Voices From The Other Side

by Brandon Massey

  “Is that what you used at the Seven-Eleven?” Daphane asked.

  “Yeah. That’s how I know.”

  She smiled. “Good.”

  “Have you thought about it?”

  “Yes.”

  She knew that after it was done, she didn’t want to go to jail and she didn’t want to die. Just to be free.

  Daphane pulled some folded papers out of her pockets. “Look. Tell me what you think.”

  “What are these?”

  “Maps. All the back roads are highlighted.”

  She wanted to run away to Canada or maybe try to make it to Mexico. As far as Los Cabos. Then she could start her life over.

  She whispered, “I want you to go with me, Harlem. Would you?”

  I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

  She told me how to get out, where the easy-out doors were, how to make it across the grassy hills unseen. The guards changed shifts at four, eight, and twelve. After midnight, only one guard patrolled inside. One old guy outside. The first five minutes of the shift were used to make rounds and check out the building, making sure everything was locked. They went from east to west on the patrol. If I let them go by, then went west to east, I’d be out in three minutes. They wouldn’t know until sunrise.

  “I’ll be two miles down the road,” she said. “Parked in my Mustang, with my lights off. How long would it take you to get there?”

  “Dunno.” My voice showed excitement from the possibility of my being free. “I haven’t been any farther than this room. I’m stiff. Out of shape. Done put on a few pounds. Maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes.”

  “I’ll wait until twelve thirty-five. Then I’m gone. With or without you.”

  “How am I supposed to get out of this door?”

  “Don’t worry about it. Just be ready.”

  This time Daphane kissed me like she was my woman. It was short, but deep and intense. She wiped the lipstick from my face, then swiped at her mouth, smiled and swayed to the door.

  She winked. “See you on the outside.”

  I sat there, my heart beating fast, a man in love.

  Fourteen

  Iwalked around the room most of the evening. The babbling voices of other patients echoed in the halls. Screams. Curses. I think somebody got unruly and the orderlies had to subdue him or her. My joints were stiffer than I hoped. I stretched for twenty minutes. At eight o’clock, I used the bathroom to lighten my load, then took a nap.

  Fifteen

  Keys rattled, then my door clicked open at eleven fifty-eight. Lights from the hall cast a long shadow across my dark room. The ceiling light clicked on. The Hispanic-looking orderly, what’s-his-face, came in with a cup of water and some pills. I pretended I was asleep until he called my name. I sat up and looked at him. He wasn’t Hispanic. A light-skinned black man with sleepy, slanted eyes. Never even noticed that mutt before. Name tag read “Kevin.”

  He watched to make sure I took my pills, then headed back for the door. Right before he put his hand on the still-cracked door, it hit me. My last medication was at eight. Always at eight. This was how Daphane arranged it. Must’ve changed my charts.

  Before he could get the door opened, I grabbed him from behind. I cupped the back of his head with the palm of my right hand and shoved his head deep into the wall. The wall wasn’t hard enough to crack his cranium, but was sturdy enough to leave him KO’d. Kevin didn’t even have time to scream. He looked so peaceful. Sweet dreams.

  Sixteen

  Two minutes past midnight. Keys jingled when the security guard whistled his way past my door.

  Three minutes past midnight. I headed in the opposite direction of the whistles, and ducked into a closet when I heard an orderly squeaking down the hall. I walked by the nurses’ station. The nurse on duty was so busy yacking and laughing on the phone that I just strolled by like I knew where I was going.

  Four minutes past midnight. Concrete, waxed floors glistened in the moonlight as I crept through a side fire-escape door. One that had a freshly busted alarm. The one Daphane told me about. Down two flights of noisy, metal stairs in a musty, dusty stairwell. At the bottom, the exit door was already cracked open, held open by a thick stick.

  The old security guard was right outside the door, about twenty yards away in my direct route to the fence I had to jump. His head bobbed. He was sleeping, with a Walkman on and a cup of java at his feet. I walked over to him and stood close enough to spit in his eyes. He didn’t wake up. I could hear B. B. King crying from his headset. No cigarettes were in his pocket. Besides, he was old. Probably got a nice family at home waiting. I let him live. After I got over the fence, I looked back. He was still asleep. I waved good-bye to everybody and nobody.

  Seventeen

  Imade it over the grassy hill and to the trees in two minutes. I was already tired. Sweating. Cicadas buzzed their songs in the trees. When I stumbled through a thick patch of mosquitoes, several stuck to my skin. I gagged on a couple that flew into my open mouth and took a tour down my throat. My stiff legs were starting to cramp up. I looked at the sky. The stars were so pretty. Big Dipper. Little Dipper. Star of freedom. Half moon. Planes passed by at different altitudes, going in different directions. My side stitched, but I kept moving. I started wheezing. Asthma was kicking in. It was damn humid tonight. I’d forgotten how humid it got on the outside. Felt like it was over ninety degrees tonight. Damn southern heat. I slowed down, splashed through a few pools of water that smelled like the Mississippi and muddied my bare feet, but I kept moving. My guess was it was about twelve twenty.

  Eighteen

  Twelve forty-five. Police sirens wailed past me, lighting up the streets. An ambulance followed. When I heard them approach, before they rolled up over the hilly road, I ducked back into the trees. When they faded, I took back to the streets and resumed my running-walking. From the woods echoed the love calls of crickets. My body was alive with pain. Sweat dripped into my eyes. Burned. Reminded me of my dreams. My armpits were soaked, shirt sweat-stuck to my back. Plus the medication wasn’t helping. I stopped long enough to put my fingers down my throat and try to bring the poison back out. Didn’t work. With my body temperature up so high, it made me jittery, anxious. I had to be almost three miles up the road and still didn’t see Daphane.

  Nineteen

  Twelve fifty-one. The high beams of a slow-moving car came over the hill, heading the same way I was heading. I ducked back into the woods until I could see it was a faded red ’66 Mustang. It passed by. Daphane. I whistled and waved her down.

  She busted a U-turn without slowing, kicked up pebbles and a dirt cloud on her side before she whipped back to my side. I hopped into the back seat and slid down as deep as I could. No words.

  She burned rubber before the door closed. A helicopter passed over with its spotlight directed into the woods closer to the asylum. Dumb bastards didn’t know I was off the property. The gossiping nurse didn’t see me. The narcoleptic guard probably lied and said he’d been awake the whole night and nobody came out his way.

  Twenty

  We traveled far enough down the road to get that safe, got-away feeling. When I sat up, I felt tiny, sharp objects on the backseat. Glass. I looked around and saw the passenger window was broken out. More glass was splattered across the front seat next to a brick. She handed me the brick, and I dropped it into the backseat.

  “It took me longer because I locked my keys in the car. I tried using a clothes hanger, but it took too long. Guess I panicked. Plus, I didn’t know if you were going to get out, and if you did, I didn’t want to leave you hanging.”

  Daphane was dressed in Levi’s, a black cotton T-shirt and driving gloves. She looked strange, different. Like Daphane, but not like Daphane. Then I realized it was because I’d never seen her in anything but a white uniform. Her hair was down. She looked funny. Maybe not funny, but just normal. Not the sterile way she looked at the crazy house. She looked beautiful. Like a woman.

  My all-white uniform now wa
s muddy, moist and musty. Swamp muck squished between my toes. After it filled itself with my blood, I killed a mosquito on my arm.

  Daphane smiled.

  I asked, “Did you do your husband?”

  “No.” She smirked. “But look.”

  She reached into her purse and handed me a .380 that had the serial numbers filed off it.

  “Your friend said hello.”

  “Good.”

  She handed me the box of hollow points. I loaded the automatic. Six in the clip. One in the chamber.

  “Where’s your husband?”

  “Home. I had sex with him before I snuck out, so he’s sound asleep.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “What’s wrong, Harlem?”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “No.” She frowned. “I just did what I had to do. I didn’t want him suspicious.”

  “I understand.”

  “But I want to make love to you.”

  “For real?”

  “Tonight. Can I? If you don’t mind.”

  “I’d like that.” I blushed. “Yeah.”

  “Lord knows, I can’t wait. But, first we do this. Business before pleasure.”

  “How far to your house?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Good. I’ll do him.”

  “Make it quick. Like you did at Seven-Eleven.”

  “But I want to make a stop first.”

  Twenty-One

  Brewster lived less than six miles up the road. A big, two-story, wooden house with no fence. Just a short, rocky driveway leading from the street to his house. Again, no streetlights. Darkness and solitude.

  My trade-off with Daphane was this: I’d kill her husband, but not until she’d gone away long enough to establish an alibi. I wanted her to drive to a friend’s house and call him. Make sure her friend picked up the phone and heard his voice. I showed her how to pull out the wires to her distributor cap so she’d have car problems. Get the friend to drive her back home. They’d both find the body. Then I’d lay low until she got the insurance money, and we’d meet a few days later.

  But first, I wanted Brewster. Kill him, take a shower, get me some clothes. Money, if he had it lying around. Maybe wash myself down and make love to Daphane in his house.

  Twenty-Two

  Iwalked around outside the house and scouted, making sure he was alone. Brewster was in his study, in his pajamas, looking down over the tops of his wire-rimmed glasses, reading over my files. Ain’t that a bitch. When I rang the doorbell, Daphane stuck her pretty face up to the peephole and smiled.

  Before the door opened good, I was on him. It was funny, because he was so in shock to see me, to see us together, he didn’t even move or make a sound while I put my dirty hands around his fat throat. As I wrung his neck, he fell, kicked and gargled, turned red, then faded. When he croaked, I got on my knees and closed his bugged-out eyes. I hated the way he looked at me. Now he would never look at me again.

  “Harlem,” Daphane said. She sounded disturbed, and that put me off for a moment. I hated for her to see me like this. But this was the plan. Our Bonnie and Clyde scheme. She was in too deep to turn back. I love her, but if she flipped out, I’d have to get rid of her. After we made love a couple of times, of course. I want to be free forever, and dead weight won’t help.

  When I looked up, Daphane was standing over me with the .380 pointed at my face. “So that’s how you do it, eh, Harlem? That easy, huh?”

  “Why you pointing the gun at me?”

  “What did you feel when you killed him?”

  “Daph—”

  “What did you feel? Answer me!”

  “Nothing. Don’t trip. I love you, baby. I told you I was going to do him. You brought me here. I told you I’d kill your husband if you—”

  “You already killed my husband.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. I wanted to make a move to her, but she had me trapped. Her finger was on the trigger. Point-blank range.

  “You killed my husband.”

  I looked down at the man turning cold. “Brewster’s your man?”

  As she softly shook her head, tears rolled down her cheeks, but her face wasn’t crying. She choked on her words, “Seven-Eleven. Cigarettes.”

  “Your husband? The white man?”

  “Yes, my husband. He went to the store for me. That was my fault. This is for him.”

  “I thought your husband beat you?”

  Her face told me the answer. She had set me up.

  A car pulled into the driveway. Its high beams brightened the front room, shined right in my face. I felt relief, because I hoped it might be somebody coming to take me back to my room. The lights died. Seconds later, the doorknob turned and the front door creaked open. Phyllis walked in, dressed just like Daphane. Driving gloves. Nobody wore driving gloves in this kinda heat. They had them on so no fingerprints would be left behind.

  I could hear the sounds of a car that needed a tune-up real bad—maybe some new fuel injectors—chugging out front. I slyly looked around and tried to find an out. Too far from a window. Nowhere to dive for cover. Nothing around me to pick up and throw. I glanced back down at blue-faced Brewster before I scowled up at the tag team. We’d both been had.

  Daphane kept her distance, and her eyes on me, as she handed the gun to a grinning Phyllis. Daphane looked like she was in so much pain.

  “I can’t kill you, Harlem,” Daphane said, and wiped her face. “If I shot you and I felt nothing, I’d be just like you. Nothing. But I can watch you die.”

  I grimaced at stone-faced Phyllis. She tilted the gun and held it sideways like the hoodlums did in the hood movies.

  Phyllis said, “I guess you ain’t got nothing to say now, huh? What’s all that smack you said about me? Atrocious. Canker. C’mon, Ronnie, say something. Ronnie Certifiable.”

  “My name is Harlem!”

  “Ronnieronnieronnieronnieronnieronnieronnie!”

  “Harlem! H-A-R-L-E-M!”

  My adrenaline rushed, clogged my head with memories of Ronnie, and before I knew it, I charged at Phyllis. Daphane screamed. Her legs collapsed, and she fell hard to the floor and shrieked, just as I got close enough to grab at the gun. Phyllis didn’t even blink. Not the slightest jerk. She broadened her smile. Her finger tensed and pulled the trigger.

  Twenty-Three

  People used to call me Harlem.

  When they found my body, and the gun inside Brewster’s hand, they couldn’t figure out how, but they said we killed each other. Somehow, they figured, he’d emptied the clip, but I killed him before I died. They said it was possible, because I was crazy. Some sort of psycho strength and determination. I don’t think they really cared.

  Oh, the Mustang was Brewster’s, too. Daphane stole it right before she picked me up. Easy. She had taken Brewster’s keys out of his office and had them duplicated. She broke out the window and handed me the smutty brick to get my prints on it. She had planned to kill me in the car later. But since I had this passion for Brewster and insisted on a detour, I made it easier for her. Gila Face was trailing us the whole time with her lights off.

  Cops figured I was going to use Brewster’s car for a getaway. Said that maybe after I had broken out the window, Brewster heard the noise, grabbed the gun and came to the door. That was when I went after him and the struggle began. After they saw the gun was a throwaway, they figured that maybe Brewster took it from me while we fought.

  I made the front page.

  Fifteen more minutes of fame.

  Good profile.

  Should’ve been an actor.

  Or model or something.

  What was that? Where’s Daphane at? Standing over her husband’s grave, crying, smiling and laughing while she smoked a Kool down to the filter. If you asked me, I think she was already crazy. Because when Phyllis shot me, Daphane felt nothing. After all we shared, after all the love I had for her, she felt less than zero. Seven shots. Nothing. She didn�
��t even twitch while I twitched. That shit hurt, both physically and psychologically.

  Daphane built a shrine for her husband in her bedroom. Kept that door locked, and nobody went in there but her. Pictures were everywhere. Newspaper clippings from when he died. She wore his clothes, sometimes put on her wedding dress, played Nat King Cole, danced and talked to him and heard him answer. She was a New York minute from a total breakdown.

  When Phyllis heard me die, when I wheezed out my last breath, she jumped up and down in joy and danced the butterfly over my bleeding chest.

  Didn’t matter; she was still ugly.

  And she couldn’t dance, either.

  Breath of Life

  Lawana Holland-Moore

  1858, Futa Toro, Senegambia

  Forward is the only way, and it is often without a clear path, Oumar thought as he smoothed out a small piece of paper. He was focused as he wrote an inscription upon it, his script careful and deliberate. He carefully folded the paper before gently tucking it into a small brown leather pouch. After saying a prayer over the pouch, he handed it to the woman who sat across from him, her eyes downcast in a face that was worried and drawn.

  “You have suffered so much already. This should help you,” he said as she started to thank him profusely. “Allah be with you.” The woman’s dark brown hands were shaking as she quickly tied the pouch around her waist and hurried out.