CHAPTER FIVE
Dark and as stiflingly close as the inside of a coffin, Lady G's choking coughs woke her. Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dark. Something thickened the air, unseen in the night-time shadows. The darkness seemed to move. Her heartbeat throbbed in her throat. Her still-waking mind slowly processed the smell. Smoke. Something was on fire.
Scrambling out of bed, her foot
caught in the tangles of her blankets and spilled her onto the
floor. She ran to her window and ripped open the blinds as if she'd
never looked out her window before. Her grandmother's two-story
home was old, kindling with a mortgage payment. She could shimmy
out; the slanted roof's steep pitch was survivable. But what about
her baby brother? Or her mother? One hand covered her mouth and
nose, the other searched along the hardwood floor. The smoke burned
her lungs. She tried to hold her breath, but when her air ran out,
she only gulped down more of the acrid air. The sting of smoke
brought tears to her eyes, further blurring her vision. She crawled
toward the door. It was marginally easier to breathe down there.
She opened the door cautiously. Events happened so fast, the
surreal movement of time when the mind couldn't cope with all of
the contradictory images.
Thick columns of smoke undulated
with a knowing intent. They turned toward her, a predator catching
a new scent. The flash fire roared through the house, hungry and
desperate. Orange and yellow tongues licked at the curtains.
Pictures charred in their frames, the faces, and background turning
brown then black. Golden flames crawled along the thick carpet. She
banged on the walls. So hot. She sucked in smoke, to the protest of
her scalded lungs.
The house creaked as if assaulted
by a gust of wind. The wall cracked and buckled, a filigree of ashy
veins. Crickety things at the best of times, the stairs lurched in
unsteady and tentative steps. Her head throbbed as if ready to
explode, racing with wild speculation. Her grandma (Grandma!) sometimes burned a candle on a chair;
maybe it had tipped over. Keeping her back to the wall, fearing the
flames devouring the banister and her tumbling into the heart of
the inferno, she sobbed, scared and anxious.
The door to Michah's room canted
ajar. His crib used to be her cousin's and another cousin had
already called dibs on it once Michah no longer needed it. Heedless
of the fire, she swatted at the flames with her hands. Tendrils
flared and bit into her with each swipe. His form tiny and still,
his skin hot and bubbling. Lady G scooped up the bundle of flesh,
the smell of burnt skin, both his and hers, seared her nostrils.
She cooed at him in hushed reassurances that everything would be
OK.
"Is he dead?" a hoarse voice
whispered from the shadowed corner. "I just need to make sure he
was dead."
Her mother's dark skin steeped in
a cloak of night. Wizened fingers tugged at the edge of her shirt,
threatening to pull herself into it. Vacant eyes, unfixed and
filled with psychotic detachment, silently pled for understanding.
From above, the ceiling cracked with the peal of thunder, then
something hot fell onto her face.
Lady G snapped awake. Remembering
the old hurts, she shivered in her bed and held herself. Not unlike
when she woke from her two-month-long coma after the fire. January
22nd, 2001. The date burned into her mind. Pain reared up when
least expected and had a way of never quite going away, but rather
burrowed itself deep within. Like a wound healed over a piece of
shrapnel, mended enough to make her drop her guard, but pain flared
afresh when something bumped against it. She no longer wanted to
feel, but only desired the lure of a morphine drip. The dreamy haze
where nothing hurt as bad as it could. She just kept packing down
the pain, stuffing it deep inside and moving on. Each hurt a tiny
brick, each brick stacked upon one another, with her mother the
source of many, many bricks in that terrible wall.
"I live with it, Vere." Her
mother's name for her. Lady G hated her name and only ever recalled
it whenever she had to fill out government forms. Or thought about
her mother. She could still picture her mother on the chair across
from her bed. Her first sight after she had clawed herself out of
the darkness of her coma, struck by how small her mother looked. So
very, very small. The fire had been ruled an accident, but Lady G
knew. They both knew. The pain, the memories, they were too much.
Lady G peered at her, a tube down her throat, her hands in soft
restraints, probably to keep her from pulling the piece of plastic
out of her mouth.
"I was so young when I had you.
Children change your life. You love them and they drive you insane.
Bit by bit. And you love them some more. But Michah… Michah had his
father's eyes."
"Momma, did you ever love us?"
Lady G's mind called out, needed to know. As always, her mother
didn't hear her and went on about her own concerns.
"I remember those eyes. How
they'd follow me when I walked past him. How they lingered on my
behind or down my chest any chance they got. How they sneered
whenever I shut his game down. How angry they got. How quick they
were to fill with hatred and something animal. And dangerous. I
just couldn't help but keep wondering: would Michah's eyes glaze
over, see me as less than human, as a piece of property or meat?
Would I just be a pair of tits, a piece of ass, or a slick piece of
pussy for him to decide to take? He had his father's eyes, Vere,
and I couldn't take him looking at me, needing me, or depending on
me anymore."
Her mother collapsed into hard
tears, hard because she never quite broke the way truly sorry
people did. Her tears were defiant, sure, and angry, but tears
nonetheless. She laid her head on the hospital bed. Lady G
stretched out her hands. Her burnt hands. Third-degree burns,
incisions had to be made to release the heat. In her last act as
"Vere", Lady G stroked her mother's hair in hard forgiveness. Hard
because she didn't forgive, though part of her understood, and knew
that she needed to release her mother. Her touch feigned love, but
was concerned, scared, and angry. She resolved at that moment, "I
don't want to make someone else." And she vowed not to get involved
with them.
Men.
They were brutal and couldn't
help but use others. Bottomless pits of selfish need they vented
upon women and called it love. Or sex. Or fucking. It was a silly
vow, young and foolish, like love. Her "no men" rant became almost
its own persona, a routine she put on for her friends. Going on
about how she didn't need a man, how she was a princess who saved
herself. How she'd remain single and unsullied by these dogs, these
boys who played men games. She knew the image she projected, how
people assumed that she was strong, capable, wise, and independent.
Her life was her own. And she wanted to be the woman people guessed
her to be. She presented that woman as if she had arrived. Yet she
felt hollow.
A part of her believed she "doth
protesteth too much" when it came to men, but another part of her
was equally adamant. She really didn't want to make someone else.
She had no interest in bringing another messed-up person into her
messed-up world so she could mess them up and have them go off and
mess up others. She simply opted out of that life plan.
Dreams and memories. Lady G
seemed trapped by them, not knowing how to move past them, becoming
entombed in a morass of emotional quicksand she couldn't escape.
The need for love, to fill the ever-present hole inside her; she
remembered desire, but she had forgotten how it worked. How to
lower her guard, allow entry past her wall of bricks, and allow
someone in to see the most precious parts of herself. She had
forgotten what it was like to have someone touch her heart. She
only knew the cold comfort of loneliness and had learned to grow
comfortable with it. Her heart had numbed over.
Then King brought her
back.
The months since finding him had
been good. Made her whole and rekindled desire in her. She enjoyed
the flattery of his attention. It drove her girl Rhianna insane
with jealousy. And Lady G enjoyed being needed and seen as special.
Things were cute early on, but they turned into something selfish.
She didn't think she misrepresented her intentions. He wasn't
enough. No, that wasn't quite it. He couldn't complete her the way
she wanted to be completed. And she knew part of him resisted her.
He wouldn't let her in, not all the way, not to his most precious
part: he loved her the best he was able, she knew that, but it
wasn't enough.
She wanted more.
Big Momma fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat.
Every quarter she attended the condo association meetings. Every
meeting played out the same way. Roger Stern, president of the
board, sat front and center. Officious glasses rested on the tip of
his nose to not only study the papers before him, but to be able to
peer over them in his condescending manner at whoever was speaking.
His wife Holly, a frumpy, pear-figured woman, dressed in floral
patterns too bright for the season. Any season. She took the
minutes as vice president and secretary. Lipstick smeared across
her mouth with a clown's sneer, and blush applied by the
brushstroke, she obviously got made up for her appearance as First
Lady of Breton Court. On the other side of Mr Stern sat Neville
Sims, the groundskeeper for Breton Court. The only black person at
the table, but also the only one of the three who did any real
work. His cap pulled low on his head, lifted whenever he wiped the
sweat from his forehead. His matching blue coveralls had a thin
film of grime on them. Leaning forward, hands clasped in front of
him, he spoke with a hint of hesitation and appeared as
uncomfortable as Big Momma.
A reporter from the community
paper scribbled her notes. Perhaps the reporter's presence caused
Mr Stern to go through the motions of paying more attention. Big
Momma upticked the side of her mouth in mild derision, making a
note to have her niece show up in a skirt, sensible shoes, and
waving a notepad around during the next meeting.
The crowd went through the usual
litany of concerns every meeting: the trash bins were ugly,
unsightly and not emptied often enough; the street lamps along the
parking lots needed to be fixed; the whole place required a face
lift, something more cheery and inviting; the patios were in need
of repair and uniform appearance because with half knocked over,
the wood rotting through, others unpainted or with huge holes in
them, they looked like a thirdworld nation.
Big Momma played the "remember
whens" of the neighborhood. Remember when he
used to be clean? Remember when she
used to be pretty? Remember when they did good in school? Remember when the neighborhood was
calm, with none of this shooting?
Remember when they played real music? Ironically, none of those memories were as
true as she believed. He was never that clean. She was never that
pretty. They never did that well in school. The neighborhood was
always jumping and the music played was complained about by their
parents, too.
"What are we going to do about
them boys?" A dapper-dressed older gentleman asked. Big Momma knew
him as Old School, one of the barbers from up the way. She had no
idea he lived around here. Gray salted his beard, but not in an
unattractive way. But his eyes roved a little too much for her
tastes. Even as he asked his question, he had time to check out the
hem line of the reporter.
"What do you mean?" Mr Stern made
what appeared to be a note on his sheet of paper, either noting the
issue, checking it off his list, or doodling for the appearance of
paying attention.
"They play their loud music at
all hours of the day and night. They congregate on porches, on the
sidewalk, in little packs."
"We can't punish people for being
in a group."
"A gang is more like it."
"And we can't go around treating
every group of boys like a gang." Mr Stern wasn't a liberal by any
definition of the word. He didn't care about political correctness,
civil rights, profiling, or anything like that. He was, however,
lawsuit-averse.
"So you ain't gonna do
nothing?"
Mr Stern met eyes with the
reporter. Her pencil raised, poised for his next words. "We will
talk with the police. Increase patrol runs. Maybe look into private
security." He smiled at her.
"Talk, talk, talk. I'm tired of
talking. We need to do something." Old School turned to the
audience for approval.
"Or get someone who can," someone
echoed.
"Mmm-hmm," the rising chorus
began.
The same song every meeting.
Frustrations rose to a crescendo, peaking with the calls for
elections. Mr Stern caressed the stack of papers in front of him. A
political animal firmly in control of his little fiefdom, the
elections were already locked up. For all of their talk about
nominating and running someone else, the idea never occurred to
anyone before a meeting. The actual occupants attended the
meetings; the votes were cast by the homeowners. The paper stack in
front of Mr Stern were the homeowners' proxies and allowed him to
do whatever he wanted.
Big Momma rose. Her pudgy fingers
folded the paper detailing the meeting's agenda. Slowly, but with
intent, she made her way to the center aisle. Diabetes stiffened
her movements, but she remained stout and formidable. Her eyes
focused on Mr Stern.
"Folks around here call me Big
Momma."
"We know who you are, Big Momma.
You're a fixture around here," Mr Stern said with a grimace of
indigestion.
"Exactly. So I know the
neighborhood and its people." She nodded to the reporter as if
checking to see if she spelled "Big Momma" correctly in her notes.
"Don't pity us. Don't condescend to us. Don't hold us to a lower
standard."
"I don't–" Her hand wave cut him
off. She would be heard. Mr Stern could just turn beet-red and
glower over his glasses until she was through.
"We live in a community. We here
every day. We see what's going on because we live here. Here in
this community. Where do you live, Mr Stern?"
"I don't think that's–" Another
hand wave. Another deepened glower.
"I've always lived in the
community. We may not have much, but we have each other. We share
what we have, we look out for each other as best we can, and we
help each other as much as we can. That's the way folks around here
brought me up. My parents had their problems. Abandoned me. But the
adults in the neighborhood decided to raise me and hid me from CPS
whenever a social worker came around, because they would just have
sent me to foster care. The people here moved me from spot to spot
so I could stay in the neighborhood and go to the neighborhood
school. That's how I finished high school. So I know the value of
education and I preach it to everyone I take in. I got married to a
man from the neighborhood, God bless his soul. And when he passed,
some five years ago, I stayed. In the community. I'm Breton Court
through and through.
"You want to make us promises?
Fine. You want to talk to folks? Talk. But in the end, we're a
community. And we take care of our own."
The room burst into
applause.
The reporter kept taking
notes.
Near the heart of downtown, on 16th Street
just east of Pennsylvania Avenue, one of the major prostitution
boulevards in the city, Herron High School provided a classical
liberal arts education. With an emphasis on the arts, it steeped
their students in great historical thought, the school aimed to
prepare them for college. According to the brochures, the school's
curriculum was structured around an art history timeline and
emphasized the classic art and literature of many
cultures.
The five minutes until homeroom
bell clanged, sharp and grating. Isabel "Iz" Cornwall closed her
locker after slipping her backpack into it. Sunken cheekbones
bookended a face with a long nose with a stud, slightly notched
where it had been broken in the past. Slim, short, hair dyed black,
she had an unadorned face of simple beauty which would rise to
gorgeous with the right make-up application. A tattoo of a dragon
crawled along the base of her back. This was the third day this
week she wore her blue jeans. Her nose was no longer sensitive to
her own smell. She pulled a white cardigan over her pink T-shirt,
covering her braless, small breasts. The T-shirt was worn
yesterday, but she hoped no one would notice under the cardigan.
She pressed her books to her chest, eyes downcast, slouching to be
unnoticed.
"Damn girl, you wearing those
clothes out." A black girl with a thick frame, large breasts, and
thighs like oaks, her thick black hair had been processed into
straight hair. Blue contact lenses didn't hide a wide nose and full
lips which faced her in the mirror, and she took out her
self-loathing on the world around her.
"Leave me alone,
Andret."
"Just saying, you may want to
give your outfit a rest. It's getting ripe enough, I bet them jeans
could find their own way to school by now."
Iz lowered her head to push by.
Andret hooked her arm in front of her.
"What? You too good to speak to
me now?"
"She ain't got nothing to say to
you. I might have a word or two though." Tristan Drust spoke with
the timbre of command though she chewed a piece of gum with an
open-mouthed flourish. Draped in a hoodie, her head crested with a
thick nest of braids, most of which were dyed mauve. Big-boned and
sturdy, without a trace of fat, anyone who knew anything about
posture would have noticed how balanced her stance was. She knew
more about fighting than most men. Her amber eyes with gold flecks
counted off the girls with military precision. Andret was the
mouth, the alpha of the group. Her wing girls could tussle, but if
Andret was taken out quickly, they'd lose heart for a
fight.
"Enter the dyke," Andret
said.
"Now you've gone and hurt my
feelings." Tristan squared up against Andret. Her eyes flashed
challenge, a silent push. Andret inched forward, a tacit shove
back.
In the end, much of life could be
reduced to lessons learned on the playground. Random encounters,
bullies and bullied, friends and foes, the workplace of life all
gathered in the same place. There were those who were simply not
meant to get along with one another. Spaces not meant to be
inhabited by both parties without rage bristling off each other,
ready to jump off. Without boiling up in them, a living fire that
needed to lash out and scorch the earth about them just under the
surface, a seething they didn't know what to do with; once the
veneer was scratched it erupted.
Iz appealed to Tristan's better
nature, preaching about finding better ways to respond to hostile
situations rather than let them control her. "Blessed are the
peacemakers" was a luxury Iz could indulge, but there was a reality
she didn't understand: not everyone played by the rules of peace
and some people just needed to be knocked on their ass. Folks who
believed others infringed onto what was theirs and what the world
owed them. Otherwise the world walked over you, the way so many had
abused Iz. People like Iz needed people like Tristan.
Moving her weight to her back
foot, Tristan knew how to throw a punch. She struck with her
shoulder, not her arm. She pivoted her hip into her blow, punching
through her target. The jab flew with an angry whisper, not wasting
any more time with idle talk or the pantomime of threat. She wasn't
one to waste a shot. Andret's neck snapped back, nose exploding on
impact. At heart, Tristan was a fighter. The other thing about
fighting was knowing how to take a punch. Tristan loved going up
against people who sparred against heavy bags or practiced shadow
boxing, because no matter how exquisite their technique, a fight
was won or lost based on how well they handled having their bell
rung. Andret fell into the arms of her compatriots, the group
piling onto the floor. Students crowded around them as Tristan
loomed over them. She read their eyes: they wanted no part of
her.
"You OK?" Tristan asked Iz.
Whenever they were together, the rest of the world
retreated.
"I'm a full-time student, so I
got to lay it off." As a kid, she wanted to study math. She had a
head for numbers and loved their patterns and symmetry. Numbers
measured the world. Unfortunately, the path of education was
discouraged by her father. As far as he was concerned, she was an
incubator on legs: he regularly informed her that her duty was to
get married and have kids. As her brand of rebellion, she became
studious and intense and developed a love of reading.
"You takin' notes?"
"Right here."
"All right then." Tristan took
her in her arms and kissed her lightly on the forehead.
"What's going on here?" A teacher
popped his head out of his classroom.
"Nothing," Tristan
said.
"You know her?" He glanced at
Andret, who cradled her face and slinked off with her
friends.
"I don't know anyone."
"Go to the office, young
lady."
"I don't even go to this school."
Tristan flipped her hood over her head, turned on her heel, and
flashed two fingers. "Deuces."
Before the teacher could summon
security, Tristan was gone.
King couldn't afford to be sensitive. He
lived in a hard world, a dangerous world. Pastor Winburn called it
a fallen world. Fallen into what King was never sure. A state of
disrepair, an invisible "unfinished business" sign lodged on
someone's to-do list when they… He… got around to remembering the
people left behind. Much like the church he used as a meeting
place.
Out of habit, King grabbed a
nearby broom and King swept the floor of the abandoned, burned-out
husk of a church, keenly aware of the futile gesture. Vandals would
one day break in and loot anything the owners missed. Crackheads
would use it as a safe haven from the elements to get high.
Prostitutes would throw discarded mattresses in the corners and use
it as a flophouse for their johns. But King straightened up anyway
because he had to do something, no matter how small or ultimately
futile.
"You appear haggard and worn."
Merle sat, legs crossed over one another at the ankles. Black
cracks veined the surface of the circular table, browned with rain
rot.
"Not enough sleep."
"You wear your dreams."
"Something like that."
"Hmm." Merle ran his finger along
the top of the makeshift table. He licked the soot from his
fingertip. "I won't always be with you."
"You dying?" King stopped
sweeping and focused on the man for the first time.
"We're all dying. I know my death
will be shameful and ridiculous. If you find my remains and I'm in
a closet with a belt tied around my neck, wrists, and my
gentleman's gentleman… all I ask is that you cut me down at
least."
"So you are dying?"
"My safety word is
'apples.'"
"What are you talking
about?"
"You have to be prepared. Events
are in motion, some courses set, but we are not Destiny's
concubine. We have decisions to make. Choices."
King trusted few people. Yet from
the beginning, he knew he could talk to Merle. Perhaps it was just
that with his brand of lunacy, anything King said would be
forgotten moments later. More in truth, King sensed there was
something ancient about their bond. "Can I get your advice on
something?"
"Most people don't want advice,
only agreement."
"I want your honest
opinion."
"I know nothing but half-truths
and veiled interpretations, but I'll do my best."
"What do you think of Lady
G?"
Merle tapped his lip with his
sooty forefinger. "If I should tell you she was a poor choice,
young, foolish, and empty-headed, would you believe me?"
"She's not even close to that."
King's pulse quickened, as if his heart reared at a threat to be
confronted. Something about Lady G stirred an over-protectiveness
within him, as if he couldn't stand even the thought of anyone
speaking ill of her. "That's not the woman I know."
"A grown man fixed by a girl."
Merle etched his finger into the table, drawing pictures only his
mind envisioned. "What if the girl was not a girl?"
"A monster? An enchantment?"
King's mind raced with possibilities. Anything to explain the…
hesitation he felt with her.
"No. A plug."
"What?"
"She stops up the hole in you."
Merle adjusted the fit of his cap as if tuning in the proper
signal. "Somewhere between birth and burial, people learned to
twist the simple longings in their hearts – rest, belonging,
affection, validation, peace – and tried to fill them with other
things. Food. Drugs. Sex. Yet try as they might, the hole
remained."
"Try again."
"I see that's too much for you to
get your mind around, O Hesistant Spirit. Let's try this more
practically then. What if I was to say she would betray you for
another, perhaps one of your closest; would you believe
me?"
"I'd say you were way off. She's
not that type of girl, Merle."
Merle threw his head back and
began to sing. "When a man loves a woman…"
"I haven't said anything about
love."
"Here's the thing about love,"
Merle continued, ignoring him. "It goes against the laws governing
the universe. Laws of probability. Laws of nature. Laws of common
sense. None of them need apply. Love trumps all."
"It all comes down to the right
girl."
"The future is like love:
something we don't have the luxury to believe in," Merle sniffed.
"I need to attend to the others."
Little more than a fallen museum, a curator
preserving theologies no longer relevant to the community it
served, a layer of dust settled upon the church like a burial
shroud. Three chairs presided on a raised platform behind a toppled
altar. Promises of health and wealth reverberated in the empty
anteroom, echoing only along the cobwebs strung between the chairs.
The choir loft cracked under its own weight, a broken bow on the
ship of the church stage; an abandoned stage whose dwindling
audience found better speakers, better empty promises, or greener
pastures to lose themselves in.
His steps pronounced and precise,
a boy entered with the solemnity of a wedding's ring-bearer. Except
instead of a ring, he carried a white gun – with a pearl handle
grip and white shaft – rested atop a purple pillow. With each
footfall, flames erupted from candle stands. Two boys, both with
the scrawny physique of angry twigs, trailed him, each holding
candelabras with five candles.
Last in the processional was a
young girl, short and curvy with engorged breasts. Her arms
outstretched before her as she held a cup. Pure gold inlaid with
precious stones, the cup produced its own luminescence. The hall
filled with a suffuse light, dimming the lights produced by the
candles. The girl turned and presented the cup to Percy.
"What do you think it means?"
Percy asked, his voice held the slightest hitch of a restrained
stammer.
"Means you dream of being a
pimp," Merle said.
"Really?" Percy sat up, surprised
at himself.
"Simple Percy, pure and true.
Simple Percy, purehearted fool."
"I'm not stupid." Percy's eyes
turned downward, stung by the words of someone he wanted to be his
friend. Merle put his hand on the boy's beefy shoulder.
"No, no you're not. Far from it.
You're probably the best of us. Thus a pure fool. And still, here
you are yearning for the infinitely desirable, yet
unattainable."
"A woman?"
"Her love? See, you aren't so
dim."
"Why won't King let me come along
when they go out?"
"It's dangerous work." Merle
turned from him.
"I ain't scared."
"No you're not. And you're more
ready than they realize. Don't worry, your time draws
near."
"How do you know?"
"Your dream says so."
A nearing thwack-thwack-thwack interrupted them as Rhianna
Perkins padded along the carpet in a pair of flip-flops with an
orange band. With good hair, though tender-headed, and fine-boned,
she walked with a slight waddle, a stride developed because of the
fullness of her pregnancy. Her breasts, swollen and tender,
stretched out her black and white striped tank top over a lacy pink
bra. Her belly protruded as if she attempted to hide a basketball
under her shirt. She bent forward. Percy caught a glimpse of her
panties rising above her jean line.
"Boys." She caught him peeking.
His eyes retreated and he turned his head.
"Milady." Merle bowed. "I see
your most sacred of ovens bears up nicely. May I?" He reached out
his hands.
"Sure."
Merle placed his hands on either
side of her belly. Then pressed his ear to it. "Oh my. Yes, you
are. Be patient."
"What's he saying?" Percy
asked.
"What happens in the womb stays
in the womb." Merle winked.
Life made her tough, not brave.
Sex was a position of surrender, a searching for sorrow, a space to
fill the loneliness. There was nothing special between her legs or
in her center, and she went to bed with men – boys really – with
easy aplomb. The idea of rejection or abandonment or being used
never entered her calculations. She was a tabula rasa of
femininity. One could write any story onto her and she was happy to
oblige for the semblance of a relationship; the presence of a man
was all the illusion of a relationship she required. She found it
easier to open her legs than her heart: a brash emotional laziness.
Her mental efforts focused more on figuring out how to stay alive
from day to day.
"He active though." Rhianna
grimaced, then pressed her palms into her lower back. "Got no
sense. Just like his daddy."
"A hard road, raising a young one
alone," Merle said.
"She's not alone," Percy
said.
"True." Merle, again, patted the
young man.
"Anyway, I'm looking for a new
man. King's taken." Rhianna toyed with the gangsta set. She
believed that she wanted a thug, just not too much of a thug.
Enough to be tough, because she definitely didn't want a
softie.
"What about Lott?" Merle asked.
His voice had the timbre of urgency, a desperate urging.
"I don't do yellow men, but he's
nice."
"Love. It never ceases to baffle
me."
Sweating in the field, King's back ached,
stretched by the day's labor. Little more than a boy stripped from
his mother; man enough to do the work and live the life. A bit
filled his mouth. With an angular face and tubercular frame, the
white overseers had checked his legs and teeth on the auction
block, little more than a work horse's inspection. They didn't take
full measure of the wildness in his eyes when they put it in his
mouth. Chains clanged with his every movement. The twinge of anger
burned, a constant fever beneath his sweaty skin. Drawn up and
yanked back, his lips parted. He tasted the iron in his mouth. Spit
pooled in it but he couldn't swallow. He vomited, choking as it
oozed back down his throat with nowhere to escape around the bit.
His tongue brutalized, both by the bit and the bile. And the
clenched hatred. His eyes untamed, savage and unbroken, yearned to
be free. Not letting anything – not the pain, not the humiliation,
not the self-hatred – into his personal world.
King snapped awake on the green
checked futon in his living room, legs akimbo. The cuff of the
chains still bit into his waking flesh, where he rubbed his wrists.
Lady G sank between his spread legs and nestled her back into him.
His arms wrapped around her and she felt a rare moment of being
safe. He shifted slightly, but there was no hiding from the
erection her very proximity caused. She didn't mind. She rather
enjoyed the effect she had on him, if only because she knew he'd
never make a move she wasn't comfortable with, no matter how much
he burned. She liked that.
The living room of his Breton
Court town house doubled as his bedroom. He might as well not have
owned the second floor as he never ventured up there. He lived
without roots. Sweatshirts, T-shirts, and jeans in their respective
piles between where the futon stretched out into a bed and the
wall. A large television was on another stand, a tray of burning
incense beside it. A small stereo system and a stack of books were
the only other furnishings in the room. A basket held folded socks
and underwear (which he covered when Lady G was over). An end table
held an array of colognes, an odd affectation, as if he were never
pleased with his own scent and was constantly in search of his true
one.
This was their time, their
special time. Away from their friends, away from their family, away
from their responsibilities, they carved out this space, this time
for them, if only to sit and hold one another. They shared the
little things, the secret things and the unspoken things.
"What is it, King?"
"I haven't wanted anything in a
long time. Haven't felt…" He didn't know if he could find the words
to express that, around her, the pain in his chest ebbed and died.
It was dangerous to love anything too much. Better to love just a
little bit. How he feared that he might be desperately in love with
a woman, little more than a girl, whom he should not risk loving
because he couldn't afford to lose her. How he had spent a lifetime
shying away whenever he thought he found such a love, but she
managed to slip under his radar, his wall, and sneak upon him. He
leaned down and whispered. "I don't want to give you up."
"I have no intentions of letting
you."
"You're a… I should know better."
He couldn't stem the spread of weakness, love, when it came to her.
His foolishness made him think fondly of himself. So feeling. So
ordinary. So full of the helplessness of love. What was it about
her that penetrated his defenses? Her woundedness, her strength,
her light, her innocence? She had a bird-like defenselessness,
fragile pieces of glass, which was his to protect. And he swelled
at the idea of being her champion. In his arms, she came to feel
unorphaned. He had grown addicted to their moments together and
often bent his schedule to maximize their time together. To live
for her, to die for her, to never want to let her go. She was his
drug of choice and he planned to ride the high for as long as
possible.
"You're a child molester!" She
exclaimed in faux shock. He talked to her, really talked to her,
not talking down to her. He not only listened to her, but expected
intelligence and great things from her. She liked being seen and
treated that way, though she wasn't always present with him. Not in
any real way. Bereft of a part of her soul, she thought. Stingy
with her affections, she guarded a virtue only present in her own
mind.
"Don't joke." He touched her
face. "You're not just eighteen. You talk and act much
older."
"There are no children out
here."
"I should have the sense and
strength to send you off to find someone your own age. Some simple
boy."
"You want to be with me. I want
to be with you. Eyes wide open." She thought there was space for
her in him. Not love, possession. The longing for her. When she
looked at him, the thoughts behind the gaze were distant. He wanted
to be pulled into her view. He wanted those eyes, that attention,
that hungry intent for himself.
The fine bulges fascinated his
fingers as he caressed her neck in body worship. She exposed more
of herself to his touch. His breathing deepened. Trailing to her
breastbone, without protest, he traced the swell of her breasts. He
slipped his hand down her top. Her head nuzzled him. Cupping her
full breasts and encircling her nipple with his thumb, he found the
edges of her areola and circled it. Even a flick failed to elicit a
response. No low moan, no sound of any sort. Only non-protest. It
was as if she couldn't feel. She didn't feel the kiss he pressed on
her. Her internal elusiveness, preserving part of herself as if by
instinct.
He turned her head and kissed
her. Hungry and probing, his tongue pushed past her lips. He ran
his hands along her belly, pressing his hand along her shirt. He
kissed the underside of her neck. Pulling at her jeans, he lowered
them. To a tremble, a hint of resistance. He slowed. He turned her
onto her belly and tugged at her shirt. Her hand gripped it. He
knew her worry. The scars. He held firm to the shirt, determined,
until she let go. Her back a filigree of scars, spider webs of
raised welts and keloids. He followed each delicate bend with his
finger. Then with his mouth. Tender, he kissed her back, each kiss
an acceptance of her body, of who she was, of her sum of scars. He
lowered his attentions, trailing further down her back.
And she offered no
protest.
Two broken lovers poured out
their sorrow on one another. Not making love as much as reaching
for a life preserver before they drowned in a sea of their own
pent-up pain. Theirs was the connection of tragedy, even if they
never spoke a word of it.
King laid next to her, watched
her the entire night, indifferent to his fatigue. He matched his
breathing to hers as to not disturb her. To listen to her more
clearly. Anything was better than the silence. Yet even her
sleeping form threatened to overwhelm him, fill every part of
him.
And he couldn't afford to lose
her.