Yet two officers stood in his mother’s backyard and behaved as though the rules were suggestions.
That was harder to accept than the slapstick cruelty of a smashed cake.
Ernestine wanted nothing to do with the attention.
The first reporter who approached her driveway received exactly twelve seconds.
“Mrs. Freeman, how do you feel about what happened?”
Ernestine looked at the camera.
“Bad.”
“Do you believe the officers targeted your family because you're Black?”
She considered the question.
“I know what they did.”
“I know what they said.”
“I’m going to let people see the video and decide what they think.”
“Do you want them fired?”
“I want people who wear uniforms to know seventy-year-old women are not furniture.”
Then she went inside.
That quote played for three days.
Anthony called.
“Ma.”
“What?”
“You cannot call people furniture on television.”
“I said I was not furniture.”
“I know.”
“What did you want me to say?”
He laughed despite himself.
It was the first time either of them had laughed about the incident.
Ernestine’s birthday was held again two weeks later.
Not officially.
Denise claimed it was “just dinner.”
There were thirty-three people.
Ernestine accused her of lying.
A new cake sat on the patio table.
Lavender.
Gold flowers.
The number 70 again.
Anthony arrived early this time.
Very early.
Ernestine looked outside.
“You lose your job?”
“No.”
“Then why are you here before everybody else?”
“I was told punctuality matters.”
“By who?”
“You.”
“That sounds wise.”
She handed him a tray.
“Put that outside.”
Anthony obeyed.
He spent the afternoon moving chairs, carrying drinks, and trying not to look toward the patch of grass where his mother had fallen.
She noticed anyway.
“Anthony.”
He turned.
“Come here.”
He walked over.
Ernestine lowered her voice.
“You keep staring at that spot.”
“I’m not.”
“You lied better at fourteen.”
He sighed.
She touched his hand.
“I’m okay.”
“I know.”
“No.”
“You know what the doctor said.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
Anthony looked at her.
Ernestine continued:
“You think because of your job, you were supposed to somehow prevent this.”
He said nothing.
That meant yes.
“You weren't here.”
“I should've been.”
“Why?”
“It was your birthday.”
“You have missed birthdays before.”
“That is not helping.”
She smiled.
Then became serious.
“Listen to me.”
“You do not get to turn what those men did into another reason to punish yourself.”
Anthony looked down.
“I trained some of the people who trained Grady.”
“There it is.”
“Ma—”
“No.”
“You teach grown men rules.”
“You cannot crawl inside their heads and steer them around.”
“That doesn't mean the department did enough.”
“Then fix what can be fixed.”
“But don't sit in my yard looking guilty every time you see grass.”
Anthony laughed softly.
“Okay.”
“Good.”