Her mother rolled her eyes. “Go on, then. Find out for yourself.”
Honoree swallowed a sob and closed the door quietly behind her. It was thirty blocks from the tenement building to the Baileys’ home on Champlain Street. They lived in a big house with a bright green lawn, striped canvas awning, and iron railings.
Honoree stopped across the street from the house. Titus Bailey was an insurance man and left promptly for his office at eight o’clock. The family’s Lincoln automobile wasn’t in the driveway, and it was barely seven. Also, the drapes were drawn across the large bay windows. Mrs. Bailey would’ve tied back the lace panels to let in the sunlight, even without the help of Honoree’s mother.
Honoree clawed at her muslin shirt, scratching her chest. Breathing hurt. Her legs were hard, stiff poles. She crossed the street and struggled up the concrete walkway to the porch. Leaning forward, she placed her ear against the wooden door. If the Baileys had been home, she’d hear them. If they’d been home, she’d smell bacon frying in the skillet and coffee brewing on the stove. If they’d been home, Mrs. Bailey’s proper-sounding voice would break through the silence as she yelled at her boys, warning them to hurry and finish their morning chores. But the house was quiet; her mother hadn’t lied. No one was home. The Baileys’ house was empty.
She collapsed on the top stoop and hugged her shopping bag to her chest. Her heart broken, she cried until the sun was in the middle of the sky. Then she wiped her eyes, picked up her bag of clothes, and walked home to apologize to her mother. To tell her she was right. Horribly right.
But when Honoree stepped inside the kitchenette, her mother had already gone.
CHAPTER 6
SAWYER
Friday, June 19, 2015
(Somewhere over the Atlantic)
Asudden turbulent shift reminds me I’m inside a metal can thirty-five thousand feet up, somewhere over the Atlantic, traveling from Paris to Chicago to Santa Monica.
The Airbus A380 is a huge plane, but I’m a lean six foot two and withdrew a chunk of cash from my savings account to buy some extra legroom. Although now I’m sitting straight as a board, knees practically tucked into my chest, pretending to read a book—something about old Hollywood—while I keep the plane in the air with the strength of my will.
By the way, in case it’s unclear, flying is not my friend.
My iPad rests on the tray in front of me, next to three empty miniature bottles of cheap tequila, a ziplock bag of cherry-flavored melatonin, and a small plastic bottle of H20.
I want to sleep without dreaming—without thinking. Sleep until we touch down on terra firma. Sleep. But my mind is cluttered.
There are things in life you don’t anticipate, like having a shitty time in Paris. I had hoped that even my father would be chill in France, but anytime I think one way, another way slithers in.
My dad is the director of African American history at a prestigious university, and a walking encyclopedia on why Black lives matter. I spent two weeks in Paris at his side, editing a documentary he curated on the migration of free Blacks from Louisiana to Paris in 1803. He’s always doing cool shit like that. It is his job but also his calling. A while back, when I was a kid, he introduced me to Race films, the Jazz Age, and filmmakers like Micheaux. I admire him. My father is a genius.
He’s also an arrogant son of a bitch who thinks he is the brainchild of everything, including how to film a documentary, which I can almost live with, but—
He blames me for my sister’s death. Not in words. Not in action. In silence. We haven’t talked about Azizi since that night in the hospital. That night when the look in his eyes drained the blood from my veins.
So, yeah. Paris sucked.
Another round of turbulence. The passenger in the window seat next to me is the size of a small California rosewood, ruddy-faced, and snoring. The kind of guy who sleeps through earthquakes, hurricanes, and mudslides—no bark off his beak over a little turbulence.
I bounce and swing and finally lurch forward, grabbing the sides of the seat in front of me. A moment later, the plane levels, and I release the chair, but my hands are unsteady.
I chew on my cheek, open my iPad, and scroll through my documents. Flipping through files distracts me from the bumpy sky, the frozen clouds, and the noise of the engines.
I find the film clip I was looking for. Just before I boarded, I’d received word from the restoration company that they were still verifying the 35mm nitrate film reel. There’s still hope that the canister I found in Maggie’s long-ago box, buried beneath a pile of papers, an old blanket, several heart-shaped wicker baskets, and a stack of photos, was a lost film by Oscar Micheaux. I’m cautiously excited, but it means I must see Honoree again. I have no choice.
I jerk sideways, and the turbulence reminds me of where I am. Shakily, I put in my earbuds, tap the iPad screen, and press Play on the short video.
Three chorus girls dance onto a stage in front of a jazz band. Several men in fedoras stand off to the side, half in the frame, some halfway out. One of them is Micheaux and the other Louis Armstrong, I believe. One of the chorus girls has to be Honoree.
Suddenly, there’s a glimmer in the corner of my eye. Azizi is standing behind the flight attendant, helping her push the booze cart down the aisle.
She looks righteously pissed, too. Who can blame her? Dead over a year, a nineteen-year-old girl, a ballerina in pink tights and pointe shoes, she loved to dance, laugh, cry, tease, and give her big brother a hard time.
Where did she come from? My imagination, of course, but again, why is she here? What am I doing? Thinking about my film project, my father, or did Azizi appear because of Honoree?
The muscles in my back seize up, and breathing is a strain.Don’t be a coward, Sawyer. Don’t be a coward. Promise me that much. Please.
