Originally published in APB: Artists Against Police Brutality. Copyright © 2015

Innocent Bystanders

She’d taken the train all the way home from school, the second in her family to attend college (hopefully the first to finish.) The end of a phone call said, not in words but in the shaky goodbye, that she should skip her class that night and check on things. The family of three had little money. If it wasn’t for her scholarship, college would be all but impossible. The few dollars they could spare went to their current problem.

A flush and moments later, her mother emerged from the bathroom, slumbering down the hall, wiping her nose and sniffling.

“Help yourself to some dinner there,” her mother said, waving slightly in the direction of the kitchen.

Cooling on the stove lay a Dutch pot of stewed chicken. She could dish herself a plate of rice and peas, lay the warm meat on top and ladle on the salty sweet curried gravy. She didn’t want to even though she was hungry. Instead, she followed her mother to the darkened living room and watched her ease into the chair in the corner. Heavy red curtains pulled closed over drawn down blinds entombed them, the air thick with the rich scent of the cooked meat. Time ticked in the glass-encased clock, the polyester butterfly-tipped second hand circling.

The plastic-covered couch squeaked and moaned as the daughter sat down, placing her backpack on the floor beside her. She held vigil with her mother with no words of advice or useful skills to offer. Only her presence. And even that seemed like a bit of a waste. Still, she had come.

“Dey beat ’im, yuh know,” her mother said looking at her daughter, wiping her nose and sniffling loudly. “Dey tumped ’im in de face. Dey made ’im say he did what yuh and I know he could never do.”

Her brother had never been in trouble before in his life. Sure, he could be a jerk sometimes, but the reported story sounded like no one she knew.

“Every time I think of ’im in prison—” her mother stood up and rushed to return to the bathroom.