Guard the Throne

by Nisa Santiago

  “We need to find out who did this shit, Maino,” Chris said.

  “I got my peoples on it right now as we speak. We gonna find these muthafuckas, I promise you that,” Maino said with conviction.

  Chris wiped the tears away from his eyes again.

  “Where’s Citi?” Maino asked.

  “She’s upstairs with Ms. Eloise,” Chris replied.

  “How she holdin’ up?”

  “She fucked-up, man. How you think she holdin’ up? It’s fuckin’ wit’ all of us,” Cane chimed.

  “I know this shit is hard . . . Alonzo, now Curtis. Yo, I want y’all to keep alert out there. This shit ain’t right, but we gonna make it right,” Maino said. He took another pull from his cigarette. He exhaled, looking at the brothers intensely. “How y’all holdin’ up wit’ expenses?”

  “Niggas took it all, cleaned us out,” Chris replied.

  Maino shook his head. “No disrespect, but your father fucked up.”

  “What the fuck you talkin’ about, Maino?” Cane exclaimed.

  “I mean, what the fuck was he thinkin’, for one, not setting up some kind of insurance policy for his kids, and keepin’ his stash where he lay his head? I know Curtis was smarter than that. He became a stickup man’s paradise.”

  “We ain’t tryin’ to hear this shit right now,” Cane said. “What the fuck is your point?”

  “I was just speaking. But, look, I’m gonna step in and help pay for some of his funeral expenses. But y’all little niggas gotta step up now and pull y’all own weight. I’m gonna help out how I can.”

  “We appreciate that, Maino,” Chris said.

  Maino took a few more pulls and flicked his cigarette. He warned the brothers to watch their backs in the streets. “Yo, if y’all need anything, don’t hesitate to give me a call.”

  He climbed into his truck and drove away, leaving Chris and Cane standing at the curve like two pups.

  15

  Queens started to buzz with the news of Curtis’ murder. The brutal murder of a drug kingpin on his daughter’s birthday had made the evening news and was the headline on several newspapers. Those loyal to Curtis wanted war, but the enemy was unseen. The Queens hood was becoming uneasy with tension. The streets were on alert, and police doubled their patrol from corner to corner.

  Citi took her father’s death really hard. She sat for hours alone in Ms. Eloise’s apartment. It was hard for her to eat and sleep. She didn’t want to do anything and would stare out the window for hours on end. Spring weather brought about the blossoming of the flowers and trees, and warm air, but she was trapped in a brutal winter storm without shelter.

  The nightmares were recurring. She couldn’t erase the brutal image of her father’s murder scene from her mind. Some nights, she would wake up screaming and find herself in a cold sweat. It would take hours for Ms. Eloise to calm her down. The tears were endless, and the pain was eternal.

  His funeral was in several days. Citi made no effort to help with the arrangements. Ms. Eloise and Chris handled everything. The only thing she did was mope and cry. Deep inside, she felt at fault. She stole from her father, and it bothered her that the forty grand she took probably played a heavy role in why he was murdered.

  Citi hated herself. She wanted to die too. She wanted them to bury her with Curtis. She sulked in the bedroom next door and hid her pain under pillows and sheets. She would wail for hours. Her spoiled life was transformed into an absorbing daze of anguish and tears that pooled against the pillow she cried on.

  There was a fast knock at the door. She lay still under the sheets in a fetal position like she was in a cocoon.

  The bedroom door opened slowly. Ms. Eloise, clad in her housecoat and house slippers, craned her head inside the room and gazed at the grieving girl. She sighed heavily, entering the bedroom with a mug of hot chocolate in her hand.

  She glided toward Citi and sat at the edge of the bed. The raised lump underneath the sheets was the only indication that Citi was in the room.

  “Citi, here’s a cup of hot chocolate. I know it’s your favorite.”

  No response from Citi.

  “I loved him too, chile. He was a good man.”

  She could hear Citi sobbing underneath the covers. Ms. Eloise placed the mug of hot chocolate on the nightstand. She leaned forward and lightly touched the lump underneath the sheets.

  Ms. Eloise felt the pain too. She had known Curtis for years. He was like a son to her.

  “I wish I could make the pain go away, chile, but it won’t happen overnight. I know the feeling. I remember when I lost Henry fifteen years ago. One day he’s in my world, making me smile and laugh, and loving me every single day, and then next, he’s gone. I miss him. Oh, you were just born when Henry passed. You would have loved him.” Ms. Eloise sighed heavily once more. “One life gone while another life received—it’s the way things work. It’s the way God wants it. And we can’t change it, but we can only accept it and have faith in Him.”

  “Why him? Why he had to die? God didn’t take him away from me; some asshole with a gun took away my daddy,” Citi cried.

  It was a compelling statement.

  “It’s the world we live in, unfortunately,” Ms. Eloise sadly replied.

  “I hate this world! I hate everything about it. I just wanna die wit’ him,” Cit exclaimed.

  “Citi, that’s nonsense talking. You be strong and continue to be strong. Curtis wouldn’t want to see you like this. You’re his princess, and you continue like it.”

  Citi sobbed. “I miss him already, Ms. Eloise.”

  “I know you do. I miss him too.”

  Silence fell upon them in the room. Citi could still be heard sobbing beneath the sheets. She twisted and turned in the bed, still wrapped up in the fetal position and soaking the pillow with her tears.

  “I know you want some time alone, but I’m here if you need anything. I’m family and will always be family to you and your brothers. Remember this, chile, time doesn’t heal all wounds. It’s what you do with that time that will heal you,” Ms. Eloise stated. “I have some smothered pork chops and macaroni in the kitchen, along with my famous chocolate cake, if you get hungry.”

  Citi didn’t respond.

  Ms. Eloise stood up and looked down at the bed. She said a silent prayer, and then she slowly removed herself from the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She wanted to give Citi her time alone.

  ****

  The pews at Mt. Zion Baptist Church on Linden Boulevard was overflowing with mourners from the projects and the streets. The aisles were teeming with people ready to view Curtis’ body, which was laid to rest in a Wellington honey walnut casket. He was dressed in a gray three-piece Armani button-down suit with a stylish blue tie, along with his jewelry and wing-tip shoes. Numerous sympathy flowers, framed pictures of Curtis when he was young and of his age, funeral wreaths, and cross tributes adorned the casket.

  The funeral was a costly $16,000. The kids didn’t have that kind of money lying around to bury their father in the style he would’ve wanted to go out in, so they were forced into selling off their possessions. The flat-screens in the house were pawned off first, along with a few pieces of jewelry, clothing, and anything else of value to sell. After selling off everything they could, the siblings were still short. The rest of the money came from handouts and favors.

  Maino only dropped off five grand to help with the funeral expenses, and he rarely came around. While the children were struggling to bury Curtis, he was getting rich on the streets. He had suggested that they call up a few of Curtis’ old flings and have them come up with the rest. Curtis had put enough money in a few bitches’ pockets and treated them to shopping sprees and gifts, and it was only fair that they helped put him to rest.

  It was a daunting task. Victoria, Lesley, and a bu
sty female named Cindy Mae weren’t easy to persuade. They were all hurt over Curtis’ death, but simply offered to help when Chris damn near begged them to. But with stipulations. They didn’t want any other bitch at Curtis’ funeral. It was an impossible demand, but Chris assured each girl that they would be the only ones there, sitting in the front pew with the family and riding in the limo to the burial site with the family.

  The electric organ played for the teary-eyed mourners. The gangsters and thugs came out in droves, each one ready to pay respects to the deceased, before he was laid to rest in Bayside Cemetery. The line to view the body stretched out to the foyer, and the crowd continued to grow, inside and outside of the church.

  Chris and Cane sat silently in the front pew. The brothers were dressed immaculately in matching black Armani suits and polished shoes. They wanted to represent their father until the end. They had fallen on hard times but refused to show it at their father’s funeral. Cane remained stone-faced, cracking his knuckles repeatedly, disguising his pain, while Chris wiped the few tears trickling down his cheeks.

  Citi sat next to her brothers wearing a sheath dress and four-inch heels, her eyes saturated with tears. It was hard for Citi to see her father lying there, so close to her and not expecting him to get up and console her.

  The mortician did a wonderful job with the body. Curtis looked like himself. He didn’t look like a plastic doll and didn’t appear to be bloated. It seemed that he was just resting comfortably.

  Ms. Eloise sat next to Citi and held her hand throughout the service. She wiped a few tears from her own eyes too. She’d watched him grow up, and then watched his children grow up too. It felt like her son was lying in the casket. It felt like Henry’s death all over again. The days that lay ahead for the family—his children—would be difficult.

  Maino stood in the back of the church with a few of his goons. He was looking suave and dressed in a dark gray YSL suit and handmade David Chu bespoke Italian wing-tips, jewelry on his wrist and around his neck, and a diamond pinky ring on his finger. His expression was stone cold. He didn’t attempt to walk toward the front to view the body. He remained flanked by his two goons and didn’t plan on staying long to hear the service. He only came to show respect.

  The ladies in the church were all looking marvelous. Some were dressed like they were ready to hit the club afterward, clad in skimpy skirts, skin-tight black jeans, high heels, low-cut blouses, and long hair whisking all over the place.

  But the three women who showed up outdoing themselves were Curtis’ exes, Victoria, Cindy Mae, and Lesley. They each strutted down the aisles at different intervals clad in revealing black funeral attire, legs showing, heels click-clacking, breasts pushed up, and dresses highlighting their striking curves. And the showstopper—each lady decided to get Curtis’ name tattooed somewhere on their bodies. Lesley had gotten his name tattooed in script on her right arm. Cindy Mae had a tattoo across the back of her neck in red ink outlined with hearts and flowers. And Victoria had a tattoo in bold italic across her left breast: Love you Curtis, your ride or die bitch forever.

  Folks at the funeral couldn’t believe what they were witnessing. Citi glared over at Victoria and Cindy Mae and had the urge to scratch their eyes out, but Ms. Eloise held her down by her hand and continued to console the hurt child.

  The eye-rolling, snide remarks, crying, and screaming started to begin once the pastor started to say the eulogy. The funeral was becoming dramatic. The packed house fell silent, with only the occasional sniffling and emotional outbreak from a mourner.

  The pastor said to the large gathering, “This is not the end for us. It is only the beginning . . . because there is a special place, a home . . . a wonderful and marvelous home for us that is far away from here when we pass on and depart from here. Curtis, he was loved, and he will continue to be loved and remembered. Some of us might get there sooner and some of us later, but thank God, we will get there!” the pastor shouted. “We will get there!”

  “Amen!” a few people from the crowd shouted.

  The pastor had uplifted the mourners with his words. Some stood up and hollered.

  Citi and her brothers remained unmoved. Citi just sat there with her head lowered and her eyes closed. Cane had revenge on his mind, and Chris was worried about their financial woes. It was the first time in their lives that money was scarce.

  The pastor gazed at the sea of faces. “I know some of y’all would like to say a few words today, so I ask, does anyone want to come up and speak their piece?”

  Victoria was ready to jump up and proclaim her love for Curtis at the podium, but before she could leap from her seat, a woman from the back shouted, “I would like to say a few words about my husband.”

  People instantly turned their attention to the voice.

  The crowd parted as Ashanti paraded herself down the jammed aisle. She was the center of attention, dressed gloriously in a black ruched top and skirt—sleek, yet undeniably feminine. Her black six-inch heels looked like they were lifting her to the church’s ceiling, and her flowing black hair fell around her shoulders like a soft cloud. She was the spitting image of Citi, but only older-looking.

  Ashanti cut her eyes at Curtis’ whores, who sat nestled amongst the people in the pews. Her eyes rested on Citi and her two sons. She hadn’t seen her children in years. Her sons were handsome, and her daughter was so beautiful.

  Ashanti smiled at them, but Citi wasn’t having it. She glared at her mother with disdain and disgust. Chris and Cane remained nonchalant.

  Ashanti stepped up to the podium and stared at the people. She had their undivided attention. The pastor nodded and stepped away. She was quiet for a moment, collecting her thoughts and looking at the ladies who swore they were Curtis’ main lady. She wanted to show and prove she was Curtis’ wife—the woman he truly loved. She smirked at Victoria, making the woman uncomfortable in her seat. She had a few choice words for them other bitches, but decided to save them for later.

  Ashanti started her speech with, “I loved my husband very much, and I still do. We always had something special from the first time we met, until his passing. I loved him dearly, and he loved me just the same. Even though we were separated, Curtis made it his business to come visit me in Harlem on a weekly basis, and we definitely had some special times together.” She smiled at the thought of it then she let out a deep sigh. “Nobody could compare to Curtis. He was so handsome, and his style was remarkable. My boo was a trendsetter. When I first laid eyes on him, I fell in love with him. He used to make me smile and laugh. And, I swear, whoever took that away from me, from us, they’re gonna pay. The streets talk, and his murderers will get dealt with, I promise you that.”

  “They sure will!” someone screamed from the pews.

  Ashanti wiped away the tears that trickled down her pretty face. She then went on to say, “I loved him. He truly understood me. He did. And he gave me four magnificent things that he never gave another woman—three beautiful children and his last name. I was, and I am still a Byrne.”

  Ashanti’s eyes cut toward Victoria and then to the other two whores, who shifted uncomfortably in their seats as she spoke. She smirked at them again.

  Maino couldn’t take the eulogy any longer and decided to made a speedy exit with his goons. He didn’t bother to say good-byes to anyone or give his condolences to the family. There was business to take care of out in the streets, and he couldn’t waste his day around a grieving widow and kids. He felt no remorse for murdering Curtis. Business was business. If Ashanti had the balls to interfere with his business and throw out accusations, then he wouldn’t hesitate to lay the bitch down too.

  Ashanti stepped from behind the podium and walked off the platform. She stared at her three children with soft eyes. Chris and Cane looked at their mother with a deadpan gaze. It was awkward for them, seeing Ashanti after so many years of her being out of
their lives.

  Citi’s disdain and hatred for her mother was evident. She didn’t hide it, not on her face or in her actions. She fought the urge to yell out, Fuck you, bitch! Why are you here? We don’t want you here!

  Ms. Eloise gripped Citi’s hand tightly. She understood the child’s pain and didn’t want an outburst at the funeral.

  Ashanti looked at her children, but she didn’t make an attempt to say anything to them. She felt she’d said what she had to say when she was on the platform, and now wasn’t the time to mend any pain that she had caused her kids. She turned on her heels and walked out the church. She needed a cigarette. She ran into Maino in the foyer, where the two locked eyes for a moment.

  Maino gave her a head nod. “You okay?” he asked.

  Ashanti carried a scowl. “I could be doing much better, but I’m always gonna be okay,” she replied matter-of-factly.

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes, it has.”

  “We should link up and talk.”

  Ashanti chuckled at his suggestion. “Are you really trying to hit on me at my husband’s funeral? Are you serious?”

  “I’m just making small talk, Ashanti. We go way back.”

  “And that don’t mean a damn thing to me.” Ashanti marched out the foyer.

  Maino glared at her, hoping she wasn’t going to be a future problem.

  Inside the church, Citi continued to cry against Ms. Eloise’s shoulder, and the sons sat perfectly still, while half a dozen people stepped up to the podium to say something pleasant about Curtis and share personal memories they had of him.

  The following day, the siblings, along with two-dozen mourners, stood under the rapidly graying sky and watched the groundskeepers place Curtis’ solid honey-walnut wood casket slowly into the ground. The children’s moods matched the overcast sky. Their lives would forever be changed.

  16