The boy I open the door to looks miserable, and dried tears have left salty tracks down his light brown cheeks. That Dee would drop him off like this just to avoid me only adds to the laundry list of her many transgressions.
“Dwayde,” I say, closing the door behind him. “What happened?”
He tries to speak. Instead, a quiet sob comes out, and all thoughts of Dee and her wrongdoings vanish. My impulse is to say something that will take the hurt away, but there are no words. So taking a page from Papa T’s book, I hug him to my chest and wait patiently until he’s all cried out.
Several minutes pass before Dwayde’s sobs abate and his thin shoulders stop shaking. Sniffling, he steps out of my arms and wipes his face and runny nose on his sleeve. Head hanging low, he mumbles, “Sorry for acting like such a baby.”
“Hey, everybody’s entitled to cry once in a while. You were overdue.” I put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “How about I make us something to eat?”
He shrugs and taking that as a yes, I allow him space to compose himself while I head into the kitchen. It’s a culinary cockpit of metal alloy countertops, ebony wood cabinets, and built-in stainless steel appliances, including a chef’s stove, which is wasted on me. Not that I can’t cook—Mama T made sure all us could fend for ourselves—it’s just that I don’t bother cooking for one.
I grab what I need for two triple-decker BLTs. While I wait for the skillet to heat up, Dwayde trudges in and climbs up on a stool at the breakfast bar. As I toss the bacon into the pan, out of the corner of my eye, I watch his fingers move with purpose on the countertop. Sketching with his fingers. His expression reveals nothing but anger. I remember my own rage as a kid and the way I turned to writing as an outlet. Art served the same purpose for Dwayde in surviving his bleak and desperate existence on the streets.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“What for?” he spits out. “I saw them and it was shit.”
Aware of my own animosity toward these strangers threatening to take Dwayde away, and my guilt that he’s in this mess because of me, I deliberately keep my tone impartial. “What made it shit?”
Without answering, he keeps sketching whatever vision he has in his mind. I wonder what clues it would reveal.
Accepting that Dwayde’s not yet ready to talk, I pop six slices of bread into the toaster and resume the task of preparing the sandwiches. Minutes later, I join him at the bar. Taking the stool beside him, I bite into my BLT. Dwayde doesn’t touch his. I wasn’t much for talking as a kid—my secrets were too big to share—so I understand his need to close off. But I also know that keeping all that anger in is a taxing burden. “Sometimes it helps to get it off your chest,” I say.
Dwayde shrugs and stares glumly at the floor. I continue eating, waiting him out.
“He tried to give me some stupid shirt from his farm,” Dwayde finally reveals, his voice thick with contempt. “He said it was my legacy. Like I care. I don’t want nuthin’ from them, not their stupid name or their stupid farm.”
My appetite gone, I shove my plate away. “I’m sorry it was so rough on you, Dwayde.”
“I hate them,” he wails, “all of them. If a judge makes me g-go live there, I’ll disappear. I-I swear it. I’ll run where no one will ever find me.”
A fist squeezes inside my chest. This isn’t the idle rant of a scared twelve-year-old. He has the street experience to make good on his threat.
“Dwayde, look at me.” He does and I see his face twisted with sheer loathing, his huge eyes bright with fresh tears. “No one’s going to take you away from us. Understand?”
“You p-promise?”
“I promise,” I say, a thread of steely determination running through my vow.
I CAN’T HOLD OFF ANY longer. After twenty stomach-churning minutes, I still haven’t found Dwayde. He was supposed to call his uncle after the visit to pick him up, but I have no way of reaching Mick. My only option is to contact Victor and Isabelle. If Dwayde has run away, knowing the streets as well as he does, the sooner the police are out there looking for him, the better. As a detective, Victor will know what to do.
I lift my phone to make that dreaded call just as “Chariots of Fire” begins to play. The screen flashesprivate number.
“Hello?” I answer breathlessly…hopefully.
“Dee, it’s Mick.”
“Please, tell me Dwayde’s with you.”
“He is.”
“Oh, thank God.” I heave a sigh, but my limbs are still shaking. “How is he?”
“Upset…angry. He arrived here about twenty minutes ago in tears,” Mick says, lowering his voice.
“I knew he’d have a strong reaction. But I didn’t expect him to run. He took off so quickly,” I ramble, postfear relief pumping the words out of me. “When I went to find him, he wasn’t there. I had no idea where he went…I started thinking the worst—”
“Feels like hell, doesn’t it?”
