The Violent Child

by Michael Sheridan

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “C’mere, Lorraine. Let me hold you.”

  “Not likely.”

  “I was just telling true.”

  “That and a nickel’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

  “I don’t want no coffee. But you can have my nickel anyhow.”

  “Don’t want your damn nickel.”

  “You can have all my nickels, you want ‘em.”

  “You and your damn nickels.”

  “I love you and your Teddie. I’d do anything for you and your Teddie.” A rustle of covers. “I love you, Lorraine.”

  The long softness of a kiss.

  “God help us,” Lorraine whispered.

  “Not likely,” Trudy said.

  TEN

  I turn off the radio, clean out the coffee pot, put away the bucket and the mop. The table top and appliances gleam in the bright fluorescent light, the walls and floor reek of Lysol and Spic-and-Span. I crack the window above the sink and walk to the living room, sit on the carpet at Lorraine’s feet.

  She sits propped in her chair, spine meticulously straight, a fragile old bird perched upon her throne: eagle-headed pharaoh with arms outstretched on the rests, feet upon a stool, her face tilted slightly upward in the flickering pastels of the all-night movie. The television screen is filled to its edges with the images of a dark, handsome man and a blond, slinky woman in a clinging satin gown; the colorized light of their faces plays upon Lorraine’s robe, soft and warm. I watch as the lovers crush against one another, his hands gripping her shoulders, their lips inches apart. He speaks. She speaks. Lips move urgently … nothing intelligible.

  The bones of the man’s face are strong and straight, his jaw wide and square; slick black wings of hair are lacquered about his ears and razored perfectly at the back of his thick, manly neck. His fedora is cocked to one side, and there is a greedy, masculine power in the way he holds her. He is unwavering and assured, ultimately potent, infinitely capable in the courting and the consummation. Yet, there is something in the way that his lips part and quiver, something moist about the eyes, which contradicts his world-worn, tough-guy demeanor: there is a flush of tenderness which accompanies his intensity. A vulnerability at the core of his steely, masculine heart. There is something which seems to say that his true nature, when wakened by the love of the right woman, is generous and kind. That he is the keeper of the slow, sweet caress—lover, husband, father of children. And, now, he looks into the woman’s eyes with a fire that says she is that right woman. She and no other. His every inflection, every nuance of expression is alive with urgency and desire. He will allow nothing to keep them apart, not even this terrible movie circumstance which would overwhelm a lesser, more ordinary love.

  “The whatever-it-is this guy’s got,” Lorraine would say if she were watching, “your dad had it in spades. Him and your dad must’ve crawled out from under the same rock.”

  The woman is frightened, overrun by doubt and confusion. Her eyes are wet with brave tears, they glisten with the heat of futile protestation. The delicious curves of her cheeks and lips radiate an airbrushed aura of all-consuming love. Has she not struggled in vain to sabotage his inexorable pursuit, to deny her own passion, her yearning to surrender to the safety of his powerful arms? Yes, she has heard the rumors of his unsavory character—the scandals, the deceit, the trail of innocent, brokenhearted women. She has even witnessed what she believed was his arrogant, maddeningly insensitive behavior to her own fragile condition. But, now, she has discovered, quite by accident, that he is the selfless, rough-and-tumble defender of orphans and widows. That he secretly uses his ill-gotten gains to bankroll a children’s hospital. Could it be, then, that his words of love are true? That he has been misjudged and misused by the same world which has frustrated her own quest for happiness at every turn? Dare she risk all, defy history and common sense, surrender herself utterly?

  “Get your butt outta there, honey!” Lorraine would shout. “Hit the sidewalk runnin’ and don’t let the screen door hit your butt on the way out! Take it from me, this guy’s misery waitin’ to happen!”

  The screen winks and stutters through a succession of camera angles, of various shots of the two posing and emoting. Finally, the man gathers the woman upward, pulling her onto her toes, bending her backward and kissing her savagely. Then ten- derly. So very tenderly. The woman fights, at first, thrashing madly, pummeling the man with her fists. Suddenly, and for no apparent reason other than tenderness, she sags against him and locks her arms about his neck. She returns his kisses with abandon. Even with the volume turned low, I can hear the saccharine, melancholic strains of violins.

  “Now, there’s a crock,” Lorraine would say. “How’s come they never show what happens to the poor woman after the ‘I do’? They showed more a what happened after the ‘I do’, there’d be a hell of a lot more ‘I don’t’ in this ol’ world.”

  But, Lorraine would also insist that we watch the movie until its conclusion. Or, at least, until the cutaway to the ringing bells and the first strains of the Wedding March.

  Sitting here beside Lorraine, now, watching her sleep after our torrent of words, I wonder why it is that what love is left to us seems to thrive in an absence of speaking. How it is that silence nurtures us in a way that a thunderous ocean of dialogue cannot? This is brutal speculation for a man who has taught English 121 for twenty years. Who has lived his life having realized little more of intimacy than the words which pretend to it.

  There is a banging at the door. Three powerful knocks, not sharp, as though the blows were delivered by a fist gloved in leather. I walk to the door and release the bolts, open the door the length of the chain.

  It is Claudell.

  “Yo,” he says.

  I unhook the chain and open the door wide.

  “‘S’up? You gonna be all night?”

  Claudell’s eyes are murky, bloodshot; his drawn, haggard face seems yellow in the hall light. He purses his lips again and again, clenching and unclenching his fists. His nose is running heavily, and he wipes at it with the back of his glove. His head moves rhythmically, as though he listens to some music unavailable to me.

  I put a finger to my lips and step into the hall. I point with my thumb back into the apartment and pull the door closed behind me.

  “Finally got her down for the night,” I whisper.

  “Don’t mess with that,” he says.

  “You got it.”

  “Mean-ass old white woman.”

  “Beat our butts like a stepchild.”

  Claudell laughs, wheezing. “Whip it ‘til it bleeds.” He meets my eyes, and, for the briefest moment, there is kindness. “Nobody mess with your mamma. Nobody mess with nobody got the Mojo Six Project behind ‘em.”

  “Right on, brother.” I make a fist, offering to clash it against Claudell’s.

  “Ol’ man,” Claudell says, looking at my upraised fist as if he has never seen one before, “don’t be talkin’ that ‘brother’ shit.” I have violated an unspoken boundary, and the kindness leaves Claudell’s eyes as quickly as it has come. He shakes his head and looks down, his voice filled with disgust.

  “Sound like them ol’ nigger-Tom’s hangin’ down to the barber shop. ‘Brother’ this, and ‘brother’ that. Man, that shit’s weak.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I ain’t got time for none a that ‘brother’ shit.” Claudell looks up, blinking until his eyes clear slightly, then he steps closer. His breath stinks of fortified wine. “My mamma didn’t have no white babies. You down wit’ that? You ain’t got no ‘brothers’ ‘round here.”

  I shrug.

  “That shit’s weak,” he says.

  I nod.

  He taps his watch. “You on overtime, boy. You be ten minutes on overtime.” He holds out his hand. “Get it up.”

  “My wallet’s in my jacket. I’ll be heading out in a couple of minutes. If it’s alright with you, I’ll even up when I come out.” I turn to
ward the door.

  Claudell closes the space between us and grasps the back of my overalls. He scowls.

  “Don’t mess me around, ol’ man. You don’t never want to be messin’ me around.”

  I turn to face him, but he does not loosen his grip on my overalls. I look down at his one hand where it clutches the material, then at the other as he digs it deeper into his jacket pocket. I look back into his eyes. “You’re the man.”

  “Damn straight,” he says, but he releases me. He watches my hand disappear behind my back as I tuck in my shirt.

  I reach into my pocket and remove my keys. I hold them in front of me, tossing them in the air.

  “Why don’t you warm ‘er up? I’ll be out in a couple of minutes. You’ve got overtime coming. Hell, you’re on overtime, no question.”

  He looks at the keys and tries not to appear pleased.

  “Damn straight.” He snatches the keys, flips them up, catches them behind his back. “Just don’t be messin’ me around.”

  “Just don’t boost my truck, man,” I answer.

  Claudell smiles.

  “That ugly, honky-ass, redneck truck? What for I want some butt-ugly truck?”

  He turns and walks down the hall to the door, swaggering, tossing the keys from hand to hand.

  “You on overtime, Home!” he yells as he opens the front door. Without turning, he wags an empty hand behind him. “You got to be strokin’ heavy, you kick into overtime!”

  I step back into Lorraine’s apartment, but leave the door open behind me. Lorraine has slipped down in her chair, and her head has fallen to the side. She looks uncomfortable and is snoring loudly; small bubbles work at the corner of her mouth. I kneel beside her and boost her up so that her head falls back to the place where it is easier for her to breathe. She is all bone, light as a sack of potatoes.

  She slaps at my hands.

  “Dammit,” she whispers. “Don’t, now, dammit.”

  I empty her ashtray, move her TV tray close to her elbow, slide her lighter inside the cellophane wrapper of her Pall Malls and place them in the ashtray. I walk to the closet and put on my coat, ball cap, and gloves. Standing before the mirror, I push my steamy glasses back up on my nose. The TV light swirls blue and pink on the beveled edge of the mirror, and I inspect my image as I listen to the whispery, ragged rhythms of an old woman breathing. I am pleased that I appear heavier in the coat, that the gloves seem to thicken my fists. I pull the ball cap low, attempting to cover my grey, hoping these details will provide some currency once I am in the street.

  I have purchased a momentary grace from Claudell and underlined it with a demonstration of trust by giving him the truck keys. But, I am aware that it is late, and this grace is temporary, whimsical, and running thin. Occasionally, there are older, more aggressive young men with which Claudell has neither the strength nor inclination to interfere should I have the misfortune of a confrontation. I am not comforted by my size and experience; these days, there are wildlings younger than Claudell who carry guns.

  I take a twenty and two five-dollar bills out of my wallet, lock up after myself, plunge my hands into my coat pockets, and shuffle out through the front door of the building and into the street.

  Claudell is sitting in the driver’s seat of the truck, racing the engine. His window is rolled down and gangster music rattles the cab and throbs on the cold air. As I approach the window and lean down, warm air and the smell of sex rises in my face.

  Robert and Bernice are sitting on the passenger side, Bernice on Robert’s lap, both facing forward. Robert’s pants are around his ankles, Bernice’s dress is pulled up around her hips. The boom box is placed between Claudell and the couple, and, as I peer inside, Claudell smiles and turns down the volume.

  Robert stirs; Bernice coughs and moans. Claudell punches off the heater.

  “Kick-butt heater.” He pats the dash appreciatively.

  “I’m out of here,” I say.

  Claudell holds his hand out the window. “You got me somethin’? I think you got me somethin’.”

  I hand him two fives.

  He scowls. “What’s this bullshit?”

  I hold up a folded twenty, and he plucks it from my fingers. “You oughtn’t to fuck with me.”

  “Thanks for staying late. Lorraine’s not doing so …”

  “Ain’t for you, grey boy. Wouldn’t piss on your ass it was on fire. My sister says for me to on account of your mamma, but I’d do it for your mamma anyways. Free for your mamma, but you, you gonna throw me tens ‘til it break your fuckin’ heart.”

  I open the door, and it creaks as I swing it wide. “Work tomorrow,” I say. “Got to get down the road.”

  Claudell makes no move to get out. He turns up the bass on the box and looks into my eyes. He smiles and bobs his head in time with the music. He raises his fist and holds it under his chin; his face twists oddly, and he makes the slightest feint in my direction. When I step back, he laughs. Without taking his eyes from me, Claudell swings his fist in the opposite direction and hits Bernice on the shoulder. There is the solid thud of bone on flesh.

  “Fucker!” Bernice says.

  “Come on, Robert. Get your silly dick out’n the bitch. We ‘bout to fire up some overtime.”

  Robert locks his arms around Bernice’s waist and buries his forehead into her back. He grinds his pelvis against her buttocks, and she cries out, slapping at his arms.

  “Don’t you, Robert!” she says. “You had yours!”

  Claudell laughs and grasps Robert’s wrist, pulling it away from Bernice. He wrenches hard and pins it against the seat, but Robert continues to hold the struggling girl with one arm and thrust with his hips. Claudell cuffs Robert on the side of the head, but Robert digs his head lower and continues to grind. Bernice finally twists herself free, opens the door, and slides out onto the street. She lands heavily, on her hands and knees.

  Robert is naked from his waist to his ankles, his knees flopped wide apart. His face is heavy with sleep, and a soft, caramel-colored erection lays upon his thigh. His words are languid, inaudible over the heavy bass. I read his lips.

  “Love you, baby.” He puckers and makes kissing sounds toward the roof of the cab. “Baby, baby, baby.”

  Claudell thumps him on the chest.

  “Get them pants up, Home. We got to hit Fifteenth ‘fore they put up the door.”

  “Yeah,” Robert says and takes his penis in both hands.

  When Bernice manages to get to her feet, she reaches into the cab and punches Robert on the ear.

  “Mess with me!” she says.

  Robert waves his hand before his ear as if warding off a mosquito. He smiles and makes kissing sounds. Bernice straightens her dress and walks away, weaving down the middle of the street.

  Claudell thumps Robert again, this time with greater force.

  “I’m talkin’ to you, nigger!”

  Robert scratches his nose and reaches for his pants.

  “S’up, man?” he says. “S’up, ‘Dell?”

  Claudell looks at me over his shoulder.

  “Boy’s crazy for the booty,” he grins. He pushes Robert, and Robert nearly falls out the open door. “Ain’t that right, fool? You crazy for the booty?”

  Robert turns toward us, his face soft, angelic. He nods slowly, rubs himself between the legs.

  “Got’s to have it,” he says.

  Claudell looks at me and shakes his head, raises his eyebrows.

  “Stone cold booty-man.” He shrugs. “Ain’t my thing. Gimme some big ol’, bad-ass titties standin’ high and proud.” He cups his hands in front of his chest, as if he were holding something large and heavy, and shimmies his shoulders, rocking slowly. “That’s the real thang, baby, uh-huh, uh-huh.” He looks down at his watch.

  “Yo, yo. All that overtime got us runnin’ behind. Whyn’t you drop us by Fifteenth on your way out the nasty ol’ ghetto?”

  I pretend to think it over.

  “Fifteenth and what?�
��

  “Magoon. You know Magoon?”

  “I know it.”

  Claudell cocks his head and sneers. “What’s it gonna be? You gonna chump-out, ‘brother’?”

  It is about a mile to Magoon and Fifteenth. I drop Claudell and Robert at the curb in front of a sagging clapboard house which sits on the alley at the back of the lot. Except for a strip of light along the edge of a curtained upstairs window, the house is dark; the yard has been trampled to hardpan, the bottom floor windows are boarded shut. The front door has been bolted with metal plate.

  The streetlight next to the curb has been broken out, and a boy, twelve or thirteen, leans against the pole with one foot hooked behind him, one hand at the beeper on his belt. He is talking on a cellular phone.

  The boy comes away from the pole when the truck pulls up to the curb, lowers the phone, and stands erect when he sees me behind the wheel. Claudell is in the middle of the seat, and he leans over Robert. He rolls down the window and hangs his head outside the truck so the boy can see him, calling out,

  “Yo, Bug! S’up?”

  Bug relaxes, moves cautiously to the truck door, fixes me with a convict stare.

  “’Dell,” Bug says. He takes a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, offers one to Claudell, takes one for himself. He lights both cigarettes with the snap of an expensive gold lighter, never taking his eyes from my face.

  Bug lifts his chin in my direction, holding the cigarette between his teeth and wiggling it. “What you got?” he asks.

  Claudell looks at me for a moment.

  “Some fool white man.” The set of his face and the tones of his voice are empty of all respect. His words thicken with the slurred idiom of the ghetto.

  “Fool call me ‘bra’, Bug.”

  “Shi-i-t,” Bug says.

  Claudell nods. “Man call me ‘bra’, an’ ain’t got sense call his own mamma, ‘Mamma’.”

  “Yeah?” Bug laughs. “Say wha’?”