by A. D. Smith
“Hmmm, I’m listening?” she smiles.
“I’ll go scoop my brother right quick, drop him off, and then we’ll meet at my place. Just me and you …”
“But I didn’t—”
“—I’ll call you a taxi and text you the address. All you have to do is say … Yes.”
“YES”
“Now that’s what TNT likes to hear.”
Although I can’t think of her name—besides the mental nickname I’ve given her—we kiss. Several more minutes pass before I finally leave. Martin knows how we roll. Besides, what’s a few more minutes?
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When we reenter the room, Christina looks as if she’s already gone. Her skin is cool to the touch. I collapse beside the bed. It can’t end like this. It just can’t. We’ve been through too much.
“Come on, Zeek. We have to be strong,” Alicia whispers. “We have to.”
I caress my daughter’s tiny hand, but she doesn’t squeeze back this time. Eyes bloodshot red, my body has no more tears to produce. Alicia is silent. Guess even she’s run out of encouraging words.
“There’s gotta be something they can do!” I wail. “There’s gotta be someone!”
“There is,” speaks a voice from behind.
I turn as quickly as my body allows, but my anticipation leaves just as hastily as it arrives.
“There is someone,” repeats Chaplain Bryant. My initial urge is to pound in the man’s cranium, but there’s no fight left in me. Just about hopeless, I rest my head on the stony bed.
“Mr. Myers, are you a man of faith?” he asks me. I sit quietly. In addition to tears and my fight, I have no words left in me either but this man is determined not to leave us in peace.
“I ask that question because some say it helps to talk to her. Give her a reason to live.”
Something in his statement causes me to slightly lift my head. I turn, briefly facing the chaplain, now Alicia. She nods, agreeing. I face little Chrissy, her skin paling by the minute. The machine keeping her alive hums loudly in the still room. Even though my mouth hasn’t any words left, my heart has a few.
“Baby … sweetie … Chrissy,” I begin. “Daddy loves you more than anything in this world. I don’t care what those doctors say. I believe in you. Daddy BELIEVES in you, baby. When you’re ready to open your eyes, you just open them and Daddy will be right here. I promise. Okay baby?” Firmly clinching her hand, Christina still doesn’t move.
“Some would say that makes no sense,” says the chaplain. His comment draws a stern glare from even Alicia. “Some would say that’s crazy,” he continues. “… that she can’t hear you, she doesn’t understand. For all intents and purposes she doesn’t—”
I’ve heard enough. “Look, they don’t know! How can they prove she doesn’t hear me?!”
A confident grin stretches from the chaplain’s mouth. “You know Mr. Myers, that’s the same thing I say when people question the existence of God. I have faith your daughter can get out of that bed—I really do. The question is … do you?”
I offer no answer, disregarding his sly tactics. He shrugs his shoulders as he smiles at Alicia. The two share a slight embrace before he exits the room. Exhausted, my head drops forward, resting between my hands.
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Arnie gives me a good drilling on the way back to the news station. He goes on and on about my unprofessionalism, my complete disregard for protocol—blah, blah, blah. Funny, the topic of nearly being scared out of his pants never comes up when he speaks about unprofessionalism. No matter, I take it all in stride. What’s he gonna do—fire me? Then who’d be his indentured servant?
Too tired to retrieve my bag from the church, I opt to head straight home to bed. Lord knows I need it. Hope A’ma is asleep. I really don’t have the patience to deal with her tonight.
Coming down the hall, I reach for my key until I notice that our door seems slightly ajar. Voices now emit through the paper thin walls. Someone is in there with A’ma. Who could it be at this time of night? It’s not like she has friends, and no one comes to visit me at our apartment. Slowly, I approach the doorway.
It’s a man’s voice—Deacon Nichols? He must have come to drop off my bag—God, no. A’ma’s probably giving him a piece of her mind. My first thought is to run straight in, but something about the way they converse persuades me snoop instead. It almost sounds as if they are familiar with one another. But—but, they hardly know each other?
“My God, Gabriela,” says the Deacon. Concern seems to fill his voice. “Gloria said you’d gotten worse but—what—what can I do?”
“What can you do? I don’t need your pity!” yells A’ma. “You and ya bunch. Nothin’ but phonies and crooks! I didn’t need it then, I don’t need it now!”
I peek through the cracked door. Using her walker, A’ma turns away. She proceeds to a bookshelf in the corner of the room and picks up a pack of cigarettes. Where she got them from, I have no idea, seeing as I threw the last pack I found in the trash.
“Pity?” continues the Deacon. “What are you talking about Gabriela? I never pitied you. YOU were the one—”
Deacon Nichols stops. Their voices have risen quite a bit. He looks around before speaking again. “When Gloria gets back, just tell her I came by to drop off her bag. She left it at the church. Goodbye, Gabriela.”
He turns and heads for the door. Quickly, I duck out the doorway, the floor squeaking as I move into the shadows. It would always let us know when people where out front. Faintly I hear A’ma say, “Running off like you always do, hunh Nichols?”
Like a hook, the question abruptly drags him back into our tiny apartment. Did A’ma see me? I know this woman like no other and everything she does is calculated. Still not sure, I inch back towards the doorway to get a better listen.
“I never ran!” the Deacon shouts. “It was you! It was always you! You were the one embarrassed by your background. Not me! YOU thought you weren’t good enough, but I loved—”
He stops as he notices the direction of A’ma’s eyes. A malicious smile sets across her face. Slowly, Deacon Nichols turns to face me. I can’t take being outside for another moment—figuratively or literally—I have to know what’s going on.
“Gl—Gl—Gloria,” he stutters. “Hi, your mother said you weren’t home.”
“I wasn’t,” I mumble.
“Right, of course. You’re just getting here. Great. Well, guess I’ll—”
“What were you two talking about?” I ask, my voice shaky.
“I … I … just came to drop your bag off, see?” he says, holding up my bag as some sort of evidence. “See? You left it.”
“Stop it!” I shout. “I heard you two. Now tell me what’s going on.”
He looks at A’ma. The vindictive woman takes a seat on the worn-down front room couch, her left hand clutching a half burned cigarette.
“Somebody’s gonna tell me something. Well? Deacon? A’ma?”
The Deacon clears his throat. “Okay, okay Gloria. Me and your mother … we knew each other before you were born—we dated alright? I was a theology student at the university. Your mother worked in the cafeteria. I became very fond of her, even thought about marriage, but we just weren’t on the same page. She always expressed a desire to have children but I wasn’t ready. So instead of compromising or just giving it some time, your mother went out and got pregnant by another man. I was devastated. She moved, changed her phone number, I didn’t hear from her for years. Then out of the blue, you show up at the church I’ve been assigned too. Your mother made sure I knew who you were. But Gloria, even though you weren’t mine, I made sure I took you under my wing.”
I can’t believe it. To think my mother has manipulated my whole religious experience, just as she has everything else in my life. My stomach tightens as disgust fills my bowels. I turn to my—my mother. She’s done some deceitful things before, but this is the worst.
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“A’ma, how could you? Why would you parade me around Deacon Nichols like that, hunh? Just because my father left doesn’t give you the right to try and force another man to fill his shoes.”
A’ma reaches for a pint of vodka underneath the sofa cushion. She’s right. No need to hide anything now. As I watch this pitiful excuse of a human being—I don’t even have to take it as far as being my mother—a loathing spirit overwhelms me. My voice rises as my audible strike intensifies. “It’s no wonder my father left you! Look at you!” Tears mixed with anger, I shout these words at the top of my lungs. “You make me sick!”
“Calm down, Gloria,” says Deacon Nichols. “It’s okay.”
But it’s not okay. All these years I’ve wasted, taking care of a woman who does nothing but lie and manipulate. A woman who has the nerve to force me in her first love’s life, but refuses to tell me of my own father’s whereabouts!
I grab the bag that started this whole episode as I head to the door. “I’m sorry Deacon, I’ve got to get out of—”
“I wouldn’t force another man to fill your father’s shoes, Gloria.”
“What?”
Emotionless, A’ma stares straight at the darkened television screen. She slowly repeats the vague words. “I wouldn’t force another man to fill your father’s shoes, Gloria. He’s quite capable of doing that himself.”
“Wha—What are you talking about?”
“Good story, Nichols,” says A’ma, pulling a drag from the half disintegrated burning stick. “Now, are you ready to tell her the truth?”
“The truth?” frowns the Deacon. “I’m sorry Gabriela, I don’t follow—”
“—Nichols is right. We dated. In fact, we were in love, but he was ashamed of me. Guess I wasn’t American enough—not a good Irish-Catholic church going woman, hunh NICHOLS?!”
I look towards the Deacon, but he says nothing. A’ma takes a swig from her generic bottle before carrying on. “But as those hypocritical zealots love to do, he left out one major part of the story. I didn’t leave him because I got pregnant with another man’s child.” A’ma pauses. She looks me straight in the eye. “He left because I got pregnant with his child … you, Mija.”
I—I—hunh? Can this be true? I look back and forth at these two people in the room I hardly know now and I can’t get a read on either. Both look away, their faces blank.
“That’s right Gloria. Wonder why there’s no pictures up anywhere, why I never talk about your father? You wanna know why I made sure you went to that good fa’ nothin’ church? Because I wanted him to see you. See what he abandoned—he abandoned us, Gloria! He found out I was pregnant and … HE … LEFT!”
I look to the Deacon for answers, but his silence makes no case for denial. Guess I have my answer. “And … and so all this time, you were just being nice to me to make up for being such a horrible father?”
I stare at the very thing that drove my mom over the edge, though David Nichols dare not look me in the eye. It seems likes minutes pass before I can muster up the strength to move. In reality, only seconds go by before I brush past the stranger and into the night.
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“Where are you, T-Mart?”
This has to be the correct address—242 Bering Ave, right here in front of the old abandoned dry-cleaners. No sign of Martin though. Half consumed beer bottles lay scattered throughout the decaying parking lot. Pressed for time, I decide to step out and look around.
“Hello? Is anyone here?” No answer. “Hello? Martin? T-Mart, you here?”
Still, no answer. Cautiously, I search around the deserted building, but there’s no one here. Back outside, I glance up at the intersecting street signs. Bering Avenue and Cross Street. This is definitely it. Man, if that blonde doesn’t show, I’ll kill you, T-Mart.
Having seen enough, I step back inside the Escalade. This is not the type of neighborhood you want to explore in the middle of the night. I decide to give the area one more drive through before getting back to more pressing matters.
A couple suspicious characters line the dark streets. Thankfully, the car locks itself. Frowning mugs stare as I slowly drive down the mostly abandoned avenue.
When I get back, I’ma definitely need a double—something catches my eye. Sneakers lay near the edge of a high field of uncut grass. But not just any kicks. These look like shoes only two people in Memphis possess. My eyes strain to get a better view. Can’t be.
Against better judgment, I park the SUV and hop out to get a closer look.
Before I got hurt, I was on the verge of releasing my first signature shoe. Contracts had been signed, advertising was about to begin, the works. Of course the shoe company postponed the campaign until more clarity was given in response to my return to the field. They gave me a few pairs to tryout and share with friends. I gave a couple pairs to teammates, none of whom were from or reside in Memphis, and one pair to Martin. It hadn’t been my initial intent to share them, but Martin discovered them during one of his unannounced house calls.
“T-Mart—Martin,” I whisper while creeping towards an opening in the grassy field. Moving closer, I get a better view of the colorful shoes. Those are definitely the prototypes for the never released, TNT-330’s
“What the—”
My heart nearly stops. Connected to the shoes is … nothing. I let out a deep sigh of relief before laughing at myself. I don’t know if I should be relieved or mad.
“I’m outta here.”
I hope Brittany—Brenda—man, what was her name? Anyway, hope she’s—THUMP. I trip over a hump in the grass falling to the dampened ground. Not again! This is a $600 shirt! My head starts to spin as the alcohol coursing through my veins announces itself. Feeling particularly smashed now, I slowly make my way to my feet—MY GOD!
The cause of my fall is lying next to me—a body. My eyes widened, gazing upon the figure. Although the face is hidden, by the size and build this—this has to be Martin. Wait a minute … My initial reaction of fear is now countered by assumptions.
“T-Mart?” I nudge my brother with a foot. “High as a kite! I knew it!” The nudging continues, now harder. “Get up! And you bet not get nothing in the truck!” He doesn’t respond. I call again.
I listen for any sounds. Martin usually breathed heavily when he was passed out. Making my way closer, I kneel down. Carefully, I turn him ov—
“AAAAHHHHOWWWWW!!!!”
A stomach churning noise emits from my mouth as I jump back. This is my younger brother. But not as I remember him.
Martin’s face looks aged. His eyes bulge open, almost swollen. Once brown, his pupils have now turned into a faded grey. They stare into the unknown.
He’s dead.
The sight of his eyes is enough to sicken anyone. Blood stains soak his shirt although I can’t determine the source.
He—He’s dead.
“Oh God!” I spit while covering my mouth. Too late. A mix of alcohol and greasy food shoots from my guts up through my mouth. It soils the ground next to me.
“Martin! What happened?!” I can barely stand to look at the body though I eventually gather the nerves to inch closer. Finally, I manage to close his eyes, caressing his head in my lap. Tears flow as I hold his hand. “Damn, Martin. What happened?” I notice an unusually shaped symbol branded on Martin’s wrist. It looks fresh. He had several tattoos but I’ve never seen this one before.
At least not on my brother. Two crowned shaped symbols inverted with a tiny circle in the middle. Low-cut yellow top. But she wouldn’t know Martin. She couldn’t. They’re from two different worlds. What the hell is going on?
“What did you get yourself into Martin?”
A bright light shoots from my chest—my phone. I remove it from my shirt pocket. It reads ‘ Bree’. Low cut-yellow top’s name is Bree. And that’s when it hits me.
“DAMN!!!”
The word scrapes against my throat as I hurl the phone into darkness. “You t
old me to come get you!” I scream as I pull my brother tight. “Martin! Martin, I’m so sorry!”
I can’t remember the last time we embraced though only one of us will share this memory.
My brother—he’s dead.
Chapter 9
The cold air shoots through my skin like piercing needles. My nose begins to run in the bitter night air. I’ve been walking for what seems like miles. Waking up this morning, I had no idea my life would drastically change like this.
I’ve wondered all my life who my father was, if he lives in the same city, if he’s even alive. Now to find out he is alive and he’s someone I’ve known half my life? I should’ve seen the signs. The way he treated me differently from the others, A’ma’s disdain for the church and a man she ‘hardly knew’. It was all right there.
So many thoughts run through my head—pick one—any one. The very least of them would immediately cause water to gush from my eyes. It’s like everything I’ve been taught has been a lie. My family … the church … God.
“Hey, you alright sweet-cakes?”
The whiny voice startles me. I’ve been so busy thinking about my problems I’ve hardly noticed my surroundings. I’m nowhere near my neighborhood and two shifty characters now follow behind me. Quickly glancing back, I increase my pace.
“Hey, I know you hear me sweet-cakes,” again says the whiny voice. That name along with his tone disturbs me. Why does he keep calling me that?
“Now don’t act funny,” he continues. “Jimmy hates that. Ain’t that right, Beef?”
“Yeah,” answers his partner. “Jimmy hates that.”
The clatter of the men’s boots once again increases my cadence. In the horizon is a well-lit corner grocery. If I can just make it up the hill, I tell myself. Preparing my body for an all-out sprint, one of the thugs grabs my arm.
“Let me go!” I yell. “Help!” I call out but no one hears, or at the least, cares.
“Shhh,” says the one named Jimmy as he pulls out a knife.