Smoke and Mirrors

by Tiana Laveen

  He laughed lightly as he grabbed hold of a fork. In his mind, it became a string of pearls—hell, maybe even rubies… No, it was a rare archeological find, an ancient Greek mini-statue of the Gods.

  I bet it’s worth a lot of money…

  He continued his scavenger hunt, laughing at his own absurdity. Suddenly, the closing credits blared on the television, waking him from yet another daydream. He’d lost complete track of time, and looked around in a daze, taking note that not a damn thing was washed and on the drying rack.

  She’s gonna kill me!

  He clumsily splashed about, grabbing smudged, slippery glasses and trying to make do with the tepid water. Smoothing his hands over the rim fast and hard, he then rinsed it just so, until the damn thing sparkled, then placed it on the stand. He glanced over his shoulder once more, afraid of what he may see, then breathed a harsh exhale when he noted she’d completely fallen asleep, none the wiser that time was slipping away.

  He looked back down into the water, feeling empty and not inclined to daydream anymore. Sucking his lip, he stood there, pissed about the whole need to cope.

  I’m too busy worried about what Mama will say, worried I’ll disappoint her. I can’t do this shit anymore.

  He looked at the clock, then slipped the stinking sponge into the water, letting it fall leisurely from his grasp. Leaving it all, he tiptoed carefully from the sink into his mother’s small bedroom, walls the color of Pepto-Bismol pink and a small window that displayed nothing but a neighboring brick wall. He crept past her cottage cover printed pillows to the cordless phone on the nightstand to the right side of her bed. When she wasn’t home, she kept her bedroom door locked as if the Holy Grail dwelled within. Picking up the phone, he dared himself to call the number he’d memorized several months ago—the one crossed out so many times in Mama’s little black address book, it was almost illegible. Dad moved around so much, he was hard to keep up with, but he’d stayed in Downtown Los Angeles quite a while, saying it agreed with him. Brent smiled to himself, realizing he could catch his father at his house if he timed it just right. He took a deep breath and dialed.

  Swallowing harshly, he waited and waited, until finally, the answering machine came on.

  “No one is here. Leave a message,” his father’s deep, throaty voice stated, nothing more, and nothing less.

  Shit.

  He didn’t want to talk to a damn machine. He spoke to the man only a couple times a year if he was lucky and it happened typically through his own initiative. During the calls, Mama sat there, monitoring his every word. Mama would never know he’d called for if she did, she’d be hurt…but what could he do?

  “A, uh, Dad…it’s Brent,” he whispered as he scratched the side of his head and looked nervously over his shoulder at the cracked bedroom door. “I wanted to ask…” He sighed, not sure he had the gumption to go through with it anymore. When he played the scene out in his head, his father would answer the phone enthusiastically and then exclaim in an overjoyed tone, “I thought you’d never ask, son! I will send you a plane ticket to California right away!”

  …But that just didn’t happen.

  “I wanted to ask, if, you know, it would be okay if I visited for a while? I haven’t seen you in a really long time and…well, I don’t want to just visit. I want to live with you, Dad. Things are not…things aren’t…never mind. Just…call me, please…okay, bye.” He hung up and made his way back into the kitchen, feeling rather sheepish as he slid past the refrigerator like a ninja. He sighed with relief to see the woman still fast asleep in the same, exact way he’d left her, only now with her mouth ajar as she delivered a light snore. He ran his hand through his hair and simply stared at her for what seemed like the longest—as if he were trying to sketch her image in his mind, make the shit stick, lest he forget. The kitchen sink dripped, and the television kept speaking in its low drone.

  I love you, Mama, and I’m sorry. There’s gotta be more to life than this…

  *

  “YEAH, I’M HERE.” Brent clutched the cold, shiny chrome phone and gripped one of his beat up, castoff luggage bags while he stood at the front entrance of the Los Angeles International Airport. After a great deal of fighting with his mother and a smack across his face after admitting what he’d done, she finally conceded once something out of the ordinary occurred—Dad called back… And not only did the man call back, he was demonstrative, making it clear as he spoke loudly over the other end of the phone that he wanted his son, and only a man could raise a boy to become a responsible adult. He cited Brent’s average grades, overall underachievement, and lack of direction as proof that he was needed in his life. It shocked the hell out of Brent, but the look in his mother’s eyes stole a bit of the surreal moment as the man championed for him. She looked like she was dying on her feet, so much he couldn’t relish his father’s outpouring of love. Rather, her expression dulled the wonder of it all, and broke his heart in a million pieces. It was not a picture perfect scene; the corners of the painting wore rough, and the muse to paint it a fleeting one. Lord knew he didn’t want to hurt her, but his staying wasn’t helping, either.

  “How was your flight?” the woman asked, almost timidly, breaking him out of his remembrances. He’d never heard Mama so quiet before.

  “It was good, Mama, real good. The pilot did a great job with the landing; the plane was real nice. It was a Boeing 747…” His mother kept silent for a second or two, then spoke again, much to his relief.

  “I saw you took all of your model airplanes except the USA-B173, the flying fortress.”

  His lips curved in a grin. He had no idea Mama even paid attention to his obsessive love of model airplanes, his vast collection that he prized almost above all else, let alone knew their names. It was where all his money went, the little he had. He’d been accumulating them since he was four, and his zest for this pastime never lessened. He spent much of his free time moseying around James M. Cox Dayton International Airport. It paled in comparison to LAX, nowhere near as big and security packed. Nevertheless, he loved that little airport. The place smelled like brand new textbooks and ladies’ perfume. He enjoyed walking around, watching the airplanes take off and land, even talking to the small cockpit crew from time to time. They’d gotten used to him loitering about. He’d pedal his bike for over forty minutes to get there, and if he was lucky, someone cruising down the highway would toss his bike in the back of their ride and give him a hand back home. He’d miss that place… Mama didn’t seem to care that he was out chasing planes on the weekends and after school, as long as he got his ass back in that house before she arrived home on break. She wanted his chores done, and the house clean, but she also seemed to want more—particularly him to be at home, in the flesh, to put her mind at ease. Often he surmised there was a lot about Mama he probably didn’t know…

  “I left that one for you.” He breathed in the air, noting it was a hell of a lot hotter in L.A. than in Monroe. The airport was jam packed with all sorts of people. Guys walked about with stern faces.

  I could never visit the employees in this big place…they’d lock me up…accuse me of trespassing.

  Some of the people moseying about were fancy looking ladies donning big white hats and bright red lipstick over tight mouths, walking about as if they were shit out of Hollywood’s glittery, lying ass. Others looked like skateboarders, vagabonds, but wore earnest smiles. He slicked his green jacket off as he kept the payphone propped to his ear, cradled between his shoulder and face. “I left it ’cause, well, it’s the one that we picked out together. The one I begged you for.” He smiled sadly.

  “Yes.” He could hear the smile in her tone. “I remember you saving up for it, but still didn’t have enough money and came to me about it, because it was the last one left and you were afraid it would get sold. Thank you for leaving it. I know…” She sniffed. “I know it was one of your all time favorites.”

  Shit. She’s crying.

  “Yeah, and so are you,
Mama. Look, I gotta go.” He exhaled and turned to his left, noting the taxis all lined up, ready to go on and make this official. “I will call you back when I get to Dad’s house, okay?”

  “…Okay. I love you, Brent.”

  “I love you too, Mama.”

  He hung up the phone and jetted his finger in the coin slot. It was a customary thing, second nature. He slid his digit along the cold, smooth surface, only to be left disappointed. There was no change to add to his meager amount. He had exactly $62.43 and that would dwindle even further once he caught his cab over to S. Flower Street. Dad had sent the one-way plane ticket, but nothing more. He figured it was an oversight. He slid the handwritten address out of his jeans pocket again and looked down at it in disbelief; he was finally going to live with his father. Picking up his bags, he headed out the airport doors only to be met with warm air that baptized him into the hotter climate, sealing it with a balmy kiss. He stepped to a cab driver, who without provocation, leapt out of his vehicle like a jack-in-the-box and the conversation regarding destination commenced. Twenty-five minutes later, Brent was standing in front of a row of olive green and taupe condominiums. Taking a deep breath, he clutched tightly to his luggage handles and approached the place. Before he could knock on the white door, the damn thing swung open revealing someone he didn’t recognize, but had seen on a daily basis. Himself.

  Brent hadn’t laid eyes on his father in over five years, and that visit had been short-lived. Now, here the man was, leaning casually in his doorframe, his big, tattooed arms crossed. He glared down at Brent as if he were a Jehovah’s Witness come knocking, flashing around the latest issue of the Watchtower. What took him aback most of all was the man’s eyes…they were the same incongruous, brilliant electric blue as his own.

  “Uh…Dad?” he said almost timidly to the man that towered before him from a height of at least six foot four, and sported a deep cleft in his chin and wavy jet-black hair that reached to his broad shoulders.

  And he smelled strongly of weed.

  “That’s my name.” The man gleamed, his teeth bright, one crooked on the bottom row. “Come ’ere, boy!” The man lunged towards him, wrapped him tight in long, strong arms. “Come on in!” He grabbed one of his bags from his hands, and made his way across the light oak wood floor of the sprawling place. Brent stepped fearfully inside, taken aback by how large, modern and damn near perfect the place was. Nothing like back home. The place was clean, not a damn thing out of place. It looked like something out of those fancy magazines in the grocery stores, the ones that featured houses with bathrooms bigger than his whole damn crib. Mom struggled so badly, he was in awe Dad seemed to be doing awesome. Tugging himself away from his growing concerns and a tinge of anger that began to build within him, Brent closed and locked the door behind him. He could no longer see his father, but heard him speaking from a short distance away.

  “Make yourself at home!” the guy called out. “Let’s get you something to eat, drink…get you settled into your room. This is a two bedroom condo, just got it a few months ago.” He could hear the smile in the man’s voice, undoubtedly elated over his apparent financial success. The neighborhood wasn’t the greatest. He’d seen his share of homeless people drifting about as the cab driver carted him along, but this pocket, this stretch of the area, teemed with new construction, a promise that times would get better. And boy had Dad done better. How odd that no child-support had touched his mother’s hands…

  He sighed and continued forward, catching the man with his muscular back turned, peeking into a kitchen cabinet in search of something, a large tattoo of a daunting serpent between his shoulder blades. Brent eyed the ceiling, noting the exposed silver pipes running along and under skinny eggshell beams. The condo appeared industrial, contemporary, alien.

  His father’s husky voice broke the tranquility as the man looked over his shoulder at him. “What do you like to drink?”

  Brent shrugged and placed his small carry-on bag on a nearby counter.

  “Anything is fine I guess…”

  His father stared at him a while, as if he wanted to add something, say a bit more, but only offered a smirk. Turning back around, he looked back inside of the now open refrigerator, deliberating, making nonverbal choices. A few moments later, the two were sitting on a slate gray couch, both holding unopened bottles of Fiji water. To the left stood an entire wall made of glass. Actually, it was just a huge ass window with a sliding door leading to a small balcony. Damnedest thing Brent had ever seen…

  Ahead was a table that looked like something from an Ikea commercial, and on the wall hung a 64-inch LCD television. Brent was drawn to nice things, luxuries, and he wanted to get his hands on some. Only problem was that in Monroe and living with Mama, that had only been a fantasy. It didn’t occupy his mind to obsession, but sometimes he’d grow rather jealous of a few of the more privileged kids in his neighborhood that had nice shit when he barely had anything in his possession that one would consider of value, not even worthy to be stolen.

  “So, let’s talk.” The man nodded and gave a pleasant smile, as if they were bosom buddies—had been in communication on a daily basis. “I don’t know what Liz has told you, but I imagine it’s nothing good.” And so it began…

  Brent lowered his head for a brief spell, allowing his hair to fall forward. He hadn’t cut it in awhile, so he looked even more like the man that sat before him than he could have ever imagined. He unscrewed the plastic cap from his bottle and took a long, hard swig from the thing, wishing it were something a bit stronger.

  “Mama didn’t say anything really…”

  “That’s a lie.” The man chuckled, though it was obvious he was far from amused. “Let’s get some stuff straight right away, Brent, okay?” He turned serious, holding up one hand as if he were being sworn in to some damn office. “I’m going to tell you what really happened, the truth ’cause I’m damn sure your mother didn’t tell it. Liz and I went to high school together, okay? It was never a relationship. We dated a few times; I took her out, bite to eat, a movie now and again, shit like that.” He shrugged. “We banged a few times, I got ’er pregnant, simple as that.” He paused, seemingly trying to gauge Brent’s reaction. For his part, he looked at his father stone-faced, refusing to even breathe loudly. “At that time, I thought the right thing to do was to get married, ya know? And though this might not be the type of shit you’re tryna get into right now, tryna hear, it’s the truth and I refuse to lie to you. I never loved her, Brent.

  “I liked her, I was fond of her, but without love, a marriage just won’t work, okay?” He threw up his hands in surrender. “All we did was fight after I made it official. Then, she found out I was cheating. Yeah, I did it, okay?” The man laughed and fell back onto the couch like the shit was funny. “I cheated on your mother because I’m just not husband material as the saying goes, but despite all of that”—he leaned forward and placed his hand on Brent’s thigh—“I love you. I don’t regret you being here. You’re my son.”

  “Mmmm.” An anxious lump formed in Brent’s throat, growing larger by the damn second, thriving, fed by unsaid grievances. He didn’t give a crap about why they weren’t together anymore. He realized not every couple with a kid was necessarily destined to live out the rest of their lives under the same damn roof. Shit happens. That concern had sailed away long ago, like a raindrop down a gutter. He wanted to know about right here and now. “Why didn’t you call me more, Dad?”

  “Because of your goddamn mother!” The man’s thick, black brows dipped. “Brent, when I’d try to talk to you, arrange to come down and visit, she’d say you didn’t want to see me, and cut me off from you. She only called me when she wanted some goddamn money! I just now got on my feet.” He spoke earnestly, touching his chest with conviction and looking him squarely in the eye. “And it took a while. I was in prison for three years, Brent. That’s another damn reason.”

  Tongue-tied, Brent tried to hide his surprise but failed. He stared
at his father in disbelief.

  “Yeah, that’s right… I see Liz didn’t tell you that, either.” He grimaced and shook his head. “She left the shit out that would explain my damn absence, to make me look bad. Not only did I send her money for you, I would send presents, too. She’d send the gifts right back if it was something she couldn’t hawk! No one is gonna pay her any cash for a bunch of plastic toy soldiers or water guns.”

  Brent’s stomach knotted up to the point he was certain two prized fighters were inside having it out at his intestinal expense.

  “I even paid a bunch of fuckin’ money to have a damn bike mailed to you for your thirteenth birthday, Brent. It was the first damn thing I did when I was released. I took my little bit of money, knowing I was homeless, but my son’s birthday was comin’ up, and I wanted it to be a good one for ya.”

  Mama said she got me that bike!

  Brent couldn’t believe his ears; he wanted to get up and run away, throw some shit, jump up and down, punch a hole through the perfect wall… He wanted to place blame, smear that shit everywhere and curse out the man that sat before him! He wanted to call Mama right then and there, too and have her say it was all lies. His father ought to take it all back, say he was only kidding, that it was some crazy joke! Instead, he swallowed down his shock, the pain, the filthy shit that made him gag. Refocusing, he pulled himself out of the funk, at least for the time being.