Born at Dawn (6 page)

Marvin stripped out of his uniform, took a long, hot shower and shaved. He couldn't go to the police station to report Cynthia missing looking like a fugitive and smelling like booze. He looked in the mirror. His eyes were still bloodshot. They burned from fatigue and the strain of holding back tears. He didn't want to cry in front of the boys, but he was so lost. Cynthia did almost everything for all three of them, and now he was alone. Marvin threw on a pair of navy blue track pants, a white T-shirt, and the matching fleece jacket.

As he walked the seven blocks to the police station, he called the garage to let Milton know he was having a personal crisis. After trying to get Milton to let him have the day off, Marvin was flustered, weary, and in no mood to play when he reached the glass doors of the 30th Precinct. He yanked the door open and walked up to the female desk sergeant who was in the middle of calming a woman.

“Excuse me,” Marvin said calmly, staring into her eye. “I'm in need of some help.”

Marvin used the power of his commanding dark brown eyes to gain the attention of the desk sergeant. The moment she looked away from the frantic mother and over at Marvin's brick brown skin and clean-shaven face and excused herself to slink over to him, he knew he was going to be taken care of right away.

“Good morning, sir. Can I help you?” she asked, smoothing down the hairs at the nape of her neck.

“Hey, lady, I was here first,” cried a guy.

“That's Sergeant to you,” she said, tapping her finger on her badge. “Pipe down over there or you'll be the last one here.” She turned her attention back to Marvin. “Now, how can I help you, sir?”

Marvin noticed the desk sergeant's eyes roving up and down the rough terrain of his body as he hiked up the sleeves of his fleece jacket and unzipped it to the middle of his chest. The scar on his forearm looked like he'd participated in his share of knife fights and gang turf wars. The pressure of her ominous eyes made Marvin regret making this trip. One thing he had learned from his various run-ins with the law was they weren't very helpful.

“Sergeant, I would like to report a missing person.”

“Okay, sir. Can you explain the circumstances under which this person went missing? Do you believe this person may have been abducted? What is your relationship to the missing person?”

“It's my wife.”

“Your wife?” The desk sergeant pointed to the bench that lined the wall facing the desk. “Have a seat over there. Someone will be with you as soon as possible.” Her rich and melodic voice tapered off as she walked away.

“Isn't there some paperwork I should be filling out?”

“Have a seat, sir,” she commanded without looking up. Marvin tapped the heel of his Nike Foamposites on the beige laminate flooring while he waited for someone to ask him what was going on. He tried to signal for the desk sergeant's attention several times, and she shut him down every time with her favorite eight word phrase: “Someone will be with you in a moment.”

After an hour, a woman in a navy blue pantsuit approached the bench, which was now occupied by five other people squeezed on top of one another. “I heard there's someone here to report a missing person.” She scanned the bench and polled the group with one finger.

Marvin hopped to his feet. “That would be me, Officer.”

“Detective Grayson,” she said, extending her hand to shake Marvin's. “And you are?”

“I'm Marvin Barclay, and I would like to file a missing persons report for my wife, Cynthia Barclay.”

“Mr. Barclay, please follow me.” Detective Grayson led Marvin through a swinging door and to her desk. “Have a seat, Mr. Barclay.” Detective Grayson pointed to metal folding chair adjacent to her desk.

Marvin squirmed around in the small seat trying to get comfortable while Detective Grayson asked him questions. “Sir, how long has your wife been gone, and what led you to believe she's missing?”

“She's been gone since Monday, and I believe she's missing because she's gone.”

“Mr. Barclay, my next question may be a difficult one. How are things at home?”

“Why? Do you know a marriage counselor we should visit? Shouldn't you be asking me to sit down with a sketch artist? Get out of here with that nonsense.” Marvin dismissed her with a flip of his hand. “I need to speak to someone else. Is there another detective here who can handle my case?”

“Mr. Barclay, please quiet down.”

A few detectives looked up from their desks.

“Yo, can I get another detective over here?” Marvin asked, looking around.

Jumping from behind his cheap, banged-up desk, one officer ran up to them and positioned himself right between Marvin and Detective Grayson. “How can I help you? I'm Detective Laurel, Detective Grayson's partner.”

Marvin stood still and tried to assess whether Detective Laurel had added himself to the equation to help his partner or to help him. His American-pie smile, erect posture, and mouse brown eyes conveyed a sincere look of concern and worry.

“Listen, buddy,” he said, placing his hand on Marvin's right shoulder. Marvin tilted his head and looked down at Detective Laurel's hand. “I'm going to need you to take it down a notch. Why don't you come with us to an interview room and tell us your story there?”

Marvin followed the detectives to a dimly lit gray interview room.

“You want some coffee or something?” Detective Laurel asked Marvin.

“Yeah. Black. Three sugars.”

“Detective Grayson, could you handle that for me while I chop it up with . . .”

“Marvin Barclay, but Marvin is just fine.” Marvin simmered down and warmed up to Detective Laurel. He knew a man would understand the situation better than any woman.

“Here's the deal, Detective Laurel. My wife went missing sometime early Monday morning. She wasn't home when I woke up, and she hasn't returned since. She's about five three, her hair is just off her shoulders and dyed a reddish burgundy color.” Noticing the detective wasn't taking notes or anything he asked, “Uh, shouldn't you be writing this down?”

“My fault.” Detective Laurel reached inside his black blazer and pulled out a little spiral notebook. “What's her name?”

“Cynthia Ann Barclay.”

“Does it appear as though there was a struggle? Do you think this is a possible abduction?” Detective Laurel asked poised to take notes.

“I don't know how it happened or when it happened, but she's gone.”

Detective Grayson returned with Marvin's coffee in a large white Styrofoam cup.

“Maybe you can explain what your marriage was like to my partner and me.”

“We had our good days and our bad days, you know what I mean, man,” Marvin said, plucking Detective Laurel's solid gold wedding band.

Detective Laurel nodded and smiled in agreement with Marvin.

Marvin slurped up some coffee and asked, “What happens next? Do I sit down with a sketch artist, or do we create a timeline of what she did on Sunday like they do on
Without a Trace?
”

“Mr. Barclay, you've watched one too many episodes of
Without a Trace.
We don't need a sketch artist; a photo of the missing person is usually sufficient,” Detective Grayson stated very matter-of-factly. “In this case our next step is not to take any steps, Mr. Barclay.”

“What?” Marvin's grip tightened around his cup.

“Mr. Barclay, this may be hard for you to grasp, but there is no hard and fast rule that says an adult must remain in their home.” Detective Grayson stuffed her hands into the pockets of her trousers and continued, “Just because your wife isn't there doesn't mean she's missing.”

“What is she saying, that y'all are not going to look for my wife?” Marvin asked, looking at Detective Laurel.

“With no evidence of foul play, we have no reason to believe your wife has been abducted but it is possible that she just left you, Mr. Barclay.”

Marvin squeezed the coffee cup so tight the hot black liquid came spilling out of the cup. It ran down his hand over his arm and dripped off the table, forming a small puddle. Both detectives winced at the sight of the scalding hot coffee. The sting of it felt like a splash of water to Marvin in comparison to how his anger burned inside of him.

“We've been together for fifteen years. Cynthia has never gone anywhere without telling me. She has slept in the bed with me every night since we got married, and the only time she wasn't there she was at her mother's. I've already been to her mother's house, and she ain't there.” Marvin slid out of his seat. “One thing I know is somebody better find my wife or some heads are going to be rolling.” He pointed at Detective Grayson.

“Are you threatening me?” Detective Grayson leaned over the table and flexed her shoulders.

“I don't recommend we continue this line of conversation. Mr. Barclay, let's remember Detective Grayson is a woman and an officer of the law,” Detective Laurel said in a stringent tone.

“I can't tell,” Marvin said, looking at her flat chest, sharp hips, and plain, pasty face. “That's my wife out there on the streets. My wife.” He slapped his chest. “And my tax dollars are in your pocket, so somebody in here better get to investigating before I have Help Me Howard from channel eleven in here investigating why no one wants to find a black woman who's missing. Now who's going to start printing the missing person fliers?”

“Mr. Barclay, I'm sorry, but until there's some evidence of foul play, we will not be investigating your wife's disappearance. I recommend that you check with your friends and family for some answers,” Detective Laurel said in response to Marvin's threat.

“Detective Laurel, I'm sorry, but I'm not leaving until you begin investigating my wife's sudden disappearance,” Marvin said calmly.

He reclined in the hard gray plastic chair and whipped out his cell phone. Marvin fiddled around with the phone and avoided making eye contact with the detectives until he heard the other line ringing. He pressed speaker and placed the phone on the top of the metal table.

“Channel eleven community news desk.”

Marvin looked up at the detectives, and they both looked at each other.

“Do you have a newsworthy story that needs to be covered?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What is the nature of this story?”

“My wife went missing yesterday and the officers at my local precinct are refusing to investigate.”

Detective Grayson folded her arms across her chest while Detective Laurel signaled to Marvin to hang up the phone.

“Did you say your wife is missing, sir?”

“Yes, and no one wants to look for her. I think it's because we're black, and I don't know how to explain this to my sons. I promised them I'd do something, so I came to my local precinct, met with some detectives, and they've done nothing. What am I going to tell my boys?” Marvin asked, adding a little hiccup at the end for sympathy.

“Sir, what's your name?”

“Marvin Barclay, and my wife's name is Cynthia Barclay.”

“Mr. Barclay, my name is Shana, and we are going to help you get to the bottom of this. I'm going to transfer you to one of our investigative journalists. I just need some more information. Which precinct did you go to, and what are the names of the detectives you spoke to?”

Marvin looked up at Detective Laurel and mouthed the words, “you're going down.”

“I'm at the 30th Precinct in Harlem, and the detectives I met with are Gr—” Detective Laurel pressed the end button before Marvin could get out all the syllables in his partner's name.

“All right, Mr. Barclay, you've got our attention. We'll look into your wife's disappearance,” Detective Laurel said.

Mildred was seated at the front desk at Harlem Women's Services when Detectives Laurel and Grayson walked in looking for her. Her head was buried in her pocket-sized New Testament.

“Good afternoon. I'm Detective Grayson and this is my partner Detective Laurel.” Detective Grayson pointed to her left at Detective Laurel. “We're detectives from the 30th Precinct and we're looking for a Ms. Hathaway.”

Mildred peered at them over her red-rimmed spectacles. “Is this about Cynthia?”

“Are you Ms. Hathaway?” Detective Grayson asked.

“Of course I am. Did my crazy son-in-law contact you?”

“Yes, ma'am. It seems your daughter hasn't been home in two days. He said this isn't like her. Mr. Barclay seems to think there's a possibility she may have been abducted early yesterday morning on her way to the supermarket.”

A tumultuous laugh escaped from Mildred's throat, causing the guy from housekeeping to pause in front of the desk mid-sweep. “Kidnapped?” She continued to chuckle, covering the wrinkled corners of her mouth. “Detective . . . uh . . .”

“I'm Detective Grayson and this is Detective Laurel,” she said, pointing at her partner again.

“Well, Detective Grayson and Detective Laurel, I'm sorry my son-in-law wasted your time. My daughter has not been kidnapped. She has been staying at my place.”

“Do you know why, ma'am?” Detective Laurel asked, scribbling in his little notepad.

“Excuse me.” Mildred stood at the desk and turned to the pudgy girl seated behind her. “Esther, please cover the desk while I talk to these detectives. If there's an emergency, page me. Otherwise just register the patients.” Mildred turned back around to face the detectives and tapped on the counter to get their attention. “Detectives, follow me,” she said.

Mildred led them down the sparkling white corridor to an empty examination room. She sat down on the bed, her short, stout brown legs hitting the metal footrest. “I'm not sure what happened, Detectives. She barely spoke to me yesterday, then he showed up at my house looking like the devil escaped from hell. I told him she wasn't there. If we can keep it that way, it would be greatly appreciated.”

“Ma'am, this is official police business. We can't just conceal our findings.”

“That's fine, Detectives. I'm not asking you to conceal any evidence or anything like that. I'm just asking you not to tell Marvin she's at my house. Tell him you don't have any leads yet or something official sounding.”

“Is he violent?” Detective Grayson inquired.

“Has Aretha Franklin gotten fat?”

Detective Laurel laughed. Detective Grayson shot him a stern look. Detective Laurel straightened his polka-dot tie and cleared his throat. “Ma'am, we can help if this is a domestic violence situation.”

“Listen, I don't want to get anyone in trouble. Just give me a chance to try to get her back home before you tell him you located her.”

“Ms. Hathaway, maybe we should try to talk to her,” Detective Grayson proposed.

“What kind of detective are you, Grayson? Can't you recognize a clue when it's handed to you? She doesn't want to talk to the police. If she did, don't you think she would have called you a long time ago? Just leave me your card and I'll have her call you or something.” Mildred held her hand out.

Detective Laurel pulled out his card from his pocket. “Ma'am, this is our number at the station on the top and my cell phone number at the bottom.”

“What are you doing?” Detective Grayson asked, nudging her partner.

“Haven't you heard the expression ‘Mother knows best'? She knows her daughter, and she knows the situation. Mr. Barclay never mentioned any turmoil. We know where she is, and we know she's safe. Let's give it some time. Besides, we've got a ton of paperwork sitting on our desks and a couple of leads to follow up on.”

Mildred's eyes met with Detective Laurel's pensive brown ones. “My daughter's safety is the only thing on my mind right now. If there's anything to tell, you'll be the first to know. Now please excuse me. I have to get back to work.”

“Thank you, ma'am, for your time,” Detective Laurel said.

 

 

“When are you going back home?” The only sound that followed Mildred's question was the clink of the spatula against the pan and the crackle of the fire underneath it.

Mildred tried to take it easy on Cynthia. It had been three days since her daughter had crept into her apartment. When she'd gotten home from work the day before, Cynthia was still refusing to eat. All she asked was that Mildred didn't open the door if it was Marvin. Mildred didn't think it would be wise to mention the police had shown up at the hospital. So, she kept that to herself.

This morning things seemed a little different. Cynthia emerged from the bedroom with a slight smile. Her eyes were still swollen and cloudy from crying.

“When are you going back home?” Mildred repeated her question while flipping the eggs. The only response she received was a hiss from the sizzling eggs in the pan.

“Tia.” Mildred called Cynthia by her nickname to get her attention and create a sense of safety for her. “Did you hear what I said?” Mildred stomped her foot on the wine-colored linoleum in her kitchen.

“I heard you, Ma.”

“Well, then answer,” Mildred demanded, snapping her head around to look at Cynthia.

“It's complicated. You see—”

“I don't need to know what happened.” Mildred plated their omelets and bounced across the kitchen carrying them over to the table. “I don't want to get involved in your business. I was just wondering when you plan on going home. Have you checked on the boys since you've been here?”

Cynthia poured herself a glass of orange juice and took small swigs. The two women ate in silence.

“No, Ma, I haven't called them.”

“They're all right. Keith called me the other night asking for dinner. I dropped off some Popeye's. Everything seemed fine. Now for my other question, when are you going back home?”

“I don't know when I'm going back.”

“What do you mean you don't when you're going back?” Mildred pointed her finger at her daughter. “Jesus, restore this child's mind. You have two kids who need you, girl.”

“They have a father. He can take care of them.”

“Look here, you know Marvin isn't fit to take care of a Baby Alive doll.” Cynthia chuckled a little. “Listen, this is the perfect time for you to see God move. Why don't you let Him be your defense and try to work things out with Marvin?”

“I just couldn't take it anymore. Neither one of us is fit to raise children,” Cynthia replied.

“Oh hush with that foolish talking,” Mildred said waving her hand at Cynthia. “If you couldn't raise them, God wouldn't have given you them boys.”

“He didn't give Keith and James to me for them to see me like this.” Cynthia raised her shirt to reveal the bruises she had, bruises she'd managed to hide for years. “I feel like . . . like I just can't do it anymore.”

Mildred sucked in as much air as she could as her eyes roved the rough terrain that Marvin's beatings had turned her daughter's body into. Mildred had an idea what was going on. She had no idea it had gotten this bad. Suddenly Cynthia's unannounced trip to her house made sense. “Oh Lord, you're having a nervous breakdown. Repeat after me: ‘God hath not given me a spirit of fear, but of love, power, and a sound mind.' Cynthia, you have a mightier spirit within you.”

Cynthia groaned. “Ma, listen to me.”

“No, you listen to me. I got some money stashed away. Why don't you bring the kids here and go have a spa day all by yourself. Let Marvin go off and hang out with his hoodlum friends while you just kick back and relax. You do whatever you have to in order to get it together.”

Cynthia dropped her fork. “I don't need a spa day. I need to break away,” she said. “Ma, don't you ever think about your life? Like, what it would be like if you had never had me? Don't you want something more?”

Mildred bit a piece of bacon and the crumbs bounced off her copious lips. She slid the platter of bacon toward her daughter. “Help yourself,” she uttered as she rose from the table. Mildred went into her bedroom and returned with a large purple Bible tucked under her arm.

“You think this is all I ever wanted? Hmmph. You don't even know the half.” She pulled her chair up next to Cynthia and crossed her legs. “How old are you, Tia?”

“Ma, you know I'm thirty-three,” she said, shaking her head.

“Well, that's how long I've been wrestling with what would have, could have, and should have been. You think I've always wanted to just be a nurse?” A hearty laugh snuck out, and Mildred covered her mouth. “The Lord blessed me with that job. I was able to provide for you with it, but what I wanted to do all my life is dance and sing.”

Mildred pulled out a faded orange-hued photograph with bent and frayed edges. Cynthia ran her finger over the face of the barefoot girl in a gold sequined body suit with her feet in first position and her hair in a tight bun. Large doe eyes and a wide grin stared back at her.

“That's how I met your father. I met him that very night. I was performing at The Sugar Shack. I came on stage in a tear-away tuxedo. I was gorgeous. Do you think I spent my whole life in this robe?” Mildred hopped up and let her robe fall to the floor. She pranced around in her peach chemise and matching shorts.

“Girl, I was fine. I shimmied, I twirled, and I pranced up and down the stage singing. After my set some of the other performers said if I really wanted to jam, I had to hit the Blue Note, and that's where I found your father, backstage. He was playing the piano with a band called Alma that night. It was something I'd never seen or heard before—a Latin jazz band. I was enamored. Women always warn you, ‘Watch out for the dude with the sax.' ‘Stay away from the guy on the bass.' No one warned me about the guy on the keys. No one told me to stay clear of Kirk.” Mildred looked down. “F and F. I should have known.” Mildred rose, gathering the plates and scraps. “You want some coffee?”

“Sure. What's F and F?”

“F and F? Fast fingers and fast feet. We kissed. I closed my eyes, my clothes were off, and by the time I opened them he was gone. He stuck around until you were three years old then he took off. He sent me postcards from his tours and money for a while. Once that stopped reality set in. I went back to school. Of course, I wanted something else. That's why I hosted those house parties, but I also wanted something different, and that's what I got; I had you. Of course, I think about what life would be like if I never had you; every mother has. Maybe I'd still be with Kirk. Maybe I'd be famous with my own band on the road every day or maybe I'd be singing at the Jazzmobile with Jan Parker. But when you have children, you learn that your life is not your own.”

Mildred brought two cups of steaming coffee to the table. She sat back down at her end and put her feet up in the empty seat between her and Cynthia. The steam wafted up and danced in front of Cynthia's face. Those words did not seem to pacify the burgeoning war inside her.

“Ma, it feels like the walls closing in on me.” Cynthia wiped the tears from her eyes before they fell. “I don't want to become some kind of prude, like you shuttling back and forth between trustee meetings and Bible Study all the while masking a black and blue eye.”

“Why don't you take a nap, watch some soaps, and go home tomorrow?”

Cynthia nodded with the corners of her mouth turned down in displeasure.

Completely ignoring Cynthia's increasingly despondent attitude Mildred continued speaking. “You know them boys miss you. You better get it together and go see about my grandsons. If you don't I'm going to keep telling you my war stories,
Mildred's Melodies.
That was going to be the name of my first album. Maybe now I could do a gospel album,
To God Be the Glory.
” She waved her arms as if she was painting a large canvas. “All is not lost once you realize Jesus paid the cost.”

From the corner of her eye Mildred noted the time: 9:30. Today she was working the twelve to eight shift. She had plenty of time before it started, but she wanted to get a head start so she'd have some time to call the detectives and tell them Cynthia would be returning home the next day.

Mildred walked to her bedroom, humming, “No Turning Back.”

“Where are you going, Ma?”

“I have some errands to run before my shift starts. I'd ask you to come, but you're in hiding. I'll see you later,” Mildred said doubling back to kiss Cynthia on the head before disappearing into her room to get dressed.

Ten minutes later Mildred emerged from her room in her scrubs. She collected her purse from the coffee table, a lime green shawl from the arm of her sofa, and some change for the bus from a crystal jar on the end table. Cynthia sat at the table, winding a loose thread hanging from the tablecloth around her middle finger and her ring finger, contemplating her next move.

“Ma, I'm not hiding. I'm waiting,” Cynthia said to Mildred's back as she walked out the door.