“No, but I have big dreams.”
“Us grown folk call them fantasies.”
Nkosi Bhengu, originally from South Africa, was the third of six girls. Her family had been missionaries in South Africa and she spent her childhood there. She came to America to go to school and major in journalism. However, she couldn’t escape the legacy of her AIDS-torn country.
Strikingly beautiful in a haunted sort of way, she had the sort of face meant to be immortalized on canvas. It was her thick, hearty laugh that drew him to her, though he was certain that she had once captured many a man’s heart with her bright eyes. Before. Chronic diarrhea and sudden weight loss were the first signs. By the time she showed symptoms, the disease had ravaged through her body.
“How are you doing?” Samuel asked.
“Fine.”
“Really?”
“What do you want? I’m still dying, but I feel pretty good. Bring me my mirror.”
“Why? You still look beautiful.”
“You are an accomplished liar, Father,” Nkosi said. “Every morning I look at myself in the mirror. Then I’m ready to say my prayers.”
“You’d have made a great nun.”
“I’m still breathing. No need for the ‘would haves.’”
She sat up straighter in bed as he handed her a mirror. Using the IV stand to raise her body, she studied her reflection until satisfied. She set it down and began the Lord’s Prayer. Samuel joined in.
“What’s the matter, Father? Your head’s not in the game today.”
“You’ve been in America too long.”
“Not long enough.” Nkosi gestured toward her cup. Before Samuel could feign protest, she put her hand to her head in a dramatic swoon of being too weak to pour her own water.
“Neither of us chased after AIDS.” Samuel filled the cup and handed it to her. “It’s not like we asked for it.”
“True, but I know how you get, finding any excuse to blame yourself.”
“It’s not me I’m blaming right now. I know that the church is supposed to be Christ’s bride, but I feel like we’re the wife clinging to an abusive husband.” Samuel took the empty cup from her and offered to refill it. She waved him off.
“I can’t be angry at God. He didn’t send this disease, but I can be angry at it. This invader.”
“But God...”
“Don’t ‘but God’ me. Your arms are too short to box with God.” Nkosi said.
“Now you sound like my grandmother. I’d like Him to at least know He was in a fight.”
She laughed that infectious laugh of hers. “Maybe I should be the priest and take your confession. You’re not doing a great job at the whole ‘comfort the dying’ thing.”
“I know.”
“Hey, I was kidding.”
“I’m just tired. People forget that we’re no different, you know? I’m no further up the spiritual ladder than anyone else, I’m only on the clock more. It’s hard coming to terms with the fact that this is where God wants me to be. What He wants me to go through. I don’t know. There’s something...not very humble about the whole ‘God has a plan for me’ line of thinking.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here.”
“You’re a good friend, Nkosi.” Half the time Samuel didn’t know who was meant to be comforting whom.
“Come now. What else? You have that ‘worrying about things I can’t control’ look on your face still.”
“It’s Samson.”
“Your brother?” Nkosi asked.
“Yeah. He’s back and I have this feeling he’s in trouble—in way over his head—and I don’t know if I can help him.”
“You can’t save everyone. Not even those you love. We make choices and we have to live with the consequences.”
“Free will’s a bitch, huh?” Samuel gave a sad smirk.
Nkosi sat up as best she could and put her hand on his. “Sometimes when a person is bound and determined to destroy themselves, you just have to get out of their way. You have to come to realize that there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”
“But you don’t really buy that, do you?”
“No. That’s why God created big brothers.”
5
Samson tried to rid himself of his perpetually bored expression as he prepared for his photo shoot. He wanted to get this thing done in as few shots as possible and he knew that this photographer was a perfectionist with no qualms about wasting rolls and rolls of film while his models stood in some ridiculously agonizing pose waiting for him to get that one in a thousand shot. Samson was not in the mood.
His disposition was completely wrong for modeling. Even when the fashion industry first embraced Samson, he’d been rather dark and brooding. He hated the fake smiles and artificial laughs that went hand and hand with high fashion. It pained him to manufacture emotion the way the camera demanded. His disgust at the world and disdain for the entire entertainment industry bristled in every syllable he spoke, which explained his failed acting career.
Now—being sprayed down with a mixture of water and baby oil in preparation to shoot an underwear ad while the effeminate photographer called for him to purse his lips and then to smile and look sexy as if he were some poseable action figure—he had to stifle the urge to slap the hell out of the patronizing little queer.
“Don’t lift your chin that way. It makes you look like Popeye. Flex your abs a little bit more. You should have done a few more sit ups, honey, you’re looking a little soft. Is there anything we can do with that bulge? We aren’t shooting pornography here. Maybe we should tape it down or tuck it back or something. Don’t worry, darling, it’s not nearly as uncomfortable as it sounds. I’ve spent entire weekends with mine tucked back so far you couldn’t see it even in a bikini.”
The photographer’s name was Jacque Willet, and he was the hottest fashion photographer around. Samson was the hottest male model in America, if not the world. However, the two did not mix. The man had a way of making Samson feel degraded, but even he had to admit that the photos were amazing. Samson didn’t care how much he was getting paid for this shoot, and it was quite a bit—he’d signed a multi-million dollar contract with the underwear company to be their poster boy—he still felt exploited and it pissed him off. The smile fell from Samson’s face as he stared at the photographer. All his hate and disgust for the man boiled to the surface.
“Oh, now that look could work. It’s not what I was looking for but it’s actually kind of sexy. Hold that.”
Jacque Willet snapped off photo after photo as Samson imagined sacrificing him to the god of debasement and destruction. Not until then had he truly believed that he could do it. When the photo shoot ended, Samson stormed off the set into his dressing room.
“I don’t know who the fuck pissed in your Wheaties this morning, but you almost fucked up the whole shoot! I don’t work with prima donnas!” Jacque shouted at his back.
“Neither do I,” Samson growled as he slammed his dressing room door.
6
There was something about the hospice that made Samuel immediately rush to the shower when he returned home. A film of death, an inevitability, that he had to scrub off. He looked at his mild paunch in the mirror, cupping his belly and jiggling it up and down as if he could shake it away. He knew it was only a matter of time until his “AIDS diet” stripped him of it. He had already lost a lot of weight. The outlines of his bones began to reveal themselves along his arms and legs. His belly, as had been his curse all his life, was the last place he lost weight.
The water hit him with a hot sting as soon as the glass door closed behind him. He moved to turn the temperature down then decided that he wanted to feel the scald, enjoy the ability to feel anything. The poor water pressure spit out drops in fits and spurts within the glass tomb of the shower stall, splattering his shaved head. The other family legacy was his premature baldness. His illness nibbled at his vanity, but not so much that he wouldn’t shave his head rather than n
urse a balding pate. He turned his back to the stream, leaning against the rear of the shower enclosure to allow the hot water to scourge him. If he had any courage whatsoever, he’d open his veins now and be done with it. The thought of being discovered naked in the shower—a conflict with his personal vanity—was only made worse by the knowledge that suicide was one of the greatest sins. Ultimately, however, he wanted a better ending to his story.
The sputter of the showerhead caused him to turn around. His routine was to hold his mouth ajar to rinse it out, but he was met with the taste of rusty nails. Opening his eyes, pink splotches spotted the floor. His skin blistered under the pelting water. Sores scored his flesh; his budding melanomas swelled like overripe fruit. The cratered flesh of his arm, riddled with spent pustules, issued thin trickles of blood like poxed stigmata. The wounds cracked, drowsy eyes filling with tears of mucous-like pus, before bursting in splays of blood.
A startled scream escaped his throat as he tumbled out of the stall. Samuel patted at his skin as if he were on fire. Only his now all-too-usual discolorations marbled him. Scarlet streams, a blood frieze, streaked the shower. He grabbed a towel to sop up the mess, but after a few unsuccessful swipes he unfolded it to make out the words “Blood Must Be Paid.” He dropped the towel into the remaining pool of blood. When he found the courage to pick it back up, it was no more than a crime scene inspired Rorschach.
7
“Vodka. To one of your better creations.” Samuel filled his glass most of the way then added a splash of cranberry juice—something to calm him down—and toasted his Savior. Surely the blood spatter was from an animal caught in the pipes; he made a mental note to call the plumbers out. The hemography had to have been a trick of his eyes. That was the easy explanation. He swallowed a large gulp. “You just don’t let up, do You?”
With only the press of the empty spot in his all-too-lonely bed waiting for him, Samuel chose to wander the rectory. Ghosts and spirits filled the sanctuary, echoes of the past. His parishioners had long shuffled off with each lit candle, with each recitation of the ancient ritual. A formless, nameless dread kept him awake more nights that he cared to remember; a spiritual blind spot of ache and discontent. No joy, no terror, just the endless numbing that faith provided until the candles were lit in his shadowless home. Samuel, content with his role as a cog, never questioned, and always did what he was told; trusting that God knew what was best. Some people were just like that. Not everyone was cut out to be a leader of men. Some had to do the work, carry out the vision of others. The truly best were those who knew their role, their place in the greater scheme of things, and settled into it.
“The ironic thing about choice,” he said out loud to no one, “is that usually when you make the wrong decision, the right one is there in front of us, also. Some people love the drama, the stirred pot of making the wrong decisions. Or they’re addicted to it or something ‘cause they keep making the wrong decision. Playing the odds, you’d think they’d accidentally fall into a right decision every now and then. But no, they keep going their own way, screwing up their lives and taking those who love them along for the ride.”
There was something hard-wired into people that made them content when they believed in something bigger than themselves. All the expectations were like a false hope that God kept yanking out from under him.
“You like messing with people, don’t You?” Samuel took another swig of his juice. “We’re like Lucy and Charlie Brown, You and I…and I don’t look good in yellow.”
When it came to being in control, Samuel didn’t know who was worse, Samson or himself. Maybe that was why religious belief annoyed Samson. If a supreme being existed, He held the ultimate control, not Samson. If the universe followed any sort of order, he could learn the rules, no matter how abstract. That was what Samson did best—adapt. Don’t give him any bullshit excuses for your life. You were responsible, you were in control of your own destiny, no matter the hand you were dealt. But Samuel couldn’t live like that. Things, life, had to have meaning. Things had to come together in a way that made sense, even if he couldn’t see the whole picture.
Right now, he was content to search for meaning within the rest of the bottle of vodka.
8
Samson knew he was dreaming as soon as he walked through the sanctuary doors to find a bed among the pews. The parishioners scattered at his approach. A body writhed on the bed—a two-backed beast tucked beneath the tender mercies of a neglected Christ on a cross. Paint flaked from his brow and face as he peered over the unfolding scene. Rat-chewed feet hovered just over the bed. The moans from the sheet subsided.
A malefic odor assaulted Samson, the air redolent with the stench of infection and decay. His brother lay too still on the bed, the tattered covers pulled up to his neck. Samson couldn’t help but note how ugly and unflattering the bedspreads were; knit fabric that someone gave up on. Samuel’s emaciated body dangled from them. Splotches, like a serpentine tattoo, ran along his frail arm. Red pustules bubbled up as if his skin were subject to unseen flames. A slow gasp escaped his barely open mouth. Samuel’s sunken skull turned toward him, a black wax oozing from his ears. His eyes flushed red, vessels rupturing with his body’s betrayal, turned upward, staring beyond him.
“Save me.”
Samson awoke. Still in his dressing room, he heard the crew outside breaking down the set; the whining, lisping voice of Jacque Willet punctuated every movement, micro-managing the entire process. He must have only been asleep for a few minutes. The night was still young.
9
Samson showered quickly and slid back into his Armani shirt and pants. He ran a hand slicked with mousse through his hair and stepped out of his dressing room, trying to slip out of the building quickly. Jacque waited nearby, next to a table stacked with hors d'oeuvres and Perrier water, pretending to not stare at Samson’s dressing room. Samson ignored him and turned to his friend Amon, who’d just come from the elevator.
Amon was a stunning mixture of Middle Eastern, Spanish, and something Asian. He was the model they called on when they needed someone exotic to round out a shoot. Samson would never admit it to anyone but Amon himself, but he actually thought the man was much more beautiful than him. He didn’t understand why Amon wasn’t more sought after. Not that the man was starving, but with his extravagant tastes, he still moonlit to make ends meet. If they hadn’t been friends they probably would have been rivals. The man’s looks would have made any other man jealous.
“Hey, honey!”
Amon was gay, but not a mincing stereotype like Jacque whose theatrics Amon found every bit as annoying as Samson did. Amon simply preferred the affections of other men. Once or twice he’d enjoyed Samson’s affections when Samson had been younger and more curious. Now, they were just friends.
“Hello, Amon.”
“Honey, you don’t look well at all. You aren’t getting sick are you?” Amon stared at Samson with genuine concern, cupping a hand against his cheek as much to offer comfort as to check for a fever.
“I’ll be okay. I just can’t stand dealing with that asshole.”
Amon didn’t need to ask who he was referring to, turning to look right at Jacque, who stood mere yards away trying to eavesdrop on the conversation.
“Don’t let that little faggot get to you,” Amon stage-whispered loud enough to be certain that Jacque could hear them. “He’s just mad because he hasn’t fucked you and I have.”
Amon and Samson both laughed.
“I’d better go. You take care of yourself.”
“You too, honey.”
They hugged and Amon planted a light kiss on Samson’s lips then winked at Jacque, who jealously studied them. He turned his head but remained rooted to his spot.
Wrath James White and Maurice Broaddus Page 3
