by K Elliott
Jamal made eye contact with Dawg.
“Yeah, I had this chick over here the other night. The anklet must have come off while we were doing our thing,” Dawg said, chuckling.
“Why did you bring her over here? Don’t you have your own place?”
“Yeah, I got my own spot, but you know, some of these broads I refuse to let them know where I live.”
“But you’ll bring them over to your boy’s house and mess things up for him and his girl?”
“Hell, that’s what friends are for,” Dawg said, smiling again.
Dream shook her head in disbelief. The story wasn’t logical, but there was no way to prove things didn’t happen the way Jamal and Dawg said they had.
*** “Me and Jamal had our first argument,” Dream told Keisha over the telephone.
“What happened?”
“He said that I was trying to make him soft when we were at to the park the other day. We had a picnic and threw the Frisbee.” She decided not to mention the bracelet incident.
Keisha sighed and replied, “He’s ghetto, that’s all. Ain’t no other way around it.”
“What do you mean? I know he’s kind of rough around the edges, but why do you say he’s ghetto.”
“Ghetto is a state of mind. If you’re used to doing something one particular way, and you aren’t open for change, that can be looked upon as ghetto.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Let me give you an example.”
“Okay,” Dream said, knowing Keisha was going to have something outlandish to say.
“Hmm, let me think,” Keisha said. “I have an aunt who pays all her bills in person instead of mailing them, or even paying them online.”
“Maybe she just wants to make sure the money doesn’t get lost in the mail.”
“Okay, good point,” Keisha said. “Can you tell me why she cashes all her checks at the local check-cashing business and refuses to use a bank, or why she borrows money from those payday-advance places, giving them ridiculous interest on the money?”
“I don’t understand how your aunt relates to Jamal.”
“My aunt doesn’t know any better. Just like Jamal doesn’t know any better for even thinking that hanging out with his girl is making him soft.”
“Your analogy is way off base, but I get your point.”
“Dream, just because he has money that doesn’t mean that he can’t be ghetto.”
“I know.”
“I bet Jamal doesn’t have anything invested. I bet his money is under his mattress somewhere, or stuffed in a storage space, or buried in the ground.”
“You think so?”
“I know so.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s ghetto. He doesn’t know any better.”
Dream laughed.
When Dream got off the phone with Keisha, for the first time she wondered how much money Jamal had and whether it was enough to think about investing. She decided to make it her business to find out if Jamal had thought about investing and securing his money. How would she bring it up to him? How will he react to someone asking about his money? she wondered. She didn’t want to come across as a gold digger, but in the short time she had been with him, she had grown to like him, and cared about his well-being.
*** “Jamal, have you ever thought about investing your money?” she asked, fluffing his sofa pillows.
“Where in the hell did that question come from?”
She walked over and sat beside him on the sofa. “I was just thinking, I don’t know how much money you have, and I really don’t care. But like I said the other day, you need to change your thought process. I’m sure a lot of guys make money in the streets hustling, but they don’t know how to secure it and make it grow.”
“Can we talk about this some other time?”
“I want to talk about it now, Jamal.”
“You want to talk about my money?”
“I don’t want your money. I’m just trying to help.”
“You know what, you need to help those kids you teach. I don’t need nobody telling me what to do with money.”
She looked him in his eyes before turning away. “I’m just thinking about your best interest.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“Remember what we talked about the other day at the park, trying new things?”
“What do you have in mind?” Jamal asked, sighing.
“Basic things, like seeing an investment banker and insuring your property.”
“Insuring my property? Hell I don’t even have life insurance.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Jamal looked her directly in the eyes. “No, I don’t need it. Nothing is going to happen to me, and if it does, I can’t stop fate. Besides, other than my mother, I don’t have any relatives that I’m close to.”
Dream didn’t respond. What he said hadn’t made any sense, but she knew it made perfect sense to him.
*** It was eight o’clock in the morning when Mark arrived at work. In the break room he poured himself a cup of coffee, and on the way out he ran into Jeremiah who was dressed in a suit. Mark figured somebody had died, since Jeremiah wasn’t known for dressing up.
“Where are you going, looking all spiffy?” Mark asked. “I got to testify in court today.”
“Yeah? What trial are you testifying in?”
“The trial of the Stinson Gang.”
Mark took a sip from his coffee. “Are you referring to the
Stinson brothers who were operating in Piedmont Courts housing projects?”
“Yeah, those are the idiots.” Jeremiah replied.
“Is it a big case?”
“Nineteen people got indicted, and we’re trying twelve.”
Mark hadn’t been assigned to the case but remembered the investigation. The Stinson brothers had a little organization with drug connections in New York. The Feds estimated that the brothers were making close to $50,000 a week with the sales of heroin and cocaine, and they had started to sell ecstasy before they were arrested. “Well, I hope the Piedmont Court neighborhood is safer for the rest of the tenants.”
“I doubt very seriously if the neighborhood is safer. Those people live like savages over there. I mean, it stinks and everybody is on crack. They walk around like living zombies.”
Mark frowned. “What do you mean by those people, and how can you use an absolute like everybody over there is on crack? I resent that statement.” Mark turned and walked away.
Jeremiah ran behind him and tapped his shoulder. “I’m sorry if I offended you, man. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Mark faced Jeremiah nose to nose. “You know what? I already felt you were a racist bastard, and you just proved me right.”
“Mark, why are we fighting about some no-good dopers, man? I thought you and me were friends. My goal is the same as yours: to get all the dopers off the street.”
“Your goal is not like mine. My goal is not only to make sure the addicts get treatment, but also to see that the neighborhood is safe for the children and the elderly. These people are my neighbors, my equals. I was taught to love my neighbor as I love myself, but these are the same people who stink to you, Jeremiah,” Mark said.
“Are you trying to say I’m a racist?”
“Already said it.”
“You’ve never heard the N word from me.”
“Racism goes beyond the use of the N word. Racism is your thoughts and actions and not standing up when you see something is wrong, and using terms like those people. I wouldn’t be surprised if you were talking about me behind my back.”
Jeremiah took a step back. “I ain’t got nothing but good things to say about you . . . I mean, you are not like the people in the projects.”
Mark narrowed his eyes. “You just don’t get it, do you?”
CHAPTER 9
T HE CHARLOTTE MECKLENBURG school system resumed from summer break during the third week of August.
Dream had mixed feelings about returning to work. She had missed the atmosphere and the playfulness of the kids, but she hadn’t wanted her summer to end so soon. Spaugh Middle School had undergone some renovations during the summer. The hallways were freshly painted and new lockers had been added. Dream was disappointed when she wasn’t assigned to one of the new classrooms. She was a floater; her classes were held in several different classrooms during the course of the day. The first day was somewhat hectic, meeting all the new students and moving from classroom to classroom. After school she was tired. When she got home, she found a letter from DeVon in the mailbox.
August15, 2002
Dream, baby, I just wanted to let you know I go up for parole in about three months, and my counselor says more than likely I will make it. I should be out around November. I definitely plan to see you again to prove to you that you and I belong together. I think deep inside your heart you know that we are made for each other. We were the ideal couple and trust me, girl, nobody is going to love you the way that I love you. I hope you find it in your heart to come by and see me. You are still on my visiting list. I don’t want to take up too much more of your time.
Love always, DeVon DeVon hadn’t gotten over Dream, and she saw a potential problem arising upon his release. She felt she needed to pay him a visit to let him know that their relationship was over.
*** The correctional officers at White Mountain State Prison stared at Dream strangely when she walked in the door. She was sure they’d remembered the times she had come to see DeVon, but she didn’t care because this would be her last visit. She sat up front near the entrance.
It took DeVon about twenty minutes to come after he was called. He came out smiling, obviously surprised to see her. He was sporting a baldhead and had gained some weight. He looked good, but she hadn’t come to give compliments. She’d come to end their relationship.
“I’m glad you came,” DeVon said, smiling.
“Yeah, I thought it was the least I could do.”
He frowned. “The least you could do. What do you mean?” She took a deep breath. “DeVon, I came to tell you it’s over, and
don’t expect us to get back together when you get out.” “What do you mean, it’s over?”
“I’ve met somebody else.”
“That’s fucked up!” he yelled.
Dream gathered her thoughts before speaking. “Well, after you
threw your little temper tantrum about nothing, and I got a chance to sort my feelings out, that’s when Jamal came into my life.” “Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
He stood from the table and she expected him to make another scene. “The hell with you.” He left and never looked back.
Dream knew she had done the right thing, but she still felt sorry for DeVon; she wanted to call him back and apologize but couldn’t bring herself to do it.
*** Two days had passed since Mark had last spoken with Jeremiah. He had purposely avoided him. He and Jeremiah were not on the same team as far as he was concerned, though they were both fighting to get drugs off the streets. It seemed to Mark that Jeremiah had a hidden agenda. It was obvious that Jeremiah didn’t share the same passion for his work as Mark did. Was Jeremiah wrong for not wanting drug-infested neighborhoods safe? Was he wrong for having an opinion? Mark didn’t want to work with Jeremiah any longer. He had to tell somebody about his uneasiness. He decided to go to his supervisor.
Sherman Owens was the Special Agent in Charge at the Charlotte division of the Drug Enforcement Agency. He was responsible for twenty-five agents. He was a very likable guy who had an open-door policy for his staff. Mark was very fond of him and thought of him as a fair man. At eight o’clock on a Wednesday morning, Mark tapped lightly on Sherman’s door.
“Come in,” Sherman said.
Mark stepped into the office. “Good morning to you, sir.” Sherman smiled. “Good morning, Mark. What brings you in
here?”
“I have a problem,” Mark said.
Sherman’s eyebrows rose. “Please have a seat and let’s talk about
it.”
Mark pulled his chair up to Sherman’s desk. “It’s Jeremiah
Tolliver. I don’t know what his angle is. I don’t know if you
remember or not, but nearly three months ago I was doing
surveillance and called in to the office and asked for help. You sent
Jeremiah out.”
Sherman scratched his head. “Yeah, I think I remember.” “Well, he and I been working on this case together, and I don’t
think we can be effective working with each other.”
“Why not?” Sherman asked. “You both are two of my finest
agents.”
“I ain’t got nothing against his work, it’s just that his views are a
bit extreme, and I just don’t want to deal with them.” “Give me an example,” Sherman said.
“I don’t really have a specific example. He makes little remarks
that I find offensive as a black man. He uses a lot of absolutes and
he plays around with the term those people, referring to people in
housing projects, and he refers to them as savages.”
“I see,” Sherman said, nodding. “Aren’t you working undercover
right now?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“So you guys really don’t see that much of each other anyway.” “You’re right. It’s just something about Jeremiah . . . I can’t quite
put my finger on it.”
“Well, do you think it would help if I talked to him?” “Only if you can’t take him off the case, because I can see major
problems down the road.” Mark stood and the two men shook
hands.
*** One day after school, Dream went to her parents’ house. Janice Nelson was in the dining room having hot tea when Dream walked in. “Have a seat and I’ll fix you a cup of herbal tea, baby. It’s mint flavored,” Janice said.
Dream turned over a cup that had been neatly placed neatly on a saucer on the table.
Janice poured the tea. “How’s school?”
“School’s fine. I have some smart kids this year. The only problem I have is that I haven’t been assigned a homeroom. I’m a floater, and so I have to walk all day.”
Janice sipped her tea. “Why don’t you come over to the high school with your father and me? I’m sure he could at least make sure you get a homeroom, and I know he would like that a lot.”
Dream knew what her mother said was true. She knew it would be easier to get a homeroom if she taught at the high school where her father was principal, but she didn’t want to be there. She wanted to be as independent of her parents as possible. “It’s really not that big of a deal. Besides, I like teaching younger children. High school kids are wild.”
“Yeah, I know those little boys in high school with the raging hormones would be all over you.” Janice laughed.
Dream blew her tea as the steam rose from her cup. “The middle school boys are just as bad.”
“Speaking of boys, where is that Jamal boy?” Janice asked.
“He’s around.”
“I think I liked the jailbird better.”
“You mean, DeVon.”
“You call him what you want to call him, but I’m going to call him the jailbird,” Janice laughed.
*** Jamal had stayed the night at Dream’s house. They made love and he dozed off. Dream stood over him smiling, examining his body. She liked everything about him—from his braids to his tattoos and scars, to which she was especially attracted. She looked at the scar on the side of his back. It looked like a stab wound and was shaped like a diamond. The tattoos were just as appealing. On his arm was a tombstone with RIP Black written in green ink, and on his back was an image of huge knife with a tag hanging from it that read From a friend. It was evident that both of his tattoos had some kind of meaning. She had been curious about them since the firs
t time they’d made love, and she would finally get around to asking him the story behind the wounds and tattoos.
Two hours later he rose from the bed. “Jamal, I have a few questions to ask you, and I hope I don’t offend you.”
He looked at her and wiped the sleep from his eyes. “Whatever you want to know, ask. I don’t have any secrets. What else do you want to know?”
She smiled slightly. “I noticed you have a couple of scars on your stomach and side. Did you get shot or something?”
“I’ve never been shot but I was grazed by a stray bullet when I was twelve.” He had pointed to the wound on his stomach first. “Then when I was seventeen, I got stabbed right here by my mama’s boyfriend.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, the mu’fucka was beating on my mama once when I walked in on them. I had to take it to his ass. When I turned to walk away he pulled out a pocketknife and stabbed me in the side. Opened me up pretty good. I had to get twenty-eight stitches.”
“Did he go to prison?”
“Naw, I dropped the charges because he and Ma got back together.”
“That’s crazy.”
“That’s dysfunctional, but that was how things went down in my household.”
Dream’s eyes stretched with surprise. She could only imagine the kind of pain and suffering Jamal must have endured as a child. She wondered if he was capable of having a functional relationship, or whether she was simply fascinated with his imperfections. “What about your tattoos, what do they represent?”
“I got these while I was on the inside; the one on my back is kind of a metaphor. It represents a friend betraying me, stabbing me in the back. After I was locked up, I found out from Dawg that one of my so-called friends had started fucking my ex-girlfriend.”
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“What about this RIP Black etched on the tombstone on your arm?”
“My homey, Black, got shot by some Jamaicans. It was a case of mistaken identity,” Jamal said with tears forming in his eyes. “I got the tattoo kind of like honoring the nigga because we was cool. We were the same age, and we did a lot together. He was there when I got my first piece of ass, you know what I mean?”