Gumbo

by E. Lynn Harris

  Would it be worth the risk, worth failing.

  Shouldn't I try even if I know the strength's not in me. No, you say. Yes. Hold on, let go. Do I hear you saying, Everything's gonna be alright. Saying, Do what you got to do, baby, smiling as I twist my fingers into the brass handle. As I lift.

  FROM Thieves' Paradise

  BY ERIC JEROME DICKEY

  PROLOGUE

  Momma shrieked.

  The walls echoed her cries for Daddy to get his hands off her, brought her pleas up the stairs to my room. I jumped and my algebra book dropped from my chestnut desk onto the floor.

  My father cursed.

  By the time I made it to the railing and looked down into the living room, Momma was in front of my father, begging for forgiveness. Her petite frame was balled up on our Aztec-patterned sofa. She was holding her lip to keep the blood from flowing onto the fabric. I watched her rub away the pain on her cinnamon skin, then run her fingers through her wavy coal-black hair.

  My old man looked up at me and grimaced. “Go back to your room, boy.”

  I was fifteen and a half. Less than half of my old man's age.

  He stomped toward Momma.

  She screamed and moved away from him like she was trying to run away from the madness that lived here every day.

  My chest heaved as I stumbled past the grandfather clock and rushed down the stairs. My heart was pounding. I tightened my hands and hurried to my momma's side.

  “Momma,” I moaned as I kneeled next to her. “You okay?”

  “I'm alright, baby. It's nothing. Nothing.”

  I looked back at my liquored-up old man. He bobbed his head and pointed back at the kitchen. “I work hard all day and come home to no dinner?”

  He was slurring and sneering down on us.

  I said, “Nobody knew you were coming home tonight.”

  Momma tried to get up. “I overslept. My pills made me—”

  “Carmen,” he shouted. “Get up off that sofa and cook. Now. Planet of the Apes comes on in an hour and I want my food on the table by the time Charlton Heston—”

  “Don't ever touch Momma again.”

  “What you say?”

  “He didn't say anything.” Momma touched my arm. “I'm okay, baby. Go back and finish studying for your test.”

  Daddy's back straightened, his bushy mustache crooked as his lips curved down, his eyes widened. “What you say to me, nigger?”

  “I'm not a nigger. My name is Dante.”

  “So, the nigger speaking up for himself.”

  “You heard me the first time. And I ain't a nigger.”

  “You challenging me? What, you think because you got a little hair over your dick you're a grown man now? Ain't but one man in this house.”

  Momma spoke carefully to Daddy. “Don't get upset.”

  I frowned at the shiny badge on the chest of his tan uniform, then at the gun in his leather holster.

  He sucked his teeth, nodded, and jerked the badge off. He threw the gun holster on the love seat. He stepped away from the glass coffee table, opened his arms, and snapped out, “You want to be a man? Come on. I'll give you the first shot. Nigger, I'll knock your black ass into the middle of next week.”

  Momma gripped my arm tight enough for her nails to break my skin. I glanced at the golden cross she had on her chest, the one she had got from her mother just a few weeks before Grandmamma died. I looked into my momma's light brown eyes, eyes that looked like mine. “Let me go, Momma.”

  “No.” She put her nose against mine and whispered, “Momma's okay. It's just a little scratch.”

  My knees shook when I stood and faced my old man. When his eyes met mine, his anger held so much power that I forgot how to breathe. Heart went into overdrive. He balled up his right fist, slammed it into the palm of his left hand; it echoed like thunder. “What are you gonna do, nigger?”

  I trembled, backed away, and said, “Nothing.”

  “Nothing, what?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  I kicked my bare feet into the rust carpet, then slumped my shoulders, wiped my sweaty hands on my jean shorts, and turned around to go back to my room.

  Then that motherfucker chuckled.

  A simple laugh that stoked up the rage inside of me.

  I charged at him as fast and as hard as I could.

  Momma screamed.

  Daddy's eyes widened with surprise.

  Pain. Anger. Fear.

  Three screams from three people.

  From the backseat of the police car, I stared through the wire cage at the colorful rotating lights that were brightening Scottsdale's earth-tone stucco houses. I was hostage under a calm sky. The spinning glow from twelve squad cars looked like rainbows chasing rainbows. Colors raced over all the sweet gum trees and windmill palms, moved like a strobe light over the vanhoutte spirea in the front of the three-car garage. The reek of cordite was on my flesh. Couldn't really smell it over the stench of my stress sweating. I concentrated on the colors to make the pain from the tight handcuffs go away. Watched the rainbows come and go.

  The door opened. A dry May breeze mixed with the sweltering car air. A police officer stuck his sweaty head inside. His face was hard, his voice angry and anxious. “Your mother wants to say something to you before we lock your ass up. We shouldn't let her say a damn word to you after what you did. Do you mind?

  I stared straight ahead. “No.”

  He raised his voice. “No what?”

  “No,” I repeated in a way that let him know I thought that all of them were assholes for making me out to be the bad guy. “I don't mind.”

  He gripped the back of my neck. “You're pretty belligerent.”

  I was a knob-kneed reed of a boy. Hadn't lifted anything heavier than an algebra book and could barely run a mile in P.E. without passing out. That was before I started pumping weights, before squats, before doing two hundred push-ups in the morning to start my day, doing sprints, before the hooks and jabs and side kicks and roundhouse kicks and spinning back kicks became my trademark.

  I said, “Fuck you.”

  With his other hand he grabbed the front of my throat and squeezed, made me gag and look into his blue eyes. He growled, “Say, ‘No, sir. I don't mind, sir.' You insolent bastard.”

  He let me go when another officer passed by. I gagged and caught my breath while perspiration tingled down my forehead into my eyes. I tilted my head and looked at him.

  He smirked. “Now, what you have to say?”

  I spat in his face.

  His cheeks turned crimson. He stared at me while my saliva rolled down his scarred face into his ill-trimmed wheat-colored mustache.

  “That's your ass, boy.”

  Veins popped up in his neck while he stood there, handkerchief in hand, clenching his teeth and wiping my juices from his eye. He kept watching me, wanted me to break down and show my fear. It was there, but I refused to let it be seen. Another officer passed by and scarface told him what I'd done. It looked like they were about to double team me, but the second officer said they had to report the assault and they both stormed away.

  A second later the door opened again and my mother eased her bruised face inside.

  She said, “Don't hate me.”

  “Love you, Momma.” I smiled. “Get away from here.”

  She fondled her wedding ring. Tears formed in her eyes. She dropped the police blanket from her shoulders, took her cross off, and put it around my neck.

  She used her soft fingers to wipe the sweat from my eyes.

  “Somebody'll come get you out. Maybe Uncle Ray. You might be able to go back to Philly and stay with him for a while.”

  “Uncle Ray don't like us. We're Catholic; Jehovah's Witnesses don't like nobody but Jehovah's Witnesses.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “It's true.”

  “I'll call him anyway. I'll tell him you made the honor roll, so he'll know you're still doing good in school. Let him know you might get a
scholarship. You could help him around his grocery store in the evenings.”

  I shook my head. “Don't worry about me. Get away before he hurts you. All he's gonna do is beat you up, then go out to Fort McDowell and spend the night with that Indian woman. He ain't been home in two days, then walks in complaining about some stupid dinner. Tomorrow he'll be mad about his shirts. The next day his shoes.”

  My old man was standing in a crowd of badges, guns, and whispers. The ambulance crew had bandaged his head and he was back on his feet. I'd beat him with everything I could get my hands on.

  He made a single finger gesture for Momma to come.

  My beautiful momma looked tired of the life she was living, and that made me sad. She wiped her eyes and kissed the side of my face. “You understand, don't you? You're a big boy now. Almost a man. You can take care of yourself. You understand.”

  I kissed the side of her face as my answer.

  “Don't be angry.” She twisted her lips. “Don't be like him.”

  “I won't.” I smiled for her. “Go back inside before you get in trouble. Stop taking so much of that medication.”

  She rubbed her eyes, then dragged her fingers down across her lips. “It calms my nerves.”

  “Why you wanna sleep so much?”

  “Sometimes,” she patted my legs with her thin fingers, “sometimes I have nice dreams.”

  She was distant, reciting and not living the words.

  I said, “Dreams ain't real, Momma.”

  “Sometimes—” she started, then stopped and kissed my forehead. Her voice became as melodic as the poetry she always read. “Sometimes they're better than what's real.”

  I fought the dryness in my throat that always came before my tears. I was scared. Fifteen and a half and living in fear.

  She wandered away, wringing her hands and looking back at me every other step. We blew each other dysfunctional kisses.

  I'd be in juvenile hall, then a boys' home until I was old enough to register for the draft and vote.

  Living with criminals would be like going to a different kinda school. Nigerians, Mexicans, whites, no matter what nationality, they were all caught up in the same game. And didn't hesitate to lend to the schooling on everything from Three Card Monte to Rocks in a Box to Pigeon Drops, even broke down how to pass bad checks. A few were bold enough to run telephone scams from the inside.

  That was different from the education I was after.

  I had dreams of getting into Howard, to a frat life and a world filled with sorority girls. Always wanted to stomp in a Greek Show. Make enough money to get a small place, get Momma to move in with me. I was working on our escape.

  But that night, guess I had had all I could stand and couldn't stand no more. I wanted to be like a superhero and rescue my momma. That was my mission in life. What motivated me.

  Hard to save anybody when you're locked up, when you're too busy trying to fight to save yourself. When you've made yourself a prisoner.

  I did want to save her. That gave my life a lot of purpose.

  But there would be no Howard. No sorority girl at my side. And the closest thing to a frat I would see would be a bunch of young hardheads lining up for roll call, all wearing prison blues, most with tattoos. Our Greek Show was marching in sync to go get our meals.

  Momma would find her own way to freedom.

  My momma would take too many pills and become an angel.

  My daddy would be found dead behind the wheel of his Thunderbird at Fort McDowell. Ambushed and shot outside of a married Indian woman's place.

  On that night of changes, I sat in the back of that squad car staring at the colorful lights that were dancing in the night to make my pain go away. Watched the rainbows chasing the rainbows.

  • 1

  The phone rang.

  Jarred me from my sleep and severed me from my past.

  Time to time, I had nightmares, I felt the pain from the fights and heard the screams from the midnight rapes in juvenile hall. But I learned to kick ass before I got my ass kicked.

  The phone rang again.

  I opened my eyes. Focused on the red digits across the room.

  3:32 A.M.

  Not quite yesterday; not quite today.

  Traffic in NoHo—that stands for North Hollywood—was breezing by outside my window on Chandler. Somewhere down by North Hollywood High a car alarm was singing a song of distress.

  I snatched the phone up and answered, “Yeah?”

  “Where've you been Dante?”

  I knew who it was. Hearing his voice jarred me all over again. I sat up in my queen-size bed. The room had a chill and I kept the covers wrapped around me.

  He chuckled, then said, “I was beginning to think you were dead or something.”

  “A'ight, how you get my number, Scamz?”

  “There isn't a number I can't get.”

  “Just got it changed last week.”

  He laughed his irksome, sneaky laugh. “Happy birthday. You made it to the big two-five.”

  “On a hot wing and a prayer.”

  “A black man's not supposed to live past twenty-five.”

  “Then that makes me a senior citizen. I should be eligible for Social Security and a ten percent discount at Denny's.”

  “You crack me up.” He laughed. “That's why I like talking to you.”

  I yawned, then checked my caller ID. No number was on the box. Last time he jingled, the ID box told me he was in New York, lounging at Fifth and Fifty-sixth at the Trump Tower. That was two weeks back. He didn't leave a message, he never did, but I knew that was my homey. Doubt if Donald Trump would be ringing me up to talk shop about the market. Nobody but Scamz. Time before that he told me he was down in South Beach. Time before that Montreal. Before then it was the W down in New Orleans during the Essence Festival. Before that Playa del Carmen.

  I set another yawn free before I asked, “You back out in La La Land?”

  “For a hot sec. Wrapping up some business before I go on vacation. You should've accepted my offer and left with me last time. Aspen had great skiing.”

  “Whatcha been onto?”

  He boasted that over the last few weeks he'd been running scam after scam after scam. All nonviolent. Most of his dealings were in credit and green cards. Since he had women who worked everywhere from the DMV to the IRS, I already knew there wasn't any information he couldn't get, so his criminally-gifted butt getting my number didn't cause me to raise a brow. Not right then.

  “Up until a few days ago, nobody around the pool hall had seen you for months,” Scamz said.

  “My job was keeping me busy.”

  “Thought One Time might've shackled you down and had you on the gray goose heading out to Chino.”

  “I don't do prisons.” One Time was a nickname for the police. I yawned. “Like I said, I was working.”

  “Was?”

  “Got laid off. Everything came to a screeching halt when the commercial side of the company stopped producing and the aerospace side picked up. Been out looking for another j-o-b.”

  Sounded like he took a draw from his cigarette, then blew the smoke out before he spoke again. “Why do you keep wasting your talents on a nine-to-five?”

  Makes me content, that's all that matters. Don't need to be rich to be happy.”

  “What's the word, any luck?”

  I told him I had called my old gig to check my status. Over twenty technicians with more time than I had were waiting to get called back. No one had gotten called back in six months and a few thousand more were getting kicked to the curb. The unemployment office told me to check back in a week or two, which was the same robotic line they ran on the twenty people in front of me.

  I'd been hitting a lot of career fairs. Hit one down at the Bonaventure and put in apps with everybody from Aerospace Corporation to Sears. Never seen that many borderline-bankrupt people coming in from all over California and Nevada and Seattle looking for a job. After that I'd flown up to Oakla
nd, hit the Alameda County Conference and Training Center, but five thousand out-of-work people beat me there. Most were in a line that circled the block by sunrise.

  I told Scamz, “North or south, ain't nobody hiring.”

  “There's a synchronous world recession, especially in the high-tech world.”

  “Translate.”

  “No jobs out there. Jobs were already scarce, and those terrorists exacerbated the situation.”

  I said, “I got an interview next week.”

  “Another widget factory?”

  “Labor gig. Slinging boxes on a truck from dusk to dawn.”

  “You're overqualified for that kind of work.”

  “A man with no job ain't overqualified for any kinda work.”

  “Spoken like a true member of the unemployed.”

  “You got jokes.”

  “Seems like a lot of people have been humbled.”

  I cleared my throat. “They're offering twelve an hour, but I know they have a stack of apps thicker than your little black book.”

  He laughed at that. “What're your ends looking like until that comes through?”

  “They ain't looking. Almost as blind as Helen Keller.”

  “Your economic recession is in full effect.”

  “Yep. Seems like the world is fucked up.”

  We said a few words about the war that was going on, on how it had done a number on people both emotionally and financially.

  Scamz said, “ ‘Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically.' ”

  “Shakespeare?”

  “D. H. Lawrence. The opening lines of Lady Chatterley's Lover.”

  I yawned. “A regular Nostradamus.”

  “Come see me today. I got a few things lined up.”

  “Can't. I'm a legit man.”

  Scamz asked, “You heard from Jackson?”

  I met Jackson a few years back through Scamz. They were the best of friends when I came along. But Jackson had been off the grift for almost two years. A good woman and a steady job had him on the straight and narrow.

  I said, “Yeah. I've been hanging with him almost every day.”

  “What you two got going on?”