Killing Johnny Fry

by Walter Mosley

  I dressed in a fog. Celia kissed me good-bye, leaving Sisypha to help me.

  “I feel like my head is packed with cotton,” I said.

  “That‘s the beginning of the fourth cycle,” Sisypha told me. “In an hour you‘ll be unconscious."

  “Should I apologize?” I asked.

  “For what?"

  “For the way I lost myself in her love.” I was a bad version of a seventies song.

  “Do you want CC?” she asked.

  “I drank her milk,” I said.

  “How did that feel?"

  “Like the mother I never had,” I said without thinking.

  Sisypha was dressed in red again. She took my forearms and pulled until we were kneeling before each other on the floor.

  “We don‘t have long,” she said. “So listen and tell me if you will."

  “Will what?"

  “It has to do with your girlfriend."

  “What about her?"

  “My brother raped me when I was eleven,” she said. “He was supposed to protect me but didn‘t. And then, when you told me about Joelle, I could see that you were protecting her, no matter how much she hurt you."

  I was feeling the lethargy of the drug coming on, but her words still touched me.

  “I‘m so sorry,” I said. “About your brother, I mean."

  “That doesn‘t matter,” she said. “He‘s dead to me. Him and all my family. I don‘t have any relatives as far as I‘m concerned. But when we talked out there on the street, I had the idea that you could do something for me and maybe I could for you too."

  “What could I do for someone like you?” I said. “I‘m nothing."

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “When Maxie wanted to take me, you wouldn‘t let him. You stood up to him even though you knew he could kick your ass."

  “The drug,” I said.

  “That‘s not all of it,” Sisypha said. “What I want to know, Cordell, is if you will be my brother."

  She was looking right at me. Nothing that I was could escape that gaze.

  “What does that mean?"

  “That you will love me and protect me and call me on my birthday. It means that you will pull me out of the gutter if you see me there, and that we will never, never have sex."

  “Yes,” I said, giving a brief nod.

  “You understand what I‘m saying?"

  “Sure thing . . . Sis."

  She put her arms around me, and I wondered how any of that could be happening. But at the same time I knew that what she asked me for was another thing I had always wanted. Somehow I had been denied love. I‘d had sex. I‘d had friends and lovers and people who pretended to be those things. But I never had a sister who wanted me to be her brother. I had never had a woman who sought to make me happy.

  “Does this mean you love me?” I asked.

  “Love doesn‘t mean anything, Cordell. I‘ll be like a tree in your backyard,” she said. “Like that old sweater you wear every fall. I will always be there, and so will you."

  Exhaustion was pouring in from all sides. Brenda sat me down in a plush chair that sat alone in an empty room. She told me that she had to find her driver. I didn‘t want her to go, but once seated I couldn‘t even raise my arm. After a very long time she returned accompanied by Wan. Together they pulled me from the chair and led me out of the Wilding Club.

  Wan drove me home. When he let me out of the long white limo, he handed me a brown paper bag, saying, “This is yours."

  I staggered to my building and also up the stairs. I don‘t remember using the keys, but I must have. I don‘t remember getting into my bed, but I woke up there, still fully dressed.

  In my sleep I imagined a loud TV somewhere. People were arguing. Doors were being slammed. The police were having a shoot-out with the bad guys . . . But when I opened my eyes, the only thing on my mind was Sisypha and her declaration of sisterly love.

  Did she mean what she said? And if she did, what was the meaning of our new relationship? And why was I awake? It seemed early, and I didn‘t get home till nearly five in the morning.

  I felt very relaxed—not hung over at all.

  Everything in my life had changed.

  I no longer needed to kill Johnny Fry. I wasn‘t mad at Jo for having to turn to him for release. She couldn‘t ask me to do the things he did without being asked. She couldn‘t help herself, despite what Cynthia said.

  Anyway, I had been given the love that I needed.

  The love I got from Celia was enough to last and sustain me—that‘s what I felt. I didn‘t know if my mother had breast-fed me or not, but I did know my life wasn‘t that of a child who had the benefit of a mother‘s love. Celia had given that to me.

  She had asked Sisypha if I was free because she wanted me. Maybe that was all part of the game, but no one had played the game with me before.

  There came a knocking at the door.

  It seemed to me that this wasn‘t the first knock. Maybe that‘s what had awakened me.

  I didn‘t have to dress, so I walked through the rooms to my entrance nook. I noticed the bag that Wan had given me sitting in the corner.

  “Who is it?"

  “The police."

  Could they have heard about the fight with Maxie Allaine? Was that some crime?

  I opened the door on five men. Two of them wore suits, and the others were in uniform.

  “Cordell Carmel?” a man in a gray suit asked.

  “Yes."

  He held out a wallet that contained a badge and an identity card.

  I nodded, pretending it meant something to me.

  “What‘s the problem, Officer?"

  “Did you hear a disturbance last night?” he asked. He was tall and broad of shoulder but his gut stuck out too.

  “No, sir. But I didn‘t get in until about four-thirty or so."

  “And you didn‘t hear anything?"

  “No."

  There was silence there for a moment. I knew that the cops wanted something from me, that their silence was meant to rattle me. But I didn‘t know what I had to worry about.

  “Your upstairs neighbor was killed this morning somewhere between five and six."

  “Martine‘s dead?"

  “Sasha Bennett,” the officer said. I noticed that he had nicked himself shaving and that he had the sweet smell of cologne about him.

  “Sasha? What happened to Sasha?"

  “Did you speak to her last night?"

  “No."

  “When was the last time you spoke to her?"

  “Two, three nights ago,” I said.

  “And what did you talk about?"

  “It was late. I went up to her apartment and spent the night."

  “She was your girlfriend?"

  “No. No. That was our only time together. I was thinking of breaking up with my girlfriend, and Sasha said I could come up whenever I wanted."

  “Did you go up there last night?"

  “No."

  “Did you talk to her last night?"

  I remembered then that I was a black man in America. All of the policemen were white. Sasha Bennett was white. I had been upstairs fucking a white woman a couple of days before, and now she was dead, and the police were investigating me.

  “No,” I said. “I haven‘t talked to her since the night I spent at her place."

  “Can we come in?"

  “For what?"

  “To look around.” The cop—he had salt-and-pepper hair and was at least ten years older than I—was trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Tell me what you‘re looking for, and I‘ll think about it."

  “We can get a warrant easy enough,” he told me.

  “Okay,” I said, and I moved to close the door.

  “We just want to see the window to your fire escape,” he said hastily.

  “Two of you,” I said.

  He put his hands up in a gesture of supplication. “Come on,” he said. “You don‘t want these guys to have to stand out
here."

  “Two of you,” I said. “That‘s all I want in my house."

  Finally the man in the suit and a young uniform came in. They went to the window that led to my fire escape. I could have told them myself that the window was painted shut.

  He checked it out closely and looked out on the fire escape for something, I‘m not sure what.

  “Sasha is dead, and there‘s a young white man dead too,” he said.

  “White guy?” I asked. “Big lips, though?"

  “Yeah. You know him?"

  “Sounds like her brother. He came to visit last week, but she told me that he‘d gone back to California."

  “Can you think of any reason that he‘d kill her?"

  “Not offhand,” I said.

  Suddenly the reality of Sasha‘s death hit me. I ran into the toilet and vomited up what was left of the bread and pork chops from the night before.

  While I was washing my face, the policemen stood behind me.

  “When‘s the last time you saw her?” the suit asked.

  “Two days, maybe three. I don‘t know."

  “Did you talk to her last night?"

  I turned to look at him. My stomach clenched and I went through a dry heave. Both of the cops backed away from me.

  They left soon after that.

  It wasn‘t until the next day that I knew exactly what happened.

  The night before, Martine had heard loud arguing and then a noise that might have been gunfire. For a long time she worried, and then she called upstairs. When there was no answer, she called the police. They broke the door down and found Sasha shot point-blank in the chest with a .22 caliber gun. The assailant, Enoch Bennett, was her brother. The police postulated that he had shot himself in the head after killing Sasha. The police were sure of the murder-suicide theory because Sasha‘s door was chained from the inside.

  After the police had gone, I picked up the phone with no idea about what I was going to do. I entered Jo‘s number, and she answered on the first ring.

  “I knew you‘d call right back,” she said playfully.

  “It‘s been ten hours at least,” I said. “That‘s hardly right back. I‘m sorry I didn‘t drop by. The night got kinda long."

  “Oh hi, L,” Jo said. “I was talking to, to August. She was telling me about something and then said she had to get off and I—"

  “You remember that woman I told you about upstairs?” I asked.

  “The one that slept with her brother?"

  “Uh-huh. He came back and killed her last; night. At least, that‘s

  what I think happened."

  “Oh nay God,” she said, reminding me of the woman in the exhibitionist room of the Wilding Club, which then reminded me again of Sasha‘s mother. Poor Sasha.

  “What happened?” Jo asked.

  “She‘s dead. I think he is too."

  “That‘s terrible."

  “Yeah,” I said. “But I need you to tell me something, honey."

  “What? Oh my God. It‘s so awful about your neighbor. What did you want to ask, L?"

  “Were you ever gonna tell me about Johnny Fry and you?"

  The silence lasted a minute, maybe more, and then she hung up.

  I cradled my own phone and sat back to figure out my life from that moment on. There were many women to choose from: Linda Chou, Monica Wells, Lucy Carmichael. I had my new profession as a photographers‘ agent. And I had to consider this thing about Africa. My reasons for starting the charitable organization were selfish and cynical, but I knew for a fact that I could change. I had the powrer of forgiveness. And if I could forgive joelle, why not forgive me too?

  I went to the foyer and retrieved the paper bag. In it I found my stolen pistol, the box of ammo, and a pink envelope that smelled of patchouli oil. The envelope contained a red capsule and an index card that had a note scrawled on it in unruly cursive.

  Dear Brother, Brother. That sounds so wonderful to say. For so many years I wanted to write to Man (that‘s my old brother‘s name) but I couldn‘t. He tried to apologize after what he did to me, but even though I felt sorry for him, I still couldn‘t trust him. And family has to be people you can trust.

  My girlfriends told me to tell the police—I could never do that to my brother. But now it doesn‘t matter, because after just one night, after all these years of looking, you are my brother and I am your sister. And we will look after each other.

  I called Cynthia to thank her for you. She said that she knew we would get along. She‘s a very wonderful woman, and one day, when you come to stay at my house in Santa Barbara, we‘ll go to see her and her girlfriend.

  Don‘t lose yourself to an errant lover, Cordell. Don‘t use this gun to solve your problems. Forgive her. Understand her. Make her understand that she hurt you . . .

  I‘ve put all my numbers and my people‘s numbers on the back of this card. Call me soon. Call me Sister. And never forget that I will love you when everyone else has turned off their lines.

  Your sister,

  S

  p.s. The capsule I enclosed with this letter is one of the designer drugs I use. It will help you if you have a serious problem and need to think it through. Only take it when you have a good long time to consider the alternatives.

  I was still thinking about forgiveness when the phone rang.

  “Hello."

  “How long have you known?"

  “You remember the day your door was open?” I asked, “and you asked me if I had been there?"

  I waited for her to reply, but she didn‘t.

  “I came in and saw you in the living room with him. You were on the couch and, and on the floor."

  “You watched that long?” she asked.

  “At first I was mesmerized, shocked. And, and then, when I was leaving, I heard you cry out, and I thought something had happened . . ."

  “Oh no,” she murmured. “No. Why didn‘t you tell me? Why didn‘t you try to stop us?"

  “I wasn‘t thinking. I had walked into your house—the only reason I did was because you had told me you would be in New Jersey, and I had to go to the toilet. But I came in on you and Johnny. It wasn‘t my house. But I wasn‘t even thinking that. I just wanted to get away. Away."

  “And so when we ran into Johnny at the museum, you knew?"

  “Yeah."

  I was thinking that Sisypha, my adopted sister, was probably crazy. She lived in the shadows of our society. There she made up her own laws and rules of conduct.

  “I‘m so sorry, L,” Joelle said. “I never meant to hurt you like that."

  “I know."

  “I always made him wear a condom,” she said. “I made him get an STD test."

  But even though Sisypha was crazy, she was closer to me than I had ever been to Joelle. We, Joelle and I, were like two stones that had rolled up next to each other after an avalanche brought on by an earthquake—we shared a common ground, but that was just about all.

  But a force as sure as gravity had brought me to Sisypha.

  “L?” Jo had been talking.

  “Yeah?"

  “I asked you what you wanted to do now."

  “What‘s there to do, Jo?"

  “I broke up with John that afternoon, after we met at the art museum."

  “Because of Bettye?"

  In the silence on the line, I thought that there would be hard times with Sisypha. She would ask me for understanding in a world that scared me to death. With her I would use drugs and enter into violence. My sexuality would be called into question every day . . .

  “Because of you, “ J o said. “Because I want to be with you."

  “Why were you with him?” I asked, and then I said, “I want you to understand that I have gone past being mad about this. I want to know why you did it, but I‘m not asking so I can have ammunition against you. I only want you to tell me because we should tell each other the truth."

  “Are you going to leave me, L?"

  “I don‘t know what we�
��ll do,” I said. “For eight years you‘ve been my only friend and family. My mother is lost to me, my siblings feel nothing for me. You have been my only friend.

  “But in all that time I barely knew you. Here the most important event in your life was a secret. I don‘t blame you for not telling me. I don‘t think you owe me any such thing, but it just throws light on how empty our connection has been."

  “You must have secrets,” Jo said, defending herself. “You could have had lovers."

  “You‘re right. Of course you are,” I said. “But not something like that. My secret was that I was completely oblivious to the emptiness and shallowness of my life. I was living in a hole and calling it a home. The secret I was keeping I kept from myself too."

  “There‘s nothing wrong with you, Cordell,” she said. “It‘s me."

  “Yes, I know. It is you. But that doesn‘t exonerate me. Part of the reason I didn‘t confront you was because without you, I‘d have nothing. My days and nights would have been empty, alone."

  “Is that why you had such wild sex with me?” she asked.

  “Definitely. And not only you. Since the day I saw you with him, I‘ve had sex with three women in the flesh and one over the phone."

  “Who?"

  “It doesn‘t matter who,” I said. “What matters is that I‘m telling you the truth while you‘re still lying to me."

  Joelle spoke in silences. Her whole life had been one of mum regard. Whenever I got near her truth, she clammed up. I felt bad for her while at the same realizing that whenever she was quiet, my mind went back to Sisypha.

  My most precious possession was her desire to be my sister—not whether we ever spoke again, but the wish she gave voice to. It opened up a door inside me. It was the offer that mattered, not her ability to deliver.

  “What did I say that was a lie?” Jo asked.

  “Not a lie in words,” I said. “You did break up with John Fry, but you‘ve spoken to him since then, haven‘t you?"

  Silence.

  “Were you really expecting your sister when I called just now? Did you call anybody else before you called me back?"

  “Please, L,” she pleaded. I could hear the sobs behind her words. “I can‘t do this all at once."

  “Then call me back when you‘re ready to talk,” I said.

  “Don‘t get off."

  “You lying to me will never get you what you want, Jo. The only thing it can do is destroy the little we have."