Alabama Noir

The Good Thief by Ravi Howard

Escambia County

For his final meal, all Thomas Elijah Raymond asked for was the cake, the one he remembered from Rachel’s Luncheonette in Phenix City. Prison rules would not allow food brought in from the outside. Safety concerns. So if Rachel Walker said yes, she would have to come to Holman on the day of the execution and make it there. How to feel about such a thing. Reluctant but somehow compelled. When the day arrived, the warden’s assistant greeted Rachel and escorted her to the kitchen. She could now match a face to the familiar voice she’d heard so many times over the phone in the few weeks before.

“Mrs. Walker, the warden will be here in just a minute. Can I get you anything in the meantime?” Francine asked.

“No thank you. I believe I’m fine.” Rachel wanted to sound more certain, and to dismiss any worry on her behalf. She wanted to manage that on her own.

As Francine disappeared out the swinging metal doors, Rachel watched her through round windows. The secretary walked past the corrections officer stationed outside and made her way down the corridor. The sound of her heels on the concrete was muted by the thick steel doors that had by then stopped swinging. Rachel was alone now, in the newly constructed wing of Holman Prison. It was the biggest kitchen she had ever seen.

The smell of her restaurant kitchen had always given her comfort. It was not the smell of any particular dish, but instead, the slow, thin layers built up over the years. There was always cinnamon near, even if it wasn’t needed for a recipe. Bowls of it curled like scrolls used to write down histories. She wished she had brought some with her. This place smelled of bleach and ammonia. It whispered nothing.

Stainless steel shelves lined the freshly painted walls. Ceiling lamps spread a dull glaze across the metal fixtures. Fluorescent bulbs gave a uniform pale, except for a single lamp that flickered, blinking rays the color newspaper turns. A dozen parallel steel islands rose from the white tile floor, wrapped in thick blue plastic pulled taut over narrow shelves and secured around the edges of the counters. Two adjacent counters had been uncovered and arranged for her use.

Francine said that the new wing had been finished just a few weeks ago. The men would arrive soon, and from this kitchen they would be fed. In the meantime, the warden had arranged for her to work here. According to Francine, the warden thought the space would be ideal. Out of the way. Clean.

Rachel had dressed for a warm autumn evening. She was not prepared for the cold confines of the prison kitchen. It seemed the temperature was set for a space full of toiling and heat, so the cold air, unchecked, was too much. The place wasn’t walk-in cold, but damn near, with air washing over her feet in waves, snaking around her ankles, and running along the floor. She placed her purse on the counter and removed a black apron, Rachel’s Luncheonette: 35 Years in the Baking in silver lettering. The silver blouse beneath her black suit matched the silver in her hair. This was how she dressed for the events she catered. Yet she had taken pause when readying for this occasion. There was no proper dress for preparing a last meal.

She’d made the three-hour drive alone. Told her family she was driving to Atmore for the weekend. Her daughter and son-in-law were busy running the kitchen, had been for years. A few days a week, she would walk the dining room and the lunch counter, speaking to the first-timers who had her cookbooks, had seen her on television here and there, and she greeted her regulars as well, trying to dole out the same welcome to any and all. She could come and go, be there without being there — her face on the menus, and the sides of buses, and the coffee bags and cookie tins they sold in the gift shop. So when she told her family she had a small job in Escambia County, a repast for an old acquaintance, she’d saved herself the strain of a lie she may have to remember later. The truth itself was troublesome enough.

The prison kitchen was empty except for the ingredients. Francine had requested them a week before. Shortening, sugar, molasses, salt, baking soda, and flour had been lined up in a perfect row, labels turned outward. Someone had seen fit. Perhaps an eye for detail, but certainly a nod toward normalcy in a place where there was little.

On a nearby table sat an antique mixer. In the kitchen of a prison, the comforts of home seemed strangely out of place. She flipped the power switch on the mixer, and the familiar hum rang out.

She remembered having a similar one years before. Its heavy body and thick insulation produced a hum unlike the rattling of the new ones that cost more than they should.

Chrome, as beautiful as it could be, was hard to keep clean. Working folk had no time to worry about fingerprints and smudges. The matte metal about the kitchen reflected indistinguishable masses of light and dark, but in the chrome she could see herself.

She examined her reflection in the mixer’s oblong body, getting closer to it until the moisture of her sigh obscured her image. With one of the neatly folded dish towels, she wiped the chrome clean.

“It was my mother’s.”

She had barely grown comfortable in the silence when his voice rang out.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you, Mrs. Walker. I’m Lionel Peters. The warden here. I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to meet you previously.”

He walked over to greet her but waited for Rachel to extend her hand first. An old-fashioned stance that she hoped would fade; indeed, Lionel Peters looked a few years her junior. Set in his ways, she was sure. But he carried himself a little older than he was, and his clothes didn’t help. His suit surely had the right cut and hang before the years settled into it. He was conscious of his posture, but the slouch in his jacket remained.

“Did Francine offer you anything when you came in? Excuse me if she didn’t. We can forget our manners working in here. Can I get you anything, coffee or something?”

“She offered, but I didn’t need anything.”

“Well, everything you asked for is right there on the counter. Your perishables are in the refrigerator over there. The ovens are behind you. Officer Earle will be right outside. Holler if you need anything. He can escort you to the facilities if you need to use them. I apologize we didn’t build a ladies’ room on this end. You sure I can’t get you anything, coffee or something?”

She shook her head.

“What else?” the warden said while flipping through a deck of papers on the clipboard he tapped against the counter. “I feel like I’m forgetting something. Oh yes, the list. I want to make sure we got everything. Shortening, eggs, sugar, cocoa, flour...”

“There is one thing. I realized much too late that I left something off the list: my vanilla syrup. We make our own to sell in the gift shop, so I’m just so used to having it around and not buying it. Coming down here’s out of the ordinary, to say the least, so clarity has been a little challenging.”

She knew they had rules about bringing things in, but she prayed they could look the other way. The warden was killing a man, and he had made a show of this little bit of kindness, so certainly he could see fit to say yes. She took from her bag a bottle and set it down gingerly, almost like a beg-your-pardon for it being there against the rules.

The bottle rested between them, and the warden walked a bit closer and turned it so the label faced outward like the rest of the ingredients. He smiled a bit then, looking from the label to her, the pattern in the design the same as the embroidery on the apron she carried. Good branding. Her smile in the photograph was clockwork, perfected after years of showing her teeth because she had to, and then because her enterprise made it worthwhile.

“I understand. I got no qualms with it, considering.”

He was decent enough, but Rachel could tell the warden wanted no part of this. The letter in two places said he would understand if she said no. She could just send a recipe, and they’d honor his wishes. But if she’d said no, she would still know Thomas Elijah Raymond’s execution date, and she would probably look at the clock well aware of the hour. She would have wandered there in her mind even if she had said no to making this drive.

“We pick a fine time to pay attention, don’t we,” she said. Rachel was looking away, but the edge to her voice was unmistakable.

The warden said nothing.

She paused before she spoke again. “Nobody looking after him for years, and he’s got all kinds of eyes on him now. More this evening, I suspect. Spectators.”

“Witnesses. The family of the victim.” He pressed the clipboard flat against his waist, a stance that seemed automatic. “He doesn’t deny what he did.”

“I’m thinking about what we’re about to do. Me and you both. Trying to wake up and go about my business tomorrow and thinking back on this here.”

A hand on the counter then, like candor needed a different sort of balance before the words came freely. “You’ll probably feel worse about this tomorrow than you do today. I always do.”

“Why do it then?” she said.

And there they were on the other side of the nicety. She saw in the warden a decent man, but maybe that was part of the problem. What decent folks were willing to go along with. He was quiet for a minute, and he breathed in and out with too much intention. He glanced away in a room with no windows, and he seemed too accustomed to conjuring some good memory, a little daylight stored away for days such as this one. The ease in his face said as much.

“My wife reminded me this morning that we ate at your place awhile back. We were on our way to see some of her people in Tuskegee. Enjoyed it immensely — just a good meal on a good afternoon. I didn’t mention it to Raymond, because it’s rude to reminisce on things. Get casual with the outside world. Do you remember him?”

She shook her head. “So many kids over the years, it’s impossible to say.”

“Well, in any case, you’re appreciated.”

“Please tell your wife I said thank you. To you as well. Like you said, it doesn’t sit easy, so — well, thank you.”

It was quiet for a while again, except for the lights and the freezers, and the sound of Lionel’s wedding band against the countertop, a little sonar to bring him back to whatever was next on his clipboard.

“You sure I can’t get you some coffee or something?”

“No thank you. You’ve done just fine with the mixer.”

The warden excused himself then, and as he made his way down the corridor, the metal doors swung to silence. Rachel was alone again, her mind holding vigil. She had lied to the warden about Raymond. How could she not remember?

The boy couldn’t have been more than six or so, because she remembered him sitting at the table with what looked like his grandparents, coloring the children’s menu with the Crayolas she passed out in sardine cans. His family was on the way to Huntsville, the space center they said, and he had lined up the salt and pepper shakers, the Louisiana Hot, and the Heinz bottle as rocket ships taking off from the tabletop. To get dessert, he had to promise to finish the green beans, alone on the plate where the chicken had been, the wing and drumstick reduced to gristle and bone. He chewed with purpose but not enjoyment, like he was practicing handwriting with his jaws. But the booth they chose was across from the cake display, so he did a bit of window-shopping while he finished the last of the beans. Rachel was on the other side of the glass loading the shelf of red velvets. She remembered him studying his options. He didn’t like the green beans one bit, but he’d kept his word and intended to make the most of it.

He asked for the molasses cake, while his grandparents had red velvet and buttermilk pie. They thanked Rachel as they left, and then she looked away and didn’t see the boy fall to the ground. A child on the floor raised no alarm at first. Kids were prone to go from dillydallying straight to sprinting and stumbling. And the tantrums. But something was wrong because when Rachel finally noticed the boy on the floor, his eyes were widening as he struggled to breathe.

In the commotion, his people thought he was choking, but there didn’t seem to be any obstruction in his throat. He held his mouth open wide, still searching for air. Rachel got to the boy first, the allergy syrup from the first aid kit in hand. He coughed up the first dose, but she gave him more while his grandmother rocked him, his grandfather fanning with a napkin. By then the boy was breathing easier, and the gentle wheeze faded a bit.

After taking several deep, full breaths, the boy cried some and peered around. He hadn’t lost consciousness, but his eyes looked beyond them, apparently seeing nothing. Then he finally recognized them — Rachel, his grandparents — and it seemed he had to lock eyes on everyone gathered around him to fully return to the world. And then it was over, the scare behind them.

Rachel was always careful about nuts and other common allergies. But the boy’s reaction to molasses was a rare occurrence. People like to sue over such things, but these folks sent her a letter of thanks. She would find out later that the grandparents were guardians, new to his care, and they hadn’t known about his condition. She wondered then about his parents, what tragedy or rift had brought him to the care of his elders.

It was a blessing to discover his condition in caring company. Beneath the cursive of the grown-up handwriting, the boy had signed his name: JoJo.

In what she read about him during his trial, she discovered that his grandparents had died. He had made his money as a day laborer, and Thomas had killed a man who refused to pay him. He had gone through the victim’s pockets for the money he was owed. Murder in the commission of a robbery.

There would be no clemency. As part of the death decree, the state of Alabama would use three chemicals for his lethal injection. After the first drug, he would lose consciousness. The second would shut down his muscles. The third would stop his heart.

What Rachel carried in her bottle would do the same, answering the young man’s request for a final and private mercy. All he asked for was the cake like the one that showed him what his body could not take, what in the right dose might knock him unconscious or even kill him. Molasses had stopped his breathing once, but he’d been a boy then. She knew it wouldn’t be enough for a man, so she had turned to her garden.

She had years ago planted a small plot of cassava in her greenhouse and used it for her baking. The lined skin of the cassava felt as rugged as cypress knees, but the flesh, handled carefully, was a wonder to be fried or roasted or used in her baking. She took the time to learn how to prepare it safely. Cassava carried its poison in the coarse skin and the leaves, the parts exposed to the world. And perhaps that was how it should be, a shield to survive in a certain kind of world — to thrive even. To carry out JoJo’s request, Rachel had saved what was meant to be discarded, the cyanide in the pot liquor, thickened with the starch of the root.

During his trial, Thomas Elijah Raymond had been shuttled back and forth from the new county jail to the new courthouse. Depending on the road they took, he may have passed the hillside where Russell County did their lynching, out on a hill they named Golgotha. The name had confused Rachel when she heard those stories as a child. The killers had tried to sanctify their work, but it was nothing more than blasphemy. She knew that hilltop from the Easter hymns, New Testament scriptures, and the Sunday school books. Three crosses. The Bad Thief cursed it all, and the Good Thief asked for grace and mercy.

Thomas had asked her for the same, and she’d brought his grace and his mercy, and it floated there in the thick sweetness of her bottle, a dose large enough to claim his body. He would die that evening, but she wouldn’t let them make a carnival of him. The spectators would have nothing to witness, because he could do his dying, make his peace, in private.

She turned the dial on the oven to 350 degrees. The perishables, she retrieved from the refrigerator. The other ingredients, she opened, poured, and measured. The pans, greased and floured, lay waiting for the batter. When the time came, she turned on the mixer and listened to its baritone hum as it folded the necessary elements, one into the other.

Her Job by Tom Franklin

Clarke County

Three months to the day — it was past time, she told herself — she drove to her son’s house to pack his things, get the place ready to sell. She hadn’t been back since cleaning up the mess in the bathroom, where he’d done it and given her five hours of hard work, so much bleach it burned her eyes and, perhaps permanently, irritated her throat. She’d avoided going inside the house since and left it locked, driving out here once or twice a week to make sure no one was vandalizing it, paying a black boy to cut the grass and collect the mail.

Now she stood at the door, finding the key among other keys and fitting it in.

Inside it smelled. She’d emptied the garbage before leaving three months ago so it wasn’t that; the fridge was empty too, and the deep freeze. She walked by the cellar door and stopped. That’s where it was coming from, something sour, a dead rat maybe. She’d never been down there, in all these years, just in the living room where they’d sit, her chattering and him grunting when he had to.

The cellar door was padlocked. Her last time here the slow-lidded deputy hadn’t even bothered to go down there he was so ready to get out. She’d tried the keys then and none had fit and none fit now either. It was why she’d brought a crowbar.

She went to the recliner where she’d left it by her purse and was sweating by the time she pried the hinge off.

The door swung in and she stepped back, the stench so awful she covered her mouth and nose. She was suddenly frightened, thinking how secluded this house was, the nearest neighbor a quarter-mile away. Her son used to say that was the one thing he liked about Clarke County being so isolated. He said he could be himself and not give a bleep what anybody else thought. She hadn’t wasted much time worrying about what he meant by being himself. Who else could he be? The truth was she had no idea why he’d done what he did in the bathroom. He’d always been a private boy, guarded, gone at seventeen, she never learned where. And he’d been back, here, in this house, a year before she even found out. Gone for a whole year and then back for another whole year, with no word! Worse, she’d heard about his return from Lamar Jones, of all people. How delighted Lamar had been to tell her, how everyone knew about the son before the mother, their dirty laundry flapping for the world. She’d come over that day all those years ago and knocked and then pounded, and her son had pretended not to be home. She’d known he was, though. She’d felt him.

She felt him here too, now, as she descended the stairs, tracing her fingers along a rail silky with spiderweb and dust, the crowbar heavy in her other hand.

At the bottom it was cooler, the smell worse, the concrete floor so cold she could feel it through her shoes. She stood among vague shadows, a washing machine maybe, or a giant sink, and swept her hand in the air until she touched a string.

When she pulled it and the light flickered on, everything became clear, everything, and she knew that she’d always known.

The crowbar clanged by her feet.

It had been him, her son, him all along. That missing girl, from Thomasville, from such a good family...

That poor girl, her poor, poor mother...

She backed up the stairs pulling at her fingers and at the top began to scream.

But nobody heard, not out here, this far out, not in Clarke County, and soon her voice was gone and her throat sore and she went into the bathroom, panting, thinking she might vomit.

But she didn’t. Instead she remembered her last visit, a few days before he did what he did, and she wondered now if the girl had been in the cellar then, if she’d heard them talking, above, through the ceiling, did the girl wonder at the mother’s high, empty chitchat? That’s your problem, her son would say. Who cares what she thinks? Sitting in that recliner of his, he would’ve reminded her of, say, the time that lady at the church said he stole from the collection money and she, his mother, believed the lady over her own son. He would remind her how, later, another boy confessed. One thing nobody told you about being a mother is that they grow up and remember all your mistakes.

But did he remember the croup, the screaming, how she had to sit up all night with him? Did he remember getting expelled from Bible school for biting? From elementary school for exposing himself to a girl? Did he remember all the snotty teachers, nosy neighbors, and ex-husbands? Did he remember ignoring the one who tore herself open to give him the very breath he seemed to resent?

Maybe she would throw up after all. At least the bathroom was clean. When she was done she would rise from her knees and go outside to her car and come back in with her bleach and her brushes and get to work.

Another thing nobody told you about being a mother: you never really stop.

Xenia, Queen of the Dark by Thom Gossom Jr.

Avondale, Birmingham

The sliver, a lone ray of sunlight, slipped inside the crack of the door, cutting into the pitch-black darkness inside the building, and shined on the thick black curtains she hid behind. Where in the hell was Justin?

She was scared! Pissed and scared. She had told herself she would not be, but... She had promised her therapist she would not be, but... Her brain raced uncontrollably. She could not slow it down. What ifs chased each other in circles. She had to face it. That was part of the agreement with her therapist. But... what if it was going to start all over again? What if they were all waiting outside, cameras and microphones? What if it was a joke?

“You leaving?” asked Arnold, the big reliable engineer, her bodyguard, the closest thing she had to a friend other than Justin.

Mentally occupied, she heard him but didn’t. She looked right through the massive Arnold, but didn’t see him. Would mass hysteria again be a part of her life?

“Yes, waiting on Justin,” she finally answered.

“You okay?” Even though Arnold knew the whole story, he pretended he didn’t. She pretended she didn’t want or need Arnold to be standing there looking after her. Arnold pretended he didn’t notice.

Arnold was a Birmingham native, and like many Birmingham natives he was a daily lunch customer at Niki’s West on Finley Avenue, a popular buffet restaurant featuring home-style cooking. It was part of his daily itinerary and his three-hundred-pound legend. When he wasn’t working, he was eating. When he wasn’t eating, he spent many hours in porn chat rooms where women knew him by name but not physical appearance. He used his handsome cousin’s photo to entice the older, more mature women he preferred.

Justin and Arnold were Xenia’s entourage, confidants, and support system. Arnold, a childhood friend with no family of his own, was a brother to both Justin and Xenia, as well as a part-time bodyguard to Xenia. Justin trusted Arnold with Xenia’s life. Arnold saw it as an honorable calling.

Arnold opened the curtains and let in the morning sunshine. It shined brightly in the big window that was blacked out from the outside. Xenia gave him a look.

“I’ll just be right here,” he reassured her as he stepped into the next room. “Get my phone and call Justin.”

Call Justin. That had not occurred to her. Fear does that, she thought.

The juxtaposition of the beautiful sunshine and the ugly fear crawling inside of her... would have made her laugh if she was not so terrified. Now that she was back, the terror, like last time... struck a nerve.

Where was Justin? He was supposed to be here! DAMNIT, JUSTIN!

Six hours earlier

The hands on the old-fashioned black circular Seth Thomas clock on the faded green wall sat still. No motion. Time literally stood still.

There had been so much anticipation of this night, the return of Xenia, Queen of the Dark. The Internet world buzzed. Websites and social media platforms crashed around the world. Media of all types descended onto Birmingham, where she had resurfaced to claim her crown.

A nervous twinge tickled her insides.

Slowly... but definitely, the big hand on the old clock shifted right, made a loud click, and covered the minute hand, striking midnight. The theme music kicked in.

“Girl on Fire” by Alicia Keys brought the room and the international audience to life. The Queen was back! Arnold grinned at her through missing teeth, from his technical sanctuary in the accompanying booth. The new studio Justin had built for her, in a nondescript office park in Birmingham’s Avondale community, was perfect. Xenia had a condo she called home, with underground parking so she wouldn’t be seen outside. But she was so excited to be back; she often spent her days at the studio working.

Diana Krall’s aptly named “I’ve Changed My Address” was next.

It was almost as dark inside the building as it was outside. “The Queen of the Dark likes it that way,” she said.

She’d inherited her fondness of the dark from her dad, who had been one of the first black deejays in the 1970s to work at a white station in the city of Birmingham, when AM radio dominated the dials. His handle, “Ronnie Dodd up here in the dark,” fit his midnight-to-six shift in a downtown high-rise. Because of his tales, Xenia had never considered a daytime gig.

She knew they were all waiting: fans, friends, and newcomers.

Not yet ready to fully engage, and to pace herself for the next six hours, Xenia came back with “Everything Must Change” by Randy Crawford.

The worldwide promotion for her return had been off the charts. The big sponsors, their briefcases full of financial promises, hustled aboard their corporate jets and headed to Birmingham International Airport. They all wanted her: Good Morning America, The Today Show, Hollywood, the fashion houses. The same sponsors who’d abandoned her when the trouble arose now wanted back in. They would have to pay! Justin would see to that. He had the whip hand.

“Less is more!” bellowed Justin in one of their backyard sponsorship meetings over spicy Popeyes chicken and beer. “We make Xenia super exclusive!”

It had been shameless, but strategic. Xenia would be everywhere and nowhere at the same time. There would be no appearances — she would not be seen in public (without a disguise). No television interviews. Yet she would be seen all over television, social media, and heard on radio in carefully crafted messages promoting her return.

“Everyone will know Xenia, of the Dark, but no one will know Xenia, Queen of the Dark,” Justin bragged.

The strategy fit Xenia. She’d had enough of the spotlight the first time around. Besides... everything was changed, different. She didn’t need or want that anymore. Fear brings humility.

The show’s format would be the same. Xenia would command the midnight-to-dawn hours and she would talk, interact with her worldwide audience, play music, interview celebrities, interview whomever, until six a.m., five nights a week.

Arnold counted her down to the new beginning, their future: “And three... two... one.” He pointed his big stubby finger at her, and she went into full Xenia mode.

“Hey, everybody,” Xenia’s smooth melodious voice cooed across the Internet. She breathed seductively into the microphone, “I am Xenia, Queen of the Dark.”

The Queen was back! If it was possible, the world shook.

She had been born beautiful. Everyone in the hospital agreed. The green eyes set deeply in her mocha-colored skin and wavy, flowing, jet-black hair made her stand out among the other newborns. “What a beautiful baby!” the onlookers all exclaimed. They were Xenia’s first audience.

She grew to be more beautiful. Her smile, her full lips, her body cried out for attention. The charisma that flowed from her character, her personality, and her kindness highlighted her physical beauty. Kindness was the most important thing her dad had taught her.

As a teen and young woman, modeling was her foundation. It came easy to her. Stand there, put some nasty thought in your head about some boy you know, and pose. She was good at it and it paid her well. As one of the world’s most sought-after supermodels, she did promotions, advertising, and runways at all the major fashion stops in Paris, London, and New York. Her mixed ethnicity made her seem exotic and she was accepted all over the world. When asked about her background, Xenia exclaimed, “I am Xenia, I belong to the whole of humanity!” Until... she started to feel like a piece of meat.

“When that happens it’s time to get out,” her parents had warned.

Ronnie Dodd, her dad, had come to Birmingham from Opelika, where he had been hired for the midnight-to-six time slot by the local radio station because no one else wanted it. “Give it to the young black guy,” management had reasoned. Ronnie became Opelika history, the first black guy... thing. Ronnie then turned the opportunity and the station into a moneymaker. Within a year he was scooped up by WSGT, the largest and most popular station in Birmingham. WSGT broadcast from a downtown high-rise, which looked out over the city. Ronnie was once again given the midnight-to-six slot. It wasn’t long before “Ronnie Dodd up here in the dark” was born.

Within a couple of years of arriving in Birmingham, Ronnie knocked up his girlfriend. It caused a stir.

Mariessa was her own melting pot, Anglo mixed with Greek, Italian, and Latino. In Alabama, if you weren’t black you were white. Being white, she wasn’t supposed to be Ronnie’s girlfriend. Not openly in the 1970s, in Birmingham, Alabama. Hell, it was still illegal for blacks and whites to marry.

Her world was the over-the-mountain upscale neighborhoods and country clubs of Birmingham’s suburbs. Her family, without hesitation, barred her from ever bringing Ronnie home again after that first time, after dating him in the shadows for a year. Plus, Ronnie was ten years older and already had a son, eight-year-old Justin, with his high school girlfriend in Opelika.

Mariessa announced her pregnancy to her family on a Sunday after church. Her mother, knowing how headstrong her daughter could be, accused her of intentionally getting pregnant. Had she? Mariessa smiled. Rather than fight it out, she and Ronnie packed up his VW bus, Justin, and the newly born Xenia, and headed to California. They were married on Venice Beach with Justin as his dad’s best man and tiny Xenia in her baby carrier, the flower girl. Ronnie worked out a deal for the midnight-to-six job at KPCH in Santa Monica overlooking the Pacific Ocean. He was operating in the dark once again, this time in California.

Mariessa’s mother led the way back.

Marcella, Mariessa’s mother, an educator/artist, decided that being in her only child and grandchild’s life was worth the friction with her husband John. She didn’t confront him about bringing them back to Birmingham, nor did she ask him to visit them in California with her. She instead made the cross-country flight three times a year, rented a small cabin in Santa Monica, painted at a local studio, and enjoyed her family and the Southern California lifestyle. During these visits she came to think of Mariessa’s stepson, Justin, as her grandchild as well. She grew as close to him as she was with Xenia.

John’s resistance would last another fifteen years.

Working to piece her family together through the grandchildren, Marcella would pay for Justin to go to law school if he agreed to do it in Alabama. Justin consented. He alone moved back with his grandmother. Marcella leased an apartment for him. John insisted Justin stay with them, but in the gardener’s cottage behind the house.

After law school, John bragged about his “black grandchild,” who had finished atop his class and was recruited by every major law firm in the state. John’s firm hired him. Justin was on his way to being a pillar in the New Birmingham.

The Temptations’ “My Girl” ended.

“Hey, everybody! It’s so good to reconnect. I love you all,” Xenia told her fans around the world. Mentions, hashtags, and tweets all echoed their love back to her. “I’m back, stronger than ever. Better than ever,” she assured all.

Xenia’s voice sounded almost like Sade singing — smooth, soothing, and personal. Her listeners felt she was talking directly to each one of them. And she was.

She got right to the heart of the matter: “Hey, everybody, I want to be perfectly clear... I did not have an abortion.” She dropped that bomb in a firm and even tone.

The rest of her soliloquy to “her people” around the world went smoothly. She went into more detail about her miscarriage than she could have ever imagined. The miscarriage had almost killed her. To then be accused publicly of having an abortion! How could she? Why would she? The pregnancy had made her so happy. So excited. Her life had meaning beyond herself. She had started bringing little baby trinkets to the studio.

It had begun with a phone call, “The Voice,” and then the firestorm on social media. She was still on the air in Santa Monica, having taken over the midnight shift from her dad, who was semiretired.

“You’re going to hell! Hellfire and damnation for you! I know your secret,” the creepy voice had threatened. The Voice accused her of killing her baby. “A mixed-breed murderer, a whore,” he had called her. He demanded that she reveal to her audience who the dad was and whether she had told him about the abortion. “You’re going to hell,” he repeated. “You got the devil in you. And I will be your judge and jury.” When he was ignored he became more threatening, more menacing. I will be waiting... and when you least expect me, he texted.

There were not enough ways to stop him. Even when his calls to the studio and her cell were blocked, he used burner phones to text and e-mail. He dominated every night’s show. Changing her numbers did no good. Somehow, he always found her... Every time she blocked his attempts he got angrier. “You will burn in hell!” he spit at her. They were the longest nights of her life.

“Who is this?” she would question him repeatedly. She had no idea. She had not dated steadily for some time. She was not interested in marriage. Her life would not be traditional.

One memorable night, each word of explanation triggered more e-mails, texts, tears, phone calls, tweets, and hate from the people she had thought were her fans. How could they be so mean, she wondered, when they don’t even know the real story?

She wanted to explain... yet the artificial insemination was no one’s business but hers. Tabloids splashed their pages with Xenia and her abortion. Is she a whore, a murderer? they asked.

Xenia became another fallen celebrity. The pitfalls of fame nearly ruined her. The social media rumors of an abortion and the harassing threats, on top of her miscarriage, sent her into a hole she could not crawl out of.

She stopped trying to explain herself. She fell apart. She refused to work. Refused to eat. Refused counseling. Refused to leave her bedroom. It was her right to grieve and give in to her terror, and she did.

Her doctor declared her physically fit, but still she wouldn’t utter a word. She listened to the hip-hop artist snaPz’s suicidal song “Dear God” over and over. Then it was Van Morrison’s lyrics, “Just like Greta Garbo, I just want to be alone.” Finally, on their fifth try, Mariessa and Marcella got her in front of the right therapist. Still, Xenia went two more months without speaking. At four months, she started crying, inconsolable weeping. At six months, she announced she wanted to go back to her show. “I have to,” she declared.

Justin began the rebuild. He, Marcella, Mariessa, Ronnie, Arnold, and even John brought her back through love and reason. The new show would originate out of Birmingham.

“You’re the girl,” her mother and grandmother assured her.

The night rolled on. Three o’clock. Four o’clock. It was as if the Queen had never left. Xenia gave a shout out to her friends in Cumberland, Maryland, and the annual DelFest Music Festival that featured the folk group the Infamous Stringdusters.

Aretha Franklin’s “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman”... caused a sensation with many of the female listeners.

Women tweeted, e-mailed, and called with their own stories. Subjects were dear and personal. Men listened.

Xenia took a couple of calls. A guy flirted with her and then proposed. Xenia laughed it off.

The Internet blew up. Social media numbers set records, then more records. News media trucks roamed around Birmingham broadcasting from the many Xenia parties, receptions, and concerts. Xenia had not sought the attention again, but it felt good.

She soothed the Internet crowd with Dr. John’s version of “In a Sentimental Mood.”

Then... “I know where you live, whore! You can’t get away from me. You’re the devil.” It was him! She knew it instantly. The Voice. She froze. Fear shot through every fiber of her body. The Voice, the one who had started the abortion rumor, the one who had terrorized her. “Yeah, I’m back, whore.”

The last time he had stalked and terrorized her, nearly driving her crazy. She became the victim of Internet bullshit and the many people who had nothing else to do around the world but share and forward Internet bullshit.

He had never been caught. Justin and John had tried. They’d worked with police and private cyber hackers. They’d invested in seminars. How to Bait and Catch the Anonymous Person Harassing You; How to Stop Online Stalking; How to Catch a Cyber Stalker. But the Voice was always two steps ahead. After it all became too much, Xenia had dropped off the grid.

Her mind now raced. What if he’s here? In Birmingham? What if...?

“You think you can move and get away from me?” the Voice threatened. “You think I won’t bring the wrath of God Almighty down on you? I’ll prove it to you—” The call abruptly cut off before he could finish.

Arnold had activated the security and tracking measures that John, Justin, and a young technology associate at the law firm had installed as they built the new studio. Arnold swiftly blocked another incoming call from the Voice. A call was immediately placed to the Birmingham chief of police, a good friend of Justin’s. Arnold switched the phone line to another caller. A different man who expressed his admiration: “Hey, Queen, we love you.” But the damage had been done.

Frozen, Xenia’s look to Arnold asked if the security measures were working. Were they able to track him? Could they locate him? Turn him over to the police? Finally get rid of him? If only she could be certain... she would not be so afraid. What if he really does try to kill me?

In the lengthening silence, Arnold cued up “I Can’t Quit” by Robert Cray.

She was surprised at how quickly the fear had returned. How quickly and immediately she felt threatened. Would she really be able to move on?

Arnold would not look at her. He nervously fidgeted back and forth between his iPad, cell, and laptop. His hands raced over the keyboard, clicked his mouse, and jumped from one piece of sophisticated equipment to another while red, green, and yellow digital lights flashed. Were the lights signaling that they had caught him? Did they have a line on him?

When Arnold finally made eye contact, she knew. His face loudly spoke his disappointment. The Voice had eluded them again. Damn!

Social media messages continued to flow in, all positives, all full of love.

We love you, Queen.

We’ll catch him.

The fight for Xenia’s soul was being fought over the Internet. Her mother and her grandmother texted, Be strong. Stay fierce. You’re the girl.

Emboldened and determined, Xenia ended it all with five words: “I have spoken the truth.” The simplicity reverberated in the Birmingham communities of Titusville and Woodlawn, in the suburbs of Vestavia, with fishermen in Maine, millennials in Japan, down below in Australia. #TruthMatters became the leading hashtag the world over.

The Voice did not return. The Queen relaxed. She reconciled herself to the life she had chosen. Could she handle it?

She played snaPz’s “Neva That.”

She signed off with, “Love, peace, and happiness to all.” With emphasis she promised, “See you again tonight at midnight.” Arnold grinned and nodded his approval. The show had been a big hit! She had made it all the way back. The Internet buzzed, people around the world expressing their joy.

Now she stood back, maybe ten feet from the front door. The Voice was all she could hear in her head. I know where you live. She wanted to move but couldn’t. The uncharacteristic hesitancy upset her. Deal with it, she told herself. Was she afraid to go outside? No! Yes! She was. Would they all be waiting? Would he be waiting? Deal with it, she repeated in her head.

The old framed cover of Esquire dated December 1986 grabbed her attention. Ronnie had left it hanging by the door so she would see it when she entered and when she left. The cover title read, What Are You Doing with the Rest of Your Life? She smiled. At seventeen, she had asked her dad, “Were you ever afraid of working at night?”

“Most nights,” he had answered. “It’s some interesting cats out after midnight. Got some threats when I started dating your mom. But that motivated me. Fuck fear, I’d tell myself. Once I started spinning the records and talking with the people, it was on.”

Her fear dissipated. Each step made her stronger. Arnold walked with her. You’re the girl echoed within her.

Then she saw him, a dark silhouette in the sunshine. The fear shot through her like a.38-caliber bullet.

Justin! It was Justin! The fear left. The terror subsided. The tenseness exited her body. She relaxed. An uncontrollable smile raced across her face.

Fuck fear, she thought, and stepped out into the bright sunlight.