On my way to church the Sunday before last, the text message arrived cold and callous in my cell-phone inbox—“Charles was shot last night, thought you’d wanna know.”
I was taken aback. I know three men named Charles, two of whom were, as best I knew, safe at home that morning. I called the text messenger and relentlessly grilled him on the particulars, more upset with his nonchalance than the unverified news.
He said the victim, shot dead at a house party in North Las Vegas, was indeed my third Charles—Charles Washington Jr.—a young man high on life and gifted with a preternatural ability to make you laugh, even if you were upset with him. I warned him against spouting off. Wait until we get all the facts—it could very well be another Charles.
In my soul, I didn’t believe my own words.
As the pastor talked about Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead, I quietly fretted that Charles Washington Jr. was, indeed, dead. But my heart wouldn’t let my brain process the possibility. How could he die? He couldn’t. It wasn’t him. Not at 18. Not with a college degree ahead of him. Not with so much life left to live. The bespectacled young man fond of putting barrettes at the end of his braids—for which I continually hassled him—the high-schooler who bragged about his wrestling prowess and sex appeal deserved more.
Back at home, I was met with an influx of calls from friends of Charles’ who’d graduated from the high school mentoring group over which I preside. I’d spent many a night counseling and cajoling these young men, trying to give them academic and corporate survival tools to supplement the skills they’d learned as street-savvy teens. How many times had I told them not to go to house parties?
The more calls that came, the more sure I became that Charles had been shot.
I checked my work e-mail, fearful of a press release from North Las Vegas police about homicide. And there it was, in my inbox:
“On 06/10/2007 at about 12:30 a.m. officers of the North Las Vegas Police Department were dispatched to the 2200 block of Mountain Sunset in reference to a call of shots fired. Upon arrival, officers found multiple gunshot victims one of which was pronounced dead at the scene. We have had other victims of this shooting arrive at local hospitals, at this time we believe we have seven victims. At least two of the victims were transported in extremely serious condition. At this point in the investigation it appears that some type of gathering was taking place at a residence when the suspect or suspects began shooting. This incident took place in the area of Craig Road and Clayton.”
More calls came; so many calls came that I missed the voicemail saying Charles was deceased. Not that I needed the confirmation—I felt it. My Charles was gone.
Listen to me—my Charles. As if he belonged to me, as if his death was more personal for me than for the mother who raised him for 18 years, who allowed him to join a youth group so he could better himself and who was just as excited about his next phase of life—Charles Washington Jr., college graduate.
I was scared to talk to her. My hands were sweaty. My heart fluttered. How do you console a mother whose son was murdered hours ago? I felt guilty, like I didn’t do enough when I mentored him to keep him away from danger. The phone seemed like kryptonite.
Other than profusely apologizing and offering support, I remember little of what I said. Her words were comforting—it wasn’t my fault; I did good by him.
And yet I don’t feel that way. Some part of me will carry his demise for the rest of my life, like an internal Scarlet Letter or an albatross around my spirit.
Two weeks removed from Charles’ untimely death, and I still can’t quite come to grips. Several of my childhood friends were murdered, but I never went to their funerals. This would be my first, and the first, for me, of a young man for whom I was an authority figure. I fear my reaction to seeing him. I fear my emotions.
Damn it, there I go again, making this about me. My apologies, Charles. But I just don’t know how to say goodbye. If you were here, I’m sure you’d say I was being the typical Mr. Hodge, mean and overbearing. What I wouldn’t give to be made fun of by you just one more time.