by Tiana Laveen
“Since I made it past twenty-one and got me a little shorty… Shit, I got three you say, right?”
“Yes, you have two sons and a little baby girl…nine, six and three. Hassani is the eldest. He is just like you, looks like a darker version of you and acts like you, too. Then your second one is Dakarai. He looks like you and his mama combined, almost a fifty-fifty split, but acts more like his mother. Then last, you have Isis… She’s beautiful, Saint, and she’s smart, so full of life, just a real sweetheart. She is definitely a daddy’s girl. They are great children… I’m blessed…so blessed.” Saint ran his finger under his eye, rubbing away more tears. “All three of your children are gifted by the way. Hassani is the strongest.”
The boy paused and smiled real wide, the tears still streaming down his face. “Is my wife an Angel Child, too?”
“No. She’s a commoner, a civilian. And you know what the best part is?”
“What?”
“She knows exactly what we are, Saint, and she accepts us. She loves us, acts like it is no big deal. She was born and raised in California, and that’s where you meet her. She’s not just a good fuck, Saint.” He swallowed, repressing the desire to reprimand his sixteen-year-old self. “She’s the mother of your children, all of them planned and wanted and desired! Your fears do not come true! She’s your lover, and the best fucking lay you’ve ever had not just because she can take a dick beat down, but because you two are in love and she completes you! You two don’t just have sex, you make love to her. You take care of her, and she takes care of you. She’s your best friend in the whole world. She’s your soulmate…made especially for you.”
The boy paused long and hard, undoubtedly thinking about the whole concept of a soulmate. Saint surmised the notion had never entered his damn mind…
“You are a good dad, I can see it…feel it.” He leaned slightly forward, causing his gold chain to sway like a pendulum. “You so proud when you talk about them; you smile, even through your pain, when you talk about them. I like that. Matter of fact, I like the future me.” He smiled a bit wider. “You don’t beg a mothafucka for shit, I can see that about you, but you begged me to tell you how to make your son…our son’s life better. I’ll tell you how, damn it. You tell him every damn morning and fuckin’ night that you got his back, man! That’s what the fuck you tell your oldest shorty, man. You let him explore. He gotta do some shit on his own, find out the hard fuckin’ way, but keep a chain on his ass in case he get too far.
“You yank his ass back, so he know you love him ’cause one day, won’t be no damn chain, and he’ll be off on his damn own. If you do what I say, he might get off track, shit, ain’t no might, he will— he is an Angel Child with incredible strength if he like you, like us— but he will always bounce back to you, to your teachings, because he knows you believed in him, and you loved the shit out of him and it’s all because you told him he was greatness in the flesh! The child may stray, but it’s the parents’ love we always crave! He ain’t gonna want to disappoint you and if you the parent you claim to be, that I think we are, he will want to be like his old man…men…when he get to be an old head because he been out there, fuckin’ up, just like every kid in the damn city does at least a time or two. And now he knows all the shit in the streets wasn’t shit!
“I ain’t stupid. I know I’ve been messin’ up. You tell me Mama, our mama, wouldn’t be proud of me sleeping around? Yeah, I know that…but what tha fuck am I gonna do, huh?! Being in between some legs is the closest thing I got to feelin’ special! It’s the only time someone tells me I’m good at some shit; I’m great, I’m important! I’m good at fuckin’, I make these females feel good, so that’s what I do and I do it the best I can, so somebody wants me, at least for an hour or two. If these broads really knew me, the real me, they wouldn’t want me, man. I’m too cerebral. I’m out here trying to be something I’m not, just so I can get some pussy…and I get it. When I’m the real me, no one has time for it… They don’t want to hear shit I got to say.”
“Saint, what do you like? Besides sex, what topics really get your blood pumping?” Saint knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from his inner-child.
“I like science. These girls don’t wanna hear that shit, though! They don’t want to sit around and talk about how life began on Earth, water on Mars and Sigmund Freud. If I said, ‘Let’s talk about homeostasis.’ These ladies would look at me like I was fuckin’ crazy and the only homeostatic shit they care about is if I have some stable, steady cash flow, and a secure, hard ass cock. I have to read about all that shit secretly, on the low, ’cause if anyone found out, my cover would be blown…but I love it. I like reading about the world, and about all sort of shit, and thinking about, like, ‘what if’ you know? I gotta bunch of science books under my bed. And I like readin’ about anatomy and astronomy and all kinds of shit. I wish I could find a girl that would let me be me, but shit, I can’t blame these broads, man. Even if I found one, I probably still wouldn’t be happy. I got too much shit goin’ on.” He took another puff of his joint. “I already got two strikes against me; I can’t make it worse for myself.”
“What strikes are you referring to? What makes you feel inferior?”
“I’m a poor inner-city young man that the fucking world has forgotten about. I’m labeled a criminal just for that alone; never mind that I make good grades and all that shit. Secondly, I ain’t a white man. In case you haven’t noticed, they run the world, and I can’t pass for that shit, either—not that I’d want to. Matter of fact, most people try to guess what the fuck I am and get it wrong. I ain’t mad about it though.” He shrugged. “How many half Korean, half Egyptian mothafuckas you know?” He chuckled, causing Saint to do the same.
“…Not many.”
“Exactly. So, I’m just out here, man, wasting away, but your son ain’t…my son. Wow, that trips me out. Anyway, he got somebody; he got an active father in the damn house. He only nine; cut the little guy some slack. He gonna do right, I promise you. He gonna do right, ’cause he got a mama that’s still breathing and she is a good mama too or you wouldn’t even be wit’ her ass and he got a father that loves him so much, he came to visit his former self…some shit we both know neither of us wanted to do, because it fuckin’ hurts! The best thing in the world is the genuine love from a parent, and he got that, times two! My shorty is gonna be dope, man—a damn champion. I’m proud of his ass already, and I ain’t ever laid eyes on him.”
“Would you like to see him?”
Boy-Saint paused for a moment, as if afraid to answer.
“Yeah…let me see him.”
Saint looked into his eyes real closely and envisioned Hassani from the moment he was born, until the way he looked at present. The boy started to shake again then, his body trembling from head to toe, and a smile cracked his face. He was proud…so damn proud.
“I love him. He’s the best part of me! I made him!” Tears rolled down his face. “Not everything I touch turns to shit—he’s proof! Tell my wife, good lookin’ out.” He smirked and chin checked. “You calm down, you relax, man. It’s copasetic. You good, man…you better than good. Peace.”
…And then the sixteen-year-old Saint vanished.
Saint, the man, sat there all alone. The only time he’d felt lonelier had been when Xenia had moved out of their home several years earlier. He couldn’t stop shaking, falling to fucking pieces. All that remained was the strong, rich aroma of freshly lit marijuana hanging thickly in the air, and the tears that continued to pour, wetting his shirt, making a mess of everything. He clutched his kneecaps, coming even more undone, despite Lawrence’s muffled voice in the background.
“Saint! Wake up! Saint!”
His eyes fluttered, and suddenly, he was back on the man’s floor, the burnt orange pillow crushed under his writhing weight and his face stinging from the tears that still continued to stream down his face. He looked around, confused and out of sorts.
“What happened? Am I here
? I mean, is it over?” He looked to the left and right, then straight ahead, unable to grasp reality with both hands if he’d tried.
“Yes, it’s over, Saint.” Lawrence snuffed out the candle and grabbed his arms, squeezing tightly. “Look at me…no, not over there. Look into my eyes.”
Saint finally met eyes with the man.
“I want you to take three deep breaths, okay? You are running on adrenaline right now, and your body and spirit are confused about placement.”
Saint gulped, then did as told. His heart began to beat a bit slower. Lawrence handed him his Snapple.
“Now drink the rest of that…”
He drank until there wasn’t a drop left.
“Alright. It is obvious you saw yourself as a teenager. I could only hear your responses to your younger self, not what he was saying. Whatever it was, it moved you…touched you. Hopefully you received some answers you needed as well as told him what you thought of him…”
“…I did. But, I wish I’d had more time.”
Lawrence nodded. “When he left, that meant it was time to go.”
“It’s strange… I’m worried about a boy I used to be, Lawrence. I’m worried for that kid. I know he is inside of me, reliving his sixteenth year over and over again. That was one of the worst times of my life. When most sixteen year olds are in Driver’s Ed, or getting their first car, or having some big party, I was living on the street for a few days until Raphael’s mother took me in. While other kids were in school, I was hanging out with people that didn’t care if I lived or died. They wouldn’t have lost a wink of sleep if someone gunned me down right in front of them. Lawrence, will he remember that he spoke to me? Or will I fade away in his mind?”
“I’m not certain, Saint. My guess is he may recall, but there is nothing he can do about that. We cannot rewrite our past, only learn from it, so we can improve our future.”
Saint nodded in understanding. “He helped me though, man.”
“That’s great news. It’s what I wanted for you.”
Saint grew suddenly quiet, loath to speak much anymore. He was emotionally exhausted. The encounter left him feeling immensely drained, as if he’d just done a thousand consecutive push-ups.
“Are you famished yet? I bet you are after such an ordeal. I believe dinner is ready. Donna sent me a text message.” He chuckled as he held up his phone then nodded towards the kitchen.
“I’m absolutely starving,” Saint said, smiling.
They both got to their feet. As they headed towards the kitchen, Lawrence suddenly paused and turned to Saint. He grabbed his arm.
“We all have pain from our pasts. Some of us more than others. Use that pain to help people who are hurting. You have a knack for that.”
Saint nodded, looked down at the ground then back up at Lawrence.
“Yes, I can see that. I found out something rather disturbing tonight, too. Something that shows me how everyone around me seemed to know who I was, except me. I keep having this happen, and the frustration never dissipates. Lawrence, I’ve had people trying to kill me since I was a little boy… and now I know my child may experience the same thing. For the first time in my life, I can see why my father didn’t want to risk having a child like me. It’s like he might have even known what I would be, like maybe, as fucked up as he was to me, he wanted to spare me that pain.”
Lawrence put his hand on his shoulder and smiled. “…But look at you now and all that you’ve done and the love you’ve been blessed to experience. I don’t know your father’s motivations, and it doesn’t matter. You’re here, you’re loved, and you’re appreciated…”
*
Chapter Twenty
“I’m sure it is,” Traci grimaced as she clung to the phone, unintentionally forcing the receiver into her ear. She twisted the chord so much, it would take pliers to unravel the thing. Her new job as Director of Social Services at Light House International for the visually handicapped was going rather well. Her pay practically doubled after the move to Manhattan, but unfortunately, so did her gut. She rubbed the bubbling thing, fearful she had a belly full of painful gas. She shrugged off the discomfort as possible ‘new job’ jitters, but there was one other issue…she was late.
She’d had it happen before, this was nothing unusual, but the thought it could be something more remained persistent in her mind.
“Yes…I understand.”
She ran her fingers across her forehead, feeling the clamminess of her skin, more evidence of her breaking out into a cold sweat, which paired quite wonderfully with her throbbing headache. She gripped the thin, absinthe-hued fabric of her skirt, balling it up in her fist as if it were all she had left to hold on to in the entire world. Then she looked up at the ceiling, seeing two of everything.
Oh God…
“Uh huh… I tell you what, Mr. Davis. I will look into it and call you back within the hour, okay?” Much to her surprise, the typically grumpy client agreed to her offer so she was free to toss her cares aside and make a mad dash to the ladies room. She burst into an open stall and fell to her knees, trying to understand why her skin felt cold and searing at the same damn time. She gripped the egret bowl with both hands, her knuckles tight as she struggled to ignore the amber splotches that dotted the thing, no longer caring about the invisible germs she surely now had on her palms.
“Uhhh!” She grunted as her lunch of shrimp scampi came up her throat like a warm, slow crawl of sludge and exited her mouth as if it had never been chewed or digested in the first damn place. Traci wretched in pain, feeling yet another pang jump up and down on her twisting intestines then intensify, focusing now on the center of her tormented gut like the midpoint of a tornado. Sighing, she sluggishly swiped the back of her hand across her lips while attempting to gulp air and breathe again. An unfamiliar voice, soft and polite, came from right outside the locked stall.
“Not sure who is in there, but are you okay?”
Looking over her shoulder, using all the energy she could muster, she was met by a pair of cranberry heels with small, rhinestone buckles. Traci hesitated, hardly able to respond, then pulled herself together and stood on her high heels, bracing herself against the chalk white wall, lest she tumble back onto the butterscotch floor.
“…I believe so, thank you. I think my lunch made me sick. I’ll be fine, thanks.”
“Been there,” the stranger said, following her words with a slight chuckle upon entering the adjoining stall.
Traci tore off a piece of the one-ply toilet paper, dabbed at the sides of her mouth, and exited the compartment. She stood at the sink and vigorously washed her hands as she stared into her bloodshot eyes. She almost didn’t recognize herself. Had something crawled inside of her body to steal all of her good looks, then tossed them somewhere marked, ‘Whereabouts Unknown’?
“Oh God…” she murmured as she ripped off a brown paper towel, dried her fingers, and tossed it in the trash receptacle.
She left the restroom and returned to her office, soaking in her vexing deliberations.
I can’t believe I’m thinking this…but…shit! I need to pick up a pregnancy test after work. But we just moved here. Damn it. This can’t be happening… No, I’m just late and not feeling well is all. It was the move, the new job, everything. That’s all. No need to jump to conclusions.
She slammed her fist on the desk, not particularly comfortable with the notion she could be… No. It can’t be. But I eat that scampi all the time. I love it so much; I’ve had it three times from that place now. Why would I get sick this time around?
Shaking her head, she got back to work, made a few business calls to take her mind off of the whole ordeal. And feeling grateful that, at least for the time being, she felt better.
If I am pregnant, how the hell is Jagger going to take this???
*
It had been a while since Saint had been on L.A. soil. Actually, it hadn’t been that long at all, but it felt like an eternity. The last couple of times he vi
sited, it had been for only one day. This time, he had to stay much longer, get some loose ends tied up. Approximately forty percent of the men he’d offered a relocation package to had accepted it. Now, a hiring process would commence, but cloaked under the highest level of security. He was pleased with the notion of bringing in new blood. Such a thing had a way of setting a robust flame to an already blazing fire. He pulled into his old parking spot that no one dared to call dibs on in his absence. According to George, it was still his spot and always would be, regardless. He walked into the place, elated to discover not a damn thing had changed.
An important meeting on his agenda pertained to a case in Maine where a Rainbeau and his wife were celebrating their tenth year anniversary, only to return home and find it up in flames after several months of harassment from an extremist group. The Rainbeau in question was high profile due to his public occupation, but wished for his private life to remain just that—private. Thus, they were handling it with tender, confidential care. After the meeting, Saint sat in his old office and barely recognized the place. His shoulders dropped as he realized his earlier observations were incorrect. Things had in fact changed, but it was just one space. His own. All of his décor had been packed away and sent to New York; even the smell of the place seemed alien. Once filled with the aromas of cigar smoke intermingled with incense, the space now felt sterile, light and airy. Plain. Boring. So not his style. A desk sat there that he didn’t recognize. He’d had his wooden afro maiden shipped to New York as well. No way could he have parted ways with her.
