Baby Huey: A Cautionary Tale of Addiction

by James Henderson

  * * * * *

  Three days before Thanksgiving, a Monday afternoon, rain mixed with sleet falling outside, Blue in the bed snoring, The Price is Right on the television, the smell of those shitty chitterlings permeated the furniture.

  I was bored, actually wishing I was raking leaves, not used to sitting around all day. I eased the door shut behind me, walked to the pay phone in the lobby and called Mama collect. A pleasant surprise, Alfred accepted the call.

  “How you doing, Alfred? Mama asleep?”

  “Yeah, she is. I’m doing fine.”

  “Uh, you didn’t tell her what happened, did you?”

  “I’m afraid I did. Blood on the porch. I couldn’t lie to her.”

  Shit. “How she take it?”

  “Bad, very bad. She got better, but then that boy come over and asked about you. They got to cussing each other when he told her he was gonna do something to you.”

  “Spanky? He come to the house again?”

  “He looks like a Spanky, damned fool. Your mama bought a gun.”

  “What?”

  “Sure did. She waiting and wishing for him to come back.”

  My head started hurting. “Alfred, take care of mama, will you? I know it’s my fault, but don’t let anything happen to her, okay?”

  “I’ll do what I can. Your mama has a gun. I don’t get in the way of a gun.”

  “She’s not going to shoot you, man. You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Uh-huh. Another thing, your wife come here and left you a letter.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Hold on, let me go get it.” He took a while coming back. “It’s in an envelope, you want me to open it?”

  “Yes, Alfred, open it and read it to me.”

  “Hold on, let me get my glasses.”

  I got excited. Doreen had finally discovered the true Dokes, a black militant with a perverse fondness for white furniture. She wanted us to get back together. Dokes’ baby would present a problem…Hell, we’ll give it to a zoo.

  Alfred returned to the phone. “You sure you want me to open it?”

  “Yes, Alfred.”

  I heard paper rumbling and he said, “Top says State of Arkansas. Then it says Divorce Decree. Says Doreen Dough versus John Dough…”

  The phone slipped out of my hand, and I didn’t pick it up.

  Chapter 28

  Blue was still asleep. There was a rock on the dresser, and a small piece in the straight in my hand. I hadn’t smoked in over a month. Blue sat up the second the lighter flicked on. Sheet lines imprinted in her face, she said, “What you doing?”

  I inhaled the smoke, exhaled, and said, “I don’t know.”

  Blue crossed to me, pressed my head to her breast, caressed my neck, then took the pipe out of my hand and hit it. She gave it back and said, “Damn, you were gaining your weight back.” Pause. “You talked to your wife?”

  “No, my stepfather.”

  “And he told you something you didn’t want to hear about your wife?”

  The lighter flicked but didn’t light, the fluid low. “You got a lighter?”

  Blue said, “There’s one in the car. It’s open.” I came back with it and she said, “Your wife the reason you cut your wrist?”

  The smoke went down the wrong pipe, made me cough. “I didn’t cut my wrist. A guy stabbed me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I mean, I was hoping you said your wife. There’s a source for the pain it might pass, at least I would think.”

  “What pain?”

  Blue came over and took the pipe again. “The pain of breathing.”

  * * * * *

  Thanksgiving Day, a smoked turkey sitting in the middle of a cherry oak table, six people including myself sitting around it, Blue, her octogenarian parents, Doyle and Kathy Hunt, and Gene and his wife, Luann, a petite woman wearing too much makeup and too many necklaces over a champagne-colored column dress.

  Blue and I were on a four-day binge, and had smoked a rock in the car before walking up the marble steps to an aqua-green two-story Colonial with brass bars in the front windows. Kathy, in a floral dress with a kimono waist wrap, opened the door and hugged Blue and then me, saying, “Blue, you finally snagged you one.”

  Blue said, “He’s married.”

  “Oh,” her wrinkled face twisting up, rheumy eyes telling me I was no longer welcome.

  She led us across a glossy pinewood floor through the foyer, the living room, well-kept antique furniture there, into the dining room where everyone was waiting.

  Doyle, suspenders over a white shirt and black tuxedo slacks, shook my hand, called me Johnny though Blue told him my name was John. The old boy looked good for his age: eyes bright, good posture, a few wrinkles lining his brow, and a little hair left which he combed forward to cover the shine.

  Gene, in his high-dollar blue business suit, didn’t shake my hand, didn’t acknowledge Blue. His wife hugged Blue, told her she looked good, asked where she bought her clothes, a red vest over a white shirt, red-and-white striped skirt and red shoes. Blue didn’t say. The woman looked me over head to toe, her expression the same as her husband’s, disgusted, but she let it slide, directing her focus and conversation at her inlaws.

  Gene, however, scowled at me as his father said grace, scowled at me as he himself carved the turkey, scowled at me now as he chewed, reminding me of Aunt Jean.

  High, inappropriately dressed in jeans and a black cotton sweater Blue had bought for me, I was ready to go, kept looking at the big grandfather clock in the living room.

  Just like Aunt Jean, Gene wasn’t courteous enough to wait till everyone finished eating before talking shit.

  “John, I seem to have forgotten where you said you worked.”

  Putting me on the spot in front of his folks.

  I didn’t answer, kept lapping up the watery dressing. Now I knew why Blue didn’t have a clue cooking chitterlings.

  Gene harrumphed and Blue said, “He works for David. David McCuen Landscape Service.”

  Gene daintly dabbed the corners of his mouth with a red napkin. “A lawn specialist?”

  I mouthed “Fuck you,” and he threw the napkin at me and stood up, saying, “Don’t you dare talk to me like that in my parent’s house!”

  Luann said, “Gene, honey, sit down. What’s the matter?”

  “He know what he said. He’s pretending he didn’t say it, but he said it.” He had that right. “I don’t want him here. He’s not welcome.”

  Doyle said, “Sit down! Don’t forget where you are. I’m the only one says who’s not welcome here.” Gene sat down, no longer scowling, looking now as if he were ready to kill. Doyle smiled at me and said, “Johnny, you’re welcome here anytime. You’re the first fellow Blue brought by for us to meet. She needs a man in her life, somebody to look after her.”

  Kathy said, “He’s married.”

  The old man’s goiter bobbled up and down in his neck. “Married? What you doing with Blue if you’re married?”

  Blue said, “We’re cohabitating, Daddy. John is from down south, where you grew up, Daddy. Arkansas, next door to Mississippi.”

  Doyle groaned and shook his head, though not hard enough to shake the piece of turkey taped to his bottom lip.

  “I’m not married,” I told him. “I was married three days ago. My wife divorced me.”

  “Are you planning to marry Blue?” Kathy asked.

  “Anything’s possible.” I winked at Blue. “Who knows?”

  “What happened to your wrist?” That was Luann, helping her husband point out the negatives.

  I looked at the scar on my right wrist and said, “A guy stabbed me.” They were all staring at me, Blue smiling. “I witnessed him beat a man with a monkey wrench, told the police on him. He didn’t like that, tried to kill me.”

  Doyle shook his head again, this time sending the piece of meat flying. There was an unco
mfortably long silence, no one eating.

  Gene said, “You and Blue are a perfect match. Both of you are crazy.”

  Later, Blue helped her mother clean up while Doyle and I retreated to the den and watched the Dolphins beat up on the Cowboys. Gene and his wife had gone, leaving abruptly without saying good-bye to anyone.

  During halftime, Toby Keith performing, Doyle sipped Southern Comfort from a flask and said, “Blue is fragile, very fragile. Promise me you won’t break her.”

  I promised him I wouldn’t.

  It was dark when we left with a month’s supply of leftovers. Freezing cold. A sheet of sleet covered the ground but the streets were clear. Blue and I held hands as she drove west on Interstate 70. Passing the Chiefs and Royals stadiums, next door to each other, Blue said, “Thank you, John,” and kissed my hand.

  I didn’t respond, thinking about Doreen, wondering if she told Dokes she loved him, wondering if she danced naked for Dokes, wondering if she and Dokes were still doing it despite her belly getting bigger.

  Blue stopped at the house where she bought the Escatsy pills and came back with a bag full of them. She swallowed a handful, started laughing and kissed me. From there we went to the casino and she played five-dollar blackjack till three in the morning.

  Back in the room, we smoked crack and listened to a Donny Hathaway CD over and over again.

  Blue, bags under her bloodshot eyes, said, “John, you wanna grind?”

  Not really. “If you want to.”

  She lay on the bed. “I sure do.”

  Mid-grind, we both fell asleep.

  It was Friday afternoon when I woke up. Blew had the pillow over her head. I smoked the remaining crack on the dresser, then tried to wake Blue when I discovered I was broke. Shit! She gave me the same catatonic stare as before: her eyes open but not registering a damn thing. I shook her.

  “Blue, you okay?” She didn’t respond. Here we go again!

  Friday night no change, Blue still lying there, my high and the craving to get high all gone, replaced with a dreaded fear that I was sitting there doing nothing while she was dying.

  Saturday morning I shook her again, asked her if she wanted me to call somebody.

  Nothing.

  Her heartbeat was steady, pulse was pulsing, and she was breathing normal. Maybe she wasn’t dying. Maybe she was just tired, needed some rest. Maybe? But who can go days without visiting the pot?

  Monday morning I hopped on the back of David’s truck and decided if Blue wasn’t up when I got back I would call 911 again.

  David got out and said, “Looks like you’re the only one today. Hop up front.” I hadn’t noticed.

  Inside the heat blew out the vents smelling of the pine tree air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, the radio on an oldie rock station, AC/DC wailing Back In Black, ankle-deep trash on the floor.

  David, drinking coffee and chewing tobacco, said, “Your first day I didn’t think you’d work out. Thought I’d have to kick your ass, run you off, call the police. Winter the work slows down, but spring and summer there’s more work than people wanting to.”

  I was thinking Blue wouldn’t have started back getting high if I hadn’t.

  David said, “Spring I plan to run a second truck. Two crews. I’ll need a man to oversee the second crew, weed out those who won’t work. You interested?”

  Wow, a lawn mower straw boss. “Yeah, I’m interested.”

  In the freezing cold David and I laid sod in front of a newly built mansion in Lees Summit, Missouri. By day’s end my fingers and toes had lost all feeling.

  Nearing the room I heard music. Heard Donny Hathaway and Roberta Flack singing The Closer I Get To You and knew that Blue had gotten up. She was in the shower when I walked in, the room cleaned up a bit, the smell of brown beans coming from the crock-pot.

  When she came out I planned to tell her that we were going back on the wagon, this time for good. Presently the bathroom door opened and my mind went blank.

  Blue stood in the doorway stark naked, water darkening her hair a velvet red, water dripping down her firm breasts, water dripping down her taut stomach, water dripping down into the light-brown silk patch between her legs.

  My God, she’s wet!

  Not looking at me, she crossed to the dresser, took a towel out of the top drawer and started drying herself off.

  I cleared my dry throat and said, “Blue?” Man, was she beautiful. “Are you okay?”

  Blue looked in the mirror and caught me staring at her butt, not that big but perfectly shaped. She nodded and then moved to the bed and lay on her back, arms folded across her stomach, legs crossed, eyes closed.

  “I’m ready,” she said, almost a whisper.

  This was so unexpected it took a long moment to determine what she was offering.

  I started snatching off my clothes, forgetting to take my shoes off before removing my pants. Shit! Hopped to the chair, sat down and tried to kick the pants free. Shit! Pulled the pants up, kicked off the right shoe, watched it sail over the bed, hit the wall, and then tried to kick off the left. Shit! It wouldn’t give. Stepped on it with my right foot…still wouldn’t give.

  Slow down, what’s the rush?

  I yanked the shoelace and the damn thing pulled into a knot. Shit, shit, shit!

  Blue might change her mind, put her clothes on and insist we grind--that’s the rush. To hell with it, I thought, limping to the bed with my underwear and pants wrapped around one leg. I stood over her, her eyes clenched shut, admiring her body.

  When I reached to touch her thigh she said, “Do you think you need a condom?”

  “Yeah. Do you have one?”

  Blue shook her head.

  Shit! “Okay. I’ll go get one, okay? Don’t move, okay?” She didn’t respond. “Just stay right there, okay? I’ll be right back. Don’t move!”

  One shoe untied, the other the shoelace in a knot, shirt unbuttoned, pants unzipped, I casually stepped outside and then started running, took the steps four at a time and slid to a stop before Squeaky’s door.

  “You got a rubber?” I said the second he opened up.

  Squeaky, sweating, looked both ways and said, “Naw. I can’t go in bareback, I don’t go.”

  “What?” I heard people inside. “Ask your company if one of em got a rubber.”

  Squeaky closed the door and took a long time before returning. “Naw, nobody got a rubber. Try a drugstore.”

  There was a gas station two blocks away. I started running, making sure not to step on the shoelace that kept whipping out in front. Not yet six and it was already dark, getting colder.

  The gas station man was talking to a customer, an attractive brunette in a mink coat, chatting it up, taking too damn long.

  When she left I told him I wanted to buy a condom and he gave me a funny look and said, “In the bathroom.”

  What?

  He handed me a key welded to a tire iron. People in Missouri don’t take chances with their keys. Above the commode in a dirty bathroom was a condom machine that dispensed two brands of condoms and a Love Kit. I put three quarters in the Rough Rider slot and turned the knob. Nothing. Came back after getting change from the man and tried the French Tickler slot. Same thing. Nothing.

  I went and told the man. He said, “I guess it’s out.”

  No shit. “Don’t you stock it?”

  “Nope. Vendor’s machine. You know your fly open?”

  In my mind I could see Blue stepping into a pair of faded jeans, her favorite, the ones she liked to grind in.

  The gas station man said, “There’s a QuickTrip on Highway Two-Ten. They got condoms.”

  “Where’s it at.”

  “Two miles north the street over.”

  I considered walking back to the room, asking Blue to use her car to go to the QuickTrip. That was risky: she might say, “John, that’s too much trouble. Let’s grind.”

  I started walkin
g, past blocks of warehouses, open fields, railroad tracks, and a large hill with caves that eighteen-wheelers entered and exited.

  The QuickTrip had condoms, all kinds of condoms. Ribbed. Ultra Ribbed. Large. Extra Large. Spermicidal. Lubricated. Ultra Lubricated. Thin. Extra Thin.

  Sheer vanity, I chose Extra Large.

  Almost two hours later I arrived at the room and hesitated before opening the door, wondering if praying for Blue to be naked in bed was blasphemous. God, I hoped she was.

  The room was pitch black. Unusual; Blue kept the bathroom light on day and night.

  I locked the door. “Blue?”

  “Yes.”

  You still naked? “You okay?” She said yes. “I got the condom.” Silence. “I had to go to the QuickTrip.”

  “You walked? You could’ve driven the car. You didn’t have to walk.”

  Put the condom on now or wait till I get in bed? “No problem, I needed the exercise.”

  This time I took my time taking my clothes off, though I had to break the shoelace to remove my left shoe. As quietly as possible I opened the box and took out one condom, for some reason not wanting Blue to hear it.

  I crossed to the bed and said, “Blue, where are you?”

  “Right here.”

  I reached out and, shit, touched cloth. I moaned, and Blue said, “What’s the matter, John?”

  “I should’ve told you this day one. Blue, grinding ain’t…it ain’t natural. It’s not unnatural, but you know, it’s not the real thing. It’s like going to a fancy restaurant and only licking the spoon. It’s like--”

  “John--”

  “--stopping short of the finish line when you’re in the lead. You know what I’m saying?”

  “John, I’m--”

  “It’s frustrating. That’s what I’m trying to say. It’s painful too.”

  “John--”

  “See, a man’s body not designed for revving up and not taking off. Grinding cranks the engine, but that’s it, nothing else. The engine and the transmission need to hook up, grind some gears…Not grind, I mean interlock, interlock smoothly. Get the wheels rolling and let off some steam. You know what I’m saying?”