It had been four days since Antwan Dixon’s injury and three days since Roland Spencer had gone missing. The proximity of those two events hadn’t gone unnoticed on Gus Harris. He’d spoken with Sherry Calhoun shortly after word had reached him about Roland’s disappearance and the Sheriff’s Department had declared him missing. The truth of the matter though was that Roland was [i]more[/i] than missing. There wasn’t a soul in all of Pickett County that didn’t know that. Word on the street was that Billy Brown’s boys had taken Roland on a drive that he was never coming back from. He’d been indebted to Brown in some way, shape, or form and that debt had something to do with Antwan. His injury must have broken the terms of whatever seedy agreement Roland had entered into. So as easy as clicking his fingers Brown had disappeared him. There was no fuss, no outcry in the streets as there had been when Jayson had been killed, only cold, hard ambivalence from the people of Norman. The only person that Gus had even heard speak a good word about Roland since his passing was old Laval. Outside of that it had almost gone entirely unnoticed.

Antwan’s injury on the other hand was the talk of the town. He’d been a well-liked boy even [i]before[/i] Jayson had been shot and the injury had only intensified that. The flowers and cards were almost bursting out of the young boy’s room when Gus had gone to visit him. He’d promised himself he’d tell Antwan about Roland but he’d proven unequal to that promise. Antwan had looked so broken and dispirited already that Gus was certain telling him would have pushed him over the edge. They’d spoken for thirty-five minutes or so, mostly about how long it would be before Antwan would be back on his feet and what he’d do in the meantime, but Antwan had rejected the deacon’s attempts to comfort him. He was beyond comfort it seemed. After Jayson had died Antwan had been an angry, tearful mess. Now he simply stared off into the distance with a glazed-over look that had unsettled Gus. He hoped Antwan would find something else to live for or there was no telling where he’d end up.

Heck, even Gus was finding it hard to get out of bed in the mornings. He’d never felt so powerless, so impotent, in the face of adversity before than he had done of late. [i]No more Vontae Carters[/i]. Every time he thought back to Vontae’s memorial service he couldn’t help but condemn himself under his breath. If he’d known then what was to come he’d never have thought those words. He’d sat on the edge of his bed every morning and wondered how differently things might have turned out if he had a chance to do them over again. Perhaps if he’d have been more cordial with Roland, more understanding, he might have been able to help him with the problems he was facing. Perhaps if he’d have gone to see Chew earlier he’d never have ended up falling back into bed with Dante. There were hundreds of things Gus looked back on and wondered about. Every single time he found himself wondering how Norman had been caught in the worst possible timeline of the all. So many dead, so much potential wasted, and for what? Billy Brown still ruled the roost, young black boys lived, toiled, and died in Norman having never left the county lines, and there still wasn’t a thing that Gus could do about it.

And then he remembered. There was one promise that Gus [i]could[/i] keep. He’d promised to repaint the old Hamilton house. That rotting, peeling behemoth overlooked all of Norman and had been there since before there’d even been a Norman. Gus thought about its dust-lined walls, the pictures that adorned them, and all the tragedy it had seen over the years. It was still there. It endured, as Gus endured, and refused to fall despite it all. He’d leapt out of bed that morning after than he had done all week, thrown on an old grey tracksuit, some battered sneakers, and a beanie and set out for the hardware store. The deacon borrowed a ladder from a neighbour and bought four cans of green paint from the store and set out for the house.

Renee had been happy to see him. She didn’t often have visitors and it was clear she was missing her grandson very much. Gus sat on the porch with her transcribing a new letter to DeSean as he sipped on some iced tea. He still hadn’t been to see DeSean but he would soon. He owed Renee that much at least. Once he was done writing the letter out he ushered the old woman inside and took to setting the ladder up outside the house on his own. It was hard work, Gus knew it would take him a day or two at least, but it would take his mind off of the past month and once he was done he’d know he’d kept one promise he’d made. He hadn’t been able to stop Vontae Carter from being killed, nor Jayson Aaron, Yolanda Thomas, Dante Fulsome, or Roland Spencer but he [i]could[/i] do this. He knew if he ever spoke those words out loud to anyone they wouldn’t make much sense but in his head it did. 

He hung a heavy can of paint along the side of the ladder as he climbed it and began to paint. From atop the ladder he could see all across Norman. He saw Spencer’s Tires and Rims, Hobie’s Diner, the AME church, the old basketball court, and the rows of houses that the people of Norman inhabited. He stopped painting for a moment to take the view in. But for a few changes the small town looked almost exactly the same as it had done a hundred years ago. So much had changed and yet nothing had. It was the same place, the same misery, bogged down with the same tragedy as it had ever been. Yet there was something there. He heard it in the distance. The sound of children playing. His eyes rested on the basketball court where a set of boys were chasing after a ball and a thin smile appeared on the deacon’s lips.

There was still hope. 

There was [i]always[/i] hope.