A Deeper Love Inside

by Sister Souljah

  When I opened the door to our rented room, Momma and Honey both had angry faces. “Porsche, get over here,” Momma said. I had not explained to her not to call me “Porsche,” that my name is Ivory. I didn’t even tell her why I needed a new name and that I’m an outlaw. She never asked where I came from or how I got my way back to her. Through my feverish eyes, I looked a little closer and seen Momma and Honey were handcuffed together at the feet and Honey was also handcuffed to the bed.

  “They won’t leave, I promise,” Riot had said to me when we left out this morning. “A promise is a promise,” she had said just last night. I thought to myself, this bitch is crazy, smart, loyal, and very scary.

  Chapter 28

  Down by the dirty-ass Hudson River where the water was still, black, and greasy like oil, we grilled chicken breasts and roasted corn and marshmallows. Honey drizzled on some borrowed barbeque sauce from some Latino men who were playing dominoes among the Labor Day evening crowd, which swelled after the rainy afternoon. Momma was grooving to someone else’s throwback jams. She was wearing one of the summer dresses that Riot had brought in her pile this morning.

  Riot, the vegetarian, was eating marshmallows and so was I. I tried the corn but it didn’t taste no way as good as the organic corn on the cob at the reservation. I couldn’t pretend to like it or eat it. So I laid it to the side and left it in the flimsy paper plate, while Momma and Honey began grubbing like this thrown-together meal was gourmet.

  “What made you buy that stack of chicken breasts? I was surprised to see you with a bag of meat,” I asked Riot.

  “Oh, it was for the dogs in Long Island,” she said casually. I didn’t say nothing for some seconds. I was thinking of how she was feeding Momma dog’s food.

  “Luckily, I didn’t have to use the chicken breast, my dog whistle, the stick, the bat, or the pizzas. When the radio predicted rain, and then there was a Long Island area afternoon flood warning, I knew they would pull their dogs out of the yard until it all cleared up. I used it as an opportunity,” she said softly like it was nothing.

  “The pizzas?” I asked. “You were gonna feed the dogs pizza, too? I never heard nothing like that,” I said. Riot laughed a little. “Remember the flyer you pulled out of the mailbox? The one advertising pizza deliveries in that neighborhood? Well, I kept it. If the weather prediction was wrong, I would’ve used the pizza delivery guy at that exact shop to get onto your property. While he and I created a distraction at your house by delivering pizzas to them that they hadn’t actually ordered and then opening the gates and letting the dogs escape, you would slip in the yard and grab the money tree.”

  I just looked at Riot. Was she serious? There so many things that could’ve went wrong. “That wouldn’t have worked,” I said.

  “Sure it would’ve. I had a slice of pizza with that delivery guy while you were asleep in the car. I convinced him I was looking for a job, and he agreed to let me ride with him for a few hours,” she said, straight-faced. “I had another plan, too. I would watch the house to see what time the owner or one of their kids walked the dogs. I would’ve followed them and delayed them with my talk about how much I love dogs and dog training my Rottweiler. We would’ve traded training tips, while you slipped in and grabbed the money tree,” she said confidently. “That’s how I found out how to open their front, back, and driveway gate anyway. I watched till someone came out. I saw a boy push some buttons right before he left your house.” I liked that she kept calling the property my house and not theirs. She was right. It is mine.

  I could also see that she was going to get us onto my family’s property no matter what. She was a girl who it was best to have on your team. Once she started scheming against anyone, anything was possible. I knew she was down for me. I knew she was down for us getting money and making moves. But was Riot against Momma? The question raced around my mind, and I started feeling red.

  “And the clothes. Where did you get all those clothes?” I asked.

  “From the charity. There was this all-night church. They let anybody shop. Well, it wasn’t really shopping. The cost was “a small donation,” for however much you could grab and hold without a bag. The clothes are used, but I got all that for three dollars.” She smiled, impressed with her find.

  Riot had Momma eating food she had brought for some meanass attack dogs, and wearing somebody’s thrown-away dress. She obviously didn’t understand how I felt about Momma or about my family. Not to mention she had cuffed my momma like a mangy mutt. I didn’t know what she thought about Momma after all she had seen last night in the old Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, park. What she saw wouldn’t change my heart. I’m gonna rescue Momma the way I wanted someone to rescue me. I’m gonna get her back to where she used to be, looking like a million bucks. I’m gonna take her to see Poppa, proudly. I will prevent him from seeing her broken. I am going to get the twins and love them. I want them to see that I am a good big sister. I can protect them. Moreover I’m gonna get back all of Momma’s stuff, one by one, over time. When I help Momma in this way, she is gonna see me clearly and love me deeply. It won’t matter that I’m the middle daughter. Like in a game of freeze tag, Momma is gonna unfreeze me.

  Black-eyed Honey and Momma in her yellow wig were exchanging words with two older guys with the grill next to us. We could easily see that the guys had lured them over with a bottle of Ray and Nephew Rum. Momma’s press-on fingernails were wrapped around a Dixie cup. Her thin arm was extended, as a man Momma would never be attracted to, or never even talk to, poured her a drink. So what, I told myself. It’s a holiday and Momma is celebrating. That’s a good thing.

  “Riot, we got to talk some,” I said. I was mixed with feeling red, feeling shame, feeling pride, and feeling anxious.

  “I wanted to talk, too,” she said. “I wanted to wait until your fever broke and your mind had cleared. Also, when it was only you and me speaking and hearing.”

  “I understand,” I said. “About you cuffing my moms to the bed like that . . .”

  “Hold on. Who am I talking with right now?” she interrupted me and asked strangely, staring into my eyes. “Am I speaking to Porsche the little girl, Porsche the big girl, or Siri? Which one?”

  “What?” I asked automatically, buying time to figure out exactly what Riot was trying to pull now.

  “If I’m speaking to little Porsche, my son, I know I gotta hide all of the information that I’m sure she can’t handle and ain’t ready for,” Riot said. “If I’m talking to big Porsche, I can give it to her straight, no bullshit, no tears. We can make some decisions and take action right away, like I’m used to doing,” she said stone-faced. “If I’m talking to Siri . . .” She leaned in, staring closer into my eyes. “Where is Siri?” she asked me. I paused. I didn’t want to be the first one to blink my eyes and break our stares. Riot was definitely trying to test me. I didn’t know why. I did know that Siri wouldn’t want to speak directly to Riot. Siri only likes to speak to me, and that’s how it had been for all eight months since we got ganged up in the Diamond Needles. So why was Riot asking about Siri all of a sudden and threatening to speak with Siri directly, instead of me?

  “What are you doing, some freaky shit?” Momma asked, breaking up me and Riot’s close-faced intense feeling. Riot stepped back and away. Even that insulted me. Why was she walking away as though Momma stunk or something? Momma was clean. I had cleaned her myself, and she was wearing the clothes Riot brought in.

  “Momma, I need to talk to her for a few minutes. We gotta make some decisions,” I said.

  “You too young to make decisions,” Momma said. I knew she couldn’t see me clearly. I’m young but I can do so many things and had made so many decisions, alone, already.

  “I gotta get back to Brooklyn, check on my little space, get my handbag. You got some money, so give me some. I’ll leave and you and that crazy bitch can talk all you want to,” Momma said.

  “Don’t leave. Give me ten minutes, Momma. I got the money. Don’t worry.�
�

  “Well, you should’ve told me you had more money in the first place. Then we had no business sitting around playing with her,” Momma said, nodding her head towards Riot.

  • • •

  Seated in the backseat of the rented Volvo, separated by nothing but my closed moneybox, which I was leaning on with one hand, me and Riot began our meeting. Momma and Honey sat on the hood of the parked car beneath a tree.

  “You’re talking with me, Porsche L. Santiaga, eleven-year-old girl who feels like she been living, fighting, hustling for twenty-two years. Say whatever you want to say. Don’t leave nothing out and make sure it’s all true,” I said.

  “Your mother . . .” Riot’s first two words came out quick and forcefully. Then she slowed down some. “Your mother and Honey are addicts, users, crackheads,” she said.

  My little body tensed up. My mind told my fist and legs to relax.

  Riot continued, “I can’t carry them. I can’t work with them. I can’t fuck with them. They will get us caught. They’re not smart. They attract too much attention. I’m down with you, Porsche, me and you,” she said slowly and clearly. I could feel her sincere emotion.

  “But you been fucking with Honey,” I told her.

  “I used Honey for her identity. I’m still using Honey for her identity. I can’t use your mom, because she is your mother. I can see you don’t think straight when it comes to her. I cuffed her to the bed because she is a fiend. Fiends can’t be trusted. They go with whoever got the product, crack, coke, weed, alcohol, whatever. Every one of their secrets and our secrets are for sale for the price of that rock. They don’t care about nothing but feeding their habit. They’re weak, Porsche. Even if they’re relatives, we gotta treat ’em like an infected finger, that gotta get cut off, or it will kill the whole hand.” Riot was using all her energy to convince me.

  I refused to cry. Holding back my tears felt the same as the feeling of not shitting when you absolutely have to. But I did not cry.

  “What do you want to do?” Riot asked me. “We can put your mother in the rehab until she gets better. I’ll help you to find the best place. I’ll stay down here till we set that up.” Riot was wide-eyed, searching me for my answer. “Or, we can let her go back to Brooklyn like she wants to. Me and you can go back to the reservation. If you give her any money from five dollars to a thousand she’ll smoke it in one or two days and be back to square one,” Riot said like she would even bet her life on it. “We can move her out of that Bed-Stuy area where we found her and set her up somewhere where at least she don’t know everybody and no one knows her. Then she can try to start over. But you saw how quick her and Honey find what they looking for even in an unfamiliar location. What do you want to do, Santiaga? Whatever it is, me and you are Diamond Needles, sisters for life,” Riot pledged. I was grateful that through her words, she had promoted me from son to daughter to sister.

  I couldn’t accept the idea that Riot was more real than me. It felt that way, though. I never front on the feelings I feel. I opened my money-box, unfolded and counted out my money. I put the bills in order according to amounts, faces all facing the same direction, smoothed ’em out and stacked ’em. I pushed the tall stack over to Riot. “A promise is a promise,” I said, quoting her. “You got me back to Momma. I give you the five thousand. We became partners, fifty/fifty. The five thousand is the investment. How long will it take you to flip it?” I asked her.

  She sat still. Finally I had silenced Riot. I had done my part. I had been as real with her as she was with me all the time.

  “I’m staying with Momma. How long before I see you? I trust you, Riot. You are the only one I ever didn’t leave my handprint on, for talking about my family. It’s only because you been family to me during the worse times,” I confessed.

  “I can’t leave you with nothing,” Riot said quietly.

  “I had $1,100 from working jobs on the reservation,” I said truthfully. “Oh, minus the things I bought for myself and for Momma. Now I got $750 left over,” I said, counting in my head.

  “I don’t want to leave you at all,” Riot said, looking regretful. I guess my silence, our silence that fell on us and remained for a minute, confirmed our separation.

  Riot counted out one thousand dollars in twenties and gave it back to me. I counted out three hundred dollars and slid it back to her. “Buy me some more cigarette cartons,” I said. “You hustle on your side. I’ll hustle on mine.”

  “We’re fifty/fifty on a four-thousand-dollar investment,” Riot said. “I’ll meet you in sixty days on Halloween, Thursday, October 31, in Manhattan. Let’s meet in front of Macy’s since we both know it, at 6:00 p.m. If I don’t show, I’m captured or dead. No matter what . . .,” she said. I already knew, so I interrupted Riot.

  “No matter what, we never give up NanaAnna. We always protect her, and her property. We lie or die with our secrets. If you tell on me you tell on yourself.”

  Chapter 29

  Relieved and stressed, is it possible to be both things? I was. The only solution was music and dance. “Momma, do you still have your record collection?” I asked as we rode the train back to Brooklyn. We were carrying all of my possessions packed into four sturdy shopping bags, plus my side pouch. Me and Momma each carried two.

  “Yeah, right,” she said, rolling her eyes and turning her head in the opposite direction.

  “Let’s go to the record shop before we head home.”

  “It’s the CD shop or the music store. Where you been?” she said.

  “I know. I was just saying . . .” My words trailed off.

  Momma roamed in between soul and rhythm and blues. I was excited in hip-hop. I had been playing music mostly in my mind for the past three years or listening to no-name rhyming chicks on lockdown. Or, hearing a girl in the bed besides me beat boxing or Siri humming beautifully, sometimes even surprising me, by singing a song. Being able to choose my own music, instead of having to listen to whatever the upstate DJs spun while we were using the Department of Corrections’ radio in limited time amounts, under supervision, was so sweet to me. Seeing the CD covers, the artwork and images, instead of passed-around bootleg cassettes, was fascinating to me. Hearing a Brooklyn neighborhood record shop’s speakers booming and blasting into the Brooklyn streets even on a holiday made me feel alright.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t have a record player?” I asked Momma.

  “A CD player,” she corrected me.

  We were both overlooking and purposely ignoring the fact that Momma’s “living space” had no front door. Momma had stopped on Fulton Street in the Ft. Green section of Brooklyn, she made a left and walked behind a store in a slim alleyway. She bent down and pulled a thin rusted metal bar out of a lock holding together two rusted iron slabs that laid slanted over the cement sidewalk. Her thin arms lifted one side of the iron gate. It creaked. Momma took six steps down the cement stairs and into the ground.

  “Come on, what you waiting for? These bags are heavy,” she said impatiently.

  I stepped down slowly, feeling déjà vu. I’m headed back to the bottom, I thought to myself.

  Once I was down and in, Momma let go of the iron gate and it dropped down, eliminating any light from the street lamps and store signs. It sounded final and permanent, like prison doors slamming shut behind my back. Doors to enter and never exit, with locks that had no keys that I could ever hold, touch, or be in charge of.

  “Stay still,” Momma said. She began moving around in the darkness. “That’s why I don’t be here a lot of time. I gotta look all over for the damn light,” she said.

  I wasn’t afraid of the dark. I stood still cause she said so. I heard her fumbling, something falling, glass breaking open, then being crushed beneath the weight of a shoe or sneaker. I was used to listening carefully to sounds in the dark especially, footsteps coming from down long corridors, or keys jingling, or breathing, heavy breathing of overweight officers, greedy guards, or horny authorities. I could even
hear the sounds of rubber-sole shoes, sneaky nurses, and drugging doctors. I knew the sounds of dirty mops swishing around the dirty water on dirty floors. I even could detect slight sounds, like someone withholding a burp or fart or letting it rip. Or, the gentle pull of a smoker smoking in the dark in a no-smoking area. I was an expert in listening for the sounds of secret crying, someone else’s tears or, sometimes, my own.

  “There it is,” Momma said. A switch got flipped. No, a string got pulled, the light of one bulb swinging on a wire flashing here and there. Momma tried to catch it and stop it from swinging. Soon she steadied it over her head. Now I could see clearly a living space bigger than a living space for a prisoner, but too small for anyone who had never done anything wrong. There was a mattress on the floor, a dirty sheet half hiding an ancient pee stain. There was a stove covered with grease and gook, two rusted pots with molded and maggoty burnt leftovers left sitting on two opposite burners. There was a half refrigerator, perfect for half a human.

  Momma snatched the dirty sheet off the mattress and tossed it in a corner, where empty liquor bottles lined the wall. The sheet landed on top of them. Did she think I hadn’t already seen them? Or did she toss the sheet as a distraction for my eyes to follow, while she hurried and grabbed the pipe and empty vials, pushing them down into the front pockets of her charity dress. Nervously, she searched for and found the broom. She grabbed an envelope from a stack of envelopes and papers and newspapers. As she swept the glass that had just shattered beneath my new Air Max, which were still on her feet, I saw the seal of the court on the envelope she was using to sweep the glass onto. It was an unopened court notice of something. My eyes surveyed the floor. There were stacks and stacks of unopened mail; some of them were stained with red Kool-Aid or maybe wine or something like that.

  There were no windows. There was a second set of iron steps leading up to somewhere. Momma pulled off the yellow Halloween princess wig.