The 'N' Word, Book 1

by Tiana Laveen

  The cake can finish from the heat of the oven…

  She grabbed a vibrant green plate with little white daisies around the edge from a cabinet and placed a small sampling of everything she’d cooked onto the plate. Licking her finger, she wrapped a fork inside a paper towel and made her way to her kitchen table. The Brothers Johnson crooned, “I’ll Be Good To You”. Dipping her fork into the mashed potatoes, she savored the buttery flavor as she propped up her feet on a nearby wobbly chair. She bobbed her head to the music and ate her meal.

  I hate when Trudy leaves… The house gets so quiet…dead…

  Mia came from a large family, accustomed to children racing around, adults laughing, the old folks talking loudly, and gospel music playing in every room. But, she’d moved quite a distance away to teach at Compass School in Atmore, Alabama. Most of her siblings had moved to other states altogether, bitten by the travel bug. Originally from Auburn, Alabama, it took quite a while to get used to the change. In many ways, Auburn was a college town. Most of her older relatives worked at Auburn University, and the majority were educated. Mia, however, sought to set roots elsewhere, make a bit of a difference, but her attachment to her family didn’t allow her to drift terribly far.

  Atmore appeared to be a compromise… but it was more like a wake-up call. Not nearly as bad as living in neighboring Mt. Vernon, however, she’d been fairly sheltered from such events as store and car theft and property damage.

  Also, despite her close-knit family, Mia was a bit reserved. She enjoyed being alone most of her childhood and teen years, for peace and quiet often came at a premium. In this case, though, her wishes for independence became a nightmare-come-true. She lived in an old two-story home that sang creepy songs from the wind and enchanted her with bountiful sunlight when morning glory showed her wares; but, when the night fell upon her, it swallowed sound and sight, and all the senses struggled to grasp onto anything real, alive, and tangible. The house became a mere vacuum, eliminating evidence of life, but providing proof of emotional loss. It held secrets and told them, too; one just simply needed to listen.

  The floors creaked all on their lonesome and the occasional human-like hum would come out of nowhere, typically during her beginning stages of slumber. Nevertheless, she wasn’t afraid, merely accepting that there were some things in the world she couldn’t understand. Besides, she was the fifth child out of seven, the daughter of a preacher father and school teacher mother, and their house had been filled with the purest of love, occasional whimsy, and beautiful stories passed down from her great, great grandmother. She carried those memories close, bided her time, and made the two and a half hour drive back home once on the third Sunday of every month.

  Dressed in her Sunday best, she’d walk in the place, focused on finding her father at the head of the sanctuary to give the ailing man a big hug and hear him preach. As a child, his words had held far less power. She’d hold her Bible near to her chest, but secretly desired to read such musings as Walt Whitman’s, ‘Leaves of Grass’ and ‘The Rose That Grew From Concrete’ by Tupac Shakur. She didn’t know how to tell her father that the ‘Word of God’ didn’t give her the same passion and fever as, ‘Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening’ by Robert Frost. How could she tell the man that she didn’t see the world the same way he did, wanted to branch out and spread her own wings and plant her roots, too? Once she attempted the feat, her father had grown angry, displaying a strange manifestation of himself, something she’d never witnessed before in all of her life.

  Yes, the man had raised his voice from time to time, but Daddy didn’t seem to have an angry bone in his tall, wiry body. Yet, on the day she told him the Bible contained contradictions, words that seemed untrue, he hit the roof so high, he burst through the ceiling straight to heaven and filed a complaint regarding his daughter to God himself. She never went in that direction again, but she’d made her way somehow, forced to bury what was in her heart.

  Yes, she buried her deepest emotions, but they didn’t know that, the moment they’d tossed dirt upon her, the seeds inside her started to grow…

  She bubbled with promise and vowed that, as much as she loved her family, there had to be more out there in the world. And, she wanted to see it!

  She’d went through her brief spell of rebellion, fights, acting out, and then like a light switch, she returned to her true, adoring self… Or was she truly adoring at all? Only time would tell as she struggled with fascinations to keep one perfectly planted foot in the lush garden of life and the other in the searing valley of Death. She secretly delighted in her hidden combination of sour and sweet, derelict and divine… though she kept her musings hidden, deep within herself, year after year.

  Maybe that’s what killed her relationship with Rodney… no one, especially him, seemed to truly ‘get’ her, understand her. Maybe that is why she was so attracted to that which was so pure and good, and that which was diabolically evil. It was a shameful magnetism, one she’d never admit to a living soul. She tucked her secrets away, and proceeded with life, desperately trying to follow the straight and narrow path of what was expected of her. Nevertheless, she began with baby steps. She got a new job, relocated, then purchased her first home. The sad, rundown structure seemed to whisper love letters in her ear, begging her to move herself inside and promising to not do her any harm. So, she’d grabbed her belongings, and purchased a few new ones and set up shop. One room with burgundy and baby blue Damask print wallpaper housed wall-to-wall books, many of them filled with the writings of the Greats. From classic to contemporary poetry, they lined the walls, protected, cherished, and loved.

  …But now the love was cloaked, the silence profound. She scraped the few measly remaining bites of her food on her fork, shoved it inside her mouth, and swallowed her wayward thoughts. Glancing across the way, she took notice of the file from Dr. Owens. On a sigh, she reached across the table and took hold to the thing, scanning it just as Trudy had. She read the profiles, curious about these people.

  She moved the tip of her fingernail under the words, the names, the washed over details of the convictions, and the nuisances of a person locked away from society, punished for an act he’d committed against another. She’d already made peace with a few things, such as the thought that society deemed these individuals a problem; yet, it sure as hell didn’t mean that they truly were. She’d been raised in the Church, and no matter how she rejected some of the doctrine, bits and pieces were engrained within her, and became a part of her story and convictions. She’d been taught repeatedly about forgiveness, to see the light amongst those drowning in darkness. This was a lesson she took to heart, just as much as the words that danced in her head and came out as pure poetry. And people were poetry, too…

  The individuals behind those bars consisted of old, broken bones never to be bound together again, long forgotten, some even hated simply by a telling of their life story. No one knew the souls of men except the Creator. And no matter how horrible the crime, she walked into Holman with one intention and one intention only: to teach those suffering with illiteracy and disabilities that prevented them from reaching their full academic potential. She read the names of the men on the paper and paused when she came to one name in particular…

  Aaron Pike.

  A Taste of Honey sang, ‘Boogie Oogie Oogie’ on the oldies station that evening. As she swayed on her chair and snapped her fingers, she sighed and slid the file a bit closer, eyeing it carefully.

  Aaron Pike… Aaron Pike… That name sounds familiar.

  She shrugged.

  He’s not a student of mine. I definitely wouldn’t want that… too close for comfort.

  She smirked and tapped her upper lip, a plan forming in her mind, webbing thoughts and ideas of a sneaky kind…

  My numbers are low and I want to help. Wouldn’t be any harm if I became a part of the program, too. Besides, whoever it is would never know I was an employee… I’ll just make a fake name. Yeah, easy enough…

&nbs
p; Aaron Pike… Aaron Pike…

  She slid her cellphone out of her pocket, ready to look him up, search him out, then paused…

  No, don’t do that, Mia. If you’re going to do this, then do it fair and square. Don’t become influenced by whatever you might find out about the man. Says here he is in trouble for assault and battery… That’s all I need to know.

  She stood and took her empty plate into the kitchen, placing it just so inside the white sink stained with a twisting, winding line of rust right under the faucet. She turned on the water, rinsed the thing off, then poured herself a glass of cold milk. A few moments later, she removed the cake from the oven to give it a moment to cool and sat back down at her table, this time armed with a pen and blank piece of taupe colored paper:

  Dear Mr. Pike,

  I hope this letter finds you in good favor, health, and spirit. You were signed up for the pen pal program at Holman Correctional Facility. According to your sentence, you have to serve twelve months. Though a year may seem like a long time, you have a second chance once you’re released. I’m interested in getting to know you, providing emotional support, and lending my ear through this pen pal service. I can tell you a bit about myself to help get the ball rolling. I’m a teacher. I like to write poetry and work with children, especially those with developmental challenges. I’m open-minded and believe everyone can change if given the right incentive and circumstances. According to these directions, I’m supposed to answer these five questions and you’re to do the same as an icebreaker:

  What’s my favorite food? Ahi tuna

  What’s my favorite song or musical group? Anything by Jodi Mitchell… I love old music, even the stuff that played way before I was born.

  What’s my favorite book? John Berryman’s, ‘The Dream Songs’. It’s a book of poetry.

  What’s my favorite holiday? Thanksgiving

  What’s my favorite color? Shades of blue. I like almost anything that is blue. I’m drawn to it.

  Some say I’m a bit old fashioned at times, but fun loving. I’d say that is fairly true though I do have an open mind. I look forward to your response.

  Sincerely,

  Melissa…

  She looked about as she tried to devise a faux last name, and then, a half dilapidated box from a recently purchased grill cover that was folded by her trashcan gave her just what she needed…

  Weber. Yeah, that’ll do.

  Sincerely,

  Melissa Weber

  Mia folded the letter in a perfect tri-fold. She tapped the edge of the thing along the table, falling into deliberations, some of which made her squirm in her seat.

  Girl, you know you’re wrong for this…

  She smirked as Al Stewart’s, ‘Year of the Cat’ began to play.

  Why are you doing this? Well, hardly anyone else signed up and Dr. Owens was right. These guys need someone to talk to that is outside the prison, to help keep their spirits up and anxiety down. There’s nothing wrong with what I’m doing… I’m just trying to help. What they don’t know won’t hurt them… or will it?

  She sat a bit straighter as she continued to wrestle with herself, turning and twisting the damn letter all the while.

  I have to step out of my comfort zone again and do what I feel is right. I’m helping, and that’s that.

  She got to her feet, the letter in hand, and made her way back to her stove. Taking hold of a large, freshly sharpened knife, she sliced through the thick, soft thing, gooey and dripping with dark brown lava-like fudge. Smiling at her culinary skills, she scooped up a small, moist slither onto a tiny plate, grabbed a clean fork and napkin from the drawer, and headed to her bedroom, the letter tucked neatly under her arm…

  Chapter Five

  GIN BLOSSOMS’ ‘JEALOUSY’ played through freshly unwrapped black wires as the music delivered a blow by blow to his awaiting ears. Aaron tapped his booted foot to the beat against the concrete floor as he went through his odds and ends, specially delivered from the mailroom. His white attire, care of Holman, was stiff with overly generous bleach methods. This afternoon he’d received a care package from an old friend but more treasured was a little handwritten letter from his seven-year-old daughter, Laura.

  My baby’s birthday is comin’ soon… I’ll have to make sure to send her something…

  He slid his finger under the envelope slit and tore it open to remove the note, adorned with tiny crayon drawings of trees, houses, and an enormous sun in the corner of the paper:

  Hi Daddy,

  I miss you. I love you. I got a gold star in class today. I went swimming at Connie’s house in her new pool and we ate some cake. She is getting a new puppy. Can I have a new puppy?

  Bye

  Laura

  He smiled down at the thing as he leaned back against his bed, his head slightly propped by the nickel thin pillow. Enclosed was a photo of the young lady. He swallowed a time or two, then dared himself to look at it again, more closely this time, as he gripped it between two fingers…

  There’s my little angel…

  He couldn’t help but break out in an ear-to-ear smile as he looked at her almost white, platinum blond hair, just like her mother’s. The girl’s eyes were the color of Robin bird eggs and her skin porcelain with a slight peachy glow along the cheeks, just like a doll.

  Another letter was enclosed, folded up inside the note. The words inside, he knew, would swallow the beauty of the instant, eat away at all that was noble in the world and leave only the picked-clean skeletal remains of a ‘feel-good’ moment. On a sigh, he unfolded and read the thing…

  Aaron,

  Now that you’re back in prison, we have no money. How the fuck are we supposed to keep a roof over our heads and eat? My husband is out of work and you know this. He can’t find a job and we’re struggling. I didn’t know you were going to do what you did or I wouldn’t have ever let Laura see you the day before. That was just stupid. Why in the hell would you kick that nigger’s butt in front of a crowd? You taught us to be discreet. What type of example are you setting? Just because you and I aren’t together anymore doesn’t mean I don’t see how important you are to the movement. They need you out on the frontlines, not in prison! How disappointing. You better get your act together.

  Sarah

  He hissed like freshly launched spit hitting a hot grill as he balled the damn slip of paper up tightly in his hand; so tight, his fist shook as if he were gripping a ball of electricity birthed from a head on collision of a lightning bolt and flames of glory. Shooting up from his lying position, he raced towards his toilet and tossed the correspondence in the john, flushing before it barely hit the gray, stinking water. Alice in Chains crooned ‘Rooster’ as he moved about the tiny space. A warm rage pulsated and grew hotter as it seared through his chest like relentless heartburn. He marched back over to his bed and slumped on it, blurting, “Bitch!” as he hit the side of the wall with a commanding pound. The side of his palm stung from the impact, but all he could do was lie there and slowly place his hand across his forehead, then closed his eyes in an attempt to lure himself into a state of calm.

  I’ve been taking care of her too, while her bum of a husband sits around not doing anything but making things harder for everyone. I went to prison for fighting for our people! He went to jail for being a goddamn loser! She has that son of a bitch around my daughter… I don’t know what he’s doing… what he’s up to. Laura doesn’t like him but won’t tell me why… Now Sarah talks about examples? What kind of example is he? He ain’t no role model. I can tell my daughter the truth… I was in prison because I’m a damn freedom fighter. This last situation was self-defense. There’s no shame in that; that’s honor!

  Trying to keep the courts out of our business… paying cash, paying their bills, putting food on the table so that Laura has a stable environment… trash! Fucking whore! Not once did I speak badly about her to my daughter… never said a bad word about her mother but she talks shit about me to Laura all the time. She
even tried to sleep with me again right after she got married. I should’ve told him, let him know he is married to a goddamn slut. But no, I kept it to myself, didn’t want to mess up Laura’s home life. She’s been through enough…

  His thoughts about his daughter, missing her so much, caused his gut to turn at that instance. As he’d been locked up and away in this newly started stint, it appeared at times his brain was playing cruel tricks on him. Maybe he was totally crazy, out of his goddamn mind just like Sarah had always accused… It hurt him, though he hated to admit that his best friend Darryl hadn’t even bothered to send a damn letter or stop by and visit. It was almost as if he’d been long forgotten before he’d even served a damn month. Perhaps the issues had started long before that…

  To add to his confusion, things right before he’d been convicted and shut away from the world had seemed off, not quite fitting together. Men he trusted began to move around him differently, their expressions twisted and untrustworthy. His right hand man in the movement, his assistant of sorts, had told him all was well and to not worry but Clyde may have been simply trying to keep him safe, keep him away from whatever games were being played behind the scenes. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

  The last and final blow came when he sat in there, all alone, and looked at a glossy photo of him and his friends standing in his backyard, their arms up saluting Hitler. That epic party had taken place only three months before his incarceration. He looked at himself, but suddenly had no clue who the hell he was; for a split second, it seemed like a photograph of someone else, some people he didn’t know, and a world he no longer fit into…

  It seemed as though he’d lost himself somewhere along the way and there appeared to be no possibility to get that motherfucker back…

  Just then, a guard approached his cell and tapped the door with the corner of an envelope, steering him away from his incensed reaction.

  “Aaron, you got one more…”