Chapter 10: Posthumous Truths
Coach Miller stood there, a mountain of quiet fury in the too-small living room. Mr. Vance cleared his throat, the sound awkward. “Regardless, a police report has been filed,” he said, refusing to meet Dante’s eyes. “The school board will need a statement.”
“You’ll get one,” Marcus said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He placed a heavy hand on Dante’s good shoulder. “From me, from my wife, from our son. It’ll detail every mark on that boy.” Dre moved closer, his shoulder pressing against Dante’s in a solid line of warmth.
Dre moved closer, his shoulder pressing against Dante’s in a solid line of warmth. The pressure was an anchor, holding him steady against the sudden, swaying feeling that the ground might open up. “We’ve got you, son,” Marcus said again, his voice the only solid thing in the room.
Upstairs, the bedroom door clicked shut, muffling the low voices from below. Marcus stood at the foot of his bed, staring at the uniform laid out on the quilt. “I should have seen it, Lenora,” he said, his voice rough. “A cop sees patterns. A father sees his kid.” He dragged a hand over his face, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “I saw Dante. I just saw my boy.”
Lenora came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his back. “He wore a hell of a mask, Marcus,” she whispered into the dark fabric. “We all saw what he needed us to see.” Her words were soft, but they didn’t soften the hard knot of failure in his gut. “Hearing him break like that today…” Marcus trailed off, the memory of Dante’s shattered sobs tightening his throat.
He finished buttoning his shirt with sharp, precise movements. “I practically raised him,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “All for that piece of shit to treat him like trash.” The duty belt was heavy in his hands, the weight of the cuffs and the gun familiar and cold. He and four other deputies were meeting at the station in twenty minutes. The plan was simple: go to Alonzo Petuli’s house and arrest him.
A while later, two cruisers rolled to a stop outside the well-kept colonial, their headlights cutting the evening gloom. The porch light was on, a single yellow eye in the darkness. Marcus took the steps slowly, his polished shoes echoing on the wood. He rang the bell twice, the chime echoing inside.
The door swung open. A young man, older than Dante, with the same sharp jawline but harder eyes, stood in the doorway. He smelled of cheap beer and stale smoke. “Yeah?” he said, his gaze sliding past Marcus to the deputies on the lawn.
The young man’s jaw ticked. “Hi,” Marcus spoke, his voice level and official. “We’re here to speak with Alonzo Petuli. Is he home?”
The young man seemed nervous but carefully schooled his features. “Yeah, sir.” His eyes were dark hollows, exhaustion etched deep. “Mind if we come in?” Marcus asked, already stepping forward. “Yeah,” the young man mumbled, stepping back. “You all can come.”
Two officers stayed with the young man, whose name was Damon, in the foyer. Marcus and another officer named Bradley headed to the basement where Damon said his father was. The wooden stairs groaned under their weight, the air turning thick and stale.
There were bottles everywhere. They rounded the couch after calling for Vance a few times with no answer. They stood in shock. Vance’s chest moved, but his face looked like he’d been initiated into a feral street gang.
“Jesus,” said Bradley, his hand going to his radio. Although Marcus would have loved to let him lay in his own blood, let him drown in it, he had a duty as the chief officer to call for EMTs. The sirens started their distant wail as he walked back up the stairs.
He saw the officers taking Damon’s statement about Vance. At that moment, a woman he assumed to be Mrs. Petuli came stumbling down the stairs. One of the other officers moved to see if she was okay. She swatted him away and grabbed a half-empty wine bottle from the hall table, downing a long gulp.
Damon made a sigh as his hands slid down his face. “Christ, Mami, you almost broke your fucking neck.” She mumbled incoherently, her robe hanging open. Damon’s eyes looked so tired, his tears held back by sheer will.
Marcus then pulled him aside, away from the others. “Do you know what happened to Vance? He’s pretty fucked up.” Damon shrugged, looking at the stained carpet. “I don’t know. He was pretty drunk last night. He left after I pulled him off of my brother, and then came stumbling in and fell on the floor.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I helped him to the couch.”
Marcus knew he was lying, but he nodded his silent understanding. He watched Damon’s gaze drift back to his mother, who was now swaying near the staircase. “You know Dante’s talked about you,” Marcus said, keeping his voice low. Damon’s eyes snapped back to him, wary and exhausted. “My door is always open, young man, if you need someone to talk to.”
Damon looked at his shoes, scuffed against the stained entryway tile. “I can’t leave my Mami,” he muttered, the words thick with a defeat that seemed older than he was. “As you can see, she’ll get herself killed.” He ran a hand through his greasy hair. “Have you guys tried to get her into a rehab facility?” Marcus asked, already knowing the answer.
Damon shook his head no, a sharp, frustrated jerk of his chin. The EMTs brushed past them with their gear, their focused movement a stark contrast to the house’s stunned stillness. Later that night, Marcus sat at his own kitchen table, the events replaying. He talked with Dante about it, about Damon, about the mother stuck in her grief.
Dante was fond of his mother, but admitted she pushed everyone away. He said it got worse once his dad cheated. She was already taking antidepressants because of Alonte’s death, and the cheating was the nail in the coffin. Dante recollected on his Mami’s cooking, how she loved her boys, always telling them to treat women right. Marcus told him that maybe having an intervention for her, trying to convince her to go to rehab, could get her on the road to recovery. Dante agreed, his voice quiet but determined over the phone. The stage was set.
The stage was set. The next day, Dre, Dante, Marcus, and Lenora all sat in the tense silence of the Jackson’s living room, waiting. Damon had gone upstairs alone to get his mother, his footsteps heavy on the creaking stairs. He returned minutes later, guiding her carefully down each step, one hand on her elbow.
She was a beautiful Italian woman with dark hair and Dante’s same green eyes, but now she looked frighteningly frail. Her silk robe hung loose on her frame, and her eyes held a deep, vacant sadness. “What’s going on?” she asked, her voice thin as paper, looking around the crowded room with confused apprehension.
As she took the seat Damon offered, he gently straightened the collar of her robe, his own face burning with a quiet shame for her appearance. He took a sharp breath, steeling himself. “Mom, we’re here because we care about you,” he began, his voice cracking under the weight, “and we need you to care about yourself, too.”
She rolled her eyes, about to cut him off, but he didn’t allow it. He was sick of her defense mechanisms. “I know how hard it was losing Alonte,” he continued, the name hanging in the still air. “I was his big brother.”
He knelt before her, forcing her to meet his gaze. “But Mami, you still have two other boys.” His voice broke completely. “We needed you. We still do.”
The room held its breath. Damon wiped his face with his sleeve, a helpless, childish gesture. “I have no real relationship with my brother,” he confessed, the words tumbling out in a raw rush, “because I was always trying to appease Dad.”
He leaned closer, his next words a whisper everyone heard. “But Dad hurt me, Mami.” A choked sob escaped him. “He touched me. Every fucking night for years.”
He looked over at Dante, who was pale and rigid on the sofa. “I separated myself from my brother because I didn’t want him to be Dad’s target.” He turned his shattered eyes back to his mother. “So I was the strong one.”
His final sentence was barely audible, a confession laid bare. “I only wish you weren’t so depressed that you could have seen my sadness.” A single, hot tear traced a path through the stubble on his cheek and fell onto her trembling hand.
A single, hot tear traced a path through the stubble on his cheek and fell onto her trembling hand. The room froze, holding its breath, every sound swallowed by Damon’s raw confession.
Dante couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Damon,” he called out in a broken voice, pushing himself up from the sofa. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve known, I could have done something.” His own guilt choked him, sharp and sudden. “I just assumed you felt like Dad, that you hated me too.”
Damon turned his shattered gaze from their mother to Dante, his face softening. “I’ve never hated you, Dante,” he said, his voice weary but clear. “I always rooted for you from afar.” He swallowed hard, the truth heavy on his tongue. “You were what I wished I had the courage to be.” A sad, hollow laugh escaped him. “Because as long as one of us made it out from under that monster, that had to count for something.”
He looked directly at his brother, years of distance collapsing in his eyes. “But I always knew it was you, Dante.” He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. “I stayed away, as I felt like if we got too close it would make you a target.” His shoulders slumped under the weight of his own failure. “I should have protected you better. I pray you can forgive me one day.”
Dante took a shaky step forward, his own bruises forgotten. Damon offered him a tired, resigned smile. “I hope one day I can be as brave as you were last night, standing up to that fucking monster.”
Dante crossed the room in two strides, his own pain vanishing under a wave of something older and sharper. He grabbed his brother, pulling him into a tight embrace, and they both sobbed into each other's shoulders. The years of distance and silence collapsed between them, leaving only the raw, shuddering truth.
Meanwhile, their mother stood up, a silent gasp escaping her lips, and walked blindly onto the porch. Lenora followed her outside into the cool night air. His mother was having a panic attack, her breath coming in short, ragged hitches—how had she not known?
That man was hurting her boys; she didn’t deserve them. She wanted to die, the thought a black wave, and she vomited over the railing. Lenora rubbed her back in firm circles, waiting for the spasms to pass, then guided her through steady breathing exercises. “Lucky for you, they don’t hate you,” Lenora said, her voice low and unwavering. “The fact that we’re even having an intervention is your godsend. Because that means they’re willing to forgive you.”
She turned the trembling woman to face her. “Girl, ain’t no parent perfect, and I can’t fathom what losing a child is like. So I ain’t going to pretend.” Her gaze was stern but not unkind. “But you’re killing yourself. You are a bag of bones.” She squared her shoulders. “Now look, I’ve been taking care of your son for years. The least you owe is to get clean. Put that bottle and those pills down.” She pointed a decisive finger toward the living room. “Now you’re going to go your ass in there and love on your boys. Then I will pack your bags, and we will drop you off to a nice facility.”