Smoke and Mirrors

by Tiana Laveen

  “Why were you in prison?” He took another swallow of his water, temporarily averting eye contact.

  “I had a bit of a drug problem, shall we say?” The man laughed mirthlessly. “Lost a piss poor job, but at least I had one. Was in homeless shelters half the time. Your mother knew all of this shit, but instead, she probably painted me to be the bad guy, right?” His father’s tone grew teeth as his voice escalated.

  “She didn’t tell you that’s why I didn’t call. I could see it on your face as soon as I told you. I didn’t call because I couldn’t! I wrote you though, from prison… I wrote you all the damn time and I bet you didn’t receive one damn letter, did you?”

  “…No.”

  “I didn’t think so. She is still pissed about the divorce, about everything!” He threw up his hands. “I’m not tooting my own horn, but your mother was fixated with me, son. It was really kinda creepy, actually.” His brows furrowed. “I took her ‘V’ card. I’m sure that didn’t help.” He sighed. “Anyway, I was popular in school, she wasn’t. She looked the part; she just didn’t act it…a bit of a wallflower, a little strange, too. But she was pretty as fuck back then though, boy. Whew. You shoulda seen ’er! Your mother.” He grinned, looked away and shook his head. “Gorgeous young woman. She was real conservative, though. A quiet girl, raised by a preacher. Her mama was dead, and your mother was the eldest of eight kids as I’m sure she’s told you, even though your aunts and uncles from her side are either dead or moved away.

  “She had a lot on her shoulders. But, you know, I was a kid then, Brent. I saw her, wanted to get with her, so I made my move. I had a raging hard on for redheads at the time, too. And quite honestly, Brent,”—The man shook his head and sighed—“I just wanted to have sex with her. I was a bone head back then, wild ’nd crazy.” He chuckled. “I hate that this is our first face-to-face conversation after all of this damn time, something so fucked up to hear I suppose, but after a while, I started believing ’er when she told me you didn’t want to see me. I had offered to fly you here a few months ago, as soon as I got my new place, and she said no. I’ve been out of jail for over a year, but I knew as soon as I got myself financially stable, I was coming after you, but she cock-blocked the shit out of that. Imagine my surprise to get that voicemail from you, huh?” The man leaned a bit closer and lightly tapped him on his shoulder, an affectionate gesture that only sent Brent further into his emotional tailspin.

  How could she do this to me?! Mama’s been lying this whole time! Even if he is lying too, some of what he is sayin’ has to be true, it makes sense! Who is she?! Who have I been living with?! No wonder she was acting so weird this morning. She knew eventually I’d be told what had really happened…

  “You and I don’t have a relationship. Closeness between us?” He pointed between the two of them. “Not so much. I want to change that, if you’ll let me.”

  They were quiet for quite some time; only the sound of cars driving past broke up the uncomfortable silence. “And as I look at you, it amazes me, man.” He shook his head and smirked, seemed to be admiring the smaller image of himself, getting a kick out of it. “We look so much alike.”

  Brent nodded in agreement. There was no denying the paternity. Maury Povich was definitely not needed…

  “Do you know why your eyes look like that?” The man’s lips curved in a slightly devious smirk.

  “No…but I was always told to take my contact lenses out with new teachers though, the ones that hadn’t seen me before, because it was distracting. Everyone thought I had those fun contact lenses, you know, like the ones people use for Halloween.” He half chuckled, causing his father to smile a bit wider.

  “Yeah…it’s actually a deformity. Your grandfather was albino. White hair down to his fucking ass, skin whiter than cotton balls and eyes like a fucking serpent. We have the gene, but it didn’t affect our skin tone and hair color the same way, only our eyes. It’s an extremely rare genetic disorder Brent, kinda freaks some people out.” He shrugged. “But the ladies dig it!”

  They both smiled at one another.

  It was true. His eyes were the first thing girls would mention to him. Their glossy lips would curl into a smile as they paid him a compliment about his damn peepers. No one ever believed they were his natural eyes, but they were, and he could see just fine.

  “Well, let me show you to your room.” They both stood and looked at one another. In that silence, it was more than apparent to Brent that he didn’t know anyone at all. He even questioned knowing his own self. He felt like a foreigner in his own slightly tanned skin, confused as he stared into those bizarre eyes that looked just like his own. His father’s gaze was heavily hooded, which gave him a certain look of lazy charm, layin’ cool, just like his own. The man looked as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Dad had long lashes, too. Women called their kinda eyes ‘bedroom’ eyes, at least one nice girl at school did. He even had the man’s nose—narrow, the bridge long and pooling into a set of slightly flared nostrils. He had the man’s lips…thin, with a delicate dimple on the right side. It gave him a permanent smirk, the appearance of being an ass when he really wasn’t…

  The way his cheekbones sat high, the hollow deep, as if he were sucking in air—like Dad’s. His strong jawline—like Dad’s. His hair was slightly lighter than his father’s, but still quite dark, and when wet, the texture mimicked his father’s as it sported a fine wave pattern. While dry, it was poker straight like his mother’s. How awful it must’ve been for Mama to have to look, day in, day out, into the face of the man who’d stabbed her in the heart. Could it be Mama hated him, too? Maybe that was the reason why she lied. Maybe she didn’t keep two jobs to take care of him after all. Maybe she did that because she couldn’t stand the sight of him…

  She hadn’t let him leave before because Brent senior wanted him…and anything that Brent senior wanted, she’d ensured he never received. It would serve as payment for the heartache, cheating, lying and manipulation she’d endured. Brent hung his head, surprised that his hatred for his mother, born five minutes earlier, evaporated just that quickly. He wasn’t certain where to place the heavy culpability, but someone needed to hold the trophy, wear the t-shirt and hold a dismal parade in their honor. In the next few minutes, he found himself staring down at a perfectly made queen-sized bed. He’d never slept in a bed that large or nice before, dressed in crisp white sheets and a light blue and white striped comforter and duvet. Four pillows, versus just one flat yellowed one from years of bleaching, covered the bed neatly, as if the room had been prepped for a photo shoot. He gently picked up one of his bags and placed it on top of the bed. Unzipping it, he stared down at his airplane collection, carefully wrapped and protected by his clothing, socks and underwear for safekeeping. He unwrapped one and traced the tip of the shiny dark blue wing with his index finger.

  “You still love airplanes, huh?” his father stated as he leaned against the doorframe, his ankles crossed and a bottle of beer now in his hand.

  “Yeah…I still collect them.” He tried to sound more chipper, but simply couldn’t muster it.

  “You know what, Brent?” The man took a swig from his bottle, then noisily exhaled. “I think you got that adventurous spirit from me. You see, your mother never wanted to go anywhere or do anything. Me though?” He pointed at his chest. “I like going different places, seeing new things. I used to take you on business trips with me when I had this sales position. You probably don’t even remember.”

  “I remember a few…”

  The man nodded and smiled, seemingly pleased with that revelation.

  “When I had to go up to Michigan, I’d sometimes take ya, put you on the plane. You loved that! I can still remember you talkin’ my damn ear off as you observed the clouds, all of that, and you’d pitch a fit if I wasn’t able to get you a window seat. Most of the time, I could. You even got to visit the pilot once. It seems ever since then, you’ve been restless, just like your old man. It’s a disease, a
curse, and a wonderful thing all at once. You’ll never want to be still, Brent, unless some good ass money, some opportunity you can’t refuse comes out the sky and forces you to plant roots.”

  Brent nodded, not sure what to say as he returned to admiring his toy plane collection before glancing back over his shoulder at his father.

  “Dad, can I ask you something?”

  “Yes…”

  “How’d you afford a place like this?” He looked around his room, noting the large flat screen television mounted on the wall, a closet full of fluffy white bed sheets that looked expensive. This place had none of that Wal-Mart stuff he was accustomed to and it even had a real nice desk and chair, with a laptop on the surface of the rich, polished wood. He assumed it was for him. He always had to use the computers at the library. This was a pleasant surprise.

  “Son, I told you when you got here, and I’ll tell ya again. One thing you will get with me is complete honesty.”

  The man took a deep breath and briefly hung his head, as if whatever the hell he was going to say would be earth-shattering, make the loose ties that held him together come undone and expose him to hardship he’d never known. Brent wasn’t sure he could take much more, so he reached down and clutched one of his planes for comfort, praying he didn’t break the damn thing in two.

  “I was going to save this conversation for another day, but, the answer to your question is, I work quite hard to get the money I have. I’ve made a name for myself, if you will. I was finally in a position to get my son, too. There were…some things required by your mom, and uh, well, let’s just say I took care of it.”

  Brent’s brow rose in confusion.

  “Brent.” The man sighed. “I had to pay your mother off to get you and the only way I could pay ’er off was to make money, good money. I’ve been trying to get custody of you since I moved here.” He ran his hand roughly over his face, forcing his hair back, knowing he’d dropped the king of doozies. “She’d call me complaining about your grades, talking about you never paid attention and all of this shit, then blame me for it. So, I told ’er I’d take ya, but she didn’t want to hear anything like that. I threatened to come get you, but she laughed. I had a criminal record, so I knew no court in the land would give you to me, I’d have to be at your mom’s mercy. No such luck with that. You see, after my incarceration, I couldn’t find another job, so I had to put plans on hold of trying to convince her again. Then, I met this woman in the homeless shelter.” His eyes got real dreamy, glossed over, as if it he were reflecting on the best night of his life. “She’d gotten beat up by her old man and needed some help, too. We both needed some money, and we needed it fast. But she wasn’t from around here, didn’t know how. And then…it came to me.” He snapped his fingers. “I could do what I’d known about for years, what I’d seen for a long ass time, what my grandfather did, too…though people called it something else back then.” His eyes darkened, then narrowed. “It was time. The opportunity was there, and well, I did it.”

  Brent didn’t know what the hell his father was talking about, and wished he’d just answer the damn question. It was evident in his mind, Brent Sr. was gearing up to something big, a true confession, and Brent Jr. hated moments like this. The suspense was simply too much. He’d already been smacked in the face with the reality that his mother was a stone-faced liar. Wasn’t that enough punishment for one day?!

  “Brent, I’m a business man.” He grinned like a movie star as he pointed at himself. “I sell pussy, son. Now, you get settled, jump in the shower…”—he waved his fingers nonchalantly at him—“… and let’s get you some decent damn clothes and shoes. We’re going shopping. I’ve looked at what you got there,” he said, pointing at the suitcase, “and there is nothing inside of that bag that I want my son wearing.” His voice rang with determination. “I’m going to get you fixed up. You need a haircut in the worst fucking way, too. You’ve got facial hair ’nd shit that’s sprouting all over your face like some damn Chia Pet and it’s probably never been cut or trimmed since it first began to develop. Your mama just let you grow up and didn’t give a damn about taking care of your appearance, making sure you looked the part, I see. You’re a Patterson!” he said with pride. “We don’t walk around looking like that.” He pointed a wayward finger at him, as if he were some circus freak. “Your shirt is old and dingy and your jeans have seen better days. Even on my worst days, I looked like somethin’. You’re a damn mess.” He shook his head as if disgusted.

  “When was the last time you’ve been to a dentist, Brent?”

  He swallowed and shrugged. “…About two years ago.”

  “Hmmm, yeah, I’ll make you an appointment. You’re going to need some braces or you’ll end up with an overbite that’ll cause your upper lip to jet out. Don’t worry about a thing, I’ll get you fixed up, I’ll take care of everything. Anyway, we’ll stop and get some dinner tonight, too. You like sushi?”

  “Never had it… I don’t think I’d be too interested in raw fish though, Dad.”

  “Not all of it’s raw. It’s good. Time to try new things, son, leave Monroe behind. And besides, you might surprise yourself and actually enjoy it.” His father winked and then like that, the man seemed to evaporate, disappear right in front of his very own eyes as if he’d never stood there at all.

  ‘I sell pussy.’

  Brent repeated it in his mind a thousand damn times. Was this a dream? As he stood there dumbfounded, his naïve mind finally finished weaving the quilt, got the whole goddamn thing put together piece by piece until he was able to lay it across his lap and hold it tight. But there was no comfort…

  Dad is a pimp…

  *

  Chapter Two

  Eight years later/Present Day…

  FELICIA HOPPED ON Brent’s lap with a giddy bounce and did a spin, squealing and carrying on as she draped her freshly manicured hands around his neck. He looked briefly into her eyes, then moved his head to and fro, ducking and dodging, trying desperately to see the television as he gripped the remote with his free hand.

  “Hey, Daddy!” She grinned at him and swung her multi-colored, galaxy print legging covered limbs. “What have you been up to? I missed you today,” she cooed as she ran her fingertips along his upper back, her cue to him that she wanted to fuck.

  “I missed you too…” he said distractedly as he strained to listen to the news. “Did you find out that information for me?”

  She jammed her bright red fingernail into her mouth, dug in her tooth, looked at it and flicked whatever the intrusive food was clear across the room.

  “Felicia!” He scolded. “This is my damn house! Why do you do stuff like that? I hope you don’t behave this way in front of the tricks…so fucking disgusting.”

  “I’m sorry!” She giggled. “It was bothering me. A piece of broccoli, I think. Gotta eat my veggies!” She ran her hand up and down his face, a demure smile on her grill.

  “I can’t believe you’re touching me like that after you just dug in your goddamn mouth.” He smirked.

  She tossed her head back in an exaggerated laugh, and continued on with her endless flirtations. Fact of the matter was, he’d grown fatigued of her ‘little girl’ act. He wanted the old Felicia back. Felicia was his bottom bitch, and if he said so himself, she was the pick of the damn litter. She had brains, beauty, brawn and bravado. One of his first scores, he’d plucked her fresh out of rehab. She’d been clean and sober for eight months straight when he happened upon her. And just like he swore he’d do so many years ago, he’d landed a prize. He’d gotten a hold of a solid bottom, one that brought him in crazy amounts of money. Felicia was black, African American to be exact, but could ‘pass’ for a multitude of races and due to that ambiguity, she stacked more dough than Pillsbury. She appealed to a vast clientele, making him a proud and prosperous man. If a guy had a thing for Hawaiians, she was his best bet. Smoke would say emphatically that that was what she was—‘Aloha!’ If the john wanted an East Indian
babe, the woman would take a flat iron to her hair, and voilà! She came into existence, fake accent, sari and all… The possibilities were endless.

  Normally he would have stayed away from such a pain in the ass, but he knew the woman had a strong constitution, she had grit, and she had previously belonged to one of the hardest and most notorious pimps on the west coast. Problem was, that man liked to lay hands on her, did not appreciate what he fucking had…and Felicia couldn’t have that. She started fighting back, and her revenge was scorching like desert heat. Taking a pot of hot water from the stove, she’d thrown it on that man’s damn face while he slept, leaving him with second and third degree burns after he’d beaten the living dog shit out of her for allegedly back-talking one rainy afternoon. Most pimps wouldn’t touch her with a twenty-foot pole after such a thing; she was blackballed and coined ‘off her fucking rocker’, but his radar told him otherwise. She’d entered a treatment facility soon after, and that’s when he scored. Smoke was chastised for his decision, told he had walked into a chamber of horrors by letting her choose him, but his radar was rarely wrong. Now, they were going on over five years strong. She was true to the motherfucking end…and she’d remain so. She rarely caused him any problems, and she knew her place. There was just one rule regarding Felicia: Never. Ever. Hit. Her.

  That wasn’t the only thing to be leery of as of late, though. He witnessed firsthand a change in her over the last few weeks, one he wished to get to the bottom of. She’d developed another personality, one he found to be aggravating, naggy, possessive and clingy. This wasn’t the Felicia he knew. He hoped she was simply going through some things, maybe some female hormonal shit that would resolve itself soon, but it seemed to go on and on and on like a country road in the middle of Nowhere-ville. They’d shared some good times, and she’d been with him during his more challenging experiences, so for that, he gave her extra allowances, let some shit slide. But what the hell had happened? He’d attempted to broach the subject, but she was dismissive, telling him she didn’t know what he was talking about.