by BILL BARTON
Rosella flipped open her textbook and clicked on her pen. She looked at Bonita as if daring her to offer a lie. Bonita coughed and swiveled her head as though she might be casting around for a fake address, but the address she gave seemed legit. It was in East LA, a numbered apartment in a recognizable complex off a main street. No phone number-there was no money for a phone.
Rosella snapped her textbook closed. "I'm coming to this address. I'm knocking on a door, and I'd better see you there. I'd better see two children with you. You had better not be messing with me"
With that, Rosella turned and strode away without her husband.
Like a lost child, Dewayne stood before Bonita. He turned to leave and saw his wife on her forced march, then reached for his wallet and removed two Andrew Jacksons and handed them to Bonita before starting his jog toward Rosella.
Bonita's whisper was just loud enough for Dewayne to hear as she stuffed the bills in her pocket.
"He's generous too"
The brisk wind scuttled the litter along the street and around their feet as they unloaded the groceries from the car. Since he carried the lion's share of the sacks, Dewayne was thankful his sister-in-law's apartment was on the first floor of a two-story complex. This was a place he did not want them to be after nightfall. There was no grass except the weeds growing through the cracks in the sidewalks and concrete courtyard, no foliage except a few withered bushes at each end of the complex, no views except straight up into a smog-filled sky, no vistas except the empty lot across the street-an apocalyptic playground of abandoned cars and rusting home appliances. Undernourished dogs, rodents, and scavenger birds lurked through the rubbish of the ailing terrain, searching for any nutritious scraps. Random clusters of human life moved through the city blocks like spies of nature on the lookout for an escape route. No life, human or animal, showed any comprehension of the world outside this wretched cubicle of a neighborhood.
The groceries got heavier and heavier as Dewayne and Rosella endured the long wait for the door to open and listened to two stories of gangster artists and domestic squabbles at different levels of volume conflict. A beautiful young girl with skin as black as ink opened the door and slouched in the entry as though daring them to gain admittance. She was dressed in shorts and a loose halter top, her thin body pierced in the nose, in the right eyebrow, and in stair steps up each earlobe, and she was chewing the life out of a stick of gum. The music coming from the inside was at concert level.
"Who are you, honey?" Rosella asked, studying the young girl's face for any Caldwell features.
"No, honey, who are you?" The girl's voice dripped with mockery accentuated by popping gum sounds inside her mouth.
Her sarcasm was a slap in the face, but Rosella smiled and continued.
"I believe I'm your aunt Rosella. I believe ... I mean, your mother is my sister-"
"I know what an aunt is. I ain't stupid."
"No, you're not ... you're definitely not;" Rosella said. "I'm sorry. Is your mother's name Bonita Caldwell?"
After a brief, nondescript look, the girl slammed the door and began shouting at someone. Dewayne was thankful for all the weight conditioning he had done over the years, but he still had to set the twenty-pound ham on the concrete to lighten his burden.
A moment later, the door opened, but the girl still blocked the passageway.
"What you want?" The music level had dropped but only by a few decibels.
"I saw your mother today. I told her we'd bring some groceries." Rosella shifted the sacks in her hands and pointed to the ones overflowing in her husband's arms.
The door slammed in their faces once again, followed by more muffled shouting. When the door reopened, the music was playing at a manageable level, and the guard at the door appeared ready to allow admission.
"My mama's sick, but she says you can come in." The girl stepped back.
Rosella handed her a couple of sacks and picked up the ham at Dewayne's feet. They followed the girl into the kitchen. Dewayne and Rosella gave a cursory glance to the other people lounging on the broken secondhand furniture in the cramped apartment before they dumped the sacks of food onto the table in between the dirty dishes. The kitchen pass-through gave them a view into the living room. A young boy about twelve years old and three teenage boys stared back at them, bobbing their heads to the beat of the music as if hypnotized. The leader of the older boys wore a sleeveless shirt, dreadlocks scraping along his shoulders; his arms covered with frightening tattoos of satanic power, and his demeanor reflected the art on his arms. None offered a greeting. They seemed to be waiting for Dewayne to make the first move to know if this colossus would be a friend or foe. He did, but only a slight nod, not enough to elicit a response from the muted quartet sprawled over the room.
"We should help you put these away," Rosella said, waving her hand over the mound of groceries, and the girl gave an indifferent shrug.
That was enough for Dewayne. He was ready to leave, and this was the fastest way out. When he opened the first cabinet, the surprised roaches scattered for the nearest dark nook, and Dewayne took a step back.
The girl gave Dewayne a look of amused disgust at such a big man acting like a sissy when it came to roaches. She picked up a can of green beans and tossed it to him. He caught it with one hand and placed it on an uninhabited shelf.
"What's your name?" Rosella asked, hoisting the ham into her arms and opening the refrigerator, as devoid of food as the cabinets were.
"Sabrina;" she said, picking up another can and tossing it to Dewayne, which he caught like a pass from a quarterback. This playful action brought Sabrina's scowl up to a smirk, a step in the right direction.
"You have a brother, right?" Rosella asked.
Sabrina nodded without suggesting that her brother might be in the next room or showing any intention of an introduction. She kept tossing cans to Dewayne, her interest maintained by him showing off the skills that had made him a star. The pitchand-catch game Sabrina and Dewayne were playing helped make Rosella's interrogation run smoother. If Sabrina had any idea who was catching her passes, she gave no indication.
"Is he here?" Rosella arranged the ham on the lower shelf in the refrigerator before she started filling it with other perishable items.
Unexpectedly, the loud music dropped a few decibels.
"Hey, baby, ask her if she's a lawyer." The raspy voice paused to wait for Sabrina to carry out the request. She did not.
"'Cause if she ain't a lawyer or a cop, she sure is asking a lot of questions ... questions you ain't got to answer"
Sabrina's cocked arm dropped to her side. Dewayne kept his arms in position to receive her pass. When she did not throw the canned peaches, he dropped his arms and stepped around the column that was blocking his view of the living room. All heads were lowered but one-the tattooed, dreadlocked one-and Dewayne knew he was looking at the chief of this small tribe.
"He's in there with my boyfriend and his crew," Sabrina said. She set down the can on the counter and folded her arms in front of her.
"What's your brother's name?" Rosella said.
"Lady, whatever you do, you must be getting paid by the question;" the boyfriend said.
The heads of the followers bobbed as they snickered at their chief's joke.
"Hey, Bruce, come here;" Sabrina said, summoning her brother from the living room.
The youngest and smallest member of the foursome got out of his seat.
"Little man, you ain't got to go nowhere"
The boyfriend stretched his legs across the filthy coffee table and rested his hands on his flat stomach, the easy posture of one who is convinced of his own power.
Bruce dawdled into the kitchen and stood in front of Dewayne, a dwarf to this giant. His voice cracked as he spoke, the sound of boy-to-man transition.
"Don't you play football?" he asked, his glum visage brightening at the prospect.
"I play a little," Dewayne said, and he leaned against the wall, keeping
a fixed stare upon the boyfriend.
"You play for USC, don't you?"
"Guilty as charged," Dewayne said, and he extended his hand to the boy. "You must be Bruce. I'm Dewayne Jobe"
"I know who you are." Bruce's small hand was swallowed by Dewayne's mammoth one. Then he pointed to Rosella stuck halfway into the refrigerator. "She your ho?"
Rosella banged her head on a refrigerator shelf before she pulled out altogether and whirled around to face the boy. Bruce was sure his rude remark would gain him favor with his sister's boyfriend and his gang. There were spontaneous whoops of approval coming from the living room, which would have pleased Bruce except that Dewayne's clench of his hand suddenly became painful. Dewayne stepped around the corner into the living room-Bruce in tow, his hand in a vise grip, his efforts to break away fruitless.
Dewayne growled. The sound was so unexpected, it silenced all derisive laughter, although the kid who appeared to be Sabrina's boyfriend kept a glare of defiance on his face.
Dewayne pulled Bruce back into the kitchen. "You want your hand back?"
The strength had drained from Bruce's arm and hand, and he had given up his endeavor to escape. He nodded his head.
"Then you tell this lady, my wife and your aunt Rosella, that you are sorry.
No one had ever spoken to Bruce in this way. No one had ever confronted him about what was considered unacceptable words or behavior. His role models lay slouched over the living room furniture, boys just a few years his senior who had only provided Bruce with the knowledge and the skills to survive in their hostile, insular world.
This new model had broken into his life; a new model causing physical discomfort and finding no humor in his remark; a new model demanding different behavior, a different mind-set, and a new vocabulary that had never crossed his lips.
Bruce looked from Dewayne to his newfound aunt. "Sorry," he said. He felt the pressure consuming his hand ease, and he quickly withdrew from the giant's grasp.
As he covertly massaged his hand, it occurred to him that this giant was his uncle, but he had no idea what that should mean to him.
"Where's your mother?" Rosella asked, too upset by the combination of the squalid conditions and the treatment from her own relations to accept the apology tortured out of her nephew.
Once she thought she might be confronting her sister and her children, Rosella had kept her expectations low, but the moment Sabrina let them into the apartment, and she beheld the flesh-and-blood family resemblance, an element of hope began to work in her heart that there could be a future with these strangers.
"I told you she's sick;' the girl said. A sour attitude had returned to claim her face and voice.
"I want to see her;' Rosella said. The tone of her voice made it obvious that the only way to get rid of her was to grant her wish.
Sabrina gestured toward one of two closed bedroom doors with a bathroom in between. Rosella blustered past Dewayne and Bruce. Someone turned down the music so the only sound in the apartment was Rosella rapping on the bedroom door.
"Bonita. Bonita, are you in there?" Rosella said. A moan came from behind the door, and Rosella took that as a cue to enter.
Bonita lay stretched out on her filthy bed wearing nothing but a pair of panties and a T-shirt stained with vomit and blood. Beside the bed was a milk crate with a piece of jagged plywood for a tabletop. On it were a lit candle and all the paraphernalia required for shooting heroin into one's veins.
Rosella stormed over to Bonita and began to slap her face in an attempt to make sure she was still alive. Enough disgruntled resistance came from Bonita to assure Rosella she was among the living. Though she never opened her eyes, Bonita began to thrash around, angered by this harsh treatment, until Rosella grabbed the wrist of Bonita's right arm and caressed her hand. This calmed Bonita, and Rosella stretched out her sister's arm and examined the heroin tracks on her skin, their condition ranging from the stale signs of partially healed wounds to the freshest of punctures.
"How long has she been like this?" Rosella asked, but knowing her sister had been like this for years, she clarified her question. "I mean today? She wasn't like this when I saw her earlier. What happened?" The fury in her voice got a quick response.
"She came home this afternoon, said she was gonna take a nap," Sabrina said. She and Bruce stood in the doorway with Dewayne towering above them, taking in the scene.
Dewayne could not help feeling an immediate rush of guilt at the thought that his gift of forty dollars had contributed to Bonita's current state. He watched Rosella fold Bonita's arm over her stomach and tiptoe out the door. He and the kids cleared the way for her to pass, and he followed her to the kitchen. Rosella rummaged through the detritus on the bar counter between the kitchen and the living room, found a pen, and began to write her phone number on a piece of paper. She thrust it into Sabrina's face.
"This is my cell. You call me ... you call me if.. " She could not finish her sentence and walked out the door.
Dewayne took one last look at his niece and nephew and followed his wife out the door. The last words he heard coming from the apartment before he was out of range were, "Girl, cook that ham." It was a command from the boyfriend.
On the way home Dewayne asked if they should go back, if they should call an ambulance, if they should get Bonita to a doctor, get her into drug rehab, do something for the kids. All Rosella could do was shake her head, pausing long enough to wipe the tears from her eyes. Dewayne gave up, laid his hand upon her shoulder, and kept it there the rest of the silent drive home.
Jake Hopper polished the tip of his cue stick with some chalk, blew off the excess, and then eyed the eight ball.
"Corner pocket;" he said, and he bent over the table. It was a gentle shot with the cue ball just grazing the eight ball, sending it on its slow roll that won him the game. The crowd whooped their rebel yells as the losers tossed tens and twenties onto the pool table.
This game advanced Jake to the Rebel Rouser's final four, which would pit him against the owner of the Tiger Mart, a local Springdale gas station. Jesse sat in the second row of bleachers lining the wall in front of the competition table. He would play against one of the Rebel Rouser's own bartenders. The winners of those two games would battle it out for the championship.
Jake gawked at the cash strewn across the green felt. "I'd have quit coaching earlier if I'd known I could make this kind of money;" he said, setting his stick on the table.
He liked looking at all the cash waiting for him to collect, like manna gathered by the children of Israel. He began to ramble around the table, picking up each bill and smoothing it out before stacking it on the table's rail.
Jake glanced over at Jesse, who had paid no attention to Jake's victory lap. Jesse's jittery hand sloshed the booze into the air, and it splashed onto his fingers. His focus was on the two TV sports commentators recapping Sly's final triumphant game of his senior year, a coup for Sly, who had gotten his team into a prominent bowl game and positioned himself as a top contender for the Heisman Trophy and the first pick in the draft come spring.
Jake paused from amassing his money and walked over to Jesse.
"You can't be defined by one moment in your life;' Jake said, but Jesse paid no attention, deaf to any words from anyone other than those coming from the television.
When the show cut to a commercial, Jesse killed off what remained in his glass.
"Go easy on that stuff;" Jake said. "You've still got the bartender to go before you have to face me." He laughed, hoping to make his words not seem like a scold.
"Don't tell me what to do, Coach," Jesse said and slipped out of his seat. "I can beat anyone in this town drunk, stoned, and one arm tied behind me."
Jesse headed toward the bar for a refill, and Jake continued his solemn collection like a church usher. The Rebel Rouser scheduled the pool tournament on the weekend of the last games of the college football season for maximum customer appeal. Jake had entered the competition as a lark
, never expecting to have made it to the final four.
Since his resignation, he had found a new community. Jake had become careless: leaving liquor bottles on top of his desk at school, arriving late to practice, being ill-tempered with students and colleagues alike. All were signs the people in authority could no longer ignore. The student body applauded him in the final school assembly, and the Tigers' athletic director gave him a cheap plaque for his contributions to the football team, which he threw in the Dumpster behind the school along with mounds of other trash his desk had accumulated over the years. He had decided it was time for a fresh start, putting all the past behind him, and he invested his savings into the soon-to-open Hopper's Barbecue. He would put whatever money he might win from this pool tournament into the business.
Jake's thoughts turned to the former Tiger all-star linebacker. True to his word, Jesse had annihilated his opponents, giving them no more than a couple of shots apiece after the opening break. The Rebel Rouser had grown to love Jesse. His fun-loving antics always drew a crowd-Jesse's trick shots and victory dances were hits with the locals-and it never hurt his standing to buy his fans a round of drinks from time to time. But it was discomforting for Jake to watch the former Tiger linebacker put on his show, and those nights when Jesse had drunk himself into a stupor, Jake drove the boy home and put him to bed. On those nights, Jake stayed close to sober.
When Jesse returned from the bar, fresh drink in hand, his entourage, anxious to see the master in action, followed him. At the same time, Dewayne's last game as a Trojan was about to begin. No one begrudged the pauses between shots to watch Dewayne play on the wide screen mounted above them, and when Dewayne took it into the end zone after seven plays, the boisterous reaction resulted in Jesse's missing his first shot.
