Saint And Sinners: The King Angel Child of New York

by Tiana Laveen

  Xenia shook her head in disbelief. She did not have the patience for this right now but there was no getting out of it—Mama was in town, and she’d just have to deal with it.

  “Mama, back to your situation with the cab ride, you don’t even know what country that man is from. Now come on, you’ve said enough. You shouldn’t make statements like that; it’s racist. You know this isn’t right.”

  “Well excuuuuuuse me, Ms. World Nations Ambassador of N.Y.C.!” Pam huffed. Xenia could imagine her mother’s hand on her hip. “You wouldn’t be talkin’ so slick if you’d known he almost killed your mama in all the foolishness! And you shoulda seen ’im! Givin’ me the evil eye… I saw his sneaky ass in the rear view mirror. He thought he scored an idiot until I set his ass straight! I shoulda ripped that damn strawberry-flavored, soft-serve-ice-cream-lookin’ head wrap off his damn skull and slapped him so hard with it he’d learn English in an instant! People would come from miles around after that to be slapped by the likes of me! My name would be Pam Mothafuckin’ Rosetta Stone! Woulda been a blessing in damn disguise, that’s for damn sure. They don’t know a drop uh damn English, but then sound like some British scholar from one of them fancy colleges once it’s time to get paid, damn crooks! They fluent in the art of trying to shine somebody outta they damn money, that’s what they fluent in!” Mama’s voice quivered as the sound of traffic seemed to be swooshing past her.

  Xenia sighed and looked at herself in her bedroom mirror. She’d been trying on outfit for the upcoming workweek, and now her good mood was soured.

  “Are you outside, Mama?”

  “Yeah, just standing out here on my cell phone taking in the sights.” She heard the woman blow out a puff of smoke. “There’s some funny ass lookin’ people in New York,” she said, chuckling. “You know that? I done seen some Queens who’ve got better make-up skills than most though.”

  Xenia smiled. “I love hearing you call black women Queens, Mama. I see Saint is rubbing off on you a bit.”

  “Black women?” Pam burst out laughing. “Chile please! I’m talkin’ about these damn seven foot, Amazon drag queens workin’ these streets like a dog does a pork chop bone! One of ’em walked past me looking like a big ass garage door. I wanted to find my clicker, open him up and drive straight through that big ass bastard, tell the cab driver to pull on in and park…”

  Xenia ran her hand across her forehead and shook her head. She should have known it would be too good to be true.

  “You shoulda seen ’im, Xenia. I had to lower my head in prayer and pray for that son of a bitch’s big, burly rectangular ass and the sidewalk he was switchin’ down! He was like a big ass overgrown potato, sour cream and chives, scootin’ down the damn path like he was dainty ’nd shit! He was battin’ his fake eyelashes so hard, I thought they was part of the street sweepin’ crew! Just big body everywhere, stuffed in heels! Wore the damn things down to nubs! They probably started as six-inch stilettos but by the time he crossed my way, they looked like fifteen-year-old ballet slippers. These damn Queens can do some damn hair and make-up, but some of ’em need to give up tryna become what God never intended! When you as big as all outdoors, trees, mountains and sky included, the only thing you gonna do is pass the fuck out from over-exertion, ’cause you sure as hell ain’t passin’ for no damn woman! Who tha hell they tryna fool? What woman you know got hands the size of Australia and a voice so deep it make Barry White sound like a newborn baby girl?”

  “Mama, look.” Xenia grimaced. “I know you came here with the best of intentions, but I’m starting my new job soon and—”

  “I know, that’s the whole point! You may not realize this right now Xenia, but you need me. I’m gonna watch the baby while you work. I can even get Hassani and Dakarai from school so you and Saint ain’t racin’ ’round tryna do it all, just ’til you get settled. That nanny you hired ain’t enough and I don’t know that woman! Got some stranger ’round my grandbabies. Besides, I’ll just be here a short while. I knew if I told you first, you’d act a fool and try to talk me out of it. And besides, Hassani got some red eye disease; he probably allergic to strawberries and tomatoes, just like my sister was… That stuff can be deadly to some people, Xenia. You and Saint need to stop pussyfootin’ around and get that boy to the eye doctor! You’d never forgive yourself if he ended up having to wear one of them damn patches and look like a pirate for the rest of his life! Ahoy Matey my ass! Ain’t nothin’ cute about it!”

  “Mama!” Xenia took a deep breath and fell back on her bed in exasperation. “That was very thoughtful of you to consider us and come all this way but how are you going to pick up the children? You don’t have a car here. You’d have to get more cabs and you’ve already proven just how much you enjoyed that!”

  “Don’t you worry about a thing! I will do it for the greater good. Like it or not, I’m here and will be here for a few weeks to help you. You never could accept help graciously… I have no idea where you got that from.”

  Xenia looked at herself in the large vanity mirror and smirked. “Well, thank you, Mama. Can you come by for dinner tonight?”

  “I need to get a little rest. I’m tired, baby, but how ’bout tomorrow?”

  “That’s perfect…and Mama?”

  “Yes, baby?”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too, that’s why I’m here…”

  *

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Saint leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He’d been back in town for less than a day, and found himself wanting to be around his older brother. The fast moving man hadn’t even noticed him as he bounced around the ring, his back turned towards him while he spoke roughly in Spanish.

  “Asi es la cosa¡” (It is how it is) “No te panikees ¡” (Don’t panic.) “You gotta keep movin’, man. When you see him coming, don’t freeze up like that!” Bomb’s blue-black ponytail bounced about like a little dot following along the bottom of a TV screen for a song. He was training a guy; Saint enjoyed every minute of the spectacle. Bomb grabbed the boxer’s arms and pressed them together.

  “Now, just be still for a minute. You have to look at my posture, where my eyes landed, what I looked at a second ago, and what I might look at in the next moment! You gotta see what I’m going to do before I fucking do it!” He let go of the guy’s arms, letting them drop abruptly.

  Suddenly, the boxer seemed to lose focus and gleamed at Saint. A smile crept across his face, as if he knew him. Noticing his distraction, Bomb swiftly turned around. His mouth dropped open, and he just stood there for a moment. If Saint didn’t know any better, he’d swear the man was fighting back tears at that moment.

  “Little Phaaaaaaarrrrrrrraaaooooooh!” He jumped out the ring so fast, he was a blur of black and blue fabric as he barreled towards him. Saint quickly got to his feet, bracing for being run over by the man, who wrapped his strong arms tightly around his form, hanging on like the heavyweight that he was. “Everybody!” Bomb called out. “This is my little brother, Saint!”

  “We know who he is.” One of the guys grinned and rolled his eyes. “You talk about him all the time.”

  Saint smirked and looked back down at Bomb.

  “Your picture is in my apartment,” he explained sheepishly.

  “…Right next to Jesus!” another Puerto Rican called out, causing laughter to erupt in the place. Bomb shot up the middle finger then turned back towards Saint. “What’s up, man?! What’s going on? Have you eaten yet?” he asked excitedly as he glanced at the clock on the nearby white dingy wall. “It’s almost lunch time. I can make you a little something up in my place.” He pointed towards the stairs.

  “That sounds like a good idea, Bomb. I’d like that.”

  He followed the swift moving man past the ring as he called out, “Take a break! I’ll be back to knock some sense into you later, Estefan.”

  They climbed a short flight of steps, the smell of fresh paint permeating the air. Bomb’s long ponytail swaye
d down his back. Saint was pleased to see he’d put on a little more weight. His face appeared less drawn in and angular, his mannerisms more exact.

  He looks so much younger now…

  “I just painted the staircase a couple days ago,” he said. “I painted my apartment, too. They cut me a break on my rent if I repaint the entire place, so that’s my next chore…get the main boxin’ area.”

  Saint took special notice of the practically brush-stroke-less job the man had done. It was damn near perfect. No drip marks, perfectly trimmed and lined up like an excellent fade.

  “Ahhh, we’re here! Home sweet home.” Bomb grinned as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of jangling keys. Saint waited patiently, rocking back on his heels, his hands plunged into his dark jeans pockets. Once the noisy wooden door swung open, he couldn’t help but crack up laughing when the overpowering scent of lemon Pine Sol and some less recent wild cherry incense smacked him in the face with memories of what once swirled.

  “You nasty ass old man!” Saint chuckled upon taking notice of all the artwork of naked women elegantly displayed on Bomb’s living room wall. They were professionally matted with gorgeous glossy wooden frames wrapped around paintings and large photos of naked Latina women doing the most. Some were bent far over, glancing over their shoulder with their big, yellow ass cheeks spread wide as fuck, revealing swollen pussy lips that glistened with baby oil. Others played with themselves, licking out their tongues seductively, a mischievous twinkle in their dark brown eyes.

  Bomb laughed lightly. “Since this whole sobriety thing man, I don’t get laid as often. Can you believe that shit? I thought it would’ve been the opposite. Some people don’t wanna hang with me no more, man. They say I’m no fun now that I stopped getting high.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I used to get pussy all the time but most of them were on some shit, too. So, I guess they have no more use for me…”

  “Bomb, it’s not the quantity of pussy, it’s the quality.” Saint laughed, causing the former stud to do the same.

  “Guess I gotta get me a new approach or something.” He paused, reflective.

  The wind slowly blew from a partially opened window, and the muted sound of traffic and life seeped in, reminding Saint they were not alone.

  “I’d like to have a relationship, actually. But, I dunno.” He sighed. “I still might not be ready for the whole commitment thing. Anyway, I gotta get my pussy some kinda way,” he joked. He pointed to his small red kitchen table, encouraging Saint to take a seat.

  “I get it, I can understand that.” Saint offered a warm smile as he walked past Bomb, rounded the corner from the small living room that blended into the kitchen. His feet sank into pale, pink carpet before he entered the small dining area. A tiny off white gas stove set with minor rust stains around the eyes stood on one end, while the oversized, eggshell white refrigerator overwhelmed the other half of the tight quarters. On the wall above the sink hung a big white cross with gold flakes all over it, possibly glitter, and underneath it, several unlit red candles sat crammed on a spice rack shelf, many of the glass bottles empty or covered in a thin layer of walrus gray dust. Across stood a skinny oak wood pantry closet door on which hung a small calendar, secured with a piece of silver duct tape. Above the calendar—a painting of Jesus Christ and right by it, a small picture of Saint that looked photocopied from one of his books.

  I can’t believe this man put my photo right there…

  Saint smiled proudly.

  “Get comfortable, man. I’m gonna make you some fried bananas, red beans and rice, and pasteles!”

  “Not the pasteles!” Saint teased as he continued to look around the place.

  Pasteles! Damn! I haven’t had those in ages…

  “That’s right, little bro.” Laughing, Bomb grabbed an old concrete-colored frying pan that looked as if it had been frying bacon since 1903. The man began to pour vegetable oil into it. “If I hadda known you were coming, I would have made a huge ass meal, man,” Bomb said huskily, grinning wide. “I would’ve invited a couple of the guys up, too. But at short notice, this is the best I can do.”

  “No problem, I’m grateful. I hadn’t planned this or anything like that.” Saint clasped his hands together and watched his brother get busy, throwing down some cookery skills he took pride in.

  “Oh, wait.” Bomb quickly wiped his hands on a yellow towel hanging by the sink that was chock full of dirty glasses and plates, and opened the refrigerator. “Let me get you something to drink. Let’s see, I got coconut milk, spring water, this virgin piña colada shit I made last night—it was pretty good—or I could put on a pot of coffee, your choice.” Bomb turned and looked at him, his eyes wide and clear…the whites so pure, they looked like the cocaine he used to snort up his flared nostril, rather than his customary ruddy from yesteryear, more the hue of a freshly caught salmon. Saint could not recall the last time he’d seen the man’s eyes like that. The man’s had been a complete transformation, and he couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

  “Let me try that piña colada stuff you made, man.” Saint stretched his legs and leaned back in the seat, which squeaked under his weight.

  Bomb grabbed an ochre pitcher from the refrigerator, a large crimson glass and poured the thick mixture into it. He slammed it on the table in front of him, then jumped back into his cooking, a definite bounce in his step.

  “So, how’s the fam and everything, man? L.A. still treating you good?”

  Saint was astonished. “Bomb, did you not get my email? Man, I tried to call you a couple times weeks ago, but it kept going straight to voicemail, so I wrote you.”

  “Awwww, man!” Bomb tossed an annoyed glance from over his shoulder. “The computer is on the fritz. They gotta get a new one…got some sorta virus, they say. I guess some hooker fucked it,” he joked, causing Saint to smirk.

  “You were the first person I called after my father once I got here… Bomb, look at me for a second.”

  Bomb turned to him, a large, perforated spatula in his hand and a brown spotted banana peel in the other.

  “What’s up? What’s the problem? Xenia leave you?”

  “No man, I moved back home! I live here now!” Saint smiled.

  “I used to be a tecato (junkie). And now, I ain’t so sure I’m not high again after hearing this! Stop fuckin’ with me, Lil’ Pharaoh.” Bomb scowled, believing Saint was pulling his tail, no doubt.

  “I’m not!” Saint laughed and leaned forward in his seat. “I’m dead serious. I wanted to move back to New York, so, I established a new branch of my company here and brought my family, everything. There is also something else, but…” He hesitated, finally deciding to gloss over his last statement. “Anyway, no, this is not a game, man. I’m keeping it one hundred with you. I even said in the email that I was coming to see you. I wasn’t sure when, but it was going to be soon. You didn’t write back; I figured you were busy. I even tried calling again… I guess I should have just stopped by.”

  “This is fucked up, man.” The gravel in Bomb’s esophagus thickened further as the guy seemed to lament over Saint’s words, growing increasingly irritated. “I got a new cell phone, you know…but I didn’t get any damn messages.”

  Saint threw up his hands in surrender and shook his head. “What can I say? Well, you know now, and I’m here.”

  “Yeah…” Bomb reached into a terracotta cabinet above his head, pulled out two orange plates and continued to cook. “You here. So, what’s going on?”

  “Life, man. Things are fine.”

  “I’m waiting to hear what’s going on,” Bomb repeated, his tone slower, more serious.

  Saint sighed and tossed his hands behind his head, locking his fingers as he teetered backwards in the chair. “Awwww man.” He yawned. “Just some shit, as usual. I can go no more than a year it seems, without some crap poppin’ off.” He ran his hand over the back of his neck, then crashed forward, bringing the chair down with a thud.

  Bomb remaine
d quiet for a few moments, just kept on working, reaching for various seasonings and sprinkling a dash of this, a touch of that.

  “Do you have any idea what it feels like to be a bit afraid of someone, and you love them, you respect them, owe everything to them?”

  Saint swallowed, feeling his skin suddenly flush with warmth.

  “Do you know what it feels like, Saint, to know you practically raised a mothafucka, and the more kindness he shows you, the more you fear him? ’Cause you don’t understand him…but you sorta do. You wish you were still high, ’cause then, you could just go on pretending you didn’t know he was different, that he was something else. He is what he is though.” Bomb shrugged, then stilled, as if caught in a bubble of a daydream. “You always knew that skinny son of a bitch was strange. You knew he had something in him, and whatever it was, you wanted to get close to it, be a part of it, wrap yourself up in it, die in it.

  “Whatever he had, it was better than any shit you snorted, shot up, drank, inhaled, burned, smoked, toked and slurped. Better than any drug out there, and you figured, if you stayed close enough to him, his good luck might rub off on you and you might grow up and be somebody important. Whatever he had, you might be blessed, too. But, I didn’t grow up to be nobody important.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I grew up to be a nobody…until that same skinny mothafucka walked back into my life, and changed that for me. Then, you realize that, no, the blessing was just taking care of him, making sure he stayed out of trouble. Yeah, that was the blessing all along ’cause he is important. He means something to the world. He has a big purpose and if that purpose gets messed up, the whole fucking world would get messed up, too.” The man groaned loudly when he opened the refrigerator, as if some of the worst news he’d ever received had presented itself. He retrieved a pint of milk then slammed it back closed before returning to the stove.

  “…I can’t say that I know what that feels like, Bomb,” Saint offered, not even sure where to start. Before he could continue, a sharp pain belted Saint’s gut like a whip to a horse. “Oh…shit.” He gritted his teeth and ran his hand along his clenched abdominal muscles; a burning sensation roiled his insides as the pain grew worse and worse, rendering him temporarily speechless.