The lights are already dimmed as the university dean climbs the metal stairs to the podium. I scoot into the last seat in the back row, hands twisting in my lap, gooseflesh running up my arms. My eyes drift over the audience, but no one is paying attention to me. Everyone is facing the stage, watching the dean.
I look for Death.Is he here too?
I don’t feel him.
The space is missing that inexorable gravity he holds—that pull that makes the breath hitch and the heart pound, that primitive knowledge of being in the presence of a tangible threat to your existence.
Why did Death disappear?
I glance around the hall, my gut twinging again. Why did he appear only in my periphery earlier? This time feels different. Or maybe after Winston, everything is different.
Was it a statement of some kind?Letting me know I couldn’t summon him, no matter how hard I tried? That I wouldn’t find him unless he wanted to be found ... wanted to be seen?
I shake my head and sit back. Despite knowing him for centuries, I still can’t guess what Death is up to. There’s been no invitation to a formal meeting. Those are special.
Every decade or more, an item will appear, usually on my night table or desk, with an address on white card stock, a reminder that he can go wherever he pleases and that I will come when called.
I replay the morning in my mind. There was no object waiting, but I felt in my marrow that a meeting was imminent.
What finally drew him here?
Could it be the warning shot in my column? Or the man flirting with me?
We barely spoke at the café, but maybe that didn’t matter.
The memory of what Death did to Diego tightens around me.
I know what Death is capable of. I know how to anger him.
A photo of a familiar face flashes across the projection screen, distracting me from my thoughts.
Dean Sutton, the head of the journalism department at Savannah State University, continues her introductions. She’s stunning in a deep-blue suit, white silk blouse, low heels, and a double rope of pearls, her sister-locs looped elegantly into a chignon as she gazes at the crowd.
“And we have to thank the Reynolds Foundation for hosting this wonderful series, created in honor of Winston Reynolds, a noted economist, financier, and alum of our proud university.”
Winston’s gently lined face graces the screen with his characteristic bow tie, his skin deeply bronzed, his white mustache thick, his eyebrows wild, his midnight eyes still holding the mischievous sparkle of the boy I met all those years ago, amplifying his absence and all I’ve lost in the three years since his death.
I close my eyes for a moment, hearing one of his silly jokes and remembering how he’d make me a cup of tea before listening to me ramble about my latest piece. I squeeze my hands to my stomach as if to hold in that anchor of grief. After living so many lifetimes, I should’ve been used to losing someone, the knife wound to the heart dull, morepaper cut than puncture. But his death was one of the hardest to take, the closing of a final chapter.
I gaze up at the screen as Dean Sutton continues detailing his work and achievements and his mother’s legacy before she pauses, waiting for the big reveal, coordinated over dozens of emails.
“To support his legacy, I’m delighted to announce that in addition to this generous summer series, the Reynolds Foundation has gifted twenty-five million dollars, enabling us to renovate the east wing of this building and fund an endowment to providefull scholarshipsfor all students in the journalism field in perpetuity.”
Thunderous cheers crash over the auditorium as the crowd stands, their shouts and whistles echoing off the rafters. I stay seated as the wave of energy washes over me, soaking in the moment, a warmth building in my chest.
No soul in the room could know that I was responsible for this money, earned and compounded over several lifetimes. I’ve spent millions to help others, always in the background, always anonymous, so I rarely get the chance to experience the appreciation of it all. This feels good, the joy spreading, a sensation I’ve craved for so long.
Dean Sutton beams as the applause dies down. “We are truly grateful for the gift and what it will allow us to do for the many, many, many years to come.”
With her sincere thanks, a pall of reality descends, and the chilly touch of guilt returns.
Itisa wonderful gift—for a future that won’t exist if I don’t continue to hold up my end of the bargain. I glance at my bag again, the newspaper crinkled from my obsessive reading and rereading of my column. Will it be enough? It has to be.
Dean Sutton continues, “Today, I’m excited to introduce you to our newest addition to the journalism department. He comes to us from Mullins University, where he lectured on African and African American history, his work focusing on historical narratives, the Black press, and digital journalism. His first book,Black Travel Narratives, is aNew York Timesnonfiction bestseller and has been put into production as a series with the Discovery Channel. He’s working on a new project about the Black women journalists of the past. So, without further ado, I introduce the esteemed Dr. Sebastian Moore.”
The crowd claps wildly as the professor climbs the steps to shake hands with the dean. As he turns away from the glare of lights, my stomach flutters.
The man from the coffee shop.
