What You Sow

by Wallace Ford

  Duke also had to be thinking about what kind of world he would be living in with a hundred large in his back pocket. He would be moving up the food chain in the drug world in Harlem, and someone was not going to like that. In fact, there was a good chance that some unhappy chappy would want to put a bullet right through that smooth, shaven skull of his. But that was not even almost my problem.

  As for Duke, he knew the basic rule of business: no risk, no reward. It was just that in this case, the risk was certain death if he fucked up.

  Duke took just another moment to consider the consequences of my offer and his response. And then, for the only time in our relationship, he took off his glasses, revealing a pair of blazing hazel eyes. He put his hand out over the table where we were sitting and looked me in the eye.

  “G-Perk, it’s a deal.”

  “Cool, my man. I will see you here at this time tomorrow night with the cash.” It was that simple. And with that, I finished my Rémy, paid my tab and Duke’s, said good-night to Ernie Argentina, and strolled out of the Purple Dragon along with the Dark Lord. It was time to get back to the hospital and figure out my next move.

  I got into El Steve’s car, which was waiting out front on 125th Street, and we headed downtown. The Dark Lord and I considered my options all the way back to New York–Presbyterian Hospital and, by the time I settled back in my hospital room, I had a plan.

  Despite the coke and the exhilaration of doing drug deals and carrying on with the crazy bitches that seemed to always be around the Purple Dragon, I was real tired when I got back in my hospital bed. I usually went right into some kind of deep, dreamless sleep even though my eyes would be wide open.

  It would usually be a few hours before I could start seeing through my open eyes again, but on this September night/morning, all hell seemed to break loose just as soon as my head hit the pillow. I guess the saying about “no rest for the wicked or the weary” must be true. As if I could give a shit.

  At first, I had no idea that all the commotion was about me. But, as I saw nurses and doctors running around my bed like they were in some kind of Chinese fire drill, I quickly figured out that something was happening with all of the wires and tubes and monitors and me. And, from the expressions on their faces, I was not having a good evening.

  Since I could move neither my eyes nor my head, I had to depend on people walking past my restricted field of vision to figure out who the fuck was in my room. I could see the Dark Lord occasionally pacing across the room at the far end. And, every now and then, a nurse or doctor would almost run by on his or her way to who-knows-where.

  I could pick up only bits and pieces of conversation among the doctors and nurses. I heard the words “diminishing vital signs” and “organ failure” and “elevated heart rate and respiration.” I clearly heard one doctor say, “Contact the next of kin right away.”

  None of this sounded very good to me. But the Dark Lord didn’t seem to be too worried, so I wasn’t worried either. That is, until I saw that jackleg preacher, the Right Reverend Very Reverend Quincy Holloway, come across my sightlines.

  That was when I knew I might be in real trouble.

  CHAPTER 23

  Paul

  Concierto de Aranjuez

  One of the things that first attracted me to Diedre was that she defied stereotyping. Usually that has been a good thing. She has always been gorgeous—but plainspoken and accessible. She has always been brilliant and creative and also capable of cold calculation. And despite the caricatures created about women being unable to get dressed or to get moving quickly, she was almost always ready to go before me when we had to go somewhere.

  Early that September morning was one of those times when she was ready before me—again. She was on the first floor of our town house calling for the car service while I was still throwing on some clothes. Of course, I had a credible excuse. I was the one who had gotten Paul Jr. out of bed and helped him into some sweatpants, a sweater, socks and sneakers.

  Getting a totally unconscious two-year-old dressed was like trying to mold slightly warm Jell-O. There was no cooperation from my little man. Indeed, he remained oblivious to my efforts to get him prepared for the trip downtown to the hospital, clearly preferring to remain in the dreamy world inhabited by small children that I call Babyland.

  Finally, with Paul Jr. and me being dressed for the late-night mission, I found a light blanket for him and a leather jacket and Basque beret for me, and headed downstairs. The car service that Diedre had called was waiting outside, and within minutes, we were on Harlem River Drive heading south to FDR Drive, with New York Hospital and Gordon Perkins as our destination. I could certainly have thought of better things to do in the middle of the night.

  New York is certainly the City That Never Sleeps. But the nocturnal animal that is New York late at night is a very different beast indeed. The air is clearer; the lights are crisper in their incandescent efforts to pierce the eternal nighttime darkness. Every shadow, every person, every corner, seems to have its own story. This evening’s journey was no exception.

  Paul Jr.—or PJ, as Diedre and I sometimes called him—was amazing in his ability to sleep soundly no matter what the location, no matter what the circumstance. We were truly blessed in that from the day that he came home from the hospital, PJ slept soundly through the night, interrupting his slumber only in response to his as-yet-incomprehensible pain of hunger pangs. But those hunger pangs came on a very clear schedule, absolutely calibrated to the size of his capacity to hold breast milk or formula. Once Diedre and I got in synch with his timing, we were able to sleep pursuant to a schedule as predictable as any that you would find at Grand Central Station.

  On that night, the only sounds that could be heard in the backseat of the car were the light purr of Stan Getz playing “Desafinado” on the local jazz station, CD 109, which I had asked the driver to put on the car radio. The sound of the car’s tires, briefly but endlessly kissing the dry pavement as we made our way downtown, is also a sound that I remember.

  Since it was late and we didn’t want to go through the drill of putting a car seat in the back of the car and almost certainly awakening our heir, Diedre placed PJ against my chest and strapped us both in with the harness seat belt. So the other sound that I remember from that night was my son lightly snoring somewhere over my heart.

  As we rode past East Harlem, I espied on the right side of the car, the large brick complex that used to be Benjamin Franklin High School, one of the finest public high schools in the city back in the day. It was a school that represented a portal to success for many sons and daughters of Puerto Rican immigrants—sons and daughters who went on to become lawyers, doctors, successful business owners and, in one case, personal assistant to Jerome Hardaway, co-owner of Morningstar Financial Services.

  I don’t know why it occurred to me that night—probably because I didn’t feel like thinking about Gordon Perkins, a subject that never elicited pleasant thoughts in my personal universe. But, for whatever reason, I recalled Jerome telling me about his assistant, Berta Colon, yet another promising graduate of Benjamin Franklin High School.

  Berta was a brilliant student in high school, with a ticket for success reserved in her name. In her senior year, she received a four-year scholarship to Mount Holyoke College, and she was literally on the verge of taking her first step toward her lifelong ambition of becoming a lawyer who would represent the rights of poor people in East Harlem.

  Unfortunately for Berta and the people of East Harlem, in her senior year, she also met and fell in love with Hector Colon, a member of the community revolutionary group known as the Young Lords. Three months before graduation, Berta was pregnant. A week before graduation, she got married. And with the birth of her son, Hector Jr., and the descent of Hector Sr. into the omnivorous and insatiable maw of heroin addiction, her dreams of Mount Holyoke College and a law degree and serving as the avenging avatar of the poor people of East Harlem went the way of the buffalo: virtua
l extinction.

  Jerome had told me that after Hector Colon died, Berta had started working in the entertainment business. She worked for a talent-management-and-booking agency, handling various administrative functions and duties. That is, she did that line of work until the stress and toll of being a single parent with a road job finally made her hit the breaking point.

  Hector Jr., who was a brilliant student, sometimes without even trying, started being a serious disciplinary problem in school. Finally, when Berta was on the road and got a call about Hector being suspected of starting several fires, she simply quit her job on the spot and went back to New York to look after her son. She took temporary secretarial jobs until she landed the position as Jerome’s assistant.

  She was now an integral part of Jerome’s professional life and, therefore, a key part of the Morningstar operation. Jerome trusted her without reservation, and over the few years that I had seen her in action, I knew her to be much more than a secretary and receptionist. She really orchestrated the daily functions of Jerome’s office and everything that mattered at the firm. And she was fiercely loyal and protective of Jerome.

  In the meantime, Hector Jr. straightened up and learned to fly right. After a stint at a special private school for children with disciplinary challenges, he enrolled at Deerfield Academy and graduated with honors. He was now in his sophomore year at Duke University, and he had aspirations of becoming an investment banker like Jerome, whom he simply idolized.

  I have no idea why seeing Franklin High School at two o’clock in the morning set off memories of Jerome and Berta and Hector Jr. I imagine that, in part, it was because I wanted to think of anything other than the reason for our journey along the banks of the East River in the middle of the night.

  From the time that Gordon Perkins had been flown to New York City in an air ambulance, he had remained in a comatose condition. Since he was totally unable to communicate his condition or his wishes, I assisted Kenitra in getting the New York State Supreme Court to appoint her as Gordon’s guardian. The irony of Kenitra being the guardian of her principal abuser wasn’t lost on anyone familiar with the facts.

  The reality, however, was that on a day-to-day basis, I was the contact person for the hospital and for anyone else who had to discuss any matters concerning Gordon’s condition or his interest in Morningstar. And yet another irony was that, in addition to the Bahamian bank account in Kenitra’s name into which Gordon had secreted ten million dollars, he had also put his ownership interest in Morningstar in Kenitra’s name, having forged her signature on a document designating her as his proxy on all matters related to that stock interest. Now, with Gordon in a coma, Kenitra was an owner of Morningstar on paper and in reality.

  Kenitra was truly the silent member of the triumvirate that owned Morningstar. She deferred to Diedre and Jerome on all matters involving the firm. I always figured that she was so glad to have been freed from the soul-leaching dungeon that was her life with Gordon that she would have deferred to Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck if they would just leave her alone and not cheat her out of her interest in the firm.

  On several occasions, Jerome and Diedre had discussed the prospect of buying out Kenitra. But the reality was that it was more fair to Kenitra (and a lot less of a burden on the firm) to pay her a share of the profits for the time being and to buy out her interest in a few years, when the value of Morningstar promised to be exponentially greater than it was at present.

  The human brain can be a fantastic piece of machinery. But no one has yet been able to fathom the reasons why the conscious, sentient mind will go off on tangents that cannot be explained logically. How, for example, my mind went from Franklin High School to Berta to Jerome to Hector Jr. to Kenitra and Gordon Perkins would be a challenge for a whole battery of psychiatrists. Fortunately, I was not on the therapist’s couch. And, in any event, Diedre was there to abruptly summon me back to reality.

  “What do you think the doctors are calling you about, especially at this time of night?” Diedre had this habit of looking directly ahead while speaking if we were in a car or airplane. It could be annoying, quite frankly. But it was dark and it was late, and I had come to learn to accept small faults and small blessings, as rare as the latter seemed to be lately.

  “I really have no idea. The last I heard from the hospital, Gordon’s situation was stable. At the rate he was going, and with continued intensive care, the doctors thought that he would probably live another fifty years. A hell of a thought.” God forgive me, but I could not help but note the twist of fate that rendered Gordon insensate but that still kept him in our lives. PJ continued to snore almost imperceptibly. Our conversation, the commotion of driving, and the occasional honking horn— none of that seemed to disturb his slumber in the least.

  “You know that the court requires a quarterly medical report regarding his general medical condition as well as the probability of resuscitation or recovery. Ever since he was rolled off that plane from New Orleans, he hasn’t moved a muscle or responded to any outside stimuli. His heart, liver and vital organs have stayed remarkably healthy, and he has physical therapy five times a week to help him keep some kind of flexibility and to keep his muscles from becoming atrophied. Interestingly enough, the most recent reports have indicated a surprising return of muscle tone.” I now had Diedre’s full attention, and she turned to speak to me.

  “How on earth is that possible? I thought you just said that he hasn’t moved a muscle in over two years. I never got further than Biology at Wellesley, but I remember that muscle tone can be maintained only with some kind of exercise involving some kind of resistance.”

  “You remember your biology correctly, Diedre. The only explanation that the doctors have come up with is that Gordon has been going through some kind of deep dream sequence and has been flexing his muscles during those dreams—kind of like doing a series of isometrics. At least, that’s how it was explained to me.” Hearing myself trying to explain Gordon’s condition, I realized once more how strange this situation had been. And now, it seemed like we were entering yet another bizarre episode featuring Gordon Perkins and the rest of us.

  What the hell was going on anyway? Was he dead? Was he alive and getting ready to awaken? Was he awake and ready to wreak havoc in all of our lives yet again? I unconsciously held PJ a little tighter and sent a wordless prayer skyward.

  CHAPTER 24

  Sture

  How High the Moon

  After laughing ourselves silly at the sight of the battle royale on First Avenue, Kenitra and I settled down into some kind of contemplative silence as the car continued north towards New York Hospital and a fateful rendezvous for the both of us.

  During our few weeks together as friends and lovers, Kenitra had said very little about Gordon. That was, until that night, when she revealed the awful story involving the loss of her eye and the other unspeakable abuse that he had caused to cascade upon her like some endless torrent of evil. It was almost too much to believe that one person could be that bad for so long.

  I had heard all kinds of stories about Gordon over the years. They were gruesome, ghoulish and unimaginably creative. But all the stories were told by someone who had heard the story from someone else, and there was very little that I truly believed.

  When I looked in Kenitra’s eyes, I saw something more than fear. I saw a look that almost seemed as if she were pleading to be rescued because she was trapped—horribly, horribly trapped. Sometimes, her eyes were reminiscent of the ones that you saw in old photographs of German concentration camp victims—the eyes of a person who knew that she was doomed and did not have even a fraying fragment of hope. And, as it turned out, everything that I saw in her eyes had been a true reflection of the horrific reality of her life with Gordon.

  I hated Gordon for all the terrible things that he had done to Kenitra. I hated him because he had done them without remorse and without caring about the consequences to her or to himself. And I hated Gordon Perkins because
he had somehow escaped any punishment or retribution for his sins.

  His comatose state seemed to mock everyone and everything that he had touched with his hateful presence. He might be in a coma, but he had not suffered. He had not felt the lash of guilt across his back, and no pain had been inflicted to cause him to beg for mercy, if not forgiveness.

  As the car pulled off of First Avenue into the circular driveway of the hospital, I found that I had a capacity for hate and revenge that I never knew existed inside of me. Gordon didn’t just deserve to die; he deserved suffering and vengeance, and as I stepped out of the car and helped Kenitra out, holding her fluttering butterfly of a hand, I silently prayed that God would find a way to finally recognize the evil that was Gordon Perkins.

  And then we were in the hospital elevator, headed to the eleventh floor, where the Special Intensive Care Unit was located. We followed a labyrinthine path to get to the unit itself once we got out of the elevator. Kenitra stood erect and serene, but she held my hand with a strength that let me know that she was barely holding on to her emotions.

  “I’m with you, Kenitra. Whatever it is, I’m with you all the way.”

  She squeezed my hand even harder as we approached the nurses’ station, never saying a word.

  I am not sure what either of us expected to see as we answered the summons from Gordon’s doctors that night. In looking back, I probably anticipated seeing one or two very officious and very serious doctors. If I had really thought about it, I might have anticipated that there might have even been an administrator or two, just in case some kind of decision had to be made by Kenitra that night.

  And, indeed, there were actually four very officious and very serious doctors who, because of their demeanor and their number, approximated a white-jacketed phalanx of bad news in my battered imagination. There were actually five hospital administrators present as well, which was a sure sign that something extraordinary was going on. And there was one other clear sign that could not be ignored.