Melissa sat in awkward silence following his outburst. She felt the same way, but he’d raised his voice and there were people with kids too young to be in school nearby. Wilson followed her glance and took in the family that sat nearby, the mother glaring at him and the father trying to distract their toddler from the bad black man and his nasty words.
“I’m sorry,” Wilson said, without any trace of anger. “Cop shot my brother. Not having the best day.”
The couple looked abashed at this, almost guilty. Like so many white folk when confronted with violence perpetrated on black people by “their” people, they retreated into awkward reverence.
Wilson turned back to Melissa with a mischievous grin. Despite all that had happened, Melissa found herself happy to be in his company. Even at such a shitty time, Wilson displayed so much of Howie’s easy-going it-don’t-bother-me attitude that she couldn’t help but feel comfortable with him.
His expression turned serious. “Listen, I guess you’re wondering why I asked you to be here.”
“Sure,” said Melissa. “I’m just gonna get a coffee, okay? Didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Oh shit, where are my manners? You stay here, let me get you something.”
“That’s nice of you, Wilson. I’ll have a latte with sugar.”
“Coming right up.”
Wilson walked over to the counter and joined a short line up to place the order. Melissa didn’t know how to feel. She had to remind herself that she didn’t know Wilson – it was far too easy to believe he was exactly like his brother and therefore worthy of her trust. He could be here to find out if she planned to make a claim on Howie’s estate. He might even be here to find out if Melissa had planned for the cops to ambush them and kill Howie to get out of the relationship. Okay, her imagination was running away with itself there. The point was, she didn’t know him. All she had to go on was the character and word of his brother. Surely that was enough? It was hard not to be paranoid and suspicious after what happened yesterday.
Her thoughts had gotten stuck on Howie and a rising tide of crushing sadness threatened to overwhelm her. Thankfully at that moment Wilson returned, bringing her back to the present.
He placed two coffees on the table and sat down opposite her.
“I expect you want to know what happened to your brother,” Melissa said to him after a moment. She dreaded having to recount the awful story to anybody, wondering if she could hold it together long enough to finish, but she felt Wilson deserved to know the truth.
“I wouldn’t make you do that. I saw the video. I know what happened.”
“Oh.” Melissa was secretly grateful she wouldn’t have to return to that moment.
“I’m here to recruit you.”
Visions of weird cults and their loony leaders appeared in her mind.
“Er, recruit me for what?”
“Yesterday I got a promotion. Black Lives Matter made me an official spokesperson.”
“Because of Howie?”
“Because of Howie. I spoke at the rally after the protest march last night. Did you see me?”
Melissa shook her head. “I saw the march from my window, but I didn’t join it. I was too tired. I was probably asleep by the time you spoke.”
“I was pretty good, if I do say so myself.” He smiled at his mock arrogance. His humor was infectious. Melissa found herself admiring his spirit in the face of tragedy.
“I’m sure you were amazing.”
“You know what would be more amazing?”
“No.”
“If you marched with us tonight. If you spoke to the protestors. If you did interviews on behalf of BLM. I’ve seen your channel, Melissa, and you’re damn convincing. You have millions of followers and a voice that needs to be heard.”
“Oh no, I have to catch my flight this–”
“That piece-of-shit policeman needs to go to jail, and he’ll get off if we don’t keep the pressure on. We need to march and protest and shout from the fucking rooftops until justice is served…”
“Really, I’ve got to go home–”
“Tell Howie’s story. Tell them all how he they gunned him down even though he was unarmed. Tell them what the cops did to my brother! Please!”
Melissa stood up so fast her chair fell over. People were already staring at them as Wilson grew louder, but now everyone in the café was quiet.
“I think I’d better go,” she said, picking up her chair.
Wilson stared into his coffee. In a flat voice he said, “You owe it to Howie.”
Melissa leaned forward with her fists on the table. She didn’t care that everyone was staring. Rage and frustration and grief built in her chest and her eyes were now wet with tears.
“I don’t appreciate you telling me what I owe my dead boyfriend,” she said. “Of course I want justice for Howie, but I’m not in a place right now where I can parade in front of the fucking cameras and tell everyone all about the shitty thing that happened yesterday so I can be a trending topic for half an hour and boost my public image. I’m not looking for ways to exploit Howie’s death for my own personal gain, never mind yours. It was nice to meet you and thanks for the coffee.”
She grabbed her bag, wincing as she swung it over her shoulder and it bounced against her bruised arm. She apologized to the open-mouthed couple with the kid for her language, and stormed out of the café.
She headed for her hotel. She planned on packing and heading out to the airport early. Her flight didn’t leave for six hours but she didn’t care. She would sit at the gate and wait. She didn’t want to spend another moment in this city if she could avoid it. What right did that asshole have to lecture her on her obligations? Who was he to tell her how she should be acting? There was no wrong way to deal with what happened. There was no checklist to follow or textbook on the subject that she was aware of. She was out of bed, she was dressed and she had plans to leave the country – surely this was an achievement when the alternative was curling up on the floor in a ball and crying so hard and so long she would eventually be nothing but a pile of dust on the carpet.
Maybe she shouldn’t have stormed out on him. He was going through trauma too; this was his way of coping. Throwing himself into a movement, with a clear goal and a mouthpiece to spread the word, was a worthy use of his rage – better than violence surely. She could understand why he believed she should follow the same path. But she refused to feel guilty for telling him where to go. She had a right to deal with this tragedy in her own way, and no obligation to follow a course laid out by someone she barely knew.
A black SUV suddenly screeched to a halt in front of her, mounting the pavement. She jumped back in shock, thinking that the driver must have made a mistake. When the doors opened and two masked men jumped out, she realized this was no accident. She screamed and turned to run, but it was already too late. The men were upon her, grabbing her arms and pulling her towards the vehicle. Passers-by stopped and gaped at what was happening. She cried out to them to help her, but then she was inside the vehicle and the driver reversed back out onto the road, then zoomed off at high speed.
Something sharp stabbed her neck and she cried out, struggling to get away. Very quickly she felt drowsy. As consciousness slipped away she heard someone tell her, “… told you not to talk to anyone…”