by Lexus Love
“He ain’t no son of mine, woman. You, of all people, should know that very well.”
He pointed at the door,” Leave, now!”
Nigel shook his head at the memory.
He’d begged his mother to leave with him, but she’d stubbornly declined.
Stating she needed to stay with Harold, to care for him after what he, Nigel, had done to the ‘poor man’, Nigel had left her there.
Nigel, beyond the stage of caring, had said in a quiet tone as he watched his mother recoil from him in devastation, “I won’t come back when he kills you.”
He’d turned and walked off into the night, the pain-filled silence in the hallway weighed heavily on his soul.
He sighed regretfully the words he’d spoken to his mother in anger, but for years she’d refused to see reason.
Harold was going to kill her one of these days and he, Nigel, would not be there to prevent it.
That alone had prompt his early morning visit back to the ‘hood’ and his time spent in juvey.
Of course, three years of his life was taken from him, to please the justice system.
Yet, it was all good.
He learned a lot in that place, each time he ended up there, about family and so-called friends.
His father disappeared the first time he came out.
No surprise there.
Nigel had been out looking for the sick prick to put an end to his miserable life.
But after spending another two years in juvenile detention on false charges of drug possession and second-degree murder, he decided to live and let live.
Harold would meet his maker one day, but not by his hands.
A relieved sigh slipped past his full lips. He didn’t have to suffer anymore.
No siree! Nigel Swayne was a changed man, and he did think of himself as a man fully grown, seeing as to all that he had been through in his short life.
Now he was a man on his own.
He’d inherited his true love, a beautiful, 1345.5 square feet two-story Georgian styled house sitting on 10 acres in Alpine, New Jersey, with 3 small bedrooms, a four-piece bathroom on the top floor, a master bedroom with a really fugly bathroom suite.
A half bath on the first floor.
Added to that another 103.43 acres of prime farmland in upstate New York, Delaware County.
Thank the good Lord, the city had handed him his permits to upgrade and expand to his heart’s content.
With that came a surprising large trust fund from his paternal grandfather, after he died six years ago from colon cancer, Nigel had expanded the house to a whopping 20000+ square feet Georgian Colonial Style house which included 10 bedrooms, 8 full bathrooms, and 4 half baths.
A large wine cellar/cooler which housed his grandfather’s $2.4 million dollar wine and champagne collection.
A large 60ft swimming pool with two large built-in family-sized hot tubs attached at each end in the back of the mansion, a basketball and tennis court on the east side and a large flower and kitchen topiary garden on the west end.
The house had a great view of the recently added enormously large swimming pond with live fish and the private woods of the property.
Malcolm Nigel Swayne I, who at age 35, was a strong-minded businessman who opened his first shop called Swayne Mechanics selling everything from batteries to car lubricant for all types of vehicles in the Upper East Side of Harlem on Lexington Ave. in 1959 that survived the Martin Luther King and Malcolm X era and had built an empire.
By age forty, he was worth hundreds of thousands in stocks and bonds, houses, cars, and land and had been married for four years to a pretty little nurse named Nicole Peterson.
They were blessed with fraternal twins by 1965 and had kept his empire growing for forty-eight long years, becoming one of America's first set of African American multimillionaires worth $986 million, before handing over the reins at 83 years old to his oldest child Keith, who had a graduated from college with master’s degree in business management and had a serious passion for cars.
Grand-papa Colmie saw the hot, destructive mess his youngest son had become long before he ever made his decision to hand the business to his other older son.
Harold was lazy through and through.
Knowing his father was filthy rich made him not have the ambition to work for anything in life.
He attended college cuz’ his daddy made him. He graduated with a business degree cuz’ his daddy made him. He married Lucinda Smith after she got pregnant but lost the baby because of his negligence, cuz’ his daddy made him.
Colmie Sr. tried everything he could to make a man out of Harold but as his lovely wife, Keitha often said so many times before she died, Harold was plain old lazy and mean, just like her daddy was.
Colmie and his wife played a very important and influential part in young Nigel’s life, teaching him the essentials of being a true man and the things that mattered in life; trust, hard work, compassion, loyalty, and of course: the respect and love of a good woman.
Harold had bitched for years about how his father loved his older brother more than he did him and how his brother cheated him out of life and stole everything that was supposed to be his.
Harold almost shat a live duck out his butt back then when his father’s will stated that a trust fund of $100 million dollars in stocks and bonds had been set up for the then twelve-year-old Malcolm Nigel Keith Swayne II and that neither his uncle nor Nigel’s parents would ever access to that money unless the trustee died of natural courses, health issues or accident wise.
The rest of his estates went straight to Uncle Keith and his family.
Colmie Sr. did have a clause stipulated in his will stating if any part of his will was ever contested for any reason, all monies and properties he’d left in the trust of his lawyers, his entire estate would be instantly liquidated and the monies from the sale of properties would go to different charities and his children nor grandchildren would never get a penny of his hard-earned money.
Harold, however, was to never be notified that there were a house and 10 acres of land surrounding it nor the large orchard of fruit trees on 105.43 acres of land was in existence up in Delaware County, which came as part and parcel of the boy’s inheritance.
Keith had known all about the will and its stipulations and it hadn’t bothered him one bit. He loved New York City; the closer he lived near it, the better for him.
His father’s company was headquartered on Wall Street and was currently handled by a board of trustworthy workers, financial advisors and a well-known law firm who’d earned shares in the increasing growing billion-dollar empire.
Plus, he got $565.4 million dollars to play with. Harold had gotten $10.25 mil which he squandered and lost all on his own within one year of his father’s passing.
Because of that gift, today, at eighteen years of age, he was a very, very wealthy multi-millionaire worth over $450 million dollars.
The daily interest on his inheritance alone was growing in heaps and bounds.
Nigel chuckled to himself at the irony of life. His Granddad had known him like the back of his hand, knew that the child he’d been a great mentor to, was a carbon copy of himself.
Colmie had known that with his great love of architecture the boy had developed from a young age, the treasure of a house that gifted the boy’s grandmother Nicole on their wedding day, the house his beloved wife -may her sweet soul rest in peace- had loved so much, would become Nigel’s greatest possession as he renovated and transformed the small family home into a grand showpiece.
To some of his fellow juvenile inmates, Nigel’s obsession in getting his college degree while in juvey sounded quite ridiculous.
Yet here he was, three years already completed, with his one-year internship started just in time.
Thank God for Judge Nicholas’ good faith in him and his uncle’s connection in church.
Now he’d be able to complete his internship without any hiccups, where no one would
try to screw him over.
Soon Nigel would end his journey for his bachelor’s degree in architecture in May after his probation ended and he would continue to soar from there.
It never occurred to him that being a multi-millionaire, he could probably pay a fine to the state, have his probation dropped and he could be a free man.
That’s not how he did anything.
It would be too easy, and Nigel never did anything easy.
Too bad his grandpa would not be around to see it happen and cheer him on from the sideline.
The painful reminder brought on thoughts of his mother and that fateful night.
Sigh.
How he wished she’d left with him, or at last answered the phone when he called.
He’d driven by the little laundry-mat his parents owned on 56th Street over ten times in the last month, saw his mom helping customers behind the high desk– Harold, was nowhere in sight- through the large glass window wall.
She looked fit by the animated way she moved but beyond that, he didn’t know if she was ok.
The last time they spoke, there was a thick piece of glass between them.
This brought him back to the one-sided conversation he had with his uncle Keith last night.
He’d gone down to the new branch of Swayne’s Mechanics and Auto shop in Queens, a very successful business his uncle Keith maintained over the years, and who had changed the name to accommodate the upgrades of the auto shop in the last few years.
His second-hand pewter 2011 Chevy Silver ado LTZ truck was giving a bit of a squeal every time he shifted gears, so he brought the tin can down to the shop to have it checked out.
He could have done it himself, but he wasn’t in the mood.
Uncle Keith had Manuel Cortez, a whiz with auto arts and engine tune-ups check out the problem while he pulled Nigel into his office for a small chat and a beer.
“So, what you up to young blood?”
Nigel, dressed in a grey tank t-shirt and black jeans, had gazed back with avid curiosity as he took in the big black man dressed in a tropical Hawaiian shirt and khaki slacks, he had a startling resemblance.
They stood at the same height of 6’4”, heavily muscled chest, weighed almost the same, pound for pound, had the same dark skin tone, and near-identical facial features including the deep amber eyes.
If one didn’t know better, they would have said that it was Keith Swayne who was the biological father of Nigel, not Harold.
The only thing that stopped that gossip from spreading like wildfire was the fact that both men shared their deceased father’s handsome features, height, and dark coloring.
Keith was a widower of nine years now, with two young sons– Jeremy 15 and Antoine 12.
Their Blasian features didn’t hide their father’s height and body mass in their young bodies.
The boy’s facial features resembled their petite Korean mother, their rugged features of round faces, slanted eyes and small mouths made them almost uncomfortably pretty for such large boys.
However, Jeremy’s love for cars and Anthony’s passion for creating rang true in the boys’ blood, just like it did in their paternal grandfather.
To Nigel, they were more his brothers than his cousins. And vice versa.
When Nigel hadn’t responded to the pointed question, his uncle gave back a look almost identical to the one on his face.
He shook his head in reply, “Nothing much, Uncle Keith. The truck’s just acting up again. But besides that, I’m cool.”
Uncle Keith nodded in acknowledgment as they settled into their usual pattern of small talk about the shop’s survival during the recession and Nigel’s progress in his new pet project on the Georgian Colonial.
They shared a few beers, hot wings from the fast food joint across the street and laughed about the crazy shit Keith’s sons did and usually got away with at school and home.
The few and far between disastrous dates they had been on, respectively, with females who didn’t seem to understand either of them, some of Keith’s crazier customers, etc.…
Keith almost spewed his drink out all over the boy when Nigel told him about the incident that happened five days ago at the dance studio, then it was Nigel’s turn to almost cough up a lung when he heard that Mr. Marba had been to the shop and had made a few subtle inquiries about him here at the shop two days ago.
Keith harrumphed at the horrified look on Nigel’s young face.
He knew the feeling, he’d experienced that same old feeling this past Sunday morning when that overly effeminate man had shown up for his scheduled appointment for a brake pad change in his white 2010 corvette, looked him up and down, then did a double-take with a puzzled look on his face.
When the dance director started his little interview about Keith’s nephew, it never crossed his mind that Jaime Marba was researching the boy for ‘other’ reasons.
The fact that the boy still worked there was no surprise to him. When Nigel started something, he made sure he completed it, no matter what the circumstances.
After he quieted down, he broached the real reason he’d led Nigel into his office. He cleared his throat and took on the touchy subject with kid gloves on. “Your father came by today. Again.”
“And?”
“He asked about your whereabouts. Again”
One thick brow rose in question.
“Yes. He’s been here twice already for the week. Kept badgering’ my ass bout’ how my keeping you hidden is hurting your mama.”
Nigel rudely kissed his teeth. “I’m sure you disabused him of that idea.”
Keith took a deep breath “She was here on Thursday, asking about you too. She says she wants to see you, wants to know you’re okay”
Silence.
“If she wants to see me so bad, then how comes she isn’t answering’ my calls?”
Nigel’s mother not talking to him hurt him more than Keith realized.
“I don’t know why son. I just don’t know. You know how stubborn that woman can be. Just give her some time.”
Nigel had nodded silently at his advice.
“But as for your father… Harold, I think he’s tracking’ you down for his reasons.”
The hard grimace which quickly changed to a sarcastic “obviously” was painted on the young man's face.
“So, what you are gone do, son?”
Nigel chuckled, an irritating habit that rubbed Keith the wrong way most times.
His father did that a lot too when he was alive, and it chafed his hide even more for the painful memory.
“I’m serious, boy. What you are gone do about this?”
Nigel held his eyes for a moment and Keith could have sworn he saw a fire in the boy’s golden steady gaze as he rose to his full height.
“He wants me, he’ll find me. No biggie.”
Keith realized the boy had closed the subject and rose to his feet to see the boy out of the shop.
They joked, shook hands and man-hugged like old friends as Nigel climbed into his pickup, an accepted invitation by his uncle to come to visit with the boys, to see his progress in renovations on Wednesday evening after work, and not for the first time in eighteen long years he has lived, Nigel wished that Keith and not Harold Swayne was his real father.
◆◆◆
Keith Swayne had shaken his head at the irony of life as Nigel navigated the charcoal gray pickup out of the shop’s noisy garage and onto the empty street, no squeaks to be heard.
He was proud to call Nigel his nephew but would have been even prouder if things had worked out differently for him.
The boy was a throwback to Malcolme Sr. and his father before him.
He’d learned a long time ago that life was a bitch and never played fair.
He stood watching the tail lights of the truck go around the corner and disappeared, recalling the conversations he’d had with his younger brother in the past week, once again letting his disgust and disappointment of how Harold’s life ha
d turned out, fill him to the brim.
His younger brother had turned out to be a wife-beating, alcoholic, money-grabbing gambler and he, Keith, lost the women he loved, twice in his lifetime.
5
Tuesday, 1:45 pm
Debbie could not believe this shit.
No, she would not believe this shit!
How could anyone believe this shit?!!!
Today, of all days, her already messed-up schedule of unfortunate recent events- that should not possibly get any worse- she had to come up in here and endure this shit.
The gleaming oak floor at the Latin Heights Dance studio rushed up quickly to make personal contact with her face.
Ain’t this a bitch?!!! echoed through her head as her six-inch black shiny pumps slipped in the unnoticed small pool of water, spilling from the AC closet just next to the new reception area that had been custom built in a week ago, by the maintenance guy restoring the place and sent her headfirst towards said floor.
Yes, sometimes even Christians curse.
It didn’t mean that they don’t love God anymore. It just meant that God was still working on them.
Even Steve Harvey once said, “God ain’t through with me yet.”
She’d been tapping out a rapid beat across the expansive floorboards of the studio toward the water dispenser, looking fierce in her pale lavender polyester blouse clinging loosely to her generous 46 DD bosom, tiny 24-inch waist rolling causing her flared purple chiffon skirt to swish deliciously around her thick thighs and generous childbearing 50-inch hips.
Minding her own business, her thoughts preoccupied with mind-numbing worries.
The fact that she lacked a partner for the showcase five weeks from now was one of them, but her main problem was that of her stupid fat-ass eighteen-year-old baby sister, who just felt the need to blame Debbie for everything that had gone wrong in her life since the death of their parents between the space of five years ago.
She had just graduated from college when her mother had passed away in a tragic car accident and was working as an art studio gallery assistant also most two years when her father had been killed in the line of duty.