Brothers and Keepers

by John Edgar Wideman

  I’m sorry you took so long to forgive yourself. I forgave you a long time ago, in advance for a sin I didn’t even know you’d committed. You lied to me. You stole from me. I’m in prison now listening because we committed those sins against each other countless times. I want your forgiveness. Talking about debts you owe me makes me awkward, uneasy. We remember different things. They set us apart. They bring us together searching for what is lost, for the meaning of difference, of distance.

  For instance, the Sony TV. It was a present from Mort, Judy’s dad. When we told him about the break-in and robbery at Mom’s house, he bought us another Sony. Later we discovered the stolen TV was covered by our homeowner’s policy even though we’d lost it in Pittsburgh. A claim was filed and eventually we collected around a hundred bucks. Not enough to buy a new Sony but a good portion of the purchase price. Seemed a lark when the check arrived. Pennies from heaven. One hundred dollars free and clear since we already had the new TV Mort had surprised us with. About a year later one of us, Judy or I, was telling the story of the robbery and how well we came out of it. Not until that very moment when I caught a glimpse of Mort’s face out of the corner of my eye did I realize what we’d done. Judy remembers urging me to send Mort that insurance check and she probably did, but I have no recollection of an argument. In my mind there had never been an issue. Why shouldn’t we keep the money? But when I saw the look of surprise and hurt flash across Mort’s face, I knew the insurance check should have gone directly to him. He’s a generous man and probably would have refused to accept it, but we’d taken advantage of his generosity by not offering the check as soon as we received it. Clearly the money belonged to him. Unasked, he’d replaced the lost TV. I had treated him like an institution, one of those faceless corporate entities like the gas company or IRS. By then, by the time I saw the surprise in Mort’s face and understood how selfishly, thoughtlessly, even corruptly I’d behaved, it was too late. Offering Mort a hundred dollars at that point would have been insulting. Anything I could think of saying sounded hopelessly lame, inept. I’d fucked up. I’d injured someone who’d been nothing but kind and generous to me. Not intentionally, consciously, but that only made the whole business worse in a way because I’d failed him instinctively. The failure was a measure of who I was. What I’d unthinkingly done revealed something about my relationship to Mort I’m sure he’d rather not have discovered. No way I could take my action back, make it up. It reflected a truth about who I was.

  That memory pops right up. Compromising, ugly. Ironically, it’s also about stealing from a relative. Not to buy dope, but to feed a habit just as self-destructive. The habit of taking good fortune for granted, the habit of blind self-absorption that allows us to believe the world owes us everything and we are not responsible for giving anything in return. Spoiled children. The good coming our way taken as our due. No strings attached.

  Lots of other recollections were triggered as Robby spoke of that winter and the lost TV. The shock of walking into a burgled house. How it makes you feel unclean. How quickly you lose the sense of privacy and security a house, any place you call home, is supposed to provide. It’s a form of rape. Forced entry, violation, brutal hands defiling what’s personal, and precious. The aftershock of seeing your possessions strewn about, broken. Fear gnawing at you because what you thought was safe isn’t safe at all. The worst has happened and can happen again. Your sanctuary has been destroyed. Any time you walk in your door you may be greeted by the same scene. Or worse. You may stumble upon the thieves themselves. The symbolic rape of your dwelling place enacted on your actual body. Real screams. Real blood. A knife at your throat. A stranger’s weight bearing down.

  Mom put it in different words but she was as shaken as I was when we walked into her house after Geral’s party. Given what I know now, she must have been even more profoundly disturbed than I imagined. A double bind. Bad enough to be ripped off by anonymous thieves. How much worse if the thief is your son? For Mom the robbery was proof Robby was gone. Somebody else walking round in his skin. Mom was wounded in ways I hadn’t begun to guess at. At the root of her pain were your troubles, the troubles stealing you away from her, from all of us. The troubles thick in the air as that snow you are remembering, the troubles falling on your head and mine, troubles I refused to see . . .

  * * *

  Snowing and the hawk kicking my ass but I got to have it. TV’s in a box under my arm and me and Henry walking down Bennett to Homewood Avenue. Need thirty dollars. Thirty dollars buy us two spoons. Looking for One-Arm Ralph, the fence. Looking for him or that big white Cadillac he drives.

  Wind blowing snow all up in my face. Thought I’s bout to die out there. Nobody on the avenue. Even the junkies and dealers inside today. Wouldn’t put no dog out in weather like that. So cold my teeth is chattering, talking to me. No feeling in my hands but I got to hold on to that TV. Henry took it for a little while so’s I could put both my hands in my pockets. Henry lookin bad as I’m feeling. Thought I was gon puke. But it’s too goddamn cold to puke.

  Nobody in sight. Shit and double shit’s what I’m thinking. They got to be somewhere. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week somebody doing business. Finally we seen One-Arm Ralph come out the Hi Hat.

  This TV, man. Lemme hold thirty dollars on it.

  Ralph ain’t goin for it. Twenty-five the best he say he can do. Twenty-five don’t do us no good. It’s fifteen each for a spoon. One spoon ain’t enough. We begging the dude now. We got to have it, man. Got to get well. We good for the money. Need thirty dollars for two hits. You get your money back.

  Too cold to be standing round arguing. The dude go in his pocket and give us the thirty. He been knowing us. He know we good for it. I’m telling him don’t sell the TV right away. Hold it till tomorrow we have his money. He say, You don’t come back tonight you blow it. Ralph a hard motherfucker and don’t want him changing his mind again about the thirty so I say, We’ll have the money tonight. Hold the TV till tonight, you get your money.

  Now all we got to do is find Goose. Goose always be hanging on the set. Ain’t nobody else dealing, Goose be out there for his people. Goose an alright dude, but even Goose ain’t out in the street on no day like this. I know the cat stays over the barbershop on Homewood Avenue. Across from Murphy’s five-and-ten. I goes round to the side entrance, the alleyway tween Homewood and Kelly. That’s how you get to his place. Goose lets me in and I cop. For some reason I turn up the alley and go toward Kelly instead of back to Homewood the way I came in. Don’t know why I did it. Being slick. Being scared. Henry’s waiting on the avenue for me so I go round the long way just in case somebody pinned him. I can check out the scene before I come back up the avenue. That’s probably what I’m thinking. But soon’s I turn the corner of Kelly, Bam. Up pops the devil.

  Up against the wall, Squirrel.

  It’s Simon and Garfunkel, two jive undercover cops. We call them that, you dig. Lemme tell you what kind of undercover cops these niggers was. Both of em wearing Big Apple hats and jackets like people be wearing then but they both got on police shoes. Police brogans you could spot a mile away. But they think they slick. They disguised, see. Apple hats and hippy-dip jackets. Everybody knew them chumps was cops. Ride around in a big Continental. Going for bad. Everybody hated them cause everybody knew they in the dope business. They bust a junkie, take his shit and sell it. One them had a cousin. Biggest dealer on the Hill. You know where he getting half his dope. Be selling again what Simon and Garfunkel stole from junkies. Some rotten dudes. Liked to beat on people too. Wasn’t bad enough they robbing people. They whipped heads too.

  Soon’s I turn the corner they got me. Brams me up against the wall They so lame they think they got Squirrel. Think I’m Squirrel and they gon make a big bust. We got you, Squirrel. They happy, see, cause Squirrel dealing heavy then. Thought they caught them a whole shopping bag of dope.

  Wearing my double-breasted pea coat. Used to be sharp but it’s raggedy now. Ain’t worth
shit in cold weather like that. Pockets got holes and the dope dropped down in the lining so they don’t find nothing the first time they search me. Can tell they mad. Thought they into something big and don’t find shit. Looking at each other like, What the fuck’s going on here? We big-time undercover supercops. This ain’t spozed to be happening to us. They roughing me up too. Pulling my clothes off and shit. Hands all down in my pockets again. It’s freezing and I’m shivering but these fools don’t give a fuck. Rip my goddamn pea coat off me. Shaking it. Tearing it up. Find the two packs of dope inside the lining this time. Ain’t what they wanted but they pissed off now. Take what they can get now.

  What’s this, Squirrel? Got your ass now.

  Slinging me down the alley. I’m stone sick now. Begging these cats for mercy. Youall got me. You got your bust. Lemme snort some the dope, man. Little bit out each bag. You still got your bust. I’m dying. Little taste fore you lock me up.

  Rotten motherfuckers ain’t going for it. They see I’m sick as a dog. They know what’s happening. Cold as it is, the sweat pouring out me. It’s sweat but it’s like ice. Like knives cutting me. They ain’t give back my coat. Snowing on me and I’m shaking and sweating and sick. They can see all this. They know what’s happening but ain’t no mercy in these dudes. Henry’s cross the street watching them bust me. Tears in his eyes. Ain’t nothing he can do. The street’s empty. Henry’s bout froze too. Watching them sling my ass in their Continental. Never forget how Henry looked that day. All alone on the avenue. Tears froze in his eyes. Seeing him like that was a sad thing. Last thing I saw was him standing there across Homewood Avenue before they slammed me up in the car. Like I was in two places. That’s me standing there in the snow. That’s me so sick and cold I’m crying in the empty street and ain’t a damn thing I can do about it.

  By the time they get me down to the Police Station, down to No. 5 in East Liberty, I ain’t no more good, sure nuff. Puking. Begging them punks not to bust me. Just bout out my mind. Must have been a pitiful sight. Then’s when Henry went to Geral’s house and scratched on the window and called David out on the porch. That’s when youall found out I was in trouble and had to come down and get me. Right in the middle of the party and everything. Henry’s sick too and he been walking round Homewood in the cold didn’t know what to do. But he’s my man. He got to Geral’s so youall could come down and help me. Shamed to go in so he scratched on the window to get Dave on the porch.

  Party’s over and youns go to Mommy’s and on top everything else find the house broke in and the TV gone. All the stuffs going through my mind. I’m on the bottom now. Low as you can go. Had me in a cell and I was lying cross the cot staring at the ceiling. Bars all round. Up cross the ceiling too. Like in a cage in the zoo. Miserable as I could be. All the shit staring me in the face. You’re a dope fiend. You stole your brother’s TV. You’re hurting Mommy again. Hurting everybody. You’re sick. You’re nothing. Looking up at the bars on the ceiling and wondering if I could tie my belt up there. Stick my neck in it. I wanted to be dead.

  Tied my belt to the ceiling. Then this guard checking on me he starts to hollering.

  What you doing? Hey, Joe. This guy’s trying to commit suicide.

  They take my clothes. Leave me nothing but my shorts. I’m lying there shivering in my underwear and that’s the end. In a cage naked like some goddamn animal. Shaking like a leaf. Thinking maybe I can beat my head against the bars or maybe jump down off the bed head first on the concrete and bust my brains open. Dead already. Nothing already. Low as I can go.

  Must have passed out or gone to sleep or something, cause it gets blurry round in here. Don’t remember much but they gave back my clothes and took me Downtown and there was a arraignment next morning.

  Mommy told me later, one the cops advised her not to pay my bond. Said the best thing for him be to stay in jail awhile. Let him see how it is inside. Scare im. But I be steady beggin. Please, please get me out here. Youns got soft-hearted. Got the money together and paid the bond.

  What would have happened if you left me to rot in there till my hearing? Damned if I know. I probably woulda went crazy, for one thing. I do know that. Know I was sick and scared and cried like a baby for Mommy and them to get me out. Don’t think it really do no good letting them keep me in there. I mean the jail’s a terrible place. You can get everything in jail you get in the street. No different. Cept in jail it’s more dangerous cause you got a whole bunch of crazies locked up in one little space. Worse than the street. Less you got buddies in there they tear you up. Got to learn to survive quick. Cause jail be the stone jungle. Call prison the House of Knowledge cause you learns how to be to be a sure nuff criminal. Come in lame you leave knowing all kinds of evil shit. You learn quick or they eats you up. That’s where it’s at. So you leave a person in there, chances are they gets worse. Or gets wasted.

  But Mom has that soft heart anyway and she ain’t leaving her baby boy in no miserable jail. Right or wrong, she ain’t leaving me in no place like that. Daddy been talking to Simon and Garfunkel. Daddy’s hip, see. He been out there in the street all his life and he knows what’s to it. Knows those guys and knows how rotten they is. Ain’t no big thing they catch one pitiful little junkie holding two spoons. They wants dealers. They wants to look good Downtown. They wants to bust dealers and cop beaucoup dope so’s they can steal it and get rich. Daddy makes a deal with them rats. Says if they drop the charges he’ll make me set up Goose. Finger Goose and then stay off Homewood Avenue. Daddy says I’ll do that so they let me go.

  No way Ima squeal on Goose but I said okay, it’s a deal. Soon’s I was loose I warned Goose. Pretend like I’m trying to set him up so the cops get off my ass but Goose see me coming know the cops is watching. Helped him, really. Like a lookout. Them dumb motherfuckers got tired playing me. Simon got greedy. Somebody set him up. He got busted for drugs. Still see Garfunkel riding round in his Continental but they took him off the avenue. Too dangerous. Everybody hated them guys.

  My lowest day. Didn’t know till then I was strung out. That’s the first time I was hooked. Started shooting up with Squirrel and Bugs Johnson when Squirrel be coming over to Mom’s sometimes. Get up in the morning, go up to the third floor, and shoot up. They was like my teachers. Bugs goes way back. He started with Uncle Carl. Been shooting ever since. Dude’s old now. Call him King of the Junkies, he been round so long. Bugs seen it all. You know junkies don’t hardly be getting old. Have their day then they gone. Don’t see em no more. They in jail or dead. Junkie just don’t have no long life. Fast life but your average dopehead ain’t round long. Bugs different. He was a pal of Uncle Carl’s back in the fifties. Shot up together way back then. Now here he is wit Squirrel and me, still doing his thing. Everybody knows Bugs. He the King.

  Let me shoot up wit em but they wouldn’t let me go out in the street and hustle wit em. Said I was too young. Too green.

  Learning from the King, see. That’s how I started the heavy stuff. Me and Squirrel and Bugs first thing in the morning when I got out of bed. Mom was gone to work. They getting theyselves ready to hit the street. Make that money. Just like a job. Wasn’t no time before I was out there, too. On my own learning to get money for dope. Me and my little mob. We was ready. Didn’t take us no time fore we was gangsters. Gon be the next Bugs Johnson. Gon make it to the top.

  Don’t take long. One day you the King. Next day dope got you and it’s the King. You ain’t nothing. You lying there naked bout to die and it don’t take but a minute. You fall and you gone in a minute. That’s the life. That’s how it is. And I was out there. I know. Now they got me jammed up in the slammer. That’s the way it is. But nobody could tell me nothing then. Hard head. You know. Got to find out for myself. Nobody could tell me nothing. Just out of high school and my life’s over and I didn’t even know it. Too dumb. Too hardheaded. I was gon do it my way. Youns was squares. Youns didn’t know nothing. Me, I was gon make mine from the curb. Hammer that rock till I was a supergangster.
Be the one dealing the shit. Be the one running the junkies. That’s all I knew. Street smarts. Stop being a chump. Forget that nickel-dime hoodlum bag. Be a star. Rise to the top.

  You know where that got me. You heard that story. Here I sit today behind that story. Nobody to blame but my ownself. I know that now. But things was fucked up in the streets. You could fall in them streets, Brother. Low. Them streets could snatch you bald-headed and turn you around and wring you inside out. Streets was a bitch. Wake up some mornings and you think you in hell. Think you died and went straight to hell. I know cause I been there. Be days I wished I was dead. Be days worser than that.

  * * *

  Robby was the rebel. He was always testing our parents, seeing how much he could get away with. Hanging on the coattails of his big brother Dave, he hit the streets earlier, harder than the rest of us, partied on weekends, stretched his curfew past midnight. He was grounded countless times, but he ignored the groundings just as he’d ignored the house rules that he’d broken to get himself in trouble in the first place. At thirteen he was a tallish, skinny kid. He began to let his hair grow out into an Afro. Facial hair began to sprout and he logged hours in front of the bathroom mirror, picking his bush, measuring, prodding the curly hairs on his chin, the shadow darkening his upper lip. My mother’s warnings, threats, pleas, had no effect on him. He learned to ride out the storms of her anger, to be sullen and stubborn till his hardheaded persistence wore her down. Only so many privileges she could take away before she had no cards to play. Hitting him was a waste of energy. She’d hurt herself on his hard, bony body; neither her hands, nor her words, made dents in the wall he was fashioning around himself.