by Tracy Brown
“Where’s the fuckin’ doctor?” the lady was going off. “Somebody get the muthafuckin’ doctor out here right now and tell me what y’all are doing to my son!”
I realized that the frail, tall woman hovering over Zion as he sat in the waiting room chair must be Olivia and Lamin’s mother. She wasn’t at all what I had imagined. She wore two-dollar flip-flops on her feet, stretched out spandex pants that looked they didn’t belong on her skinny frame, and a T-shirt that read: WHEN I DIE BURY ME UPSIDE DOWN … SO THE WORLD CAN KISS MY ASS!
She also had a raggedy scarf on her head, and her nappy hair poked out from underneath it. No, this was not how I’d imagined Lamin’s mother. I thought back to meeting his uncle and his grandparents. I looked across the room at Olivia. No, indeed. This woman was everything opposite of my expectations.
But she got results. A doctor came out with an intern in tow. They both introduced themselves. “Lamin is out of surgery, but he is heavily sedated. For the next five or six hours, it will be pretty touch and go. We’ll monitor him throughout the night. If he makes it through the night without any major problems, his chances are good.” The doctor discussed insurance with Lamin’s mother and then returned to the operating room. As soon as he was gone, Ms. Michaels zeroed in on Zion.
“Who the fuck shot my son, Zion?”
Zion struggled to answer her question. “I don’t know who shot him, Ms. Michaels, but when I find out …”
Lamin’s mother threw a fit! She charged at Zion while Olivia and an older man I didn’t recognize tried to hold her back. Zion sprung to his feet.
“When you find out?” Lamin’s mother yelled. “You know who fuckin’ shot my son! You the muthafucka that probably set him up!”
Zion looked like he’d been slapped in the face. He shook his head, speechlessly, and walked out.
Olivia was horrified. “Ma! You don’t know what you’re talking about! Zion would never—”
“Olivia, what do you know? That son of a bitch got Lamin into all this street shit in the first place. If Zion woulda never—”
“Ma, are you crazy?” Olivia seemed to really wait for an answer to that question. “If you woulda never threw him out he wouldn’t have had to get involved in all this street shit!”
Olivia ran after Zion, and I was left alone with Ms. Michaels and the unknown man that I could only assume was her boyfriend. She looked right at me and narrowed her eyes like I was her next victim.
“Who are you?” she spat.
“My name is Lucky. I’m Lamin’s girlfriend,” I explained.
She gave me a look that said, Give me a break! “His girlfriend? He ain’t never mention nothin’ to me about having no girlfriend.” She looked me all up and down. I knew I was looking tacky, too, with my titties all on display in my skintight catsuit and Dior sandals. My face must have been streaked with makeup by then because I had been crying for more than an hour.
“Hmm!” she mumbled. “What you after? His money?”
For a second, I thought I heard her wrong.
“A girl like you woulda never gave my son the time of day if he wasn’t making money!”
Now I was mad. That shit wasn’t true, and she had her mind made up about me without getting to know me. I stood up, and we both stood eye to eye.
“I love Lamin, Ms. Michaels. And I would love your son with or without money!”
“We know you would, Lucky.” A voice interrupted our staring contest and I turned to see Lamin’s grandfather standing with his wife. “We know you love Lamin, and he loves you, too,” Papa said.
Lamin’s grandmother walked over and hugged me. “Come on, Lucky. Let’s get you cleaned up.” For the first time, I realized that my clothes were stained with Lamin’s blood. I began to cry, remembering how limp his strong body had been in my arms. I leaned on Lamin’s grandmother and she steered me toward the bathroom leaving Lamin’s mother and his grandfather alone. Papa looked ready to explode.
Zion
I had never been so close to hittin’ a female in my life. Lamin’s moms don’t know how much her words stung. I ain’t never in my life had a nigga as close to me as Lamin. That’s my brother. Lamin is family. I would take a bullet for that nigga. Word. I was already mad at myself. If I wasn’t preoccupied with Olivia, I might have seen Lamin slippin’. I could have prevented that whole shit. So I was already mad at myself. What hurt worse was having his moms accuse me of taking part in that shit. I walked away before I became disrespectful and told her what I really thought.
By the time I got to the parking lot, I was distraught. I got to my car, sat down on the hood, looked up at the sky, and questioned God. “Why?” And I cried. I sobbed like a baby. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to cry. Growing up in group homes and foster homes, crying was not an option. Instead of crying, I choked muthafuckas, cut ‘em and beat ’em. Crying showed weakness. And the night Lamin got shot, I allowed myself to succumb to weakness in more ways than one.
I heard a voice in the dark. “Zion.” I looked around and saw Olivia looking like an angel as she called my name.
Now I was embarrassed. What could be worse than Olivia catching me crying? I wiped my face and unlocked my car.
“Zion,” she called again. I turned to face her.
“What, Olivia?” I yelled. I checked myself and lowered my voice. “I ain’t have nothin’ to do with Lamin getting shot—”
“Zion, I know that! You don’t have to say that shit.” Olivia’s eyes were puffy, and her hair was a mess, but she was still looking gorgeous. Her chocolate legs were so long and sexy. I tried not to look.
“I came to apologize for my mother. She’s bugged out, Zion, you can see that. I’m sure my brother told you … she just don’t think sometimes.” Olivia gave up on her attempted explanation for her mother. She lit a Newport, and I leaned on my car.
“Smokin’ ain’t no good for you,” I reminded her.
She exhaled some smoke through her nostrils and smiled. “It’s nice to know you care.”
I ignored that last remark because I started to wonder if Lucky had seen who shot Lamin. I hadn’t even thought to ask her. I had every intention of getting revenge. I may not have been there to prevent it, but I would damn sure get the nigga that did it. In the meantime, I prayed for my friend.
Olivia
I asked Zion to take me home. Lucky insisted on staying at the hospital. My moms and Wally’s funky ass were camped out in the ER waiting room trying to maintain a safe distance from Papa and Grandma. My grandparents had cussed both of them out. Poor Lucky stayed glued to Lamin’s side. She wouldn’t leave him. It was all too much for me and Zion. Zion spent ten minutes questioning Lucky and reminding her what to say and what not to say to the detectives who would come sniffing around.
I climbed in Zion’s passenger seat and he immediately peeled out of the parking lot. I thought we would head to the expressway to go to my house but instead, Zion drove back in the direction of Consequences. “Where are we going?” I asked.
Instead of answering, Zion drove up Bay Street until we got to where Lamin’s car was parked. I looked at Zion, confused.
“Drive your brother’s car and follow me,” Zion said. He reached across my lap to the glove compartment and pulled out a spare set of Lamin’s car keys. Seeing the questioning look on my face, Zion explained. “We both have a set of each other’s car keys in case something happens. I don’t want to leave his car parked out here tonight, so you can drive it and follow me to your grandparents’ house.”
I hesitated. Zion frowned. “Do you know how to drive, Olivia?” he asked.
“Hell, yeah, I know how to drive!” The last thing I wanted was for Zion to think I was a baby who couldn’t drive a car. But the truth was that I had only driven Lamin’s car twice, and I sure wasn’t comfortable driving in front of Zion. “I just don’t want to drive my brother’s car right now,” I lied. “It’s too emotional for me.”
Zion nodded. “So drive this ca
r then.” Zion left the keys dangling in the ignition and got out. Before I could protest, Zion was behind the wheel of Lamin’s Lexus starting the car.
Any other time I would have jumped at the chance to drive Zion’s car. Especially since there were a bunch of chicks I went to school with walking by. It would have been nice for them to see me driving Zion’s pretty car, and word would have spread quickly throughout the borough that I was Zion’s baby. But I was a rookie at driving. I was nervous as hell. What if I crashed Zion’s Infiniti? What if I couldn’t remember all the things Lamin told me about driving? I looked at Zion sitting in Lamin’s car and he impatiently yelled, “Come on, Olivia!”
I jumped out, got in the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirrors, and started the car. Before I could prepare myself, Zion peeled off, and I had to struggle to catch up. My legs were shaking like crazy, but I managed to stay behind Zion. He must have been doing eighty miles per hour and I was scared to death! Thankfully, we were only going a few blocks away to my grandparents’ house on Vanderbilt. By the time I got there, Zion had already parked Lamin’s car and was waiting for me at the curb.
“New driver, huh?” he asked, smirking.
I was too embarrassed to even answer him. Zion climbed back into the driver’s seat while I sat where I belonged … in the passenger seat! He drove off, and his black Infiniti zipped along the expressway toward South Avenue. Once we pulled up in front of my house, it suddenly dawned on me that I would be home alone. The last thing I wanted was to be alone.
Zion cut the engine and reached under his seat. He pulled out a gun and the handle gleamed in the moonlight. I hesitated. “You think somebody’s in the house?” I asked.
Zion shrugged. “Let’s see,” he said, and he climbed out of the car.
SEVEN
shot down
Olivia
We entered the house, and it was dead quiet. With Zion by my side, I knew I was safe. Lamin trusted him, and I knew that Zion would guard me with his life. Zion checked every corner and crevice, and then tucked his gun into his holster. “You gonna be alright, here?” he asked.
I shook my head no. “I don’t wanna stay here by myself.”
“You’re scared?”
“Yeah, Zion. I don’t wanna be in this house all by myself when there’s people trying to kill my brother.”
Zion shook his head. “Well I ain’t staying here with you, Olivia. All I need is for your moms to come up in here and find me chillin’.”
I loved his voice. “Well, let me change and grab some clothes for Lucky, and I’ll come with you.” I prayed he wouldn’t shoot me down.
He hesitated briefly. “Hurry up. I’ll wait down here.”
I ran up the stairs, grabbed my stuff, and took a quick ten-minute shower. I smoothed my skin with cocoa butter and threw on my Phat Farm shorts and fitted T-shirt to match. I ran to my closet to find something for Lucky, and every outfit reminded me of Lamin. He had bought me all of it. La had blessed me more than anyone in my life, and he was near death. I definitely did not want to be alone that night. The thought of losing Lamin made me feel faint. I grabbed a pair of shorts and my Port Richmond High School senior T-shirt for Lucky, threw on my 54–11s and ran downstairs.
“Let’s go,” I said. I came downstairs to find Zion peeking out the window. He stood up when I reached the bottom of the stairs and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was looking at my legs. We locked up the house and drove back to the hospital. Lucky met us outside, and she seemed grateful for the change of clothes.
“You guys are staying, right?” she asked.
I looked at Zion and he looked the other way.
“Nah,” I said. “I can’t sit up in there with my moms right now.” I hoped she would leave it at that. She didn’t.
“You’re going home with Zion?” Lucky just blurted it out. I know Zion heard her but he pretended not to.
“Lucky, please just call Zion the minute you know anything about my brother.”
Lucky nodded. “I will.” Zion put the car in drive, and we headed for Brooklyn.
When we got to Brooklyn, Zion had lieutenants stationed on his block and on each surrounding block. As we drove down Fort Greene, I heard the whistles, shouts, and code words erupting in chorus block after block. We drove through the Walt Whitman Projects and the Farragut Houses. Hustlers on each corner greeted his black Infiniti as it passed them by. I could tell that Brooklyn was Zion’s home. We soon reached Clinton Hill and I was amazed at how nice Zion’s neighborhood was. Fort Greene was the ’hood in every sense of the word. But Zion’s place was exquisite. And it sure was large.
Zion lived on Hall Street—a residential block lined with trees. His building was a brownstone multidwelling with ten steps leading to a large oak doorway. I took notice of the cars that were parked at the curb. Camrys, Acuras, and at least one BMW Zion was living large, and I couldn’t wait to see the inside of his home. Once inside, we climbed two flights of stairs, and then we entered a long carpeted hallway. The building was quiet and so clean. Zion put his key in the door of apartment 204 and we entered together.
Once inside, my chin hit the floor. Zion’s place was so big! It was a typical bachelor pad with sneakers in the middle of the floor and blunt guts all over the table. Zion immediately started making phone calls. I went to take a look around. The sofa was a soft black leather and the coffee table was a heavy mahogany piece. His TV sat inside a tall mahogany armoire. Zion opened it, removed the remote control, and handed it to me. He never missed a beat with the telephone conversation he was having, either. I took the remote from him, but I wasn’t done roaming.
There was a fireplace in the living room. It was big, and I noticed a large portrait hanging over it. Without having to ask, I immediately knew that the couple in the photo were Zion’s parents. His resemblance to his father was uncanny. I stepped inside the kitchen, which had all black appliances—including the refrigerator, complete with an icemaker. There was an island in the center of the kitchen and I wondered who cooked for Zion in this dream kitchen. I was hoping that someday it would be me. I noticed a small bar against the far wall with black martini glasses sitting on top. The kitchen was divine.
Walking back into the living room, I walked over and peeked between his drawn blinds. He had a view of the Empire State Building that I could stare at for days.
“What you lookin’ for?” Zion asked, hanging up the phone.
I turned around. “Nothin’.”
“Relax then,” he said. “Get comfortable. Get some sleep.”
I was exhausted. “What about you?” I asked.
Zion was dialing again. “I’ll be up for a minute. Don’t worry about me. You’re safe. That’s what matters.” He looked at me and I thought I detected affection in his eyes. “Go to sleep,” he said.
I didn’t argue. I walked to the back of a hall and found Zion’s big ole bedroom. His king-sized bed seemed to take up half the room, and it sat on top of a solid wood platform frame. The wood headboard was covered by a plush black afghan with ZION stitched across it boldly in white. His bed was comfortable, and it smelled like him. I would have a lot of sweet dreams about lying in Zion’s bed. I was asleep in minutes.
I woke up and looked at the bedside clock. It was 4:27 A.M. I climbed down from Zion’s bed. I could smell the weed smoke wafting down the hall. As I walked down the hall, I could hear Zion coughing—choking on the stimuli. I could also see the light from the TV flickering in the dark living room.
“You sharing that?” I asked as I entered. Zion lay on the butter soft black leather sofa with his long legs flung over the arm of it. He had on nothing but a wifebeater, his gun holster, and baggy sweats. His olive complexion contrasted perfectly with his dark hair and mustache. I loved his appearance even when he wasn’t dressed to impress. I noticed his .45-caliber gun laying on the coffee table next to The Source magazine. I also noticed that he had no socks on his feet. He had nice feet, too. He caught me lookin’ but I played it
off. He was high. I could see it in his bedroom eyes.
“You smoke weed, Olivia?” he asked between coughs. I nodded as he caught his breath. “When you start smoking weed?” He was smiling, mocking me. Him and Lamin had a habit of acting like I was a baby despite the fact that they were only a year or two older. Bottom line was, I was eighteen years old—grown!
“Don’t worry about when I started smokin’. When did you start smokin’?”
Zion puffed the blunt again. He seemed to think back.
“When I was nine,” he said.
I tried not to act surprised, but in my head I was thinking, Damn! Nine?
He passed me the blunt. “Does Lamin know you smoke weed and cigarettes?” he asked.
“Why? You gonna tell on me, Zion?” I inhaled.
“Yup!” Zion said. “As soon as he opens his eyes, I’ma tell him!”
I saw the pain in his eyes then. Zion couldn’t sleep because Lamin’s life was hanging by a thread.
“I should call the hospital … ,” I started to suggest.
“I called there four times, and Lucky has called here twice,” Zion said. “Lamin’s still sleeping.”
I felt chills. I took another toke. “Who did it, Zion?” I asked, passing him back the blunt. He looked at me and then looked away. When he caught my gaze again, his eyes were sincere.
“Nobody,” he said. “Nobody, now. That person is already a memory. He’ll never pull another trigger.” I believed him. I knew that he would avenge my brother’s shooting. And it made me love Zion more.
Zion smoked nothing but hydro, so we were soon stuck—high beyond reason—and deep in thought. The TV had been replaced by the radio, and we listened to Jodeci, Boys II Men, and Mary J. Blige on the late-night rotation. Lamin couldn’t die, I told myself. He had to survive so he could be there for me. Zion told me that the love Lamin had for me was beautiful. “When your brother talks about you,” Zion said, “you can see how much he loves you. Don’t ever take that for granted. I ain’t ever had a family of my own, so seeing how you and La get down is nice.”