"You are so beautiful. And you are loved. And if you hold that love in you, it's like a seed. And you will grow up to be even more beautiful."
"Like the queen?"
"Don't jump ahead. Let me tell you my story. The king definitely thought he'd found the one. But he didn't want to scare her off so he decided to wait until the time was right."
"Boys are so silly. He shouldn've asked her out then. He don't know she'll be around later. She might be too busy for him."
"Girl, you're gonna be fierce one day."
"That good?"
"That's great. You'll be a princess who won't need saving."
"So did he ask her out?"
"The king had his duty to attend to. One day a terrible dragon entered the kingdom. It scared the king's people, devouring them slowly, and seemed to be everywhere at once. It wasn't too long till people began falling under the dragon's power and fighting alongside the beast against their own people. Now it was the king's duty to battle the dragon. Everywhere the dragon went the king was there to fight it."
"Did he kill the dragon?"
"The dragon was so huge and so powerful, but the king didn't realize he couldn't fight it alone. So he continued to fight the power of the dragon."
"The king was brave."
"Or stupid. Or too proud. Or all of the above. One day the beautiful lady got caught up in their battle. The dragon kidnapped her and held her captive. The king grew even more relentless and chased the dragon to the ends of his kingdom. There was no place it could hide from him. Finally, fearing the king's wrath, the dragon released the lady and went into hiding."
"Was she the one?"
"He thought she was. He was prepared to make a life with her, offer her his kingdom or even set it aside for her… but then another took her away. The king was alone again."
"That's not true. The king still had his people. And maybe there will be another queen."
"I think the king realized he already had a princess he needed to take better care of. Keep her safe from his many enemies."
"That why the king doesn't come around very often?"
"To keep her safe. He should probably go."
"I'd rather not be safe."
"What do you mean?"
"If it means I'd get to see you more, I'd rather not be safe."
King leaned in and kissed her forehead. He never wanted to be that kind of a father. Absent. The kind who put his work, no matter how important he thought it, above his family. And now the choice had been taken from him. He'd made too many enemies in the game. Families, not even little girls, were no longer off limits. He needed to put an end to the foolishness and get out. Maybe start over. That was what he wanted most: the chance to do things over again. Make different decisions. Maybe choose different people to surround himself with.
King walked toward the rear of the Breton Court condominiums. In the gloom of night, the overgrown branches stretched like tentacles ready to snatch him away, and the sad stretch of creek was reduced to a trickle as it hadn't rained in a while. He stopped at the bridge along High School Road, the site of his betrayal. Closing his eyes, letting the pain of the memory of seeing Lott and Lady G together stab him anew. No matter how much he wished it, the darkness wouldn't swallow him. No all-consuming shadow reached out to snatch him into its ebon haze. Only the oppressive weight of anguish – the squeezing on his chest, his very being – reminded him that he was still alive. Memories replayed in his head. What didn't he see? The way they sat near. The furtive glances. Lott even sat in between King and Lady G on occasion and no one thought twice because they were all friends. Family. When did it start? What did he do wrong? Questions he never thought to ask. And why should he have? Lott was his ace. Lady G was his girl. He trusted them with his life. He wished he'd never seen the Caliburn at all.
His condo faced Big Momma's and he didn't want to chance seeing or being seen by Lady G. He simply wasn't ready. The image of her haunted him. He thought he saw her everywhere he went, in crowds, at coffeeshops, passing him on the sidewalk. The ghost of her lingered everywhere. So he had taken to entering and leaving his place through the rear.
A cement block pressed the back patio door shut; the trick was letting it fall into place when he left (though many times he simply scaled the walls). Either way, it was a lot of effort for "security" as all anyone had to do was push the door open.
Like Pastor Ecktor Winburn had done.
"What are you doing here?"
"A good shepherd goes after his lost sheep." A low-cut Afro with gray streaks drew back from his forehead, lengthening the appearance of his face. Like a scarecrow funeral director, his black suit hung from him, his tie too thin. He hunched his shoulders close and bridged his spider-like long fingers, his suspicious eyes taking the measure of King. "Figured I'd given you enough time to lick your wounds in your cave."
"I didn't ask you to come." The words came out in an angry rush. King balled his fist and released it, then pushed past Pastor Winburn to the unlocked backdoor. There was a time when he'd hung on the man's every word, but these days King could barely stand to listen to him. Somewhere along the lines things had changed, like somehow the pastor should have been there for him, been more solidly in his corner. Instead he felt like he'd washed his hands of him, distancing himself ("giving you time to lick your wounds" crap), and now doing just enough to cover his ass for when folks asked him about King.
"I'm here now." Pastor Winburn followed him inside. Better to give him something, any distraction to keep him from exploring any further down this dark path. Sometimes the best way to get over a problem was to get involved in someone else's. To take his eyes off of himself and his tiny corner of the world. "And you've still got a job to do. We're losing our men to the streets. To drugs. Hell, to their couches. There's nothing like comfort to make folks feel like they can get through life on their own. But no matter how good they have it, they're never content. Start getting that itch and feeling the need to scratch it. Wherever and with whomever they can."
"I been thinking a lot about my father." King reached to pull the Caliburn from his hip, his reflex ritual upon returning home. After all this time, he still forgot that he no longer had it.
"Yeah?"
"Wondering if we're all meant to be our fathers' sons."
Heavy, intense eyes rested on him. People loved putting folks on pedestals almost as much as they loved knocking them back down to earth. Hollywood stars. Pastors. Parents. Life was a set-up game which you couldn't let go to your head. "You know what I've always thought? The story of the prodigal son could have easily been called the prodigal father, at least to the son that stayed faithful."
"What do you mean?"
"Here you have two sons. One is faithful to his father, being the best son he can be. The other is selfish, self-focused, out for himself and his own good time. The faithful son stays with his father, continues his work, while the prodigal goes his own way and squanders his life. The faithful son sees his father bend over backwards to reward the wayward son. It can be a tough thing to swallow, seeing your father behave in ways you don't understand, yet love him anyway. Luckily for them both, they were still around to talk things through."
"My dad's no longer here."
"You are a hurt and angry child."
"What did you say to me?" King hated this. He wanted to punch something. Someone. And Pastor Winburn… he hated the man to see him like this. So weak. Pathetic. He wanted to prove himself to the man. To be the man Pastor Winburn saw in him. To even be better than him. Such was the way of fathers and sons.
"You were a… knight. A hero. Now you acting like some simp who's been played by a girl."
"You have no idea what it's like to think you know someone, to love them, and realize it's nothing but lies."
"Nope. Because love is strictly the provenance of the young. I was never young, never hooked up with anyone, and never got hurt by anyone. You're the only one who has ever been through something like t
his. In the history of mankind."
"You're not helping." King's face remained inscrutable. He kept his face a pallid mask, unmoved even by his own pain.
"It's all right to be angry with Lott. Lady G. Both of them. This whole situation. It sucks."
"I should be beyond that."
"Why? You still a man."
"And I don't want to put you in the middle."
"What middle? They did wrong. I'm pissed at both of them. Love them, but I'm pissed at them."
"They were laughing at me."
"Who?"
"Both of them. I did this for them as much as anyone else. To be a hero to Lady G. To be worthy of Lott's friendship."
"To prove yourself to them. I'm sorry if I don't seem real sympathetic. I'm not going to pretend to know what draws a silly country girl's heart. I'm not trying to minimize the dull shock of sorrow you want to wallow in. I'm really not. My heart hurts for you. I wish you could just remember the good times you had with them and hold on to the love you have for them. But I also know you can't just yet. Right now all you can do is think of the pain. All you can do is re-visit each memory through the lens of that pain and question everything."
"I just want to make all the hurting stop."
"I know you do. I know how hard it is to open up and reveal yourself, only to be rejected. That's the big fear of relationships." Pastor Winburn drew up his sleeves and revealed a scar line of old track marks. "The world is a painful place, full of things and people that will hurt you. And I know the temptation to numb yourself from it and do whatever it takes to keep us from dealing with life and what's going on. That's an easy path to walk down. You're no different than any other addict out here, you just used a relationship to numb yourself. Living life on your own strength, within your own fears."
"That's easy to say."
"What you've been doing hasn't been working." Pastor Winburn rolled his sleeves back down. "How about you listen to someone else other than yourself? You want to run away from folks and be all alone, that's on you. But you'll have no one speaking into your life except you. You don't want to be alone with your demons unattended. They are so many and it gets awfully noisy with all of those competing voices in your head."
"Everything just seems so… It's too much. Too loud. It's confusing."
"I wish I were one of those quick-to-forgive people. How when I feel dishonored, disrespected, or disavowed, or otherwise holding on to memories of someone's mistreatment of me, I can just go 'I forgive you' and all of the hurt and ill will just vanishes. It's like we feel this tacit pressure from other Christians. They hear our struggles with the pain of our situations – the anger, the hurt, the sheer pain of it – and confuse that with not being able to forgive. Almost as if we aren't forgiving on their time table or that a good Christian would have forgiven by now. Or faster. Or better. On-the-spot forgiveness works with smaller slights, but deeper wounds require more, especially if they tap into a familiar one. Sometimes we have to ask if part of what has wounded us is us carrying something else with us from the past that we are connecting to this present person or circumstance. That's part of what forgiveness is about, freedom from the things which hold on to us. A hardened heart can't feel the love nor the forgiveness a faithful and just God has to offer, it has walled itself off. Pursuing forgiveness is agreeing with God that there needs to be healing and trusting Him to heal us through the process. And sometimes it's a hard, long, messy process. But what's broken can be redeemed. And there's a real you that you have yet to find."
King leaned against his kitchen counter. "Help me understand how to do that. How to get to the real me."
"You're always asking 'what do I need to do to make this work?' because you operate out of a need to control. Faith and control don't exist well together. When you are moving from a place of faith, you're asking 'God, what are You going to do to make this work and how do I get involved with that?'"
"I want to be that man."
"Look, King… I've seen how you've carried yourself. How you've fought. There's always going to be someone stronger. Everyone loses some time. It's what you do. In defeat, that defines you. You can become broken and bitter, just like in victory, you could become petty and small. Victory is a matter of spirit, not might. You have a mighty sword by your side, but you do not have to draw it. To wield it is to draw blood. Real love risks and offers redemption."
"Where do I start?"
"Go back and clean up what you messed up." Pastor Winburn put a tentative hand on King's shoulder, not wanting to crowd him if he wasn't ready. But King neither flinched nor pulled away.
"You always have a lesson for me. Just like a father."
"King, I… I was never your father. Though I'd have been proud to call you my son."
"There's more to being a father than blood. How about you listen to someone else other than yourself."
Lott dribbled the basketball three times, took aim, bounced it three more times, held his pose for a moment, then released his shot. The ball arced through the net-less rim without sound. Putting on a limp pimp roll strut to chase down his own rebound, he pretended to evade a couple of defenders before laying back with a fade-away jumper. The game was easier this way.
The other day he was in a pickup game with folks he knew from around the way. And he was every bit as alone. No one on the court chatted with him. No girls flirted with him from the sidelines. No one met his eyes. No one passed him the ball. Getting a rebound resulted in elbows to his gut or face. Too aware of their scrutiny, their wariness, he retreated. He knew what to expect, but the pain of the reality was nearly too much. Maybe underneath it all he wasn't this awful person – the villain in everyone's story – maybe he was still the caring, loving little boy his grandmother tried to raise. But it seemed, he could sense it in his heart like stomachs turned in his presence. He just wanted to get away. To retreat.
Lott's disheveled hair needed tightening up, a week overdue. His large brown eyes checked for anyone who neared him. His tongue traced where his row of faux gold caps once grilled his teeth. A scraggly beard scrawled along his face in tufts like a child's cotton ball art project. Lott had lost his job at FedEx. It was the job Wayne had helped him get through Outreach Inc which took him out of the streets, and he'd been there for a couple years. He'd been doing well. They were even talking about promoting him again. Then the stuff with King and Lady G went down. He loved them both. He'd hurt them both. It was selfish of him to get with Lady G no matter the love he believed he had for her. She was King's girl. He was King's ace. And he betrayed them and it grieved him. He carried the weight of the pain he caused to work with him. The shame ground him down, affected his performance. His supervisor said he'd become bored and spiteful at work, not all the young man he thought he was giving a second chance to. And definitely not living up to the potential he thought he saw. Then that was that. Lott didn't disagree with his boss's assessment and would've fired him his own self. But the part that hurt was the fact that even during the firing, his boss had a sting of pain in his eyes, as if begging Lott to find the words to keep him from doing what he had to do. As if it hurt him to be adding to Lott's pain. Lott welcomed the firing. He welcomed the punishment. He knew he had to suffer for what he'd done and just wished everyone would stop giving a damn about him so he could throw his life away in peace.
"Why'd they have to do him like that? He was a good kid."
"He was into some dirt."
"No more than anyone else. And he was trying to put it behind him. Folks wouldn't let him."
So the whispers about him went. But he knew how they saw him. This unfeeling monster. Beyond tears. Beyond redemption. Sometimes a body had to move on, get away from a place. Run from the memories, history of hurts and betrayals, otherwise they became trapped by a story. A tale told by others and believed by more. Such was his story. A story that would define him in such a way that he began to believe it himself. One that wouldn't allow him to grow out of it. He had to break his r
outine, his habits, shake up his world and paradigm.
The ball swished through the net. But there was no roar of a crowd. Nor any elation in his heart. Only the dull ache of moving when he didn't want to. He ran down his own shot then dribbled out for another.
Lott could never figure out why he wanted, needed, to block it out, to kill off the person he was. Because he hurt. The pain bobbed and ebbed, varying in intensity, but always there, and he simply never wanted to hurt again. Pain drove people mad and the self-loathing he felt was a raging fire fed by bits of his soul. One he'd do anything to quench. His life in drugs was no different than how he treated women, they were both attempts for his selfish need to come first and allow him brief moments of escape. What he hated was how he was powerless to make any of the changes he knew he had to make. His life was a runaway train, one he tried his best to ride out because to change, to stop, meant he'd risk losing Lady G or his friends and that he couldn't bear.
King's War: The Knights of Breton Court 3 Page 5
