“Uh-huh. In David’s room. She’s much happier here, and Uncle Carmine said he’ll give her a job waitressing at Antonosanti’s.” Rhoda paused and sucked in her breath. “I’ll be over as soon as I can.”
She arrived ten minutes after we got off the phone. “Buttwright still got that gun?” she asked, before I even closed the door behind her.
“As far as I know,” I told her. “Why?”
“Nothin’,” she replied, making herself comfortable on the living-room couch. She placed her coat on the back of the couch. I sat down next to her, and we didn’t talk for five minutes. Instead, we watched more TV news reports about Martin Luther King’s assassination.
“So you think he’s still got that gun, huh?” She spoke without taking her eyes off the screen.
“Yeah. But he hasn’t had to show it to me in a long time.”
I could feel Rhoda staring at the side of my face. “I see,” she said hoarsely.
We didn’t talk for another five minutes, and I’m glad we didn’t. A portion of Dr. King’s “I Have a Dream” speech was being broadcast. I didn’t have to look, but I knew she was crying just like I was. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her wipe away her tears.
“Muh’Dear loves to hear that speech,” I managed, blinking hard.
“I think everybody does,” she said stiffly.
We got quiet for another few minutes. Suddenly, Rhoda tapped my shoulder, and I turned to face her. “Y’all got any herbal tea?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I told her. I stood up and started backing out of the room.
“I’ll get it. You want a cup?” she said, rising. She grabbed my arm and pulled me back to the couch and pushed me down.
“Yeah,” I muttered, puzzled. Rhoda liked to be waited on when she visited. It was not like her to volunteer to do anything when there were no grown folks around for her to impress. I didn’t question her. I was still overwhelmed by what we had just seen and heard on TV. Besides, I was tired and didn’t want to be running back and forth to get refreshments anyway. I was glad she offered to do it.
She was gone for at least twenty minutes. The kitchen was less than a minute away, and the tea was the instant kind. All she had to do was heat some water. Just as I was about to go look for her, she returned, holding a tray with two cups of steaming tea.
“What took you so long? I was getting scared,” I told her, as she handed me my cup.
Instead of answering, she just shrugged and set the tray on the coffee table, then started drinking her tea. We sat in silence for another two minutes watching TV.
“He’s dead. He is actually and truly dead,” Rhoda whispered. I assumed she was talking about Martin Luther King. I patted her knee and watched as she stared at her cup. “Dead, dead, dead,” she chanted.
“I was planning to do my next book report on him,” I said in a hollow voice.
“I meant Buttwright,” she informed me. “He’s gone.”
“What did you say?” I turned my head so fast and hard my neck cracked, and I spilled tea on my lap. I had never seen such coldness in Rhoda’s eyes before, not even the day she saw the former policeman in the restaurant. I got a chill, and a sharp pain shot through my chest like a blazing sword. “What do you mean by that? Mr. Boatwright’s gone where?”
Rhoda nodded slowly. With a strange look on her face, she told me, “He’s…he’s finally gone to hell.”
I set my cup on the coffee table, wiped my lips with the back of my hand, and stood up. “What are you talking about?” I hollered. I could still hear the television, but I couldn’t understand anything being said. It was like my mind had drifted into another dimension. “Mr. Boatwright’s dead?”
Rhoda stood up too and looked me straight in the eyes, and told me, “Yep. I-just-killed-Buttwright.” I couldn’t believe my ears. We just stood there staring in one another’s eyes. Neither one of us even blinked.
Suddenly, I ran from the living room toward the stairs, with her close behind still holding her cup of tea. Mr. Boatwright’s door was closed. I knocked so hard my knuckles hurt.
“Oh, he won’t answer,” Rhoda told me casually. She gently pushed me aside and opened the door and we went in. “See there. I told