From the moment the door was forced open, chaos ensued. Stevie was tugged down the stairs by his upper arm, with a grip that would surely leave a mark, and brought to his mother and sister.
Sheryl's arms are folded, and Judith's eyes are shut as she focuses on her deep breathing.
"Momma, I wasn't cutting school," he whines for the fourth time, but her look of disappointment doesn't falter.
"Stevie, if you don't explain why you're in this house instead of with your sister at school, this belt will get you talking." He glances at the thick, dark brown belt in his father's grasp, and Judith watches the color drain from his face.
"Did you get suspended again," she asks her brother, and he and his father look at her. Sheryl merely pinches the bridge of her nose with her right hand.
"Again," he repeats loudly. He alternates his gaze between the two women before settling on his wife. "Honey, you knew about this and didn't tell me?"
"It was after your mother's funeral, Walt," she tells him. Stevie lowers his head at the memory, and Walter glances at him. "Some white kids were teasing him, and he got into a fight. I handled it, and I didn't tell you because I knew you'd get upset."
"Damn straight," he says, and he returns his attention to her. "You know how I feel about our children getting their education. I don't give no never mind about him fighting if that's what he feels he has to do, but his schooling doesn't stop."
"So you want to raise our son to be a thug with a diploma? How do you think that'll look for him, Walter? What Ivy League school will accept a little colored boy who runs the streets like a playground," she floods him with rhetorical questions, her voice rising. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath to avoid arguing in front of Stevie and Judy.
"I'm not about to do this with you right now," he tells her in a softer tone, and she huffs. He and Stevie look at each other. "Bring me that suspension letter."
"I don't have one." His lie comes out with a tremble that his father catches. He narrows his eyes at his son.
"I'll go look for it," Judith rushes the words from her mouth then hurries past them on her way up the stairs. Stevie turns his head to watch her with fear in his gaze.
She makes a beeline for his room, and she sees an assortment of food crumbs on his carpet at the foot of his bed and bags of chips sprawled on his comforter.
She walks past his bed, and when she reaches the dresser to the left of the room, she peers through his window.
The Smiths' household of four is to their right: another aristocratic family who think highly of themselves because they can afford suburbia.
She squints at the window across from his and notices that it's partially open. She then lowers her gaze onto the surface of his long dresser in thought.
Is that Zoë's window?
Judy shakes her head clear of her thoughts, and looks to the right of his dresser where his trashcan sits. On the surface are soda cans, chip bags, and cookie wrappers, but she lowers onto her knees in front of it.
She reaches her right hand past the empty junk food containers, and her fingers clutch a moist sheet of paper. She lifts it from the bottom then carefully presses the creases.
"To the parents or legal guardians of Stevie Zion Jefferson," she murmurs, her eyes racing through the lengthy paragraph only to widen toward the middle. "A group of students claimed that he brandished a switchblade at them. What?"
She peers over her shoulder at his door, then at the sliding door for his closet. It's white with multiple decorative slits wide enough to look through.
Judith observes the sheet in her hands again, and she folds it into a small square, then rises from the floor. She returns to the hall then stops in front of his room.
"I don't want to hear it, Stevie. When she gets in here with that paper that you're lying about, your ass is grass." Her father's cold threat sends goosebumps up her arms and legs. Shaking her head, she retreats into her room with light enough steps to avoid the floorboards creaking under her.
She dashes toward her bed and tucks his suspension letter between her mattress and bed frame. Then she returns down the stairs.
Sheryl is sitting on the couch, her heels off and her hands massaging the balls of her feet. Walter has his back to the wall beside the kitchen arch with Stevie in front of him.
"Well, did you find it?" She looks into her brother's teary eyes. He's shivering as if his body temperature is low, yet the natural lighting illuminates the sweat coating his forehead. She shakes her head with her lips pursed.
"Maybe he forgot something and came back," she suggests when Walter pinches the bridge of his nose. Stevie's breathing grows shallow when his father rests his left hand on his left shoulder.
"He forgot something," he repeats her assumption in the form of a question with a higher tone. "It's a fifteen-minute drive from here to Wyndell Academy, and you expect me to believe that he walked here because he left something behind? Do you think that I was born yesterday?"
"No, sir, but," Judith begins to speak, but he raises his right index with the belt clenched under his other fingers.
"How far of a walk is a fifteen-minute drive, Stevie," he asks without taking his eyes off of his daughter.
"I don't know," Stevie mumbles, his voice unsteady.
"What was that? I can't hear you." His tears fall as his father gazes down at him, and Judy looks at the floor between them.
"I don't know," Stevie answers him a few notches louder, and his voice cracks.
"Exactly what I thought." Judith and Sheryl watch Walter. "You don't know because instead of going to your classes, you – what – hitched a ride home?"
"I'm sorry," he merely says, and he's met with an incredulous scoff. Walter looks at his daughter.
"If I find out that you're lying for him, you'll have hell to pay, Judy," he threatens her, and her heart skips a beat. "Come on, Stevie. I'll give you fifteen seconds to give me a good reason to let you off the hook."
Judith watches him tug Stevie by his arm, and then she turns her head to her mother when they climb the stairs. Sheryl's expression hasn't changed, but Judith is visibly disturbed.
"Mom," she calls for her, her voice cracking like her brother's.
"Judy, I don't want to hear it," she dismisses her and stands out of her seat. "Your father breaks his back to provide for us and has to come home to unnecessary problems with the two of you. It's not fair to him or me."
Judith's eyes follow her to the kitchen, and when she turns to ascend the stairs, she flinches at the sound of Stevie's blood-curdling scream. It's proceeded by the snap of his belt like a whip to a slave's back.
She wants to run to his aide and take every beating for him, but fear keeps her from doing so. Before he can disrupt her mood any further, she sprints out of the front door and stands on the porch with her hands to her knees, heaving as if at any moment she would vomit.
Judith gazes at the identical houses surrounding her, and for the first time, she feels like a stranger in her neighborhood. Her eyes dart from each car parked in their driveways as well as the few passing through.
She steps down the path between the sidewalk and her house, then strolls to the right. She passes the Smiths' household, the Rickters', then stops in front of the Cambridges' yard. David's parents' car is missing.
Judith walks to the front door, her heart pounding from what happened and the thought of seeing her boyfriend after the accident. Standing in front of the door, she takes a breath to calm her nerves, then she knocks.
He thrusts the door open after a moment of silence, and her eyes briefly widen at the sight before her. He's sitting in a wheelchair, both legs covered in plaster, and his eyes hold more bags than she'd imagined.
"What do you want, Judith," he forces himself to ask despite his lack of energy. Tears well up against her lashes, and he rolls his eyes onto the top of the doorframe.
"I feel like my life is falling apart," she whines. He looks at her, but she doesn't detect sympathy. "I know that you're mad at me, and I don't blame you, Davie. I messed up."
"All because you refused to give up some stranger over me. Yeah, you messed up." He begins to shut the door, but she places her hand out to stop him.
"Please." He lets out a heavy sigh, then folds his arms. Her tears slide down her cheeks, trickling off of her chin. "I don't want to fight anymore. Whatever you say, I'll do it. I just – I have to get out of that house. Stevie needs me – I need you."
David scans her up and down, then up again before pushing the wheels backward. Judith steps across the threshold when he gestures for her to approach, and she closes the door behind her.
The quaint living room has an arch across the front door that leads to the kitchen, a mahogany television like the one at her house, and a navy blue French Provincial couch against the wall to the right.
He locks the wheelchair in place, then reaches his hands out for her, and Judith steps to him. She rests her palms on the shoulders of his silk button-up pajamas, and he grips her backside.
"Did you shower?" She furrows her brows at his question.
"Yes, I showered. I did it at the hospital. I came home not long ago, and I didn't have time to change," Judy explains, and he nods his head. "Where'd your parents go?"
"My Mom went with my Dad to get my car fixed and afterward buy groceries for the house. We have an hour, maybe." She glances at his lips, her thumbs brushing the sides of his neck.
He guides her onto his lap, and she props her legs on the armrests. He leans his face toward her, and she nervously giggles before their mouths can touch.
David narrows his eyes from confusion then swiftly pecks her lips when she lowers her gaze. They smile at each other.
"Do you want to have sex," he asks, and her expression returns to neutral. "I'm practicing consent. It's stupid, I know, but my Dad thinks that I should."
"It's not stupid; I think it's sweet." She shuts her eyes and plants a kiss on his lips. His hands trail her thighs, landing on the hips of her black gaucho pants. She looks at him, their lips separated and his face cupped in her palms. "But no. Can we just talk?"
"Talk about what?" He clears his throat and stares at her earth-toned blouse. She slides her hands onto the bottom of his pajama top.
"Us," she says. When David looks at her, she drops her gaze onto her fingernails as she nervously picks them. "I – I want this to work, David, I do, but it won't if you're violent towards me."
"Here we go," he says with an exasperated sigh. "I'm not about to be depicted as a monster just so you can feel like the victim in this situation. I'm the victim. Whose broken legs are you sitting on? I can't perform in the play with Jodie and Lester because of you."
She scoffs. "You didn't want to be in the play, to begin with. This is just an excuse for you to bail like you always did. Classic David: too macho to admit when he has stage fright."
"Get the fuck off of me," he yells and shoves her chest. She falls onto her back, the room spinning. "Go home, Judith. We're done."