Hell Chose Me

by Angel Luis Colón

  “Could be about anytime, week at most.” Danny lifts his legs and rests dirty Doc Martens on the coffee table. He gets a murder stare from Ayah and places them back on the floor. “So we need to make a move.”

  I nod. “At the Kozy—when we were ambushed. You said my mom had Sean’s info, right?”

  “Yes.” Danny’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

  “We need to have a talk with him, well, I need to have a talk with him. Maybe strike a deal or at least buy us time.”

  “She wasn’t very amicable regarding any of us the last time I had a talk with her, Bryan.”

  “I can handle that. For now—” I stand. “I need to make myself presentable.”

  “Should he be accompanied, Blacky?” Ayah looks to me.

  I mull that over and answer before Danny has a chance to make the call. I’m not some mongrel they picked up off the street. “Possibly. Would be a good idea for you to come. Besides, my mom can be a bigger threat than anyone in this room.”

  24

  I stare at the front door of my house—no, her house—and my body locks up. Ayah takes initiative and knocks with a sigh.

  “Stop it.” She gives me a gentle shove. “It can’t be as bad as you’re making it out to be.”

  I nod. Clench my fists to keep my hands from shaking.

  Mom answers the door in a house dress, rollers in her hair, and a cigarette between her lips. Looks me up and down. Gives Ayah a glance and a snort. “Jesus.” She turns and gestures over her shoulder. “Come in.”

  We enter the house. Wood-paneled walls bring me back to better days playing tag with Liam. There’s a square hole in the wall to my right that you can see the living room through. She never replaced the aquarium. I should feel bad, but I don’t. It’s like I left a scar behind, one that I’m okay with her having to remember time and time again. Most people would think that’s a terrible way to think about it or that I should have some sort of remorse. The thing of it is, I do feel regret for what happened between Liam and me, but our mother? No, she deserves to live with all of this.

  “I’m surprised your home,” I call out.

  “Yeah, well, I’m kinda out of work. You might have heard about it,” she deadpans.

  Ayah removes her shoes at the door. Slaps me on the shoulder and motions for me to do the same. I wave her off.

  “You both want coffee?” Mom asks from the kitchen.

  “No, thanks,” I answer.

  “I would like some.” Ayah moves ahead of me and pads into the kitchen. “I’m Ayah.”

  “Karen.” That’s as pleasant an introduction I’ve ever heard my mom give.

  I stand in the hall and take it all in. The scents and scenes. It almost stings to be here—like jumping in cold water. That feeling won’t fade and I hate myself for being here. I’ll hate myself more if what I think about my mother and Sean is true.

  “Have you known Bryan long?” I hear my mother ask in her condescending way.

  “No.” At least Ayah’s not mean about it.

  I make my way into the kitchen. Pass an oil portrait of Miss Piggy on lacquered driftwood. It’s the only thing my mother kept of my grandfather’s art. It’s hideous, but I can’t help but smile at the absurdity of it. Of all the memories she could choose to keep of her father, this was the one she decided should be preserved. I’d wager the old man despised this piece.

  My mother lifts her eyes and watches me as I sit at the small table near the kitchen doorway. There’s only three seats available. “You hungry?” The tone in her voice implies the answer she’d prefer.

  I shake my head. “Nah, not really.” Tap my knuckles on the tabletop. “Jesus, how old is this table?”

  Mom lights a cigarette. Pulls an ashtray from the dish rack and sets it on the counter in front of her. “Older than you. Your grandfather picked it up off the street when I was in high school. I threw a fit since it was someone else’s trash, but look at it now, still sturdy as hell.”

  “Huh.” I tap it again. I motion to Ayah. She looks fit to run through the wall. “So, Ayah is a business partner of mine.”

  Ayah takes the seat across from me and nods.

  Mom’s eyes lock onto Ayah’s stump. Points to it with her chin. “Had an accident?”

  “Yes, when I was a little girl.” Ayah brushes her hair in front of her eyes.

  I clear my throat. “There any beer?”

  “Help yourself.” Mom gestures to the fridge.

  I find a six pack of Killian’s in the fridge. Take two and pop one open. I present the extra to Ayah. “Do you want a beer?”

  She shakes her head. “No, thanks. Coffee is enough.”

  Get back to my seat and sip the open beer. Place the other in front of me. The air’s gone stale around us. Mom busies herself with the coffee and smokes her cigarette in long, elegant drags. She always makes the lit end of the cigarette point straight up. Always told me it was to keep her fingers from getting tobacco stains.

  “We buried your brother a week ago. Only people that showed were the nurses from intensive care.” She rolls her eyes. “They were asking about his husband.”

  I play with the label of my beer. “Any other questions?”

  “No, they assumed you pulled the plug and couldn’t bear to see him anymore. Nobody looked at it negatively. Everyone filed the paperwork nice and tidy as a favor. We all wanted him to move on, well, except you.” She taps her nails on the countertop.

  “We don’t need to jump into that. I did what needed doing.” I take another swig of beer. “Thought it would be a relief for you.”

  “Relief doesn’t mean I can’t mourn too.” Mom ashes her cigarette and stares at Ayah. “How are you mixed up in all of this?”

  I run interference. “Like I said, she’s only a business partner.”

  “Uh-huh.” Mom takes a rag and wipes the countertop clean of any errant cigarette ash. “Coffee’s ready.” She goes through the motions, pours a cup for Ayah and herself. “You take sugar and cream, Ayah?”

  Ayah shakes her head. “Black, please.”

  Mom sits down in the remaining chair and stirs six spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee. She takes a long pull from the coffee mug and licks her lips.

  “So, Ma. I had a question to ask you.”

  She blinks slow, a sour frown on her face. “Do you plan on helping out with the headstone?” There aren’t many lines on my mother’s face, bless her, but the ones that stand out leave her looking weary, aged. “It’s the least you could do after everything.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “The headstone. I can’t afford to put a headstone on your brother’s grave. I have to foot the bill on everything since neither of you planned for retirement or, you know, life in general.” She looks to Ayah. “Can you believe that the both of them went to fight two different wars and found a way to fuck up independently of each other?” She points to me with a long nail. “This one ran, and then Liam decided crippling a superior officer was a brilliant thing to do.”

  “You think we can discuss that later?” I gesture at Ayah with my head. It’s probably not as subtle as I imagine it to be. Lean in closer to Mom. “No use speaking ill of the dead, either.”

  She shrugs. “I figure you have the money now.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Ma. Money is far from a priority right now.”

  Mom looks down into her coffee. “Liam’s old job was nice enough to let his life insurance go through; it was enough to sort out the funeral.”

  “And there wasn’t anything left over?”

  “No.”

  I can smell the lie, but I got no time to argue this bullshit with her. “Listen, we can talk money later. I need Uncle Sean’s number.” I look to Ayah. She’s busy fingering the rim of her coffee cup. Her eyes are downcast.

  “Out of the question,” Mom snaps.

  Wow, she didn’t even deny having it. “Why not?” My brain is having a hell of a time
processing this.

  “Because he trusted me with it.”

  He “trusted” her with it. She shows more loyalty to the bastard than she does her own sons. It’s as if my grandfather’s lessons slid right off her. She’s got the integrity of talcum powder in a hurricane.

  I lean in, try to catch her eye. “How much is he giving you?” I fight the urge to flip the table over. “How much does it cost to screw over both your sons?”

  Mom straightens up. That one crawled right up her ass. “He stopped giving me money years ago.”

  “Bullshit. I know now I was still working for him. He still gave you a little something on the side, didn’t he? Something to tide you over. Make you agreeable with whatever the hell I got up to.”

  “That’s not true.” She sips her coffee. “Ayah tell me about you. Where are you from?”

  Ayah blinks. “I’m Palestinian.”

  Mom nods. “That’s like Jewish, right?”

  Ayah shakes her head. “No, not at all. I’m of Arabic descent.”

  Mom tilts her head. “The good kind, right?”

  I slam a fist against the Formica top. Mom nearly jumps out of her skin. Ayah merely looks my way. “Stop playing around and give me Sean’s number. I need to speak with him—now.” The side of my fist aches. “If you want to make sure I keep your name out of this mess, you give me that number right now.”

  She stares at me stone-faced. “Liam’s headstone?”

  I dig into my back pocket and fish out my wallet. Toss a handful of hundred-dollar bills I pilfered from the bodies of the dead back at the Kozy. Seems apt. “Taken care of.”

  Mom places her coffee down, collects the bills, and stands back up. She rifles through a drawer near the fridge and pulls out a small, yellow slip of memo paper. “Here.” She thrusts it at me like it’s covered in shit. Sorts the money I gave her. She counts each bill off in a low, guttural whisper, her eyes half shut. It’s as if she’s fallen into a meditation trance at the sight of green.

  “Thank you.” I take the paper from my mother. “I’m going to make this call in Grandpa’s room. That all right?”

  Mom nods while she recounts the cash.

  I point to her. “Don’t bust Ayah’s balls.” I look to Ayah. “She busts your balls, you let her know. She’s all show.”

  Mom snaps out of it. “Bryan, don’t talk about me like that.” She smiles at Ayah sweetly. “Am I bothering you?”

  Ayah’s out of her element. I can see it in her face. “No?” she answers. The fingers of her right hand dance on the rim of her coffee mug. She’s tucked her left arm under the table.

  Mom looks back to me. “See? She’s not bothered.” She pushes my shoulder. “Go make your call. Break what little family we have apart.”

  I stand. “Yeah, the family is what’s worrying you. More like dollar signs.”

  “Watch your mouth.”

  “Holler if you’re ready to smack her upside the head,” I say.

  Mom gasps. “Why would I do that?”

  “I was talking to Ayah.”

  I walk out of the kitchen and open the door to Grandpa’s bedroom. There’s a rush of old sandalwood cologne in the air. Wonder if Mom occasionally spritzes the air with it. I close the door behind me for privacy—can hear Mom grilling Ayah about her past while Ayah stutters short answers back. I walk by my grandfather’s dresser and look at a portrait of him in his younger days. “How yah doing, old man?”

  I sit at the foot of his bed. Remember he’d pitch a fit if I put my ass where he slept and move over to a flimsy, old chair. I fish my phone from my pants pocket and punch in the number Mom gave me, but I don’t connect—not yet.

  “Any of you in here?” I look around the room. Wait for the shadows to breathe or the walls to bleed a million centipedes. I’m too used to it. The frequency’s jumped to such a fever pitch that I’ve gone straight from surprise to whatever.

  Nothing. No cold grip on my shoulders—no screams.

  I light a cigarette and stand. Connect the call and listen to the phone ring at the other end. Once. Twice.

  Someone picks up.

  “Hello?” It’s a woman’s voice.

  “Sean Shea, please.” I let the smoke pour from my nose to rise into my eyes.

  Silence. “How did you get this number?” Her lilt is thick.

  I scratch my brow with the side of my cigarette hand. “It’s Karen Shea’s boy. The one that’s still alive.”

  I hear the shuffle of a phone against fabric. Solid ten count before I hear another shift. A throat clears. “Bryan.” There’s a million nails scraping sidewalk in his voice. Sounds old, but just as menacing. Age has done nothing to soften him.

  “Uncle Sean. How are you?”

  He grunts. “What the fuck kind of question is that?” He speaks at a crawl. As if every word needs a moment of thought.

  I grin. It feels nice to bust his balls out of hand’s reach. “Mom gave me your number. I was hoping we can clear things up.”

  “The line secure?”

  Maybe age hasn’t made his brain so soft. “It’s a burner. Besides, we confirmed you’re Sean Shea and I’m Bryan Walsh, men at-large. Got a feeling one of our doors would be kicked down by now.”

  He makes a noise halfway between a growl and a moan. “Speak your piece.”

  “That’s the plan.” I take a puff off my smoke. “This mess we’re in. May I ask why you see fit to end my time on earth?”

  “Your friend, the wop. Said you been a little eccentric lately.” I hear him smack his lips. “You always were a bit of a nutter.”

  “So you’d kill me for having a screw loose?”

  “Someone’s talking, boy. I ain’t living the last bit of me life in a penitentiary. I won’t be following my brothers’ path into the Maze or worse.” There’s a desperation I’ve never heard coming out of him—sad.

  “So you take some nobody’s word over mine? Maybe try to reach me through my mother and ask me your damn self—that ever sound like a good idea?”

  “I’m cleaning house, boy. That guinea’s days are numbered too.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Every last one of you. No more games.”

  “Even after all the years I’ve cleaned your messes—knowledgably and not? You’d do this to your blood, Sean?”

  “Man doesn’t get to live as long as I have in this business without shedding his own blood. I told you that.”

  He’s not a complete ball of dementia. Still, Danny was right—always right. Sean only cared for himself. Used me, the IRA, and anyone he could get his dirty paws on as a means to an end—his end. He’d claw his way past everyone to feel like a big man. “So no matter how this flies, you’ve called for it all to go down?”

  “All of it.”

  “Good to know. At least I know that if the next steps fail, certain folks will pay.”

  “And what’s the next steps? You can’t run forever.” He speaks to me like we’re strangers.

  “I got my own beef with Paulie, but after that, maybe we’ll get a chance to talk face to face.”

  He coughs into the phone. “Is that a fucking threat, you ungrateful little twit?” There’s that rage again.

  “You expect me to bend over the barrel after telling me our kinship’s got no bearing on whether you call off your dogs, on whether you would believe that I’d be a snitch?”

  “Rat or not, boy, if you overstep, you’ll die like one.”

  “I think I’ve taken a flying leap at this point, Sean. Tell you what, I’ll handle Paulie. What comes after—who comes after, is out of my hands.”

  “And what about your mother?”

  “Play that game and see how far it goes.”

  “As stubborn as Mairsial. You’ll learn the same lesson he did when he had the gall to threaten me.” Sean coughs. “That rat bastard tried threats too. Thought my reach couldn’t extend across the ocean. You should know better, boy.�
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  I disconnect the call. Let the phone fall onto the shag carpet beneath me. Finally, the shadows in the room swell and rage. Those last words. I turn to a picture of my grandfather and me, a week removed from the day he died. Right before the hit and run. Before his body was dragged nearly a mile out and left behind like everyday road kill.

  My face is wet, red hot. Liam’s sitting at the foot of my grandfather’s bed busting a gut. His laugh sounds like radio static—a thousand screams filtering through. I fling the photo frame at him and it shatters against the wall above the bed. Pick up the phone and redial. Three rings and the woman picks up again.

  I don’t let her speak. “When I’m done stateside…” I grit my teeth so hard; I swear I can feel the roots begin to throb. “When I’m done here, you tell that black-hearted bastard that the last fucking thing he’ll ever see is my face before the muzzle flash. You tell him.” I pace around the room.

  Ayah snatches the phone from my hand. I didn’t hear her come in. She opens the back of the phone and tosses the battery aside. Snaps the SIM card in half. “When do we go?”

  I see my mother standing at the threshold of the room. The look on her face—did she know? No time to let that bubble to the top. I’ve had enough of the revelations and the voices and the blood and the calling. I feel their weight at my back, a wind nipping at me—harsh and cold. It all comes to me in a single rush, a moment of clarity—an alcoholic’s epiphany. My eyes find focus on Ayah. On her scars—her lost hand—and I know what fuels her. Now I know what fuels me.

  “We talk with Danny first. The end of this starts on my terms. No one else’s.” I step out of the room, stare at my mother as hard as I would someone I was about to throw fists with. “And when you talk to that son of a bitch again, ask him for your fucking headstone money.” I hold a hand out. “Give it.”

  She scowls and hands me the money back.

  I pocket the cash and tear out of the house before she can try to get a word in.

  Ayah follows behind me. “Thank you for the coffee, Mrs. Walsh,” she calls out as she leaves.

  I choke back a laugh.