“MOTHER OF TWO FOUND DEAD” Willow Johnson sucked in her breath. On the morning of her son’s fifteenth birthday she read these headlines. But it wasn’t the headlines that horrified her; it was the smiling picture of her old friend Carmen Walker-Jones beneath them. She scanned the article that followed. Carmen’s husband found her inside her locked Mercedes-Benz with the engine running. There was no note and there had been no signs that she was suicidal. Willow let the paper fall to her kitchen table. She remembered the last time she saw Carmen as if it was yesterday.
She was surprised when the phone rang one evening and it was Carmen with a mysterious request to see her. They had drifted apart after high school, only occasionally running into each other at the grocery store. Whenever Willow saw her she was always in a hurry and only had time for a few words. It was just as well; Willow didn’t have much to say to her anymore. But that day Carmen’s voice was urgent as she asked Willow to meet her for coffee the next day, a Saturday afternoon. When she arrived at the cafe Carmen waved her down. Willow was briefly taken back to see her without make-up or jewelry, her hair tied up in a scarf.
Carmen hugged her. “Thank you for coming,” she said.
Willow sat down. “Okay. What’s going on?”
Her lips trembled into a smile. “I need a favor from you,” she said. “I know I haven’t been such a good friend over the years and you can say no, but I have something very precious that I want you to keep for me.”
“Oh?”
“I have it in my car. It’s a box of some things I didn’t want to have at home anymore.”
“Why me, Carmen? We haven’t spoken in years.”
Carmen touched the top of her hand. “Believe it or not, Willow, out of all my friends I trust you the most. I know you were my girl once and, I’m sorry I turned away from you when you probably needed a real friend. Anyway, I want you to keep the box and never let anyone see it.”
“Girl, you’re scaring me.”
Carmen pulled out her smile again, but her expression was one of desperation. “It’s nothing to be worried about. Will you do it?” She squeezed her hands. “Please?”
Willow searched her face. She nodded. “Yes, I’ll do it.”
She closed her eyes briefly as if she was going to pray. “Thank God.” She stood.
Willow took hold of her wrist. “Will you at least tell me what is inside the box?”
Her attempt at a smile vanished and her caramel face darkened. “Oh, nothing. Just my life,” she replied.
Carmen’s last words stayed with Willow. She brought the heavy box home, pushed it inside a corner of her walk-in closet, and soon forgot its existence. She never heard from Carmen again. Now, Carmen was dead. Willow sat staring at her picture. What happened? She heard her son Trace moving around in the bathroom. She quickly tossed the paper in the trash.
Trace Johnson opened his eyes wide. Today was his birthday. He couldn’t go back to sleep, even though he usually slept until noon on Saturdays. The day would be perfect if only his mom let him play basketball with his friends at the park. She didn’t like him going there because she thought the park was a hangout for gang bangers. He tried to convince her he could take care of himself, but she was stubborn about things like that.
He sat up and looked around his room. Posters of his favorite basketball player, Lamar Jackson, hung on the walls. A small hoop was attached to the back of his door. The spacious area also had a desk and a television with several games and movies stuffed onto the shelves of the stand. He jumped out of bed and tossed a foam ball into the basket. It was too easy since he had grown a few inches over the summer.
He went into the bathroom. His mom’s room door was open so he knew she was up already. He threw water on his face and dried it. He studied his light brown skin and hazel eyes. He wished all his life his eye color could be changed to match his mom and auntie’s. He’d heard that he could use contacts, but his mom adamantly refused. She always seemed to say no and that they couldn’t afford whatever it was. She didn’t understand how much he hated the eyes, and that they made him look like a freak. When he asked where the eye color had come from, he was given a vague answer. He wondered if they came from his dad, a man he had never seen. No one would say.
He pulled his thick, curly black hair back into a neat afro puff. He did a few poses, flexed his muscles, smiled with approval and went to get breakfast. Before he entered the kitchen he paused when he saw his mother’s troubled profile. His heart sank as he studied the slight downward bend of her lips and the wrinkle of her brow and the way she moved the coffee cup back and forth between her hands. Her hair, which was thick and curly up top and trimmed short around the sides, looked as if someone had run a hand roughly through it. He wondered what was bothering her today.
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