by A. D. Smith
“Hmph,” I smirk while revving my engine.
Chapter 2 - T R E
“No, no … MARTIN!!!”
I jump from my sleep as the nightmare finally climaxes. It’s as if I am a prisoner forced to watch the same haunted vision over and over. My heart races as sweat pours down my face. Part of me knew it was a dream, even in my sleep, although my body wouldn’t allow me to wake. I look over to the clock. It reads 12:32pm. Sunlight beams through half-opened blinds forcing me to squint. Still dazed, I stand. My shirtless body reveals a muscular 6 foot frame, chocolate toned skin, and bald-shaven head. I step over pizza boxes and beer cans eventually making my way to the fireplace mantle. The ultra posh apartment I live in hasn’t been cleaned for quite some time now. A half empty bottle of whiskey rests on the mantle …
Only a quarter remains now.
Included on the mantle are pictures and trophies showcasing my athletic career. One reads “Tre ‘TNT’ Turner – Player of the Year”. At the young age of twenty-two, some would say I’ve lived a great life. Not sure if I’d wholeheartedly agree.
My cell rings. The display reads ‘Dad’.
It’s too early for this, I think to myself before finally answering. “What’s going on Dad?”
“Why he’s alive!” my father shouts through the phone. “Now how’s my firstborn?”
“I’m fine.”
“Great, Tre. Good to hear. So, you’re too much of a star now to come see ya old man?”
“I’m not a star, Dad,” I sigh into the receiver. “I haven’t played in four months.”
“So what did this doctor say?”
I hate when my father asks me questions he already knows the answers to. “Same as the rest,” I say. “If I want any chance at a normal life, I shouldn’t risk returning to the field.”
“Well, pray about it son. If it’s to be, it’s to be. You can always say you had one of the greatest rookie seasons ever for a NFL running-back.”
I say nothing, hoping he gets the point. Guess he doesn’t.
“Just one more thing, Tre. If you hear from your brother, tell him to come home. We haven’t seen him for weeks.”
I knew there was something else he wanted. “Damn it, Dad. Why do we have to go through this every few months? You know how he is. He’s probably somewhere getting high. He’ll be back when the money runs out.”
The tone in my father’s voice changes. “First off, watch your mouth son. I’m your father, not your teammate. And second, I can ask you whatever I want. You’re the child and don’t you forget it.”
He waits. I say nothing. It’s weird hearing him like this, seeing as he hardly ever gets frustrated. Guess that’s one of the qualities that make him a great father … and a good Pastor. Besides, I kind of deserved it.
“Now look Tre,” he says as his voice settles. “You made it out okay. You didn’t succumb to the same demons as Martin. I remember when you two were young; you guys would put on my church robe and my shoes and recite Bible verses all around the house. Now everyone is grown. Everyone is—”
I love my father, I do. But sometimes he just doesn’t know when to quit. I interrupt his ride down memory lane. “—look Dad, if I hear from him I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks Tre,” he says. “That’s all I want. Me and your mother won’t be here forever. After us, you’re all your brother has, you know?”
“I know Dad.”
“That’s my boy. You know you haven’t been by the church in quite some time. When’s the last time you’ve heard one of your old man’s sermons?”
“Uhh … I’d say just a couple of seconds ago …”
My father, Pastor William Turner, Jr., laughs. “Good one, son. Well, talk to ya lat—oh and Tre, never forget y—”
Like so many times before, I finish my father’s words. “I know Dad. Never forget your home.”
I never understood why my father would go after Martin, time and time again. He always said I wouldn’t understand until I had children of my own. Maybe he’s right. We both had the same parents, the same opportunities. Sure, it was tough growing up the kids of a successful Pastor, but I chose sports as an outlet. Martin chose the way of the streets.
As I head towards the bathroom, a particular picture on the mantle catches my eye. Taken five years ago, it shows my father, my mother Elizabeth, me, and Martin. Wow. Funny how we’ve changed in five years, especially Martin. Thirteen at the time, Martin is now eighteen and tall as me.
Rehabbing back in my hometown of Memphis, I promised my Dad I’d stop by the church from time to time and that I would look out for my brother. So far, I was 0 for 2. I try to help when I can, but I’ve got problems of my own. My career is on the line. As a matter of fact, it’s time for another drink.
***
The glowing neon sign at Round One Bar doesn’t look quite the same at five in the afternoon. Inside is a mix of sports themes and contemporary furniture. Dozens of 40-inch Hi-Def television screens hang high above the bar. People wave as I take my usual seat. Guess I’m something of a local celebrity. Wish I felt like one.
Round One is one of the trendier spots in Memphis. The young, as well as the not so young, frequent here because they are somebody or because they want to be somebody.
“Whada it be, Tre? The usual?” asks Lou, the bartender. I nod as I scope my surroundings. Mostly empty, except for a few regulars, all male. That’s fine for now. Besides, I need a few drinks in me before the TNT show can truly begin. Only girl in here is Viv, the waitress, but I’ve already been down that road. We really don’t get along as of late.
The mirrored wall behind the bar shows a good enough reflection. Three carat diamond earrings sparkle from my earlobes. My custom tailored shirt fits perfectly. The jeans I wear cost more than most folk’s mortgage payments. Some guy three chairs down keeps eyeing my jewelry but he’ll keep his seat if he knows what’s good for him.
The people in this city love Tre Turner. Although there’s no place I’d rather be than back on the field in Jacksonville, there’s no place I’d rather call home than Memphis.
“Here ya go, Tre,” says Lou as he brings over my Mr. Hyde poison. As I take a sip from the strong concoction placed in front of me, a news report on one of the endless number of television screens catches my eye.
“… and unemployment is up seven percent,” says a placid reporter. “A record 30,000 jobs lost in May alone. Yes, the recession is in full gear now.”
Others sitting at the bar shake their heads in disbelief. Many order more rounds as the reporter continues. “But one company also seems to be in full gear. Bale Media, helmed by the sometimes eccentric movie mogul, Jason Bale, is sponsoring a nationwide employment search. That’s right. Bale Media plans to create 50,000 jobs in the next five years, alone.” The reporter’s inflections begin to pick up. “And Jason Bale will start his massive employment search right here in our very city!”
Lou looks to get my take on the news. “You hear that Tre? Looks like we’ve got another celebrity in town.”
I slam my drink back before responding. After two years, it still stings the back of my throat. “It’s all good, Lou!” I shout, making sure everyone hears. “But NOBODY holds the city down like Tre Turner! Nobody does it like Tre ‘TNT’ Turner! Ain’t that right?!”
The happy-hour crowd raises their drinks in agreement. Looks like I still got it.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about! Next round’s on me!” Shouts of “TNT!—TNT!” ring from the pub. People around the bar throw high-fives. Here, I don’t have to think about my family or my career. Here, the cries of my name drown out the whispers of my thoughts.
Chapter 3 - Gloria
The imposing granite columns of Saint Peter’s Catholic Church are hardly noticeable to me now. I’ve been coming here since I was a young girl and know this place inside-out. The bird’s nest situated in the upper left corner of the roof. The missing stained glass plate the crew never got around to replacing—luckily
it’s high enough not to pose a security threat. The loosened pipe railing that has caused many to trip up the stairs—yes the church has become like the birth mark on my back.
Not one to be late, I rush down the aisle-way to the altar and kneel.
“Early as usual, Gloria?” says a familiar voice.
“Good to see you, Deacon,” I smile.
“Now, you know you don’t have to come running every time I make a suggestion. Arranging my library was just a suggestion …”
“Well as you say Deacon, procrastination is Satan’s way of being on time.”
He laughs. “What am I going to do with you, Gloria?”
I enjoy tending to Deacon Nichols. After all, he’s like a father figure to me. Especially considering I never knew my father. A’ma never made it easy finding the man. She’d always say, why would you want to find someone who doesn’t want you? Maybe she was right. After a while, I gave up searching altogether. Besides, Deacon Nichols fills in the gap pretty well. Now nineteen, I’ve known him since I was a child. Although compassionate and fatherly to all the young members, Deacon Nichols always treated me extra special. But of course that led to the whispers. Some said it was because I was the token Hispanic girl, though I didn’t let that get to me. I knew Deacon Nichols was one of the few people that truly cared.
“I don’t know what I would do without you Gloria,” he says as we arrange books in his study. Unconsciously, I smile. Okay, maybe I beam. Guess something in me still desires his approval. Or maybe being around him makes me forget what awaits me at home.
“Don’t mention it,” I say. “You’re the closest thing to a father I’ve had all these years.” The Deacon’s face lights up. Maybe he enjoys being approved just as much I do.
Deacon Nichols is a tall man of English descent. Fairly attractive even into his late-forties, older women in the church constantly tried to pair their aging unwed daughters with him. Far as I know, he never took the bait.
“Why didn’t you ever get married?” I ask. “I mean since you decided not to become a priest. You would’ve made a great husband.”
“I don’t know,” he quietly responds. “Guess I moved to slow for most women.”
“Ahh, c’mon,” I say as we share a laugh.
“Well there was one. But that was a loooonnnggg time ago.”
“Well it’s her loss,” I say, sounding like a proud parent. Deacon Nichols doesn’t share this laugh. His face tenses as if he’s thinking hard about something. I’m sure there must be a lot on his mind. He’s pretty much run the church since Father Macon took ill three months back. Before I can comment, he quickly snaps out of it.
“Well enough about me, young lady,” he smiles. “What about you? Who’s the special young man in your life? I haven’t heard of anyone since that nice young fella—wait … what was his name, Jaaason, Jaaalen—”
“Jeremy,” I finally help. “And that was like three years ago, Deacon.”
“Exactly! So you’ve been holding out on me, young lady.”
“Noooo, Deacon. Besides, I don’t have time for guys.”
“Oh come on, pretty girl like you?”
I blush slightly although he’s probably just saying it to make me feel better about the whole non-dating situation. I look down at my outfit before instinctively patting my plain brown hair which rests in its usually placed ponytail. There’s nothing special about my clothes, just an oversized shirt and baggy cargo pants. My mother says my wardrobe hides any hint of femenina. She never taught me Spanish but I’m pretty sure I know what she means by that.
“Well, I’m waiting,” says the Deacon.
“With the church, A’ma, and my internship at the news station, guys are the last of my concerns.”
Deacon Nichols nods. “So how is your mother doing?”
“She’s her usual self,” I mumble.
The Deacon looks as if he’s debating whether to question my last statement. I make it easy for him. “I mean she complains when I’m at home. She complains when I’m not at home. She complains when I cook. She complains when I don’t cook.”
Before I know it, the frustration pours out of me. “She said I spent too much time at the church and that I needed to do something with my life. So I took up some classes and got an internship down at WREG. Now she says I’m never home. And you see why I don’t have time for guys. A’ma is a 24/7 job.” I stop to catch my breath, hoping I haven’t rattled on too long.
“So she’s still sickly?” he politely asks.
Sarcasm fills my tone. “She’s always sick, let her tell it.” Okay, maybe I didn’t get it all out.
“I just think she’s afraid to be alone. And I don’t know why. All she does is talk about me when I’m there and most of the time she does it in Spanish! I can’t understand a word she’s saying. I mean, what kind of mother doesn’t teach her own daughter their native language. But hey, at least A’ma isn’t partial. She doesn’t like anything, let alone me. I don’t even know why she brought me up here all those years ago. She doesn’t like you or the church either!”
We share a serious look before bursting into laughter. Boy did I need that. “I’m sorry Deacon. I didn’t mean to go there. It’s just—” My phone rings. “Well speak of the devil,” I say, sending the call to voicemail.
“Now Gloria, that’s not nice,” says the Deacon as he tries to hide a faint smile.
“You’re right. Sorry. Well guess I better get out of here.”
Deacon Nichols steps back as he admires his newly arranged bookshelves. He places his hands on his waist in pride. “Will you look at that? You did it again Gloria.”
“We did it Deacon. You think you can handle—”
“Go my child. Tend to your wonderful mother.”
Chapter 4
The ground floor employees at St. Jude Hospital are used to the roar of my motorcycle as I make my arrival. But being used to it doesn’t make them like it any better. Their faces frown as I park in my usual spot, the red No Parking Zone. I take one last drag of my menthol before flicking it towards the nearest receptacle. It bounces off the trash bin and hits the ground.
“I hate this place,” I mumble as I enter the double sliding doors of the emergency room, my left leg stiffened from the ride. It makes my limp more apparent. I head straight for the restroom, turn on the faucet and begin raking the dirt from under my nails. Barely twenty-two, it’s fair to say I’ve aged in the last four years. Bags have formed under my eyes. My hair is longer, my face unshaven, my jeans stained. The leather jacket I wear smells of engine oil. Some men do this in a fashionable kind of way but I wasn’t smart enough to plan this out. Nervously, I try to scrape the grime from under my nails but there is way too much to remove in one cleaning.
“You’ve got to be strong for Chrissy,” I say to myself in the mirror. “For Angel.”
The moment quickly ends as the bathroom door opens. A man wearing a lab coat enters. Dr. Amali. He pauses at the sight of me, almost startled, before continuing to the urinal. We mumble pleasantries.
“Mr. Myers …”
“Doc …”
Dr. Amali is probably in his mid-fifties and of Middle Eastern descent. As I exit the restroom, a middle-aged man wearing scrubs enters. I nearly take his shoulder off with my pass. The collision loosens a high-priced gold watch from his wrist. I manage to catch it before it hits the floor. Now this could pay a year’s worth rent, I think to myself. A nervous grin flashes across his face as he waits for me to return the expensive timepiece.
“Nice watch,” I say.
“Th—Thanks.”
A small obscure shaped tattoo on the man’s wrist catches my attention. It would’ve been hidden by his watch. He seems to want it that way, now placing his hand in his pocket, accepting the watch with the other. The men strike up a conversation as I leave.
“So how was the trip, Phil?” asks Dr. Amali.
“Great,” says the other. “A godsend.”
***
I
make my way to room 413. It’s been my pseudo home for the past three long months. Unfortunately, it’s been Christina’s home as well. The space is deathly cold. The staff insists it stay at the present temperature due to the medical equipment. You can hear the hum of silence as it buzzes throughout the room. I’ve become accustomed to this, but even worse, so has Christina. Sometimes I’m amazed at how much fight my daughter has in her. She never complains. She always tries her best to smile, even when I can tell she’s hurting. Angelina couldn’t have left me a better gift.
I nudge the young woman sitting in a chair beside the bed. Although upright, she’s clearly asleep. Her head rests in her hand as if a ploy to stay awake. It doesn’t seem to be working.
“Hey sis,” I say softly. Alicia slowly comes to.
“Hunh?” She responds, still groggy. “Oh — Zeek. Hey — Sorry — I was —”
“Shhh. It’s fine,” I say, placing a finger over my mouth.
Angelina’s younger sister has barely aged in the last four years. Now twenty, she’s cut her golden brown hair to reflect a more, independent look. Alicia yawns as she stretches. “I need to tell you something, Zeek.”
Not now, I signal, turning towards Christina.
A frail five year-old rests in the over-sized bed. They say she’s my Christina although I hardly recognize her anymore. She’s excruciatingly thin, even for a five year-old. Tubes protrude from her mouth and arms. Her skin seems to have paled even more since the morning. Once beautiful long brown hair is now replaced by brittle shards, even falling out in some places. Chrissy’s body rejects most foods and the majority of her nourishment comes through an IV, ever present in her left arm.
To most folks, I’m an outsider, a loner. People don’t even look me in the eye walking down the street. But to Christina, I was Daddy. And now, Daddy can’t do anything but watch as my helpless child lays here dying. And I die slowly too, knowing here, I am as helpless as she is. What kind of life is this? For anyone?
