La Familia

by Paradise Gomez

  I dialed Sammy’s number for the umpteenth time today. I desperately wanted her to pick up and talk to me, not just to tell her about me being pregnant, but to find out what was going on with her among other things. We really needed to talk.

  I sat near the window with the phone to my ear and was steady hearing it ring and ring. She didn’t pick up. It went straight to her voice mail. Damn, was this bitch avoiding me? I asked myself. What did I do to her? I hung up with frustration. It was a sunny and beautiful day with a breathtaking life growing inside of me and my best friend was nowhere to be found or reached.

  Exhaling heavily, I wanted to get high, but I was pregnant now, feeling different, and I didn’t want to become that type of mother who was drinking and smoking while carrying her baby. I always found that to be disgusting and selfish. I always wanted to smack a bitch when she risked her baby’s health by doing that type of shit. But I couldn’t be the one to throw the first stone at someone when my house wasn’t even that clean.

  My scars from my father, both physically and mentally, were healing. I didn’t want to think about my father; that muthafucka could burn in hell for I cared. I was gonna be nineteen soon, and surely fading from being that scared ten-year-old little girl after my mother died. I was a woman, the type of woman my mother intended me to be. And even though she was on drugs and in the streets, my mother always loved and cared for me.

  With my father in and out of jail all the time, it was mostly us growing up. She lived a hard life, and I was right behind her living a harder life. But with my moms, I felt protected around her all the time and truly loved. She was a junky, smoking crack and turning tricks in the hood for drugs, but best believe no one ever disrespected her daughter, who was me. She would always fight hard for me, like a lioness protecting her babies.

  The thing I respected most about my mother was that she never got high in front of me or Sammy. She didn’t want us to see her demons because we were her angels. And she always tried to turn shit into sugar. No matter how bad a situation we were in, from poverty to violence, she would always try to see the bright side of things and wanted to make her baby girl smile.

  The one thing my mother used to tell me was, “Mouse, sometimes the bitter truth is better than a sweeter lie.”

  And we were living in the bitter truth.

  I always said that my mother wasn’t the average woman, or junkie. She fell in love with the wrong man at a young age, who also mistreated and beat her, and the only good thing that came out of her turbulent relationship was me.

  My father was hell on earth. I tried to love him so many times, but I hated him. The best thing for me was to stay away from him. He would never get to see his grandchild, ever. He wasn’t going to corrupt such an innocent life that would come from my womb. He would not lay hands on my blessing. My baby was going to be an angel, and the devil couldn’t have them.

  The next few hours I spent in the house bored. At first I started to write lyrics and rhyming to myself. I had a few new joints that I wanted to write down and spit, especially one for my unborn child. I walked around in my underwear with a pen and pad in my hand and started to recite, “When ya born, the world is yours, but no one ever tells you the world is a fraud, they say we all are born into sin, so how can we ever win, no silver spoon, in this home utensils was a luxury, eatin’ wit’ my hands was the come up fo’ me, poverty takin’ shots at me, prosperity was lookin’ small to me, cry for the light, willin’ to die for the light, but darkness was a right, lights out, bills blowin’ up like C4.”

  This was going to be a hot rhyme. I was always hyped to talk about the way I lived and where I came from. By early evening, I had about three pages of rhymes written. I was ready to get back into the studio and start recording. Just getting out of the hospital after being beaten by my mentally disturbed father and being pregnant had inspired me even more.

  When seven p.m. came around, I had nothing else to do but start to worry about Rico. He hadn’t called me all day, and I tried to hit up Rico’s phone a few times, but he wasn’t answering. Becoming a little worried about him, I tried to call a few of his friends, but they hadn’t heard or seen Rico all day. Now my worrying was starting to transform into panic. I was ready to get on the bus or catch a cab and take my ass to Edenwald.

  I stepped out of the gypsy cab on Laconia Avenue to see blaring police lights in front of me. Something major had happened. There had to be at least a dozen cop cars in the street stopping vehicle traffic and pedestrians from entering what looked like a crime scene. There were so many people outside looking behind the yellow crime scene tape that looped around the block.

  I paid the driver, handing him a ten dollar bill, and rushed toward the scene.

  “What happened?” I asked someone.

  “Somebody just got shot and killed,” they said fervently.

  Panic started to overcome me. I started to think that something had happened to Rico; maybe it was the reason why he wasn’t picking up his phone or calling me back. I hurried to see what went down, praying it wasn’t my man dead. It would be so fucked up for Rico to be murdered on the day he found out that I was pregnant. I had this sick feeling in my stomach that I was going to know the person murdered. This hunch was eating me alive. I practically ran toward the crime scene with tears streaming down my face and anguish tearing my heart apart. I pushed my way through the thick crowd surrounding the incident and gazed at the center of attention.

  It wasn’t Rico dead, thank God. The body hadn’t been covered yet; the murder had just happened and the man dead was contorted in death. The crimson blood was pooling underneath his wretched, torn frame and staining the concrete. He had been shot four times, twice in the head and twice in the chest. He was sprawled on his back, clothes looking dingy, and eyes cold and closed to death. I fixated my eyes on his gruesome demise; there was no remorse in my soul for him. No tears falling for him. I would never have to worry about him hurting me again. He was no more. My father was gone. He had found himself on the other side of the barrel, and brutally lost. He was a bad man and his time finally came.

  I saw people starting to look at me, making the connection, whispering to each other, probably making assumptions. Police and detectives were walking around, inspecting the body, being nonchalant toward death and investigating a homicide. I didn’t want to be a part of it. I already understood what came next, questions and interrogations. I probably was going to be the first person they came to, and I wasn’t going to make it easy for them.

  Then a sudden thought popped into me: Rico! Did he kill my father? He did. If not himself, then he probably hired a shooter to do the deed. It was ironic how my father was brutally shot down days after he put his hands on me. Rico had promised me that he would kill Hector if he ever touched me again. Oh my God, he actually did this, for me. Was it the reason he left the house so early, and didn’t pick up his phone when I called? My heart started to beat so fast. I quickly walked away from the area, hoping that I didn’t create too much attention by being there and leaving. I wasn’t going to cry for my father and I didn’t want to be bothered with it.

  I decided to head back to Sammy’s place and see what she was doing; the projects’ attention was grasped with the murder of a notorious gangster named Ozone, my father. It was going to be a big thing and I was nervous for Rico. My pops was old school, still dangerous, and he did have people who loved him and would be looking to avenge his death.

  Where was Rico?

  I called him numerous times as I walked toward Sammy’s building, but he still wasn’t picking up. I needed someplace to chill for a moment. The daughter of a slain gangster walking around alone wasn’t too cool. I didn’t want people coming up to me and giving me their condolences and asking what happened. I didn’t give a fuck.

  When I reached Sammy’s building, my clique was chilling outside, smoking a cigarette. I saw Tina, Chyna, and La-La gossiping about something. They stopped when they saw me. Immediately, they came up to me,
hollering, “Mouse,” and hugged me strongly.

  “Oh my God, Mouse. I know you heard already,” Chyna said sadly, giving me a hug.

  “Yeah, I already know.”

  “I’m so sorry about ya father,” Tina said.

  I was nonchalant. I didn’t want to hear about him, but they were going to tell me anyway. “It is what it is,” I replied coolly, being stoic.

  Here it was, the day I had some exciting news to tell everyone, and my father’s murder trumped everything. I was so upset. The only thing I could say to them was, “Y’all see Sammy?”

  “Nah, she ain’t been around all day,” said Chyna.

  It figured.

  I didn’t want to be outside, and the girls thought the same thing, because police was everywhere, swarming the projects like bees. They were harassing everyone and we didn’t want to be bothered with it. We all decided to go back to Tina’s place, since her mother was at work and it was the most comfortable.

  An hour later, the girls were passing around a phat joint and talking about my father’s homicide, almost forgetting that I was in the same room with them. It didn’t bother me though. I was thinking about Rico. I asked if they’d seen him around lately, and they answered no.

  I watched them smoke and was tempted to take a few pulls too. When they passed me the joint for my turn, I turned them down.

  “Mouse, you ain’t smokin’?” Chyna asked.

  “Nah, I’m good,” I replied.

  “Damn, Mouse, why you ain’t smoking?”

  They thought I was sad about my father’s death; it was far from the reason. With it being a gloomy night, hearing police sirens blaring outside, I was itching to tell them about my condition and lighten things in the room. I gazed at my friends and said to myself, fuck it! I wanted Sammy to be the second to know, but since she wasn’t picking up her fuckin’ phone and was nowhere to be found, I decided that Chyna, Tina, and La-La were friends too, and they could be the second to know.

  “I’m pregnant, y’all,” I blurted out.

  “What, bitch!” they all hollered.

  “Oh my God, congratulations, Mouse. You about to be a mommy,” La-La said excitedly.

  “Yup!” I smiled.

  “It’s Rico’s right?” Tina asked.

  “Bitch, hells yeah! I ain’t been fuckin’ anybody else.”

  They all hugged me dearly, and were genuinely happy for me. But in the pit of my stomach, I felt sick and guilty. Sammy, why couldn’t she just have picked up her phone?

  Chapter Eleven

  Sammy

  The show must go on; it was something that I kept telling myself. After Mouse had left, ranting and cursing at me, I went back into my apartment, locked myself in my bedroom and began writing. I pretty much stayed there the next couple days. The words poured on to the paper like rainfall. My mind was going crazy with so many things. I was upset, angry with myself for being so naïve and being so fuckin’ weak and got caught slipping. Macky had caught me off-guard. I really thought he was a nice guy, and had my best interest at heart. I was so wrong. I wanted him dead. He had violated me on a level that there was no coming back from. But I was also upset and crying because I came so close, I thought he was for real, but he was an asshole, and it seemed like I had to start all over again.

  I was excited about being on Tina Green’s track and networking with the music moguls. I wanted to take that step to success. And within the blink of an eye, it was all gone, never mine to have in the first place. But why? That muthafucka had played with my emotions and career, and he tried to rape me in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t know what to say or do. Mouse was pressing for me to give her a name, but I refused. She was ready to kill him too. I think I wanted to do it myself. But it was a sticky situation. He was a friend of Search’s and well known in the business. And what if word got out? I felt I would have been blacklisted, criticized, laughed at, and my music career would be finished before it even got started, because who was I to accuse this top-notch producer of rape and assault? I had a long criminal record. He probably didn’t. I was in a gang, well known in the streets, and probably on the verge of gang warfare with Angie and the YGB Crips. The conflict with Angie was growing. So, I had a lot to think about. Macky wasn’t going to get away with what he tried to do to me, but now wasn’t the time for more conflict in my life, especially after I went behind Search’s back to meet and network with him in the city. And when I also was on the verge of recording something with a known artist without Mouse being involved. I felt guilty about it. Things were already hell enough for me, and I didn’t need Mouse mad at me with her feeling betrayed. I was already mad at myself.

  And if I told Mouse, and Rico, they would have gone after him without any hesitation. Rico would have killed him. I wanted him dead, but he had to suffer. Fuck that. They say revenge is best when it’s served cold.

  I sat by my window writing: “So she’s forever hoping and lovin, but her future ain’t so cunning, holdin’ on to you know what’s wrong for you, lovin’ Mr. Wrong after all the shit he’s done to you.”

  It was late in the evening and Mouse had been calling me all day. I ignored her calls. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to write. I wanted to think. I wanted to perform at the Manhattan Center next week. It was a big show for us, and I didn’t want anything to interfere with us performing.

  As I was writing, feeling the sun setting and the night rising, I heard the far-too-familiar sound of gunshots ringing out, cutting through the air like a cold chill.

  Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak!

  The shots echoed throughout the projects common like kids playing. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t care. They were frequent like poverty in this place. Things don’t change. I heard someone screaming, another life gone, snatched away, heaven or hell now their permanent home.

  I sat by my window and continued to write: “Shit is real, who the fuck cares, death is near, now who’s sincere, spread ya last tears, wipe ya fear, ’cause no one really the fuck cares, this asshole of a place home to me for so many years, mind trapped in the dungeon, chained down like a POW, lookin’ up hoping for at least one star to fall, shoot up like a rocket.”

  I wrote and wrote until I couldn’t write anymore and my fingers started to cramp up. My room was silent; the shabby display indicated true poverty. I heard police sirens blaring outside; another crime scene was to begin. I needed to get away. Mouse was able to escape, so why couldn’t I? I tried to call Search, but his phone was going straight to voice mail. We needed to talk. I started to think that maybe he had heard what happened and was purposely ignoring my calls. Maybe Macky went to him and twisted the truth about everything, badmouthing me and making me out to be the villain.

  Suddenly, I found myself crying again, and the more I wiped the tears away, the heavier they became. I removed myself from the window and sat on the floor. I felt alone. I felt like a failure. I had my crew and my clique, but I wanted so much more, from success to wealth, and even love. I knew I was contradicting myself about love. I wanted to run from it, but who could I run to, besides Mouse, for a shoulder to cry onto. For someone to wipe away my tears as they fell and talk comfort and certainty into my ear, and listen to grief with care. Someone to cheer me up when they saw me frown. In a way, I was hoping to find some intimacy with Macky, and the stupid muthafucka would have gotten my goodies if he would have been patient and hadn’t turned into a fuckin’ monster. He fucked it up. He fucked me up, emotionally. I wanted some dick, because it’d been a minute since I had sex, but you didn’t take from me, and didn’t extort me.

  Subconsciously, I thought, I was jealous of my best friend. Did she find something with Rico that I truly wanted for myself? When she and Rico came to my aid, and seeing the two of them together, it stirred something odd inside of me, and I couldn’t pinpoint it. I just escaped a monster and here was Mouse, arriving with her Prince Charming.

  I cried some more. I never cried in front of anyone. Outside th
e apartment, I was that bitch. I never looked weak or scared, never ran from a fight or any conflict. I took beef head-on and always won. But in my bedroom, with these four threadbare walls swallowing me up, I felt so weak and scared. I felt alone. Where was my direction going?

  I tried calling Search again. We needed to talk. But his phone went straight to voice mail. I hadn’t seen Search in almost two weeks, and it wasn’t like him to just disappear on me. He would always let me know what was going on. But after the studio and the talk at the diner, he seemed aloof around me.

  I needed to escape. Being cooped up in my room and drowning in my tears wasn’t doing me any good. My sorrow was becoming crippling, and it wasn’t like me to hide from anything or anyone. I got dressed. I threw on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, and my sneakers. I put my hair into a long ponytail and left the room. I checked my mother’s bedroom, but she was gone. I couldn’t be concerned with her; she was sick, but she was still a grown woman who did whatever she wanted to do.

  I walked out my building and saw the blaring police lights a few blocks down with a large crowd gathered around the crime scene. I didn’t have time to be nosey. It was a shooting, probably a body or two. After years of enduring the violence and bloodshed, you start to become numb to it all.

  I headed to Search’s apartment. Was he ignoring my phone calls? I wanted to speak to him personally. He lived a few buildings from me, near the school playground of Cardinal Spellman High School on Schieffelin Avenue. Search’s building was always quiet, unlike mine. It was a good distance, but a nice walk. During the duration, I ran into a few friends who were rushing to see who got shot on Laconia Avenue.

  “Sammy, you ain’t comin’ to see what happened?” Kenny asked.

  “I don’t give a fuck about that,” I spat.

  He shrugged and he and few others kept it moving. I didn’t want to see death. I’d been seeing death since I was a kid. I’d been seeing a lot of things since I was a kid. It was time to see other things. It was time to really do me and shine.