by Tiana Laveen
“Not necessarily. I have discovered you’ve been rather busy, Mr. Bellmore. I heard you’ve been up to the precinct and threatened someone. You’re not helping your friend by this behavior.”
“Sounds like you care more about how the cops who beat the shit out of my friend are treated than your actual client.”
“That’s not true, Mr. Bellmore. It would behoove you to—”
“Who is helping Darryl Martin then?! I can’t see anyone helping my friend except for me, him, and his wife! I sure as hell am not hurting him, that’s for sure! You obviously are inclined to be open to hear their complaints about me, but you can’t even call me back or give me an update via email. Those police officers got him away from me so they’d have no witnesses while they beat him within an inch of his life! Officer Hank Benson is the ring leader, and I want his badge! If Darryl wasn’t in such good shape and with God on his side, he’d probably be dead. The time that is being wasted, the lack of consideration from the people who are supposed to protect and serve, including you, is unreal. I am not the one that hurt him.” He poked himself in the chest. “And I don’t expect the cops who did this to my friend to help, either. That’s like expecting an alligator not to eat the swimming fish right in front of it. Did you receive the medical information I sent over?”
The attorney emitted a sigh. “Yes, Mr. Bellmore…”
“Good. Did you see that after his examination from not one, but two, doctors, it turned out Darryl had a fractured rib and a cracked bone in his face? The police are trying to say he did that shit to himself. That he was fighting with them and that’s how it happened. What complete and utter bullshit! We need to move on this and you haven’t—”
“We are doing all we can, Mr. Bellmore.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t believe that! In fact, I think you don’t give a damn at all. I was the one doing everything! I called you because you were recommended, and you’re supposed to be the top of the line. I didn’t care how much you charged. I wanted you but what an absolute disappointment you’ve been. You weren’t even at the police station like you were supposed to be. You were late for his court case and I was riding you the whole damn time! What? Is your uncle or nephew a cop, too? Are you biased? Do you think he’s lying? He’s not! I thought money was green!”
“Mr. Bellmore, that’s it. You’ve crossed the line. I am no longer asking you; I am telling you, do not call my office again.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. You’re fired, you lazy, incompetent son of a bitch!” Tristan ended the call, hopped out of the bed, and showered. When he finished, he stood at the bathroom mirror with a shaky hand holding his razor. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and gave himself a pep talk.
I’m just going to get dressed and ready… I am going to keep busy with work… I’ll call Carmen later on today, tell her everything is fine…
He slathered the shaving cream along his jaws and cheeks, but it was difficult to keep the razor steady. Holding back the debilitating emotional pain, he swallowed hard. Not even the music, Maxwell’s, “Pretty Wings,” could soothe him. He leaned into the mirror, seeing himself in a whole new way… a shameful way…
He lowered his head, hating himself for a spell…
Hating himself for shit he didn’t start, things he couldn’t control but somehow felt responsible for.
A slow tear streaked down his face, blending in with the white shaving balm. Flashes of Darryl’s busted face, the way the man had looked when he’d helped him get settled at home, the black and blue bruises on the man’s chest as he undressed before Tristan helped his wife get him to the shower…
The screams of agony when his wife touched him behind closed doors, trying to cleanse him…
Darryl trying to convince him it would be okay…
The man was used to this…
How do you ever get used to this?
Darryl had been through it… his father and mother, brothers and sisters had been through it… his grandfather and grandmother had been through it… and if he should have children, they may go through it, too. It was an American tradition, a Black family’s curse. No one with dark skin made it out alive in Darryl’s world without baptism by pain. Possibly be called a nigger on any given day, or perhaps be followed around in a store, suspected of shoplifting by their mere presence … accused of being ghetto or ignorant by White people who didn’t know them. Made to feel ashamed of their hair texture … be asked to cover, straighten or change it for a job they were accused of receiving due to affirmative action.
It was life. It was day-to-day existence for a non-White person.
How odd to be disgraced for one’s culture, then have that same culture stolen and the parts that suit the thief’s fancy adopted as their own.
Sometimes discrimination happened on a smaller scale, in a less systematic manner. Like maybe an enrolled student was taking a nap on college grounds and the police were called by a White woman who felt threatened by a sleeping Black young lady who simply needed to rest after a long day of studying. Maybe there was some reasonable explanation given to explain the death of a Black autistic child shot by the police?
No… this was a reality that Darryl had accepted. It was normal in his world. The twisted, scaly roots of racism hung tight to a rotting tree, the lines filling with tainted blood, the leaves saturated with never-ending tears, and yet, it bore no fruit. This wasn’t 1952, and yet, how far had they, as a nation, really come? The Selma to Montgomery March and boycotts to fight segregation had been replaced with protests from men carrying tiki torches to keep statues praising men who’d supported slavery intact and on solid ground. Meanwhile, political rallies were filled with the ruddy, impassioned faces of people who held their Bible in one hand as they screamed for a wall that would keep the ‘foreigner’ away to be built.
Carmen had once said to him, “We’re all immigrants, Tristan. Not just to America, but to our very bodies. This is just our physique… our soul has migrated inside of it, but this body means little in the grand scheme of things. We travel not only in the world, but in the past, present, and future. There’s no time to hate when you know who you are… and time is relative. We don’t own it. We’re just a part of it…”
It seemed the clock was going backwards, the hands twisting and turning, spinning fast then slowing down, as if possessed. The wickedness of the past kept rearing its ugly head. The white KKK sheet was tossed off the grandfather clock, cast aside and exposing the evil ones for who they were. But now, they no longer scattered like roaches and hid once the light was flipped. They stood in the forefront, vocal with their ugliness… proud of themselves. They’d been given approval, some sort of strange clearance to behave this way without consequence. Perhaps it was social media—the thing which helped create keyboard thugs and cowardly vigilantes, fueled them to say what they wished to others without consequence. The anonymity became the newest fashion trend…a cloak to protect the blameworthy.
Now, he knew what Darryl had meant when he said, “There’s no justice, man. There’s JUST… US…”
When Darryl had insisted he finally leave, that he go on back home after he’d dropped him off from the jail, that had proved the longest ride of Tristan’s life, though they only lived twenty-five minutes apart from one another. He’d fought the urge to vomit several times during the route, his nerves a fucking mess. When he’d parked in his driveway, he’d noticed the bloody bandage that had been on the man’s eyebrow lying on his back seat. He stood there staring at it for a long, long time…
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” Tristan shrieked, anguish taking a hold of him before tossing the razor across the bathroom. “They can’t get away with this!”
But they’d been getting away with it for years, decades, centuries…
Falling to the floor, his body balled up in a fetal position, he pulled at his hair as Maxwell continued to croon.
“Your pretty wings of love…”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tristan stood in the doorway with his plush, dark emerald robe hanging off one shoulder. The dark hair on his chest was now in stark contrast to his pale complexion, as if he’d been immersed in water for hours on end. The robe exposed a glimpse of his nudity and from the looks of things, he didn’t care. His face was half with stubble and globs of shaving cream here and there, and the other half well-groomed. His eyes were bloodshot and vacant.
Carmen locked gazes with him in an unsaid game of truth or dare. The man offered her neither, so she took control, inviting herself inside. She stepped over the threshold and entered his dwelling, but he remained unnervingly quiet.
“Tristan…”
Her chest swelled as worry consumed her. Placing her hand against his jawbone, she pulled him to her, kissing him. She didn’t care if the shaving cream on his face got in her hair. She wasn’t concerned about anything at that moment except his wellbeing.
He gradually pulled away to go to the kitchen, his movements measured and slow, his feet dragging. The tall, broad-shouldered man, usually so blunt, creative, and persistent was deflated, his hopes and dreams flatlined.
She closed the door behind herself, locked it quietly, then followed him. Marsha Ambrosius’ song, “Without You,” featuring Ne-Yo, played through the speakers. The bass in the song was so loud, so soul grabbing, she felt it deep within.
The man still hadn’t spoken to her, so she slid on a bar stool at the kitchen counter, folded her hands over one another, and simply watched… and waited.
With his back towards her, he took out two glasses from a cabinet and filled them with sparkling water.
“I missed you…” his deep voice finally broke the silence.
“I missed you, too…” She smiled and looked down at the counter, tapping it with her fingertips. “I could feel you were missing, too… missing something inside. I’m so in tune with you, honey.”
She slowly looked up, finding the man’s back still towards her. After a long while, he faced her, as if it was the most difficult thing in the world. Setting one glass in front of her, he took several sips from the other, then put it on the counter. He wore such a gorgeous, tragic smile. His eyes pooled with tears, then the smile turned to laughter, which came unexpectedly but didn’t appear forced—more like a sort of monumental release, like an exhale after a long night of near death experiences. Leaning forward, resting on his arms, he stared at her, eye to eye.
“Everything you said was true. I’ve been sleepwalking, baby. Boy, did I get a wakeup call. Fully alert now!” He shook his head, picked up his glass once again, and polished it with one big gulp. “White boy privilege, huh?”
He stood tall, arrogant and broken all at once. He crossed his arms over his chest and bit on his lower lip as he gazed at her with something seedy, wrong, but oh so right in his eyes.
“Tell me what happened, Tristan.”
“I don’t want to…”
“That’s the wrong answer, Tristan.”
“There’s been a lot of wrong shit goin’ on. I may as well do wrong, too, right?” His brows bunched and a horrific scowl creased his face. “Everything is in reverse. People do what the fuck they want to do when they want to do it. There is no order; only chaos, baby. The lies! The deception! Those are the new procedures. You have to be a big ass liar to get by, right? I’ve been following rules since the day my mother gave birth to me. I was raised to believe that hard work, walking the straight and narrow kept your ass out of trouble… When folks fucked up it wasn’t nobody’s fault but their own! That’s what I was told, that’s what I believed. Wow!” he hollered.
He raised his hands in surrender, his body swaying as pain poured out of him like acid rain from the darkened sky.
“What are rules, anyway? Especially when you can’t even trust the fuckers enforcing them to stand by them. Everyone breaks them and does what the fuck they want. My money, my status, nothing can help make things right! It’s all my fault, so fuck it! Well, I’m about to break some rules, too.”
He stormed off then, going in the direction of his bedroom.
She chased after him, her black ballerina flats beating against the glossy floor. It seemed no matter how fast she went, how quickly she moved, her limbs flowing as if on air, the bull in front of her moved faster. He was tall, bulky… solid… and fast as fuck and he wasn’t even running or sprinting…
He walked at an even pace. Like a volcano, no one could stop him once he erupted. Wale crooned “Bad,” featuring Rihanna; at any other time, the man’s enjoyment of R&B would have tickled her, but she knew in it lay clues as to what he was going through, a map to his heart that was breaking. His bedroom doors swung open and she watched as he snatched up papers from the floor and tossed them onto his nightstand in a frenzy. Grabbing several tissues, he wiped the remaining shaving cream off his face and then tossed them in a stainless-steel trashcan.
“Fuck everybody!” he shouted as he tore his robe off and threw it across the room, too.
“Tristan, what are you talking about? Talk to me! What is this shit about rules and them being broken? What was I right about? Tell me.”
“You said until someone I loved got unfairly fucked over I’d never understand. Well, I know now! The bubble you accused me of being in is officially burst. Darryl was unjustly pulled over by the police and beaten! Broken rib and skull fracture, and the sight in his eye may never be right again!”
“Oh my God…” She gasped, placing her hands up to her mouth in shock. “I’m… I’m so sorry, Tristan.”
She rushed to him and grabbed him. His body was stiff, fighting her, but she wouldn’t let go. In a matter of moments, he gave up struggling and just broke down. His body turning to jelly, he rested his weight against her. The most depraved, harsh, depressing moans escaped his lips, the sobbing echoing throughout the room. The sounds were rough and choppy, as if he cried so few times in life, he wasn’t even certain how to do it. She patted his back, her tears now his, his tears now hers. The agony pooled between them.
“I was with him. It happened this past Saturday. The… the cops didn’t beat him in front of me. They took him away and did their dirty work. Worst of all, Carmen, nobody fuckin’ cares! The fuckin’ lawyer doesn’t care! The cops don’t care! The judge doesn’t care! I’ve called everyone I thought would assist us… I needed to hire another attorney because I had to get rid of the first one but Darryl told me he’d take care of it… I don’t want him to, I have to make this up to him… Who do I turn to? WHO’S GONNA HELP HIM?! I can’t trust anybody anymore, baby!”
“Like hell you can’t! You can trust me.”
He grabbed the fabric of her blouse in his fist, raised his head from her chest, and looked her in the eye. Smiling, he wiped her tears away with his thumb.
“But can you trust me, Carmen?”
She looked at him long and hard, not sure what to say… what words to utter.
I’m a doctor. I make people well… My baby isn’t well right now. He’s emotionally wounded, sick, bleeding from the inside out…
“Yes, Tristan. I can trust you, too.”
“But I don’t deserve your trust, baby. I patronized you, minimalized your feelings. That wasn’t right… I was just trying to help. I didn’t want you to feel like a victim. I was convinced you had the world at your feet and wanted you to believe it, too; but I hurt you. I know that now! I should’ve watched what I said. I should’ve tried to learn! It’s like… you were my final warning before this all went down. It’s almost like God sent you to prepare me for this, but I failed! What good am I if I have a reputation for going after what I need and want, for being persistent, never giving up or letting go—when I can’t even listen?! When I just gotta have the last word?!”
“Baby…” She caressed his face as the tears kept flowing. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
“Why not? I deserve this! I brought this shit on myself! I was duly warned. I’m a know-it-all, rigid,
materialistic, stubborn, too cautious, too judgmental when I need to check my own self sometimes and—”
“Shut up! I don’t want to hear another word of this, Tristan! Stop tearing yourself down because you feel guilty for something you didn’t do! Okay, you were in the car… but you couldn’t stop those cops from doing that to Darryl! That is their fault, and their fault alone! You are not the racist! You believed in the American dream and unfortunately, you see it for what it is now—a dream for some, a nightmare for others. You are a victim of what happened to Darryl, too!”
The man’s lips quivered and she died a million times looking into his eyes.
When was the last time my soldier fell apart? Probably never…
It was apparent now. It took the pain and misfortune of someone he cherished, not his own trials and tribulations, to bring him to his knees.
“Tristan, you told me on the phone when I called you tonight to come over. I asked you where you have been, why you’ve been avoiding me, and you said two words: ‘Please come.’ That was your smoke signal. You’d finally had enough of hurting all on your own. Don’t focus on beating yourself up. It will do neither you nor Darryl any good. Look at your positives, my sexy, sweet, persistent and crazy man!”
He smiled at her, the vein in his forehead prominent as he struggled to keep from having a nervous breakdown right before her eyes.
“Tristan, you’re a lot of man, but your positives far outweigh anything you’ve mentioned and you’ve grown so much since we’ve been dating… You are far more openminded now, and I love that you’ve extended yourself. You’re organized, determined, reliable, funny, loyal to a fault, clever, and tough as nails! I’ve never seen anyone handle adversity like you! You are the definition of taking a lickin’ and keeping on tickin’. The harder something is, the more you are determined to see it through. You need to do this, Tristan.”
“Do what?” He sniffed and dabbed at his eyes with his knuckle.