by Alan Lee
“This one is growing on me.”
“We got damaged souls, big Mack. We won’t get in to the party upstairs.”
“Damaged yet beautiful,” I said. “We got a chance. We’ll rely on grace.”
“That’s why we hear the corpses, you know, amigito. Broken souls are the natural consequences of shooting people in the ass. We’re paying the price.”
“We talk about some deep stuff in the middle of the night, Manuel.”
“Wanna smoke?” He yawned so big his jaw cracked. “I got weed.”
“I’m two years clean. I’m good. Kix's asleep, so you go ahead.” I stood up and took my son and placed him back in the crib.
“Not unless you do.”
“I’m going back to bed,” I said.
“Me too.”
“The guest bed might be more comfortable, you know.”
“Nah,” he said. We shuffled back into my room. “There is no sleep without you.”
“You’re broken. You should have shot fewer people in the ass.”
“I haven’t even started yet.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
After first period, between classes as the hall was throttled with hormones, I stood by Reginald Willis. He wore a sweater, as he did every day no matter the heat.
“Mr. August, you need a good shave, sir. How then shall the children learn? You, looking like a bum,” he said.
“Willis, you ever heard about the Addisonian Social Club?”
He turned to regard me from the corner of his eye. His mouth cracked a smile but for once was silent. For several seconds.
“What’cho want with the Addisonian?”
“A friend mentioned it.”
“A friend.” He cackled, a burst of sound that startled the passersby. “A friend. You’re a lying white man.”
“What? I have friends.”
“The Addisonian.” He shook his head.
“Enlighten me.”
“It’s a club. Dancing. You know?”
“You ever go?” I asked.
“Of course. Old Reggie got moves, youngster.”
“Can I go?”
Another long pause. His expression with full of mirth and suspicion. “Why?”
“Because.”
“Who you going with?” he asked.
“Does it matter?”
He nodded. “It does.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“The hell you will! Old Reginald showing up with this funny-looking white man. My women would eat you alive, Mr. August, and enjoy every minute. They’re like jackals.”
“It’s a club exclusively for people of color?”
“People of color,” he said. His tone was mocking. “Call me black, Mr. August, ‘cause I call you white. People who fret over such distinctions got nothing better to do. Hurry up, children! The bell tolls for thee! And no sir, the Addisonian is not exclusive to brothers and sisters.”
“But.”
“But. You’d be the only one, most times.”
“Maybe—”
“The Addisonian is a place where I go to cut loose. All are welcome, Mr. August, but white people don’t have fun. Don’t know how. Too uptight. You understand? You can go, sure, but you’d be like Trump at a black church. You don’t look a man who can get down.”
“It’s a good time?”
“The Addisonian? Best place in Roanoke. Good for my soul.”
“You know a guy, Big Will?”
His face clouded and all laughter drained away. He grabbed me by the elbow. “Listen here, Mr. August, you come talk to me after school. You understand? And don’t say that name again.”
The bell rang. He gave me an extra hard squeeze and released.
* * *
Classes ended. The school drained of students and noise, like a balloon deflating. Sudden silence.
I glanced in Ms. Bennett’s room. Her room was tossed and shaken, desks and papers everywhere. She sat in a student’s desk, legs splayed, a far-off look. A spitball was lodged in her hair.
“I don’t even know what happened,” she said to herself.
She was drowning in the deep end. I’d offered ranks of suggestions but she still wasn’t brave enough to pull the proverbial trigger. She’d start swimming soon or sink to the bottom, and nothing I could do to change it.
I moseyed into Reginald Willis’s room. He sat at his desk and overwhelmed the chair. He glowered.
“So it’s true.”
“The rumors about how much I bench? I hope so,” I said.
“You think this is a joke, boy.”
“That’s just how I interpret the world, Reginald. I joke. What’s true?” I asked.
“You’re a cop.”
“‘Fraid not.”
“Bull,” he said.
“Cross my heart.”
“Don’t matter. The rumors say you are, so that’s the truth. The students find out, you’re busted.”
“I’m not a police officer. I used to be.”
“Why are you asking about Big Will?” Reginald asked.
“You know him?”
“Everyone knows him! So, what? You part of the war on drugs? You gentrifying your students? Come to save us with your whiteness?”
I grabbed a chair from the wall and set it down across his desk. Sat in it. “Mr. Willis, I’ve upset you. I’m sorry. Can you explain? I’ve taken away all your joy and I don’t know why.”
He leaned back in his chair and his thick fingers drummed on the desk. He made a low grunting noise. “You used to be a cop?”
“In Los Angeles. Quit two years ago. You dislike cops?”
“I do. Well, that ain’t right. I think they often cause more trouble than needs be. More trouble than they solve. Only cops allowed in the hood should be from the hood. You get it?”
“I do.”
“Why you asking about Big Will?” Reginald asked.
“I’m not sure I trust you. Like you said, if the students get the wrong idea, if you start talking, I’m busted.”
“Mr. August, I’m a teacher. Coulda been a preacher. Right? Got me a degree in paralegal studies from Richmond, could be working for a judge. But I teach. You understand that? I grew up off Melrose, and went to college ‘cause of the grace of God and my eleventh grade math teacher, Mr. Fowler. My daughter, she’s a nurse. My other daughter, she’s married an accountant and I got two grandkids. Happily married these twenty-seven years. I’m mad at’cha, Mr. August, because you’re in trouble. Or about to be. So maybe you tell me why you asking about Big Will.”
“Students in my class are buying and selling cocaine. I found the notes and I found the delivery system. I don’t want to ruin their lives so I haven’t reported. Instead I’ve done research and discovered Big Will.”
“You discovered Big Will,” he repeated.
“Right.”
“And you haven’t told about the coke.”
“Ms. Deere has no idea,” I said. “Nor do the other administrators.”
“Well then. Not as dumb as you look. Maybe hope for you.”
“Why’s that?”
“You think jail cures problems? You think kids go to Coyner Springs and come out good people? Naw. Drugs ain’t the problem. Drugs are a coping mechanism. Drugs are a currency, a market, a pain reliever. And also drugs are the devil. But the police don’t offer any solutions. Jail acts like a school for criminals, you understand.”
“You and I are on the same page,” I said.
“No we ain’t, neither. What good you think you’ll do with Big Will? You think he’s the only way kids get drugs? You take him out and your problems are solved?”
“Tell me about him.”
“He came through these halls. Twenty years ago, maybe. I was here. I remember Big Will. Enterprising young man. Good student. He’ll kill you, Mr. August. He will. Won’t even stop eating lunch to do it.”
“You’re scared of him.”
“I respect him. Same way I respect viol
ence. See, Mr. August, the drugs are everywhere. You think you’ll stop them? Try stopping cancer instead. Got a better chance. Big Will’s got a big operation and you won’t stop it. You do? And someone else will pick it up. Can’t stop time. And you can’t stop this.”
“Your solution is to be a role model?”
“Same solution as Mr. Fowlers, my math teacher. Teach the truth. Be a role model. Kids who come from money will go on to have money. Kids who don’t, won’t. What’s gonna change that cycle? Nothing. ‘Cept maybe me. Not the police. Not the drugs. But you pick the hill you want to die on, Mr. August, and some hills can’t be conquered.”
“Where’d you hear I was a cop?”
He shrugged and waved the question away. “People talk. Teachers gossip. You stay away from Big Will.”
“I’m not sure I can do that.”
“Well. Then. S’been nice knowing you, Mr. August.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
My cellphone rang at eight. The days were getting shorter, and eight was dark now. Kix and I were rocking and reading Goodnight Moon for the nine hundredth time. I answered the phone.
“Speak to Mackenzie August, please,” the voice said.
“This is your lucky day.”
“Mr. August, this is Adam Moseley. I’m a local attorney and I function as guardian ad litem for Steven Wells. Does the name ring a bell?”
“Little Stevie down the street, sure.” I had the phone pinned between my cheek and shoulder, and Kix was babbling at the book.
“I’m here at the Rescue Mission and so is Steven. He needs a ride home, which I’m happy to provide, but I wondered if you’d mind coming down for a chat. I know this is late,” he said.
“I don’t mind. How can I help? What’s he doing there?”
“He ends up here every few months, looking for his mom. It’s complicated. He’s mentioned you a few times.”
“Be there in twenty minutes.”
“Thanks. I’m in the women and children’s shelter.”
I put Kix into the crib with a handful of books and toys, and I changed out of my sweats into jeans and sneakers. Dad was in his room, still wearing work clothes, lying atop his made bed and watching documentaries on Netflix.
“You always make your bed, huh.”
“We don’t make our bed, we’re no better than savages,” he said. “That’s what separates us.”
“Gotta run out for a few. Keep an ear out for Kix?”
“Certainly. You’re going to see Ronnie?”
“I wish.”
The Rescue Mission was an impressive homeless shelter, in effect, which took up several city blocks off Elm. Cafeteria, classrooms, secondhand store, temporary apartments, bunk rooms, showers — it was quite the operation. I parked in front of the women’s shelter and went in.
The first person I saw was Ronnie. She sat in a rocking chair inside a play area, and she was surrounded by a silent audience of young children. She held a picture book open on her lap and turned pages as she read. Cyrus and the Unsinkable Serpent, by Bill Peet. I read it when I was little. This was the goodnight story for the kids at the shelter.
My heart, the scoundrel, betrayed me and leapt into my throat.
Between pages, Ronnie glanced up to smile at the audience. Her eyes found mine, widened in surprise, and locked on. Our colliding gazes created such heat I’m surprised the kids didn’t notice. I began to melt.
Stevie was standing with Adam Moseley. I’d met Adam once in a courtroom last year, though he didn’t remember. Former Navy JAG, now he owned his own law firm. Thick through the shoulders, strong hands, knuckles like battleships. He was still dressed for a courtroom, sports coat hanging limp in his hand.
“Mr. August, thanks for coming in. Steven says you’re aware of his situation.”
“Some of it.”
He led us to a conference room behind the front desk and the three of us sat. Stevie sat on his hands and stared at his sneakers.
“You’re a big guy. Should play rugby for the local team,” Moseley said.
“No thanks, I like my face.”
“Here’s the deal. I’ve been involved with Steven and his family for three years. I represented his dad but he got ten years anyway.”
“So, you suck.”
“More than you know, but in this case ten years was sheer mercy. Could have been thirty.” He was tired and rubbed his eyes. He had a good voice for bawling orders on a Navy ship, deep and authoritative. “I’ve worked to reunite Steven with his mother but she’s failed four drug tests. Steven is a great kid, deserves a lot better than this, so I’m not giving up.”
“I made the honor roll last year,” Stevie said.
“Atta boy. How can I help?”
“Well, you can’t. Not really. Certainly not officially. But off the books, I’d like as many eyes as I can get on Steven. He’s convinced his mom will show up at the Rescue Mission any day, so he runs the two miles or whatever and gets stuck.”
“Is he allowed to see his mom?” I asked.
“Supervised visits. So not really.”
“He’s welcome at my place any time he wants. Have you met Earl, the foster father?” I asked.
“I have. Good guy, for the most part. Strict disciplinarian, which I like.”
“Drinks too much,” I said.
“They all do. Every damn one of them. But Steven’s got a better situation than most. Which means he’s fed, clothed, and stable.”
Stevie said, “And he’s got an Xbox.”
“If you could ask how he’s doing. Ask about his grades. Ask about school and stuff like that, it’d help Steven out a lot,” Moseley said. “We need eyes, ears, and attention on this young man. Ever see signs of mistreatment, I need to know. Ask to see his report card. He looks hungry, feed him. And, he starts thinking about making a dash for the Rescue Mission? You call me first.”
“Yeah, sure. Happy to. Keep my number handy, if you think of other stuff. Does Earl drive?”
“Yes, but this late he’s already two beers in,” Moseley said.
“I’ll drive Stevie home. He lives a couple houses down.”
“Great.” He stood and glanced at his watch. “I hurry home, I get to listen to my eldest read Harry Potter to the younger two.”
We shook hands and he left.
The play area was empty. Kids gone to bed. No sign of Ronnie.
Argh. Better to have loved and lost, I suppose.
My pulse would relax any minute. Hopefully.
Stevie got into the passenger seat and I drove him up Elm toward Grandin.
“Think your mom’s gonna show up at the Rescue Mission, huh?” I said.
“Hope so. Ain’t seen her since before summer.”
“You’re a good guy, Stevie. All these struggles are going to make you into a strong man, and you’re going to help a lot of people one day. Right?” I said.
“Maybe.”
“What’s going on with your foster brother?”
“He’s joining a gang. Gets beat up and stuff a lot,” Stevie said. Said it matter-of-factly, like the sky is blue.
“Where are his parents? Do you know?”
“No, never ever talks about them.”
I asked, “Want to spend the night with us? Same spare bedroom as last time.”
“No thanks, Mr. August, I like my bed.”
I pulled in front of Earl’s house, a two-story craftsman in need of some TLC. Wild honeysuckle vines choked the gutters, and shutters hung loose. If he spent twenty thousand on restorations it’d be worth a quarter million, which is big money in Roanoke where the living is cheap. Earl sat on the front porch steps. Night had fallen but the house was dark, a single light on upstairs. Stevie got out, and Earl gave me a halfhearted wave.
I watched until Stevie went inside. Couldn’t solve everyone’s problems, I supposed. Sure wished I could. I’d be a role model and teach the truth, like Reginald Willis and Mr. Fowler. Some days, it didn't seem enough. I drove on.
> A red Mercedes was in my driveway. The girl leaning against it lit up the yard. Ronnie was dressed in crimson booties, skinny jeans, and a diaphanous spaghetti strap blouse. Her arms were crossed.
“My apartment is big,” she said. “And empty. And cold. Sometimes I hate going home.”
My throat threatened to constrict and my chest turned icy. Battle stations, all hands.
“Want a drink?”
“You don’t need to entertain me, Mackenzie. I shouldn’t have come here. I’m lonely, is all. I just want to look at you. All I need is to be in a house with people who love each other, even if I don’t belong. I want to smell your couch and your cologne, and… And I don’t know. Just for a few minutes?”
I opened the door for her and held out my hand. “You belong. Come in and smell my couch.”
She laughed, that rosiest of all notes, but her eyes had spilled over. She took my hand in hers and kissed it. I led her to the kitchen. She sat at the wooden table and took shaky breaths.
“I’m sorry, Mackenzie. It’s been…it’s been a long day. A long week.”
“All I have is beer. That okay?”
“Yes. Please.”
I fetched two Oktoberfests, and sat next to her. Put my hand on hers. She flinched but didn’t retract, and she took a long drink.
“Stuff you can talk about?” I asked.
“No. Not really. I’m not even sad, really, more like frustrated. Mad.”
“Family trauma?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Yes, for the most part. Like I told you previously, I’m full of awful secrets and sin.”
“Three of them.”
She nodded and finished the beer. Wow.
I asked, “Want another?”
“No. You’re kind.”
“Damsel in distress, you know. Can’t resist,” I said.
“I’m an attorney, buster. I’m not a damsel. And I’m never in distress.” She cocked her chin upwards.
“It’s reverse sexism to pretend girls are never girls and never experience distress. That creates faulty and impossible standards, like magazine covers.”
“I know. I was kidding.” She emitted a short effeminate burp. “Feminism only carries one so far, I’ve found, in my scant years practicing. I think at the end of the day, we suffer from the same human conditions everyone else does.”