Arizona Allspice

by Lewin, Renee

  I snicker and exit his house leaving him to anticipate being pranked tomorrow when really I have no plans to. His only punishment will be to spend the whole day wondering if and when. I laugh to myself as I walk into my house. I appreciate him making me laugh lately. I’m surprised at how fun he is to hang out with. I thought he was so surly and serious before. Then again, I was very serious and surly myself.

  ******

  I didn’t call him. Nor has he called me. Manny and I are the same in that we both don’t like voicing our fears. When the nervous thoughts stay in our heads we can tell ourselves their irrational. My brother’s sentencing is tomorrow, Thursday, May 10th.

  On a lighter note, I accomplished lots of writing while waiting for Joey to finish therapy today and then he practically walked out of Canyon Outpatient on his own. Well, he still has discomfort and pain in his legs, but not as much since the medicine kicked in. After only two sessions he only puts a hand on my shoulder to help him along now, a big improvement from having his whole arm and a third of his weight resting on me. And he shaved this morning. Hooray for all.

  “I won’t have an appointment the day of the sentencing,” Joey mentions as we drive home from therapy. “The real schedule is supposed to be Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, but my mom didn’t want to give me any time to wallow so she made me start this week on a Tuesday. I won’t have therapy scheduled after Manny’s sentencing tomorrow. We’ll go to therapy Friday, get back on the normal schedule. Um…” He glances at me. “Are you alright about tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. Let’s stop at Taco Bell for lunch today. I see some ooey gooey nachos in our futures.”

  He sighs loudly. “Are you sure you want to eat that?”

  “Joey! What is up with you monitoring my every meal? I’m nervous about tomorrow! Okay! I admit it! Can I just stuff my face with processed foods and feel better!”

  He looks out his window at the cars commuting with us on the highway and in a low voice I can barely hear over the engine he tells me, “I just want you to be healthy. Heart disease runs in your family.”

  I gape at him stupidly. Thank God no one was in the lane to the right of me. I forgot I was driving and swerved a little into the next lane. I hold the steering wheel firmly and try to concentrate on driving. I keep taking my eyes from the road to glance at the side of Joey’s face. His square jaw is relaxed but his pink mouth is in a tight line. It takes a while for me to recognize that he is actually mad at me. I’ve never seen him angry at a base level. I’ve never seen him slightly upset. It’s usually all or nothing, rage or calm. At first all I can muster is to softly whine, “Joeyyy.”

  Then it really hit me. Joey wasn’t just concerned about my health. He was concerned about my life. I know that sounds redundant, but what I mean is he was worrying about me dying and that just made me want to touch him, to hold his hand or something. “Joey, you worry too much. Even marathon runners can die from heart disease. You just never know.” He turns his head and looks at me, his expression unchanged. “I’m not going to live my life agonizing over every bite! I’m fine, okay? I don’t eat horribly all the time,” I assure him. “Besides, I’m more concerned with my mental health than anything physical,” I chuckle.

  “Why?”

  “Schizophrenia is in my family, too. I have a bad habit of bottling up my feelings, anger especially, and sometimes I wonder if one day I’ll snap and be where my father is.”

  “I doubt that,” Joey surprises me by saying. I had expected to have to talk him out of worrying about that as well. “You’re saner than I am. I’ve never seen you do anything illogical. Look at me; I literally can’t control my temper to save my own life. Most people would have been able to walk away when their best friend started to act irrational. Not me. I just started swinging. I had to punch back and find myself with a brain injury and a best friend doing jail time because of it. I mean…that’s seriously messed up, what I did.”

  “It’s not like you’re being a ruthless brat or anything. You feel bad about the things you’ve said or done and there are some good reasons behind why you make those mistakes.”

  “Like what?”

  Crap. I’m not supposed to know about those reasons, about the anger inside that’s been present since the day his stepfather unleashed it from him. “I-I don’t know. I just figured you had your reasons.”

  “Well, I didn’t have the best male role models in my life…but that’s no excuse. The thing about mistakes is that you’re supposed to learn from them, but I just seem to keep making the same ones over and over again. It’s my fault I’m a monster.”

  “No, don’t say that,” I say quietly. “No one’s perfect. You shouldn’t beat yourself up over that.”

  “Angry people are angriest with themselves.”

  Exactly, I thought. I wrote a similar phrase in a short story of mine: “The meanest souls were angriest with themselves.” There are many times when I get so upset at other people for how they’ve wronged me and I have to admit I’m just projecting my frustrations with myself onto them. That’s so weird that he said that. Nervous, my left knee starts bouncing as I drive. “Wow. I didn’t know you, um…”

  “What?”

  “I just, you know, I agree.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  After thinking that over he says, “How about we go to my house and I’ll cook something for you.”

  He can cook? Joey reads the big question mark on my face.

  “I promise it’ll be delicious.”

  “Is the food gonna be healthy?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “Nope, a good friend of mine cared enough to encourage me to eat just a little healthier and I think I should take his advice.” With that I won Joey’s jackpot smile.

  In the worn wooden cupboards and in the ten-year-old refrigerator with the wiggly door handle that stands in the Kinsley kitchen is a surprising selection of fresh and colorful fruits and veggies and alluring ethnic cuisine. For some reason I had expected plain old meat-and-potatoes. Was it a stereotypical reason? Probably, and I feel guilty for that. I promise to try hard not to assume things. I should know by now that Joey is different, that most people are different. They aren’t all the same, out to inflict pain.

  “You season the chicken and I’ll attempt to chop the mango and onion and everything else for the salad,” he instructs. Joey sits on a stool placed by me at the kitchen counter. I watch for a moment as he steadies his shaky hand to grasp the blushing red mango and grips the knife in his other hand to cut away the peel of the fruit. The gleaming knife hovers above the fruit and then comes down slowly, way too close to the fingers of his other hand. “Whoa. Careful.” I walk through the narrow kitchen space over to his right side. I hold his hand by the wrist and reposition it so the knife falls a few centimeters away from where it was before.

  “Thanks,” he utters timidly.

  I walk back to my place at the counter. After watching Joey with the mango to make sure he doesn’t nick his fingers, I look down at the raw pink chicken breasts I unwrapped from their package and laid out on a large plate. I spot ceramic salt and pepper shakers shaped like chess pieces; a white rook for salt and a black rook that held pepper. I sprinkle the two seasonings on both sides of the cutlets. “Okay. What’s next?”

  “More seasonings!” Joey grins. “You need garlic powder, cayenne pepper, ground ginger, thyme, cinnamon and nutmeg.”

  “Cinnamon and nutmeg? On chicken?”

  He nods and begins chopping green onion. I groan and raid the cupboards for the hundred and one spices the chicken needs. Somewhere between the fifth and sixth spice on the list I begin to enjoy working alongside Joey to complete this unique meal. As I sprinkle a few tiny but powerfully aromatic leaves of thyme over the chicken, “Oh! And allspice, I forgot to tell you to add allspice.” I glare at him jokingly and he fakes a nervous “Please don’t hurt me?” chuckle. I smile, sigh, and retrieve the allspice bottle after much searchin
g.

  I begin to shake some onto the chicken and notice that Joey glances at me and then back at the romaine lettuce he is chopping with a little smile on his face. Why is this amusing to him? Am I doing it wrong? As the brown powder floats down to the already well seasoned chicken, a scented breeze of it reaches my nose. The smell is rich, sweet, and familiar. It pulled me in. Once I caught a whiff of it I couldn’t help but bring it to my nose to experience the smell again. It is deep with many layers of aroma, like a lovechild of several precious spices. Fascinating. Then, I gasp as I remember. The allspice bottle almost slips out of my damp, shaking hands and into the raw chicken.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. What do I do next?” I ask without taking my eyes from the chicken.

  There is an uncomfortable silence as he studies me. His eyes feel like hot ash against my skin. “You can pan fry it now. Heat the pan, drizzle in some olive oil and let the chicken brown.”

  My movements are slow like I am underwater. I twist the cap onto the bottle and return it to its shelf. I am Allspice. I place the pan on the stovetop. He wrote that poem. I turn the knob to medium high heat. Allspice reminds him of me. I pour the oil into the pan. It said I was earthy sweet… I watch the oil heat and spread across the bottom of the pan. Wise sultry brown… The puddle of hot oil begins to darken around its edge. But I am not really any of that. Ghostly strands of smoke snake up from the feverish oil. I am far from sweet, far from wise.

  I jump back from the stove as Joey wraps a hand around my arm at the elbow and gently pulls me back against his tall frame. He swiftly takes the smoking pan off the hot burner and turns off the stovetop. I jolt away from the feel of his hip pressed into the curve of my back.

  “Elaine. Are you sure you’re okay? I was talking to you and you didn’t hear a word of what I said.”

  I could only manage to blankly stare up at him. He stands next to me without leaning his weight on anything. He improved so fast. I’m very proud of him. His fingertips on my arm begin to move, nuzzling my skin. “Um, are you sure you don’t want to talk about what’s going on tomorrow with Manny?”

  I swallow and nod. “I’m sure,” I peep.

  “I wish you would t…,” he trails off as he looks into my frightened eyes. Then he removes his hold on my arm. “I know you’re starving. Let’s get this lunch done. Shall we?”

  Quietly but comfortably we went about cooking the chicken, preparing the salad, pouring glasses of juice and setting the table. I did most of those things on my own since Joey needed to rest his legs, I insisted. He and I got a lot of laughs out of waiting for the chicken to cool down. He wouldn’t allow me to add it to the salad until it was room temperature, so we sat down on the stools at the counter and groaned and growled hungrily at the chicken, then bribed it to cool faster, “I’ll give you 75 cents. Okay, a dollar!,” and finally threw forks and knives at it with our eyes and threatened the chicken with bodily harm, “Oooo, I’m gonna eat you sucka!” Our silliness crossed that border right into stupidity. I guess I can say he’s truly my friend now since he didn’t run away.

  The Caribbean Jerk Chicken Salad was a burst of wonderful contrasting tastes. The chicken was spicy, bold and flavorful and the salad was sweet, cool, and refreshing. It was way, way more satisfying than fast food nachos. I sat across from Joey’s glistening blue eyes at the kitchen table, allowing the fiery pepper, sweet essence of mango, and savory allspice to delight my tongue, all the while diligently swatting away the butterflies in my stomach.

  ******

  The maximum sentence for a misdemeanor is six months.

  “Case number 5D13-567, Roberts vs. the state of Arizona.”

  My only sibling, my best friend, stands before the judge. His lawyer stands to his right.

  Uncle Frank holds my right hand. Joey sat close on the left side of me. We sit together on the comfortless wooden benches in the courtroom, the three of us.

  “The probation presentence report was insightful.” Judge Pitrelli flips through the folder. “The victim sustained injuries that may hinder him for the rest of his life.”

  Joey lowers his head.

  “But the victim Joseph Kinsley has forgiven him and has provided a letter in which he pleads for the court to do the same. Other people have contributed letters that plead for clemency for Mr. Roberts: Elaine Roberts, sister; Franklin Merjoy, uncle; Claude Catima, friend; Jesse Pasqual, friend; Denise Rubio, friend…”

  My eyes water. I’m moved that Manny’s old friends Jesse and Claude, as well as Denise had come to Manny’s aid.

  “…Tia Wright, friend; Morghan Madison, friend; Brittany Berkowski, friend.”

  I bury my face into my hands and hold my breath so I won’t start sobbing. Uncle Frank rubs my shoulder. Joey murmurs some comforting words. I looked down my nose at those girls, but they still helped my brother.

  “Taking all things into account I have decided upon a sentence.”

  I lift my head out of the darkness of my palms and try to prepare for something no one can fully prepare for.

  “On the count of misdemeanor battery, I sentence Emanuel Roberts to 45 days in jail. Crediting the eight days all ready served leaves a total of 37 days. Release date set for June 2nd, 2011. It is so ordered.”

  Joey and Uncle Frank seem untroubled by the sentencing. Even Manny’s brown eyes shine with contentment that his punishment was deserved. I am the only one distressed. I want Manny to come home today and no time later. That won’t be the case. All the members of my immediate family had all in some way departed. Lastly, Uncle Frank would leave. He had his own life in Daytona.

  “He’s coming home June 2nd, the day before the first anniversary of Marna’s death. What a miracle,” Uncle Frank smiles sadly at me as I walk between him and Joey out of the courtroom doors. And I don’t understand why that should be something for me to be grateful for until Joey said, “See. Your mom is still here working her magic.”

  No one speaks much as Uncle Frank drives us home. We drop Joey off at his house and then proceeded to mine.

  “Now that this is all settled, I guess you’ll be heading back down to Florida.”

  Uncle Frank shrugs off his suit jacket and hangs it in Dad’s closet. He unbuttons the top buttons of the Hawaiian shirt he wore under it. “I’m in no hurry, Laney. Do you mind going to the car rental place over in Duncan with me this afternoon? I think it’s time I had my own set of wheels.”

  ******

  I want to get out on the field again. I can’t wait to feel the grass and dirt yield beneath the spikes of my soccer cleats, all my senses peaked by the excitement in the crowd. I wish I could feel the adrenaline again, coursing all through me as I push my entire body to the limit, my muscles screaming, but my mind overpowering the pain signals. I can’t think about pain or anything else if I want absolute power over my body and over the ball. When I lose focus I lose the ball and the game. Chupasangres’ last game was a loss. I hadn’t been focused enough because I had been sweating Raul. I want to redeem myself. I want to rise to power. Gerard, my physical therapist, is a sportsman too, so he saw that I was still restless for a win before I realized it myself. He warned me, “Joey, I don’t recommend you attempt anything soccer related for a few weeks unless you want to reverse the progress you’ve made so far.”

  I’m improving every day. I wake up in the morning and my legs carry me farther and farther. The medicine has helped with the spasms. I’m tottering along on my own now. I relearned how to keep my balance. Elaine’s shoulder is no longer needed. She, however, doesn’t know that yet. It’s not really lying because my legs do still get tired. I tell her that and she offers to help me along and I take her up on it. I’m taking what I can get. Just a few days ago she was ripping her hand out of mine and now it’s no problem for me to have an arm around her or a hand on her shoulder. It’s just my selfish immature attempt to get closer to her. An unselfish part of me does it for Manny, too. He wants someone to make sure Elaine is taken care of. I’m
that guy. I’m that desperate dude with the unclever tricks up his sleeve.

  “You don’t want my mom to get suspicious do you?”

  Elaine stands near the front door with her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we’re supposed to be together, you know? You take me to all my therapy sessions, which is cool, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that, but you never stick around long enough for my mom to see us together.”

  She studies the floor around her black boots for a long time. Each second I feel more and more deflated. I thought she and I were cool now. I can call her “Laney” and we cook together and eat together and joke around, yet she is standing practically half way out the door with a furrow between her arched brows, trying to think her way out of this. I know that I’m blackmailing her into spending time with me, but can’t she find even a little enjoyment in it? Her dark eyes meet mine briefly.