by Guy Johnson
The anger welled up in Deleon. “We’ll see what he has to say when I kill him!”
“Time enough for that once them Tremains is done. Don’t get distracted. Set you up a new account and I’ll have money transferred to you from one of my banks.” A fit of coughing overcame him. It was several minutes before it subsided. Just before he hung up, Pug gasped into the phone, “If you decide to kill both them grandsons, you won’t hear no complaint from me. We can look for them certificates later.”
On the bus ride home, Deleon’s mood had been dominated by thoughts of his father. He stared out at the parade of people along Market Street with unseeing eyes. He was remembering his father’s drunken rages, the nights his mother screamed for help, of being awakened from sleep by the heavy, angry hand of his father, and the sad, early morning light which showed the bruises and gashes that he and his mother both bore. When he was fourteen he had come home from school one day and had discovered his father beating his mother with a broomstick. Deleon had gone to his room and gotten his baseball bat. He snuck up behind his father and tried to kill him. Unfortunately, he was only able to break an arm and a couple of ribs before his father got to his guns. Deleon had run out of the house with bullets whistling past him. He never returned to his father’s house after that. From then on until he was eighteen he split his time between juvenile hall and the streets of Desire, which he called his home.
He had dropped out of school immediately after running away and had let himself be swallowed by the world of homeless children and all the gut-twisting experiences that street life entailed. As he grew older he became a hustler and a small-time thug. He ran errands for petty criminals and drug dealers until he and two friends were arrested for the murder of a pimp. The case was cut-and-dried. There were witnesses to the crime and, given his past juvenile record, it looked as if he were going to do many years of hard time in an adult detention facility. Then his grandfather had stepped in.
Deleon looked back on those times and realized that his grandfather had thrown him a life preserver when he had not even known he was drowning. He had unknowingly wandered out into deep water, where the large predators dwelt and the undercurrents were strong. He now understood that the old man’s intervention had saved his life, that he owed a debt that he would never be able to repay. And that was the basis of his loyalty to his grandfather.
Additionally, Deleon and his grandfather had an agreement. It was an agreement to which Deleon was committed, for upon satisfactory completion of his duties he would be allowed to do what he had been waiting to do. He would, with his grandfather’s blessing, kill his own father.
Saturday, June 19, 1982
The voice wavered over the loudspeaker as the class student body president read his speech in the plaza between the school buildings. The parents and family members sat quietly in rows of folding chairs and listened as the young man spoke of dreams and responsibility. The sun was out, but the sky was partially overcast for the St. Mary’s High School graduation ceremony, and as a brisk wind swirled through the rows, people could be seen donning their coats.
Near the back periphery of the audience Jackson stood in front of his cousin Franklin and his grandmother, Serena Tremain. “Let me understand this, Frank,” Jackson said without warmth. “You want to meet with me and make arrangements to go to Mexico with me?” Jackson paused and looked back and forth between his grandmother and his cousin. “Why should I want to do that?”
“It’s really quite simple,” Franklin answered in a condescending tone. “We need to be there to ensure that the will addresses the family’s needs.” Franklin was a light-skinned man with wavy brown hair. He rubbed his mustache with thumb and forefinger and affected the cavalier air of a man who cared for nothing too greatly.
“If it’s that simple, then you go and take care of it. I’m sure you’ll receive a hell of a welcome.” Jackson smiled. “That’s solved. Is there anything else to discuss?”
“I believe there is,” Serena Baddeaux Tremain said. She was seventy-nine years old. The beauty that had once enamored men and devastated women was still in evidence, though faded. Her hair was totally white and her once creamy, light-brown skin was now mottled with age and spotted by freckles. Still, the years had not dulled the clarity of her gaze or the sharpness of her mind.
“Your facetiousness is not appreciated. There is a substantial fortune in the balance. The family’s interests must be protected!” She looked at him sternly. “You may think that by isolating yourself these last few years you are relieved of responsibility, but you are not.”
“Let me ask you, Grandmother, are you concerned about safeguarding my welfare? Because that would be news to me. That would be a first! Are you concerned about Samantha’s welfare? Or is this just a ruse to make sure you’ve got Grandfather’s blood money in your clutches?”
“How dare you!” Franklin exclaimed.
Jackson looked Franklin in the eye and warned, “Watch yourself, Frankie. You don’t want to tangle with me.” Jackson was bigger and more muscular than his cousin.
“I’ll sue you for every penny you’ve got if you ever put another hand on me!” Franklin looked around. “I’ve got witnesses.”
Jackson faced his grandmother. “Well, Grandmother, I think you have a picture of how well me and Frankie, the weasel, work together. So, the answer is no. I don’t want to go anywhere with him. You want the money, send the weasel by himself. The results might even make the local papers.”
Franklin sputtered, “You won’t get away with it. We’ll tie the estate up in the courts for years. You won’t ever have it all to yourself!”
“Tie the estate up in legal battles, see if I care,” Jackson retorted. “I don’t want his money, you do! And we both know, if you were the last person in the world, he wouldn’t leave you a cent.”
Franklin started to protest, but Serena cut him off. “I believe there is nothing else to say at this time. Rhasan is at the microphone. Let us return to our seats.”
Jackson watched them walk away and noticed that the valedictory address had begun. The address was being given by Jackson’s nephew, Rhasan Tremain. Jackson stood at the back of the assembled crowd and listened to his speech.
Rhasan’s voice sounded slightly tinny on the school’s no-frills public address system. He spoke warmly and affectionately of his four years at St. Mary’s High School. Then he addressed the charge that he and his graduating class had to shoulder. And after a rousing speech he closed with, “As I stand here before you, I cannot claim that my dedication or fortitude is as great as JFK, Malcolm X, or Dr. King, but I do understand that education is the first major step in creating the foundations for brotherhood and in eliminating ignorance. I am committed to continuing the struggle. Thank you, St. Mary’s, for bringing me into the light.”
Rhasan sat down amid applause. The dean returned to the podium and the ceremony continued. Jackson searched for his cousin Samantha. He found her near the front of the stage with a camera in hand. Samantha Tremain was an attractive, solidly built, light-skinned woman who wore her wavy, red-brown hair cut short and combed straight back. Both her hairstyle and the cut of her pantsuit were decidedly masculine. She saw him and her eyes lit up. She quickly closed the gap between them and gave him a tight hug.
“How’s the proud mother doing?” Jackson asked, returning her hug.
“I’m filled to capacity with joy.” She pushed back and looked up into Jackson’s face. “My son, the valedictorian of the graduating class!” Suddenly tears streamed down her face. She made no effort to wipe her eyes. “It’s been such a long road with so many terrible twists and turns; I don’t know how I made it.”
“You made it with faith and a loving heart,” Jackson said, putting his arms around her and holding her close. “You met him more than halfway and you never gave up.”
“Oh, I had help. I had you. I had my pastor and my church. But, really, it was your willingness to come pick him up whenever that crazy masculine
energy took ahold of him—”
“Remember, that female energy can get pretty crazy too. Look at our grandmother!”
“Who can forget the Queen of Rigor Mortis? Speaking of the old witch, she’s here.” Samantha gestured toward the far side of the seats. “She’s here along with my greasy brother and his pretentious wife, Vaseline, who’s overdressed as usual. She’s wearing a full-length mink coat!”
“I know, they cornered me on the way in. There haven’t been this many Tremains in one place since the last funeral.”
“Are they wearing your ear off about Grandfather’s will? My brother thinks that the majority of the estate should go to him because he’s the only one trying to build the family business.”
“I wonder where that selfless idea originated?” Jackson mused.
“I don’t know what Rhasan sees in his great-grandmother, but they seemed to have developed a pretty friendly relationship.”
“We shouldn’t begrudge him a relationship that wasn’t available to us, or, rather, I should say to me,” Jackson said. “You would have been fine with her if, years ago, you hadn’t declared that you were a lesbian at the top of your lungs at one of her political fund-raisers.”
“Rhasan was five years old then. I couldn’t lie to him. It was the time to come out of the closet with everybody. It was time to be myself.”
The loudspeaker blared that the names of the graduating seniors would be called to receive their diplomas. This news wiped away any frown from Samantha’s face that their discussion had raised. She was beaming again. Frantically, she began to prepare her camera.
“Relax,” advised Jackson. “They’re calling the names alphabetically. It’ll be some time before they get to Tremain.”
“Jax, I’m out of film,” she gasped. “I have to get back to my bag.”
“Go on, Sam. I’ll see you after they call his name.” Jackson waved her away. She sprinted past a row of seats and disappeared in the rising crowd of adults with cameras.
When Rhasan received his diploma, he waved it over his head in triumph. His mortarboard sat at a jaunty angle on his head, his teeth flashed a bright smile, and his caramel-brown skin seemed to glisten in the pale sunlight. He rushed off the stage into the waiting arms of his mother. When Jackson arrived Rhasan was giving his great-grandmother a big hug.
“What did you think, Grandma Tee? Wasn’t it fine? Did you see the applause I got for my speech? Isn’t this a great day?” Rhasan was exuberant and his questions followed one right after another like railroad cars on a steep, descending track.
Although Serena enjoyed her great-grandson’s warmth, she was uncomfortable with it. As Rhasan hugged her, she pushed against the clasp of his arms and cleared her throat several times. When he had released her, she said, “It was a good ceremony and you were acknowledged well for your valedictorian address. But you must not get carried away; this is only the first hurdle.”
“I can’t stop, Grandma Tee,” Rhasan said as he pivoted quickly on one foot. “The world is spinning! In three months, I’ll be at Morehouse!” Rhasan saw Jackson and a big smile spread across his face. “Did you see it, Uncle Jax?” Rhasan walked toward Jackson with his hand raised for a high five.
Jackson smacked Rhasan’s open palm with his own. “It was a great speech!” he said, hugging his nephew. “Full of substance and imagery. How does it feel to be a high school graduate?”
Rhasan pulled away, a big smile on his face, and spun around again. “Like I’ve been released from prison. I’m on my way to college! Free at last! Great God, free at last!”
Jackson laughed at his nephew’s exuberance and said, “Well, you got the grades, so I’ll follow through on our deal. You can use my BMW for your graduation party and your girlfriend’s birthday.”
“Uncle Jax, you’re the man! Thank you!”
“Since I’ll be working late on a lot of budget revisions this month and next, I’ll leave a set of keys in that paint can I showed you on the shelf in the garage. You can have the car for the weekend both times. But I want it returned in the same condition you took it, clean inside and out with the gas tank filled.”
“No sweat, Uncle Jax! I’m on it! It’ll be pristine!”
The smile on his nephew’s face said everything. Jackson just patted him on the shoulder and said, “All right. We have a deal.”
Rhasan waved to another graduate and said excitedly, “Uncle Jax, there’s Wayman.” Wayman made his way through the crowd, followed by a tall, dark-skinned woman in her early thirties. Wayman introduced her as his godmother and then gave Jackson a solid hug.
Jackson returned Wayman’s hug and then held him at arm’s length while he looked into his handsome brown face. “Congratulations on graduating,” Jackson said with a smile. “You’re looking damn good in that robe, Wayman. I know all your girlfriends will want pictures.”
“Watch how you say that, Uncle Jax!” Wayman warned. “There could be somebody close!”
Unable to keep her hands off her son, Samantha wiped sweat from Rhasan’s brow. “Yeah, it’s hot in this robe,” Rhasan acknowledged, pulling the robe over his head.
Wayman stood on his toes, looking over the heads in the crowd. “They’re here!” he said excitedly to Rhasan. “And they’re looking good!”
“Hold this stuff for me, Mom,” Rhasan said hurriedly, shoving his mortarboard and robe into Samantha’s arms. “Laura’s here! That’s my lady and you know I’ve got to go talk to her!”
“Whoa!” Jackson interjected. “You are going to leave your mother holding your stuff while you go romancing? That doesn’t sound like the orator who made the valedictorian address.”
“I knew it! I knew it!” Rhasan complained. “That address is going to haunt me! I’m not even going to be allowed a transition period!”
Samantha smiled. “Go ahead, lover boy, my transitional man. Just don’t forget these are rented and they must be returned. Wayman, do you want to leave yours too?”
“No, thank you, Ms. Tremain,” Wayman said, still scanning the far edge of the crowd. Samantha gave Rhasan a nod of her head
“Thanks, Mom,” Rhasan said, then he and Wayman were gone.
Samantha looked down at the bundle of mortarboard and gown in her arms and the camera and case in her hands and said, “I think I’ll go back to our seats and drop this off. I want to get a picture of Rhasan and his girlfriend.”
After Samantha departed, Jackson was left standing alongside Wayman’s godmother. He noticed that she was very good-looking. She had smooth skin, so dark there were purple tints in it, large eyes, and full lips. When she smiled, exposing her white teeth and opening her large, dark eyes, she had a vivacity in her look that was hard to deny. He did not want to stare, so he looked away, but even as his vision took in the meandering crowds of students and their extended families, he was thinking about the trace of a dimple in her cheek.
After standing a few moments with her in silence Jackson said, “Once again, the well-wishers are left to their own devices.… Your name is Elizabeth, right?”
She nodded and said in a husky contralto, “And I know your name.”
Jackson was pleased. “You meet so many people at these events. Their names turn into a blur. I’m glad you remembered mine.”
“Oh, I’ve heard about you.” Her tone was filled with insinuation and her eyes were teasing. “I wouldn’t forget your name.”
“Is that because I have made a good impression somewhere or is this the result of some more character assassination material that has been prepared through the worldwide conspiracy of my enemies?”
She gave him an appraising look and replied, “I have my sources and from what I hear you’re more than a well-wisher.”
Her husky voice tingled in Jackson’s ears. It made him look at her directly. A faint mischievous look skirted her large, brown eyes.
“How did you hear all that?” Jackson asked, studying her face.
“You’re the great Jackson Tremain, Big Brot
her of the year! Surrogate father nonpareil!”
“That’s only one of the ways I would describe myself, if given the chance,” Jackson answered. Both her smile and tone had an enigmatic quality. He could not distinguish whether her intent was teasing or veiled hostility.
She moved closer to Jackson, picked a piece of lint off his lapel and said, “That’s the way you were described by someone who respects and cares for you.” She looked off in the direction that the boys had gone and then turned to face him again. “How would you describe yourself, if given a chance?” Her face was only a foot away from his, but suddenly it seemed to Jackson as if they were rubbing noses. The rich darkness of her skin made him want to touch her. Fighting against the unbidden urges, he stepped back and said, “First, let me say that you are quite beautiful. I’m a little stunned by it.”
Her answer was glib. She tossed it off as if she had said it a thousand times. “Lots of people have said that and on the surface I am thankful that I look appealing, but on a deeper level I am reluctant to be placed upon a pedestal for such a transient thing as beauty.”
“Only the beautiful can afford such a rationale,” Jackson countered.
She gave him a bright smile then said, “Why walk a path that is well paved? Break new ground. Let’s turn it around. Describe yourself.”
“The physical profile is easy: six foot three inches, two hundred thirty pounds, reasonably athletic.” He paused, unsure of what to say next. The woman’s face was very mobile. She had a quick, mischievous smile that intrigued him and her eyes had a quality that made it difficult to look away. His body began tingling as if he was receiving an electrical message that his mind could only partially decode. They spent a moment looking at each other but when she put her hands on her hips, he realized that she was waiting for the elaboration or conclusion of his statement. He began, “The persona is more difficult.…” He did not want to continue. If he was going to give a description of himself to this woman, he wanted to work from a prepared statement. He wanted to make the best impression.