ONE
Titus woke up five minutes before his alarm went off at 7:00 A.M. and made himself a cup of coffee in the Keurig Darlene had gotten him last Christmas. At the time she’d given it to him he’d thought it was an expensive gift for a relationship that was barely four months old. These days, Titus had to admit it was a damn good gift that he was grateful to have.
He’d gotten her a bottle of perfume.
He almost winced thinking back on it. If knowing your lover was a competition, Darlene was a gold medalist. Titus didn’t even qualify for the bronze. Over the last ten months he’d forced himself to get exponentially better in the gift-giving department.
Titus sipped his coffee.
His last girlfriend before Darlene had said he was a great boyfriend but was awful at relationships. He didn’t dispute that assessment.
Titus took another sip.
He heard the stairs creak as his father made his way down to the kitchen. That mournful cry of ancient wood had gotten him and Marquis in trouble on more than one late Friday night until Titus stopped staying out late and Marquis stopped coming home.
“Hey, while you standing there in your boxers, make me one of them there fancy cups out that machine,” Albert Crown said. Titus watched his father limp over to the kitchen table and ease himself down into one of their vinyl-covered metal chairs that would drive a hipster interior designer mad with nouveau retro euphoria. It had been a year since his father’s hip replacement and Albert still walked with a studied caution. He stubbornly refused to use a cane, but Titus saw the way his smooth brown face twisted into tight Gordian knots when a rainstorm blew in off the bay or when the temperature started to drop like a lead sinker.
Albert Crown had made his living on that bay for forty years, hauling in crab pots six days a week, fourteen hours a day off the shore of Piney Island on boats owned by folks who barely saw him as a man. No insurance, no 401(k), but all those backbreaking days and the frugality of Titus’s mother had allowed them to build a three-bedroom house on Preach Neck Road. They were the only family, Black or white, that had a house on an actual foundation. Envy had crossed the color lines and united their neighbors as the house rose from the forest of mobile homes that surrounded it like a rose among weeds.
“When we retire, we can sit on the front step in matching rocking chairs and wave to Patsy Jones as she drives by rolling her eyes,” Titus’s mother Helen had told his father at the kitchen table one night during one of those rare weekends his father wasn’t out gallivanting down at the Watering Hole or Grace’s Place.
Titus put a cup in the Keurig, slid a pod in the filter, and set the timer.
But, like so many things in life, his mother’s gently petty retirement plan was not meant to be. She died long before she could ever retire from the Cunningham Flag Factory. Patsy Jones was still driving by and rolling her eyes, though.
“Which one you put in there?” Albert asked. He opened the newspaper and started running his finger over the pages. Titus could see his lips move ever so slightly. His mother had been the more adventurous reader, but his father never let the sun set on the day without going through the newspaper.
“Hazelnut. The only one you like,” Titus said.
Albert chuckled. “Don’t you tell that girl that. She got us that value pack. That was nice of her.” He licked his finger and turned the page. As soon as he did, he sucked his teeth and grunted.
“Them rebbish boys don’t never let up, do they? Now they gonna have a goddamn parade for that statue. Them boys just mad somebody finally had the nerve to tell them they murdering traitor of a granddaddy won’t shit,” Albert spat.
“Ricky Sours and them Sons of the Confederacy boys been knocking down the door of my office for the past two weeks,” Titus said. He took another sip.
“What for?” Albert asked.
“They wanna make sure the sheriff’s office will ‘fulfill its duties and maintain crowd control’ in case any protesters show up. You know, since Ricky is Caucasian, I’m biased against them because of my ‘cultural background,’” Titus said. He kept his voice flat and even, the way he’d learned in the Bureau, but he caught his father’s eyes over the top of the newspaper.
Albert shook his head. “That Sours boy wouldn’t have said that to Ward Bennings. Hell, Ward would’ve probably marched with ’em with his star on his chest. ‘Cultural background.’ Shit. He means cuz you a Black man and he a racist. Lord, son, I don’t know how you do it sometimes,” Albert said.
“Easy. I just imagine Sherman kicking their murderous traitorous great-granddaddies in the teeth. That’s my Zen,” Titus said. His voice stayed flat, but Albert burst out laughing.
“Down at the store last Friday, Linwood Lassiter asked one of the boys with the sticker on his truck why don’t they put a statue to … what’s that boy name? The one with them eggs?” Albert said.
“Benedict Arnold?” Titus offered.
“Yeah, build a statue to that boy, since they like traitors so goddamn much. That boy said something about heritage and history and Linwood said all right, how about a statue to Nat Turner? That boy got in his truck and spun tires and rolled coal on us. But he didn’t have an answer,” Albert said.
Titus narrowed his eyes. “You get a license plate number? What the truck look like?”
“Nah, we was too busy laughing. It looks like every truck them kind of boys drive. Jacked up to the sky and not a lick of dirt in the bed. They do them trucks just like some of them fellas that come up on the bay in them big fancy boats but don’t never catch no fish. Use a workingman’s tools for toys,” Albert said.
Titus finished his coffee. He rinsed out the cup and set it in the sink.
“They don’t care about Benedict Arnold, Pop. He didn’t hate the same people they do. I’m gonna go get dressed. I’m on till nine. There’s still some beef stew left from Sunday in the refrigerator. You can have that for supper,” Titus said.
“Boy, I ain’t so old I can’t make my own supper. Who taught you how to cook anyway?” Albert asked.
Titus felt a tight smile work its way across his face. “You did,” he said. But, Titus thought, not until Mama had been in the ground and you’d finally found Jesus.
“Damn right. I mean, I’ll probably eat the stew, but I can still turn up something in the kitchen,” Albert said with a wink. Titus shook his head and headed for the stairs.
“Maybe I’ll get some oysters and we can put some fire to that old grill this weekend. Get your trifling brother to come over,” Albert said as Titus put his foot on the first step. Titus stiffened for a moment before continuing up the stairs. Marquis wasn’t coming over this or any other weekend. The fact that his father still clung to the idea was at various times depressing and infuriating. Marquis worked for himself as a self-taught carpenter. He stayed on the other side of the county in the Windy River Trailer Park, but he might as well have been in Nepal. Even though he made his own hours, they could go months without seeing him. In a place as small as Charon County, that was a dubious achievement.
Titus went into his bedroom and opened his closet. His everyday clothes were on wire hangers on the left. His uniforms were on wooden hangers on the right. He didn’t refer to his everyday clothes as his “civilian” wardrobe. That gave his uniforms a level of militarization he didn’t like. His everyday clothes were color-coordinated and hung in alphabetical order. Blacks first, then blues, then reds, then so on. Darlene had once commented that he was the most organized man she’d ever met. His shoes were ordered in the exact same manner. Kellie, his former girlfriend from his time in Indiana, used to rearrange his clothes whenever she spent the night. She said she did it for his own good.
Copyright © 2023 by S. A. Cosby
