King's War kobc-3

by Maurice Broaddus

  The nearby village of Flackville — 30th Street and Lafayette Road — which had been around since 1900, was annexed by Indianapolis in 1961. Overshadowed by the expanse of the Eagledale suburb. That was then. The only remainder of Flackville was the eponymous abandoned school building. It was rumored that a group of Haitians owned the building but a church owned the property. With the two groups at odds, the building stood boarded up. Ripe for squatting though no one did. The words "No Trespassing. Especially trucks" spray-painted along its driveway acted as a near-mystic rune, warding off most would-be squatters.

  Lady G recognized the pair of legs dangling out of the trash bin of the neighboring restaurant.

  "Get out of my trash." A short man, with skin as dark as wrought iron, scrambled back and forth waving a broom, to little avail as the object of the threatening spectacle had the top half of his body buried in the trash bin.

  "What do you care?" The voice echoed from within the bin. "Were you going to eat it?"

  "It's trespassing."

  "You have some control issues. If any of this meant so much to you, you shouldn't have thrown it away."

  The legs danced about as the owner swatted him with the broom. Merle tumbled out, an arm full of containers clutched to his chest with dirty fingernails. A black raincoat draped about him like a cloak. Unwinking, Merle had a way of looking about at the world with the curiosity of a child inspecting a new toy. His craggily auburn beard came out at all angles. A bird's nest of hair retreated from his bald spot, capped by his aluminum foil hat. His slate gray eyes — big and round, yet knowing and without innocence — cast about, but without spying Lady G.

  "Go on!" The owner yelled as if to a pestful cat.

  Not that Lady G much blamed the man for chasing Merle out of his trash bin. She once knew a meth head who went through people's garbage searching for canceled checks. Or she snatched bills out of people's mailboxes. She would wash the checks and then make them out to herself for hundreds of dollars.

  "I eat here twice a week. It's a good time, right before the garbage truck comes. My best luck is right after the lunch rush. You can't deny a man his fried chicken. Chicken!" Merle waved a chicken leg in the air in mad triumph, other boxes tucked under his other arm. Merle cocked his head at her, quizzical, like an owl befuddled by the sight before him, then wandered off, distracted by whatever internal song that called him.

  Despite the warming temperatures, Lady G dressed in layers. A thermal shirt under a T-shirt, swathed in a black hoody. Nothing form fitting as to hide her shape. She chewed on her index finger, which protruded from her fingerless gloves. Acne bumps flared along her forehead, red and swollen against her toffee-colored skin. Lady G's stomach fluttered with unease. She couldn't quite catch her breath. She didn't know what kind of reception to expect from him. And she didn't want to admit her sheer terror. Isolating herself, she rarely left the confines of her room at Big Momma's, the woman who took her in when she was homeless. Lady G rarely met her eyes these days. All of her old haunts filled her with sadness. Her life was a maelstrom of hurt. And shame. Grief flayed her. She searched, hoped, for someone to confide in, who could make things clear for her, but King was no longer there.

  Lady G barely kept pace with Merle's crazed lope, following him past the Flackville building to the small stretch of woods behind it. The stand of trees grew at odd angles, a small pool of shadows signaling the entrance. A sign caught her attention: "Warning: No Trespasing! This is Merle's camp. Anounce yurself."

  "I see my prayer for noble weather has not been answered." Merle hunched over a Styrofoam container of tossed-out barbecue tips.

  "I have a surprise for you."

  "My dear, I don't think I can survive another one of your surprises. You are a chimp with a nuke."

  "I…" Lady G held out a box of caramel-filled ice cream drumsticks. Part of her hoped Merle might be able to see past the hurt she caused and realize she'd been hurt, too. Even a self-inflicted wound was still a wound. Her friends abandoned her. They shunned her and she accepted her banishment. Profound loneliness, that punishing isolation, flensed her soul. Not knowing where to turn, praying for a safe place of refuge, she sought out Merle.

  "It's always important to carry a towel." Merle didn't glance up from his rib tips.

  "What?"

  "The world isn't a safe place."

  "We're coming apart. The family." She grieved the loss of something precious. She cried because she had no self, only her own mood and whim. Self-indulgent, selfish, she had no center, and had no thought at all of causing another pain. She was shadow. Wrapping herself in sheets of innocence and victimhood, her instinct was to blame. Her naivete, she was a hapless plaything in the hands of more powerful personalities. She loved King, she really did. She longed to please him: read the books he liked, went to the places he did, learned as much about him as she could, wore her hair the way that pleased him. He read the poems she wrote, the rough sentences and poorly formed images and illconstructed rhythms, and praised her. He stared into the shadows of her soul, all of the gray and ugly bits, and loved her. Ill prepared for the possessiveness, the jealousy, she knew the totality of his love, and it broke her. "I'm doing surprisingly well for a pariah."

  "That's the thing. Times like these, you find out who your friends are."

  "And I have none."

  "Ah, the melodrama of youth. Blind to the obvious. Complaining about being alone… to someone. Your instinct for female recklessness stalls your maturing. That and the false, hollow bravado you feel compelled to perform."

  Big Momma had told her the same thing. How a teenage girl trying to get out of trouble will roll on anyone, including the very people she both loved and hurt. Big Momma's voice always had an undertone of concern, like she wanted to impart something to her. Like she was warning Lady G of her power. That she had a smile about her, trusting and innocent. And had her own strength of personality, a beguiling innocence that sucked people into her orbit. A disarming charm that caused people in her world to want to protect her. Because inside the fragility which seemed to seep from her, she truly was a bird with a fractured wing.

  "Some ladies don't prize what they can have. But you have a lifetime to repair the damage. What do you have to say?"

  "I have no words." Out of fear — fear of King, fear of the burdens of responsibility, fear of love and being loved — she did unbelievable things. Hurting herself to protect herself, she dragged Lott into her maelstrom of self-destruction. She loved him, too, and would know him intimately in ways she never knew King. But the men who defined her were no longer around to protect her. When it came to important decisions, she was incapable of making them, reacting emotionally and leaving it to others to clean up her mess. She wasn't the person they believed her to be, however, she didn't need anyone to catalog her list of sins. She knew her terrible acts. In her heart she feared she couldn't be forgiven. That some cracked trusts couldn't be mended. "I'm so sorry."

  "Brave deeds. Honorable actions. Be the woman you know you were created to be. Let your life show your repentance. Even misery doesn't last forever. In the meantime, there's no pain like the present."

  Merle sucked loudly on his ice cream drumstick. They shared a commiserating glance. Not nearly as alone as she would have believed. Both living in the crater left, the fallout of her choices. Hers. All the minds of her friends seemed now closed to her, sticking her in a story she knew she'd have to live with. Lady G could never have their lives, so she would have to forge her own.

  The window latch clicked slightly as the glass slid up. An exhalation of a breeze jostled the curtains. The window screen had been easily dislodged, little more than decoration the way it was attached to the window. Many of the first-floor windows of the apartment complex had bars on them, an outof-pocket expense for the tenants which the landlord mentioned when they signed their rental agreements. The bars gave the appearance of coming home to a nicely decorated prison. But in this neighborhood, safety was a precious c
ommodity. Better to feel safe in one's castle than worry about the many predators in the night.

  He slipped in noiselessly. Despite his build he moved with the grace of a thief, light of foot and touch. The sleeping girl's mother certainly didn't lack for imagination. She wanted her daughter to have a magical, sheltered childhood. The little girl's room enchanted him. A white picket fence served as the bed's headboard and footboard. A clothesline hung between the bedposts with her old baby clothes pinned to the line (including the ones she wore home from the hospital). An unfinished toy trunk had been painted apple green, with the quilt her grandmother made for her resting on top of it. A sunshine-yellow, three-drawer wood chest had large cartoony ladybugs stenciled onto it. Stuffed animals took their seats around the small wooden table set for tea.

  Whenever his emotions wore him down, he drove by the place. It made him feel better knowing he was near even if he couldn't talk to her. Touch her. Lately, he had to be closer to her. Let her know he was still a part of her life, even if he couldn't be there the way he liked.

  She snuggled into a thick pink blanket and pillow. For a moment he stood over her, just watching her sleep. He covered her mouth and eased onto the bed next to her. Her eyes sprang open, large with panic. Her balled little fists slammed into him, then slowly ceased as recognition filled her eyes. He removed his hand.

  "Daddy!" she whispered with enthusiasm, sitting up to give him a hug.

  "Nakia," King said.

  "I didn't think you'd come back."

  "I'm not supposed to, you know that."

  "But I wanted to see you."

  "I know. That's why I'm here."

  "Tell me a story." Nakia sat fully up and pulled her sheets up around her, making a tent with her knees. King loved her so much in that instant he took a moment to catch his breath.

  "There once was a king. He was a lonely man because all the people he loved left him. But he had his kingdom and he had people he wanted to keep safe. This gave him purpose and mission, but in his heart he still wanted a queen. So he searched high and low throughout his kingdom, because you never know where a queen might be.

  "One day he walked into a tavern…"

  "What's a tavern?" Nakia interrupted.

  "It's… a liquor store. With tables."

  "Oh." She huffed a mild disappointment, expecting something far more exotic.

  "One day he walked into a tavern and took a seat near the back so that he wouldn't be recognized by his people. Then he saw her. The most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He could tell by the way she moved that she didn't know that she was a lady of great beauty… which made her even more beautiful."

  "Am I beautiful?" Nakia fished for the compliment she knew would be lavished on her. It was almost a game the two of them played. She knew her father was busy doing important things and that her mother was mad at him. So between the two, he couldn't be around much. And she had the sense that him staying away was him protecting her because there were bad men who sought to hurt King by hurting her.

  "You are so beautiful. And you are loved. And if you hold that love in you, it's like a seed. And you will grow up to be even more beautiful."

  "Like the queen?"

  "Don't jump ahead. Let me tell you my story. The king definitely thought he'd found the one. But he didn't want to scare her off so he decided to wait until the time was right."

  "Boys are so silly. He shouldn've asked her out then. He don't know she'll be around later. She might be too busy for him."

  "Girl, you're gonna be fierce one day."

  "That good?"

  "That's great. You'll be a princess who won't need saving."

  "So did he ask her out?"

  "The king had his duty to attend to. One day a terrible dragon entered the kingdom. It scared the king's people, devouring them slowly, and seemed to be everywhere at once. It wasn't too long till people began falling under the dragon's power and fighting alongside the beast against their own people. Now it was the king's duty to battle the dragon. Everywhere the dragon went the king was there to fight it."

  "Did he kill the dragon?"

  "The dragon was so huge and so powerful, but the king didn't realize he couldn't fight it alone. So he continued to fight the power of the dragon."

  "The king was brave."

  "Or stupid. Or too proud. Or all of the above. One day the beautiful lady got caught up in their battle. The dragon kidnapped her and held her captive. The king grew even more relentless and chased the dragon to the ends of his kingdom. There was no place it could hide from him. Finally, fearing the king's wrath, the dragon released the lady and went into hiding."

  "Was she the one?"

  "He thought she was. He was prepared to make a life with her, offer her his kingdom or even set it aside for her… but then another took her away. The king was alone again."

  "That's not true. The king still had his people. And maybe there will be another queen."

  "I think the king realized he already had a princess he needed to take better care of. Keep her safe from his many enemies."

  "That why the king doesn't come around very often?"

  "To keep her safe. He should probably go."

  "I'd rather not be safe."

  "What do you mean?"

  "If it means I'd get to see you more, I'd rather not be safe."

  King leaned in and kissed her forehead. He never wanted to be that kind of a father. Absent. The kind who put his work, no matter how important he thought it, above his family. And now the choice had been taken from him. He'd made too many enemies in the game. Families, not even little girls, were no longer off limits. He needed to put an end to the foolishness and get out. Maybe start over. That was what he wanted most: the chance to do things over again. Make different decisions. Maybe choose different people to surround himself with.

  King walked toward the rear of the Breton Court condominiums. In the gloom of night, the overgrown branches stretched like tentacles ready to snatch him away, and the sad stretch of creek was reduced to a trickle as it hadn't rained in a while. He stopped at the bridge along High School Road, the site of his betrayal. Closing his eyes, letting the pain of the memory of seeing Lott and Lady G together stab him anew. No matter how much he wished it, the darkness wouldn't swallow him. No all-consuming shadow reached out to snatch him into its ebon haze. Only the oppressive weight of anguish — the squeezing on his chest, his very being — reminded him that he was still alive. Memories replayed in his head. What didn't he see? The way they sat near. The furtive glances. Lott even sat in between King and Lady G on occasion and no one thought twice because they were all friends. Family. When did it start? What did he do wrong? Questions he never thought to ask. And why should he have? Lott was his ace. Lady G was his girl. He trusted them with his life. He wished he'd never seen the Caliburn at all.

  His condo faced Big Momma's and he didn't want to chance seeing or being seen by Lady G. He simply wasn't ready. The image of her haunted him. He thought he saw her everywhere he went, in crowds, at coffeeshops, passing him on the sidewalk. The ghost of her lingered everywhere. So he had taken to entering and leaving his place through the rear.

  A cement block pressed the back patio door shut; the trick was letting it fall into place when he left (though many times he simply scaled the walls). Either way, it was a lot of effort for "security" as all anyone had to do was push the door open.

  Like Pastor Ecktor Winburn had done.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "A good shepherd goes after his lost sheep." A low-cut Afro with gray streaks drew back from his forehead, lengthening the appearance of his face. Like a scarecrow funeral director, his black suit hung from him, his tie too thin. He hunched his shoulders close and bridged his spider-like long fingers, his suspicious eyes taking the measure of King. "Figured I'd given you enough time to lick your wounds in your cave."

  "I didn't ask you to come." The words came out in an angry rush. King balled his fist and released it, t
hen pushed past Pastor Winburn to the unlocked backdoor. There was a time when he'd hung on the man's every word, but these days King could barely stand to listen to him. Somewhere along the lines things had changed, like somehow the pastor should have been there for him, been more solidly in his corner. Instead he felt like he'd washed his hands of him, distancing himself ("giving you time to lick your wounds" crap), and now doing just enough to cover his ass for when folks asked him about King.

  "I'm here now." Pastor Winburn followed him inside. Better to give him something, any distraction to keep him from exploring any further down this dark path. Sometimes the best way to get over a problem was to get involved in someone else's. To take his eyes off of himself and his tiny corner of the world. "And you've still got a job to do. We're losing our men to the streets. To drugs. Hell, to their couches. There's nothing like comfort to make folks feel like they can get through life on their own. But no matter how good they have it, they're never content. Start getting that itch and feeling the need to scratch it. Wherever and with whomever they can."

  "I been thinking a lot about my father." King reached to pull the Caliburn from his hip, his reflex ritual upon returning home. After all this time, he still forgot that he no longer had it.

  "Yeah?"

  "Wondering if we're all meant to be our fathers' sons."

  Heavy, intense eyes rested on him. People loved putting folks on pedestals almost as much as they loved knocking them back down to earth. Hollywood stars. Pastors. Parents. Life was a set-up game which you couldn't let go to your head. "You know what I've always thought? The story of the prodigal son could have easily been called the prodigal father, at least to the son that stayed faithful."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Here you have two sons. One is faithful to his father, being the best son he can be. The other is selfish, self-focused, out for himself and his own good time. The faithful son stays with his father, continues his work, while the prodigal goes his own way and squanders his life. The faithful son sees his father bend over backwards to reward the wayward son. It can be a tough thing to swallow, seeing your father behave in ways you don't understand, yet love him anyway. Luckily for them both, they were still around to talk things through."