by Tracy Brown
Born saw the pleading look in Chuck’s eyes. The look that said, “I’m innocent. I really didn’t do this.” But something wasn’t right, and Born was determined to get to the bottom of it, by any means necessary. He gun-butted Chuck dead in his jaw, and sent the young man’s bloody spit flying from his mouth.
Jada screamed in shocked surprise, “Born, stop!”
Ignoring Jada’s pleas, Born stood over Chuck, menacingly. “You think I’m fuckin’ playin’?” Born advanced on the young hustler, mercilessly pummeling him with his gun.
Jada cried, tears streaming down her face, while Chuck cried out in pain as he was pistol whipped. She cried for Born to stop, but he was immune to her cries, and continued to beat Chuck savagely.
“Tell me you did it!” Born demanded. “Be a fuckin’ man!”
Omar stood his ground, feeling genuinely sorry for his boy, Chuck. He knew that Chuck wouldn’t steal from Born. But someone had, and Omar knew that there would be hell to pay. Omar said little in Chuck’s defense, since he knew that Born was too powerful and too unpredictable to be questioned about the accuracy of his assumptions. Omar wondered how much had actually been stolen from the stash, since Born was beating Chuck as if he had taken his entire life savings. The beating got more and more vicious, with Chuck curled up in the fetal position to block Born’s blows. He was whimpering in pain, and Born continued beating his ass. “Tell me you did it! Say that you took it!”
Finally, Omar spoke up over Jada’s crying. “Yo, Born, man. That’s enough. You’re gonna kill the nigga.”
Born didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He felt like a man possessed. He kept hitting Chuck with the gun, stomping him with his Timberland boots. He was like an animal uncaged, and he was no longer himself. Chuck spoke through his bloody mouth, “Yo, Born! I swear to God! I never stole from you.”
Born kicked Chuck in his face. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, Born knew that Jada had really been the one stealing from him. That was really why he was so angry. Her car was spotted in Park Hill more and more often. The only stash house that was being stolen from was this one. None of his other spots ever came up short. She was seen acting wild and out of her mind at a party. He knew in his heart of hearts that she was the culprit. That was his motivation for bringing her along on this visit to the hill. He didn’t know how she had gotten to the stash. Maybe Chuck had known all along that she was taking the crack—maybe he was even giving it to her. If that was true, then he deserved this beating. And even if he wasn’t giving it to her, Born reasoned that Chuck should have noticed the shortages sooner. He should have told Born that somebody was stealing the shit. He was convinced that somehow Chuck deserved this ass whipping. But Born really wanted to believe that, if she was indeed the guilty party, she wouldn’t stand there and watch Chuck take such a brutal beating, knowing that she was the real thief among them. But Jada did not confess, and Born continued to fuck Chuck up. “Tell me you did it!” Born’s voice was demanding, almost pleading. He was desperate, desperate to believe that Jada wouldn’t do this to him.
Omar called Born out of his trance. “Born! The nigga might not be breathin’ and shit, nigga. Hold up! Born!”
Finally Born stopped, and stood there panting, out of breath, with his chest heaving. Jada stood close by, with tears flowing like a river down her face. Born stared at Jada. She was traumatized, but Born held her gaze. His facial expression was filled with pain. Chuck was motionless, and Omar shook his head in pity.
“Yo, Born, get up outta here. I’ll take care of this nigga. I’ll get him to the hospital. Just get her outta here and lay low, my nigga.” Omar’s tone was calming, and Born knew he was right. He needed to get out of there before the cops came, and Chuck needed to get to a hospital. The poor guy needed immediate medical attention.
Born turned and snatched Jada roughly by the arm, and led her out of the apartment. They took the stairs two at a time, with Jada still in tears from the vicious scene she’d just seen play out. She was distraught, and Born’s silence only fueled her state of panic. He drove away, eerily silent, his face was set in a deep scowl. Jada was shaken as they arrived back at their house, and they headed inside to the safety of home. Jada plopped down on the couch, crying both for her own indiscretions and for poor Chuck. She hoped the young man survived, because if not, she would die from the guilt. She closed her eyes, realizing that this had gotten way out of control. Born knew that someone was stealing. It was only a matter of time before her name got added to the list of suspects, and she knew she couldn’t lie to him if he asked her. She began to panic, and wished she could call Sunny to tell her what was going on. But Sunny had problems of her own, and Jada had nowhere to turn.
Born went upstairs and changed his bloody clothes. Then he came back down and looked at Jada sitting sadly on the couch. He said nothing for a long time, staring at her as she sat sniffling on the sofa. Finally, he cleared his throat. “I’m going out,” he said. “I’ll be back late, so don’t wait up.”
Jada nodded, and Born left. She was actually glad that he left, since facing him was a difficult task with the amount of guilt she was feeling. She sat still for close to half an hour after Born left, sobbing and realizing that things were way out of hand. She had to get control of herself. After an hour Jada was itching to get rid of the guilty feeling she had inside, and she reached for her purse. She pulled out the crack vials she had stolen from Born, and held them in her hand. She marveled that such a tiny object had brought her such huge problems.
She went to the bathroom, shut the door, and got high. She sucked on the crack pipe and felt her head get light, felt her worries slip away. Piece by piece she felt the pain dissipate, and in its place came peace. By the time she was done smoking, all was right in the world, and she emerged from the bathroom feeling elated like never before.
She walked into the living room and put the radio on full blast. Appropriately, Toni Braxton was singing “You’re Making Me High,” and Jada sang along and danced offbeat. She was laughing at nothing in particular and just picking at her clothes like she saw a stain that was only visible to her. She thought she saw crack lying on the floor, and she panicked. The last thing she wanted was for Born to come home and find that. She bent down to pick it up, and she realized that it wasn’t crack at all. It was only a tiny piece of white paper. She stayed down on the floor, picking at the carpet and hoping to discover small shards of cocaine hidden within the fibers of the carpet. She laughed to herself, though she had no idea what the joke was. She never heard Born come back into the house.
He stood in the living room entranceway staring at the woman he loved. Jada was crawling around on the carpet, laughing insanely to herself, and oblivious to his presence. He watched her, his heart breaking slowly and painfully. The evidence was right before him that Jada had been using his drugs. He thought about Chuck, thought about the heartless beating he had delivered to the innocent young man while Jada looked on and said nothing. Born wanted to die from guilt and regret. He had known, even as he begged Chuck to tell him that he had done it, who the guilty party really was. He knew that Chuck’s refusal to admit it was a sign that the young man really wasn’t lying. Born had wanted to believe that Jada wasn’t capable of betraying him like this. She wouldn’t hurt him like this. Especially because she knew how his father’s drug use had affected him so deeply. He wanted to cry, but he held his emotions in check as he watched her crawl around the room, zooted. She turned, and saw him standing there. He could tell by the look on her face that she knew she had been caught.
Born stood in the doorway staring at her like she was an intruder in his home. Jada was twisted, as she stood to her feet. She was unmistakably high. She was fidgety, moving around, picking at the nonexistent lint on her clothes. But even in her state of mind she could tell that his gaze was scornful. She tried to straighten herself up, tried to appear like she wasn’t high. But her attempt was pointless. Born recognized the signs; he knew the deal. Jada was
so full of energy that she couldn’t keep still. Born stared furiously at the stupid look on her face. He tried to look into her downcast eyes.
“Once a fiend, always a fiend, huh, Jada?” he asked her, rhetorically. “You still a crackhead, baby girl?” The expression on his face was one of pure hurt, pure pain.
She shook her head emphatically and attempted to spread what she hoped would be a seductive smile across her face. Instead, she twisted the corners of her lips into a wicked grin that sent Born’s fury to new heights.
“You’re so cute, baby. Come on, and let’s go to bed.” Jada’s words were slurred, her vision slightly blurry. Born stood staring at her, still.
“Look at you.” He shook his head again, and continued to look at her. Jada was still twisting around, picking at all the lint visible only to her on her Guess jacket. He wanted to cry, but was too much of a man to ever let her see him vulnerable like that. He was too enraged to cry, and give her the satisfaction of seeing that he loved her that much. He was disgusted, and angry. Born kept his distance from her, because he knew that if he put his hands on her, he’d catch a case.
Jada stood there, high as ever, watching the man she loved look at her like she was a disease. That look was so familiar. He looked at her like she was filthy, like she was contaminated and disgusting. Jada had seen that look on the faces of countless men in her lifetime: Mr. Charlie, and all the men she’d fucked for Kelly. But never—never—on Born’s face. And now there it was.
His voice was ice cold as Born frowned and said, “I shoulda known a nigga can’t turn a ho into a housewife. All that talk about you cleaned yourself up, you turned over a new leaf—you was playing me all along.” Born shook his head, distraught. “You’re just another fuckin’ fiend, Jada.”
“Born, what are you talking about? I didn’t do that—”
Born charged at her, and she instinctively shielded her face with her arms, and crouched into a defensive stance against the wall.
“Don ‘t lie to me, you fuckin’ bitch! I already know!” He was close enough to her face that she could feel his breath, and his rage. “Stop fuckin’lying!” He stood with his chest heaving and his adrenaline rushing. “You stole from me, Jada! You lied to me. You made a fuckin’ fool out of me.”
Jada began to cry, and the enormity of the situation became clear. Born knew that she’d been using crack, that she’d been stealing from him, that she had lied to him. It was over, and she wanted so badly to explain. “Born, please listen to me …”
But Born was done talking. And he was so close to crying that he had to get away from her. Born turned and walked out of the house, leaving Jada by herself, and slammed the door in his wake. The entire house shook from the force of him slamming the door. Jada was a mess. Still high, she slid down to the floor and couldn’t stop hearing the sound of Born slamming the door in her head. He had slammed the door on their relationship as well, and it was enough to send her spiraling backward.
28
FALLEN ANGELS
Born went to his mother’s house after finding Jada high. That was his home away from home, and the one place where he knew he could be himself completely. He felt so many emotions at once, and at the forefront of all of those was rage. He was so angry that he walked right past his mother, as she stood washing dishes in the kitchen, and into his old bedroom, where he locked the door and turned his radio up.
The room still looked the same as when he’d been a young man living in his mother’s house. There was always one guest or another—cousins, uncles, and sometimes Born’s own friends—who found it necessary to stay at his mother’s house from time to time. She was always willing to help out a friend in need, and this was one of the many reasons people loved Ingrid Graham. She knocked on his bedroom door twice, and called Marquis by name. But when he ignored her, she walked back into the kitchen and allowed him to have time to himself. She knew her son. She didn’t have to see his face to tell that something was wrong. Marquis would never walk into his mother’s house without giving her a hug or a kiss or saying something slick. Ingrid resumed washing the dishes, and sang along to the Al Green song playing from her portable radio on the counter. She knew that when he calmed down enough to talk, he would come to her.
Born paced his room angrily. He was sick to his stomach, and felt like he might actually throw up. Jada was smoking again. He laughed at himself. How stupid and how blind he must have been not to notice! She was stealing from him. Born shook his head in amazement. He shook his head, because he had known all along. And that realization is what enraged him. Born punched the closet door in frustration, and didn’t give any attention to his throbbing knuckles afterward. A large hole remained in the spot he had punched, and Born covered his face with his hands in exasperation. He was devastated.
Jada, his sweet baby girl. How could she do it? How long had she been doing it? Why did she do it? Why didn’t he confront her sooner? The truth was, Born had noticed a change in Jada’s behavior long ago. He had seen her moods change quickly. She would be sweet and sultry one moment, and then sad and withdrawn the next. In his head, he had wondered all along if she had gone back to cocaine. But his heart wouldn’t let him believe she would hurt him like that, that she would throw away all that they had just so that she could suck on a glass dick. He couldn’t believe that he had played the fool.
And Jamari knew. That meant that Wizz knew, too. In addition to all the emotions he was feeling, he was also terribly embarrassed. He wondered if everybody knew but him. He felt so stupid. They were probably laughing at what a fool he was, Born thought. He wiped the sweat from his forehead as he stood there, still wearing his jacket, and fuming. He just wanted the earth to swallow him up. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a ten-dollar crack rock. He looked at it in the light of his familiar bedroom. Countless times he had bagged this shit up, sold it, gone out of town to move it, gone uptown to get it, and made a living in the trade of it. He thought about his father, then about Jada. This rock, this little pebble-sized piece of cocaine, had ruined the relationship he had with two people he had truly loved. It had taken his father’s life, directly or indirectly. And now, Jada was in its crossfire. He felt a tear fall, and quickly wiped it away. He had to man up, now. It wasn’t time for him to crumble. Born felt in his heart like the game was trying to beat him.
He had always felt as though his father had had the game half right. He could have been a big deal, his pops. Leo Graham was the man, and everybody either feared him or loved him. He wasn’t what one would call a likable guy. He was a menace. But those he loved he took care of, and he had the game almost figured out. He thought he could beat it, thought he could conquer the golden rule of Hustling 101: You can’t get high on the shit you’re pushing. Leo thought he could handle it, and he was dead wrong. This rock Born held in his hand had beaten his father. Jada had thought she could play with fire without getting burned as well. She was stupid and weak, in Born’s eyes at that moment. And to add insult to injury, she had stolen from him. He had given her an all-access pass to his life, his home, and his heart. He had allowed himself to trust her, and to believe in her. And she had repaid him by getting high and stealing from the one person who had ever loved her without boundaries. He still loved her, but he couldn’t get past this, so it was time to let her go.
Born opened the door, and walked into the kitchen, looking for his mother. She wasn’t there. He found her in the living room with her feet up, still listening to Al Green. She was reading a copy of Essence magazine while “I’m Still in Love with You” drifted from the radio’s speakers. He loved coming home to the place where he’d spent his childhood. In-grid still lived in the same apartment that she’d moved into when she came to New York from Georgia in the sixties. When she’d moved into Arlington Terrace, it was a high-rise development, where only the successful middle-class lived. It was a privilege to live there then. But as time went by and hardworking tenants had moved out, crime became commonplace. The exclusivity
the development once boasted of was gone. And Arlington became as hood as any given project in Staten Island. But Ingrid had stayed through it all. She’d watched the neighborhood go from good to bad, and then from bad to worse. But she wasn’t going anywhere.
His mother’s presence gave him a comfort he couldn’t explain. Few people in her apartment complex knew that his mother—one of the community’s elders—was as well versed in the streets as she was. None of them knew that Ingrid had more money hidden in her humble apartment than some folks had in their life savings. Ingrid had money tucked in her kitchen, in her mattress, in a strongbox in her closet, and in a bevy of other places. But she also had money in the bank, a retirement plan, and insurance. She was a hustler, his moms, a smart woman who had watched and learned a lot over the years. And she was down for her son no matter what.
Born sat down in the chair that his father used to love. It was a black recliner that no one really sat in because it was old and worn. But Born sat there every time he came by. It had been his father’s chair. The king’s throne. He sat there now, with the crack vial in his hand, and looked at his mother. He laid it in the center of the coffee table, and Ingrid looked at her son as if he had lost his mind.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Marquis?” She looked over the rim of her glasses at him, like a schoolteacher would. “Why’d you bring that shit in my house?”
He looked at his mother, feeling completely hopeless. He wanted her to explain this shit to him. He needed her to tell him why this was happening to him. Why him? His voice cracked as he spoke. “What is it about that,” he nodded toward the crack on the table, “that makes people hurt the ones they love?” His eyes were really searching hers for the answer.
Ingrid looked at her son, knowing that something serious had happened. She had heard his fist knock a hole in the closet, and she wondered what would prompt him to come into her house this enraged. And what was all this talk about crack?