Blue Blood Read online

  He’s right, of course, at least about the type of person I am and my approach to life and other people.

  “You don’t ask others to be responsible for you, do you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Earlier you mentioned you were drinking again,” he says. “Is Anna responsible for that? Johanna? Anyone other than you?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You take responsibility for what you do. Shouldn’t you let others do the same? As I understand it the actions of others played a far, far greater role in what happened than the actions you took. If that’s true, are you still taking sole responsibility for everything? Are you taking the guilt and responsibility that is rightly theirs?”

  “It would certainly be pretty to think so,” I say.

  6

  I crawl into the hotel bed bleary-eyed and raw-boned weary but not particularly sleepy.

  It’s early, so I call Reggie first in case Anna’s not up yet.

  Merrill and I are sharing a room right across the hall from Malia’s so we can sleep in shifts and be close by when we’re needed. Between ours, Malia’s, Tana’s, and Rodney’s, we have the last four rooms at the end of the northeast corner of the third floor.

  “Morning,” Reggie says.

  “Morning,” I say.

  “You’re up early for a man of leisure.”

  “Actually, just turning in,” I say. “But I wanted to call and see how you’re doing first.”

  “Merrick talked to you, didn’t he?” she says.

  “Yeah.”

  She doesn’t say anything, but her breathing changes.

  Our room has two double beds in it. Next to mine, Merrill’s is made and appears not to have been used, though I know he slept in it last night.

  I hope he doesn’t expect me to make mine when I stumble out of it in a couple of hours to meet with Tana to do the threat assessment.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  “Not great,” she says.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say. “I thought you two were . . . good together. Thought you really made the opposites attract thing work like a mofo.”

  “Yeah, me too. I mean . . . I knew we had some issues . . . and I guess I knew he wasn’t as happy as when we first got together, but . . . I don’t know. As much as I figured going in that something like this would eventually happen . . . it still caught me by surprise.”

  “I wish you would’ve let me know,” I say.

  “You’ve been dealing with plenty of your own problems.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say. “I feel bad that you didn’t think you could talk to me about it.”

  “It wasn’t that I didn’t think I could. Wasn’t that I didn’t want to. I just . . . I usually shut down. Handle shit like this on my own. And I didn’t want to be a bother when you were dealing with so much—first with Chris, then the shooting at Potter High.”

  “Still,” I say.

  “I know.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m here,” I say. “Call me when you need to talk. Anna too. And come to dinner soon.”

  “I’m bad company right now, but—”

  “So am I,” I say. “But Anna can handle both of us.”

  She laughs. “I’m sure she can. Sounds good. Just need a little longer to . . . But I will.”

  “Good.”

  “You ’bout ready to come back to work?” she asks.

  “Soon,” I say. “Sort of had in mind to come back after I finish giving my deposition.”

  “Well, do what you got to,” she says. “Get better. Deal with your shit. But then get your ass back here. We miss you. Got a case we could really use you on too.”

  “I will,” I say.

  She doesn’t say anything for a beat and I wait.

  “Thanks for calling, John,” she says. “Thanks for caring about this ol’ cowgirl.”

  “I do,” I say. “And don’t you forget it. Call me sometime soon just to hear me say it.”

  After Reggie and I end our call, I take a moment and attempt to do one of the mindfulness exercises Dave suggested I try before calling Anna.

  The exercise doesn’t go well, and I wonder if it’s the fatigue or something else—like my general state of mind even after a rare good night’s sleep.

  I think about how problematic it is that it’s my troubled mind that I have to rely upon to deal with my troubled mind. Ironically, my mind is meant to be both the disease and the cure.

  Giving up on mindfulness for the moment, I call Anna.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” she says.

  Her voice is soft and sleepy, unbearably sweet and sexy.

  “I miss you so much,” she says. “Can’t stand sleeping without you.”

  “Same here,” I say. “Only more so.”

  “It’s not a competition, John,” she says playfully. “But I miss you more.”

  I laugh. “Not possible.”

  Neither of us says anything for a moment, and I think about how very much I like listening to her breathe.

  Even over the phone her presence is palpable, her love and camaraderie nourishing.

  “Merrick came by to see me last night,” I say.

  “Over there?”

  “Yeah. He’s working at the News Herald now.”

  “Oh?”

  “He and Reggie broke up,” I say. “He and the kids are moving over here.”

  “Oh no,” she says. “I . . . I don’t know quite what to say . . . It’s like I’m shocked but I’m not really all that surprised. It’s hard to explain. I hate it for all of them. Gonna miss having him and the kids around. Have you spoken to Reggie?”

  “Just a few minutes ago.”

  “You called her first?” she says in mock reproof.

  “Only to let you sleep a little longer.”

  “How is she?”

  “Same as him. Sad. Hurt. At a loss.”

  “Any idea what happened, why they’re ending it?”

  “Don’t think it’s just one thing,” I say. “Don’t think it’s something dramatic or . . . Not like an affair or a betrayal of some kind.”

  I pause but she doesn’t say anything.

  “How does it make you feel?” I ask.

  “Sad.”

  “How does it make you feel about us?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Does it make you feel more vulnerable? More susceptible? Like our relationship—all relationships are fragile? Precarious? Uncertain?”

  “Not in the least,” she says.

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  I pause and before I say anything else she speaks again.

  “Does it make you feel those things?” she asks.

  “Not in terms of how I feel about you or my love for and commitment to you, but . . . in terms of . . . I guess I was already thinking you might be . . .”

  “Be what?”

  “Given the state I’m in,” I say. “Given the fact that I’m drinking again.”

  “What, you thought I might be having second thoughts or—”

  “Something like that,” I say.

  “John,” she says. “Of course not. Absolutely positively, 100 percent not.”

  “So that’s a no?” I ask.

  “You’re the man of my dreams,” she says. “The best man I know. My heart breaks for you and what you’re going through right now but it only makes me love you more, want you more, want to care for you more.”

  Unable to stop myself, I break down and begin to cry—though quietly enough so that she is able to keep talking.

  “And as far as drinking,” she says, “I know why you want and need to stop—so that you’re not actively addicted to anything, so that nothing has that kind of control over you. And I get it. But it’s not as though you become a different person when you drink. You’re still my sweet John. You’re still my hero, still all I want in the world. I know you want to get active in recovery again and I want that for you—but only so you can be fully present in your life, not altered or preoccupied or controlled. I wouldn’t love or want you any less if you never stopped drinking again. So with all you’re going through or dealing with, mark worrying about me or us off your list. Okay? I know I’ve gone on and on but I want to make sure you understand. Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”

  7

  “We don’t want any trouble,” a thin, elderly man blinking behind his big glasses is saying. “Not if we can avoid it.”

  “You already have trouble,” Malia says.

  “You know what he means,” an overweight woman in a white dress and huge hat says. “We’re not going to be party to picking fights, stirring up . . . stuff.”

  Malia is meeting with the African-American Ministerial Action Committee of Bay County about her planned protests and rallies in a small, dingy fellowship hall of a church on 11th Street a few blocks off MLK.

  Merrill, who had driven her over, stands in the back of the room, observing the proceedings. Rodney, who was supposed to be with them, had canceled at the last minute. Merrill wasn’t unappreciative.

  It’s the little things, he thinks.

  The African-American Ministerial Action Committee of Bay County consists of—at least as it is constituted here today—less than a dozen ministers, mostly middle-aged men and women, representing as many churches across the area. Each member present only speaks for his or her congregation and, like membership in the group, participation in its sponsored activities is strictly voluntary.

  Malia is here today to discuss the committee’s involvement in her social justice activities while she’s in town and address any concerns they may have.

  Turns out they may have a lot
of them.

  “Peaceful protests, a march for civility, and a rally for justice are the opposite of wanting trouble, picking fights, or stirring things up,” she says.

  The hard-surfaced hall looks to have been built and decorated in the ’70s. Dusty, faded, earth-tone curtains hang limply in front of too small windows, and the dull cement floor is finished with speckles of brown, orange, and gold.

  “But the response . . .” adds a chubby young man with a soft voice and hands to match. “Think of Charlottesville. We are peaceful, but between the counter-protesters and police presence . . . things always get out of hand and we are always the ones who wind up getting hurt or killed.”

  “First,” Malia says, “things don’t always get out of hand. I’ve been involved in hundreds of protests around the country without a single incident, but what others do—how they respond, the tactics they employ, any hate and violence they perpetrate—is no reason for us not to calmly and peacefully bring attention to injustice, to stand together and speak out against it.”

  The central air-conditioning cycles on and the fellowship hall is filled with an airy swishing sound and the faint smell of insecticide.

  “It’s risky,” a thin middle-aged man with a large afro who looks like a skinny Don King says, “and I’m not sure it’s worth it. What good does it really do?”

  Malia takes in a deep breath, holds it, and slowly releases it. Merrill can tell she’s trying to contain her frustration.

  “It does a lot of good,” she says. “A lot. Putting positivity into the world always has a positive impact. It shows that a group of people are united in a righteous cause and are comporting themselves with dignity and civility—and the more people there are, the bigger message it sends to those in power, those making decisions about law enforcement and social justice issues and governance. That’s why we need all of your congregations to participate. We need numbers.”

  “I don’t know,” a middle-aged woman in a mint green dress says, shaking her head. “Seems to me . . . more numbers means more chances for things to get out of hand . . . for somebody to get hurt or killed. Numbers seems like it has more to do with the ego of the organizer than anything else.”

  “Panama City is a small town,” Malia says. “Even if everyone you represent participates it will still be a relatively small march and rally. I’m not here for ego or numbers. I could be a hundred other places for that. I’m here because we have an opportunity. That’s all. That’s all it is. An opportunity to lift a voice, shine a light, be a witness. I didn’t organize any of this. It’s not my march or my rally. It’s—”

  “But you will be the face of it,” Mint Green Dress says. “Moment you arrived you became the face of everything that happens here.”

  “I ’spect so,” she says. “But I’m going to participate whether there are any cameras pointed at me or not, because it’s the right thing to do given the opportunity we have.”

  “I’m just not convinced,” Skinny Don King says. “There are complexities and subtleties to our situation here that—”

  A tall, handsome man who looks like a young Denzel Washington in a clerical collar stands, the sound of his chair sliding back drawing everyone’s attention and silencing Skinny Don King.

  “I’d like to make a motion that we remove the word action from our name,” he says. “It’s hypocritical to have it in there. We can take it out or just replace it with inaction. Whichever this esteemed body deems best.”

  A small smile twitches across Merrill’s lips.

  “I keep imagining if Dr. King were in this meeting,” he continues. “I’m sure he was in many just like this—where good-meaning people were afraid of taking on the injustice of the status quo, as bad as it was, because they believed it could always get worse and knew it probably would before it got better. Or small-minded people who didn’t want to march with him because they knew he, as the face of the movement, would get all the credit. Those people who didn’t take the opportunity they had been given were on the wrong side of history. Just as we will be if we don’t take a stand, find a voice, walk a little mile together for peace and justice. Ms. Malia, I and my congregation will be there to march with you and it will be our great honor to do so.”

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “Now, I’m gonna go before I say anything else, but before I do, you need anything else from me or have any questions for me?”

  “Just two quick questions,” Malia says. “Are you single and do you like older women?”

  8

  “She’s far more afraid than she lets on,” Tana Kay is saying. “And she should be. There are some truly sick individuals who wish her ill.”

  While Merrill is with Malia at a ministerial meeting at a church on 11th Street, Tana is going over the threats and attempts with me.

  Because I didn’t want to meet with her alone in her room, we are in a small seating area off the right side of the lobby, the large, oblong coffee table before us filled with notes, letters, cards, and packages—all of which threaten Malia in some way.

  The indoor pool is behind a frosted glass panel wall to our right, the faint smell of chlorine mixed in with all the other competing aromas layered into the huge lobby. To our left the wall holds a variety of appreciation plaques from Tyndall Air Force Base, many of them made to look like partial airplane wings.

  I woke after a few hours of sleep with the Rolling Stones’ “Wild Horses” in my head and the assurance of Anna’s love in my heart. Between the wise, caring counsel I had received from Dave Lloyd and the absolute and unconditional love I had received from Anna, I felt if not a faint, remote hope, at least the possibility of it.

  “It speaks to how scared she is that she hired Mr. Monroe to protect her,” Tana is saying. “For a while she just dismissed the threats as bored crazies with nothing better to do. And I’m sure a lot of it is exactly that. Probably all the online expressions of hate are. But for someone to take the time to create an elaborate and detailed threat and find out where you are and hand deliver it to you there . . . that’s another level. Between those and the actual attempts on her life, she finally started taking them seriously.”

  The plan is for me to investigate the threats against and attacks on Malia when I’m not helping Merrill guard her.

  “Malia mentioned you’re leaving your position at the end of next month,” I say. “Is that because of the threats?”

  “It’s a lot of things. Mostly because I want to spend more time writing and reporting. I do a lot of writing for Malia, but I have to do a lot of administrative and secretarial duties too. I don’t want my writing to suffer because I’m constantly putting out little fires for her—responding to emails, drafting speeches, answering calls. But . . . if I’m completely honest . . . I’m sure the danger has something to do with it too. But it’s not just that. It’s the workload. All I do is work. Because of Malia’s disability nearly every task takes a lot, lot longer.”

  “Disability?”

  “Oh, well . . I really shouldn’t say anything because it’s not public knowledge, but . . . Please don’t say anything. She finds it embarrassing—though she shouldn’t. She suffers from dyslexia.”

  “I see how that would make your job a lot harder.”

  Across the way, the lobby looks like a million others in the world. Three people are in line at the front desk. A loaded luggage cart stands unattended near the sliding glass front doors. The tables of the restaurant are set and ready. Traveling sales reps or consultants in business attire come and go—along with the occasional Air Force or Navy officer in uniform. All to the sounds of cable news from the TV mounted near the main seating area, the dings of the elevators, the quiet conversations of business people whose temporary home this is, and the mechanical, rubbery sliding sound of the opening and closing of the glass doors.