King's War kobc-3

by Maurice Broaddus

  "You so silly." Her hair flared, interlocked lockets in need of re-twisting. She carried herself with a fierce sexiness. Upon closer inspection, her worn, bruised skin added a hint of purple to her sepia complexion. Her half-jacket, with nothing underneath, exposed her pierced belly button and tattoo on the small of her back. Over blue jeans. She had the sour tang of unwashed ass.

  "How's the little man?" Wayne teased the blankets away from his face to get a better look.

  "Good."

  "What's his name?"

  "Haven't made up my mind yet."

  "So what do you call him?"

  "Baby."

  "Girl, you a trip. Let me hold him." Baby struggled as if he wanted to crawl back into her womb and wait for a better world. Wayne hoisted "Baby" with ease and noted the brief grimace of worry on Rhianna's face, and it reassured him in an odd way. Her attachment to the newborn.

  The child was all Rhianna would know of love. She'd spent too much of her teen years going to parties or hooking up. Too worried about food to dream of a future. She had no room for baby thoughts or baby dreams. And a still, quiet voice within her hoped his thoughts and dreams would rub off on her. From the moment she found out she was pregnant, she knew she didn't have a choice but to be with him. She'd have this baby. Have someone to love. Things would be different this time.

  Rhianna's mother once crossed a set. She had the rep for sleeping around, not caring which block they came from or what set they claimed. And she had a knack for choosing the precise wrong ones. Word on the street for those who listened, had it that she once dumped Geno for Speedbump, two up-and-coming young princes of the streets. The two men exchanged words. The argument was heard by Speedbump's brother, who came down to get his brother out. Bama, who was country crazy and only needed an excuse, saw the brewing fight and got his weapon. When Bama came out, all he saw was Geno and Speedbump's brother after Speedbump. He didn't realize or care that Speedbump had broken away from his pursuing brother — who only wanted to keep his brother safe. Geno caught three bullets to the back. He survived, but he was never the same. Dropped out of the game.

  The streets buzzed with the news, the blame quickly traced back to Rhianna's mom, who was set to get a retaliatory beat down. Possibly take a bullet herself when the female members of the crew caught up with her. They caught up with her at her aunt's crib. She called the police even before she heard them bang at the door. Rhianna couldn't have been older than four. Her mother beat her, slamming her face into the bathroom sink, and when Five-O showed up, she blamed the girls. The confusion bought her mother time. That evening, she was gone.

  "You alone?" Wayne asked.

  "With my boyfriend."

  "Where'd he go? Or does 'boyfriend' imply much more of a commitment to the relationship than he's ready for?"

  "He didn't even leave a tip."

  "Chivalry is dead."

  "Said he was coming through though."

  "You see Lady G lately?"

  "Nah, I ain't trying to hang with her no more."

  "Thought she was your girl."

  "She was. Till she did King like she did."

  "Everyone makes mistakes."

  "You hang with Lott?" Rhianna asked.

  "No, but he's been on the creep tip. No one knows where he's at."

  "Cause he know, too. You don't just do your boy like that."

  "We supposed to be family. Family can work through problems together, no matter how hard, because at the end of the day, we still blood."

  "I ain't trying to hear that."

  "If we can't find a way to forgive and…"

  "Ain't. Trying."

  Someone pounded on the front door then — either impatient with the lack of immediate response or just noticing the doorbell — rang the doorbell five times in a row. Wayne passed Baby back to Rhianna, his mood spoiling with each additional ring.

  "Hey, my dude." The young, white, red-headed boy had a heroin thinness to him and the disposition of someone who would sell out his dying mother for his next fix or to avoid prison. A patch covered one of his eyes, the surrounding area of his face webbed with healed-over scars.

  "What's up?" Wayne said. "You here for drop?"

  "My breezy said I could swing through. And I'm all about the free swing, you feel me?" He raised his fist for a bump. Wayne let it hang there.

  "I'm Wayne."

  "My people call me Fathead."

  "Where you stay at?"

  "Used to stay with this one dude. Partner had a cat. One day the cat turns up missing and he blamed me. Said I let it out and shit. So he kicked me out."

  "Did you?"

  "I ain't trying to keep track of no pussy that walks on four legs. Shit. Dude still owes me so I took his bike and pants."

  "You took his pants?"

  "Wasn't like they were his no way."

  This was the kind of introduction that made his job both frustrating and exhilarating. Wayne had met many "Fathead" s over the years. Nothing was ever their fault and trouble just seemed to always — completely randomly — follow them about. Still, they had their quirky charm about them — so genuine in their utter bullshit — that he couldn't help but be drawn to them. Every Fathead was an opportunity to show God's love and mercy. Wayne stepped out of the doorway to let Fathead in. Rhianna rushed up to him as if they were long-lost friends reunited at long last, and hugged him for several moments.

  "We'll be having dinner in a few minutes." Wayne put his hand on Fathead's shoulder, nudging them apart.

  "Hey man, do you have any points?"

  "We don't do needle exchanges here."

  "Oh my bad."

  Esther walked into the dining room carrying a large bowl of salad as one of the other volunteers for the night toiled away in the kitchen. She hesitated when she saw Fathead, then not wanting to stare at his eye patch, arranged the array of salad dressing.

  "No worries, baby. I ain't self-conscious of this shit. My pops put a cigarette out in my eye when I was a baby. Had a glass one, but I lost that shit. Got a marble I use sometimes. You want to see it?"

  "No, that's all right."

  "Not 'Baby'." Wayne glanced over at Rhianna and smiled at the irony. "Her name's Ms Esther."

  Percy wandered out of the kitchen. Tipping nearly three bills, he had a darker knot above his left eyebrow in the shape of a crescent moon. His downcast eyes rarely met people in the eye. Carrying a tray of cinnamon graham crackers and milk, he liked to pretend that he'd made them from his secret recipe. They were the last addition to the food set out for that evening's drop night. Wayne stood at the dining room table and gestured for them to join him. He took Esther's hand as they all clasped hands.

  "Percy, you want to bless the food?"

  "God is great, God is good. Let us thank Him for our food," Percy said. "By His hands we all are fed. Thank You, Lord, for our daily bread."

  "Amen." Wayne clapped Percy on the back. He'd come a long way from the shy boy too spooked by his own shadow to speak. And there were still untapped pools of potential they hadn't begun to reach. Percy radiated a peace about him, a simplicity many confused with him being simple.

  "Has anyone seen Prez?" Percy asked.

  "Prez ain't right." Rhianna sprawled down low in a wooden dinette chair which only matched three others pulled around the table.

  "What you mean?" Wayne passed a bowl of mashed potatoes.

  "He stays up in his crib. Avoids us."

  "You know why?"

  "Cause of… how things went down. You know how tight he was with King."

  "Yeah. I keep meaning to check in on him," Wayne said.

  "Someone ought to. He up in his room all day."

  "He back with Big Momma?"

  "Naw, he on his own." Rhianna piled salad on her plate. "He's just sort of… lost… without King."

  King's personal mission, Prez, had come far, too. He'd fallen into drugs, but King walked with him through his addiction to the other side. Addicts could always find one anoth
er, like they had a radar for that weakness.

  Despite the familiar sickness in his stomach, Fathead still chased after his high. Though he remembered the first time he got high with crystal clarity — a memory driven home by the fact that he had sex for the first time while high — the rest of that summer he could barely recall. Not feeling whole, he doubted himself. But when he smoked marijuana, it was like aspirin for the soul and fixed the ache for a while. The shameful things he had to do to earn only gave him more of a reason to get that high. Shooting up was the next obvious progression. The first time he shot up, he shot his load straight into his muscle. It burned so badly, he didn't think he'd walk again. Luckily, he had internet access and taught himself how to properly shoot up. Setting up his rig, he located a vein on his wrist and got off. The high was perfection. Effortless. For the first time, he knew wholeness. All his hopes, dreams, and worries faded; fear no longer consumed him. Life suddenly worked. A few hours later, it was over and he was scared again. After that, it was a short trip to the land of an addict's broken promises and second/third/fourth chances: snorting crystals up his nose, drunk on Stoli, stoned on Ambien stolen from rehab, breaking into his parents' house, and writing checks to himself.

  Fathead plopped down on the couch in what passed for a living room in the Outreach Inc house. He shifted without purpose, not quite knowing what to do with himself. His family didn't exactly sit around discussing the day's events with one another, so he withdrew from the dining room table, unsure what to do with himself. His hands found a pencil next to a notepad on the coffee table beside him. Without asking whose pad it was, he began to doodle his name on the pad. An ornate "F" as if he sketched what a tag of his name might look like.

  "Man, look at you. You about as uncomfortable as a fat man adjusting his thong." Wayne walked over to him. "Want me to hook up the games?"

  "I don't even recognize that gaming system. This shit should be in a museum." Fathead covered his mouth in a "my bad" gesture for cussing.

  "It's free. It's here. And your alternative is sitting on the couch staring at nothing."

  Their Nintendo 64 couldn't exactly compete with the latest game system, but it had been donated to the house, in that way rich folks gave away their "old" things when they got the latest model. Part of him chided himself for being so constantly cynical. It wasn't as if he wasn't called to love the wealthy also, but somehow it was so much harder for him. He hated the waste, the excess, the sense of entitlement. Life was simple and was to be lived simply. Plus, he grew up with this game system, so he could beat any of the kids on the games.

  Fathead picked out a hunting game that came with guns that plugged directly into the television. Spreading his legs shoulder-length apart, he relaxed his knees to squat low. He pulled his bandana up over his mouth and turned his gun sideways. He twisted his right and then left, popping the joints in his neck, then nodded to Wayne.

  Wayne did a sly double-take, staring at the boy like he was a damn fool. "Does the mask help?"

  "I'm more into it." Fathead raised the mask. "You know they call me 'Wolf', right."

  "Thought they called you 'Fathead'."

  "That too. See, I used to raise timber wolves on my uncle's property. One day, when we were out hunting on his property — man must have a thousand acres — we found a litter. The mother had been shot dead. So we decided to raise the litter. Sold all of them but one off. My uncle decided to keep that one for himself. Probably how I got such a good sense of smell."

  "What do you mean?"

  "This one time I was standing downtown on the circle, I turned to my friends and was like 'Dude, I can smell Noles from here. He's on his way.' Now Noles stay down on Washington and Lynhurst, and sure enough, two and a half hours later, he came walking up. I smelled him just as he was leaving the house."

  "You use the truth interesting ways." Wayne hit start on the game.

  During the course of the next hour, Fathead claimed to be a trained martial artist and having died and been brought back five times in one night. What Wayne had been able to glean from the endless stream of BS that flew out of his mouth was that Fathead sold weed and hung out with a rougher set than he intended, who attacked him a few times. And trouble always followed him.

  Percy, hanging a few steps away from everyone else, hid on the couch. Where the spread of light from the lamps failed to blanket. He loved many of the people in this room, Rhianna, Wayne, and Esther especially, but he sat on the fringe of them as if an invisible wedge separated him. A recurring dream troubled him in ways he didn't understand and couldn't articulate. At first he thought about how his friends all seemed beset by disturbing dreams which set them on edge. But his dream came from a different place. The images stayed with him during the day. No one noticed his odd posture, shoulders pulled in, a large man tucking his body within itself if possible.

  A ruined church, a place of hope reduced to a darkened chamber. Overturned pews and a broken altar, the hall lit by the suffuse light of dimming candles. A boy came in holding a white gun — a pearl-white hand grip, white shaft — on a velvet pillow. He passed in front of a fire. Two boys each carried stands of ten candles. A young girl, in his heart he wanted her to be Rhianna, came in holding a cup. The cup was pure gold inlaid with precious stones. Percy knelt before the cup, ready to drink. The liquid burned like fire and tasted of ash. Then he'd wake up.

  The familiar sickness rose in Fathead's stomach and threw his game off. Eating probably wasn't the best idea, but he didn't know when he'd next have a proper meal. He hoped that something sweet would take the edge off his pain. As if she knew, Rhianna brought him a plate with two pieces of pie on it. He was struck by how sweet his fellow users were. That was, when they weren't scheming to take each other off. Unlike Rhianna, who had her baby to give her a reason, he was afraid to come off the drugs. Bad as things got, despite the terrible things he had to do to earn, the only times he truly felt worthless were when he didn't have a girlfriend. He'd go home when he ran out of options. Then it occurred to him that he had no idea what movies were out, what television shows were on or if a new war had broken out. That world didn't matter.

  A coiled threat waiting to spring, Tristan waited beside Iz's bed, her knee bouncing with its own energy as she ground her teeth. The room door remained closed as she waited for a doctor to make her appearance. This was not how she wanted to spend another evening. She missed the days of sitting on the floor between Iz's too-skinny, white-girl legs, Iz's fingers scraping the jar of hair-braiding oil, foraging for it to give up the last of its contents. Not that Iz was all that skilled at braiding hair, but her touch was intimate and knowing, her very presence reassuring.

  Tristan shifted in the uncomfortable green vinyl chair, which had no give to it so she never found a sweet spot she could rest in. Her black hoodie covered her crest of mauve-dyed braids and shadowed most of her face. She filled the seat with her bigboned frame, though she didn't have a trace of fat. Amber eyes with gold flecks took in the features of her beloved while she slept.

  "You about to jump out of your skin." Iz toted an IV stand behind her as she baby-stepped from the bathroom to her bed. A tattoo of a dragon on the base of her back on full display within the flimsy hospital robe. The fabric of the sheets scraped against her thin skin and she winced. Tristan flinched in her seat, ready to bound to help, but Iz waved her off.

  "Just anxious is all."

  "It'll be all right. I'll be all right."

  "Look at you. A good breeze could bowl you over."

  "Doctors said I'd be fitten to get out of here in a day."

  "Shouldn't have been here in the first place."

  "I said I was sorry."

  "Shit. No, baby," Tristan slipped onto the edge of Iz's bed with a tenderness that belied her stocky frame, more built for fighting than nursing. "I wasn't blaming you. I was thinking of Mulysa. He did this to you."

  He did other things, too. Maybe. It was all such a haze to Iz. Her head pounded and her vision blu
rred.

  Though always on the scrawny side, Iz's body had shrunk down to a prisoner-of-war thinness. Her sunken cheekbones framed her face, a long nose embedded with a stud appeared more so against the hollow pits of her eyes. The dye of her black hair slowly faded revealing her natural brown hair. Picking at her skin, she caught sight of Tristan's disapproving gaze and tried to find something else to do with her hands. And not think about the terrible burrowing beneath her skin. She wondered if Tristan understood her shame, as she spent so much time in the bathroom picking pellets out of her ass because her body was no longer producing stool.

  The first time she smoked pot, she was nine. In the fugue state of her relapse into drug use, she accidently shot up the piece of cotton drawn into her needle. The ride felt like she'd fallen head first onto the sidewalk from five stories up. She remembered throwing up until she blacked out. And Mulysa's hands exploring her. The room spun.

  Without warning, Iz sprang out of bed with no trace of recognition in her eyes, and she lunged at Tristan. The first swipe caught the meat of Tristan's cheek, the scratch drawing blood. Tristan cocked a ready fist to defend herself, a survival reflex, but caught herself. This wasn't the first time Iz had flipped out, a kind of psychotic break. Tristan backed away, hands held out as non-threatening as possible.

  "Iz, baby, this isn't you. It's me, Trys. I love you, baby."

  Iz chased after her, a glare somewhere between fury and pain, biting at her and arms flailing. Tristan grabbed her arms and wrapped around her as best she could.

  "Come back to me. It's okay."

  Exhausting her spindly frame rapidly, Iz heard her, the light of familiarity filling her eyes again, and they collapsed onto the floor.

  "What'd you do to yourself, girl?" Tristan whispered, closing her eyes to press back the tears.

  Her dad had died from years of alcohol abuse when his liver gave out. Or maybe it was the pills. Iz was too little to remember, and her mother never had a good memory to share of him. Destruction was in Iz's nature. She once took a pair of scissors and tore up all the clothes in her babysitter's closet. This made it hard to find babysitters, not that it stopped her mother from going out. Her mother once abandoned her for two days. It was the first time Child Protective Services was called for her. Mother always left her to go somewhere to cop the best drugs, and she was only about the best. She strung together boyfriends based on who dealt the best stuff. When the school needed to get a hold of her, Iz gave them the cell phone number of her mother's dealer. And when she was out of money and her body was used up, she sold one of her other daughters. That was the last time CPS was called on her mother.