Don't Lose Her by Jonathon King

with close work.
    â€œGood day, Mrs. Quarles.”
    â€œYessir, Mr. Freeman,” she answered, looking up at the sky. “I believe the Lord has done us right today.”
    â€œHow have you been, ma’am?”
    She moved her gaze from the azure sky over to the courts where the players had gone back to more important things than assessing the stranger who’d put a wrinkle in their day.
    â€œI got my boy home. And I rose for yet another day on this earth, Mr. Freeman,” she said and turned a smile on me. “So I’m on the plus side, sir.”
    â€œIndeed you are, Mrs. Quarles,” I responded, taking my time, knowing the ritual. Since her son’s tremendous athletic skills had turned him into a commodity in high school, no coach, no recruiter, no so-called adult fan, was allowed to address or approach him without the permission of his mother. If you broke that rule, you automatically lost access. That’s how it was and it was upheld by CQ and thus by everyone else.
    â€œThat’s some kind o’ old-time vehicle you got there, Mr. Freeman,” the elderly woman said, again without looking at the subject of her sentence. “Reminds me of bad times.”
    Her tone was conversational, carrying no other meaning than a simple statement. But the message was there.
    â€œYes, ma’am. She’s an old classic. Billy gave it to me as a present.”
    â€œIs that right? And how is Mr. Manchester? We don’t see him as much as we would like to.” The mention of Billy improved her demeanor. A hint of a smile came to her face. “He still livin’ on top of that big ol’ palace down on the beach?”
    â€œYes, ma’am, he is. And although he is in good health, Mrs. Quarles, he is working very hard. In fact, I came by today to see if Clarence might be able to help Mr. Manchester with something.”
    The elderly woman looked at me, studied my face in the way I was sure she had studied the eyes of every recruiter or coach or vice principal of a private school or any other man who came to her porch bearing propositions for her son.
    â€œIf it’s for Mr. Manchester, I’m sure Clarence will want to help,” she said, now looking past me toward the court, indicating I was allowed to speak to her son. I took my foot off the first step and my elbow off her banister.
    â€œ ’Cause I know Mr. Manchester would never put my boy in a bad situation,” she said. The inflection was a mix of question and command.
    â€œNo, ma’am,” I said before turning away. “He wouldn’t.”
    I slipped inside the fence of the basketball court and walked toward the far end. The players, all African Americans ranging from elementary school children to prematurely gray, yellow-eyed men, lowered their chins but raised their eyes, cutting looks at yet another white dude in search of CQ.
    â€œYo, Coach,” someone yelled from the deep corner of the court. “I gotta sweet jumper, too, like to light up yo’ field house like a star.”
    The comment elicited a number of guffaws from the other players.
    â€œHey, man. I take CQ a dozen times one-on-one. He ain’t that good,” the young caller said.
    More sneers from the others and then from a group on the bench: “Shut up, nigger. You can’t take CQ’s mama with that raggedy-­ass game a’ yours.”
    â€œWhy don’t you come out here, nigger, an’ I sho’ you what’s raggedy-ass?”
    I kept walking, though I felt a grin pulling at the side of my mouth. If a white man had used such a racial epithet on the playground, or anywhere else for that matter, words or fists would be flying. Here it was ritual. I did note that when the braggart commented that he’d beaten CQ in one-on-one games in the past, CQ himself had never turned from his concentration on his own basket. I saw him simply shake his head and shoot another free throw.
    As I