“I’m processing the widow’s pension, and the insurance company is asking me for the original forensic report and the death certificate from the state. Could you help me get them?”
“Oof, that’s very difficult. Five years have passed. Those papers don’t exist anymore. Besides, at the time, everything was done via humanitarian channels. The documentation was very basic.” Mr. Tate stuttered.
“Please try. I’ll compensate you for the trouble.”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do.” Mr. Tate hung up hurriedly.
His attitude confirmed my suspicions. He had surely collaborated in the falsification of the documents. I looked south toward the rural town in Indiana where Marcus’s family was from. The urn with his ashes was in the family plot. I had to open that urn.
I called my mother-in-law. “Mom, this weekend I want to take Malik to the country to put flowers on his father. I’ve already paid the whole debt and I want to go give thanks.”
“It’s a very long trip. What are you going for?” said Viola curtly.
“I can’t help it, Mom. Last night I dreamed of Marcus and he asked me to. I’m very worried.” Old folks tend to be superstitious.
“All right, go if you want, but go and come back quick.”
“Yes, I know.” I hung up.
The trip to Indiana would be the key. In that cold ceramic urn, the whole truth would be revealed. *Marcus, you hide from your debts. You make your wife pay them for you, but you won’t be able to escape justice.*
That weekend, under an intense yellow Midwestern sun, I took Malik in my old car down a highway that wound between cornfields. We left at dawn to reach the town before noon. Malik was excited. He wouldn’t stop talking, asking about the tractors, about the grandparents he never knew. My son’s innocent laughter was like knife stabs in my heart. The purer he was, the heavier the guilt of the adults. I didn’t dare tell him the true purpose of our trip. For him, it was a visit to his father’s town. For me, it was the trip to find the evidence that would unmask his cruel father.
When we arrived in town, several relatives received us warmly. My uncle-in-law, the one who took care of the cemetery, came out to help us with the bags.
“What a joy, Kesha. It’s been so long. Malik is growing into a little man. He’s just like his father.”
That innocent comment hurt me. Just like the man who was hiding, the one who in five years hadn’t sent him even a piece of candy. I smiled and greeted everyone, trying to seem calm. I put some flowers at the church altar and lit a candle. The smoke stung my eyes.
“With your permission, I’m going to take Malik to the cemetery to put some flowers on his father and tell him I’ve fulfilled my obligation.” I said it out loud so everyone would hear.
My uncle nodded. “You do well, daughter. Marcus will rest easier. Stay for lunch and go in the afternoon. It’s too hot now.”
“No thanks, Uncle. I prefer to go now. In the afternoon, we have to go back to Chicago so the boy can go to school tomorrow.” I rejected his offer. I had to execute my plan at noon when everyone was eating.
I took Malik by the hand and we went to the cemetery located at the end of town. The sun beat down, but I didn’t feel the heat. In my purse, besides the flowers, I carried a small hammer, a screwdriver, and a micro-camera with a charged battery. The town cemetery was silent under the shade of the trees. The graves were clean and orderly. Marcus’s niche was in the columbarium wall, third row, with a shiny black granite plaque and a photo of him smiling. I placed the flowers. Malik helped me put them.
“Dad, it’s Malik. I came to see you. Help me get good grades.” The boy joined his hands and his childish voice resonated in the silence.
I looked at him and my eyes filled with tears. “Malik, baby, why don’t you go play a while over there while I talk a moment with Daddy?”
“Okay, Mama.” Malik ran obediently toward a patch of grass to look for grasshoppers.
I was left alone in front of the niche. I looked around. Not a soul. At that hour, the whole town was home. I breathed deep to calm myself. With trembling hands, I turned on the micro-camera I had hidden in the lapel of my jacket. I had to record the whole process as proof. I approached the niche. The urn was behind a small glass door locked with a key. My uncle had given me a copy the day of the burial in case I wanted to clean it sometime. He never imagined that key would open the door to such a raw truth.
