A Visible Darkness by Jonathon King Read Free Book Online Page A

probably grumbling about wages at the hospital, cryin’ about the mileage on the car. She took it in, like she always did. When we were kids, she’d tell us to shut up and be thankful for the things we did have. But you know, somehow, a little something extra would show up for a birthday or at Christmastime. That was her way. So then about two years ago, out of nowhere, comes a bank note. A present, she says, for her grandson’s tuition, $20,000 to get him through four years. She hands it to my son and then to me she gives a $18,000 cashier’s check and says ‘Here’s your car, baby. You got to pick it out.’
    “Now, we always knew Momma hoarded and saved money. She was the one who somehow paid my first year to nursing school. This time she told us it was money from insurance, but she said it was from a policy on my father, and that she’d kept it since he died. She wanted to give it to us. She felt it was an important time in our lives to have it and it was important to her that we did have it.”
    She stopped and looked me in the eyes. Her own were tight and dry.
    “Only half of her explanation was the truth, Mr. Freeman. But when she got her mind made up, you didn’t argue with Momma.”
    “And you didn’t find out about her selling her own policy until after her death?” I said.
    “We had Mr. Manchester go through her things. He found it.”
    “But you were already suspicious?”
    My question forced her lips into a hard sealed line and I could see the muscle in her jaw flex.
    “My mother was not in good health, Mr. Freeman. She had cancer and she knew it was coming. But she was not ready to die. When I walked into this house it did not smell of death, it smelled of violation,” she said. “When I found her on her bed I could not feel peace. I could, in my bones, feel anguish. I don’t care what the medical examiner says. I will go to my own grave believing my mother was killed.”
    All I could do was nod.
    “Yes, ma’am. I can appreciate that.”
    She did not offer more coffee and I was relieved not to have to decline. We both pushed back our chairs and she led me around outside, past the old-time Florida room, to the front of the house.
    “I hope I have been of some help, Mr. Freeman.”
    “Yes, ma’am, you have,” I said.
    We cleared the front corner and I saw them over her shoulder, the three men from the corner. They were in the street at the end of the driveway, hands in their pockets, heads bent together like they were in some loose football huddle.
    When she spotted them Ms. Greenwood raised her voice.
    “Beans, what you want?”
    The middle one, the leader, stepped out.
    “What up, Ms. Mary?” he said, his eyes acknowledging her and cutting to me to define his question.
    “This is Mr. Freeman. He’s a friend of Ms. Philomena. He’s helping me.”
    All three of them took me in, head to toe, as if they could judge the truth of her statement by the cut of my clothes.
    “Alright, Ms. Mary. You say so,” the leader said and led his troop back toward the corner.
    I turned back to her as I unlocked my truck.
    “Neighborhood security?” I said, motioning to their backs.
    A grin, part amused and part deprecating, pulled at the corners of her mouth.
    “Respect,” she said.
    Again, any response would only show my own ignorance. I climbed in the truck and backed away.

7
    E ddie was leaving the west side dope hole, his business with the Brown Man done.
    Eddie knew all the dealers near his neighborhood, had done business with them, and those who proceeded them, and those who proceeded them. When he was a kid he was a huffer, getting high on glue shoplifted from one of those craft stores and then squirted into a plastic sandwich bag. Breathing in the fumes he could make it through the days just floating, not ever hungry, always moving, never in one place, just drifting through the streets, becoming invisible.
    He’d picked up the huffing habit by watching. Kids behind the ficus hedges at