Flesh and Blood

by Allison Hobbs

  Believing I’d heard wrong, I cocked my head to the side. “You want me to do what?”

  “It’s for the best. You’re going to be serving time for three and a half more years, and our son is going to need a positive male role model in his life.”

  “I can be a role model when I get out of here.”

  “He’ll need a father figure sooner than that. And that’s part of the reason why I’ve decided to marry Everett Wilson. We’re having an intimate wedding ceremony in two weeks.”

  Feeling as if all the air had left my lungs, I gasped. “Everett Wilson! You’re fucking around with your boss?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that crudely,” she replied.

  “How long have you two been involved?” I asked, frowning excessively as I envisioned my fist knocking out his front teeth.

  “A few months.”

  “I always suspected that that sneaky bastard had the hots for you, but every time I mentioned it, you always downplayed my suspicions.”

  “That’s not important anymore, Malik. What’s important is that Everett is a good man. He’s dependable, financially stable, and he loves me. He has stuck by my side at my lowest point when I had to deal with the hurt and embarrassment of canceling our wedding. And when I found out I was pregnant, and didn’t know where to turn, he was there for me. He’s never missed any of my doctor’s appointments, and it was Everett who rejoiced with me the first time I heard the baby’s heartbeat.”

  I felt like standing up and flipping the table over, and I would have if it weren’t soldered to the floor. The next best thing was to pound on the table in outrage, but that kind of outburst would have brought our visit to a quick end and would have landed me in the hole. As I tried to suppress my anger, I could feel the pulse beating in my temples.

  I took a deep breath and tried to reason with Elle. “It’s not like I’ll be serving time forever. I can be a good role model for my son when I get out,” I said with desperation breaking into my voice.

  She stared at me with her mouth pressed into a tight line, letting me know that she wasn’t budging from her position. Frustrated, I raked my fingers down the side of my face.

  “I can’t do it. There’s no way I would ever willingly sign my child over to another man,” I said firmly.

  “You’ve made a wreck of your life, and I don’t want your bad decisions to impact our child in any way.” She paused and gazed at me, as if waiting for me to agree with her.

  I gave her a hard stare, letting her know I wasn’t budging from my position, either.

  She sighed again. “Whether you agree to it or not, Everett will be raising your child. I don’t need your signature for that. I’m putting his name on the birth certificate, ensuring that he’ll be the child’s legal father.”

  “I have rights, Elle. You can’t do this to me,” I said with seething anger.

  “You should put your pride aside and think about what’s best for your son. I know you didn’t deliberately blow up my life, but you did. I know you possess the capacity to love your child, but you and I both know that all you’ll ever do is disappoint him. If you love him and if you ever loved me, do us a favor and stay out of our lives.”

  “You can’t keep my son away from me,” I snarled. “I’m gonna fight for my son. I’m gonna sue you and your bitch-ass boss. I have rights!”

  “I had hoped we could discuss this like rational people, but I see that we can’t,” she said with a tone of finality.

  The idea of her and her arrogant boss trying to take away my parental rights had me clenching my fist under the table. I would have felt so much better if I could’ve punched something: the table, a wall, anything!

  But I had to get a grip on myself or risk being put in isolation for thirty days. I’d heard horror stories about solitary confinement and I definitely didn’t want to spend any time there. Realizing I had to get far away from Elle before I lost control of myself, I stood up and beckoned the guard.

  As I was being escorted from the visitor’s room, I looked over my shoulder and gave Elle the dirtiest look I could muster.

  Back on my cell block, the more I thought about what Elle had asked me to do, the more depressed I became. Most women wanted their child’s father to be active in the kid’s life, but she thought of me as such a lowlife that she didn’t want my child to know that I existed.

  My sense of hopelessness was all-consuming, and I could feel tears starting to well in my eyes. But I couldn’t permit myself to cry around a pack of hardened criminals.

  The C.O. escorted me back to my cell and locked me in, and my way of warding off the tears that threatened to fall was to haul off and bust my cellmate, Louie, in the mouth.

  I released a vile outburst of profanity and swung another punch; this one landed in his gut, doubling him over. Although my tears were imperceptible to the human eye, the intense pain in my heart manifested in an unwarranted act of rage.

  “What’s wrong with you, man?” he sputtered, staring at me in disbelief as blood poured from his lips.

  “I told you about sitting on my bed, motherfucker,” I growled, pointing to a slight crease in the thin blanket that covered the bottom bunk where I slept.

  I wanted to fight, and so I hit Louie with some body blows, but instead of fighting back, his punk-ass yelled for the C.O.

  Ironically, I ended up in the hole for thirty days, after all.

  Thirty days inside a small, crypt-like cell was pure torture. I craved a TV, a radio, a magazine…even one page of a newspaper would have helped to ease my boredom. During my time in the hole, my drug cravings returned—full force. With nothing but time on my hands and nothing to distract me, all of my waking hours were filled with thoughts of getting high again. When I slept, I was tortured with nightmares of my future son calling another man, “Daddy.”

  I emerged from solitary as a broken man, and desperately needed something to ease my emotional suffering. Drugs were rampant in prison and all I had to do was put the word out. I traded my commissary bag for my first hit. I conned my mother into sending me extra money to fund my addiction, telling her that I needed to purchase books and spiritual material to enhance the in-house treatment program.

  Each time I got high, I told myself that I was only doing it to be able to cope with prison life. I also told myself that nodding all day helped me forget my surroundings and made time move faster. After a while, my weight started falling off, and I was walking around with a vacant look in my eyes. Before long, I overdosed on some bad shit.

  Miraculously, I survived again. But after yet another brush with death, this time I had an epiphany.

  I wasn’t fit to be a father.

  A feeling of acceptance washed over me, and I contacted Elle and agreed to sign the papers to give up my parental rights.

  CHAPTER 5

  I went cold turkey in prison and traded my drug habit for a punishing workout regimen in the prison gym. A loner at heart, I kept to myself and stayed out of trouble.

  Three years later, I was released.

  Blending in with joggers, mothers who pushed their babies in strollers, and others who were enjoying a leisurely spring day in the park, I pretended to be engrossed in feeding the pigeons. I was bigger and bulkier from thirty-six months of pushing iron, and with the brim of my cap pulled down to conceal my face, I felt certain that no one would be able to identify me as Malik Copeland, ex-con.

  I checked my watch and at exactly two-fifteen, I turned my attention to the entrance of the park. Like clockwork, three staff members from a prestigious preschool shepherded a group of three-year-olds into the area.

  My son, Phoenix, was among them and I watched him from my peripheral vision.

  For the past two weeks, I’d been stalking him, his mom, and even his so-called father. I knew their routines, and today was a perfect opportunity to snatch my son.

  Phoenix looked so much like me; I could have picked him out of any crowd. And even though he called another man, “Daddy,” I
had no doubt that he and I would develop a natural bond.

  I’d been at my lowest point, both mentally and physically, when I’d signed over my parental rights. Now drug free and of sound mind, I had no choice but to forcibly claim my son. Fighting Elle and Everett in court would be pointless; no judge would rule on the side of a former addict and ex-con.

  My rental car was parked a half-block away from the park. All it would take to start a new life with my son was to take the teachers off guard with a quick grab and a swift sprint to the car.

  With my back to the teachers and the toddlers, I sprinkled bread crumbs on the ground as I slowly inched backward with pigeons following me. Suddenly, I was swarmed by an army of squealing little kids who were fascinated by the birds I was feeding.

  “Look at the birds! Can we feed them?” The children’s voices were a joyful chorus as they scampered around me with outstretched hands.

  Apologizing to me, the teachers hurriedly began gathering up the high-spirited children.

  My plan was foiled and I had no choice but to postpone the abduction of my son. The teachers had their guards up now, and without the element of surprise, my plan wouldn’t work. The teachers were in full “protect the kids” mode and would have screamed their heads off and viciously attacked me if I had attempted to run off with Phoenix.

  “Wait! I want to feed the birds,” insisted a little guy with coconut-brown skin and facial features that were exactly like mine. I didn’t see any of Elle’s characteristics in our son’s face. It seemed as if her genes had been completely obliterated by mine.

  “Please, mister; may I feed them?” he asked politely and articulately.

  Before his teachers could protest and spirit him away, I quickly dug inside the plastic bag that contained the birdfeed and scooped out a handful. I carefully placed the bread crumbs into his small palm.

  That’s when it dawned on me that the bread crumbs were symbolic of what I had to offer him—nothing but crumbs. It would be selfish of me to remove him from his stable lifestyle and force him into the harshness and uncertainty of living life on the run. I had allowed my pride and my ego to get the best of me, but I now realized that the best thing I could do for my son was to walk away.

  Misty-eyed, I gave Phoenix a pat on the head and walked away. When I looked back at him, I saw the most pitiful sight I’d ever seen. My son was standing still with an arm outstretched, like he wanted me to come back and pick him up. He stared at me with tears running from his eyes, crying silently, while sucking his thumb.

  As I turned my back to him and quickly exited the park, I could feel my heart breaking into a thousand pieces.

  • • •

  During my first few months out of prison, I did odd jobs. I drove a delivery truck, worked in the factory of an Italian bread company, and transported disabled people to their medical appointments, but there was no meaningful work for an ex-con. Nothing that paid well or presented a mental challenge.

  I continued to secretly stalk Elle and Phoenix. I couldn’t help it. I needed to know that he was all right and was being treated well by his stepfather.

  One day when Elle caught me spying on her and Phoenix during an outing at the zoo, I had hoped she’d introduce me to my son and allow me to join them.

  But she recoiled and tightly clutched Phoenix’s hand. She threatened me with a restraining order, making it clear that she considered me an irredeemable monster, unfit to come anywhere near her or our son.

  I didn’t need any trouble with the law, and I knew that as long as I was in Philadelphia, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from checking on Elle and Phoenix—the family that should have been mine.

  It was definitely time for me to move on. I remembered that one of the inmates back in prison, a Mexican guy from Arizona named Elias, constantly raved about the great weather there, and he’d told me he could hook me up with a job working for his uncle’s roofing company if I ever thought about relocating.

  I found Elias on Facebook and in-boxed him, asking if the offer still held.

  He assured me that he had a job for me, and a week later I was on a flight to Phoenix. I took it as a good sign that I was relocating to the city that bore my son’s name. I didn’t know anything about roofing, but I’d always been a quick study and was sure I’d catch on easily.

  Phoenix was as good a place as any to try to rebuild my life. Also, living in a place where it didn’t snow was a plus.

  I arrived in Phoenix and quickly found a cheap, furnished apartment. For some unknown reason, the place came equipped with potted plants that I unwittingly agreed to maintain when I signed my lease. It was a good thing the plants were a variety of cacti that required minimal care because I didn’t know the first thing about greenery.

  For the first time in a long while, I felt hopeful that I could put my dark past behind me and look toward a bright future. I was getting yet another second chance, and I made a promise to myself that this time I wouldn’t screw it up.

  I spent my first day sightseeing and getting to know my new city. Although I wouldn’t get to watch my son grow up or participate in his upbringing, I planned to reach out to him when he turned eighteen and let him know that I was his real father. Meanwhile, I had to ignore the ache in my heart and strive for a small amount of personal happiness.

  Before I could even think about starting work with Elias and his uncle, I had to find a nearby Narcotics Anonymous meeting. Drug addiction had taken me to hell and back, and although I’d miraculously survived both death and prison, I dared not take my sobriety for granted. Realizing that I needed support, I did a quick search online and found a meeting at a church that was within walking distance of my apartment.

  At the meeting I took a seat among the group and found myself sandwiched between a skinny, Caucasian teenage boy and a fifty-something Native American man who gave me a head nod while maintaining a stoic expression.

  At nineteen years old, the teenager wasn’t old enough to legally purchase liquor, yet when he shared his story, he admitted that he’d been abusing drugs and alcohol since he was eleven years old. I wondered how in the hell an eleven-year-old kid had gotten access to alcohol and narcotics on a regular basis.

  After the teenage kid finished sharing his sad story of how his addiction had resulted in stints at detention centers and mental health facilities throughout his young life, I immediately thought of Phoenix and prayed that he would have a normal childhood and adolescence, free of addiction. Some said addiction was genetic, and I could only hope that I hadn’t passed on any addict-genes to my innocent child.

  When it was my turn to share, I reluctantly stood up and introduced myself. I intended to keep my story short and only talk about how my addiction had led to my involvement with Kaloni and turned me into a petty thief who stole a lousy shovel and ended up doing hard time. But once I started talking, I couldn’t stop, and I wound up speaking about the education and career that I had thrown away. And I didn’t stop there. I surprised myself when I divulged my painful innermost feelings about losing my fiancée, and signing away the parental rights to my son. I even admitted to relocating, so that I wouldn’t be tempted to kidnap my son. I exposed so much about myself that when I finished sharing, I felt embarrassed for myself.

  The meeting ended and people began to mingle in clusters. Some hovered around the coffee and doughnuts table while others darted outside to take a smoke. Choosing not to hang around, I made a beeline for the exit sign. Someone tapped me on the shoulder and when I turned around, I was surprised to see the Native guy I’d been sitting next to. He was medium height and stocky. A real sturdy-looking, older guy with long black hair that he wore in a ponytail that hung down his back.

  We hadn’t exchanged more than a head nod, and I was curious to know what he wanted.

  “Yeah?” I asked with raised brows.

  “Hello, Malik; my name is Ahiga Greystone,” he said, extending his hand.

  We shook hands and he smiled at me with warmth. />
  “Thank you for sharing your story. Listening to the experience of others is tremendously helpful to everyone in attendance, so please don’t feel as if you made a fool of yourself.”

  “Are you a mind reader?” I asked, chuckling nervously.

  “No, it’s a typical reaction after spilling your guts to a roomful of strangers.” He smiled and crow’s-feet gathered at the corners of his eyes, giving him the look of a wise elder. Something about his calm demeanor put me at ease, and I accepted his invitation to stay a while and have a cup of coffee.

  We began a conversation and he asked in a fatherly way about my financial situation.

  “I’m okay. I start a new job in the morning with a roofing company, and I’ll get paid once a week—under the table.”

  “Good for you,” he said, patting me on the back as he ushered me around the room, introducing me to other members of the group.

  Before I left for home, Ahiga gave me his phone number. “I’m not your official sponsor, but if you ever need to talk, I’m always available to listen.”

  “Thanks, man,” I said, stuffing the piece of paper inside my pocket.

  CHAPTER 6

  The perpetual warmth of Arizona was enjoyable during normal daily activities, but with the sun beating down on my head while climbing up and down a ladder, I felt like I was in hell. I thought the job that Elias had offered would require nailing down a few shingles, but there were a lot more components in replacing a roof than I had ever imagined. It was backbreaking labor and there was a lot of grueling prep work before we even got started.

  Elias, his uncle, and his cousin were accustomed to the heat and weren’t fazed by it. By all appearances, I was in better physical shape than the three of them, but while they joked and laughed as they worked, I gasped and panted from the intensity of the heat. Even though I guzzled down one bottle of water after another, I couldn’t seem to quench my thirst.

  My coworkers spoke in Spanish to each other throughout the course of the day. I occasionally recognized a word or two, but I was no linguist. Unless someone was barking an order to me in English, I was basically left out of the conversations. By the end of the workday, I was sunburned, thirsty, sore, and my head ached from listening to conversations delivered in rapid-fire Spanish that I couldn’t comprehend. My misery was compounded when I was tasked with cleaning up after the job was completed.