Sacrifices of Joy Read Online Free Page A

gray hair and a long gray beard to match brought me back to reality. The crowd that had gathered to watch the news coverage had dissipated and the flat-screen televisions were blinking off, one by one. “I’m leaving early today. Nobody’s buying TVs, just watching them. I might as well do the same.”
    â€œTragic. For the whole country, but especially for the families involved,” were the only words I could get out.
    The man nodded and mumbled some expletive about terrorists as he reentered his shop with a large set of jingling keys.
    What now?
    A café with outdoor seating was farther down the street. If I sat there, I would be able to see Roman come out of the cupcakery when the party ended, and I would have a chance to finally study the news on my phone. Now that I knew there were casualties, I needed to read all about them, see their pictures, learn more about their lives.
    Let it all be real.
    I knew from unfortunate practice that this was my healing routine when it came to such matters.
    Giving honor to the lives and legacies of those lost.
    I looked behind me to make sure that Roman was not already coming, and then turned toward the café, digging for my phone in my tote bag as I walked. I turned it on just before heading inside to order a quick bite, knowing that it would take a few moments for the news apps on my phone to fully upload. The food was just to have the right to sit at a table.
    I had no appetite.

Chapter 4
    L A B OHEMIA . I read the sign and stepped into the dimly lit café. All of my senses found a warm welcome. Orange beaded chandeliers dripped from the high ceilings, and bright-colored patterned tablecloths covered wooden tables. A white man with long blond and silver dreadlocks played a guitar from a small stage in the rear. The entire place smelled like Mediterranean and Indian spices, cinnamon, vanilla, and mint, a combination I assumed came from both the kitchen and the scented candles that dotted the otherwise rustic interior.
    As the man strummed his guitar and sang a song about grief, love, and protest, I settled into a high-backed chair in the corner, away from the nine or ten patrons who nodded along to the music.
    Roman could reach me by phone when he was ready, I decided, no need for me to sit outside. The vibe of the café felt safe to me. I needed a healing zone.
    Without me asking for it, a brown girl with a pretty, red Angela Davis–sized curly ’fro set a small porcelain cup of hot tea and a plate of ginger-apricot scones in front of me.
    â€œWelcome. This is on the house.” She smiled. “Relax for a change,” she directed as if she knew me, knew the stress, strain, and anguish that tormented my soul. Her name was Skyye, I read from her crocheted name badge. Although her skin was brown and her hair was a mass of spirals and coils, something about her features spoke to a multi-mixed lineage. I would not have been surprised if she told me that she was Jewish, Native American, Ethiopian, and Irish all in one.
    As she stepped away, I dumped the entire cup of hot tea down my throat like it was a shot of liquor and immediately felt calm, loose, and tranquil.
    And guilty.
    My son had wanted me out here. Called me all the way from San Diego to join him and his siblings for a family event.
    But they weren’t family to me.
    I hated RiChard and everything attached to him. Everything he did, everything he stood for was like daggers, dungeons, and death to me. Like the blast that happened in Baltimore, RiChard’s crimes had innocent victims. My feelings toward Mbali and her children were not my fault.
    How could I ever be healed from this pain?
    Roman talked about moving forward, and I was glad that he had found a path to do so for himself. I needed to find my own way.
    And I just didn’t think a sweet sixteen party was it. Roman would simply have to understand.
    The waitress set another teacup in front of me and I threw down a second