Dirty South

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  A few murmurs of amen.

  I continue walking down the center aisle, unashamed that I’m the only one besides Pastor Hubbs on my feet.

  “The past week has been a time of great reflection. Reflection on the life of this precious soul. Brothers and sisters, I’ve run different words through my mind in preparation of this moment. How to confront the loss of one so young, so precious, with so much more to accomplish. What words to say that might be of comfort to this grieved mother, this grieved brother, words that might help them to carry on.” Pastor Hubbs’s gaze is fixed on me as I walk toward him. His arms are outstretched as if beckoning me to come to him.

  I’m coming.

  “I wish I had some magic words of comfort. Unfortunately, I do not. It will take every ounce of my faith, and yours, to endure this loss. My message to you: Hold to His hand. In this dark hour. Hold to His hand. In the darker hours to come. Hold to His hand. Faith must be both our bridge and shelter.” He stops, wipes the bucket of sweat off his brow with a white-as-snow handkerchief he keeps balled in his fist throughout his sermons. “Oh,” he sings, “we must try not to question this. Not my will, but Thine will be done.”

  I’m twenty paces from the casket.

  I’m close.

  “Jesus is our strength and our redeemer.”

  Fifteen paces away.

  “Our shelter in a time of storm.”

  Ten paces.

  “The Alpha and Omega.”

  Five.

  I pass by Mama on the first pew. Her eyes shine with tears. Eric is at her left shoulder, dressed in black, handsome as ever, but stricken, too. Looks like some illness has gripped him and won’t let go. His skin is lacking color, his shoulders are lacking strength, he looks skinnier than I ever remembered him.

  I’m in a blue dress. Hair done up. More makeup than usual. Teardrop earrings. My grandmother’s antique broach around my slim neck. Mama always promised me that passed-down bling for the day when I got married.

  I look good.

  Always.

  But I look especially good today.

  “We must celebrate her ascension to her eternal rest,” Pastor Hubbs says. “God in His infinite wisdom has called her home.”

  Tears find my eyes as I look into the casket.

  It’s like looking in a mirror.

  I look good, my eyes closed, hands clasped over my chest.

  Peaceful.

  At rest.

  Mama’s in the living room of our place. There are people everywhere. The house carries some good smells. Food mostly. Fried chicken. Collard greens. Apple and coconut pie.

  “Can I do anything for you?” someone asks Mama.

  Mama looks up. Her eyes are dead. “Make it ’73 again. Put on the O’Jay’s “Love Train.” Or pop in a movie. Al Pacino. Serpico. I want to return to that happy time, before I lost my child, my baby girl. Can you do that? Can you do that?”

  No one answers.

  Mama’s voice raises a notch. “Can you do that?”

  Again, no one answers.

  Mama dissolves into tears.

  I hate to see her cry.

  I rush out of there, head past everyone, move out into our backyard.

  Standing against the fence that faces our neighbor, his back to me, is Donnell.

  By himself, a red plastic cup in his hand.

  “Why are you out here by yourself?” I ask.

  Donnell turns sharply, taken surprise by my voice from over his shoulder, I guess.

  “You’re messing this up, Kenya,” he says.

  “What I do?”

  “I’m not supposed to see you.”

  “Just wanted to talk to you.”

  He sighs. “You could have used the phone. You know I’m not supposed to see you.”

  “I’m contrarian. You know that.”

  He frowns. “You’re what?”

  “Contrarian.”

  He shakes his head, smiles. “College did you some good.”

  “No doubt. The best years of my life.”

  “A Delta is what an Ah-ka ain’t…” he chants, surprising me.

  He has an accomplished look on his face, his arms up. I walk to him, straighten the collar on his tuxedo, fall into his embrace. It’s so comfortable in his arms.

  “Boris Kodjoe and Taye Diggs ain’t got nothing on you,” I say.

  He lifts my veil, leans down, kisses me. His lips are full, warm, sensual. Hardly anything in this world can compete with a kiss from Donnell. We kiss for a few minutes. Then, suddenly, I pull away, shoo him off of me like he’s a pesky fly. “You’re gonna ruin my makeup, boy. I want this day to be perfect.”

  “Planned for it like Star Jones.”

  “It has to be perfect,” I say.

  “Close your eyes, Kenya,” Donnell says. “And when you open them, you’ll be my wife.”

  I close my eyes.

  I open my eyes.

  Donnell’s nowhere in sight. Neither is my backyard. I’m in strange surroundings, lying in a bed not my own, covered with a thin white blanket that is as coarse as sandpaper. A soft light is over my head. The smell of Bengay hits my nose. Or is that alcohol? My head is throbbing, mouth is dry and my body aches. A small table on wheels is next to my bed. On it is a pitcher of water, what looks like a television remote, some papers and a bouquet of flowers.

  Pieces of understanding come to me.

  Slowly.

  But it comes just the same.

  I was in an accident.

  “You’re awake. Good timing.”

  The origin of the voice is a thin, freckled woman with reddish hair. She has the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. Despite being thin, her face is full; she has chipmunk cheeks. She’s wearing a white lab coat over a flowery top, has a clipboard in her hands. Short nails on her fingers, no nail polish. She looks like a woman who’d wear nail polish. Something in a plum color.

  “I was at my funeral…then I was getting married,” I manage to say.

  She nods. “Dreaming, Kenya. We’ve given you some pretty strong medicine.”

  “I’m in the hospital.”

  “You are. I’m Dr. Burress. Does your head hurt, Kenya?”

  Right to the questions.

  “No,” I say.

  “Vision at all blurred?”

  “No.”

  She scribbles something on her clipboard.

  “What happened to me?” I ask. “Am I okay?”

  “An accident,” she says. “You don’t remember?”

  “Li’l bit.” I look down at my legs, afraid to try and wiggle my toes, afraid I won’t be able to. “Am I okay?”

  “Don’t think you have a concussion.”

  But I’m in the hospital. My own bed.

  “What do I have?”

  Dr. Burress moves closer to the bed, pours me a cup of water. “Bet your mouth is dry.” She moves the cup by my lips. I lean forward as much as I can, gulp it down in one big swallow.

  “You broke a few ribs,” she says. “We have you immobilized.”

  Touches my stomach.

  I notice the vestlike thing wrapped around me for the first time.

  She goes on. “Lacerated liver.”

  “That…?” I can’t form the words.

  I want to know if I’m going to die.

  “I know it all sounds scary, Kenya. But you’re in good hands. This is one of the best trauma hospitals in the country. You’ll be fine.”

  Trauma?

  “Why am I here?”

  She clears her throat, places her clipboard on the table, next to the water pitcher. I could use another drink of water, but I don’t ask.

  “You have a pneumothorax, Kenya.”

  “English?”

  “A collapsed lung. There are two types. Tension, which is a total collapse of one or both lungs. And simple, which is a partial collapse.”

  The dread in her voice lets me know that neither is a walk in the park.

  “We’ve done chest X-rays. Thankfully
, yours is simple. Not to minimize it, because you’ll have some challenges ahead of you.”

  Challenges?

  “You’ll probably have sharp, stabbing chest pain with your breathing from time to time. That’s known as a pleuritic state. Pain in your shoulders or back is also common. A dry, hacking cough.”

  “I’m gonna live?”

  She smiles. “Yes. Absolutely.”

  “I’m going away to college in a couple of weeks.”

  “Kenya…”

  “No.” I shake my head. “Please don’t tell me…”

  “Kenya…”

  “How long will I be here?” I ask.

  “That I can’t say at the moment,” she says. “We’ll monitor you. Once we have the lung under control, we’ll remove your chest tube, and, barring infection, you should be close to release at that point.”

  Her words come at me seemingly a million miles per hour. But I’m sharp. I catch most things. “Chest tube?”

  She touches my right arm. Rolls the sleeve of my hospital gown up to my shoulder. My eyes start to tear up at the sight.

  She pats me calmly. “We put a small incision under your armpit to feed in the tube. You’re gonna be fine.”

  A million thoughts run through my head.

  I speak only one.

  “Where’s my family, Dr. Burress?”

  Chapter 15

  Eric

  We were all together in the hospital waiting room for family and friends of the patients. Mama and Hollywood were seated next to one another. Hollywood was quieter than usual, rubbing Mama’s shoulder, occasionally whispering in her ear. All the negative thoughts I had regarding him disappeared. I’d never look down my nose at him again. He was calm, caring, everything I ever hoped for in a man for my mama. Everything I hoped for in a father for myself. Sometimes it takes tragedy to bring out the best in people. When Hollywood spotted me watching him, he nodded, pursed his lips in a smile. I nodded in return. But I didn’t smile.

  Mama had finally stopped crying. She sat in a daze, though. I’m not sure she was even aware of anyone in the room besides Hollywood. And that’s only because he was so close to her, was in physical contact. He couldn’t be denied.

  I couldn’t sit myself. I’d burned a hole in the carpet, walked from one end of the room to the next. I was glad no one had told me to sit down. I was glad for a lot.

  Lark, Kenya’s best friend in this entire world, had a Peoplemagazine in her lap. It was open to a story about Janet Jackson’s weight loss, but Lark hadn’t read a single word. She kept glancing down at the page, then looking away. She bounced her knee nervously. Her nerves made my nerves even worse than they were.

  Endia had sent me a text message: Thinking of you.

  Benny had, too: I prayed for her, E.

  Endia’s text was chicken soup for my soul.

  I had someone in my corner.

  Benny’s text almost made my eyes water.

  I’d prayed for her, too.

  Begged God, and made Him promises I was prepared to keep.

  Lark’s leg stopped bouncing. She sat bolt upright in her chair, and her eyes fixed on something across the room.

  I turned.

  A green-eyed white woman, with freckled skin and reddish hair, wearing the warmest of smiles, was standing in the doorway of the waiting room.

  “She’s awake,” she said. “She wants to see you all.”

  No one moved.

  Then someone did.

  Hollywood.

  He stood up, took Mama’s hand, then turned to me and Lark, offered us an outstretched hand.

  The three of us let him guide us to Kenya’s room.

  All of us paused at the threshold, even Hollywood.

  We weren’t sure what awaited us inside.

  I prayed yet again.

  Swollen.

  Kenya’s beautiful face was so swollen. Her eyes were tight; it was obvious she was in incredible pain. Wires and tubes were everywhere. I noticed one tube in particular. It was fed from her armpit. Mama took the hardest breath I’d ever heard. Lark started to cry. Hollywood stood over Kenya’s bed, breathing heavily himself. I stood off in the distance, my emotions in check.

  “Come give your sister some love, Eric,” Kenya said.

  Her mouth was swollen like everything else.

  Words came out muffled. Her words were understandable, but muffled.

  I moved to the bed. My lip trembled. I had a hard time catching my breath.

  I didn’t want Kenya to notice.

  Of course, she did.

  “Breathe, dawg, breathe,” she said.

  Dialogue from Training Day. A Denzel Washington movie. We’d watched it together.

  I smiled.

  “I know,” Kenya said.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t say that. You didn’t do anything.”

  She was right. I hadn’t done anything. That was the problem.

  “All right, no more crying up in here. Everybody get yourselves together.”

  Mama.

  There was a sudden strength to her voice.

  I wiped my eyes. My fingers came back wet. I hadn’t even known I’d shed tears.

  Lark did, too.

  Hollywood cleared something from his throat.

  “God is good,” Mama said. “And this family is strong.” Hollywood’s hand hadn’t left from around her waist since we’d entered the room. “We’re gonna get through this.”

  “I didn’t do this to get out of driving Eric around, I swear,” Kenya said.

  More tears.

  Laughter.

  We would get through this.

  A woman in tan khaki pants and a sophisticated white blouse came in sometime later, interrupted us, asked Mama to step outside with her into the hall. Mama followed her outside. I looked at Hollywood. Lines were formed in his forehead, and his eyes followed Mama’s every move. I recognized that look in his eyes. Love.

  Mama wasn’t outside in the hall for long. She came back in the room, an angry set to her jaw.

  “Everything okay, Mama?”

  “The Devil is a liar.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing?” She waved it off.

  Later, I’d find out the woman who’d pulled Mama outside was with hospital administration. Apparently, Mama’s insurance was somewhat lacking.

  My sister’s care would pose a financial strain.

  I was assigned a very uncomfortable task.

  I was down in the hospital lobby, exchanging text messages with Benny and Endia, while I waited.

  I saw him as soon as he pulled up.

  I took a deep breath as I watched him rushing toward the hospital’s entrance.

  He came in the door like a gust of wind, saw me and almost crumpled.

  “Eric?”

  “She’s okay.”

  His shoulders eased. “I got here as soon as I could. Thanks for calling me, man.”

  “No problem, Donnell.”

  I hated this.

  “So she’s okay?”

  “Broken ribs, lacerated liver, collapsed lung.” Recited what the doctor had recited to us.

  Donnell frowned. “That’s okay?”

  “She’s gonna live,” I said.

  He nodded. “Let’s get up there.”

  I hated this.

  He made a move. I didn’t.

  He saw I hadn’t moved. “Eric?”

  “Don’t even know how to tell you this.”

  That’s all I said.

  He narrowed his eyes. Stood silent. “She doesn’t want to see me?”

  I shook my head. “No. She doesn’t.”

  Chapter 16

  CSI was on. Lark couldn’t care less. She wasn’t the least bit interested. Her television had been dark for days, and she’d turned it on now just to break the monotony of silence in her bedroom. She liked it better silent, so she clicked the television back off. Donovan was still in Jamaica with his parents. They’d spoke
n a few times, but with each call she felt further and further away from him. He’d tried her today; she hadn’t picked up.

  She just wanted to stay in her room by herself.

  No television, phone calls, music, food, showers.

  Was she depressed?

  Lark figured she had to be.

  But who could blame her? Her best friend was…was…not herself. Lark couldn’t think of Kenya as damaged, hurt, wounded or injured. None of those words. Kenya just wasn’t her usual self. Yeah. That sounded all right. Felt okay.

  Sleep.

  That’s what Lark needed. She’d been getting plenty of it, but no matter how many hours she kept her eyes closed, it wasn’t enough. She’d wake up from a five-hour nap and find herself yawning within five minutes. Right back to sleep.

  Sweet dreams.

  At least she’d try for that.

  She closed her eyes.

  Prayed.

  Asked God to make all the pain go away, if just for a little while. Asked Him to make her dream. Sweet dreams. God could be the director, like Spike Lee. She wanted to dream about the Delta party at school. Kenya blowing everybody away with her voice, her performance with Carolina and Tammy. That fine dude, JaMarcus, practically tripping over himself to get up in Kenya’s space.

  The girls looking so fly in cream and crimson.

  A Delta is what an Ah-ka ain’t, what a…

  “You sleep?”

  Lark’s eyes shot open. She squinted against the light that rushed in the room from the hall. Anger bubbled up inside of her. She was a finger’s width from having a sweet dream about Kenya. So close. And her mother ruined it. Typical. Lark felt like running away. Hitting something. Hitting someone.

  Honey.

  Her mother stepped in the room, left the door open behind her, let in light.

  “Brought you some…”

  Honey stopped in her tracks, set the plate of food she’d prepared on Lark’s dresser, moved to the wall, hit the light switch. More light invaded the room. Lark wanted it dark. Didn’t want to see herself, or anyone else, clearly. But she didn’t even bother to cover her eyes against the light. Didn’t have the desire or the strength in her arms.