Saint And Sinners: The King Angel Child of New York

by Tiana Laveen

  Xenia swallowed down a ball of emotion knotting in her throat as she continued to watch her daughter play. Isis moved about so liberally, her tangerine colored sundress blowing in the wind without a care in the world. The curls in her pigtails blew every so softly as she smiled and laughed in her high-pitched squeal, living in a world of her own. Xenia admired her daughter’s freedom and enjoyment of life. What it would be like to be a child again?

  “You had a strong black mother, Xenia, who was in over her head. You were around people that wished to do you harm. Your father missed the most important moments of your life and you had the black community’s ear! You told me that out of your own mouth, many years ago. You’re an amazing woman and from my observations, a loving mother and excellent wife.”

  Xenia was astonished that Valerie remembered those confessions she’d shared with her over a glass of wine after an exquisite dinner at her and James’ mansion. The alcohol had made her a bit more liberal with relaying her personal info that evening, and she felt at the time she’d delivered too much, too soon. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Not only did Valerie recall everything she declared, she saw it as a positive, not a negative.

  “You then flipped the script and followed your heart by marrying someone you would have never given a second glance to due to your self-training that interracial dating and marriage could not yield fruit but oh honey, it did now, didn’t it?!” She cackled.

  “Oh my goodness! You’re making me laugh and cry at the same time, Valerie.” Xenia wiped a tear from her eye and crossed her ankles. Though it was a bit cool outside, the sun showed special favor and continued to beam down, casting soothing warmth across her flesh and her daughter’s busy hands.

  “Yeah…I do want to do this. I want to do it for my sons and for my daughter, too. She’s my whole life, Valerie. My children…I live for them.”

  “I know. When I found out about your car accident, they said the first thing you asked about when you came to was your children. That is the mark of a true mother. I may not have given birth from my womb, but I’ve given birth from my heart, and you are my daughter…so I want to pass the torch to you. You’ve earned it. Don’t be afraid, sweetheart.”

  Xenia nodded, feeling a bit more at ease—feeling, well…free.

  “Tell me about these fires you still light for James…”

  There was a brief pause.

  “I raise my glass of chardonnay in the air, like I do on the last Friday of every month, and toast to my husband. Xenia. I pretend he is still with me. I’ve never told anyone this, but…I still lay his clothing out on the bed, just like when he was alive and would be getting ready to fly off to wherever he was jet-setting to. Before I place them down, I iron and starch them… And, on his birthday, I bake him his favorite cake and cut him a slice.” The woman took a ragged breath. “And you know what? It doesn’t make me sad, sweetie, it makes me happy.”

  She no doubt heard Xenia crying a bit on the other end. Xenia had tried to muffle it, to not upset Isis or the woman, but those words were so moving, so soul stirring, she couldn’t control herself.

  “I loved dressing my husband, Xenia…” She sighed, going back to the topic of clothing. Valerie was drifting away, going back to a place in time that gave her comfort. “You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “He didn’t have the fashion sense of Saint, he needed my help.” They both burst out laughing.

  “Valerie, sometimes I have to push Saint out of my way. He is too diva-like about his suits and how he looks in the morning for work. Sometimes he will ask my opinion about shoes or what not, but it isn’t often. I think he lives for it.” They shared another round of chuckles. “…Tell me more about James.” For some reason, Xenia was compelled to delve deeper into this love story. Her heart told her Valerie needed to talk about it, not just relive the moments inside her head.

  “…The clothes? Hmmm.” The smile returned to her words. “It was just another way for us to touch one another. ’Cause, I touched his clothing, and he wore them all day and sometimes he’d say he could smell my perfume a bit on the collar or the sleeve…and I liked that. And here is something else about James, Xenia. If he heard this conversation, he’d encourage you. James would want you to do it, I want you to do it, Saint wants you to do it, the Queens and Empresses need you to do it, so here, take this baton—you take over. I insist!”

  Xenia smiled into her lap as she cradled the phone a bit tighter. She looked back at Isis to see her likeness staring into her eyes…and oh how they glowed, almost brighter than her pretty smile. Isis nodded in her mother’s direction, as if seeming to know what she needed. A soft and mellow nod, a nod that felt like a tangible permission slip being guided into her palm. One of encouragement, love and gratitude.

  I’m going to do this. Yes, I’m going to do it and I need to find a special time to tell Saint…

  “Sit on the throne, Queen Xenia. If you need me just call, but something tells me you will have this under control. Let’s get ready to Rainbeau rumble!” she said with a laugh.

  “Valerie, I don’t have a glass, but…” Xenia looked around and plucked a doll that lay helplessly on the ground. She looked at the brown plastic woman in her little blue business suit and held her up, as if she were some coveted trophy, an empress needing a kind word, then burst out in laughter before belting, “I’ll toast to that!” The sun glistened in the doll’s curly, dark brown hair. Streams of light filtered through the thin, synthetic mass and though she was a doll, she at that moment, represented a great need. The Queens weren’t toys, they were real women with beating hearts. She had a story to tell, and nothing would stop her from delivering the essential message…

  *

  Saint rotated the knob on the radio, turning it towards the left to lower the volume on the clean version of French Montana’s, ‘Pop That.’ He looked in the leaned back passenger’s seat of his silver Lamborghini and peered at his son with a discerning eye. Hassani sat far back, like a proverbial lump on a log, his dark green sweatshirt slightly rumpled from his navy blue backpack, filled with the fresh, unused odds and ends of a new beginning.

  “Well, look at you.” Saint snatched his dark sunglasses from his face and tossed them into his cup holder. “Sittin’ over there looking like some wannabe star,” Saint teased, causing Hassani to turn away, trying to play it cool, though a half-smile had clearly formed on the little boy’s handsome face.

  “The teachers aren’t going to let you wear that snapback, so you may as well hand it to me.” Saint reached over and snapped his fingers. “Come on now, I don’t have all day.”

  After a few seconds, Hassani reluctantly grasped his L.A. Lakers hat and placed it in his father’s palm.

  “Alright, good. Now listen up.” He cleared his throat as he cast a lazy glance at the school building. Children moseyed about, an evident roughness about them, something he caught even in that daunting second of an assessment. “Like I told you, little man, every place is different. All places on this earth have their own heartbeat, their own vibe. You have to be observant, son. This isn’t like L.A.”

  Hassani rolled his big, dark brown eyes and ran his small hand over the waves of his low-cut hair. “I know, Dad.”

  “Okay, shrug me off if you want to. I’m trying to tell you something, knucklehead.”

  “Things change, Dad. You grew up here a long time ago!”

  “Oh really?” Saint raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “There’s nothing new under the sun, Hassani. My father, your grandfather, used to say that to me, and now I understand what it truly means. I know what your school was like back home. Just because this place caters to children who are artistically and intellectually inclined doesn’t mean they won’t come hard for you. Just ’cause someone waves a paintbrush or is a spelling bee champion, it doesn’t make them a punk. Some of the most talented people I’ve ever come across were from the hood and had to physically fight, morning, noon and night just to walk back and forth to s
chool. Matter of fact, children that are gifted like you—and I’m not talking about psychically but about your drawing, dancing, all of that—tend to see the world a bit differently. They are creative, and just may say whatever because they live by their own rules.”

  “Dad,” Hassani droned. “I’m going to be late for school! I get it, I get it!” The boy reached for the door handle, eager to make his grand escape into the big unknown.

  “You’re eight and a half years old going on nineteen.” Saint sluggishly turned back around and placed his sunglasses back on his face. “Don’t let someone talk you into some shi…some stuff you don’t want to do.”

  “Dad! Alright! Okaaaay!”

  “You remember how to get to your classroom? The room number ’nd everything?”

  “Yes, Dad!” Hassani rolled his eyes, opened the door and burst free, as if he’d been let out of prison. Saint sat there for a long while, watching his first child, the eldest, the one that was the most like him, saunter away, soon enveloped by the crowd. He’d wanted to walk Hassani inside, preferably by the hand, but his son made it clear he’d be beyond embarrassed and didn’t need a paternal escort. Still, Saint almost gave in to the urge to pull over and park, jump out the damned thing and burst through the doors to warn everyone within earshot that if they fucked with his son, they’d be answering to him within the blink of an eye.

  Silly notion, though. These were a bunch of children from third grade up to the eighth. It didn’t help that the high school was right across the street, luring the young ones with promises to be grown up, big and bold and more obnoxious than ever. Saint sighed and started the car up. He looked in his side view mirror before merging into traffic.

  Mama, watch over my son, please…

  *

  Hassani stood in the middle of the vast school hallway lined with walls of metal lockers, trying as hard as he could muster to tamp down his shock. He was overwhelmed by the sights and sounds and the white, glossy floors with squeaking sneakers moving about. Eyes, all different shades and sizes, darted his way, but the owners of the peepers never stopped to say hello or offer him assistance. Additionally, the children looked different than from back home…

  They had the same faces, but their clothes hung more loosely, their hair was different and their eyes appeared void, as if they’d been uprooted from something dark and lonely and cast out into an alley of Hell, swearing to do their best to survive. This was supposed to be the school where the smart kids went, the gifted, the bright, the ones who had a pot to piss in, as Grandma would say. Some cradled large sketchbooks close to their chest; others sauntered about in the hallways, talking loudly and screaming curse words while rapping lyrics to dirty songs. He now harbored a tinge of regret.

  I wish my Daddy were in here with me… Nah, that’s okay. I’m a man. I can handle this on my own.

  He held his chin a bit higher as he tried to make himself believe the thoughts inside of his head. Nevertheless, he pushed his way forward, staying the course. Hassani jetted his chest out as he breathed confidence into himself, pumping himself up like a blowfish, lest he burst with fear. He looked back and forth, just as he had during orientation, and saw his classroom. Relief enveloped him, holding him near as he drew closer. Through the slightly ajar door, he heard the low roar of children getting situated. The noise of chairs scooting this way and that, and a few morning laughs shared most likely between friends. As he made his way towards it, two sets of arms reached in front of him, blocking him like a railroad crossing. He bumped into the sleeves, confusion spreading through his form. Looking up, he took notice of a willowy fella, his beige skin covered with a birthmark shaped like Nevada above his left eyebrow. A slick grin spread across the boy’s long face, causing his Jay Leno type chin to jet out even further.

  He looks like a crescent moon…

  “You gotta pay to get in, my man…” The boy scratched the bridge of his pig-like nose as if simply waiting for something ordinary and expected.

  “Yeah, you gotta pay. How much money you got on you?” the other boy, who’d joined him in his interrogation, asked. He, too, had a willowy frame, but his face was a roasted almond color, round and fat, like a darn fudge cookie. Hassani felt himself becoming unhinged. It became more than apparent, even his naïve world—this was something he wanted no part of.

  “I aint gotta pay you nuthin’, now move.” Hassani stood a bit straighter, refusing to back down.

  The tallest one, the one with the moon face, burst out laughing, exposing a crooked front tooth. He shot his friend a glance.

  “Can you believe this shit, man?” A strand of saliva glistened from the dude’s mouth, as if he were some drooling monster. “This little mothafucka tryna be ballsy!” This statement seemed to amuse the other guy quite a bit for their laughter got harder, more intense, with their mouths gaping open as if a true blue comedian were in their midst, rattling off his best material. “Look, don’t try to be a damn hero. You lucky I’m not askin’ for them damn shoes!” Two sets of hungry eyes seized his brand spanking new Jordans, then the moon-faced boy suddenly turned serious, his eyes becoming beady as he narrowed them on Hassani, not flinching or backing down.

  Daddy told me not to wear these…damn!

  Hassani’s gut filled with bubbling regret and the anxiety in his throat burned going down. He swallowed hard, seeing without a shadow of a doubt that the possibilities of him getting his butt kicked were more than just a notion.

  “Now, we saw you pull up in that fuckin’ pimped out ride, that silver Lamborghini. The plates said California… We know you got some money, little surfboard riding mothafucka, ’Sup Duuuuude,” he mocked, laughing garishly. “…So why don’t you just share the wealth, huh? Don’t be stingy. Give us some of that west coast moolah!”

  “Yeah, we can do this the easy way or the hard way,” the other one chimed in. “You gonna be late for class, so hurry up.”

  What would Daddy do?

  “What are you talkin’ about? Dat’s my Daddy stuff! Do I look old enough to drive a Lamborghini to you? I ain’t got no money!”

  “Oh, so we got a wise guy, I see… Stop lyin’! I ain’t playin’ with you. Now give it up before I beat yo’ ass!”

  “I’m not lying. I got just enough for lunch, that’s it. Now get outta my way!” For a split second, he looked around the place, considering the thought of calling for assistance. Not an adult stood in sight, though, and from the looks of things, the other children either didn’t care about what was happening to him, or didn’t want to get involved. He peered back over at the classroom…so close, yet so far away.

  If I scream for help from the teacher, everyone will think I’m some punk!

  Hassani tried once again to push his way past, but they were much too much for him. Before he knew it, he was flying backwards like a Frisbee, landing on his spine.

  “Ugh….” He grimaced and moaned, head dizzy and full of clouds. His upper body stung and the back of his head rang, then the pain spread all across his head like something he’d never felt before—took over his entire skull and pounded behind his eye sockets.

  He opened his eyes and looked up to the popcorn ceiling, then, soon after, the boys’ faces hovered over his as if he were on some gurney, about to lifted into an ambulance.

  “What you doin’ on the floor, little fucka?” the cookie-faced one asked, a twisted smirk on his expression before he burst out into a full belly laugh. Hassani could see him more clearly now. He etched that bastard’s face in his mind at that pivotal moment…

  I’m going to remember you, and remember you well…

  “What you lookin’ at, huh? Nah, I’m just playin’. Let me help you up.” The tallest one reached for his arm, yanking him up so hard, Hassani thought the damn thing snap would clean out the socket. Hassani yo-yoed as the boy jostled him to and fro, shaking him like one of Isis’ baby dolls. Before he knew it, the other one was riffling through his bag while his main moon-faced nemesis pushed his hands all th
rough his jacket and jeans pockets, frisking him like a suspect. The bastard bit into his bottom lip, his expression smug.

  “I dare you to say somethin’, you soft mothafucka…” he threatened while he continued to invade Hassani’s person. “You had to try and be tough, drag this shit out. This is my final time asking you. Where is the goddamn money?!”

  Suddenly, he heard the sound of his book bag being kicked across the hall, a sound like a mere gumball rolling down a driveway. He twisted his neck in that direction to catch the other guy hovering over it. His brows knitted in angst as he held one brand new pack of Crayola markers in one hand, and something else that Hassani couldn’t quite make out in the other.

  “Ain’t shit in here, man!” the boy whined. “All I found was a damn dollah!” The cookie-headed boy waved it in the air like a deflated green balloon.

  At that moment, Hassani felt so grateful his father had removed his games and iPad from his bag. He’d argued with him all morning about the items, but his daddy wasn’t trying to hear it. This sort of thing didn’t happen back home. What strange world had he just entered?! His father had told him in no uncertain terms, with a finger pointed in his face—he was there to learn, not to play around, and beyond that, he’d said someone just might stick him for his stuff, so he better travel light. He felt Dad was an annoying worrywart at times, always jumping down his throat and to conclusions and now, he was made to swallow down the awful truth. Daddy was right …

  “You owe us, mothafucka!” the bigger one barked. “You wasted our damn time! I want twenty dollars from you tomorrow morning! Not a penny less, ya feel me?!”

  “Or what? What chew gonna do, huh?!” Hassani didn’t know where he’d gotten the gumption, but he had it and he gripped it tight. His insides had been reduced to hot sludge as his mind and body danced with fear, but something deep within him wouldn’t allow things to go down this way.