all your strivin' to make ends meet. What did it get you, George?

He knew the voice in his head was a lie, a doubt not worthy of a second thought. But it nagged at him and ridiculed him as he sat in the emptiness of Chris's room.

You kept food on the table, but you couldn't keep your son out of trouble. You kept a roof over his head, gave him safety and shelter... but you couldn't keep him safe.

So what was the point of all that effort?

LaTasha appeared at the door, a blessed distraction from George's line of thought. "That was First Lady Simms. She brought by some dinner and expressed her love and condolences." She glanced around the room and moved back a step, seemingly not ready to face Chris's absence. "Bishop Simms is supposed to stop by tonight to talk with you, but his wife offered that the church could host the—" She pursed her lips and inhaled. "The funeral."

George stood and held out a hand to his wife. "Come here, babe. I know it's hard."

LaTasha took one step then stopped and shook her head. "Baby, I can't. This room—it's all we have left of Chris, and I can't bear the thought of him not being in it. If I step in there, my heart is going to shatter. And I just don't have any more tears right now."

She turned and walked down the hall to the kitchen, leaving George to his memories.

Six years old, climbing into our bed to tell on René for getting out of her crib.