Blacker Than a Thousand Midnights

by Susan Straight

  I don’t even want to do this, he thought, looking for a space. Gotta see Donnie, and he’ll just give me that “Homeys gotta have each other’s back” cause I don’t want to sue. Gotta see all the rest of em—“Where you workin?” A whole day of palaver, like Leon call it. Yeah—I can tell em Leon got jobs lined up for me.

  “Look who gracin us with their presence!” his father shouted from the crowded picnic table shared by the Tuckers and some of the many Kings. Donnie, his brother Three, his mother and Great-Aunt Rosa. Darnell’s mother nodded at him and held her arms out for Charolette, who smacked into her with lips trained and ready. Brenda sat with Sophia and Paula in the small lawn chair they’d saved for her, bending her head away from him, and Darnell stood, hearing the voices swirl around him.

  “D., I ain’t seen you around,” Donnie said, standing next to him to touch his palm.

  “You ready to get your ducats yet?” Darnell said, figuring to get it over with. “You gettin prepared to live large?”

  “Shoot, man, court take forever,” Donnie said, looking off toward the lake. His face seemed softer, vague, and his eyes darted from place to place. Darnell saw why his father thought Donnie was high, but Darnell could tell by the new plumpness around his waist that he wasn’t on the pipe. Sprung guys were skeletal every time.

  Donnie’s mother said, “They givin him the run-around; that system take its own sweet time.”

  “This baby sleepy,” Darnell’s mother said, cradling Charolette, and Brenda reached over with the juice bottle, watching Darnell with half-mast eyelids.

  “I’ma check my nephews by the water,” Darnell said, moving off.

  “I’ll come with you, man, see if they still got crawdads,” Donnie said.

  They caught up with Lamont and Clinton, who were poking sticks into the water. “This man used to be the crawdad champion,” Darnell told them, and Donnie stared intently into the murky water.

  “No bubbles,” Donnie murmured, and Darnell popped Lamont and Clinton on the backs of their necks. He and Donnie turned back to see the people laughing around tables.

  “Still rappin hard to the females, huh?” Darnell said.

  “Who—them two?” Donnie said, nodding at the girls he’d been talking to before. “They from Terracina; they remember when I played ball.”

  “You gon get some later?” Darnell teased him. “Oklahoma Day cool for you, cause you still young and single and love to mingle.”

  Donnie’s face had that same softer, slipping look again, like he wasn’t hearing right. “No, man, I can’t do it no more,” he whispered.

  “What you talkin about, man?” Darnell said. “You got shot in the leg.”

  “In my hip,” Donnie said. “But I can’t make love no more, I mean, I got close with this one girl, and then, you know how your heart start beatin real fast?”

  “That’s the point, man,” Darnell said, but Donnie frowned.

  “See, like, if my heart beat that fast and my blood start racin around, it might move the bullet.”

  “Didn’t the doctors tell you exactly where it is?” Darnell couldn’t look at Donnie’s face.

  “Yeah, they said. But, they could be lyin, D. Maybe the law paid em off to lie so I’ll mess up and the bullet move. Then I’d be dead and can’t go to court.”

  “Donnie, man, you can’t trip like that.” He hated the way Donnie always brought it up, always made Darnell feel the tight pull of his scars.

  Donnie stared at him. “Yeah, man, I can’t play ball no more, nothin. Like, what if it come loose and get in my bloodstream? I can feel it, man, I can feel it in there.”

  “Go see another doctor,” Darnell said, walking beside him toward the crowds.

  But Donnie shook his head. “Man, you just got the scars. Not the lead. It ain’t the same.”

  Darnell felt the anger rise to his face, but he didn’t want to scream at Donnie, yell out what he thought. No, man, it ain’t the same. Nobody dependin on you—you just floatin. But he felt the balls of his feet warm from all the walking the last few days. “Let’s get back before I get in trouble,” he said softly, and Donnie was quiet when they reached the table.

  Charolette was awake, and Brenda rose up fast. “Let’s go visit,” she said, glancing at him.

  Yeah, he thought, walking. You got the baby, so you can talk about what she eat, her hair, all that. But all the brothas—I ain’t got nothin good to say.

  Brenda let Charolette run ahead to find a pine cone, and she said, “See? Nature girl. That’s what they all gon say right now anyway—‘Look like Darnell spit her out his ownself, like you didn’t have no part in it, girl.’”

  Darnell took her arm, smelled her coconut-sweet hair. “That’s the only thing I can take credit for right now,” he said.

  She turned her eyes up to him, her brows low. “She cries for you every morning. You’re the one likes to wake up early—you always took her out for doughnuts. She knows you’re gone.”

  “I ain’t gone yet,” he said, and she jerked her head away.

  Charolette called, “Ba-by!” at the toddlers staggering near them, picking up fallen potato chips. Women sat in the folding chairs, men stood near trees, and foil was folded back over the spicy-coated hot-links and drumsticks and ribs, the baked beans and potato salad, the huge pans of peach cobbler and sheet cake. The women always made enough to offer anyone a taste. They’d hand out a paper plate, then the questions would begin.

  “I hope you still ain’t up there messin with them fires,” Mrs. Rentie said.

  “You ain’t got on with no fire department yet?” her husband asked.

  “He still wearin his cowboy clothes,” Marlene said, smiling crooked, her arms folded. “I see you had a female Darnell junior.” She nodded at Charolette.

  “Look just like him, huh?” her mother said.

  “Long as she don’t act just like me, she’s cool,” Darnell said, but Charolette struggled in Brenda’s arms, clutching pine cones and jacaranda pods.

  “She act just like him,” Brenda said, resignedly.

  The rounds took forever, even though he moved around the park quickly. “Where you workin? Why you ain’t signed on with the city? Why you didn’t go back to college—you got hella good grades, I remember. Oh, man where the Spider? I’m doin window tint now, got a shop downtown—totally legal. You workin with your dad? He kickin your natural ass? You see in the paper about all them fires? Some pyro gone crazy. Too bad you can’t have your own firefightin service, huh? Yeah, like tree trimmin. Shoot, you ain’t got enough business, just strike you a match.”

  Yeah. Too bad. Because just before the sun started to fade under the weight of smog and early evening, a sharper scent of smoke cut through the rich, fat-laced spiciness around the grills. Darnell saw the hook-and-ladder and another engine circle the park and head for the riverbottom entrance, where the lake drained into the sandy bed and the jungle of vine-draped trees stretched to the flow of water.

  Homeless guys cookin early? he thought, and when people realized there was another fire, Demetrius Thompson handed him an empty soda bottle. “Here, brotha, fill this up at the fountain and get busy. Got a fire down there.”

  “Forget you, Demetrius,” Darnell said, smiling, but his chest flared hot.

  Brenda sat back on the lawn chair slowly, Charolette lolling on her chest again in sleep. Darnell looked around at the groups of people walking toward the street that led to the cemetery; a few more families got into their cars, because their people were buried at the military ground.

  I ain’t goin with Mama and them to the graves, he thought. I did that. He remembered GranaLene saying, “I go on Easter. That my day. But I go on that Oklahoma Remorial, too.” He saw Brenda close her eyes, lean her head back, and a thumping moved into the parking lot. Gasanova—Midnight was booming. Right behind him Leon’s Bronco played the same station.

  He said, “I’ll be back,” and started walking before Brenda could look up. Leon and Gas approached the crow
d of men near Floyd King’s huge ’49 Ford, and Darnell heard Donnie beside him now. “They gon have the what-is-a-damn-truck argument,” he said.

  They were hollering, but Trent King stood next to Darnell’s father, talking about a job. “What up, D. and D.?” Gas said, and Leon met Darnell’s eyes.

  Darnell’s father saw him. “Come here, we talkin about this teardown.”

  Floyd King said, “Better you than me. Them damn Grayglen people always gotta find somethin wrong when you work, gotta look over your shoulder. I’ll take a construction teardown any day.”

  Trent smiled. “I’m Grayglen, now, Uncle Floyd. Be careful.”

  “Sheeeit,” Floyd said. “You think you Grayglen. But tonight, when you goin home, watch your back. You still blacker than a thousand midnights.”

  “When Johnny Law see you, he see one color, man,” Snooter said.

  “Donnie and Darnell already know that,” somebody said, and then they were all quiet for a long, uncomfortable minute.

  Trent jumped in, saying loudly, “I’m bidding on the landscape contract, but they’re taking forever with the permits.”

  Darnell saw his father glance at Leon, saw the forehead dropping into a glare. I ain’t in the mood, he thought, turning, hearing his father say, “We supposed to know next week, just in time for some real ass-kickin heat. Your favorite kinda day, huh, Darnell?”

  He moved further away, keeping his mind blank, and Donnie said to Leon, “Y’all must got some serious car alarms with them systems.” Darnell shifted with them, away from the older men, to walk toward the music coming from the car windows.

  “No—I got Vernon.” Leon laughed, and Darnell saw Vernon’s head moving to the beat. He sat in the passenger seat, tapping his fingers on the door frame.

  Donnie peered into the Bronco. “Let’s cruise, man,” he said, a faraway look on his face, and Darnell glanced back. His father opened his mouth to shout something. I ain’t in the mood to get yelled at about no damn trees, Darnell thought. But Donnie’s trippin. He ain’t right—he want to ride with Leon?

  “Come on, D.,” Leon said, motioning with his head to the front seat, and Vernon leaned forward to let Donnie in the back.

  “Man, I gotta let Brenda know I’m leavin,” Darnell said, looking toward the veil of barbecue smoke wafting low. “The baby’s sleepin, but…”

  “Oh, man, you pussy-whupped now?” Leon laughed. “You a captive and shit? We’ll be back in a flash—before you in trouble with your woman.”

  Gas stood beside his truck, and Darnell met his eyes, asked, “You comin?” Gas shook his head slow and opened his own blue-scripted door. Midnight. Leon sucked his teeth sharp, and Darnell felt the bass when he turned up the sounds. “Let’s go, homey.” Darnell slid into the pounding beats that tapped his heart.

  “What you drivin?” Leon asked Donnie. “Still got the red Celica?”

  “Yeah,” Donnie said. “That’s me. No Bronco.”

  They drove around the lake, and Darnell leaned out the window to smell the wet ash-smoke from the fire. Damn—this is where Brenda’s gon think I am. “Go over the bridge,” he told Leon, and Leon grinned.

  The swath of riverbottom was fading gray now, the green disappearing under the late-day smog and smoke. From the bridge, Darnell could see the glow of fire deep in the cane and bamboo. The bright orange was lighter than chaparral fire, flickering and jumping from cane to palm instead of racing solid red lines up a hillside. Leon cruised slow off the bridge, and Darnell saw the trucks and coats gathered at the sandy off-road parking area. He stared, told Leon, “Hold up for a second right here.” When he opened the door, Vernon said, “Naw, man, we need to hit the liquor store.”

  But Darnell was walking fast toward Scott and Perez, standing near one of the trucks. Their faces were ash-streaked, tight, not seeing him, and he called, “You supposed to keep your head outta the flames, man!”

  Scott grinned, yelled, “Tucker! Long time, bro!” Perez poured a foam cup of water over his head, and his lashes stuck together spiky when he smiled at Darnell.

  Darnell nodded at their blackened hands and gear. “Paid call got you workin hard, huh? CDF still ain’t got no money.”

  “Who needs Forestry takin part of my check?” Scott said. Darnell heard the truck humming behind them, pumping water through the fat-belly hoses. He smelled the fumes, the steam.

  “Not much progress,” he said, seeing the smoke rise still dark, not white.

  “Hey, it’s just that bamboo cane, man—let it burn, the city says, long as it don’t threaten anything. Just street assholes,” Scott said.

  “Arundo,” Darnell murmured, watching the flames leap into a palm down the riverbottom. “Arundo cane.”

  “Yeah, you were always into names—just like Fricke,” Scott said, and Perez laughed. “I’m just into work. You should apply for paid call reserve, man.”

  Darnell shook his head. “Not enough money.”

  “Hey, ten bucks an hour is cool with me, with a drought like this,” Scott said. He threw his hand out at the fire and Perez laughed again. “Plenty of work now, man. Cane all up and down the river.”

  Darnell heard the horn sharp, and the beats thumped loud against the pumpers. “I gotta go,” he said. He made his voice hard. “My home boys are waitin for me.”

  “Yeah, our break’s over,” Perez said, and they started toward the thick cane lining the sandy path. Darnell lifted his chin and went back to the Bronco.

  “I’m thirsty, nigga,” Vernon said. “Oh—sorry. Brotha. Let’s go.”

  Leon headed back over the bridge, faster this time, and Darnell saw the thin silver stream of the river. Paid call—if it’s winter, if we get some rain, I couldn’t even buy groceries, he thought.

  Vernon was looking at the park. “Oklahoma, huh?” he said.

  Leon said, “Yeah, Mama’s over there partyin with the Tulsa people.”

  “Where was your pops from?” Darnell asked.

  “LA,” Leon said, short. His father had been killed when the boys were young. Shot in LA. Darnell remembered Gas and Leon wearing little black suits, getting into a car down the street.

  Leon said, “Brenda’s daddy from Louisiana, right? Used to tell me get my sorry black ass out his yard when we tried to shortcut, remember? And Gas hit his hooptie with a football, he went ballistic. Face got all red.”

  “He ain’t spoke to Brenda since we got married,” Darnell said, staring at the green line pulsing with the drumbeats on the stereo.

  “Lucky Brenda got her mama’s personality,” Leon said, and Darnell thought, Not all the way she don’t. She hard enough—she buyin the groceries, makin it without me.

  At the liquor store, Donnie went inside with Vernon. Leon said, “So the consultant want to know, man. You gon do that or what?”

  Darnell kept his eyes on the light. “No, man, I ain’t interested.”

  “It’s no big deal, homey. It ain’t slingin—just odd jobs, you know. Like you doin now.”

  “Yeah,” Darnell said. Vernon and Donnie got in the back with the paper bags. “That’s what I’m doin now.” Half-steppin. Scrapin. “But I set my own schedule, okay?”

  Leon shook his head. “Keep that shit in the bags till we get there, Vernon. I ain’t up for no open-container stop.” He drove toward Sugar Ridge fast, and Darnell remembered hurtling through the dark in the Lincoln, the black leather cool, asphalt and nothing beyond it but faint now-and-then lights.

  They were visiting the graves now, he knew. I did my remorial, GranaLene. Darnell heard Vernon laugh at something Donnie mumbled, and he saw the riverbottom fire just a smear of orange in the narrow belt of dark vegetation from way up here.

  In the foothills, they checked out the other cars first. All white guys, in four-by-fours and two old junkers. Teenagers in a crowd by the pepper trees. This used to be a meadow, Darnell thought. Collected rain. Now it was packed hard by car tires and feet. Vernon opened the bag, and they stayed in the car, windows down, the bas
s booming softly. The white guys had their car doors open, and their speed metal music thrashed out fast.

  He looked at the label on the forty-ounce Vernon handed over the seat. “St. Ides,” Vernon said. “Kickin, homey, better than 8-Ball.” He didn’t hand one to Leon. Leon pulled a bottle of San Pellegrino water from the glove compartment and took a long swallow.

  “This stuff slow my blood down,” Donnie said. “Make me relax.” Darnell sipped the heavy malt and held the fat bottle between his legs. Huge boulders were gathered across the field, holding pockets of taller brittlebush like the one that had sent the drifting, glowing stem to his hand. He couldn’t see the scar in the dim light now. He saw the brittlebush was already dry, finished blooming. Drought had kept the other brush down. These hills too low for true chaparral, he thought. Facin north. No trees except peppers. Chaparral side is south. Pine forest north face—if you in some true mountains.

  He drank again. Leon was silent, watching the white guys. Vernon said, “Darnell, man, reach under the seat.”

  Darnell ran his hand in the space, felt the gun, and straightened. He held it for a moment. “My nine,” Vernon said, palm waiting, and Darnell laid the nine-millimeter there. Vernon held it loose, drank long and deep. Donnie bent close to see the gun, and Vernon said, “Yo, man, I got a baby-nine back here, too. You could have it for cheap.”

  “Where you get it?” Donnie said.

  “Off some sprung nigga,” Leon said, spitting out the window. “Man, I’ma be glad when I’m off the street.”

  “I love sprung niggas,” Vernon said, smiling. “They got a lotta stuff.”

  “Yeah, and you keep messin with them strawberries, you gon get a lotta stuff,” Leon said.

  “Let me see it,” Donnie said, and Darnell looked back at him quickly. He saw Donnie holding the .380 revolver tightly, the cheap striped etchings above his thumb. “What you want for it?”

  “Not much,” Vernon said. “It got bodies on it.”

  “I know that’s makin your blood move too fast, Donnie,” Darnell said, his heart racing. “Give it back to him, man.”

  Vernon looked straight into Darnell’s eyes. “Sometimes a gun want a body, man. You seen how that shit happen.”