by Teri Woods
“And the state be giving these children to you?” asked Uncle Ray Ray, as if he needed to write a strongly worded letter to the Department of Human Services.
“Yeah, and?”
“Shit, when they find out, this shit liable to be on the evening news and not you.”
“Look, I’m good to them children, where would they be without me?”
“Probably living with a kind family who would be taking proper care of them and not pocketing state assistance for Jheri curl money,” said Ray Ray, knowing he was starting trouble, as he liked to.
“Don’t worry about my Jheri curl, Ray,” she said, fluffing her Jheri curl mane, looking like Michael Jackson back in the day. “Look, my kids wouldn’t be nowhere if it wasn’t for me,” she said, lighting a Newport. “Shit, I don’t see you in here making a difference in a child’s life, Ray!” she snapped.
“I don’t see you making no difference neither,” he teased her back.
“Shut up,” she said, blowing a spitball from her mouth that she had sat there and rolled between her fingers from a torn corner of a piece of napkin.
“I bet the SPCA won’t even let you have a cat. You know god damn well, she done tricked them people into giving her them kids,” he said to his niece, shaking his head as if it really was a shame.
“You know, your uncle gets on my nerves,” Donna said as she kissed her friend good-bye.
“Bye, Ray,” she said, walking past him and out the door.
“Bye yourself,” he said, watching her twitching her ass from side to side as Beverly closed and locked the door.
“Them people is crazy paying Donna all that good money. I feel sorry for them poor babies. Damn, they need they families bad,” noted Uncle Ray Ray as he sat down in his favorite chair to watch television.
Everything was working out for Beverly and her family. Even though Nard was going to prison, his lawyer said he didn’t expect him to serve more than a three-year sentence. That was a far cry from the rest of his life.
She finished dinner and took Uncle Ray Ray’s plate and set it in the sink.
A banging sound at the door broke her reverie.
“Coming,” she said. Looking out a square window in the middle of the door, she saw her cousin Chris.
“Hey, cousin, is my dad here?”
“Umm, yeah, come on in. He’s in the living room,” said Beverly as she led Chris down the hall.
The three of them filled Chris in on the trial and the verdict.
Beverly made some apple cinnamon spice tea and told him all the details of the trial as they sipped tea in the living room.
Chris was Uncle Ray Ray’s son, and he and Beverly had grown up together. She could remember many days playing endlessly with her cousins as a young child growing up. Her father, Benjamin Guess, whom everyone lovingly called Benny, had died, and Uncle Ray Ray shortly thereafter needed a place to stay. Having four sons didn’t help his situation, as none of his own children were in a position to care for him. And unfortunately, they could barely take care of themselves. Raymond, Jr., his oldest, was currently serving time in prison. And Ralph was living with his girlfriend in her mother’s basement. Charlie was shacked up with his girlfriend of fifteen years. And while he owned his home and was the only one out of the four who had his life together, he had no room or ability to care for his father. His girlfriend, Karen, came with two children, and over the past fifteen years, she had managed to have six more, for a total of eight kids, who were worse than Bey Bey kids themselves. And then there was Chris, the youngest of Uncle’s Ray’s children, and while everyone believed he had turned out to be the most promising, no one had yet discovered that Chris had developed a terrible addiction to smoking cocaine.
“Jesus, Lord almighty, I don’t know what to say,” he said, shaking his head as he sat down in his favorite recliner, looking at his lottery tickets. “It’s always something, ain’t that girl supposed to be staying here? What’s her name, with that baby she got?”
“Crystal?” asked Beverly, knowing who he was speaking of.
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“She said she was going to get some more clothes and would be back later on.”
“Lord have mercy, that baby of hers just cries all night long.”
“Really, I heard nothing.”
“Umm, Dad, can I talk to you for a minute in the kitchen?” asked Chris, his adrenaline pumping at the thought of getting some money in his sweaty palms.
“Whatever it is that you want to talk about doesn’t have anything to do with my money, does it?” asked Uncle Ray Ray, just about tired of Chris taking his pocket money. “’Cause if it is, I don’t think we need to be conversating no more.”
Before Chris could speak, the front door opened and Crystal made her way inside, toting the baby, a baby bag, and a small duffel bag filled with more of her things.
“I’m here,” she called out in the foyer.
“We’re in here,” called out Beverly from the living room.
Uncle Ray Ray got up out of his chair to follow Chris into the kitchen, just as a bullet shattered the living room window, followed by a second, then a third, and what appeared to be a shower of gunfire, a barrage of bullets spraying the house.
“Oh, my God!” screamed Crystal, holding the baby.
“GET DOWN!” yelled Uncle Ray Ray, immediately dropping to the floor. “GET DOWN ON THE FLOOR, NOW!”
Everyone’s instincts for safety seemed to follow Uncle Ray Ray’s command and they all ducked for safety behind walls, furniture, and whatever they could. Chris dove into the kitchen headfirst like a runner diving for home plate. Crystal fell to the floor, her baby screaming as she cupped her underneath her body as best she could. Uncle Ray Ray slithered behind his trusty recliner, and just as the bullets stopped, a car engine could be heard as tires screeched down the block.
“Beverly, you okay?” asked Uncle Ray Ray, noticing that Beverly was still sitting upright on the sofa as if nothing had happened. Ray saw the whites of her eyes as they shut, and then, slowly, she slumped to the side and rolled off the sofa and onto the floor. The first bullet that had come through the left window had grazed the back of her head as the bullet passed her, piercing the wall behind her. Beverly never had a chance to take cover. The only thing that saved her was angle and location. A few more inches to the right and Beverly would have been shot in the center of the head. The second bullet hit her in the back above her shoulder blade, lodging inside.
“Beverly!” Uncle Ray Ray yelled. He got up quickly and ran over to her side as everyone in the house could hear the drive-by’s tires screeching down the block.
“Oh, my God!” screamed Crystal, still cradling a crying Dayanna through all the commotion.
“Call 911!” yelled Uncle Ray Ray to Chris, who was standing there in shock. “Call 911, I said, don’t just stand there,” he yelled at his son again. The sight of blood stopped Chris dead in his tracks and he couldn’t move. All he could see was the dark black blood soaking his father’s shirt.
“Chris, call 911, I said!” Uncle Ray Ray hollered as Crystal, still cradling a screaming baby, dialed 911.
“I need an ambulance, Ms. Beverly’s been shot, please, please send somebody quick, I don’t think she’s breathing, she don’t look like she’s breathing,” screamed a sobbing Crystal, her nerves shaking as she nervously held the phone and spoke to the 911 operator. Of course the 911 operator began to ask a series of questions, and Crystal could be heard answering with a series of I don’t knows.
“Is they sending an ambulance?” questioned Uncle Ray Ray, holding Beverly in his arms.
“Yeah, the lady says one is coming, it’s on the way.”
“Chris, what the hell you standing there for like a frozen statue? Boy, get your ass upstairs and get me some towels out the closet. We got to do something to try and stop all this bleeding,” said Ray Ray, covered in the dark black blood that was coming from his niece’s head wound and the back of her s
houlder.
It would be another fifteen minutes and two more 911 calls before the police or an ambulance would arrive. But finally, they stormed into the house all at the same time. Uncle Ray Ray broke down at the sight of the paramedics preparing Beverly’s body for transport. The room fell silent as they gently lifted her body onto the gurney and rolled her into the back of an ambulance.
“Don’t let her die, God. Don’t let her die,” Crystal whispered between sobs. A bloody Ray Ray answered a few questions before being offered a ride to Temple Hospital. The entire block was standing outside, eyewitnesses to all the commotion.
“Don’t worry, Ray, she’ll be all right,” shouted Clarence from his porch. Ray just waved his hand at everybody. I sure do hope so.
Tommy and Vivian were seated in the back of Carmen’s, an Italian restaurant located down in South Philly. Carmen Pangione had been in the food business all his life. He started with a small hoagie shop called Rocco’s. He invented the chicken a la Rocco’s hoagie and sold them all day long in the Reading Terminal Market, making himself a very rich man.
“Hey, guys, good to see you two. How you been, Tommy, how’s the family?” asked Carmen as he greeted them both, hugging and kissing Vivian, then doing the same to Tommy.
“Everybody’s good, Carmen, how’s everybody doing? How’s your wife and kids?”
“Everybody’s wonderful. You want a bottle of wine, let me get you something real nice, on the house,” he said, patting Tommy on the back. “Get my friends here a bottle of water for their table,” he ordered as he rushed off to his wine cellar to fetch a real good year. Within a matter of minutes he was back holding two round wineglasses and a bottle of Fontalloro Felsina in his hand. “For you, Tommy, anything you need, you just let me know.”
“Thanks, Carmen,” said Tommy nonchalantly, as if the extra-nice treatment were completely normal.
“Wow, now he gets an A plus for service, I’d say,” chimed Vivian.
“An old friend of my family,” said Tommy. “He watched me grow up. You know how it is,” assured Tommy. “Trust me, as long as I’ve known Carmen, that guy will be dancing at my wedding with bells on,” smiled Tommy.
Vivian thought of her wedding day. He did say he’d get the ring. Then again, maybe this is all too soon for him. Maybe he can’t handle all this. Maybe I shouldn’t tell him about the baby. But, he needs to know, it’s his baby, too.
“What’s the matter, you don’t like the wine?”
“No, the wine is delicious. It’s just that…I have something to tell you and I don’t know how to say it.”
A waiter quickly set two house salads down in front of them, poured their glasses full of water, and then asked if they were ready to order their main course or if they needed more time.
“I’m ready,” replied Tommy, “you?” he asked, looking over at Vivian. Her face said a thousand words, all of which meant “no.” “Can we get a few more minutes?” he asked the waiter, who politely bowed his head before walking away.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s serious, Tommy, I’m trying to talk to you.”
“Viv, I was just ordering dinner, I didn’t mean to upset you. Come on, tell me what’s bothering you.”
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“Vivian, you’re killing me over here, come on.”
“I’m pregnant, Tommy. We’re going to have a baby.”
He was silent as the words traveled through his ears, into his brain, and seeped into the reality of his being. There were many ways to look at the situation. It was good, and in a way it was bad. Bad because he wasn’t ready for fatherhood. Dating Vivian, an FBI agent, was scary enough, marriage and baby had him ready to run for the hills. It was way too much responsibility. He wasn’t even ready to be responsible for toothpaste, let alone a wife or a child. He could feel himself beginning to perspire, the room closing in, and a wave of anxiety hit him like a wave crashing to shore.
“Tommy are you okay, you look like you can hardly breathe.”
He looked at her across the table. She was a good match for him, smart, intelligent, in law enforcement. Her beauty far outweighed her brains, and if you didn’t know any better, you would expect Vivian Lang should have been a pinup model on a poster in an auto body shop. She was the ultimate package, but a baby?
“Do you know how lucky you are?” he joked.
“What, what are you talking about? This is totally serious, Tommy.”
“And at the end of the day, you got lucky?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’re going to be family. You need to plan the wedding, right away, ’cause no kid of mine will be born a bastard and not have a father and not have a name. I’m such a stand-up fucking guy. And you’re lucky, Vivian, really lucky you caught me when you did.”
“Hey, Carmen, we’re getting married…and having a baby!”
“Congratulazioni!” he shouted in Italian. “Celebriamo!”
Plans A, B, C, and D
Liddles parked his car, tucked his gun in his waistband, and with the other hand grabbed an FTD tiger lily arrangement from the front seat. He locked up his dusty old blue van, then walked up the unfamiliar block and into an apartment building behind a young female struggling with several bags of groceries managing two small children.
“Excuse me,” he said politely as he passed by and took the corridor in the opposite direction, toward the stairwell. He began climbing, his lean and toned body built for every step of the twelve flights he would have to climb. And even though the apartment building had an elevator, his diversion served its purpose. Actually, everything he had planned for the last six months would now serve its purpose. A well-thought-out and well-planned purpose.
Liddles was and had always been the thinker, one step ahead. He had the quality of patience and used time, unlike others, who wasted it. He had everything figured out before he made a move. He had watched and followed Lance’s mother all day. From court to the Septa bus to the corner store, to the apartment building, he had seen it all through his binoculars from the driver’s seat of his old dusty blue van as he sat patiently like a jaguar biding time before it attacks its prey.
A little out of breath from the climb and with a rush of pulsating adrenaline from knowing what he was about to do, he knocked at the door. There was no answer so he knocked again and pressed his head closer to the door. He could hear the faint sound of the A Team’s theme music playing from the television.
Mrs. Robertson glanced at the dresser as she slipped her housecoat over her head. Mrs. Robertson was a retired schoolteacher from South Philly High. She had worked with young children from second-graders to tenth-graders, teaching and molding them into young adults. She had dedicated her life to her students. Her husband, Fred Robertson, had died from cancer years ago. So, it was just her and her son, Lance. And now that he had been killed in what the media was calling a botched robbery, she had no one except her cat, Boots. She did have a younger sister who lived in New Jersey with her family. But they didn’t talk much. Her brother had died years ago, in the 1970s. The police said it was gang-related and had no witnesses or suspects. No arrests were ever made.
She looked at her lottery tickets. Lucky 147, baby. If I hit, I need so much I don’t even know what I’d buy first.
She heard the bell on Boots’s collar jingle as he pranced down the hall, then a wind whispered through the bedroom window. Let me close this window before I forget and catch cold. Once she had closed the window and pulled the draperies to and fro so they lay just right, she took a few steps back to examine their timeless beauty. The draperies had been passed down from her momma’s momma’s momma from out of a real-life plantation in Drew, Mississippi, where her kinfolks were from. Then she heard the faint sound of knocking on the door.
Somebody’s at the door, Bootsy. Probably one of them kids from down the hall making noise again.
Then again another knock at the door.
&nb
sp; “All right, all right, I’m coming,” bellowed Mrs. Robertson. She finished slipping into her housecoat and made her way to the door. She looked out the peephole.
“Who is it?” said a soft gentle voice from behind the door.
“Floral delivery, ma’am,” said Liddles, hoping this would prompt her to open the door.
“Flowers, I’m not expecting any flowers,” she said as the tiger lilies’ orange petals did their job. Liddles could hear the woman unhooking the chain and unlocking the locks. She opened her door and stared into the eyes of the grim reaper himself who had come for her.
Liddles pointed the barrel of a .38 at the elderly woman and closed the door behind him.
“I’ve been waiting to see…I had a feeling you was coming,” she said, already knowing what he was there for. Mrs. Robertson stood still, facing the barrel of the gun dead on. She didn’t scream, she wasn’t scared, she just wished she had fed her cat, Boots, before her assassin had showed up.
“As I walk through the valley…” she began, her eyes still calmly staring at her fate.
“Don’t nobody want to hear that shit, we ain’t in no valley, neither. Shut up, turn around, and get down on the floor,” Liddles ordered, still standing in the doorway. The woman did as she was told, turned around and bent down as she got on her knees. She felt the heavy metal of the steel gun at the base of her skull.
“I’m sorry for your brother.”
Liddles hesitated for one split second…before pulling the trigger. He watched as the older woman’s body leaned against the wall. She fell to the floor, her blood oozing out of the back of her head into a puddle where she lay.
“I’m sorry for my brother, too,” he said, speaking back to the dead woman.
He picked up his vase of tiger lilies and closed the door behind him as her cat, Boots, walked over to where she lay. He sniffed the small pile of blood next to her head, let out a soft meow, and sat waiting patiently for his dinner to be served.
