The Tragic Tale of Howard Part 5
A West African 9-Part Series short story about loss, second chance, betrayal and personal demons.
The encounter with the police shed light on how little I knew about Al, especially the crucial details. The police were my first resort in the search for her, banking on their expertise in locating the missing.
In the precinct, facing the tired eyes of a white, middle-aged officer, I failed miserably. Basic questions about Al stumped me: her middle name (if she even had one), her last name, the full names of her parents, and even her birthplace escaped my grasp. I guessed her birthplace was Boston, but specifics about which town or neighborhood she grew up eluded me. As for her past addresses and employers before our time together, they were complete mysteries.
What I could offer were physical descriptions—her height, weight, hair color, eye color, and her distinct birthmark. However, the officer already had enough of me before we even got to those details. Imagine being in his shoes: a black man with Rastafarian dreadlocks, now resembling tangled seaweed, his face marked by multiple missing front teeth and a busted lip, ran into your precinct, frantically reporting his blonde-haired, blue-eyed girlfriend was missing. Would you believe such a tale? Would you even believe he had a girlfriend in the first place, especially when he couldn’t provide basic information about her? There were a lot of homeless crazies roaming around in the city, and how could I expect to be perceived as any different from them.
Truth be told, if the roles were reversed and I was the one missing, Al wouldn’t do much better. We never dwelled on the past or discussed such trivial details; our focus was on building a happy present and future together. She was simply “my Al,” and I was to her, “my Howie.” Love was our foundation, and that was all we needed to build a life with one another. There was no point in digging up old family traumas or reopening old wounds.
I tried to tell the officer that it would help to find Al faster if they used a sketch artist, but he didn’t want to hear it. He said they had everything they needed and would “look into it.” Before leaving, I reiterated the physical descriptions of Al once more. “Got it all down,” he claimed confidently. But I could see he hardly wrote anything in his police report.
With the police not much help, I came to the conclusion that I would have to look for Al myself. That didn’t come as a surprise to me. I’d felt this was a foregone conclusion long before my search for her began.
Each morning, I’d start my mission at the Boston Public Library, meticulously planning my day’s route on a map of the entire metropolis region I’d torn from a library reference book. I marked each neighborhood and town I’d already scoured with a big red “X,” determined not to miss a single corner. Not to mention, every week, I went back to old familiar spots Al and I frequented: the coffee shop where we first met, the record shop, Chinatown, our favorite parks, the Port (usually during the day so as not to encounter JJ) and even my old university, MIT. I also stay connected with Al’s old roommate and friends, who promised to let me know of any lead information or new information regarding her disappearance or appearance.
My search took me to places I never imagined I’d tread. I ventured into the country parts outside the city and the roughest neighborhoods within it. It was the roughest neighborhoods where I had the most trouble. Venturing into them, I usually ended up being robbed of what little I had and even beaten when I had nothing to offer. The scars from those beatings are still with me to this very day.
One event from that time still sticks out clearly in my mind. It wasn’t like the usual robberies; instead, it ended up with me getting beaten pretty badly. I was in a rough part of town when I spotted a confused-looking woman on a street corner. Even though I couldn’t see her face well from where I was standing, my heart skipped a beat because she looked a lot like Al: short blonde hair, small build, and wide hips. Without hesitating, I hurried across the street toward her. But just as I got close, she took off running. Fueled by the hope that it might be Al, I chased after her like there was no tomorrow, finally catching her near a rundown old building. That’s when she turned around, and to my disappointment, she didn’t look anything like Al: just a plain pale face with hazel eyes, and no birthmark.
Regrettably, I wasn’t aware of someone else pursuing us. He was accompanying the woman, but I didn’t realize it then, nor did I have time to piece it together. All I remembered was feeling a sudden, intense pain in the back of my head, causing me to fall flat onto the hard street pavement, and everything went dark. When I came to consciousness, I found myself staring down the barrel of a shiny gold pistol. Positioned in front of the woman, as like a protector, was a man dressed in a flashy pink suit and fur coat, gripping the gun tightly.
“Try that shit again, player, and I blow your head out,” he said to me, revealing a row of perfect white teeth and one gold tooth in front. “No free rides out here. You pay my ladies first and then you can play.” He spat on the ground before turning around and walking off with his “lady.”
The pain was excruciating. My right ankle throbbed, swollen to the size of a golf ball, a deep shade of purple beneath my touch. Blood filled my mouth, and as I gently probed with my tongue, I felt the empty spaces where a row of five bottom teeth used to be. Adding the incident with JJ, that’s how I got the big gap in my beautiful smile today.
At that moment, I wished the man had just shot me. I’d been looking for Al everywhere, but I had found no sign of her: not a trace and not a clue. I started to think maybe she was dead, and if she was, then what was the point of me searching? At least by being shot dead, I could reunite with her in the afterlife.
But then, as soon as my mind ran to this thought, a little voice interrupted in my head: “what if she’s alive?” The thought was unbearable to think about. If she was out there somewhere, lost and alone, I was her only lifeline. I couldn’t abandon her, not now, never.
Summoning every ounce of strength, I pushed myself upright, wincing at the pain that shot through my ankle with each movement. Unable to bear weight on both legs, I hobbled forward, relying mainly on my left leg for support and to drag myself along. Later, I would scavenge an old cane from a dumpster, which helped me walk better.
For four seasons, through snow, rain, sunshine, and wind, I searched tirelessly like a mad bloodhound for her. In every city, town, neighborhood and street, I was there, searching. During that time, I had horrible bouts of pneumonia and typhus. I even almost lost my right foot because of neglect of care. The swelling had gotten so bad that I couldn’t wear a shoe. Instead, I fashioned a special foot brace from plenty duct tape, and paper rolls from public bathrooms. With my right foot exposed to the elements, particularly the cold, it felt numb, like dragging a dead log. Thankfully, a street acquaintance directed me to a free clinic where I received treatment and a new medical boot.
Regardless, injuries and illness never stopped me from looking for Al. I never missed not one day looking for her.
“Did you find her?” Ola asked, leaning forward eagerly.
A trio of birds flew in front of Howard, drawing his attention. He watched them as they pecked at each other, then settled down on a nearby tree momentarily before flying off and pecking at each other again. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
“Three little birds,” he said, his voice barely audible. With a heavy sigh, he lowered his head.
Observing Howard, Ola settled back in her chair. She could tell it was hard for him and certainly did not want to seem pushy. Whether he decided to confide in her was entirely up to him, and she respected his boundaries. “These things are never easy to talk about,” she thought.
Several minutes passed in silence before Howard lifted his head, rubbing his face wearily with both hands. “This life, huh?” he said, then abruptly began massaging his thighs.
“Mmm hmmm,” Ola responded softly.
“Sorry Madam,” Howard said, now vigorously rubbing his thighs. “I told no one this story, certainly not this part.”
“It’s okay, Howard. You don’t have to talk if you’re not ready.”
“No,” Howard said firmly, clapping his hands together. “It’s important I talk. These things are not good for the body to keep in for so long. To answer your question, I did find her. I only wish I didn’t. I wish I didn’t.”
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