Page 22 of Ghost in the Night

“They’re having that memorial for Tim Truman today,”Lena says as she sets a plate down for me. “Figured it’d be nice if we show our faces.”

“It’s casual,” Daddy tells me. “Nothing we gotta dress up for. I promise.”

I nod. A few days ago, the thought of going to this memorial filled me with dread. But now that Myah put the idea of Tim Truman’s ghost into my head, I wonder if I could learn more about him.

It’s a short walk from Lena’s house to the home of  Ms. Trina, one of Tim’s oldest friends. The backyard of the small red house is filled with people. White balloons are tied along the fence and tables are spread out, some wrapped in newspaper, others covered in food and drinks. Mr. Truman’s picture is blown up on a big poster. At the far end of the yard is a DJ that looks a little like Daddy’s best friend, Uncle Scott. Another person mans the grill, smoking ribs. No one I see seems sad. More like, they all just chilling, glad to be in each other’s company.

Lena walks around the party, giving out hugs andintroducing Dad to everyone, with Robby in tow. I hang back, anxious again about being this near to people who are grieving. Even if they look happy, this is not a birthday party.

Two women walk out the house with huge pots, heading for the tables.

“Watch it now! Watch it!”

They scatter a jumble of steaming seafood on the table, just like what Lena made for us on our first night.

“Baby, what you doing? You lost?”

I spin to see a woman around Lena’s age talking to me.

“I … uh … I …”

“Go on, get yourself a plate before it’s all gone,” she says, pushing me toward the food.

“Wait. I—”

“Trina, who dat is there?” the man at the grill yells.

“Ron’s baby girl,” Ms. Trina shouts back, patting my shoulder. “You know she shy.”

I don’t know a Ron, but it seems too late to correct her. She’s already plopping me into a chair, handing me a plastic bib and a silver nutcracker. I stare at it.

“For the crab legs,” Ms. Trina instructs, then walks off to help more people.

“Um, thanks,” I squeak, giving my neighbor a polite smile. I pluck a corn on the cob out of the pile of shrimp, potatoes, and crab legs, all dripping with a peppery red sauce. It tastes delicious, like an explosion of seasonings, a whole party in my mouth.

Down the table, everyone is laughing, eating, and telling stories. Some have plates of red rice with okra, peas, sausage, and corn bread. Stuff my grandma loved to make. I fumble a bit with the nutcracker on a lobster claw, and one of my neighbors helps without me having to ask.

When I feel I can’t fit another shrimp into my stomach, I grab a roll of paper towel, wiping my hands clean as a man at the end of the table raises his cup.

“To Tim-bo. Gone on to glory way too soon.”

“Man changed all our lives over here.”

“Boy, he loved going fishing. Just about lived on a boat as a kid. And them oysters hate to see him coming!”

The group cackles.

“Remember when he did that food drive?”

“And them group tours! Had them white folks pouring libations in Calhoun Square, making them apologize for they ancestors. Now that was something!”

The table laughs. I pay close attention.

“I went on one of his tours not too long ago, when I had some family visiting,” a woman says. “Learned a thing or two myself. That’s what I loved about him. He never let you forget where you come from.”

“His nephews loved visiting they uncle every summer,” another woman says tearfully. “Young Jabari just about followed him wherever he went. Sitting right up under him on every tour. He could’ve probably run it himself. I hope they find him soon. Just breaks my heart.”

“Who they think did it? They got any clue?”