by K'wan
Though her family welcomed her back with open arms, she still felt ashamed of what she had put them through. They had been respected members of their community and she’s dirtied their name with her antics. They tried to keep it as secret as possible, but thanks to the young man from their neighborhood, who had spotted Persia at a drug house when she was still getting high, word had gotten out. No one ever directly said anything, but she heard the whispers and she felt the looks they gave her whenever she was around. Even stores that she had been going in and out of since she was a kid were now treating her different. They would sometimes follow Persia around as if they expected her to steal something. She felt subhuman, like a crackhead.
As if the mental scars weren’t enough, there were her constant cravings. The doctors had warned her that even though her system was clean of the drugs, she would always have the desire to get high, and they were right. It was like a pregnant woman who wanted chocolate ice cream in the middle of the night and no matter what flavor you fed her, it failed in comparison to chocolate. There were times when Persia found herself sneaking into the city, with the intentions on buying drugs, but she couldn’t do it. She refused to put herself or her family through that madness again. In order to keep her mind off drugs, Persia needed to find something else to focus on, so she threw herself headfirst into her schoolwork. After a while she was able to restore some semblance of normalcy to her life and then she got the phone call that threatened to undo all her progress.
One day she and Sarah were in her bedroom doing their homework, when Persia’s bedroom phone rang. It was a new number that not many people outside of Sarah had, so she wondered who it could be.
“Hello?” Persia answered.
“Hey, baby.” Chucky’s voice came over the other end. At one point Chucky had been the man of her dreams and the guy whom she thought she would spend the rest of her life with, until he showed his true colors.
Persia turned her back so that Sarah couldn’t see the expression on her face. “How did you get this number?”
“You know you belong to me and I belong to you, so I’ll always be able to get a hold of you when I need you, and I need you now,” Chucky told her.
“Chucky, you left me for dead in that house. You didn’t even come see me while I was in the hospital,” Persia said emotionally.
“It wasn’t my fault, baby. Look just come meet me and I’ll explain everything to you,” Chucky said.
“I can’t,” Persia told him, but she didn’t sound sure.
“Oh, so now that you’re back on your feet, you’re too good for me? That’s fucked up,” Chucky said, faking hurt.
“It’s not like that, Chucky. It’s just that I’m trying to get my life in order and I don’t need any distractions,” Persia explained.
“Damn, I’ve been reduced to a distraction? That’s cold, Persia. When you came to me for help I risked my freedom and took you in, but now you’re gonna turn your back on me? Don’t do me like this, baby. It’s a matter of life and death. I’m begging you, just meet me and hear me out.”
Hearing Chucky beg was tearing her apart. She knew he was bad news, but she still loved him so much. “Okay, I’ll give you five minutes then I’m gone. Where do you want me to meet you?”
Chucky gave Persia the address to the place he wanted to meet her and the time. Persia knew that agreeing to meet Chucky was a bad idea, but she just couldn’t bring herself to tell him no.
After school that following day instead of going straight home like she normally would’ve, she took the bus to the Long Island Rail Road and rode into the city. Her nerves played havoc on her for the whole ride, causing her to sweat uncontrollably. It was a bad idea, and she wanted to turn around and go back, but she couldn’t, not before she looked Chucky in the eyes and confronted him about why he’d done her the way he did. She needed closure.
Their meeting spot wasn’t far from where the train let her off, so Persia walked the few short blocks. It was a sit-in delicatessen off of Thirty-third Street. When Persia arrived, she saw that Chucky was already there, sitting at a table in front of the window. He’d likely picked that seat so that he could see whoever was coming and going. Chucky had visibly lost some weight since the last time she’d seen him, but for the most part he still looked the same: well dressed, clean cut, and chatting away on his cell phone. He had yet to even notice her, but she could already feel herself getting caught back up in his thrall.
“You can do this, Persia,” she told herself, trying to build the confidence to walk into the delicatessen. She noticed something that gave her pause. Chucky couldn’t seem to stop touching his nose. Every so often he would wipe it, like he had a cold. It was a small tell, but enough to make Persia rethink her decision. She couldn’t get sucked back in. Wiping the mist from her eyes, Persia turned and headed back to the train station.
Chucky had been calling her consistently since that day, but she never answered his calls. When he became too much of a pest, she would just unplug her phone. One night she’d even thought she’d seen his red BMW riding past her house. She needed to get Chucky out of her system, but he wasn’t making it easy.
“No, everything is fine. I just need to focus a little harder,” Persia told Father Michael.
“Good, because contrary to what you think, I want to see you succeed, Persia. I have a vested interest in you, so to speak,” Father Michael told her.
Persia raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
Father Michael spared a glance at the door as if he suspected someone might be on the other side listening. “Persia, St. Mary’s is one of the most prestigious schools in the state. To get in, you have to have one of three things, the money, the grades, or the connections. Some kids come from money families, and then you have the ones who test high enough for our scholarship programs. You, my dear, had all three. It wasn’t by accident that you landed in St. Mary’s. It was a part of your father’s plan.”
“What does my father have to do with this?” Persia asked, surprised. By the time she was old enough to attend St. Mary’s her father was already in prison, so she wondered how he could’ve had a hand in it.
“Me and Face go way back, back to the days before I wore this collar.” He tugged at the white band around his neck. “I used to be a volunteer coach for a summer basketball league in Harlem, back in the eighties. Your dad played on my squad for a couple of years.”
This came as a shock to Persia as she had never known her father to have an athletic bone in his body. She found it hard to imagine her father, who she had always remembered being so serious, running up and down the court dribbling a ball. To her knowledge the only balls Face had ever passed were eight balls.
“Don’t look so surprised. Your dad was actually a half-decent player, and maybe could’ve made something of it if he hadn’t been so distracted by the streets. Even after your dad gave up basketball, and I took my vows, we kept in contact. Over the years, he would often come to me for advice about this and that. One subject we talked quite a bit about was you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, Persia. From the time your father found out your mom was pregnant he immediately started laying the ground work for your future. Knowing he was about to become a father was his awakening of sorts. He came to me seeking advice on legitimate avenues to take with his money. Face was terrified that feeding you with blood money would taint your life, as his father had tainted his,” Father Michael informed her.
Persia couldn’t hide her surprise at how candidly the priest was speaking about her father’s other life. Up until then Persia had thought it was a secret from the people who knew them in Long Island City. She’d been proven wrong twice in under an hour and couldn’t help but to wonder who else knew their dark family secrets.
“I gave him a few leads, which thankfully turned out to be fruitful,” Father Michael continued. “Gradually, he began to set the wheels in motion to make sure his family was out of harm’s way. Around
this time I was up for the assistant principal’s position here at St. Mary’s. That’s actually what put the idea in your father’s head to buy the house out here. It was far enough from the hood to keep you out of harm’s way, but close enough for him to still stay on top of his other affairs. Face wanted to change so that he could be there for his family, and I wanted to do everything I could to help him make that change, including making sure Face’s daughter had a topnotch education.”
“So, you’re saying that I got into St. Mary’s because of who my father is?” Persia asked defensively.
“No, you got into St. Mary’s because you’re an outstanding student, but you were readmitted because of who your father is,” Father Michael corrected her. “Persia, I know you’ve been having a rough time of it, and I sympathize with you, but I also know you’re strong enough to overcome it. It’s in your genes. Not only that, but you’ve got a great support system behind you. For whatever gripes you have with your mother’s husband, he’s a good man.”
“I know,” Persia said, reflecting on how Richard had been there for her through her whole recovery. “So, if I’m not in any trouble, can I go back to class now?”
Father Michael just stared at her, studying her face and thinking how much she looked like her father. She had that same determined look in her eyes that he did, and he knew so long as she kept it, Persia would be okay. “Yes, Ms. Chandler, you can go.” He went back to his formal tone. “I trust we won’t have any more incidents that could possibly jeopardize you receiving your diploma in January, correct?”
“No, sir. No more incidents,” Persia assured him.
The intercom on Father Michael’s desk beeped. The small black box was another one of his odes to everything ancient. “Yes, Sister?” he asked, depressing the talk button.
“Mr. Lansky is here,” the mechanical voice announced.
“Great, give me a few minutes and you can send him in,” Father Michael told her. “We’re done here, Ms. Chandler.”
Persia happily got up and started for the door. Her hand touched the knob, and she had an afterthought. “Father Michael, can I ask you a question?”
“Certainly, Ms. Chandler.”
She looked from the tattoo on his forearm, which was a tombstone with small tally marks through it, to his dark eyes. “What did you do before you were a priest?”
Father Michael smiled and absently rubbed the tattoo. “Things that I had no business doing. Now get to class, Ms. Chandler.”
Persia was so busy rushing to get out of Father’s Michael’s office that she wasn’t watching where she was going and bumped into someone. Strong hands grabbed her arms to keep her from stumbling. The hands were attached to a tall man with chocolate-colored skin; and he wore his hair neatly tapered. He wore a gray V-neck sweater with a white shirt beneath it. He didn’t look to be much older than Persia, but he carried himself with an air of a man wise beyond his years. When he flashed his pearly white smile at her, Persia felt her knees threaten to buckle.
“You a’ight, ma?” he asked in a deep voice.
“Yeah, I’m sorry. Should’ve been watching where I was going,” Persia apologized.
“Jesus, kid, I can’t take you anywhere without women throwing themselves into your arms,” the older man with him joked. His long nose reminded Persia of the old comedian W.C. Fields. He looked to be in his late sixties, with snow white hair and wearing a Mr. Rog-ers–style sweater. His baby blue eyes twinkled, admiring Persia.
“Cut it out, Sol,” the young man said bashfully.
“I’m just giving you shit, Shai.” Sol elbowed him good naturedly. “Come on, we don’t wanna keep Father Michael waiting.” He turned to Persia and dipped his head. “Enjoy the rest of your day, young lady.” He walked into Father Michael’s office.
“Later, shorty.” The young man called Shai winked and followed Sol into the office.
Persia stood there for a few minutes, watching as Father Michael got to his feet and came around the desk to properly receive his visitors. “Mr. Lansky, Mr. Clark,” Persia heard Father Michael greet them, before closing the door.
CHAPTER 6
“Yo, you gonna get the door or keep acting like you don’t hear a muthafucka knocking, Maggie?” Chucky asked with an attitude. He was sitting on the couch, shirtless, sucking the life out of a cigarette. On the table in front of him, was a half-full Heineken. It had lost its chill an hour earlier, but it didn’t stop him from taking the occasional sip from it, just to complain about how warm the beer was. Chucky was clearly in a sour mood.
After a few seconds, Maggie finally stirred on the loveseat, where she had been curled up, half asleep. At some point during her nod, the blond wig she wore had shifted and now sat askew on her head. Her arm hung over the edge of the couch, lit cigarette pinched between her fingers, and the ash had grown incredibly long. When she moved to sit up, the ash came loose and dropped on the carpet. “Shit,” she cursed, but didn’t move to clean it up. Maggie was an older woman, with a gorgeous face and a figure to match, but the years of partying were starting to show.
In her day, Maggie had been one of the baddest chicks in West Philadelphia. All the hustlers wanted her and all the women hated her, and with good reason. Maggie had come up rough, with no father and a mother who didn’t want to be bothered. At an early age she found herself on the streets getting it how she lived to take care of her little sister. When she was younger, she would boost clothes to sell or steal food from the supermarket to make sure they ate at night, but as she got older and discovered the power of her natural gifts, she stepped her game up.
Maggie was a renegade, selling sex to whoever could afford to feed her for the night until she hooked up with a pimp who taught her what the game was really about. He gave Maggie a crash course in Lost 101, forcing her to read dozens of books on the subject and watching countless porno movies. Every night before he put Maggie on the streets he would quiz her on what she had learned for the day. Sometimes he would even make her perform on him, and if she couldn’t make him cum with her mouth or pussy in five minutes or less, he would beat her. The art of making a man blow his load quickly would come in very handy for Maggie in the streets. It would not only ensure that she could turn more tricks than the other girls in the course of a night, but her skills became so notorious that men started seeking her out. Everybody wanted a taste of Maggie’s world-famous sex, and she made loads of money for her pimp.
Maggie’s run with her pimp came to an end when he was arrested on a parole violation. He had only been given sixty days in county jail, but it was enough time for Maggie to rob him of everything he had, taking her show on the road. Maggie roamed from place to place, keeping time with unsavory men and numbing herself with drugs. Before she knew it, her looks were slipping and she had developed a drug habit. The young girls with less mileage on them began catching all the big-money tricks, and Maggie had to get in where she fit in, finding her sponsors where she could. She had been cursed to a miserable existence and would’ve probably taken her own life years ago if it hadn’t been for the fact that she needed to be there for her sister. They were all each other had left, until Chucky came into the picture.
The knocking on the door continued. “You gonna get that or what?” Chucky repeated his initial question.
“What were you doing that’s so important to where you couldn’t get it?” Maggie asked with an attitude.
“I’m thinking, that’s what I’m doing. Somebody has gotta be the brains of this operation and you sure ain’t in no condition to play the role, with as high as you be all the time,” Chucky snapped.
“You got some nerve coming for me, like you ain’t got a never-ending oil burner. You do enough to get you and three other muthafuckas high at one time.” Maggie rolled her neck.
Chucky threw his lighter at her, narrowly missing Maggie’s head. “Bitch, don’t worry about what I’m doing. Worry about getting the fucking door!”
Maggie spared him one last roll of her
eyes, before uncoiling her long chocolate legs from the couch, and oozing to her feet. The tight green skirt she wore was hiked up, exposing her bare black ass. On her left ass cheek was a tattoo of a weed leaf. Maggie took slow steps toward the door, making sure to throw some extra bounce in her walk, sending a ripple across her ass. She knew Chucky liked to see it move. Maggie had been a dime piece back in her day, and still held together well, but after a few months of running with Chucky, she was starting to slip. Still, Maggie was a looker and a stone-cold freak. She did things to Chucky that he’d be ashamed to admit out loud and that was part of the reason he fucked with her, that and she was blindly loyal to him.
Chucky took a brief hiatus from watching Maggie’s ass, and addressed the small pile of cocaine on the table in front of him. He took a club flyer and gently scraped what was left of the coke into a line. It wasn’t much, barely enough to get his wheels spinning properly, but it would have to do for the moment. Chucky didn’t bother looking for a straw or rolling up a dollar, he just dragged his nose across the coffee table, snorting up coke, ashes, and whatever else littered the table. When the coke bobsledded through his nasal cavity, Chucky felt the urge to sneeze, but pinched his nostrils closed to hold it in. He needed everything to go straight to the head. Chucky released his nose and waited in anticipation of the medicine-like drip in the back of his throat, but it never came. It wasn’t enough coke to do much more than boost his craving.
Frustrated, Chucky ran his hand over his head and began looking over the table to see if maybe there was some powder residue that might’ve gone overlooked. When his eyes caught his reflection in the glass tabletop, it gave him pause. His eyes were wide and webbed with red veins from lack of sleep, and if you looked close enough you could see the faint scabs around his nose from constant abuse. The boyish glow that had once been his calling card was now gone, and his skin was beginning to darken, making him look older. Looking at the monster staring back at him, Chucky couldn’t help but to wonder how he could’ve let himself slip so far.
