Hold Love Strong

by Matthew Aaron Goodman

  “Where you headed?” Kaya asked me, saving me from Taquanna’s attack on my belly button as well as the potential heartbreak her own judgment could cause.

  “Huh?” I said, so enamored and thankful, so in awe of her, and yet so soothed by the tone of her voice that all I could do was grunt.

  “Ahh,” laughed Taquanna, pointing at me. “Look at you. Nigga can’t even talk to Kaya!”

  “He can speak,” said Hector, coming to my defense. “Go ahead, Abraham. Vamos. Tell the lady what you think.”

  “Nothing,” burst Taquanna. “Nigga’s got nothing to say.”

  I focused my attention on Kaya’s question. It was like a rite of passage, a test of my budding manhood. Where was I headed? she asked. I took a great big gulp of breath. Suddenly, two bleats from the siren of a police car shattered the air and a cruiser with two white cops in it stopped and flashed their lights. From the loudspeaker they addressed the young man doing chin-ups from the crosswalk sign affixed to the lamppost at the far corner of the street.

  “Get down!” said the cop in the passenger seat. He held the microphone to his mouth with his left hand while his right arm hung out of the open window. “You!” he added. “Let go! Fall right now!”

  It was Donnel. Ah dear God, I thought, fuck Lord what the hell? Donnel hung with his arms straight. Then he dropped to the sidewalk, his long, strong arms falling slack, his shoulders, neck, and face following, becoming so limp the only part of him that was not flaccid was the frail, pained expression in his eyes. He was sixteen going on disengaged and destitute. He looked down. Then he set his eyes on the police car and the two cops in it. He could have killed them. That thought, that want, the very antithesis of who he was, he put it on his face for them to see. I wanted to shout and run to him. I wanted to tell him about my day playing basketball, the shots I made, the around-the-back pass I threw. But there was something too great between us: the police. I feared for him, for what the cops might do. How would they remind him not to look like he looked, not to do what he had done, that which was nothing until they had come? The back brake lights shone bright red and the police car came to a stop.

  “Abraham,” Hector said. “Abraham, quick. Call your cousin.”

  “D!” I shouted. “Yo, D!”

  Donnel’s eyes jumped across the street and landed on me. He read my face. He understood what I feared. Then the rancid glare he had fixed for the police softened.

  “I’ll be home in a minute,” he shouted. He pointed over his shoulder at the tiny corner store that rarely had eggs or gallons of milk that were good for more than just a few more days. “I got to get something for grandma.”

  I knew Donnel was lying and that my grandma was at work, and I was so thankful he had been able to see the fear on my face. But I was also afraid that it wouldn’t be enough, that the police had determined that Donnel needed to be taught. So I didn’t smile or wave. I thought only about saving Donnel more.

  “Can you get me some peanut butter?” I called out to him.

  “Chunky, right?” he asked.

  The back brake lights lost their red electric glow. Slowly the police car drove away. I watched it until it was just another car in the distance. Then I raised my arm, made my hand into an imaginary gun, and aimed my index finger down Columbus Avenue in the direction the police car went.

  “Abraham,” scolded Hector. “Don’t give them no reason to turn around.”

  I heard Hector, glanced out of the corner of my eye at Kaya, and considered if I should drop my hand. I looked across the street to see what Donnel wanted. But he wasn’t there. I shifted my eyes to the corner store and saw that the door was just closing. I assumed Donnel had just walked in but I couldn’t be sure. Every day Donnel was becoming more furtive, so much so that his disappearances approached being indistinguishable from the commonplace of the day. Donnel ran with one of the crews that sold crack not in Ever but on the other side of Queens. I couldn’t say he was selling crack at the time. There seemed to be no additional money coming in. And he didn’t have any new clothes or sneakers, and my grandma still complained about unpaid bills. But things happened so suddenly to men in Ever, be it how quickly death came, how fast a father vanished, or how swiftly a man was whisked off to prison I couldn’t be sure. All I knew was Donnel carried himself with an intensity and distance meant to guard against such suddenness and the timeless nature of his life. A life in which there was no more attending school, no hobbies, no job or potential vocational pursuit, nowhere he had to be that might provide even the glimpse of a worthwhile opportunity. I worried about him. Slowly, I dropped my arm, unfurled my fingers, and let go of my imaginary gun.

  V

  The front of my building had a heavy steel door beneath a rusted overhang only large enough for two people to stand beneath when it rained. The bricks around the door were written on with markers and pens. And initials, profanity, and hearts were scratched into the building’s bricks with keys. The door was propped open with a cinder block that had trash stuffed in its holes. In front of it, laughing, and acting in an intimately affectionate fashion, Luscious and her best friend, Qadisha Smith, discussed virtues and existence.

  “There ain’t no doubt I’m beautiful,” Qadisha said, folding her arms across her chest and cocking her head and body to the right. “Cause God made me.”

  “God made everyone,” said Luscious. “But some of us is easier on the eyes than the rest.”

  They didn’t see me coming. Luscious leaned against the doorframe, her feet a little more than shoulder width apart, one leg in the building, one leg out. She stroked the back of Qadisha’s arm with the tips of her fingers. Qadisha slid her hand along Luscious’s side and left it to rest on her hip. Luscious was just as beautiful, just as holy and praised as she was the day Nice got locked away. But there was something different about her too, something in the way she shunned men’s cooing and advances, something self-assured and aloof, something so utterly uninterested and uninvolved. I had heard rumors that Luscious was a lesbian. And word was it was she and Qadisha. Word was they loved each other, that they shared the same bed, and that Nice was out of the picture, no longer in Luscious’s heart. But I didn’t understand it. Love like theirs, love I had revered, love everyone in the world hoped for; how could it be diluted, interrupted, aimed at another? How could it be trumped, even equaled? And what would Nice say? What would he do if he knew? Or did he already know? Had he been broken by the news in his cell? Had he raged? Or had he lain down and wept?

  Luscious hooked her finger in the top of Qadisha’s jeans and pulled her close. Qadisha’s hip fit between Luscious’s splayed legs. Her shoulder pressed against Luscious’s cleavage. Closing her eyes, Luscious kissed Qadisha’s forehead, left her lips pressed there until Qadisha smiled and playfully pushed away from her.

  “And that’s why,” Qadisha said, leaning back and putting her hands on her hips. “We one hundred percent almighty! We more than just beautiful. We heaven and holy. OK?”

  “Sure,” smiled Luscious.

  “Just like Jesus,” Qadisha concluded. “Cause we all is made of flesh and blood.”

  Suddenly, Luscious saw me out of the corner of her eye. She stiffened. “Abraham,” she said. “How long you been standing there?”

  I had no idea, not even an inkling. I looked at Luscious. I thought traitor, backstabber, bitch. I dropped my eyes, then lifted them and laid them upon Qadisha. Contrary to her delicate features, Qadisha was a warrior with a sometimes clumsy grace. But she was not reckless or righteous. She raised her two nephews because her sister was addicted to crack. The oldest one was in an academically gifted and talented program. The youngest was three, always said please, and he could already tie his own shoes. I was struck by her face, by how comprehensive and thus powerful Qadisha’s surety was.

  “Where’s your cousin?” she asked.

  I shifted my eyes to Luscious and thought about my uncle. I hoped that she’d see him in my face, see in me what she first f
ell in love with, a skinny boy and his basketball. I bounced my ball twice as if, in addition to the sight of me, the sound of a ball bouncing might jog her memory.

  “Which one?” I said.

  “Donnel,” Qadisha said. Then she smacked the side of my head. “What you looking at Luscious like that for?”

  “Like what?” I said.

  “Like you thinking something but too scared to say it.”

  “I ain’t thinking nothing,” I said.

  “So where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “Donnel,” said Qadisha. “Who you think I’m talking about?”

  If my eyes were knives then I would have been guilty of stabbing Qadisha in the throat, then standing there, silent, thinking about my uncle as I watched her bleed.

  “Ain’t you supposed to be smart?” she continued. “I heard you the only nigga in your house that can write. That ain’t true?”

  It wasn’t true. My grandma’s penmanship was that of a ten-year-old, but she could write basic sentences. And Eric said he hated writing but, although he couldn’t spell well, he could write too. And although my Aunt Rhonda rarely spelled polysyllabic words correctly, my Aunt Rhonda could write also. And I knew my mother could write because she liked to write poems and songs, lyrics never sung nor put to music. And Donnel could write, albeit always crammed with commas and never with a single period. But I didn’t say anything to Qadisha. Even if it was just knowledge, I didn’t want her to have anything else integral to my family.

  Qadisha thought for a moment, then suddenly realized what my looking at Luscious meant, and her face became molten chocolate, sweet, gooey brown with a blaze beneath.

  “So what good are you?” she scolded.

  I sucked in, pulling my cheeks in hard like they were rags I was wringing dry with my back teeth. I refused to lash out. I would not give her anything. I thought about my uncle. Then I thought about Donnel. What would he say? Why was he always on the move, always going here and there, always on the way out of our apartment? And when he returned, why did he claim he was nowhere only to soon be going again, and later coming from nowhere once more? I saw Donnel only like this, only in passing. Just like I just saw him on the street. He was there. Then he wasn’t.

  As if thinking that by keeping their hands waist high and at her side I would not see, Luscious reached out and took Qadisha’s hand, wrapping her index finger around Qadisha’s. She gave it a gentle tug.

  “So tell him we looking for him,” she said, pressing loving yet imploring eyes on me and clearly hoping that I would go away. “Tell him Luscious needs him when you see him.”

  I studied Luscious for a moment. I understood the pain of my uncle’s absence. And I saw how she had moved on, how when she looked at Qadisha there was no sadness. I looked down. I saw how tenderly she held Qadisha’s hand.

  “OK,” I said, raising my eyes to meet Luscious’s. “I’ll tell him.”

  VI

  Perhaps I was mistaken. No, I had to be wrong. I stood in front of our apartment door, cursing myself in the hallway’s dimness. I couldn’t find my keys. I searched my pockets. I turned them inside out. I tried to recall when I last saw them. On the kitchen table? On the couch? On the side of the basketball court? When was the last time I heard them rattle? Had I put them in my socks, tied them to my shoelaces? I checked. No, no, not there. I had no idea. I couldn’t recall taking them with me or if I had them during the course of the day. I gave up on finding them. I knocked on the door and listened for any sound, the TV, the radio, someone talking, my mother, my Aunt Rhonda, Eric. I sniffed the air. Maybe someone was in the kitchen cooking? But there was nothing. I knocked on the door again. Still there was only silence. No one was home. I put my back against the door, slid down until I was sitting, and thought about what I should do. I didn’t want to go back outside. I was exhausted. And I didn’t want to see Qadisha and Luscious again. And although I wanted to see her, I also didn’t want to see Kaya either. Because what would I say? And besides, hadn’t Donnel said he would be home in a minute, just after he got whatever he needed from the store? I decided to wait. I believed him not because it was easy, but because it was what I most wanted.

  A few minutes passed. Then a few more. Then ten. Then twenty. I scolded myself. What was wrong with me? Cherrie, my mother’s best friend, had our spare key. I didn’t have to wait. I walked down the flight of stairs and knocked on Cherrie’s door. Her television was on. An audience cheered.

  “Who is it!” Cherrie shouted.

  “Abraham,” I called back.

  “Hold on,” she said. “I’m coming.”

  Cherrie unlocked the locks from the inside of the door. Then she opened the door and pressed her plump, oily face in the six inches afforded by the chain latch.

  “Abraham,” she said. “You know you interrupting my show.”

  “I lost my keys,” I said.

  “What do you mean you lost them?”

  “I mean I can’t find them,” I said. “And you got the spare.”

  Suddenly, Cherrie’s hand flew out from the six inches of space between the door and the doorframe and she snatched my T-shirt from my head. “You stretching it all out like that,” she scolded. “Either put it on right or don’t put it on at all.”

  Just as quickly as Cherrie took my T-shirt, she threw it back at me and I caught it against my chest.

  “You sure I got them?” she asked. “Cause I could swear I gave them to Eric just last week. I guess we can check. Come on. Come in.”

  Cherrie closed the door and in the moment it took her to unhook the chain latch I pulled my T-shirt on over my head and realized that I had not seen Cherrie and my mother together for a few weeks. Cherrie had not been to our apartment nor had I seen them together outside, nor had I answered the phone and heard Cherrie and the familiar, syrupy yet percussive salutation—Abraham, what’s going on, where your ma at?—she chanted when looking for my mother.

  The door opened and Cherrie stepped aside so I could walk in. All of the lights in her apartment were off and the ivory shades were drawn over the windows so the only light in the apartment came from the TV. It laid a stream of pale green across the room and onto the small glass coffee table and the couch. On the walls, there was an old poster of Harriet Tubman, a painting of Jesus, and a cross hammered above the TV. Even in near darkness it was clear that Cherrie’s apartment was pristine. She kept all of her windows down so the dirty air and gray street dust couldn’t come in but that also made it feel as if there was no air in the apartment. I didn't understand how she could breathe. But it was Cherrie’s place and she never had a problem making it clear that it was her apartment and you could get out if you didn’t like it so I didn’t say anything.

  The theme song for the Ricki Lake show filled the apartment. Cherrie closed the door and locked the chain latch, the door, and the deadbolt. Then she pushed me out of the way, ran past me, and planted herself in the middle of the pale green light on the couch. Cherrie was a boulder of a woman with a boulder for a head, boulders for legs, boulders for arms, and two boulders for breasts.

  “Check the jar on top of the fridge,” she said, pointing to the kitchen, her eyes trained to the TV. “This one’s too good. It’s a repeat. The guests is crazy as all hell.”

  Cherrie shifted her weight to one side and pulled something from beneath her rear. It was a small Bible. Cherrie put it on her lap. Then, without taking her eyes from the TV, she searched the couch for something else. She ran her hands over the cushions and between them. Reluctant and frustrated, she stood up, stepped away from the couch, and glared at the floor, the coarse grey carpet a deep, black pool. She huffed, then she dropped to her knees. She slid her hands beneath the couch, dragged and rubbed in circles. The sound was grating, as if her hands were as hard as the carpet was. I stood a step inside the door and watched her. What was she searching so feverishly for? Cherrie stopped. Then she looked at me over her shoulder.

  “Abraham,” she scolded, �
�I ain’t the TV. Don’t just watch. Come and help me.”

  I crossed the room and looked down. “What you looking for?”

  “It’s black and silver,” said Cherrie. “My pen. It’s one of those that has a bunch of different colors that you can click down.”

  Cherrie ran her hands through the couch cushions once more and found what she wanted.

  “It’s just a pen,” she said, holding it up for me to see. “But it was my mother’s lucky one. Pastor Ramsey gave it to her with the Bible.”

  Something clicked in Cherrie’s head and she looked at me, her face a sad, round stone in the TV’s green stream of light. “Abraham,” she said. “How’s Jelly doing?”

  Although I had just thought about the changed relationship between Cherrie and my mother, I was stunned by the question, by the expression on Cherrie’s face and the fact that here was Cherrie, my mother’s lifetime best friend, asking me, a son who rarely saw his mother, how she was. Yet I answered her automatically.

  “She’s good,” I said.

  Cherrie considered my answer. Was I right? Was it just a wish? Would she believe me? Cherrie put her free hand on her knee and with a sigh and soft groan, she pushed herself up from the floor. Then she looked at me and tried to make a smile out of distress.