Saint's Salvation_The Seven Deadly Sins

by Tiana Laveen

  On one of his frequent slow rides through his old stomping grounds, Saint glanced over at the Webster projects on Webster Avenue, taking note of the wooden crosses covered in flowers, the lit Santa Muerte prayer candles, and cheap artificial roses framing the sidewalk in front of the place. Deeply inhaling the late summer air, he took note how unusually quiet it was for a Sunday morning at 2:00 a.m. in the South Bronx.

  He’d spotted a few people here and there, but nothing like the typical frenzied and hyped club crowds that spilled out into the street after a night of drinking, smoking, fucking and fighting. This had become a ritual since his return to the Big Apple. The fever of the place called to him, despite the gentrification that had changed his down and out childhood landscape into a place where one went from scrounging around trying to collect enough pennies to snag a bag of stale potato chips, half pint of alcohol, and a bit of weed, to a place where one could easily purchase a primo cup of cappuccino and pair of Salvatore Ferragamo shoes on the same damn block.

  The days of the little mom and pop corner stores selling hot dogs in large, dusty glass jars and bodegas filled to the brim with New York Yankee knock-off hats and strong cologne were now either long gone or pushed into the shadows. They fought to be seen, stretching their crumbling concrete arms as high as they’d go, waving and screaming behind new high-rises with equally high rent, ensuring that those struggling to make ends meet would be pushed out via an eviction notice, time and time again. But the place smelled the same; the families that had been there generation after generation, still slapped their feet against the same cracks of cement and spilled their essence into the world around them. They came from a long, strong bloodline, carrying on until the break of dawn, and promised to endure until the end of time.

  Saint’s weary eyes glared at the black sky. The stars were few and the moon barely showed itself through the thick, opaque blanket of night. Suddenly, his phone rang, shaking him out of his reverie.

  Who is calling me this late?

  He tossed his cigar out the window with a flick of his finger, turned down the music, and gripped his phone, not recognizing the number. Usually he didn’t answer calls he couldn’t identify, but something told him to think better of it…

  “Hello?”

  “Saint…” His lips curled in a grin when he felt the energy pouring through from the other end.

  “Krishna, what an honor to hear from you. What time is it in India?”

  “It’s noon. How are you?” The man’s thick dialect rolled over the syllables in heavy loops.

  “I’m well, Krishna. You rarely call me for just polite talk though. Somethin’ tells me I won’t be well for long.” His smile slowly faded as he made his way towards E 194th Street.

  “Saint, I had a dream. I must arrange to see you.”

  “So, I better brace myself for this, right?” Saint ran his hand slowly along his chin, feeling his eyes heat up—no doubt turning a darker shade—and his heart beat faster. “Whatever you’ve called me about, this shit is so damn bad that we can’t discuss it over the phone. Not even a video chat or skype will cut it. Damn…” He grimaced as he continued to navigate, suddenly feeling a chill in the air on an otherwise swarthy evening.

  “That’s correct. This is not the sort of discussion one has over the phone. Telepathy would not be sufficient, either. I need to look you in the eye, man to man.”

  “I understand. How about you come stay with me at my home and let’s discuss whatever it is that you need to talk with me about? Is that reasonable?”

  “I can stay at a hotel.”

  “I won’t hear of it.” Saint was met with a throaty chuckle, then a hard cough. He was drawing closer to Grand Avenue. “Are you okay, Krishna?”

  “Just a cold.” He could hear the smile in the old man’s tone. Saint knew better, but he let the matter go, at least for now. “I plan to arrive in seven days. I will only stay a night or two. That should suffice.”

  “You stay as long as you wish. I will adjust my schedule as necessary.” There was a pause between them, words on the tips of tongues left unsaid.

  “How is Xenia, the boys and lovely Isis?”

  “Everyone is doing well. Xenia’s show is going nicely and she teaches part time at Radio Connection Broadcasting Institute. Hassani makes honor roll like clockwork and this summer he volunteered at the Abernathy Shelter. Dakarai is still a smart ass and the class clown. He is getting physically and mentally stronger, thinks he’s grown now.” Krishna chuckled at this. “Isis is a sweet soul, Krishna. She is so pure, just a really good person, wears her little heart on her sleeve. She cares quite a bit about others, sometimes too much.”

  “Yes, like I told you, she’s your little gypsy. She’s an Empath, adopts the emotions of others around her. It’s her cross to bear.”

  Saint nodded sadly in agreement. “She gets more and more beautiful every day, looks just like Xenia.” He sighed, missing his baby girl as he spoke of her. He wished to suddenly rush home and kiss all of his children on their foreheads as they slept.

  “She’s a prize, a beautiful princess with gifts made of spiritual gold.” The words Krishna offered were kind enough, but they were sprinkled with worry, as if that gold may just tarnish, change into thick sludge and slippery oil, sticky tar and dank shit, and muck up the gears within her tiny, beating heart. “I’ll be in touch.” As if feeling Saint’s anxiety, the man rushed off the phone, ending their call.

  Saint fought the urge to call back and demand answers, but he knew it would do no good. When Krishna told you that he was going to have something go a certain way, that’s what he meant. No amount of pleading, begging, or manipulation would turn his tide.

  Saint fiddled with his car system, trying to find a song he wanted to hear. Murky, dense whorls of red smoke floated from the sides of his mouth. The heavy diamond ring on his pinky finger caught the streetlights just so as he drove slowly, eyeing the whores and the drunkards. His jaw tensed and tightened like a viper’s body around a field mouse. He turned up his music, forcing “Loyalty” by Kendrick to blast through the speakers of his newly acquired classic car. Tapping the steering wheel to the rhythm, he bobbed his head to the beat, swallowed by his brick heavy thoughts. His lips remained quiet, his brain kept thinking, planning, and his heart started on the hard work of worrying. He prepared for warrior mode while his soul rose like the phoenix and answered the witching hour call…

  Hello, may I speak to your inner savage?

  …The next day

  “This can’t be right.” Cruz studied the white wooden leg part in his hand, then the crinkled Ikea directions, and finally back to the furniture part he was holding. He hissed, ignoring the beads of sweat across his forehead, despite the fact the air conditioning was on full blast. “Shit!” He tossed the screwdriver across the floor. “I should’ve just bought something else. This is ridiculous!”

  There he was, on his knees, practically praying to the handy Gods above amongst a cluster of scattered screws and nail bits. He tried to convince himself that tossing the whole damn thing out the window wasn’t an option, either. All the while his wife Erika stood behind him, her heavy judgment, condemnation, and snarky mockery seeping into his back.

  “Mmm…mmm…mmm,” she kept murmuring, shaking her head.

  He knew what she was doing for he could see her in the mirror across the baby’s room, dressed in her navy blue and cream sleeveless baby doll shirt paired with denim capris.

  “Mmm…mmm…mmm,” she stated again. “This is a damn shame. Want me to get Dakarai’s little Tonka forklift to help you out?” she teased, her jabs greasy, mean and silly.

  “You know what, Erika? Instead of just standing there being a thorn in my side, you could help me by reading the directions to me as I figure this shit out.”

  “Nuh uh, no sir!” She cackled, taking another bite of her banana. Chewing the soft fruit in an annoying fashion, she ran her hand across her slightly protruding pregnant belly. “You told me y
ou knew what the hell you were doing, Mr. Black. You told me I’d only get in the way and to let a man do his thing!” He turned away from her, trying to concentrate on the business at hand, but she didn’t dare let up. “Well, I’m doing just that. I should have brought my phone in here so I could record this shit … let Xenia, Traci, and Donna see so we can all sit back and laugh later.”

  “It’s nice to see you always have my back, baby.” He grinned as he shot her a glance over his shoulder. “And that’s not exactly what I said.” He smiled sheepishly, wincing. “What I said was—”

  “You’re not about to sit there and lie like the rug you’re sweating all over. You said exactly that! And if you are not actually lying, then you have dementia. Funny how you can remember what I’ve said, but never what you have. Go on, Mr. Handyman Dan, show me what you got! It’s hammer time!” She cackled even louder now behind a swallow of the mushy fruit, then tossed the peel in the nearby trashcan, driving him crazy. He pitched her a sneer over his shoulder, then crumbled the directions in his palm, but she only seemed to relish it more. “Baby, can’t you use some of your powers to push the crib together? Snap your fingers or something?” He slowly got to his feet and swooped his long, blond tresses out of his face, tucking one side behind his ear.

  “That’s not how this works. You know that. You’re just trying to be silly.”

  “Hmph.” She turned her back and made her way towards the door. “Seems like you need to call in some favors then and see what’s up. I’ll be in the kitchen making myself a treat. I think I have the People’s Court still on the DVR, too. On the preview this jerk had the nerve to sue someone over a dog they had stolen. The craziness of mankind is absurd.”

  “Oh yeah? Okay, just go on and enjoy yourself. Have a good time! Don’t mind me, babe!” The woman kept walking until she was no longer in sight. “Just in here trying to put this piece of crap together for the last two hours … the one you insisted on us having!” he yelled out, ensuring that the little female fiend would hear him.

  “Let me whip out my tiny violin and play you a sad tune!” she called out, driving the snarky knife deeper into his heart.

  “Yeah, you do that. Matter of fact, get a full fuckin’ orchestra while you kick your feet up and swallow down a sandwich. Don’t skimp on the cheese and lettuce, either!” He guffawed, anger and love welling within him all at once towards the woman.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He then heard her whistling the theme to the People’s Court as she disappeared down the steps. Cruz turned back towards the pile of crib pieces and yelled out obscenities. Just then, his cell phone rang. He snatched it up, thankful for the distraction … anything to get out of the mess.

  “Hey, Saint!” He pasted a smile on until his face felt as if it were going to split open.

  “Hey, man. You sound sorta frantic. You all right?” Saint chuckled as if he’d been a fly on the wall and knew damn well what had transpired.

  “Never better!” Cruz swiped at his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Never better, huh? Wait a minute, didn’t you say you were going to get the baby’s room together this morning? You over there fuckin’ up, ain’t you?” Saint’s laughter echoed into the phone.

  “You’re in no position to talk, Mr. Pretty with the soft hands. At least I’m trying. God knows you’d never do anything to get dirty.”

  “I moisturize, mothafucka. I can’t touch my woman with hands that feel like fuckin’ sandpaper. That’s not what they had in mind when they said, ‘let me get some of that cut up.’ But lotion or not, you best believe I can put a mothafuckin’ crib together, playa.”

  “It’s from damn Sweden! She insisted on getting this piece of shit. Try to make my wife happy and look where it got me?” Cruz spoke lightly, but a part him was filled with dread when he glanced at the never-ending wreckage, realizing it was far from over.

  “You over there lookin’ like Mario Brothers, that dude with the overalls, thick mustache and hat on, over there tryna climb ladders and brick walls, duck ‘nd dodge mushrooms and flyin’ shit! I don’t want to take up too much of your time though.”

  “You seem to be enjoyin’ yourself quite a bit right, so why stop now?” Cruz grimaced.

  “Yeah, that’s true, but don’t you have to get the princess from Bowser’s castle? Du du, du- du- du DUH!” Saint began to hum the Mario theme song, rubbing it in. This was followed by more obnoxious laughter, the kind that Saint was known for, the kind where his eyes practically disappeared into slits, where the little vein in his forehead jetted out and his mouth hung open but no sound came out. The man would literally lose his breath guffawing at other people’s expense. It grated Cruz’s damn nerves to no end. He was now certain Erika and Saint were in some secret comedy club where he was the one liner that got the crowd going.

  “Funny … hilarious, aren’t ya?” Cruz smirked. “Never mind all of that. What’s up?” He dug in his pocket for his lighter, peeked his head out the baby room door to make sure the coast was clear, then lit up a cigarette. Then, he walked across the room and fell into the comfy silver, white, and light blue loveseat.

  “Awwww! She’s gonna get you for smokin’ in the house.” Saint stated like a little annoying kid who wouldn’t leave him be.

  “Be quiet and just tell me what you want!” Cruz barked, causing more laughter from his mentor.

  “All right, look, on a serious note, some shit is goin’ down. Oh, before I forget though, good job with your physical and military training with Jagger. He said you are handling it like a G. Also, Lawrence said you are doing well with the lessons he’s been giving you. Unfortunately, you may have to put all of this to use sooner rather than later. I need you at my house next week. Krishna is coming for a visit.”

  “Krishna? Wow.” He blew out three rings of smoke. His eyes burned as he heard the name of the man. He slowly sat up, clutching his cigarette tight.

  “Yeah, he wants to see me, but I want you, Jagger, and Lawrence there as well.”

  “What’s going on? Did he tell you what this is all about?”

  “Nope. Not sure yet … but if he is coming all the way from home, it can’t be good. He doesn’t pay house visits for no reason.”

  “I know…” swirls of black smoke curled out from between Cruz’s lips as he flopped back into the chair and looked up at the ceiling, an uncomfortable feeling flirting with him. The smoke filled the upper half of the room until it formed something horrid, nasty, downright dreadful. Two red eyes appeared in the fog, then, before he could confirm what he was seeing, it vanished. “Something isn’t right, Saint. I can feel it in my soul.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re right, I need to be there. I will make sure I am.”

  “Do that.”

  “Hey, you wanna come over and help me finish this?” His lips twisted in a hopeful grin.

  “I can’t, man. I have a manicure and pedicure appointment with Kim Won Fu.”

  “See what I mean about you refusing to get dirty?! What an asshole…” Cruz huffed in frustration. Every time he called on his friend for physical assistance, Saint somehow had a million and one excuses. But if it was time to eat at Erika’s restaurant or attend a party, Saint would be one of the first ones there, with Hell’s bells on.

  “Look, mothafucka, I clean and groom myself and you wanna pop off—not my problem. Don’t get mad at me, get mad at your uncoordinated hands.”

  Cruz rolled his eyes and shook his head.

  “You’ve got metrosexual tendencies that are questionable…” he jabbed.

  “I got more manliness in my mothafuckin’ earlobe then you got in your entire body, Goldilocks lookin’ son of a bitch. Go eat some cold porridge and ask the three bears for some damn help. Anyway, you know my mama’s peeps do the best nails.” Saint laughed, poking a bit of fun at himself. “When I wrap these hands around my woman tonight, it’s going to feel like silk against silk. Keep up the good work though, Luigi. I bet by the time you
r son hits the tenth grade, you’ll be all done! You can do it, man, believe in yourself. Go for that game’s HIGH SCORE!”

  “Saint, I hope that your appointment goes terribly wrong. In fact, I think I will wish that into existence.”

  “Oh, you tryna put black magic spells and curses on people now, huh, little Satan boy?” Saint sighed. “After all I’ve done for you. I thought you were down with the Angel Children now?”

  “Satan was once an angel too…”

  “I’m too dope to fall prey to your wicked ways. Just out of curiosity, what would this curse entail, Mr. Wizard?”

  “The curse, should I cast it, would go as follows … I hope that she shapes your nails like little butt cheeks and causes them to become embedded and for your thumb nails to turn yellow and crust over like chicken potpies.”

  “What?! See, that’s some white boy shit. I have no idea what you’re talking about. Oh wait, hold up! What brand chicken potpie? I hope Marie Callender … I like those. Don’t make ’em like the cheap Banquet brand ones that are marked for like 89 cents in the freezer section. Give me the good shit!”

  Ignoring him, Cruz continued, but it was hard not to laugh at the ridiculous man. “I hope that she makes your palms rough, too; so rough, that even if you were to run them across your precious, raven black hair, they would snag and pull strands out, dozens at a time. And I hope that causes patches of baldness, so much so that it takes months, possibly even years, to recover!”

  “And mirror, mirror on the damn wall, I’d still be the finest Korean and Egyptian mothafucka—jacked up hands, hair gone and all!”

  Cruz burst out laughing at the man, picked up a white teddy bear, and threw it across the room, while Saint rattled on about how wonderful he was and continued to poke fun of him in the background…