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Sherlock Jones

Wanda Coleman

Night brought with it the promise of the adventure he craved the way addicts craved heroin. It had its own particular flavor, high and price -- and he was quite willing to pay for the pleasure. His mother had named him aptly, and in that name he had found something he needed -- a redemption, he liked to think.
     He could not help himself. Nothing excited him more than the power he derived from his ability to detect a wrong and right it. As big as he stood, he cloaked himself in the tweed capeleted coat, donned the double-billed tweed cap, clamped the heavy-bowled pipe in his jaw, grabbed up his cane and prowled the local trouble spots for evidence of crimes in progress.
     He was a large very dark-skinned man, fearless, and able to reduce lessers to a pulp with his fists if need be. Rather than dirty his hands apprehending the crooks himself, he made use of the local pay phones, knew all the ones that were working, and kept enough dimes in his pocket to accomplish a call to the nearest precinct. He regarded this as wisdom on his part, keeping himself above the fray. His role was that of a superior intellect in the service of crime fighting, he rationalized, not that of a vigilante.
     He had revealed his passion to his bride Rosalee, shortly after their honeymoon ended. She loved him, had cooperated with Sherlock, if anxiously, and had long tolerated his strange ritual, hoping he would either tire of it or outgrow it. After all, she had reasoned at the time -- he was entitled to at least one kink. Too, she was grateful that he wasn't the sort who threw their earnings away on gambling, women or drank it up in booze. Given the kinds of complaints she had heard on the lips of other wives, she was reluctant to open her mouth to say one word against him. But lately, after ten years of faithful marriage, he seemed to have become more and more preoccupied with 'the chase,' he called it, and pro forma in family matters. They now had two children, Rose and Darrel, and his love for them was unquestionable. Yet, it seemed to her that he was more detached than ever, merely slogging though the routines of their family life without the emotional engagement.
     Sherlock was a good husband and decent father, saw to everyone's material needs -- within his means -- and did his best with the rest. Rare was the Sunday morning that he failed to drop the children off at Sunday school then return home to enjoy a few hours of pleasure in Rosalee's arms before accompanying her to eleven o'clock service. They would return home, the family intact, for an early supper, preparation for the school and workweek, and television or reading until retiring, unless having in friends for board games or cards.
     Rosalee considered herself a good wife, never having interfered with his favorite pastime. Any doubts she initially expressed had become softer until even the whispers vanished. After dinner, on those nights, he'd sit awhile, waiting until the children were in bed, which was promptly at eight-thirty on school nights. Sherlock was free to leave the house two nights a week, except for holidays and special occasions, to indulge his obsession.
     Anticipating the restless nights ahead, Rosalee had started to lose her appetite, becoming nauseated with apprehension. She did her best to hide it, but Sherlock eventually noticed.
     "Watson, you hardly touched your supper this evening," he would chastise.
     "I stopped in at the pub, had a bit of a snack with the villagers." She had learned her lessons well. He loved it when she played along. It always mollified him instantly, and he would cease his prying or drop his complaint. In their playacting, the children were always referred to in some oblique way, with some noun or noun phrase. Sometimes they were referred to as 'the locals,' 'the thespians,' 'the Baker Street irregulars,' 'the band of gypsies' and 'the townsfolk.' However, the time had finally arrived when she not only doubted his sanity, but her own for tolerating what she now regarded as madness.
     Realizing she had to do something to resolve the situation, Rosalee troubled the solution. For the longest time, she worried that she would be unable to find a way to articulate the problem without sounding like a malcontent or a mental case. In her late afternoon musings -- in that lull between the children’s afterschool nap and Sherlock's return from work -- she often considered seeing a psychiatrist, or perhaps a marriage counselor, to seek out some objective party who could offer serious insights into her problem without laughing her out of their office. But the thought of telling this to some indifferent White person made her shudder with dread. She did not have the money to afford private consultation. And there were no Black mental health care professionals working for the county psychiatric hospitals that she could find.
     Beyond being sneered at, Rosalee was terrified of being laughed at. And what would someone White make of her if she told them her husband was obsessed with the fictional detective. She saw nothing humorous in the situation, and sensed that the longer it went on the greater the potential for tragedy. Something had to be done.
     Yet, she could not bring herself to confront Sherlock directly. Therefore, at every free moment, she schemed until it seemed that she was doomed to chase her own thoughts forever in tighter and more fruitless circles, the problem becoming so worrisome it had started to age her prematurely. Her hair was turning gray and she was barely in her thirties.
     Finally, at a complete loss, she took time away from her daily chores and went to visit the pastor in his private chambers. There, Reverend Smith listened respectfully to the tiny, sallow-skinned woman's pitiful tale.
     "I'm afraid that someone's going to notice that he's the one doing all this stuff. Callin' the police on people for one thing or another. He reports everything from traffic infractions to littering the sidewalk, to peddlin' marijuana and dope in the streets. He takes down license plate numbers and makes these anonymous calls to the cops. He stands around places and follows people. Shadowing them, he calls it. I think he gets away with it because people dismiss him as some kind of kook. I live with the fear that something could go wrong and the police shoot him themselves."
     "I—find—this—absolutely unbelievable!" His sympathies aroused, Reverend Smith dropped his eyelids toward his desk, fingertips touching. He was a dignified man of medium build, with handsome angular features and tan complexion. Is his mid forties, he had begun to gray at the temples. He selected his words extremely carefully. "Your husband seems so -- normal."
     "It happens every Wednesday and Thursday like clockwork. And if something happens where he knows he can't go out on one of those days, he might add Saturday or Sunday night. 'Just to keep things even,' he says."
     "Have you asked him to see a psychiatrist or psychologist?"
     "I've tried. On the one hand, I'm afraid those people will lock me up, thinking I'm the one who's crazy. Plus, you know how White people are. Would they really be interested in helping us? Even if they were, I'm still afraid. If I even hint that I'm going to say something like that, if he even suspects it, he starts to puff up like a bad blow. He's a big man, Reverend, and while I'm not usually afraid of him, I get afraid real quick then. If he's sick in his mind he could kill me without knowing what he's doing. I don't want to give him the chance. He even got himself some sort of old antique gun he carries around with him."
     "Antique gun?"
     "Yes. Some kind of pistol. He musta found it somewheres or got it at a pawnshop. It's so old it looks like if he fires it it'll blow up and kill us both. Might be a replica or something. Whatever it is, it looks like it belongs in a museum."
     "I see. This is serious."
     "He takes that thing out into the street with him. Concealed. Which is against the law. I'm afraid he might try to use it. You know, bad folk carry some high-powered weapons and whatnot these days. If the police see it, you know what they do to a Black man with jes' the slightest suspicion. He's settin' himself up to be killed. And the thought of being a widow tryin' to raise two children alone doesn't make me any more happier than the thought of bein' a corpse."
     "My dear Mrs. Jones," Reverend Smith shook his head, "before we put our heads together to devise a plan, I'd like to observe this -- phenomenon -- myself." The Reverend seemed taken by his own sense of adventure.
     "Phewhat?"
     "I'd like to see it with my own eyes."
     She fell silent, her face twisted in thought, attempting to visualize some way in which she could make this possible, certain that Sherlock would never put on his performance in front of anyone but herself. But something had to be done. The Reverend followed her tortured expression, anticipating the logical conclusion.
     "Look -- Mrs. Jones -- is there anywhere in the house where I can hide undetected?"
     She looked at him blankly, then smiled. "There's a storage chest built under the picture window in the living room. It's a nice little alcove. The lid is covered with a stuffed leather cushion. On hot summer nights I make it up into a bed and let the kids sleep on it. It's handy for extra seating when company comes. I keep my sewing material and thread inside. But I can clear it out that morning, you can come early, while the kids are nappin', and hide in there. It's big enough to hold a body. The lid is not that heavy and you can lift it enough to peek out without being seen. The kids used to play hide-and-seek like that all the time till I put a stop to it. They could fall asleep in there and accidently suffocate."
     "Good. That sounds perfect. You've caught me at the right time. My calendar is clear for the week. We'll get this matter straightened out right away."
     "Thank you, Reverend Smith -- thank you so much."
     "Be strong, Rosalee. Pray for Sherlock and for the strength and guidance to see this thing through."
     They scheduled their rendezvous for the following evening, minutes before Sherlock was scheduled to arrive home. Rosalee had made certain the kids were watching television in the den. The Reverend arrived to find everything as described. Quickly, Rosalee helped him climb into the chest. It was made of cedar and very aromatic. He made himself as comfortable in the dark box as possible. Rosalee put the pillows back in their usual position and fluffed them. According to their hastily sketched plan, he was to remain hidden the entire evening, roughly three hours. As soon as Sherlock left on his rounds, Reverend Smith would climb out of the chest and leave. He and Rosalee would meet in his chambers that next afternoon to discuss his observations and suggestions.
     Sherlock came home as usual, he put on his robe and slippers, scanned the evening newspaper. Rosalee hummed about busily, putting supper on the table, and Sherlock made the usual complaints about the job and a few comments on the day's events. The Reverend Smith could hear the children laughing as everyone sat down to enjoy their evening meal. Sherlock said the blessing, then the air was filled with the tink-and-clatter of forks, knives, and spoons interspersed with small talk about homework and playground activities. The space was very close, and Reverend Smith had to not only fight off a heady drowsiness, but hunger and the sudden loud grumblings of his stomach, which sounded embarrassingly loud within his confines.
     At last, the children went off to the den to watch more television before bed. Sherlock enjoyed a second helping of dessert while Rosalee cleared the table and did the dishes. The Reverend Smith had lost all sense of time and could not see the dial of his watch in the dark. But the retreating shuffling of feet alerted him. The house was settling down, the whole neighborhood becoming quieter. The temperature in the chest also seemed to drop. As prearranged, there was a tap against the sideboard. It was their agreed-upon signal. Sherlock was about to make his appearance.
     "Dr. Watson," he said cheerily, "It's about time I made my rounds."
     "Do be careful Sherlock. Ruffians about you know."
     "I'd welcome the challenge, believe me Watson."
     "Well, you can't go out like that. You'll catch your death. Better take this scarf."
     "Why Watson! Thank you, how thoughtful of you."
     "Here, turn this way, let me help you with it."
     Carefully, Reverend Smith lifted the lid and peered out. He could hardly believe his eyes. The sight was painful, and his pity for Rosalee escalated. Sherlock looked bearishly silly in the getup. How could anyone dressed like that possibly wander the streets of the Black ghetto at night without being noticed? Sherlock had indeed been lucky.
     "Alright, whoever you are, out of there!"
     There was a small round gun barrel tickling the space between his eyes.
     Shocked and startled that he was discovered, Reverend Smith scrambled to raise the lid and climb out of the chest. "I--I--ah--." He struggled to find his tongue, realizing that this was not his parishioner, Mr. Jones -- but the compulsively mad detective with whom he was confronted.
     "Watson! What is the meaning of this!"
     Reverend Smith looked at Rosalee whose terrified eyes were glued to the gun in her husband's hand. "Uh--uh--uh--." She stammered, hands flitting about like frightened birds.
     "Calm yourself, Watson." Sherlock snorted. "I'm itching to kill a man, you know. And this one's an intruder. I'm sure the police would think me perfectly justified." Sherlock smirked dangerously.
     Reverend Smith was instantly covered in sweat, felt his bladder weaken and urine dampen his pants legs. "Watson -- for Christ's sake, say something."
     "I -- don’t think the police will buy your argument, Holmes."
     "And why not?"
     "Because that's your famous nemesis, Professor Moriarty himself! Secreted in your private lair and then shot! Someone's bound to think it was murder."
     "And why would they think that?"
     "What else could they think?"
     "That it was self defense. Moriarty tried to assassinate me."
     "I -- I don't have a gun, Holmes."
     Sherlock cocked his head, amused.
     "Quite right Holmes. We could plant one on him, but there's not another to be spared."
     "Yes. A good point. Then -- what shall we do with the professor?"
     "Why don't we let him go, this time. We're one up on him and he knows it. He won't dare trouble us like this again -- I'd venture to say."
     "No -- Watson's right Holmes. You've certainly got the drop on me."
     "That's better. Sounding like the coward you really are."
     Rosalee eased her way to the front door and unlocked it. Sherlock swaggered about in a circle then turned toward the reverend, twirled the gun on his forefinger and slipped it into the recesses of his outfit. "Leave these premises, Moriarty. Before I change my mind."
     With a gasp of relief, Reverend Smith ran for the door and through it.
     Sherlock turned toward Rosalee and gave her a long questioning look. Dreading the tirade, she eyed him steadily.
     "You're all I care about, Sherlock. I was only trying to help."
     He smiled at her. "I don't want help, Watson. I'm happy, just the way things are. Shall we leave it like that?"
     She nodded. "I -- I've learned my lesson."
     "Good," he sighed, reached into its pocket for his watch and noted the hour. "There's still plenty of time for me to do a little detective work. You may expect me to make my usual return."
     "Yes, dear."
     "What did you say?"
     "I mean, certainly Holmes."
     "That's better."
     He turned and stepped out into the night. Rosalee stood mid room and listened to the sound of the car as he drove off.
     "Dear Fatha," she said softly, "bless him and keep him."

Copyright © 2010 by San Diego State University.

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