Low (Low #1)

by Mary Elizabeth

  “Is it running?” Poesy asks, leaning against the front bumper. She pulls the rag hanging from the pocket of my Levi’s and throws it at me.

  “Start it and find out.” I shrug, catching the dirty cotton to clean today’s hard work from my calloused hands. “Keys are in the ignition.”

  “How do you even know how to work on cars?” she asks, running around me toward the driver’s side.

  I wait for the engine to turn while memories I have as a kid fetching cold brews for my dad and his crew fill me with pleasant nostalgia. Entire summers were spent passing them tools and mopping oil spills while they worked on motors for extra cash. My pops taught me how to change a tire while Led Zeppelin played from an old dial radio with blown speakers. His friends paid me in loose change to hold the light while they repaired timing belts and replaced spark plugs.

  “Roger Seely wasn’t always a piece of shit,” I say, burying resentment long enough to appreciate what little he taught me before drugs and alcohol turned him into a murderous stranger and deadbeat.

  The smell of gasoline still reminds me of stuffy summer nights on the old block.

  “Ready?” Poesy asks, avoiding the topic. She knows the whole story and understands it’s not something I like to bring up, even if the parallels between him and me are more alike than ever.

  Poe cries out in excitement from behind the wheel as our beater fires right up, and I close the rusty hood, satisfied with my success.

  “Let it run for a while,” I say, gathering sockets and wrenches to place back into my toolbox.

  “I’m proud of you, babe. You’re such a badass.” My girl smacks my bottom as she strolls by, heading toward our apartment. “Did I mention that your mom and Gillian are coming over for dinner? Because they are. Get dressed, boy. They’re on their way.”

  DEPOSITING ANY OF the money into our checking account would only lead the police to our front door. Spending it on anything too lavish or above our normal price range is out of the question. The bulk of the cash will go toward enrolling Poesy back in school and remains hidden in our mattress until then. But we spent a little on a gently used sofa from an online seller. He happily accepted more than his asking price to deliver and threw in the coffee table for free, simply for taking it off his hands.

  Past-due bills are paid, and we have a month’s worth of food in the kitchen. Poe bought herself a new pair of work shoes and splurged on a good haircut. Now the car is running.

  We’re comfortable, and I can’t help but feel like it’s too good to be true.

  “The place looks great, honey,” my mom, Patricia, gushes. She runs her palm along the arm of our new couch.

  Fresh out of the shower, I can still smell the scent of thick engine oil under Poe’s lemony body wash on skin the sun tinted golden-brown. Green bottled beer is icy in my hand and warm in the pit of my stomach.

  “Things are coming together for you and Poesy.” She recognizes this as fact and says it with nothing less than pride in her tone.

  “I took on an extra day at the plant,” I lie. As much as it wounds me, not even the woman who gave me life can know the truth.

  Before I met and fell in love with Poe, my mother and sister were my only sources of security. The sound of their voices, the comfort in their touch, and the force of their unconditional affection gave me reason and determination to hustle another day. After her husband’s conviction, my mom was left with filthy-faced kids, a broken heart, and not a cent to her name.

  “You’re my man,” she used to whisper as she tucked me in at night. “My beloved. My cherished. My favorite part.”

  We moved from one shithole to another as she juggled two and three dead-end jobs at a time. Mom raised hell when I would get jumped at school, and she didn’t hesitate to smack the shit out of me when I started trouble myself. This woman did all she could to teach me the difference between right and wrong and always kept a smile on her face, even as it went in one ear and out the other. It was like she knew I should not be held accountable for the man she chose to father me.

  “Why didn’t Ned come with you?” I ask, changing the subject.

  Mom sighs before swigging her beer. “He’s working a side job with one of his buddies. They’re hanging drywall in some rich guy’s garage in Anaheim.”

  “Are you guys good, Ma?” I ask, picking up on her unease.

  “Most definitely,” she answers right away. “He’s an honest man, and I haven’t loved anyone since … Well, he adores your sister and me. And what’s that saying, ‘Once you go black you never—”

  I choke on my beer, and she starts to laugh out loud.

  “You don’t have to worry about me, baby.” Mom gazes through her clumpy mascara. “Just keep yourself out of prison.”

  Licking bitter liquid from my lips, I glance down at my feet, not to look her in the eyes. Guilt weighs heavy on my shoulders and turns the beer vinegary in my gut. This woman has been let down by enough men in her life.

  “Dinner is ready,” Poesy calls from in front of the stove while Gillian mixes instant punch in a pitcher at the sink.

  We still don’t have a kitchen table, so we eat off Styrofoam plates in the living room on TV trays. The garlic bread is greasy, and the spaghetti sauce is thick. Popping the top off my third beer, my cheeks burn, and my smile is cool.

  It’s easy to feel like a king surrounded by women who adore me. Between saucy bites, Poesy rubs my thigh and wipes basil from my chin. She accepts Mom’s compliments to the chef with grace, pledging she got the recipe from her.

  “Not likely,” I say with a chuckle. “My mother is the only person I know who can burn boiling water.”

  The cook in question drops her jaw and throws her napkin at me. “You’re not too old to smack, shithead.”

  “Speaking of Lowen’s head. He shaved off his man bun,” Gillian says. My little sister has turned sixteen since my release, but her face is soft despite how much eyeliner she wears and how black she colors her hair.

  With a notebook filled with poetry never far from her reach and dreams of a life better than this, she’s the only emo in the hood. I like to think it means she already has a leg out.

  “I never wore my hair in a bun,” I say, keeping my tone even and my face straight. “Do I look like a pussy?”

  “Low, that night we picked you up from the pen, you emerged more like a GQ model than a jailbird,” she replies, spinning noodles around her plastic fork.

  Poesy chokes on her Kool-Aid.

  “People fear me,” I argue.

  “And all you fear is losing your flawless looks, because what would you have then?” Gillian winks.

  Gawking back and forth between my girlfriend and mother, staying in my seat is all I can do to keep from flexing my muscles and spitting just to prove how tough I am.

  Fuck spaghetti. Get me a steak. Bloody.

  I sit back in my chair and let them have their laughs, and soak in their good vibes and contagious happiness. A year ago, I was caged like an animal. Moments like this can’t be taken for granted, even if it’s completely absurd.

  “I didn’t have a man bun,” I mumble, pretending to be more offended than I am. “You’re stupid, Gillian.”

  “Actually, I’m quite the opposite.”

  “Your sister was accepted to a young writers’ workshop in San Francisco this summer. She’s unbelievable, Lowen.” The proud parent’s pride is bright, and she happily blinds us with its light.

  “Mom, I asked you not to bring it up.” Gillian’s hair creates a barrier between us, and she pulls her sleeves over her knuckles.

  “Why?” Poe asks. She lifts her eyebrows in surprise.

  “Because I’m not going,” my sister answers in a disappointed tone. “I knew during the application process that we couldn’t afford the tuition. I didn’t expect to be accepted.”

  “You wouldn’t have applied if you didn’t think you were good enough,” my girl replies, dropping her napkin on top of her plate.

&nb
sp; My sister is everything I’m not—clever, fair, sincere. Watching her grow and knowing she’ll be the one who changes our family’s pattern of self-destructive behavior make me feel like I wasn’t always low-down and dirty. I helped raise her. It has to mean something.

  “How much?” I ask, clearing my throat.

  A thick sense of obligation has me spinning, searching for a way to make this happen for the one person who deserves it the most. The summer season is months away. If I start trimming trees or hedging lawns now, I might be able to come up with the dough.

  “I have a week to pay the two hundred dollar deposit in order to hold my place in the program. Then I have four months to pay the twenty-three hundred dollar balance.” Gillian sinks into the couch after pushing her tray to the side. “But that doesn’t include airfare, supplies, or food.”

  I look to my mother, who’s absentmindedly playing with her meal. In forty-two years, Patricia Seely has never felt like she was enough. Beneath blue eye shadow and shimmering blush, hardship and frustration have aged her ungracefully, creating deep wrinkles around her eyes and sucking elasticity from her pale skin.

  She’s mastered keeping a blank face, sinking hurtful inability lower than an unmarked grave.

  “It’s not a big deal. I’ll get a job and apply again next year when I can pay for it myself,” Gillian says, shrouding sharpness with forced optimism.

  “I’d send you if I could, baby,” Mom replies in a trained manner. It’s the same syrupy sweet, this-life-is-bullshit tone she uses every time she lets us down easy.

  “Santa’s a busy fella. He must have missed our house on accident, honey.”

  “We can’t afford new shoes this year, kiddo.”

  “I know you’re hungry.”

  “Baby, I know you’re cold.”

  “I know you’re scared.”

  “But it’s only temporary, dear.”

  Saving that much money is unrealistic, and the cash hidden between packed cotton and bedsprings isn’t mine to give away. But Gillian shouldn’t suffer for our bad choices.

  “We can pay for it,” Poesy suddenly offers with an uncertain smirk.

  The little girl who used to follow me around with uneven pigtails and sandals worn on the wrong feet stares with nothing less than desperation in her expression.

  “Really?” she asks, gripping on to the arm of the couch like she’s bracing herself for the letdown.

  Four tense seconds pass where I don’t understand what’s happening. We don’t have cash to spare, and what’s left from the robbery is to enroll Poesy back in school and set her up with the books that were stolen on the bus.

  Then my girl kicks my foot and says, “Tell your sister we can pay her tuition, Lowen.”

  I clear my throat. “I’ll get you a money order by the end of the week.”

  “You’re serious?” Gillian jumps to her feet. The smile on her face shines brighter than diamonds.

  “It would be our pleasure,” Poesy confirms.

  “Thank you. Thank you so much,” the young author exclaims, wrapping her arms around my girlfriend.

  Almost knocking my TV tray over in her uncontainable excitement, Gillian holds me next in a tight embrace. My heart widens with warm affection, and I hug her back, grateful that good has come from gun slinging and terror.

  She takes a step back, wiping away mascara-smeared tears from under her eyes. To keep things from becoming too awkward, Gillian smiles and says, “Don’t lie. You loved your man bun.”

  “SHE’LL UNDERSTAND IF we tell her the money was spent on fixing the AC or something, Poe. You don’t have to do this.”

  Poesy rolls her eyes, spitting light blue suds into the sink before dropping her toothbrush in its holder, and says, “It’s the right thing to do. Maybe it’ll push karma in our favor.”

  I follow spontaneity into our bedroom where she changes into an oversized shirt. Leaning against the doorframe, I cross my arms and struggle with what I want to do and what needs to happen.

  “Your mom didn’t want me to tell you, but Ned was laid off. He works odd jobs while he searches for something less temporary, but they’re struggling, and for once, we’re not. I don’t want to reenroll until next August anyway. We’re able to do this great thing for Gillian, so why shouldn’t we?”

  “Because that money isn’t going to last forever,” I say firmly, unmoving in my decision.

  My counterpart mimics my posture, and she taps her bare foot impatiently on the carpet. “No shit, whiz kid, but don’t act like this is wrong.”

  “We’re not taking another bank, Poesy. Ever.”

  “If you say so,” she replies, unaffected by my seriousness.

  “It was a one-time deal.”

  “Okay.”

  Glaring into her hazel—more brown than green—eyes, I stand tall, towering over preciousness. “Don’t ask me to do it again, because the answer will be no.”

  The right side of her mouth curves. “Maybe we should turn ourselves in so guilt doesn’t eat us alive. Let’s save your soul, boy.”

  “Not funny.”

  Poe walks over to the nightstand where her cell phone is. Pulling up the keypad, she presses the numbers 9-1-1, while maintaining eye contact with me.

  I end the call before it has a chance to ring and throw the device across the room, shattering its screen and puncturing a small hole in the drywall. Grabbing my girl by the back of her neck, I direct Poesy toward the bed and hold her stomach down onto the mattress. She twists, shoves, and kicks until I lay my body directly on top of hers, purposefully pressing my hardening cock into the back of her thigh.

  “Don’t make me fuck you up, Poe,” I say in a harsh tone, pushing my hips forward and groaning when she pushes back.

  Porcelain cheeks burn rose-red, and hooded eyes open and close listlessly. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, and circles her eager hips against me. Out of breath and stripped of self-control, I quickly shove her cotton underwear down to her knees and bury my length deep inside ecstasy.

  We both cry out.

  And we both know.

  I’d rob a million banks if she wanted me to.

  EASY COME. EASY go.

  Poesy and I work extra hours through Christmas and New Year’s and take advantage of the added income by splurging during the holidays. We buy a kitchen table, a few gifts for each other, and in addition to paying Gillian’s workshop tuition in full, we give her a few bills to spend while she’s in the bay area.

  Three weeks into January, I get home from work before Poesy and decide to clean. There’s a pile of dirty black and green java-scented uniforms in the corner of our room, and a tacky layer of hairspray on the bathroom counter. I’m changing the bag in the trashcan when Poe walks through the front door, puffy-eyed and defeated.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, releasing the bagful of trash. My mind immediately rewinds to the bank robbery, and a rush of adrenaline lights my senses on fire.

  My girl drops the car keys onto the coffee table and lowers her face into her hands. “They let me go.”

  I should have known better than to fall for contentment’s tricks.

  “Why?” I ask, swallowing my heartbeat.

  Poe licks tears from her lips and rakes her trembling fingers through her stringy hair. “Downsizing, I guess. Isn’t that what they say anytime someone’s fired?”

  Opening my arms, I take sweetness into my hold and pray she doesn’t feel my pulse fly. Months have passed since I walked into California Credit Union with a .44, but robbery doesn’t come with a statute of limitations, and I live in a constant state of uncertainty. Moves aren’t made without looking over my shoulder first. I make sure appointments with my PO are short and to the point, and I don’t change lanes without using my blinker.

  My partner in crime isn’t as cautious.

  “Stop crying,” I say, tilting Poe’s head back. I wipe warm tears from her cheeks with my thumbs and kiss the corner of her mouth. “Don’t we always figure thin
gs out?”

  The strongest person I know is heartbroken. Sadness pools in her eyes and runs down her temples into her hair. Her normally pale skin is blotchy, and her lips are swollen.

  “Why can’t we catch a break?” she asks. Her voice cracks, and more unhappiness wets her long lashes.

  Because you love me.

  Lifting her hand, I press my lips to the cross tattooed in black ink on the center of her palm. Guilt crushes any resemblance of comfort I felt before Poe reacquainted me with our truth: we survive on stolen time.

  A future with a criminal is bleak. I’m not bred or educated enough to offer more than a one-bedroom apartment in South Central with a bank account closer to zero than one hundred. Poesy has a lifetime of secondhand furniture and vehicles that won’t pass smog to look forward to.

  Triumph isn’t on my side.

  I roll with adversity and deprivation.

  “I’ll take care of you,” I lie. Burden from our situation constricts tighter than handcuffs on my wrists and shackles chained to my ankles. My lack of ability digs, burying us deeper into a never-ending pit of misfortune.

  Poesy’s reddened eyes shift away as she takes a step back. My girl doesn’t insult my pride by acknowledging what I’ve just said, but she can’t face me when she speaks.

  “Why am I crying?” she asks, then scoffs. Poe keeps her eyes down and her hands busy, tossing throw pillows from one side of the couch to the other. “I hate those uppity pricks who come in every morning mumbling into Bluetooths, ordering the same half-calf, non-fat latte they did the day before.”

  “Jorge might have extra hours for me at the plant,” I say, also preserving her dignity by not calling bullshit on false swagger. Employment at the coffee house is what got her through my time behind bars. She was able to save for this place, and it solely provided for us after my release.

  “Don’t get me started on the hipsters, with their V-necks and patchy facial hair. Fuck them. They never tip. Only idiots wear beanies in the summer.”

  I crack a smile, and she laughs. Dagger-like tension dissipates, leaving unemployed and criminal—the downfall of society—at a standstill. Watery, rust-colored eyes meet mine, and she squeezes the pillow in her tiny hands.