The Orange Houses by Paul Griffin Page A

chair was still here, an ash heap now. The charred skeleton of Joe’s dog Tranquilito lay where Joe’s feet would have been as he slumped dead in the chair. The skeleton looked as if it had been dipped into chunky tar.
    Some of Joe lay in these ashes.
    Jimmi scooped cinder and silt into a coffee can. He was dizzy when he stood too quickly from his crouch. He put the can in his backpack and staggered toward the side door. When he stepped into the alley, a flashlight drilled him. His hands were black with ash as he wiped his eyes.
    The cops cuffed him, read him his rights. They were tired but nice, nicer when they went through his wallet and found his VA card.
    â€œWhat say we let him go?” the one cop said to the other.
    The other cop looked up at the apartment lights across the back alley, the people leaning out the windows. “Too late now.”
    â€œYou guys got any candy on you?” Jimmi said. “Gum? Gonna pass out if I don’t get something sweet into me.”
    â€œI’ll write this up as trespassing,” the first cop said. “You won’t lose your VA benefits.”
    â€œDoesn’t matter anyway,” Jimmi said.
    Â 
    â€œYou’re not gonna eat that?”
    â€œYou are?” The prisoner nudged his gluey detention center breakfast toward Jimmi, hungry for seconds.
    Everyone else looked wrecked after the long night behind bars, but Jimmi felt great. Fed, rested, warm, his mind had cleared. The cops had arranged a shower for him. He felt new, shiny.
    A guard nodded to him. “Let’s go.”
    At the desk they gave him what he brought in: his backpack and Joe’s ashes. As he stepped out into the sunlight he felt as if Life loved him a little, but the feeling didn’t last.

chapter 29
    FATIMA
    A diner across from the courthouse, Friday, five days before the hanging, 5:00 p.m. . . .
    Mik and Fatima watched for Jimmi from the diner window. Fatima would get no closer to the police coming in and out of the courthouse. Jimmi helped NaNa down the stone steps, across the street, into the diner booth. He had listed her as his family contact. He was gaunt under the army uniform NaNa brought from the halfway house.
    â€œJudge give him an earful,” NaNa said. “Woman made me swear we’d get him back to the hospital. You’d never let me break my word with God, James?”
    Jimmi winked.
    â€œIncorrigible,” NaNa said. “Order big now and eat up. Put the meat back on you.”
    Jimmi’s smile was a lie. His eyes were tired as he looked first at Fatima, then Mik. “What y’all working on?”
    â€œMik is teaching the children with me,” Fatima said. “She is a wonderful teacher.”
    Jimmi’s smile was genuine for a moment before it died. “Word from your sister?”
    Fatima shook no.
    He nodded, his eyes on a sunburst caught in a parked car’s windshield.
    â€œLet us take you to the hospital, Jimmi,” Mik said.
    â€œSo they can drug me back into the great big lie?”
    â€œWhat lie?” Mik said.
    â€œThat everything’s okay.” He kissed NaNa’s cheek as he left.
    â€œShouldn’t we stop him?” Mik said.
    â€œOnly he can stop him,” NaNa said.
    The women watched as Jimmi paused in the middle of the concourse sidewalk. He reached into the glare reflecting off the car and pulled a flyer from a windshield wiper. He folded it into an angel, set it in the diner window’s outer sill so it looked in at Fatima. He hurried away.
    Fatima went out for the angel, but the wind had taken it.
    Mik followed her, signed, YOU ALL RIGHT?
    Fatima signed, I WILL HAVE TO BE.

chapter 30
    TAMIKA
    The Sykeses’ apartment, Sunday, three days before the hanging, 3:45 a.m. . . .
    Mik headed out.
    â€œShowered and dressed at this hour?” Mom said as she dressed for work, her eyes on the TV.
    â€œHelping Fatima with her papers.”
    Closed captions flashed over