by Marc Avery
Redemption Lost
Marc Avery
www.urbanbooks.net
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Dedication
July
September
October
October
December
March
April
April
May
May
June
September
September
September
October
December
December
December
December
January
January
February
February
March
April
April
April
May
June
June
July
July
July
August
September
September
October
October
November
November
November
December
December
December
January
January
January
February
June
August
September
October
October
November
November
November
December
December
January
February
February
March
March
April
April
August - Four months later . . .
August
September
September
October
Epilogue
Urban Books, LLC
300 Farmingdale Road, NY-Route 109
Farmingdale, NY 11735
Redemption Lost
Copyright © 2017 Marc Avery
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-6228-6799-8
First Mass Market Printing March 2017
This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.
Distributed by Kensington Publishing Corp.
Submit Orders to:
Customer Service
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Westminster, MD 21157-4627
Phone: 1-800-733-3000
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Acknowledgments
There is a special group of women who were a huge part of this project:
Special thanks to: Shon Bacon, Locksie Locks, Carla Dean, Brenda Hampton, Ms. Toni Doe, Rakia Clark, English Ruler, Gloria Withers, Venay McKinney, Joyce Dickerson, Leila Jefferson, Shelia Goss, K. L. Brady, Rebecca from Hockessin Book Shelf, Marcela Landres, and Candace Cottrell.
Thank you all for your insight, critique, and expertise. This project wouldn’t have come to fruition without you.
To my wife, Sharmina, thank you for sticking by me through everything, for being a constant positive influence, and listening to me ramble on about books.
I love you, Queen.
To my big brother/business partner/best friend, Keith, we’ve done enough talking; it’s time to make moves. I’m swinging for the fences this time. I want my spot among the greats.
To my agent, Joylynn M. Ross, thank you for getting the deal done. They say timing is everything, and we couldn’t have linked up at a better time. You’re efficient and a woman of your word. I appreciate you and look forward to a prosperous relationship.
Last but not least, thank you, Carl Weber, for giving me a shot and the staff at Urban Books for helping me put this project together.
—MARC AVERY
www.iammarcavery.com
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my cousin,
Danielle “Pebbles” Thomas,
and my grandfather, Jimmy.
May you two rest in peace.
July
I heard my father and mother shouting at each other as I read Screenwriting for Dummies. I threw the book on my bed and rushed downstairs to see what the problem was.
These arguments were becoming a recurring theme lately. Every time my parents argued, my mother went through crazy mood swings. Normally, she gave out hugs and cheek kisses, but Senior had her acting cold and distant. They were so into their argument that they didn’t even notice me standing there at the bottom of the stairs.
“Who is she?” my mother asked with her hands on her wide hips.
Senior smiled and shook his head. “Every day it’s something new with you, Brenda. Don’t you get tired of accusing me of shit? I know I’m sick of it.”
“You come in the house at two in the morning smelling like perfume and liquor, and you’re sick?” She looked at him like he had two heads. “You must have lost your damn mind.”
Senior’s forehead wrinkled in frustration. “I had a few Coronas at the bar. So what? I’m not guilty of anything.”
“Explain this then.” She handed him a letter.
Senior’s eyes grew wide, and he sucked his teeth. “Why did you open my mail?” His voice cracked with emotion.
“What are you guys fighting for?” I asked, jumping into their conversation. This had gone far enough.
“Nothing, Junior. A small misunderstanding between your mother and me,” Senior said, his hands flailing.
“Don’t you lie to him, you son of a bitch,” my mother said.
“Let me be clear,” Senior began, pounding his fist into his palm to emphasize his point. “You wanted to find something, right? Unfortunately, you found what you were looking for. Don’t blame me, Brenda.” He walked off and went toward the steps.
“Can y’all calm down, please?” I asked, looking between them.
My mother’s eyes narrowed to slits, and she followed after him. When Senior went to touch the banister, she grabbed his arm.
He yanked his arm free, and they stared each other down. Soon as Senior turned to go upstairs, my mother pushed him into the stairs.
After he stood up, he got in her face. Nothing could be heard but their heavy breathing.
“What you gonna do now, coward?” my mother asked and smirked.
Without warning, Senior slapped her in the mouth. She stumbled backward and landed on the floor.
In my seventeen years on earth, I had never seen Senior hit my mother. When I saw blood on her lip, I charged at him and knocked into his shoulder. At six foot three and 240 pounds, Senior, had me by two inches and thirty pounds, but I didn’t give a shit. Once he put his hands on my mother, I had to do something.
“What the hell is your problem?” I asked him with my fists balled at my sides. We were nose to nose. I smelled hints of floral-scented perfume. Senior smelling like another woman’s perfume made me sick to my stomach.
“Stay out of grown folks’ business that doesn’t concern you.” He turned his back on me and walked away.
Something deep down inside of me snapped. I pushed him in the back, and he turned around and pushed me in the chest. Out of nowhere, he swung on me. I moved to my left and punched him in the jaw and the side of his head.
He touched his face in disbelief and gritt
ed his teeth. Then, he punched me in the mouth and hit me in the stomach twice.
“You wanna act like an adult? I’ll treat you like one.”
Another punch to the stomach. He knocked the wind out of me, and I tasted blood on my lip.
“You must’ve lost your damn mind,” Senior said, as I held my stomach in pain.
Once I caught my breath, I tackled him and knocked over the couch. I got on top of him and kept punching him in the face until my knuckles were bloody and my hands ached.
I stopped hitting him when my mother put her hand on my shoulder. “That’s enough, Anthony.” She held a kitchen knife in her other hand.
“You need to leave before I call the cops,” she said to Senior in a fearful tone.
While lying on the ground and holding his jaw, Senior said, “I don’t need this shit from either one of you. I’m out of here.” He slowly got off the ground and went upstairs.
I circled the living room in a rage, mumbling to myself. I wanted to kick his ass some more.
“Try to calm down, baby,” my mother said.
After a few minutes, Senior came downstairs with a small suitcase. I got in his face again.
“Wow, so you leaving us now?” I asked and shook my head in disappointment.
At that moment, I hated how much we looked alike. The long eyelashes, naturally curly hair, pointy nose, and light brown skin.
I even hated that we shared the same name, Anthony Edward Porter. I nicknamed him Senior, and he called me Junior. Both nicknames stuck with us over the years.
He shook his head and bit his lip. “You have a lot to learn about respect. I’m your father, and the shit you pulled today should make you ashamed of yourself. I’m not perfect, and neither are you. You remember that when it’s your turn to be judged.” I saw the hurt in his face as his eyes watered. Then he walked out the door. Something told me he was leaving for good.
I watched through the front window as he got into our piece-of-shit Toyota Camry with a donut on the wheel and peeled off up the street. His cologne and the other woman’s perfume lingered in the living room long after he left.
All of his life lessons about family being number one were total bullshit. Obviously, my mother and I weren’t that important because he left us without hesitation.
I went over to my mother who was slumped on the other couch with her chin to her chest.
“What did the letter say?” I put an arm around her and hugged her.
“Senior has another son,” she whispered and let the tears fall.
I was stunned because now I had a baby brother out there in the world. Truthfully, I always wanted a sibling, but not under these circumstances. I was disappointed that Senior stepped out on my mother and had a mistress and another son. He abandoned us, and when he left our house, it was obvious that he chose his other family over us. How did my mother and I become so insignificant?
I wished like hell I could transfer the pain from my mother to me. Knowing Senior cheated was one thing. Seeing proof of his cheating ways pissed me off, and I’m sure my mother would never be the same. I wiped the tears from her cheek with my thumb.
I’m sure I would never be the same again, either.
* * *
Later that morning, a few hours after Senior left the house, I strolled through our tree-lined neighborhood. The sky was pink and orange, and the clouds looked like cotton balls bunched together. The air outside was cool and crisp despite it being July. It was peaceful out there, and taking a walk allowed me to clear my head.
Thinking about Senior, I had so many questions. Why did he cheat on my mother? Did he love us anymore? What would I do the next time I saw him? Would there be a next time? Would we speak again? What would my life become without him?
I circled back around the block and lumbered home. Back inside the house, I stood by my parents’ half-opened bedroom door, eavesdropping on my mother’s phone conversation.
She blamed herself and said she should’ve been more attentive to Senior’s needs. I wanted to rush inside their room and shake her for blaming herself for his bullshit. I grew tired of her making excuses for him. Instead, I let her vent to whoever she was on the phone with and went into my bedroom.
I vowed to make it big in Hollywood so my mother would never again have to depend on a man for shit. She was my responsibility now. On my watch, she would never have to struggle again.
Back in high school, I had to write a screenplay for a class project and found out I enjoyed writing way more than I expected to. By the time I graduated from high school in June, I had finished two crime fiction screenplays, one named Compromised and the other named Cold-Blooded.
At first, I wanted to make some money for myself when I eventually sold the screenplays to somebody. Now with Senior gone, I wanted to make money for me and my mother.
Between Senior abandoning us and my mother blaming herself for his actions, I needed a drink. I grabbed a bottle of vodka out of my nightstand and took it to the head.
My love for vodka started in the eleventh grade. At an unsupervised house party, I got caught in a dare to take shots of liquor. Soon after, I became addicted to drinking.
I hoped the vodka would dull the pain of Senior choosing to be with another family over us.
September
On a breezy Friday afternoon in September, I came back to Philly from New York City. I had enjoyed an all-expense-paid screenwriting retreat courtesy of Senior. It was a gift for having a 4.0 grade point average and being the valedictorian of my graduating class. The pricey two-week trip represented the last meaningful deed the man did for me.
The retreat’s workshops educated me on tightening scenes, eliminating fluff, and finding a unique voice of my own. I soaked up every word and committed every tip to memory. Then, I ate until I had to loosen my belt at the nightly buffet.
After we ate dinner, they allowed us to explore Times Square. The giant billboards. The bright lights. The fleet of Yellow Cabs. The smell of roasted peanuts, gyros, and grilled hot dogs. The people who roamed the streets. All of those things inspired me to write. Sometimes I didn’t sleep a full eight hours because the ideas wouldn’t stop coming to me. Having real-life things to draw from helped me to write things easier. The retreat also gave me the perfect distraction from thinking about Senior’s abuse and him abandoning us.
I got off the cigarette-smelling Greyhound bus feeling stiff. My legs were cramped for most of the ninety-minute bus ride. At least I got to talk to a retired homicide detective. He gave me a lot of insight on police procedure that I used in my screenplay.
After I used the bathroom in the bus station, I walked around the corner and took the regular bus home.
When I walked in the house, I heard my mother talking loudly on the phone upstairs. Then, I noticed a pile of envelopes on the dining-room table. Most of the envelopes said Final Notice in bold red. I looked at the envelopes quizzically because I assumed the bills were being paid.
I hit play to listen to the messages on the answering machine. All five of the voice mails said, “This is an attempt to collect a debt.” I pushed stop on the answering machine and went into the kitchen. Dishes filled the sink, and the trash overflowed in the trash can. Down in the basement, I found clothes all over the floor in the laundry room. Obviously, something was going on.
I went all the way up to my mother’s bedroom and stood by the door to eavesdrop on her conversation.
“I don’t know how long I can keep this a secret. Girl, what the hell am I going to do with another child?”
My eyebrows shot up in surprise. I rushed into her bedroom, and shock crossed her face.
“Leslie, let me call you right back.” She fumbled with her cell phone before ending the call and looking at me. “Anthony, baby, when did you get here?”
Ignoring her question, I asked, “How far along are you?”
She became silent.
I came over and patted her on the shoulder supportively. “I’m here for you.
”
She looked up at me, and her eyes watered. “I’m two and a half months.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked softly.
“I didn’t want to burden you with my problems. Our situation is stressful enough.”
“Your stress is my stress too. I’m a big boy. I can take a lot. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
She nodded. “We’re behind a couple thousand with the bills . . . and a couple months with the mortgage.” She avoided eye contact with me.
I sat next to her on the bed. “Before I left for the retreat, you said we would be okay even though Senior left. Is that still true?” I asked, trying not to think pessimistically.
“Of course, baby. I’m going to figure a way out of this for us. We won’t be down forever.” She grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes. “I promise.”
So far, my mother hadn’t ever lied to me, so I took her words to heart.
I switched subjects. “What happened with the dishes and the laundry room?”
“The truth?”
“Of course.”
“Sometimes your mother can be lazy.”
I pulled her into a hug. “I still love you, though.”
“I love you too, baby.”
In the middle of our tender moment, the electricity cut off.
“I’ll get some candles from downstairs,” I said before I traveled through the darkened hallway.
My mother’s words echoed in my head as I went down the steps. “I’m going to figure a way out of this for us.”
I sure hoped so because we were in a bad spot.
October
Since we didn’t have any electricity, I went to the Free Library with my flash drive and used their computer to edit my screenplays and search for jobs. Because I felt the pressure to step up in Senior’s absence, I stayed at the library from open to close five days out of the week. The majority of the time, I got the, “I regret to inform you . . .” e-mails from employers.
Between our living situation and the nonexistent job opportunities, I was hitting the liquor bottle hard. I’d drink after breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Sometimes, I got lit when I went on the job interviews. My nerves were shot, and vodka calmed me down.