The Deviant

by Tiana Laveen

  He hummed the lyrics, rocking back and forth to quiet his thoughts, captured within the sound of his mind. His clothing stuck to his body, so clammy was his skin. Closing his eyes, he imagined the scent of fresh paint. His sense of time was lost since he’d barely had any sleep and there was no window to let him see the sun rise or the moon fall. He’d made one phone call to Shane upon his arrival, asking him to make several calls and send text messages on his behalf. He wanted his boss notified, as well as the guy he was supposed to meet in Brooklyn regarding a shirt design he’d been commissioned for. Then, of course, there was Suri.

  Suri…

  That was when he had to come clean. King had no idea that he’d entered into an undefined realm of romance, especially since he’d been so adamant about not getting into a relationship. He’d meant it when he said that, but it seemed his heart had other plans. Oddly enough, neither he nor Suri referred to what they had expressly as a relationship, but they both understood that’s what it was. King couldn’t recall ever asking a woman for exclusivity; it would just sort of happen, or be implied. Still, he’d planned to broach the topic with Suri that evening over dinner, and make his intentions clear with no gray area.

  He wanted her all to himself. He couldn’t share her, and he knew that if he didn’t spell it out, the door would quite possibly be left open. Mistakes would be made. Jealousy would be sparked, and regret definitely felt. Now, that dinner date simply wouldn’t be happening and he had a hefty situation at his feet that would not, and could not, be swept under the rug. King stretched his legs and groaned. I blame you for this, Tomas. I blame you, and you alone. I should’ve let you choke on that bone when we were kids. Maybe now, everyone would be better off for it.

  The dark thought came and went like a taxi cab flying down the street. Another man in an adjoining cell was snoring so loud, the sound vibrated through his chest like heavy bass music. The guy was knocked out after a long night of drugging and drinking. He’d spent the first hour after King arrived cursing and screaming in both Spanish and English, until he wore his voice out. The snoring went on and on like a buzzing saw.

  Meanwhile, he continued to fight the darkness within him, but he was losing.

  The yearning for vengeance repeated like heartburn. It came knocking at his cerebral door time and time again. Wistfulness consumed him, then beams of life, light, and hope peeped through his mental clouds as the thought of Tomas being incapacitated for months played out like a movie in his mind. I want him to hurt… hurt so badly. King felt no fear though, just like when he’d wrestled the man to the ground in the subway. He only felt anger. It burned him up, leaving nothing but ash.

  Minutes, perhaps hours, passed, he wasn’t certain how long. At last, two guards approached his cell. They said some things to him in a mumbled, monotone voice. It was like two men sharing the same set of vocal chords. So strange. As he snapped out of his groggy state, he realized that one was actually quite loud. He seemed to be barking out commands—his sentences short and pointed. He was a short, stubby man, probably suffering from a Napoleon complex as far as King was concerned, but he didn’t hear all the bastard was saying anyway.

  He didn’t care. All he paid attention to was the fact the jail cell door was opening before him, and he was being escorted out. When he was ushered into the lobby area close to where he’d been booked, an officer rattled off some information to him, returned his coat, and told him to have a seat on a wooden chair until he came right back with the rest of his things. When he sat down, King’s ass ached against the hard surface. Squirming and leaning to the side, he waited, feeling beyond exhausted and yet somehow amped up at the same damn time. Moments later, the same guard approached and handed him his cellphone and wallet, then told him that his stepfather had called and was on his way.

  He looked at his phone, hoping it still had a charge. It didn’t have much, but enough to make a quick phone call or two. He called his mother to see if she was okay. He wasn’t certain she’d answer after what had happened became clearer and clearer in his mind…

  I really messed my brother up. I tried to rip him apart…

  The blood… so much blood…

  Years and years of pain…

  “King,” she answered, her voice shaky.

  “Mãe…” She was quiet for a spell, then burst out crying. “Mãe, are you all right?”

  “Yes. Are you okay, King?”

  “Sim.” She was quiet again, and he wasn’t certain if she was waiting for him to ask about Tomas. If she were, she’d soon discover that he wasn’t.

  “Chris just left the house to get you. He’s been calling there all morning to arrange your release. He managed to talk to the right person and pulled a favor.”

  “Thank you, I know. I’m here waiting.”

  “King, things are bad. Tomas is in the hospital. His eyes are swollen shut. Lip busted. A tooth fractured. Ribs cracked. Bruises all over his body. Angry. He wants to press charges against you. I told him no. Vocês são irmãos. Isto não deveria ter acontecido.”

  “I know it shouldn’t have happened, but it was a long time coming, Mãe. You know this… you know what he did and continued to do. I warned him. This was the final straw.” He heard her swallow.

  “I know… I know… but this is bad. King, he will not listen to me. It kills me.” She began to sob. “All my fault… I should not have called you yesterday about Tomas. I shouldn’t have involved you. He hates you. He’s jealous. He’s intimidated by you, but you’re the only one he fears and I was desperate. It’s the drugs, King. He needs help!”

  “It’s not just the drugs. He needed help before the drugs. He was disrespectful before the cocaine and heroin. They just made it worse. If he wants to press charges, let him. He’s in far more trouble than me, and I couldn’t give a fuck about spending the night in jail if it’ll mean he’ll go away. This is it! I’m done with Tomas. Blood or no blood, we’re finished. Forever.” As he yelled, he remembered where he was, catching the attention of several officers who shot him glares.

  “I am going to the hospital soon. He’s sober now.” I bet the fuck he is. An ass whoopin’ has a way of doing that. “I want to speak to him about treatment. I… I’m sorry, King.”

  “Does Lucas know what happened now?” He was hoping she’d clued him in as to what had transpired. He, too, had been Tomas’ victim from time to time.

  “Yes. He’s very upset. Not with you… just with everything.”

  “Where’s Chris’ car, Mãe? Did Tomas say?”

  “Tomas said he isn’t sure. Doesn’t remember much from that night because he was high.”

  “He’s lying. Tomas hasn’t told the truth since he learned to walk and talk. He knows exactly where it is. He either sold it for drugs or he wrecked it.”

  “It’s just a car, baby. It’s replaceable. You’re not. Tomas is not.”

  He drew quiet for a moment. Mom didn’t understand; it was more than a car. It was the vehicle Chris had used to teach him how to drive. The same car Chris had driven him in to the ice cream parlor and the movie theater to cheer him up when his peewee baseball team lost. He used to climb in that car and listen to the radio, pretend to drive it all over the country. He loved that car, the beauty of it. The smell, the feel. Now, he had another more recent fond memory in that car, driving around Queens on his date with Suri. It was in that damn car that he realized he was falling for her. It was in that car that he made up his mind he wanted her. It was in that car that she became more than just a lover. She became his friend. Someone he could trust.

  “King, are you okay? I need to know you’re okay.”

  “I’ve probably lost my job over this. I was supposed to be at work right now.” He raked his fingers through his disheveled hair. “I need a shower. I had a lot to take care of today. That’s ruined, but I’ll manage. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Come to my home. Everything is clean here. Lucas has some jeans here, and a few shirts, too. I will cook for you. Come.
Please.”

  “Mãe, I just want to go to my own apartment and be alone. I need a minute.” He spoke to her a while longer, then Chris burst through the doors, his gray trench coat swaying with each quick-footed step he took. “Mãe, Chris is here. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “OK. Eu te amo.”

  “I love you, too.”

  He disconnected the call and Chris gave him a hearty hug.

  “King, how are you holding up? It’s been a bad night for all of us.”

  “I’m okay. Tired.”

  “Come on. Where do you need me to take you?” They began to walk side by side towards the exit.

  “To my apartment. Did you Uber over here?”

  “No. I drove. Borrowed Angelo’s car.”

  Angelo was an old neighbor, a widowed man who always kept his Toyota Corolla spotless. Chris often helped him around his house with small repairs, brought his paper in, and helped shovel his stoop when the snow hit. He even helped him fill out medical forms, with his taxes, and things of that nature. As they stepped outside, out the corner of his eye he noticed a tall, broad-shouldered man with a hoodie pulled halfway down his face.

  “King,” the man called out, his voice similar to his own.

  King stopped walking and stared at his dad, a towering, New Yorker Irishman with dark reddish-brown hair, ghostly white skin, piercing blue eyes and a snarl. The man looked downright pissed. A slight beard and mustache covered the lower half of his face, which he must’ve just begun growing out again after months of being clean shaven.

  “Hello, Brian,” Chris stated, standing a bit taller. He extended his hand for a shake, but King’s father looked at it as if it were an infectious disease and left him hanging. “We were just on our way to King’s apartment. I was going to drop him off.”

  Dad’s jaw tightened as he snatched the hood off his head, exposing short waves with a bit of silver at the temples.

  “Doc, with all due Doogie Howser, fuckin’ M.D. respect, you don’t know shit about jail and court. And you don’t know shit about my son. I need a word with King. Alone. I’ve got this.”

  “Dad, it’s fine.” King grimaced, standing between them. “I’ll just go with Chris. He drove all the way here and you can feel free to—”

  “I just paid a shitload of money to get over here. Do you have any fuckin’ idea how much it costs to get from Queens to Harlem in morning rush hour traffic? I got financially fucked by Uber, and the driver didn’t even offer me coffee and a danish first. My car is in the fuckin’ shop. Alternator.” Dad shrugged, beating him to the punch for his next question. “Anyway, I wouldn’t even have had to be here if it wasn’t for that dope head boy of yours, Chris. He’s a grown ass, fuckin’ spoiled brat. If you had kicked his ass years ago, my son wouldn’t have had to!”

  “Dad, stop.”

  “No, I’m not stopping shit, King. It’s the truth! He did this shit, caused the whole mess.” Dad pointed an accusing finger at Chris. “Tomas, the waste of air, has been tryna ruin King’s life for years!”

  “Brian, now you know that’s just ridiculous!” Chris grimaced.

  “About as ridiculous as saying the sky is blue. So the last thing that you or anyone else in that damn house need to be doin’ is trying to come to the rescue now. Help King out. It’s too late! Where were ya when he stole King’s money for his school books?! Where were ya when he pulled out a knife on my kid a few years ago, after being high off his ass, and King did nothin’ because he didn’t want Tomas to go to jail since he was already in the system? And now, my fuckin’ extremely talented ass son, who graduated high school with honors and made it into one of the top fuckin’ art schools in the whole fuckin’ country, has got a record for tryna help his mom out when it was YOU and HER that shoulda stuck your foot so far up his crackhead ass he’d be sniffin’ shoe polish for the rest of his life! Wow! How the tables have turned! You help? No thanks, Chris! You’ve done enough.”

  Chris sucked his teeth and turned away for a moment, clearly biting his tongue.

  “How’d you even know I got arrested?” King questioned, his adrenaline pumped. Dad was fisting and unfisting his palm while Chris looked about ready to burst.

  “Your friend Shane called me.” Shit. I didn’t tell him to call Dad, too. He must’ve misunderstood me. “So as I was saying, Chris, thanks for pickin’ King up but if it wasn’t for you and Cassandra and that fucked up kid of yours, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Brian, fine. As usual, this is your go-to method for dealing with conflicts, cursing and violence, but I’m not going to engage with you and do this crap out here. Think whatever you want, but this isn’t the time to make things personal. We both are here to help King, so let’s stay focused. Besides, King is grown, not a little boy. He is not someone for us to fight over in the middle of the street. You can’t relive years that have already gone past, so let’s just make the best of this.”

  “Make the best of this? My fuckin’ son spent the night in jail!”

  “Do I have a say in this?” King was certain neither of the men heard him. “Just stop it. Dad, I will—”

  Chris visibly sniffed the air. “Have you been drinking, Brian?”

  Dad pulled King’s shoulder towards him, fire in his eyes.

  “No. That’s your mother’s pussy on my breath, you piece of shit. I haven’t had any alcohol in years, fuck face, and you know it. Go to the hospital and tend to your weak ass offspring. Like father, like son. Leave us alone. I’ll take it from here…”

  Things had turned sour fast.

  King had just taken a shower and now sat with his father in his apartment. One lamp was on and a pot of fresh coffee awaited them, though he had no taste for it.

  Adjusting the black towel around his waist, he crossed his arms and swallowed curses. His eyes hooded as he flirted with sleep, but then the reality of his situation jolted him awake.

  “You’re still angry with me?” Dad questioned as he smashed his cigarette in an ashtray and turned off his television.

  “You’ve made things worse. I’m beyond tired. I don’t need this shit. I had a horrible night. I’ve got a court date comin’ up, Chris had to get me out of jail, and now I’m probably unemployed again and some shit I was trying to get off the ground is probably over before it even started. I didn’t need you to cause a scene like that. You know I’m upset and trying to get my mind around this. I only came with you so that things wouldn’t get worse. Chris didn’t deserve what you said to him. Tomas is fucked up because of Tomas’ choices. He’s an adult. He wasn’t deprived of basic necessities. He was given love and affection. He was encouraged. He decided to be a loser. A bum. Not because of anything Mom or Chris did. Even if he were spoiled, that wasn’t an excuse to grow up and become the family piranha.”

  “You’re not a father. You don’t understand, King. If he had—”

  “In that case, I should be a drug addict, too.” They stared hard at one another. “I could blame my issues on you and Mom, right? On the divorce. On all sorts of shit.” Dad’s eyes darkened, and he turned away. “I’m sick and tired of the beef you have with Chris coming between us. He hasn’t done anything to you.” His head throbbed. “I should’ve just walked away when you started going off. Next time something like that happens, I will.”

  Dad fell back on the couch, as if defeated. He looked around the apartment, then paused at the sight of something. King turned around to see what the guy was looking at.

  “Who is that?”

  “A woman.”

  “I know that,” he said with an attitude as he got to his feet and approached the painting. “Is it someone you actually know?” Dad snatched the painting, which leaned against two others that leaned against the wall.

  “It’s the ‘probably over before it even got started.’”

  They both looked into Suri’s big dark brown eyes…

  “Your girlfriend? Maybe an ex-girlfriend I mean?” Dad held the picture up with both hands, then brou
ght it back down to eye level. King shrugged and turned away. Flashes of the blood running down the shower drain popped back into his mind. Dried blood had been all over him, in places he hadn’t even noticed.

  Red paint.

  “We’re just… I don’t know. I’m feelin’ her, she’s feelin’ me. I was supposed to take her out tonight but that’s not going to happen. I haven’t spoken to her since yesterday afternoon.”

  “Why not?” Dad put the painting back down and returned to his seat.

  “Because things are fucked up. I might say something that… shit, it doesn’t even matter.”

  “You really care about this lady, don’t you?” Dad clasped his hands.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s not like you to care about what anyone thinks, or to watch what you say.” He chuckled and lit a fresh cigarette. “Have you fucked her yet?”

  “Don’t do that shit.”

  His father laughed hard and slapped his leg. Uncouth.

  “Shit, it’s just a question. You’ve definitely fucked her though. I can tell by the way you responded.” King stared at the window. It seemed bleak on the other side. “You paint so well, I know that is exactly how she looks. Beautiful, black beauty, huh? My son likes the soul sistas, too. You always get pretty women. Just like your old man,” he teased, a big smile on his face. “She’s a sight. You even painted some moles and shit on her face. Looks like a snapshot. She’s pretty, King.”

  “I know.” King sighed and closed his eyes. “She hasn’t seen the painting.”

  Dad was quiet for a spell, then said, “It’s good, so why not?”

  “Because it’s mine. It’s private. Not only that, it still needs some work. The ears are a little off.”

  “The forever perfectionist.” Dad laughed dismally. “That’s always been your problem. Always wanting everything to be perfect. Your fuckin’ standards are too high. You expect everyone else to be perfect around you, too. Judgmental prick.” Dad sneered, then burst out laughing.