Since the recent closing of Byberry State Mental Hospital, the homeless and mentally ill had invaded downtown Philadelphia. Their presence was usually preceded by a stench so strong it parted crowds of center-city wage earners who ambled along Market, Chestnut, or Walnut Street during their lunch hour. If not hit by the odor, workers were often assaulted by the shopping carts (filled with cans, rags, and all manner of trash) that the homeless often wielded like weapons as they zigzagged through the throng of working people.
Marguerite recognized her own kind; she spoke the language also. The verbal communication of the insane was often angry utterances or frightful gibberish that would keep a sane person at a distance.
A slovenly dressed man with a dark-brown complexion, high cheekbones, and prominent nose marched as straight as a soldier down the paved path that led inside the park. Instead of wearing shoes, his feet were wrapped with rags.
Tall, lean, and naturally muscular, the man had probably been considered handsome once upon a time. If cleaned up and on medication, he could most likely still turn a few heads. But at this moment, he looked like a dangerous madman—a scary figure. His hair was long, dusty, and matted together, giving the appearance of a crown of angry spikes.
With crazed, recessed eyes, he assessed the bench situation. Finding nothing to rest upon, he saluted the fortunate bench occupants, clicked together his shoeless heels, and let out a litany of coherent cuss words before rapidly switching to the other language—a low-toned gibberish. The language of the insane.
Marguerite gazed at the deranged man with great interest and felt a profound letdown when he clicked his heels again, gestured a farewell salute, and marched out of the park.
However, when he returned a few minutes later, lugging a huge cardboard box, her spirits were lifted. How he’d acquired the portable house so quickly was anyone’s guess.
As if beckoned, Marguerite removed her sons’ sucking lips from her breasts, pulled her top down, and rose from the bench and glided toward the box. She didn’t need an invitation to join the stranger and her children didn’t need to be told to stay put.
Wiping their mouths, Shane and Tariq watched their mother slowly disappear as she crawled inside the box with the scary man. Cuddled together, and comforted by the sight of their mother’s black sneakers sticking out of the box, the boys drifted off to sleep.
The twins were fast asleep by the time Marguerite’s sneakers began to writhe beneath the madman’s cloth-covered feet. There were the sounds of rustling and muted moaning as the two tormented souls engaged in a macabre horizontal dance inside the cardboard box.
With the rising sun, the city came to life. One early riser, a woman out walking her dog at dawn, spotted the sleeping children. Assuming they’d been abandoned, she called the authorities. The boys were roused by the crisp voice of a social worker. “Wake up, boys,” she said, her tone infused with cheer.
Startled, Shane and Tariq rubbed their eyes. “My name is Mrs. Fluellen and this is Officer Falcone,” she said, smiling as she pointed to a police officer. “Oh, look at you two little angels; you’re such pretty boys,” she said, awed by the physical attractiveness of the twins. “Can you tell me your names? Don’t worry; we’re taking you to a very nice place,” the social worker assured the frightened children before they could respond.
The twins looked at the woman suspiciously, and then jerked their heads in the direction of the cardboard box. “Mommeee,” Shane and Tariq wailed in unison.
Marguerite scrambled out of the box. With her teeth bared and screaming like a banshee, she rushed toward her children. Her companion instantly popped out of the box behind her. Armed with a broken bottle, he advanced toward the child-snatchers. He made a hissing sound as he waved the bottle around like a swashbuckler wielding a sword.
Officer Falcone drew his weapon and without the slightest hesitation, opened fire on the homeless man. The force of the gunfire lifted the man’s body. A split second later, the man came crashing to the ground. The glass bottle shattered against the concrete.
The social worker gasped and clamped a shaky hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. She then collected herself and turned toward her two charges. She used her body to block their view—to protect them. But she was too late; they’d seen it all. Terrified, both boys cried out, “Mommee! Mommee!”
Ms. Fluellen tried to pull Shane and Tariq out of the park to the waiting police car, but the boys resisted. They screamed hysterically as they battled for freedom, kicking, clawing, and biting her. Unable to handle the twins, the social worker yelled for Officer Falcone to assist her.
Momentarily stunned, Marguerite gave her fallen comrade a quick, curious glance and then dropped to her knees and fell forward. Lying on her belly, she gave an anguished cry as she beat the bloody ground beside the man. Then her body became rigid as she stretched out her arms, fingers splayed. Nonsensically, her hands opened and closed as she gripped and released dirt and pebbles.
Cautiously, his gun still drawn, Falcone crept forward.
Marguerite sprang up; somehow, she’d gotten hold of a rock, a dangerous-looking rock with several jagged edges. She curled her lips angrily and took off, whizzing past Falcone with unusual speed. Frantic to retrieve her stolen babies, Marguerite drew back her arm and hurled the rock at the social worker. The rock missed the woman and struck a tree instead.
A series of bullets fired from Officer Falcone’s weapon.
The sudden blast of gunfire stilled the thrashing twins—silenced them as they witnessed their mother, back arched oddly, but still sprinting toward them.
Hope lit their tear-stained faces.
That hope faded at the sound of more gunfire. Marguerite stumbled, her body lifted slightly, twisting at an impossible angle. And then she fell face down. The red stain that spread on the back of the blue flannel robe she wore over her white top seemed to take the form of a bird with its wings spread. In flight.
CHAPTER 3
Pretty boys. Those words were frequently uttered as Shane and Tariq drew stares of admiration from just about everyone who encountered them. Their great-aunt Mazie usually puffed up with pride and would cast an appreciative smile at the person who’d bestowed the compliment.
But not today. Fuming mad, Mazie ignored the whispered compliments from passersby. Holding the hands of the six-year-old twins, she walked as fast as her swollen feet would allow.
Great-aunt Mazie, their reluctant guardian considered Shane’s and Tariq’s physical attractiveness one of the few perks in raising them—the other being the monthly check the state paid her for giving the two orphans a home. Otherwise, raising the two little rascals was a pain in the neck she could have lived without. She blamed her gutless brother for putting her in her present condition. That damn alcoholic didn’t have the guts to stand up to his wife and put a roof over his own grandchildren’s heads.
No, he’d left the burden on Mazie. And being a good Christian woman, she couldn’t turn her back on two motherless children
You gonna be blessed, Sister Matthews. That’s what the members of her congregation always said when she complained about being saddled with the boys for the past two years.
“Whoever heard of a first-grader getting suspended from school?” she wondered aloud and then yanked Shane’s hand to emphasize her displeasure.
“They’re so cuuute,” cooed a teenage girl who exited the pizza parlor on the corner of Forty-sixth and Spruce Streets. With long, multi-colored braids, a short leather jacket, and skin-tight jeans, she looked like a fast number to Mazie. Mazie acknowledged the compliment with narrowed eyes, which she hoped conveyed her disapproval of the little trollop. Then she turned her attention back to Shane.
Shane, however, had eased his hand out of his aunt’s grasp and started to walk backward. Looking the young lady up and down suggestively, he then gestured holding a phone to his ear, indicating he wanted to get the teenager’s phone number.
“Ooo! You better watch that big one,�
�� the young girl called out with a giggle. “He’s fresh!”
Mazie grabbed Shane’s hand and pulled him close. She didn’t know exactly what he’d done; but she knew it was something he shouldn’t have been doing.
“Now what did you do?” she asked, her voice a coarse whisper.
“I ain’t do nothing. That girl’s trippin’.”
“She’s what?” Mazie popped him upside the head. She hated making a spectacle of herself out in public, but Shane was enough to drive her to drinking. “Boy, don’t use that gutter language. I don’t know where you’re picking it up from, but you better keep it out of your mouth. How come you don’t act more like Tariq?” She gave Tariq a quick smile but then drew her lips into a tight knot and rolled her eyes at Shane.
With his shoulders slouched, Shane dragged his feet defiantly.
Mazie latched on to his arm and yanked him forward. “Pick up your feet! I guess that principal didn’t have much choice but to suspend you since you’re so bad; always fighting with the kids.” She let out a long, exasperated breath and fixed her gaze on Tariq once again. “Honey, don’t follow in your brother’s footsteps. Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” Tariq said, meekly.
“Shane’s headed for reform school and I don’t want you to end up in there with him.”
“Dag, I ain’t even do nothing ’til Devon lied on me. I punched him because he said I stole his money.”
“Well…did you?”
“No! That big-headed dummy is always telling lies,” Shane said angrily.
Tariq snickered but quickly covered his mouth when Mazie gave him a stern look. “He probably lost his money on the playground or somewhere,” Shane added.
“So why’d you cuss out the teacher when she tried to break up the fight?”
“I ain’t cuss out no teacher,” Shane protested loudly, his face contorted.
“Stop tellin’ tales.” Mazie reached out to pop Shane upside his head again, but the agile and spiteful child jerked from her grasp and veered away from harm.
“Get your butt over here,” Mazie hissed at Shane, who was now obstinately walking behind her with his lips poked out. She walked a few steps back and yanked Shane by the collar, pulled him forward, and then put a stronghold on his arm. “That principal don’t have no reason to lie on you. Now you look here…” Mazie paused. She wanted to pinch Shane’s arm to prove she meant business, but his winter coat prevented her from doing much harm, so she settled for giving his arm another hard shake. “I let you get away with a lot of mess when you was in kindergarten, but I’m not gonna be running back and forth to that school this year. Do you hear me?”
Shane mumbled, twisted his lips in bold scorn, and once again stubbornly slowed his stride.
“Boy, didn’t I tell you to stop draggin’ your feet? You ain’t got nothing but the devil in you,” she scolded him. “But I’m not gonna let the devil win. No sir-ee,” she continued and shook her head determinedly. Her blood pressure was up and she sure wasn’t in the mood for exerting herself physically, but she was a good Christian and would not ignore the Word. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Uh huh. She was going to give that boy a whoopin’ he wouldn’t forget. A good whoopin’ was a surefire way to put a stop to all his devilment.
Since Tariq hardly ever got into trouble, Mazie regretted having to take him out of school when he hadn’t done anything wrong. But she wasn’t about to trudge back to that school at three o’clock to pick the boy up. No sir-ee. She couldn’t do all that walking in one day. By now her blood pressure was probably sky high; she had to get home and get off her feet.
Shane’s mother had been crazy, but there wasn’t a thing wrong with Shane that a good old fashioned whoopin’ wouldn’t cure. Cussin’ at the teacher! She looked down at Shane, rolled her eyes hard and shook her head. Shane scowled up at her.
“Ornery as the dickens,” she said in disgust and had to restrain herself from dispensing some sort of punishment right then and there, but she didn’t want people staring at her. Nowadays they called everything child abuse, so she’d just have to wait until they got home behind closed doors.
Mazie’s shoulders slumped when they reached the front door. Taking a strap to Shane would make her miss the beginning of her favorite soap opera.
“Go upstairs and get my belt,” she ordered Shane as she struggled out of her coat. “Damn arthritis is starting to kick up, too,” she muttered under her breath.
Shane smirked as he climbed the stairs. He returned in a flash, calmly handed Aunt Mazie the leather belt, and gave her an amused look.
“Boy, don’t be sassing me with your eyes.”
“Hurry up, Aunt Mazie. You know you don’t wanna miss your story,” Shane brazenly advised.
“Oh, you think my arthritis is gonna stop me from putting a good whooping on your behind? I got something for you that’s gonna wipe that smirk right off your face.” She doubled the belt and shook it back and forth threateningly.
Tariq chewed his lip as he looked nervously between his great-aunt and his brother. Tears were beginning to well in the younger twin’s eyes. “Go on upstairs, Tariq,” Aunt Mazie instructed. “Go in your room and look at one of your picture books.” Mazie considered Tariq tenderhearted; she knew it upset him to see his brother being disciplined.
“Please don’t give Shane a whoopin’,” Tariq begged, tears spilling down his cheeks. “He’ll be good.”
Tariq’s plea on his brother’s behalf was starting to get on Mazie’s nerves. “Do as I say.” She shook the belt at Tariq. “Get your butt up those stairs before you get a whoopin’, too.” Tariq bolted for the stairs.
“Now drop your pants, bend over, and grip that table.” Mazie pointed to the dining room table. Shane obeyed, and then looked over his shoulder and gave his great-aunt a cocky grin.
Incensed by his impudence, she applied two strong lashes. She quickly worked up a sweat and became winded, but determined to finish the task, Mazie forged ahead. “You better mind your teacher and stop picking fights with the kids in your class.” Each word was followed by a thwack of the strap. Shane refused to cry. By the time Mazie realized she was wasting her time on the bedeviled child, her heart was pumping so fast she thought she was going to have a heart attack.
“Go on upstairs with your brother,” she said, gasping for breath as she reached for the remote and settled into her favorite chair. “And y’all better not make no noise while I’m watching my story,” she added in a barely audible voice. Fooling with Shane had sapped all her strength. She was sixty-one years old and should have been cooling her heels instead of chasing after two rambunctious boys. She sure wished she could cash in on her blessings now instead of having to wait until the twins drove her to an early grave.
“Did it hurt?” Tariq inquired.
“Hell no. That old bitch can’t hurt me.”
“Ooo, you better stop cussin’. You’ll get another whoopin’ if Aunt Mazie hears you.”
“How she gonna hear me way up here?” Shane untied his left shoe and pulled it off. “Look!” He handed the shoe to Tariq.
Tariq looked inside the shoe. His mouth dropped open when he saw the neatly folded ten-dollar bill. “Where’d you get that?” Tariq’s eyes were wide with wonder.
“Where you think? I took it off Devon. That sucker’s always flashing money, so I clipped him.” Shane imitated the gestures of older boys—the kind who hung on street corners; the kind he looked back at longingly when Aunt Mazie picked him and Tariq up from school.
“You better not let Aunt Mazie find it,” Tariq warned.
“Man, Aunt Mazie better suck this!” He squeezed his private area.
Shane’s lewd gesture and blatant disrespect for their aunt caused Tariq to cover his mouth in shock.
“So whatchu gonna buy with your half?” Shane asked.
Tariq uncovered his mouth. “I can have half of that money?”
“Uh huh.”
“Oh boy!” Tariq’s face broke into a
big grin. Then he scrunched up his face in confusion. “How much is half?”
“Five dollars, dummy! When you gonna learn how to count?” Shane threw a pillow at Tariq and then playfully tackled him onto the bed.
Mazie heard the children laughing. She shrugged, pointed the remote at the TV, and turned up the volume. She’d watch one more story—uninterrupted, if she was lucky—and then she’d start fixing dinner for the boys.
CHAPTER 4
Three years later, Mazie Matthews had a massive stroke.
Some blessings! she thought to herself as she was being carted off to the County Nursing Home. Her mind was intact, but she was unable to retrieve words to convey her thoughts. Mazie looked around and surveyed her new surroundings. In her mind, she bitterly drifted back to the circumstances that had led to her current miserable situation.
A woman her age, she scolded herself, had no business trying to keep up with two growing boys. Had she been left alone and allowed to tend to her rose bushes, go to church, and watch her soap operas in peace, she would have been able to keep her blood pressure down. She could have lived out the rest of her life in her own home taking care of herself.
Shane was a wild little hellion who was constantly involved in some sort of wrongdoing. By the time he’d reached his ninth birthday he’d caused more trouble in Mazie’s life than all her former no-good boyfriends put together.
Trifling menfolk were the reason she’d found religion in the first place. With all her good deeds and perfect attendance at church she wondered why the Lord had cursed her instead of bestowing blessings upon her.
Wallowing in self-pity, she needed to point the finger of blame at someone. Shane was an easy target since her last conscious memory was of getting ready to lay a strap to his backside. The devilish rascal had taken off on his bicycle at ten in the morning and didn’t come home until nine o’clock that night. After walking all over the neighborhood with her swollen feet and Tariq by her side, Mazie had finally given up and was prepared to call the police.
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