Witnesses for the Dead: Stories Read online

  The Killing at Joshua Lake © 2022 Scott Adlerberg

  Code Name Pénélope © 2022 Cara Black

  Envy © 2022 Christopher Chambers

  A Family Matter © 2022 Sarah M. Chen

  Death at the Sundial Model © 2022 Aaron Philip Clark

  Havana Caliente © 2022 Teresa Dovalpage

  This Night in Question © 2022 Tod Goldberg

  On Gossamer Wings © 2022 Gar Anthony Haywood

  Star Witness © 2022 Darrell James

  The Gardener of Roses © 2022 Richie Narvaez

  Spiders and Fly © 2022 Gary Phillips

  Pearl Joy © 2022 SJ Rozan

  Post-Game © 2022 Alex Segura

  Fatal Assumptions © 2022 Pamela Samuels Young

  Published by

  Soho Press, Inc.

  227 W 17th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Phillips, Gary, editor. | Haywood, Gar Anthony, editor. |

  Adlerberg, Scott, author. Title: Witnesses for the dead : stories / edited

  by Gary Phillips and Gar Anthony Haywood ; with contributions from

  Scott Adlerberg [and others]. Description: New York : Soho Press, Inc., 2022.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2022011018

  ISBN 978-1-64129-398-3

  eISBN 978-1-64129-399-0

  Subjects: LCSH: Short stories, American—21st century. | LCGFT: Short

  stories. Classification: LCC PS648.S5 W565 2022 | DDC

  813/.0108—dc23/eng/20220401

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022011018

  Interior design by Janine Agro

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  In Memory of Lloyd Creary

  Who lived for family and community and planted the seed that became this book

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Introduction

  Death at the Sundial Motel – Aaron Philip Clark

  The Gardener of Roses – Richie Narvaez

  Envy – Christopher Chambers

  Star Witness – Darrell James

  Code Name Pénélope - Cara Black

  The Killing at Joshua Lake – Scott Adlerberg

  Post-Game – Alex Segura

  Spiders and Fly – Gary Phillips

  A Family Matter – Sarah M. Chen

  Havana Caliente – Teresa Dovalpage

  Fatal Assumptions – Pamela Samuels Young

  On Gossamer Wings – Gar Anthony Haywood

  This Night in Question – Tod Goldberg

  Pearl Joy – SJ Rozan

  About the Editors

  About the Contributors

  INTRODUCTION

  When former First Lady Nancy Reagan introduced the phrase “Just Say No” to young Americans as an approach to avoid crack cocaine in the early 1980s, no one could deny how catchy it was. And as a tactic in the War on Drugs, it sounded so simple and easily adopted. But just saying “no” to some things is often difficult, if not impossible, and the slogan’s advice soon proved easier said than done.

  Similarly, “See Something, Say Something” suffers from this same dichotomy: it sounds so easy to do and yet is quite often anything but. Aside from the natural reluctance many have to get involved in other peoples’ business, reporting someone to the authorities over one infraction or another we just happened to witness feels something like only a snitch or a “rat” would do, to quote every film noir ever made. For in some cases, you can get yourself hurt or even killed for being a rat.

  Luckily for all of us, there are heroes among us who, when they saw something, they said something. Despite the possible consequences for them. Darnella Frazier is one such hero.

  Ms. Frazier at the time was a seventeen-year-old Black woman who, in recording George Floyd’s death at the hands (or rather, left knee) of Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin in May of 2020, helped lead to Chauvin’s eventual conviction on murder and manslaughter charges. People across the country, including Floyd’s family, have applauded her bravery and quick thinking in the face of police pressure to leave the scene, which they say made the guilty verdict possible.

  The stories in Witnesses for the Dead are inspired by Ms. Frazier’s courage in choosing to make George Floyd’s business her own. These tales are indeed about people driven, to lesser and greater degrees, to do the right thing, though what is “right” in some cases is purely subjective. The ideas some have about balancing the scales might give you, the ordinary, upright, pay-my-bills-on-time denizen, considerable pause.

  There are characters populating these pages who, rather than simply observing a crime, take the initiative to see that the guilty are punished and the victims receive justice. In some stories, our “heroes” are drawn into perilous situations against their will, and must fight to survive just to ensure what they’ve witnessed will matter.

  For the most part, the protagonists herein don’t wear uniforms or carry a badge—they’re ordinary people, sometimes shady people, who nonetheless take extraordinary steps to right a wrong. Given the choice between inaction and action, these men and women take the latter route, sometimes with great reluctance, and occasionally at great risk to themselves.

  As the editors of this collection, we hope you’ll find these stories entertaining as well as thought-provoking. You may not always find the actions of these characters “heroic,” but you might admire their courage in the face of danger enough to find such courage yourself, should the need ever arise. Because you never know when you might stumble upon something dark and frightening that you weren’t meant to see, and you’ll have to decide what to do about it. Pretend it didn’t happen or shine a light to answer an injustice?

  When and if that time ever comes, we trust you’ll let what Darnella Frazier did be your guide.

  All royalties from this collection will be donated to the Alliance for Safe Traffic Stops.

  Gary Phillips

  Gar Anthony Haywood

  DEATH AT THE SUNDIAL MOTEL

  Aaron Philip Clark

  The Sundial Motel was a relic on a dirt road. An old behemoth, it had forty rooms across six floors. It was the last stateside motel before reaching the Mexican border. When the property was converted into studio apartments rented by the week, it became affordable housing for those struggling to survive, many undocumented like Alma Henri and her son, Criston.

  Ernesto spoke softly when he told Alma that Criston was dead. At first, the words struck her ears oddly, sounding like gibberish spoken through a funnel. It was as if she were listening to a song on a forty-five record, slowed, warped, the needle slipping out of the groove. But she knew this song—borne of her greatest fear, something that dwelled inside her, shone brighter each time Criston would venture out into the world. And it had been this way since he was seventeen when they came to the States. Now, he was dead at twenty, and Alma knew nothing except his body was lying in the street a few blocks from where she stood.

  “I can take you to him,” Ernesto said as they stood in Apartment 3. Though she was not tall, she towered over the boy, stoutly and bow-legged. The cheap floor lamp washed his face in gilded radiance while casting a grand shadow on the wall. “The police are there, so we’ll need to be careful,” he said. Alma knew what he meant. Like her, he was without papers, undocumented. The motel had become a haven for her and others who had escaped violence and famine in places stricken by death.

  “All right,” she said.

  Ernesto looked to his mother as if to request permission to leave. Though Alma had seen the boy wander the Sundial’s grounds and adjacent streets unsupervised at all hours, she thought it was a respec
tful gesture. Ernesto’s mother was a frail woman sitting in a worn recliner. She was dressed in a hand-stitched frock of patchwork fabric and a knit cap because she had lost much of her hair in a fire. His mother nodded, and Ernesto got up from the bed’s edge, drew air into his chest, and turned to Alma. “Follow me,” He said.

  Alma walked with Ernesto into the chilly San Ysidro night that carried dust on the wind. She was without her jacket but didn’t feel cold. The boy led her down the sidewalk toward a cluster of red and blue lights in the distance. Her dreadlocks were wrapped in a scarf, and her once-white canvas sneakers were stained and threadbare. As they got closer to the commotion, each step felt like weights were anchored to her feet. When they were close enough to see the cordoned-off scene, the two stood under a bus stop’s awning across the street. “There,” Ernesto said, pointing to the skinny figure on the ground. An orphaned shoe was on the curb, and an arm stuck out underneath a sheet. A crushed gold watch still on the bloody wrist shimmered like a beacon in the dark. It felt like the arm had been reaching for something, for someone.

  “Did you see what happened?” Alma asked, unable to cry. She had learned to stomach her pain, never showing it in front of Criston. Even in frightful moments, times she was certain they’d be sent back to Haiti, her face was stone. Fear had become a constant in her life, and it ruled her even now. Fear of deportation. Fear of not being able to protect her child. It was a feeling she had come to accept, just as she would now have to accept his loss.

  “No, Miss Alma. I’m sorry.”

  “All right,” she said. “Thank you.” And with that, the boy left.

  The night’s air was all over her as she watched men and women with badges in uniforms and suits walk past her son’s body as if it were no more significant than the hydrant feet from where he lay. An ambulance was parked, but its lights were off—there wasn’t any need. The emergency had passed. The paramedics conversed with deputies, paper cups of hot liquid steaming in their hands. Their attention was on a howling man, who stood dressed in a tan jacket, jeans, and boots. The man’s legs seemed weak, his torso a boulder affixed on two twigs. His laughter caused tremors that threatened his footing. He steadied himself with the aid of an officer’s shoulder.

  Alma grew up with drunks—piggish men—she recognized them by how they moved and spoke. The alcohol fouled their breath, got into their muscles and bones—seized their thoughts. Their bodies would confess what their mouths worked to hide. “I’m fine . . . I only had one,” they’d say.

  Alma shuddered at the thought of Criston dying in the street, taking his last breath without her there to comfort him. It was inexplicable. Mothers weren’t supposed to bury their sons. She wondered how long Criston had been dead and what would happen to him next. Alma wanted to go to him, hug his thin body, tell him how much he was loved. It would surely mean her deportation, but what good was staying in the States now that her pitit gason was gone?

  More deputies arrived in cruisers and SUVs, red and blue lights flashing. Alma had lived to avoid people in uniforms, especially the police, and now there were many standing near the pickup truck, shining flashlights against its front end. She didn’t know the truck’s model, but it looked American, with a long, wide body, and she could see the damage: a dented hood, cracked headlight, a broken side-view mirror.

  Alma tasted a bitter taint in her throat. She coughed hard, nearly lost her balance. Then, vomited onto her shoes. The earth spun, and Criston’s voice in her head was all she could hear. Not as a man, but as a tender boy, timid, holding onto her apron strings. The Lord told her he had a good heart and would grow to be a good man, and he was . . .

  Unable to watch anymore, Alma left and returned to the Sundial. Her neighbors, many who knew Criston, stood with candles and prayed the rosary outside her apartment. Alma didn’t speak to them as she opened the door, but she nodded appreciatively. She noticed the vomit had dried on her shoes as her feet crossed the threshold. Once inside, she collapsed to the floor and wept.

  ALMA HAD ATTENDED WORSHIP services at St. Francis Church each week, but today everything felt different—foreign. She had never been in the priest’s chambers. The room was paneled in mahogany, the carpet blood-red, and a dust-coated window offered the only measure of light. It rattled as the Santa Ana winds blew, whipping up the earth. Alma could see the brown billows sweeping across the empty desert and thought of her son. Criston loved the desert, though she didn’t understand why. “It’s so filthy,” she’d tell him as he admired its scope. “It is what it is,” he’d say without further explanation.

  “Yes, that’s my son,” Alma said. She was sitting across from the priest, looking at an image of Criston’s nude body on a metal table. The fact that it was on the priest’s cell phone only made the process of identifying her son’s remains all the more disheartening, which Alma didn’t think was possible.

  “The coroner will make arrangements with you. He will not ask about your status. Though I suggest you have the body brought here,” the priest said. He had olive skin and was cloaked in a black cassock, fitted with a red sash around his waist. “You have my deepest condolences. May God bless you.”

  “How did they tell you he died, Father?”

  “I was told a motorist struck him.”

  “And the driver?”

  “I’m not certain.”

  “He’s a man . . . I think he could be the police or a government official,” she said.

  The priest looked away as if he had heard something in the distance, but there was only silence. He turned to her slowly until their eyes met. “How do you know that?” he asked.

  “I saw Criston in the street,” she said. “And the truck that hit him and the man, I believe, was driving it. I didn’t get close. I was afraid of what I’d do if I got close.”

  “That was wise,” he said. “No reason to put yourself in jeopardy.”

  “Where can I bury my son?”

  “We can have the funeral here at the church. All that’s required is a simple donation.”

  “A fee?” Alma felt invisible, like the priest was looking through her. She wanted to scream.

  “It will need to be a quick burial as we don’t handle preserving the body.”

  “Where will he be kept?”

  “The basement,” he said. “It doesn’t get very warm down there this time of year.”

  “The basement,” Alma repeated. There was anger in her voice but also shame. The priest looked anxious, and she pressed on. “What about an investigation? Something should be done.”

  “Investigation into what, praytell?”

  “He was hit. That isn’t something that just happens.”

  “I understand it was an accident. A dark road, no sidewalk. Perhaps he wandered into the traffic.”

  “My son never wandered,” she said. “Especially not into someone’s vehicle. The man who hit him was drunk, I know it.”

  “Miss Alma, I can’t speak to any of that, but I would caution you not to make any allegations that could put you and those at the Sundial in danger. Your choices don’t only impact you. Leave the matter to the police. If alcohol was involved, I’m sure the evidence will come to light.” Alma nodded, though she felt sickened by each word he spoke. “It’s best we mourn Criston and know that it was just his time. He’s in the heavens now, with the Creator. It’s where he was needed.”

  “But my son should be here with me!”

  The priest reached for Alma’s hand. She wanted to pull away but surrendered to his touch. No one had touched her since Criston hugged her the morning of his death. It was all the comfort she was awarded, even if it was out of pity. “You’re familiar with the Book of Revelations?” he asked.

  “I know the prophecies.”

  “Good,” he said. “Then you know that everything must end. But what some won’t tell you is that the prophecies in the book may have already come to pass.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “What if we exist after
the destruction told in the text? A people born out of time. Living in limbo, waiting for God to turn off the lights.”

  “That carries no importance to me.”

  “What I’m trying to say is death isn’t the end. It’s a beginning. In the heavens is where we truly belong.” He reached his arms above his head and shook them violently as if it were a ritual calling of haints. “He’s up there, Miss Alma, and he’s looking down on you, and he wants you to go on living.”

  “Stop,” Alma said, slamming her fist on the priest’s desk. “Your words are meaningless.” She rubbed her temples and stood up from the chair with a sigh.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Save it for your sermons,” she said. “My son was killed, and you want me to forget?”

  “Please, Miss Alma . . .”

  “Why can’t you speak to the police for me?” she asked. “See if they checked the driver’s blood . . .”

  “It wouldn’t do any good.”

  “Why?”

  “Leave it, Miss Alma.” The priest spoke sternly as if she were a child. “There are things about living in this country you still don’t understand.”

  Alma didn’t need to understand and knew when a man was hiding something. She snatched a letter opener from a small jar on the priest’s desk and held it tightly in her palm, studying its tip, appreciating its heft.

  “I know why God took my Criston,” she said. “It was to punish me.” Alma moved closer to the priest, and she laid her hand on his shoulder. “When I first came to this church, all I felt was guilt. Do you remember what I confessed to you?”

  “I do,” the priest said.

  “You told me that I’d be forgiven,” she said. “I know that’s what you’re supposed to say, but I didn’t believe you. God’s seen what I’ve done, looked into my heart, and he knows what I am.”

  “And what are you, Miss Alma?”

  “Nothing good,” she said. “In my village, they called me destrikte . . .”

  “What is that?”

  “Destroyer,” she said, bringing the letter opener to the priest’s throat and pressing its tip into the flaccid flesh, to the right of his Adam’s apple. “Why don’t the police come for us? Arrest us? Deport us?”