Chapters (88)
“Why won’t you let me live with you?” He slapped his hands against his sides. “I hate living with Mammy and Pops. Don’t get me wrong. I love them and all, but I hate the way Pops blames you for everything, and I don’t like the way they check up on my homework every night. I’m a junior in high school, for God’s sake.”
Bo squinted up at his son, who had his mother and grandfather’s skin, but his father’s black eyes. “I need you to look after your sister. I don’t want you two to be separated. You’re a team, you and Lila. This custody thing was all or nothing. I told you that before it started. If I lost, I wanted you to stay with her.” Bo paused. “And don’t be fretting about your homework being checked on. I’d be doing that at my house too, buster.”
“It’s not fair, Dad. The way everyone has blamed you for Momma’s death. You tried to stop her from walking across that parking lot.” T. J.’s lip began to quiver, and he looked away. Bo also turned from his son and again gazed at his untouched glass of sour mash whiskey.
“JimBone Wheeler killed Momma. Just like he murdered Uncle Rel and Detective Richey. Just like he tried to kill Professor McMurtrie and his grandson.”
Bo nodded as his mind drifted back to the two weeks when James Robert “JimBone” Wheeler had escaped death row and went on his rampage to bring a reckoning on the Professor and everyone Bo’s mentor held dear. Those events seemed like two lifetimes ago.
Rel . . . Wade . . . Jazz . . . all murdered. The Professor had survived Wheeler’s onslaught, but now he was gone too.
And I have nothing, Bo thought, running a finger around the rim of his whiskey glass. Not even my kids.
“Dad?”
Bo gazed up at his son and gripped his forearm. “You just stay the course, all right? Put your grades first, go to class, and keep practicing.”
T. J. nodded and then frowned. “The offer from Bama still hasn’t come.”
“It will,” Bo said. He and Jazz had wanted their son to continue his hoop dreams in Tuscaloosa, where they both had lettered in sports. Bo had played linebacker on Coach Paul “Bear” Bryant’s 1978 and ’79 national championship football teams, and Jazz had been a sprinter on the track team. “It will,” he repeated, squeezing his son’s arm.
“Dad, are you going to be OK?”
“Don’t you worry about me. You focus on yourself and Lila.” Bo sighed. “And you mind your mammy and pops. I know I’ve been cross with them since your momma died, but Ezra and Juanita are good people, and they love you and your sister very much.”