I Am My Brother’S Keeper, Not My Brother’S Killer

By Cynthia Casteel

Malachi Jackson has a choice. He can go to college and get a good education, or he can join the neighborhood gang. If he joins the gang, he can make some quick money, but there are consequences for joining a gang. He ends up seeing his life come to full term through the eyes of a mortician who gets to bury a lot of the neighborhood gang members and those caught up in the senseless killings that result from being in a gang. Will Malachi be his brothers keeper or his brothers killer? The ending will shock you!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524617400

Cynthia Casteel

Cynthia Harris Casteel, born and raised in Maryland, is a retired teacher. She enjoys writing inspiring plays, poems, and now her second novel. Having a love for young folks, Cynthia is still trying to do something to inspire the youth to become all that they can be. She still keeps in touch with some of her students from the past. After retiring, Cynthia and her husband packed up and moved south. Cynthia has written several plays: God, Not the Wizard and What’s the Matter with the Chillen. Her first novel was Frankie’s Angels. She and her husband, Charles, live a very exciting life in Savannah, Georgia.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

THE INSPECTION

I T TOOK EVERY ounce of energy for me to step up on the first two steps of the funeral home. George S. Wright had been the local mortician in my neighborhood for as long as I could remember. I never knew what the S in his middle name stood for but a lot of my home boys say that it stands for strange.

Undertakers seem to always have an aura of mysticism about them, I thought to myself as I took one step forward. They even say that Mr. Wright had a secret room in this funeral home where no one was ever allowed to enter. Each step I made seemed like I was taking two steps backwards. I was in no hurry to reach my destination for I dreaded what awaited me.

I was attending what was called an inspection. It was my job to come in and see if the body was ready for public viewing. It was my job to look down at the person whom I loved more than anything else in the world and say, Yes, Mr. Wright, you did a great job in getting the corpse prepared.

There was a lump in my throat that felt like a golf ball. I struggled to breathe. I needed to take deep breaths –in and out- I struggled to see my chest go up and down. It was as though dread had wrapped me in invisible chains. Chains so heavy that they tugged on my whole body, dragging my feet, pulling at my heart and slowing me down drastically. Somebody had to do the inspection and it had to be me.

Though having attended funerals before, I had no idea that this was what families had to go through to lay their loved ones to rest. J’Quan Smith’s mother had to go through the same thing when he was shot and laid to rest. Ironically, he was the victim of a shooting, just like she was.

It seemed like Mr. George S. Wright was one of the busiest guys in town. There was a funeral just about every week. I had come to see Mr. Wright upon his request, unlike the other times when I had just come to pay respect to the deceased.

This unwanted opportunity had me playing a completely different role. I wouldn’t be looking down at J’Quan. He was just a guy who lost his life due to this oh so familiar thing that was going around town-black on black crime.

And so, I get to inspect my very own angel who had become a statistic in this new game. She will go down in the books as a number. I shook my head in disbelief. This thing that was destroying our race, had caught up with me. It was right up in my face. If black lives mattered to us, then why was I here?

I wanted to pinch myself but I knew it wouldn’t hurt when compared to the huge pain I was feeling at the moment.

Mr. George S. Wright, who must be a millionaire by now, was standing at the door waiting for me to enter. All of the money this Kat was making and yet the funeral home never changed. The old, dilapidated, white columns stood tall but were in need of a painting. Some of the bricks had cracked on the porch and the double doors definitely needed to be replaced. It looked morbid like a funeral home and it smelled like a funeral home and he himself looked like he belonged in a funeral home as he wore that same old black suit.

I entered hesitantly like a child who had just entered a haunted house. I feared what I might see as I opened the creaking door and peered in.

Come on in Malachi. I’ve been waiting for you. He said as he extended his hand to lead me to the front where the open casket awaited. Let me walk with you.

I wanted to be grown, to act like a man, after all, I was a senior in high school. Slowly, but surely I approached, but instead of feeling like a senior, I felt like I was in the first grade and all I wanted Mr. Wright to do was to hold my hand and escort me. It was so hard to play the role of a man when my heart was broken and I felt like a helpless, frightened child.

I gazed down upon her as she looked like she was resting in peace. R.I.P. is what they called it. R.I.P. is what I often see on tee-shirts around Savannah, especially at funerals. It looked like it wouldn’t be long before everyone would be resting in peace if we continued to kill each other. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth and a life for a life….That’s the way it seemed to me.

If only she could hear me, see me, talk to me. I yearned for this nightmare to be over. I needed to see those ruby lips move. I wanted to see her chest move up and down and if you looked at a dead person long enough, your imagination would force you to think that you saw them breathing. I wanted my imagination to play that trick on me today. I was looking for a miracle!

She had never had her nails done and yet, on this particular day, her nails stood out like red ragging claws. Her hair was curled and every curl was shiny and springy. I mustered enough strength to touch her hair and though the curls looked soft, they were as hard as her body. They had been lacquered down and the look was deceiving. I wanted to administer CPR and bang and hit on her chest as I wanted to do the night she died. I wanted her to wake up. Breathe for me, just breathe for me…… but death said no. Mean old death had come and had taken with it the most important person in my life and yes, I was angry with death.

Suddenly, in my mind I could hear my favorite English teacher quoting from a novel written by John Gunther. It was one of my favorite sixth grade novels.

Death be not proud. Though some have called thee mighty and dreadful for though are not so.

Funny that I remembered, but that’s what you get from an A student. My mind raced back to my current situation. Death had won and was smiling victoriously in my face. If I could, I would have gotten into the boxing ring with that old life snatcher. I would have put up both fist and given it my best shot, but I was no competition for it. I was defeated. Death had kicked me in the heart and it had won.

The stoic looking Mr. Wright, who knew me and my family, sensed that I was overwhelmed with grief. He stood tall and as proud as death. His black suit blended into the darkness of the room and it looked like I was just looking at his head. He did not smile, but stood with both hands folded just like her hands were folded.

Does she look okay to you young man? Are you pleased with our work?

I couldn’t answer nor could I believe that I would have to answer a question like that.

Rhetorical, I thought to myself. There is no way he was expecting an answer.

How could anyone ever say that a dead person looked good or bad? They just looked stiff. Dead- Deceased -Done!

I had never touched a dead body nor had I ever intended to, but I couldn’t resist touching her overlapped hands. The hands that just a few days ago were warm and comforting had transformed into just the very opposite. Even though her lips were sealed tightly, it seemed that her folded hands did the talking as they were saying silently, I’m done with my work down here on Earth.

It seemed so unfair for her to be gone. Just like that. Here today, gone today. There would be no more communication. Lifeless! She didn’t speak to me. There were no words of advice. Silence. Yet I could still hear her voice in my mind. Silence had never sounded as loud as it did in my head at this moment.

Death, be not proud, I said in order to break the awkward silence.

Did you say something? Mr. Wright asked in his deep baritone voice.

I could only manage to shake my head and then I imagined her saying, Your head can’t talk. That was one of her lessons that she gave to me along with stand up straight, look people in the eyes, say yes sir and no sir….and the list of manners went on and on.

No Sir! I answered abruptly, I was just talking to myself.

Are you okay?

I’ll be alright, thank you, I answered as politely as she would have expected me.

Perhaps you would like a few minutes alone with her?

What I really wanted was for him to hold my hand and to never let it go. And even though I manned up and said, That would be fine. My mind was really saying, No, please don’t leave me.

Mr. Wright walked away proudly, like a man who was proud to show his prize on the show floor.

I turned to observe my surroundings. The pain was deeper than any ocean and wider than any sea. The little pieces of my heart felt like a ton of broken bricks. My feelings drifted into the stillness of my heart which at that moment felt like it had stopped beating. The load was too heavy to carry.

I touched my chest to see if the next funeral was going to be mine. I wasn’t sure if my heart was still beating.

How did I let this happen? Someone had to pay for this pain. I touched my gun. It was my security blanket for the moment.

Somebody has got to pay! I screamed out.

Obviously, I frightened Mr. Wright with my loud scream as he came running.

Are you okay? He asked quizzically.

I’m feeling a little sick, I replied.

Perhaps some fresh air? He suggested.

Yes sir, I could use a breath of fresh air.

Mr. Wright turned to me as though he made a quick transformation from mortician to father. My fist was clutched and the look in my eyes was a sure sign that I was thinking revenge.

You don’t have anything crazy in your mind, do you boy? It’s time to stop all of this senseless killing of one another.

No sir, I replied without being able to look into his face. I was taught to look a person in the eyes when you speak to them, but I was afraid that my eyes would tell on me. Somebody else was going to die because of what they had done to her.

Besides, this is not what she would want. I’ve been knowing her all my life. She was a lady of love and peace, Mr. Wright continued with his attempt to convince me that revenge would not be what she would want me to do.

It didn’t matter what Mr. Wright said. That voice inside of my head started to talk to me and it validated my position. Somebody would have to pay for her death.

As Mr. Wright had stated she was a lady of love and peace and yet she had died at the hands of a gun. That voice whispered to me-payback-somebody has got to die. The voice was taunting me and driving me into a mad person. She did not deserve to die like that. Those words were eating at me like cancer. She did not deserve to die like that!

Yes, she was a wonderful lady, I cleared my throat as I choked out the words.

Reaching deep into my pocket, I checked to see if my gun remained concealed. I’ve never been a lover of guns, but in this world today, guns rule. I didn’t want Mr. Wright to know that I was packing and I didn’t want him to know that revenge was the only thing governing my mind right then.

I leaned forward with the intent to give her a kiss. My body would not move. It stiffened and I could not move any further. I never kissed her enough when she was alive. I never told her that I loved her enough. But what good would any of this do now? She could not hear me.

I turned to walk away from her, not being able to kiss her. Did she know how much I really loved her? We should tell our loved ones that we love them every single day. Looking down at a stiff corpse makes no promise that the deceased sees or hears you. The flowers that adorned her casket, could not be smelled by her. The tears that anyone shed, she would not know. The kind words about her that would be said at her funeral, she would not hear. I suddenly understood what it meant by giving people their flowers while they could smell them.

She was the wind beneath my wings, but as I walked away, I felt no wind. My wings could never flap again. They had been clipped and I was like a helpless bird, who could not fly.

Mr. Wright put his hand on my back and started to guide me towards the door. The funeral would be on Saturday at 1:00 p.m. I had every intention of making Mr. Wright richer and busier. This was far from over. There would be a funeral every Saturday after this one until I was satisfied. It might even be me as I realized that I could be next. I would cross that bridge when I got to it. What does life mean to me anyway? Without her, I was nothing.

I knew that the walk out the door was going to be just as painful as the walk in the door; nevertheless, my journey had begun.

I went down the long aisle of the mortuary paying close attention to the small details that I had never noticed before. The maroon tie back drapes looked so sad. I’m not sure why they were tied back because there was nothing to be seen when you looked out of the windows. Then there was a beautiful white sign -in book at the entrance. Alongside the book stood a white pen holder, missing the white pen that was supposed to be a permanent part of the set.

She was a wonderful woman and I assured myself that the book would be filled with names. Names that I would get to read later. Everybody signed the book to let you know that they came to pay their last respects. Come on in and see how the undertaker fixed this lady up after she was shot. Who would be the first one to sign the book? If only that old book could talk. It had stood through the test of time. It would be able to tell the pain that family members and friends felt when they signed in, perhaps anxious to walk down to the front to say their final goodbye.

My mind had started to run wild as I started to become distracted with all kinds of thoughts as I observed the mortuary. I supposed the drifting mind helped to lessen the pain just a little. The podium, the curtains, the velvet cushioned chairs, the flowers near the podium-were all distractions.

When I came back to reality, my head, my heart, my body and my soul still ached. Though I was angry at God for letting this happen to her, I had the nerve to call on his name, Lord, help me. Lord, have mercy on my soul. Another voice in my head only laughed, God is not listening to you, it bellowed. Look at what He is allowing you to go through.

I won’t go through this alone. I won’t be the only one in pain. I assured myself.

I fought to hold back the tears. After all, thugs and gangsters only cry in the dark when they do cry.

Mr. Wright asked again, Son, are you okay?

I was far from okay, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Besides, I didn’t want his comfort. I wanted the lady that was lying behind me in that casket to be the one to comfort me. I longed to hear her voice. I longed to have her call out, Malachi, get yourself together.

I couldn’t look behind me. I couldn’t look into her face again. I knew those tightly shut lips weren’t going to cry out. This inspection was over as far as I was concerned.

My cell phone indicated I had a text message.

Text: Where r u

I respond: Why

Text: Meet me on the corner of 39th, ASAP

I respond: WTF

I finalized my text and then tucked my phone back into my back pocket only to look up and see Mr. Wright looking at me with disgust. His head nodded to the sign that was near the sign-in book: Please turn your cell phone off upon entering.

Mr. Wright had a look on his face that said, Can’t you read. I smiled knowing what older folks think about us young folks always being on the phone. They just don’t get the new age of technology like we do.

I had made it to the door where I could see the light. I could feel myself coming back to life. I was on a mission and I had no time to waste. Bosco had sent me a text message. What could he possibly want? It would be my first time seeing him since she was killed by the involvement with the Pimps.

I cleared my throat to speak but not a word was released. My mouth refused to move and my hands cooperated with my lips. I wanted to tell Mr. Wright that the lady lying behind me had passed the inspection and that he had done a good job, but the words would not part from my frozen lips.

Something as simple as reaching for the doorknob seemed like a daunting, difficult task. I was leaving her behind and the numbness just wasn’t going to leave me alone. I needed to snap out of it.

Gang members don’t cry, they get even, so I immediately pulled out my sunglasses. I needed to man up, so I fought back the water that was about to trickle down my face. I fought back the tears like a horseman pulling on the reins of a horse. Whoa! I said to myself.

I will do everything to make sure she has a good home going service, so don’t you worry about a thing, Mr. Wright comforted. "I’ll call you to finalize everything tomorrow and the florist will be delivering flowers tomorrow as