Dark Advent

by Rick Jones

  Then Cooch eased back into his seat and dropped the hammer on the desktop. “Now you can come up with the money,” he said. “You got two days. And I want all of it. All fifteen hundred.”

  Johnnie was doubled over holding his smashed hand tight to his abdomen. He was sobbing, the pain bringing him to the edge of losing consciousness.

  Cooch waved the wounded man off and instructed Beef-Necks to take Deveraux to the hospital’s Emergency Center and drop him off.

  He did exactly as ordered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “You know I didn’t mean it,” Kimball’s father said out of the blue. He was in the living room watching TV with his wife sitting opposite him on a neighboring loveseat. She was still wearing her Sunday best.

  She turned to him. “Didn’t mean what?” she asked.

  He raised a hand to his cheek to indicate the slight bruising on hers. “This,” he answered. “Didn’t mean to hit you like that. I was just reacting, you know?”

  She debated this, however, telling Kimball the same; that his father responded only as a reaction to a heated moment. But she continued to question this, wondering if it was deliberate or accidental. “I know,” she said flatly.

  He cocked his head. “You don’t sound convincing,” he returned. “You think I done it on purpose, don’t you?”

  “Drop it,” she said.

  He did. At least for a time being. Then a few moments later while staring at the TV, he stated lightly as if ashamed, “I wouldn’t hit you on purpose. I done learned my lesson after the first time. Years ago. You know that.”

  “What happened between you and Kimball should never have happened. And if that hadn’t happened,” she pointed to the light discoloring of her cheek, “neither would this.”

  “I’m saying it was an accident.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. “It’s in the past. Leave it there. But I will say this: If you don’t want it to happen again, then I suggest you treat your son with respect.”

  He barked a laugh. “Respect! That boy’s on a collision course with nothing,” he said. “He’s pissing his life away. Gonna end up like his fool cousin, your niece.”

  “Hardly.”

  “Hardly!”

  “Shhh. Keep it down. He’ll hear you.”

  “I don’t care, woman! Boy needs to know that life ain’t just for cruisin’ around! Gotta realize that there’re goals to be had and pursued!”

  “He’s only seventeen.”

  “That’s old enough to know! He ain’t got no college plans! No ambitions! He ain’t got nothing!”

  She sighed. “God will show him the way in time.”

  Another bark. “God ain’t showing him nothing. Fool boy can’t even sit through a session in church. And you think God’s gonna show him the way? Think again.”

  “He’s becoming a man,” she continued softly. “It’s confusing for a boy of his age sometimes. But you need to see this. You need to show him the deserving respect that a father needs to show his son.”

  “And there’s the keyword,” he said. “’Deserving.’ Boy needs to earn respect, like all men.”

  “You’re his father. Do I need to remind you that Kimball is big enough to push his weight around? And I do mean that literally. What he did to you scared me,” she added. “I saw a part of him I’ve never seen before. Something dark and unstoppable. Something latent that was buried away. And you’re bringing it up. Shaming a child into doing something is not the way. It’s not a motivator.”

  “It done worked for me. My daddy did the same.”

  “Yeah. And you’re such a big success.” She stood up with the intention of leaving the room.

  He gave her a hard look. “And what’s that supposed to mean, woman? I own a home. I pay a mortgage---never been late. We have a car, don’t we?”

  “Success isn’t only measured by material goods. Success is measured by how good you live your life and affect the lives of others. You can’t even maintain a decent relationship with your own son, which saddens me.”

  “Like I said, he’s gotta earn my respect.”

  She shook her head disapprovingly. “You don’t get it, do you? Your own flesh and blood. When was the last time you told Kimball that you loved him?”

  He sat there staring at the television screen.

  “Is something like that too vulgar for you to say to him?” she pushed. “Too unmanly?”

  She was met with more silence.

  Less than thirty seconds later she was gone, leaving her husband alone.

  And though his eyes watched TV, his brain registered little of what was playing out because his thoughts lie elsewhere. He was thinking of his son and his failure as a father.

  He closed his eyes and sighed heavily, feeling an undeniable regret.

  #

  Kimball heard the exchange between his parents from his bedroom with his door opened a crack to get a better advantage to listen. His father was disappointed in him. This much was obvious. His mother loved him. This too was obvious. But unlike his father who had no patience at all, she literally had the patience of a saint.

  She believed that life and God would guide and direct him, even show him the way when the time was right. But Kimball realized that his father was correct on a couple of aspects. Kimball had no goals or ambitions. And God wasn’t going to show him the way, either, since he couldn’t sit through a single sermon.

  After closing the door he took to his bed and stared at the ceiling. Then he thought: Life’s a bitch and then you die. He never gave that adage much thought, never cared to dissect it down to its meaning. But now he understood. Life was hard and had its challenges, some gravely difficult and sometimes insurmountable. Then in the end when life had thrown at you all its hardships, you simply passed on.

  It would be a lesson throughout his entire life with one hardship after another forcing him to search for his better self.

  After a long moment of laying idle, he turned to the rosary on the nightstand and grabbed it. He thumbed and fingered the glass beads, felt the round smoothness of their design, then let the small crucifix dangle before his eyes. The image of Christ was on the cross and it swung pendulously from side to side. He did not feel a lightness of spirit or the uplifting of faith that would promote an inner feeling of goodness. In fact, Kimball felt nothing at all.

  He placed the chain of beads back onto the nightstand and allowed them to coil, then rested the crucifix on top of the beaded pile. Getting to his feet, Kimball removed his good clothing and tossed them into a hamper. When he opened the closet door he was quickly drawn to the hoodie on the floor, so he lifted it and held it out for examination. For some odd reason he felt more of a pull to the hoodie than he did with the rosary. But he didn’t know why.

  So with reverence he returned the hoodie to the closet and placed it on a hanger.

  After closing the closet door, and with the day still relatively young, he left the house to visit Connor. As he walked by the living room and saw his father watching his program, his old man didn’t bother to acknowledge him.

  And Kimball never felt so horribly empty or invisible as he did this particular moment.

  In fact, he never realized that his soul was becoming depleted by the inches as he closed the door softly behind him, and went out into a world that was beginning to teach him cruel lessons.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  When Johnnie Deveraux was dropped off before the Emergency Room doors of the hospital, Deveraux entered the building on coltish legs before collapsing in front of the nurses’ station. Deveraux was waxy and wan looking. His hand was a mess that needed to be pulled together with multiple pins to hold the bones in place. Nerves were damaged and subsequent operations would be necessary to give the hand serviceable mobility. But Johnnie had no money or insurance, and neither did his wife. So he accepted the fact that he would go through life with a palsied-looking hand, however long his life would be.

  When he was asked how it h
appened, he told the doctor that it got caught in a press machine inside his workshop, which, of course, didn’t exist. But he needed to manufacture a lie that made sense. Pointing an accusing finger at Cooch would only serve to bring additional wrath on his family like a plague of locusts.

  When the procedure on his hand was done, he awoke to see his wife sitting at his bedside with tears welling in her eyes. The hospital room included a drip-line, oxygen tanks, tubes, a saline bag, a vital-signs reader, along with a TV that was situated high on the opposite wall. Its volume was so low he could barely hear it, even with the setting set at high.

  As his wife held his good hand, worry-lines creased her face.

  His throat was dry and raw, so when he spoke he did so with a scratchy tone. “It’ll be all right,” he told her. “I’m still here.”

  “Johnnie . . . your hand.”

  He tried to lift his hand. But it was too heavy. The entire hand was encased in a hard-shell cast that looked like the rounded end of a Q-tip. Then he looked at her. “I’m still here,” he repeated.

  She gave him an unhappy look. But for how long?

  “We’re going to be fine,” he mustered. Then: “Connor?”

  “He left. He couldn’t stand to see you like this.”

  Johnnie closed his eyes and fought back his emotions. He had placed his family in jeopardy and they were afraid---and rightfully so. What had started out as recreation eventually turned into an addiction. And it affected everyone he loved.

  As a tear slipped from the corner of his eye, he said, “You deserve better.”

  She brought his good hand against her cheek and felt its warmth. “You were always my angel,” she told him.

  “Some angel,” he said. “I can’t even provide for my family.”

  “We’ll get by.”

  “Not with my crippled hand, we won’t. Cooch allowed me to live because he wants money we don’t have. And my hand . . . the medical bills.” And then he broke, crying like a small child, his chest heaving and pitching with powerful sobs.

  And though Darlene tried to sound strong, her tone trembled. “We’ll get through this.”

  He shook his head. There’s no way out of this. There’s nothing we can do to make this right.

  Then Darlene caved by weeping as hard as her husband, the two reaching rock bottom with no place to turn for help.

  Then through racking sobs, he asked, “You have to take Connor and go.”

  She shook her head vehemently. “Not without you.”

  “Don’t be foolish. Take Connor and go.”

  “We’ll call the police.”

  “If you call the police, they’ll just contact Cooch. You know he has a few corrupts in his pocket. Cooch would send a force to wipe us out. And Connor needs a chance.”

  She appeared lost, not knowing what to do.

  “Take him to Jersey,” he finally said. Then in a statement that sounded so final and so conclusive, he added, “I love you both so much. You remember that. I love the two of you very, very much.”

  She looked at him with the sudden realization that he was saying good-bye. “What are you planning to do?”

  He turned away from her and looked at the water spigots hanging from the ceiling, that were made to put out fires. I don’t know, he eventually thought.

  I just . . . don’t . . . know.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Connor Deveraux didn’t know how much his father owed Cooch other than it being ‘a lot’ of money, with ‘a lot’ having a value that was certainly beyond the family means. But he recalled his father always saying that the owed amount was close to five thousand dollars, with the numbers seesawing between $4,500 and $5,200, depending on Cooch’s rates.

  After seeing his father in the hospital he realized the situation with Vinny Cuchinata had become dire, if not dangerously so. Though his father was a good and kind man, he was also a man of weakness who easily succumbed to his habit of gambling. Today his father dodged a bullet. Tomorrow, however, the bullet may find its mark.

  Connor knew he had to intervene for his father’s sake. He would become the provider and do what his father couldn’t: he would salvage his family from ruin.

  He would get the money.

  He rummaged around the floor of his bedroom closet and shoved aside discarded clothes, junk, anything not put away, until he came upon a shoebox. He knocked the lid off. Inside were old baubles and trinkets from passing carnivals. Lying at the bottom was an old pellet gun. He grabbed the faux weapon by the stock and held it aloft. It was gift his father had given him a long time ago, a pistol in lieu of a rifle that shot bee-bees. Up close it seemed fake because the weapon was a single piece that couldn’t be broken down. From a distance of a few feet, however, it looked dangerously real.

  Connor gripped the pistol and pulled the trigger in quick succession---nothing but a series of dry clicks. Then he sat along the edge of his bed and placed the weapon on the bedspread. Now he needed the mettle to follow through.

  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and freed his lungs with a very heavy sigh.

  I can do this, he told himself. I can.

  That’s when someone knocked on the door.

  #

  When Connor opened the front door to the house, Kimball was standing on the porch. “’Bout time,” he commented.

  Connor didn’t say a word. He simply left the door open and walked away, an invitation to Kimball to come in and close the door behind him, which he did.

  Connor went to the kitchen, took a seat at the table, and began to rake a hand nervously through his hair.

  Kimball took the seat opposite him. “Dude, you OK?”

  Connor looked at him. It was obvious that he’d been crying, his eyes were red and raw and had somewhat of a rheumy thickness to them. “We’re in trouble,” he confessed to Kimball. “I mean, really big trouble.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “My father’s in the hospital,” he said. “Got his hand hammered down to paste because he was behind on payments.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Connor swallowed. A sour lump was forming in his throat. “It’s no secret about my father and his gambling,” he said. “Everyone knows.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He owes a lot of money to a guy named Cooch.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” said Kimball. He’s the guy who’s selling dope to my cousin and is killing her by the inches every single day. “How much money are we talking about?”

  Connor shrugged. “Five thousand. Maybe more. Maybe less. I’m not quite sure. But it’s around there somewhere.” He paused a moment before speaking, then sighed to soothe his nerves. After he felt marginal calm return, he continued. “They want their money, Kimball. Smashing his hand was a message. And I don’t think people like Vinny Cuchinata are in the business to hand out much more than that. Once is the message, the second time is closing the account forever.”

  “When do they want their money?”

  Another shrug. “Not sure.”

  Kimball leaned forward. “How are you planning to get five thousand dollars?”

  “I’ll figure a way,” he responded almost too quickly.

  Kimball eased back in his chair and considered his best friend for a long moment. Then: “What are you going to do, Connor? Seriously.”

  “I’m not sure. Mom’s at the hospital with dad. Maybe we’ll go to Jersey. Maybe we won’t. Who’s to say?”

  But Kimball picked up something different in Connor’s tone, the light vibration of a man lying. So Kimball pressed him. “What . . . are you going . . . to do?” he asked him.

  Connor looked at Kimball with a stare that was both scared and angry, then he swallowed. “I’m going to get the money,” he finally answered.

  “How?”

  “I’m just going to get it, that’s all.”

  “That’s not an answer, Connor. Five thousand is a lot of money. How are you going to get that kind of cash?�
��

  Connor continued to look at Kimball, their eyes locking.

  “You’re not thinking about going up against Vinny Cuchinata, are you?” asked Kimball

  Connor shook his head. Of course not.

  “Then what?”

  “Kimball, you’re my best friend. All I ask of you is that you let me handle this alone. I can do this.”

  Kimball sat there with obvious reservations. He wanted to help Connor, to ease his pain. But Connor was shoving him aside, which Kimball considered to be a red flag. “Are you planning something risky?” he asked in vain.

  “Of course not,” Connor lied.

  Kimball was becoming increasingly taxed by Connor. His best friend wanted him out of the picture and far away, the bond between them severed with a few cutting words.

  Then from Connor: “I think you should go now.”

  “Connor, whatever it is--”

  “I think you should go . . . Now.” His words had a biting ring to them. Connor had never spoken to Kimball like that before. Then much softer: “Please.”

  Kimball conceded and got to his feet. For a long moment he stared at Connor, a good kid who never raised a vicious hand to anyone. But Kimball couldn’t help the feeling that something quite violent lay in Connor’s future, something he wouldn’t be able to control.

  Connor offered him a weak smile. “Maybe I’ll see you later?”

  Kimball nodded. Then, as if intuiting, he said: “All I ask is that you think about it.” Be very careful with what you are about to do.

  Connor nodded. “Take care, Kimball.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

  Connor shrugged, a maybe. “It all depends if we go to Jersey,” he answered.

  Kimball quickly picked up on this as another lie. What he couldn’t understand was why Connor was pushing him aside when he needed Kimball the most. “Maybe I’ll give you a call later on tonight?”

  Another shrug from Connor that was more of a shunning gesture, one that said: whatever.