Cold Flash

by Carrie H. Johnson

  “I just haven’t had time . . .”

  “Shut it and come on in here.”

  I was blessed with enough hair to provide locks for at least two other women and cursed with the inability to care for it. Without Dulcey, I’d go bald.

  A third glass of wine and a head full of curls later, a thud against the front door had us charging to it, braced for battle. When I opened it, Travis stumbled in holding Elijah up, Elijah’s face bruised and bloodied.

  CHAPTER 5

  I buckled under their weight. If Dulcey had not been at my back, we would all have been on the floor. The smell of alcohol and weed pounced on my nose, strong enough to make my eyes water.

  I should let them both fall and crack their heads, might slam some sense into them, I thought. Dulcey about lifted both of them off their feet and dragged them to the couch, kicking boxes out of her way as she stepped. Travis mumbled, and Elijah was unresponsive.

  I stepped outside the door and saw someone exit Travis’s car. Another car waited. At least the boy had sense enough not to drive.

  When I went back inside, Dulcey was dabbing at Elijah’s face with a wet towel. I raced upstairs and came back with some hydrogen peroxide and a topical antiseptic solution, A & D first aid ointment, Neosporin, bandages, and Band-Aids. What initially looked like someone had ripped the flesh from Elijah’s face, with the amount of blood there was, turned out to be a slash across his right cheek—maybe from a fall or a fist. It was not likely we’d find out until tomorrow. While he lay comatose with his mouth spread open, foul breath killing the air, Dulcey cleaned and fixed butterfly bandages across the cut on his cheek to hold it together and stop the bleeding.

  Dulcey stood, shaking her head, her hands planted securely on her hips, and perused the damaged goods. “They are gonna be miserable in the morning,” she whispered, as though a louder tone could faze their drunk selves.

  “Miserable will be the least of their problems when I’m done with them,” I said in a loud voice, almost yelling, wanting them to be fazed. Neither budged. I continued in a softer voice. “The good news is they had sense enough not to drive.”

  Dulcey gave me a sideways glance of disapproval—of me, not Travis or Elijah—and proceeded to clean up the papers and bloody cloths from the coffee table. “Might as well take them up to bed,” I said, ignoring her judgment.

  “Muriel, lighten up,” she snapped. “So they’re a little drunk. Like you said, they had sense enough not to drive, so everybody’s all right.”

  I grunted with disgust as Dulcey helped Elijah up from the couch and I tended to Travis, pushing and pulling him by his arm, shirt, head, until he tackled the bed.

  We went back downstairs and Dulcey styled my hair. Just as she finished, Calvin rang the bell. I left Dulcey to answer the door while I ran upstairs to change.

  Calvin was an excellent cook, more for me to pine over. Not that I couldn’t cook, but I preferred leaving that task to someone else. Eating was my specialty. He also liked to dine at the most elite restaurants in Philly. Tonight it was Vetri, an intimate, five-star Italian restaurant in South Philly. As always, no matter where we went, the doormen and staff knew Calvin. Obama and Michelle would not have fared any better at Vetri.

  Calvin had ordered ahead, our private menu of veal tartar with sweetbreads, linguini with zucchini and bottarga—salted, cured fish roe, what Italians call a poor man’s caviar—dry-aged ribeye, and for dessert, strawberry zuppa inglese. Ignorance messed with me until each dish was served and I tasted it. Perfect. With Calvin, it was always perfect. I passed up the wine, still woozy from the three glasses I had with Dulcey. After the dinner and drink orders were confirmed, Calvin took my hand and stared at me, as though lost in the pools of my eyes, or something like that, which would have been sensual except I noticed the tension stretched across his brow.

  “You are always so refreshing,” Calvin said.

  “Refreshing can’t take away that look behind the one you’re trying to pass off as being so into me and my gorgeousness.”

  “Already you are too in tune to me.” He rubbed my hands between his. “I’m thinking of closing the center,” he said. He let me go and slugged back his wine.

  Besides the club, Calvin operated a center for troubled youth, a safe harbor for kids being threatened by gangs because they didn’t want to join or because they wanted out.

  “The programs are focusing more on rehab for heroin addicts these days. I can’t deal with these kids on that level. They need a different kind of help than I can give them. Besides, I’m getting too damn old.”

  Two waiters came to the table. One held the tray of food while the other served us. After the waiters left, Calvin continued.

  “The strain of heroin out there now is killing them. Heroin mixed with fentanyl and cocaine, a deadly combination. The mix makes it easy to OD. Three kids in one week.” He put his fork down and shook his head in slow motion. “The sweetest little lady. They shot her up and dumped her in a pile of trash over off West Jefferson.” He teared up, then shrugged it off, and dove into the food.

  “I am so sorry, Calvin.”

  “The way to stop it is not through the center. These kids need professional, medical help, and I need to do what I do—bust the flow.”

  I woke to voices and laughter from the kitchen. Rose and Helen were eating bacon and eggs that Travis had cooked and mimicking Bethany and Travis. Rose was Bethany, Helen was Travis.

  “Oh, honey, I think you’re cute,” Helen said, in the lowest baritone voice she could put forth.

  “I think you’re sooo handsome,” Rose responded, putting her hands together under her chin and batting her eyes.

  Travis sat at the head of the island, shaking his head and laughing. “Don’t you guys ever let Kenyetta catch you talking this mess. You-all know she’s my girl. Man, I’ll have to listen to her mouth forever,” he said.

  The laughter subsided when I entered the kitchen.

  “Hi, Auntie,” they said in unison. “Travis loves Bethany and Kenyetta.”

  “He can only have one of them,” Rose said insistently. “I think he loves Kenyetta more, so he should tell Bethany that she is not the girl for him.”

  “I think that is enough talk about girlfriends and love. Finish eating and go on upstairs and dress for church,” I told them. They both took another mouthful of food and raced out, vowing to be the first one in the shower. I sat at the table and Travis put a plate of pancakes and scrambled eggs in front of me. I ate while he cleared the twins’ plates from the table and loaded the dishwasher, then took a seat across the table from me.

  “Ma, before you even say anything, I apologize. We were blasted last night and I’m sorry. We were at this mad party and things just got crazy. Elijah’s brother came in with some of his boys, messin’ around and talking shit.”

  I stopped chewing.

  “Talking mess. Sorry, didn’t mean to swear.”

  “Who is Elijah’s brother?”

  “He’s a gangbanger. Runs with Berg Nation. He made Elijah go outside with him, and next thing I know Elijah comes back all beat up. He goes for the drink and smoke getting passed around, and next thing he’s acting like a fool. He wouldn’t leave until he was so messed up I had to carry him out.”

  “You weren’t in much better shape.”

  “I swear I didn’t have that much to drink. Just seemed like in a minute I was drunk.”

  “Yeah, it happens like that sometimes,” I said, trying to empathize.

  “Look, Ma. Elijah’s trying to stay out of the gang and his brother wants him in.”

  “Where’re his parents?”

  “He said he doesn’t have any. Said they died. His father was a gang member and was killed and his mother OD’d on heroin. His brother is the only family he has. He’s been sleeping outside because he doesn’t want to be in a gang or involved with one. I feel bad for the dude, so I been trying to help him out, let him hang with me. Feed him, give him clothes. I took him to Ca
lvin’s center.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?”

  “He didn’t want me to tell you because you’re the po po, I guess.”

  “The po po, huh? You put yourself in a dangerous position.”

  “What am I supposed to do? Dis him and just let the brother die, when all he wants to do is live a normal life, go to school and make something of himself? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “I thought you said you met Elijah at the basketball courts.”

  “I did, but he just kinda kept coming around. He’s a good kid, Ma. He just needs somebody to be there for him.”

  “Be there how, son? You getting between him and his brother could be trouble.”

  “His brother doesn’t care about me.”

  “If he doesn’t now, he will.”

  “Elijah is eighteen. He’s in his senior year at Central High and he’s a straight-A student. He wants to go to college and move away.”

  “Why Elijah? Why you?”

  “Maybe cuz all the other dudes bullied him and shoved him around, until I stepped in and got them to let him play. He is a beast at b-ball. Then everybody liked him and wanted him on their team.”

  “So where did he go last night?”

  “He was gone when I woke up.”

  “We’ll talk about this some more later. Is he coming here today?”

  Before Travis could answer, the doorbell rang. Travis went to get the door. Elijah followed him into the kitchen. He had on the same clothes as the day before, disheveled, dirty, and smelling like garbage. His face was swollen where the cut was; his eye was black and blue.

  “Hello, Miss Mabley.”

  “Hi, Elijah.”

  “Please accept my apology for my behavior last night. And thank you for fixing my face.”

  “Sit down, man. You gotta be hungry,” Travis said, signaling me behind Elijah’s back to not say anything.

  I got up to leave. “Eat, Elijah. You’re going to church with us. Travis will give you some clothes.”

  “Thank you, Miss Mabley. I am very thankful that Travis brought me here. I’m humbled by your kindness.”

  Always so damn polite, I thought. Too damn polite.

  Rose won the shower first, since Helen was sitting cross-legged in the middle of her bed, watching Sunday morning news and typing on her computer when I stuck my head in the room.

  “Auntie, is it okay to ask God to kill somebody?” Helen asked.

  “Who do you want to kill?”

  “Just in case, I mean.”

  “Just in case of what?”

  “Just in case somebody threatens Rose or Travis and tries to hurt us.”

  “What makes you think anyone would?”

  Helen raised her arms above her head. “Auntie, someone already tried to kill Mummy.”

  I went to her and hugged her hard. “Well, nobody is going to kill or even hurt Rose or you or Travis or any of us. And your mom is going to be fine. And, yes, baby, you can ask God for anything. But better you ask him to forgive the bad people and help them be good than to kill them.”

  “Nope. If someone hurt my family I’d want God to kill them, like you killed the man who hurt Mummy.”

  What could I say to that? I sat next to her on the bed and cupped her chin so she focused only on me. “First of all, nobody is going to hurt anybody in this house because God’s got you. And I got you too.”

  She kissed my cheek and wriggled in her spot, a slight grin adorning her lips. I sighed and left her resettled into watching television and typing on her computer.

  I showered and put on what I call my church suit—a Donna Vinci, mint-green, calf-length fitted skirt with a one-button flared jacket and beige spike heels.

  Travis was still helping Elijah find some clothes when I knocked on his door on the way downstairs. Helen was fixing Rose’s hair. When I got to the bottom stair, the scratching of someone cranking the doorknob back and forth drew my attention. Thinking it was Dulcey, who probably decided to come over rather than wait for me to pick her up, I yanked the door open.

  “Girl, why didn’t you . . .” I stepped back and tensed, holding tight to the doorknob. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Elijah.”

  “And you are?”

  He took a step closer. I braced myself.

  “Ward Griffin. Elijah’s my brother,” he snarled.

  Of course he was, the same round face accented with dark brown eyes, fine pointy nose and squared chin, perfect eyebrows, and eyelashes the envy of any girl. Different was the scar running across the right side of his face, from temple to jaw.

  He squinted and gave me the once-over, as though trying to decide how much force it would take to stomp me. I readied to plant a spike heel in his flesh.

  “Look, lady, I don’t give a fuck who you are, I want to talk to Elijah. He didn’t come home last night and I want to make sure he’s good.”

  “He’s good. I’ll tell him you were here and have him call you when he comes out of the bathroom.” I moved to close the door. He put his hand out to stop it from closing.

  “You tell him if he ever shows his face around the Berg again, he’s dead.” He flipped his head away and spat, then spun around and left.

  When I closed the door and turned around, Elijah was at the top of the stairs looking down at me. He sat on the step and held his head in his hands and cried.

  “That’s my brother and he wants to kill me. He’s all I’ve got and he wants to kill me.”

  I climbed the stairs and sat next to him, putting my arm around his shoulders. He leaned into me.

  “My mother died with a needle sticking out from in between her toes because her veins were shot. I found her.” He sniffed. “My father was an addict. He got killed for a fix. Oh man! My brother’s an addict and makes it so other people become addicts. I can’t . . . I can’t go there. I don’t want to be an addict. I don’t want to play that.”

  I held Elijah through his torturous tears.

  “You won’t have to, son. I got you.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Dulcey was standing on the covered porch outside her house when I pulled Bertha—what I call my 2000 Saab gray convertible—curbside with the twins singing their version of “How Great Thou Art,” loud enough to make even God say hush. Surprise, surprise, Hampton stepped out the door, starred and shined in African garb, and grabbed ahold of Dulcey’s arm. Dulcey wore African garb as well—a purple George swing coat and pants trimmed in gold, with a matching turban-style head wrap. Girlfriend took the stairs with the swagger of royalty. Halfway down the walkway, Hampton let her go and hustled toward the car, as a gentleman for his queen.

  “Hi, Auntie Dulcey,” the twins squealed when she approached. She scanned the backseat. “You two are beautiful young ladies,” Dulcey cooed. “Where is Mr. Travis?”

  “Thank you. Auntie took us shopping for camp next week and bought us these new dresses for church too,” Rose explained. She was usually the spokesperson when they weren’t speaking in unison. “Travis got a hangover and went to pick up Kenyetta, his girlfriend.”

  Dulcey laughed and said, “I bet he did,” as she turned around and backed her way in, sliding across the front passenger seat. Hampton bent down and lifted her legs into the car. She brushed her clothing to ensure everything was inside before he closed her in. He opened the back door. Rose got out to allow him entrance, so she could sit next to the window. Hampton obeyed the direction without question.

  “You’re absolutely stunning, Miss Dulcey,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, I ain’t feelin’ so stunning,” Dulcey snapped and grunted her dismay. “I guess if I’m gonna be out here lookin’ for a new man”—she paused for a second and gave a sideways nod behind her—“I better be looking some kind of stunnin’.”

  I decided it best to leave it alone.

  I kept ogling at her while she pulled her coat together, adjusted her head wrap, pulled her coat together again, checked to mak
e sure her earrings were set firm in her ears, pulled down the visor and checked out her lipstick in the mirror, pushed it up, adjusted her head wrap again, shifted in the seat, then settled with her hands in her lap.

  “Well, what you waiting on? We’re gonna miss the sermon, you keep messin’ around.” She hesitated, sucked her teeth, and waved her hand like she was brushing something away and said, “Go on, girl, drive the car.”

  We attended the First Corinthian Baptist Church on Pine Street in West Philly, with Pastor Dennis Earl Thomas presiding. It was a large cathedral-style church that anchored the middle-class neighborhood peppered with row houses and small family businesses.

  The main lot behind the church was full, so I had to park in the overflow lot across and one block down the street. The twins jumped out first and raced to the crosswalk at the corner to push the pedestrian button.

  Hamp attempted helping Dulcey with an outstretched hand, which she swiped away.

  The light had turned red and the pedestrian light began flashing when we got to the corner. Hamp locked arms with Dulcey on one side and I on the other, as we strolled across the street.

  Sounds of beats accompanied by raucous lyrics that included “motherfucker” and “bitch” spewed out the window of a waiting vehicle occupied by four young black men.

  My instinct was to check the twins’ location. I saw them run up the stairs of the church.

  Admittedly, it had been a few years since I had attended church. My attendance ended after he graduated high school and went off to college.

  When the twins came to live with us nine months ago, we started attending again. Church members embraced us as though we never stopped. Deacon Bailey had the twins in her clutches when we entered.

  Deacon Bailey was a senior deacon who paid special attention to the girls and what was happening with them, and who did not accept anything less than the old-fashioned degree of manners and attentiveness that I remember my parents demanded—addressing elders as ma’am or sir, not interrupting an adult conversation, and only speaking to adults when spoken to.