King's War kobc-3

by Maurice Broaddus

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Goodness was a fragile thing; rule, its own burden. Drenched in sweat, King threw off the covers as he woke. "Ripped from his sleep" better described his racing heart and the uneasy feeling that he escaped another nightmare. He napped more than slept most nights. Checking his clock, he'd managed to sleep for nearly three consecutive hours. Sick from anger and love, the waking world took a few moments to get used to. Sometimes he wished he could just turn his mind off, stop the jumbled images and memories of the good times shared, the promises made, and the dream of them. And the nagging voice that twisted all of those things into something unrecognizable. There were a few days when King didn't hear that voice at all, but on those days he was completely alone.

  Allowing the blanket to drop into his lap, he sat up. Darkness filled the room despite the mid-day hour. Thick blankets covered the venetian blinds so that no light crept in, either from the front windows nor the rear window in the kitchen. He didn't know what to feel. He wished he could hate them, then he could get on with things. A thin reed of hate and resentment would protect him from the casual vulnerabilities of his heart.

  Picking up and sniffing a pair of jeans, he decided they were good for another wear. A black T-shirt with the portrait of Sojourner Truth on the front and his pair of black Chuck Taylors completed his outfit. He then stuffed the rest of his clothes into his duffel bag. A backpack, a duffel bag, and three boxes. All of his worldly belongings fit into them. The three boxes were in his car already. He hadn't made up his mind what he wanted to do, but he wanted to be ready for when he did. It became increasingly difficult for him to remain at Breton Court. He couldn't take the weight of the stares, the pity in them, the sense of shame they drew like needles raked across the skin. Tongues wagged, but he told himself that as long as he knew the truth, he didn't care. Where was his strong right hand? Where was his heart? Where was anyone who gave him the chance to believe in himself? A knock came from his front door and he knew he had to postpone his anger.

  The wisps of an attempted goatee sprouted along the sides of Prez's mouth. A slight hunch to his gait, though his swagger slowly returned, a slight bump of their shoulders served as their greeting. They quickly backed away from the gesture. King couldn't bring himself to hug Prez. The boy reminded him of yet more failures in his life. Failure to protect him, failure to keep him out of a gang, failure to keep him off drugs.

  Big Momma was a neighborhood fixture, a force in her own right. In a matching sky-blue sweat suit and with a fan in her left hand, she trundled past him with a slight grunt. King let the door close on Prez, who waited patiently. Big Momma fell into the couch without saying a word. She fanned herself and let the minutes tick away.

  King fell against the opposing wall, waiting for the inquisition to begin. His hands interlocked across his knees. Both of them shadowy figures in the gloom, which was the way King preferred it. Better than having to meet people's eyes or, worse, have them see him at his weakest. He broke first. "You awful quiet."

  "Just thinking. Isn't it better to know her for who and what she truly was and be cured of loving her?"

  "It's like that, is it?"

  "Come on now. When you were that age, you're telling me if you got in trouble and had the chance to blame someone else and get off scotfree, you didn't do it?"

  "I was never that age. Or that dumb."

  "That's your problem. You expect everyone to be like you. You hold them up to your standard and castigate them when they don't live up to it."

  "I do the same to myself."

  "Like that's any better? You one of them stiffnecked types. Sometimes God has to break you to use you. Sometimes He sends the storm. But you know what? Storms pass."

  King had long lost track of how long he'd been gone. Not so much gone as withdrawn. Part of him wanted to stay in his cave and stew in his pain. He was broken and there was no rush to him becoming fixed, no matter how many folks wanted him to pick up and keep going. On the one hand, he wanted everyone to just leave him alone. On the other, he didn't want to be alone. If they could spare him the platitudes and speeches and let him be, he could probably see himself clear.

  "He took the people I loved most away from me. He took my mission, my purpose from him. What was the point of bringing me up only to turn me out like this? That doesn't sound like a God I want to follow."

  "Come on now. Don't be like that. My parents had their problems. Abandoned me. But the adults in the neighborhood decided to raise me and hid me from CPS whenever a social worker came around, because they would just have sent me to foster care. I know about rough times."

  "You don't understand. I had people. I used to be able to look in their eyes. They looked up to me. With respect, though they'd never admit to it. I was their big brother. They took it all away from me. They did."

  "It still sounds to me like you were looking for the wrong things. Like all of this was about you. Maybe you need to be stripped of all that to see who it is you are really working for and how you go about doing the work."

  "I liked you better when you didn't say anything."

  "Life is long. We don't have to be defined by our pasts. Or our mistakes. Who you were then doesn't have to be who you are now. You had your mission. It made you feel right. Have you stopped to consider that she's hurting, too?"

  The thought of that softened him a little. He turned the idea around in his mind for a moment, inspecting it before digesting it. Being around one so young was selfish on his part. He didn't allow her to be her age. Being young and dumb was the point of youth. He above all others knew the toll on her, acting up to his expectations. How he saw her. But he did the same: he wanted to be the man, the hero she saw in him. Listen to him. Old-man thoughts. He always had an urge to protect others, to ride in on a white horse.

  "She wanted you to think… she could hang," Big Momma pressed. "You be impressed with her. Not be disappointed in her."

  "I don't think I'll be able to trust her again, and I hate that. She was my best friend."

  "Come on now. Can't nothing heal without pain. Let it go. Let her go. Let them go. So that you can move on and do what you need to do. Cause there's still a lot of work that needs to be done. Ain't no point in letting all of your gifts get all moldy here in the dark."

  "All right, Big Momma. What's the first step?"

  "Do what you do best. Someone's got to lead. Someone's got to be brave enough to put themselves out there to make the first move. Bring people together."

  "It's time for a family meeting."

  Not very many things scared Lott. In his few years on earth, he'd seen men die, by the hands of both men and monsters, though the men were usually monsters in masquerade. His FedEx uniform, in only a short time, had become a second skin. How he saw himself and how others saw him. He was lucky to get a spot at the printing company. The hours weren't as good and the drab brown uniform made him self-conscious of walking around like shit on a stick. His beard grew longish, not quite unkempt, but definitely scraggily as it came in. The swelling in his face had retreated, leaving only the occasional bruise along his ribs from the beating. Word traveled quickly along the neighborhood wire, but he didn't know what to think about the meet-up.

  With family, truth was a while in coming. There were watershed moments in a man's life, a crossroads of regrets and humiliations. Lott wondered how he could make it up with folks. For so long he had stuck close to King, forgetting why he needed to get clean. These days, with his spirit dry and cracked, with him on the verge of relapse, he was barely conscious of asking himself "what the fuck are you doing?" Living on automatic pilot with the disease of amnesia, the bad times didn't seem that bad and the worst times reminded him of where he came from. That to forget how bad he got, just for a second, and he'd be right back there. So he concentrated on just trying to breathe and to sort things out.

  Everyone had an assumed role to play. When he was little, his mother often came home, having gotten her drink on, usually in the com
pany of some man she called her boyfriend who basically threw a couple of bills her way to keep the lights on. When ends came up short, the shouting could be heard up and down the block. Lott always feared for his mother. From a young age, if things got too loud, he stepped between the man and his mother. "Leave her alone," he'd shout. Or he'd simply ram his head into the man's testicles. On more than one occasion, he took the beating intended for his mother. With him and his mom, he was quick with a joke whenever her own pain threatened to lash out at the nearest available target, usually him. Anything to laugh away the pain. Then came the mission, salvation in something larger than himself to believe in. To be straight. Then came King. The man wasn't his salvation, but he gave him purpose.

  "Every man wants to be part of something larger than himself."

  He recalled the words as clearly today as he did then, as if he were… called. He and King were boys almost from the jump, but King had a way about him, kept himself guarded around him, not letting Lott all the way in. The great King was afraid of being hurt. Again.

  And Lady G. From the first moment he saw her, he thought that if he could have her, then it would mean he was worth something. That if she chose him then he could feel good about himself. It was all so selfish and messed up.

  And he knew he had to carry it.

  Yeah, he'd be at the meeting and take what was coming to him.

  A few times Lady G thought of crying. She didn't know how she'd react the first time she saw Lott. Part of her thought she might just slap him. It was as if he represented her poor choices, all the hurt she that twisted her up inside, all of the damage they — she — had done to their little circle of friends. It was easier to put it on him, his manipulation of her feelings — she was in a vulnerable place, confused, scared, out of her depth, and he took advantage of that — than think about her role in things. They would never be the same after all of this. Nothing would be the same. Not their friendship, not their circle of friends, what remained of it. Not the common vision they once shared. They were lost.

  Two blocks north, on High School Road, a couple of large backhoes razed two houses. They'd fallen into disrepair and no one wanted to buy them. The fact that one had been set on fire with the word "snitch" spray-painted on the side surely didn't factor into it. They could have met in the Youth Solidarity building, which technically fell under the ownership of Pastor Winburn's church. But King wanted to meet where they had started.

  The burnt cream color burnished to near gold under the stern glare of the sun. A year or so back, the Church of the Brethren was one of the churches caught up in a string of arsons. Fire investigators suspected drug addicts illegally squatting. The fire unleashed a nightmare torrent of paperwork, with confusion over insurance and permits. The faux-stucco facade, which was once a simple near yellow, was now seared to a muddy ash. Scorch marks, like black tongues, lapped at the edges of the building. Plywood protected what remained of its doors and windows, supposedly sealing the building into a free-standing sarcophagus. The rear of the building, more heavily damaged by fire and water and vandals — the elements of the neighborhood — reduced the back to piles of scree and poles. More plywood served as the rear wall. An unoccupied eyesore, it stood as if in hopes of its presence shaming the community into some sort of action.

  Lady G ducked under a fallen beam in the alcove and wound her way around to the sanctuary. From the way he stood, hands joined behind his back, a commanding presence, she recognized the silhouette on the far end in an instant.

  King.

  Her throat tightened even as her heart raced. A wave of heat flushed her face and her mind… blanked. Hoping that he'd take notice of her before she was close enough to say anything and initiate conversation, her feet carried her forward in a zombie shuffle.

  King rolled the spindle they used as a table to the center of the room. Painted white and green, it served as their round table. Meeting around it meant fair fellowship, one body coming together as equals. Cooperating in equal service. There were no chairs to sit in, which left them all in the same position, but he didn't think the proceedings would last too long. This meeting was just to clear the air, and he doubted anyone would be seated anyway. Plus he still needed to go across town. As head of Youth Solidarity, he'd set up a meeting with Black. He had to start over building bridges and coalitions among the gangs. And this new player not only had muscle, but the will to use it. All the work King had done getting the leaders to the table was undone. And he wondered how much weight he still carried in the street. A cuckolded man, punked by his own. It didn't play well.

  He recognized the slinking shadow immediately. He knew every curve, every nuance of her movement. She could never hide from him because she had filled up so much of his world. His heart hurt at the sight of her. He longed to hold her in his arms again, to feel her pressed into him, to know the presence and comfort of her love again. But he couldn't escape the specter of pain that accompanied her. The anger he expected wasn't there. He didn't know what to say to her.

  Lady G wandered all the way to within feet of him before finally stopping. Once it became obvious that he knew she was there and hadn't said anything. Part of her wanted to turn around. The soft scritch of her shoes against the cement floor was the only sound.

  The pair locked eyes only for an instant. Lady G studied the ground, King the scenery to his right.

  "I'm sorry." Lady G's voice cracked and trailed off.

  "What? I couldn't hear you."

  "I said I'm sorry."

  "Damn right you are." The words sprang from his mouth before he could stop them. "I'm sorry." The words just seemed so small. Three syllables to cover all of his pain, loss, and shame. It didn't seem like nearly a large enough bandage to staunch the wound.

  Lady G had braced herself for the rage. Actually she feared it would be worse. Possibly violent. "I know."

  "You don't know how much I loved you."

  "I guess. I took it for granted. I couldn't handle it."

  "You threw it all away."

  "I was scared."

  "After all that we've been through, I thought I could rely on you. You're dead to me." King still loved her. Part of him would always love her, but he kicked himself for missing the signs of her duplicity. At no point did he sense her betrayal, so how could he trust himself against Black? Or Dred?

  "Do better."

  "How could you leave me when you knew me? You were the only one I let know me and you turned your back on me." The words tumbled out of his mouth. He'd rehearsed what he was going to say for weeks. The prospect set his brain on fire most days, parsing the imagined conversation for maximum impact. But to hear the words, they fell short. They failed to capture his pain. Worse, he sounded weak. A school boy worried about his hurt. His pride. The cold thing in his chest, desperate to beat again, to find life, feared the hurt. Easier, by far, to be the hardened unfeeling lump, than play the fool.

  "I feel like I've been stolen from myself." The pain ran deep, deeper than the two of them. He knew it. She cried for all of them. King. Lott. The "knights". Big Momma. Even herself. "I don't know if there was ever a real me. A real us."

  "I…" Her tears moved him, though not the way he expected. King wondered if he'd ever be able to forgive her. He wasn't strong enough on his own. But he remembered the words of Pastor Ecktor. It was a start. Lady G wrapped her pinky around his. No expectations. Just a gesture. He squeezed her. His hand jerked back as Lott stepped into the entryway.

  Playing wheelman to Dred was in Garlan's job description. It meant he was trusted. Counted on. Still, there was a part of him that hated being so close to the heart of the crew. It was like orbiting the sun: too far away meant he was frozen out and had only scrub duties, too close and he was likely to be consumed by the heat of the madness.

  Garlan studied him with his dull eyes, scarred by seeing too much too early. He sensed Dred's mood, recognizing the ritual of getting amped up. The fondling of the weapon as if he stroked himself to make
sure he could still get it up. The wild eyes jacked up by getting his head up before he rolled out. Yet, Dred never went near drugs. Whatever hyped him up was neither grown nor cooked up in a lab. Subtlety was a lost art. Left to his own devices, he'd have his tension tools and feeler picks, ready to sneak up on a person under cloak of night. Or invisibility. In and out like a ghost. All of this driving up on someone and start blasting or bursting in doors, guns a-blazing, were all hallmarks of the impatient and unskilled.

  Dred inspected his Caliburn. The 9mm Springfield Armory custom-ported stack autos gleamed with the frames, slides, and some other parts plated in 24K gold; with gold dragons rearing up along the contrasting black grips. King, too, brandished such a weapon. He wondered if there was any connection between them.

  "Something on your mind?" Dred asked, conscious of Garlan's studious gaze.

  "Never seen a gat like that." Garlan stared forward, hands on the steering wheel, as he tried to play things casual.

  "No reason you should. Ain't but two of them around."

  "King got the other one."

  "Yeah."

  "They valuable?"

  "Priceless. Why, you planning on taking mine?"

  "Just wondering. No disrespect, but what is it with you two?"

  In a feral warning, Dred arched an eyebrow. "Why you asking?"

  "I mean, dude had a point, but was out of line in how he asked. One minute you want him checked. Next, you all up on him. Then you all about hurting him. Word came down that no one could touch him. Now you about to take him out. I ain't seen that kind of love/hate since Thanksgiving dinner."