Friday Black
Page 18
“What did Robert say?” I ask while I still can.
“Whatever happened with you,” Ike says. “Whatever happened—you’re the first it’s happened to, so we’ll see. Maybe it’s a domino in an eventual collapse.” We’re all pretty quiet. “Nothing new, really. But we think we can say for sure that this isn’t going to last forever. Unless it does.”
“Okay,” I say. And I leap. I lunge with my knife, and nobody else in the history of the world would even flinch, but Carl is Carl, so he grabs the table and flips it up like a shield. I use my elbow to blow through it pretty easily. The table is in pieces, and Ike runs back. My father stops cooking and swings a hot, pancakey pan at Carl. Carl ducks it, and as he does, I swing my knife at his neck. He dodges two good slashes, then kicks me hard in the ribs. I crash back into the dishwasher. Rib broken for sure. I get up and focus. I smile because I, Ama Grace Knife Queen Adusei, am a fighter, the greatest ever. Lately, I don’t get to fight much. Or now I fight differently. But these fights, with fists and knives, I have more practice in. I jump forward again. Carl grabs my wrist and twists so I drop my knife.
“You are supreme and infinite, Carl, and I am very sorry for all that I have done,” I say as I knee him in the ribs, and before even bringing my leg back down, I’m in a backflip and kicking into his chin. He stumbles back.
“BITCH!” Carl screams, and makes to grab the gun out of the rubble that’s forming out of the kitchen. I kick him in the gut and throw him out toward the living room.
“Sorry, Udon Rosher,” I say while charging. He punches me in the mouth, and I see black, then the world comes back to me. “I meant no disrespect. I know you’re strong. I just want you to know I am sorry for the things I did to you.”
“Fuck you,” Carl says, and he’s coming at me with his flurry of heavy punches. He misses with a big right, and his fist goes through the wall. As he tries to pull his arm out, I get behind him and punch down on his neck in a way I know will make him crumble. Then I rip off the shirt on his head, and it’s like I hit the master switch. “Hellio YUPRA! Ki Udon Rosher! TRENT!” Carl screams as he holds his eye. Weeping on his knees. “Okay! Okay! Hellio yupra.” Even when I’m not touching him, he screams and claws at his own eye. He becomes a little bit of the old Carl. I hit him another time, hard at the base of his neck, to keep him from moving. His paralyzed body does nothing, and his face keeps doing so much.
“Udon Rosher, ki love, okay,” I say.
“End it!” Carl screams, keeping one eye open. Outside, the hot rain has stopped. I drag Carl upstairs and make sure he’s comfortable in my bed. He screams and screams in Carama, and I understand him very well. He spits and cries. I sit with him. “I know you’re going to get through all this,” I say. When his voice is coarse and he can’t scream anymore, I leave him.
My father and brother are in Ike’s room. Ike is writing something. My father is coloring in a coloring book. “Ama!” my father says.
“Ama,” Ike says.
“We’re good,” I say. My rib is broken, and I’m kinda bleeding out of my ear. “Still want to go watch?” I ask. These are my guys. I’m blessed knowing I can protect them.
Outside, the hot rain makes the air smell like burning rubber, but you can still smell the fresh wet earth underneath so it’s not all bad. Once we were all keeping things through the Flash, it became a tradition for everyone on our street to watch it together, to disappear all at once. Then we stopped doing that.
We press ourselves to the side of our house facing west. I’m dizzy and happy. Breathing hurts, but still I feel as infinite as ever. Still supreme. We get on the wall. Our wall. I lean my back against it, and I feel the wet seep through. A long time ago, Ike explained to us how nuclear radiation, besides destroying stuff, bleached everything it didn’t make disappear and that our bodies, if they were right up against something, would leave shadows that would last forever. For a long time we tried to use our bodies to send messages to the future. Hoping that after we were gone, if the Loop broke, the future would see us and know. I’d make little hearts with my hands, or sometimes we’d all hug each other to show them, like, love was a thing even for all of us who lived through the wars that ended everything. Now when we do it, it’s mostly for fun.
“What are you going to do?” my father says.
“I think I’m going to do this,” Ike says, looking up at us. He does a thing where he spreads his legs a little wider and acts like he’s flexing both arms above his head. That’s my brother. He’s not too smart to be fun sometimes.
“Okay,” my father says. “I’m going to do the animal man.” He grabs a branch from the maple I snapped and puts it on his head so he’ll look like he has feathers. The future will think he’s an alien. Me, I’ve already picked one leg up and tucked it into my knee. It’s pretty hard to breathe, but it’s not that hard.
“Dancer,” I say before he asks. That’s kind of my signature. I’ve done different versions of it, but this one is the best I can do with a broken rib and a knocked-around head. I have one leg on the ground, and then I bring one arm and crane it above my head. We only have to wait a minute.
There’s a faraway light. Then a roar like long, slow thunder. The roar doesn’t stop; it gets louder, and then it’s so loud you can’t hear anything. The faraway light grows, and it’s yellowish at first, and in the beginning, it looks like something that’s meant to help you, like another sun. Then it grows taller than any building, greater than a mountain. You can see it’s eating the world, and no matter what, it is coming for you. Rushing toward you. And by the time it’s blinding, you are terrified and humbled. Watching it, you know it’s the kind of thing you should only get to see once. Something that happens once and then never again. We’ve all seen it so many times, but I still cry, because, when it comes, I know for sure we are infinite. All you feel is infinite, knowing all the falls and leaps and sweet and death that’s ever been will be trumped by the wall of nuclear flying at you. You of all people. Then, before you’re gone, you know that all that’s ever been will still be, even if there are no tomorrows. Even the apocalypse isn’t the end. That, you could only know when you’re standing before a light so bright it obliterates you. And if you are alone, posed like a dancer, when it comes, you feel silly and scared. And if you are with your family, or anyone at all, when it comes, you feel silly and scared, but at least not alone.
Acknowledgments and Love
To some incredible instructors, professors, and waymakers: Mrs. Jacobs, Ms. Doctor, Mr. Norton, Sharon Stephenson, Bruce Smith, Brooks Haxton, Chris Kennedy, Mary Karr, Jonathan Dee, Edward Schwarzschild, for seeing what I was and what I could be and bridging the gap.
To James Walley, Tom Frobisher, Anna Mazhirov, Laurie Hobart, Michael Keen, Walker Rutter-Bowman, Jacob Collins-Wilson, Erin Mullikin, Cate McLaughlin, Herve Comeau, Flose Boursiquot, Emilio Sola, and the many writers in my life for giving me something to aspire to.
To Ramapo High School and the East Ramapo Central School District for giving me my fire. To the State University of New York at Albany for the direction. To Terri Zollo and the Cuse Mob for the community and love. To Colgate University for their incredible generosity. To Spring Valley, Rockland County, New York, for giving me a reason.
To Lynne Tillman for the mark-ups, tea, and stories that made this possible.
To Dana Spiotta for her nurturing thoughts and words.
To Arthur Flowers for showing me where the magic is.
To George Saunders for showing me how to laugh in the dark.
To Gerard “Danny” Santiago and the whole Rensselaer connection for first showing me the art of a good story. To the whole Santiago family for the dinners and support. To Kevin Luong for the confidence. To John Smith and Kessly Midy for the laughs. To Kathleen Cancio for being my spirit guide. To Ngan Quan for the unwavering support. To Kapri Rosario and Nini Cancio for necessary happy hours. To Amber Stacks for helping me grow.
To the Fam: Junior Senat, Ashlei Allen, Carl
Joseph Louis, Micole Weathers, Nick Creegan, Chidibere Ezemma, Nina Pham, Brittany Williams, Erin Elizabeth, Rob Michael Mathieu, Dance-Nina and Zye Jenkins for all the memories. Love y’all. To the Schwang Gang: Michael Mitchell, Stefan Wells, and Raheem Gumbs for the energy.
To Mark Robinson for your incredible art. To David Hough for your precise eye.
To my truly incredible agent, Meredith Kaffel Simonoff, who believed in this book and made sure it got into the world. I am forever grateful to you.
To my editor, Naomi Gibbs, whose work has brought this book to its highest level. Whose confidence in these stories has been the greatest gift in the world. Again, I am truly grateful to you and all of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt for making this manuscript a book.
To my sisters, Adoma Adjei-Brenyah and Afua Adjei-Brenyah, who showed me what it means to be your uncompromised self.
To my father, who said, “If you have an A+ mind and get a B+, even God will be angry.”
To my mother for all the things you said.
About the Author
Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah is from Spring Valley, New York. He graduated from SUNY Albany and went on to receive his MFA from Syracuse University. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous publications, including Esquire, Guernica, Compose: A Journal of Simply Good Writing, Printers Row, Gravel, and the Breakwater Review, where he was selected by ZZ Packer as the winner of the second annual Breakwater Fiction Contest. Friday Black is his first book.
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