by Tiana Laveen
As she spoke, time slowed down to a crawling pace. Seconds demanded to be minutes. Minutes to be recognized as hours. He floated in some space that transcended all rules of time.
“I couldn’t explain it then. I can barely explain it now.” She lifted her head, her palms upturned in entreaty, “but I didn’t leave you kids, Gutter. I left your father.”
“When you pack your bags and walk out a door and don’t take your children or even communicate with them afterwards, that’s leaving your children. Don’t do this. Don’t try to rearrange the pieces, to make ’em fit your fucked up narrative.”
“I’m not. I’m trying… I’m trying to explain my thought process and why I…” She winced as if in pain. Closing her eyes, she ran her fingers across her forehead. “Look. This is a conversation we should’ve had years ago. I’m sorry for not doing things better. I know how shitty things ended up. I tried though, Zake. The fact of the matter was, your father was the better parent, so I didn’t fight to get you. I knew you were better off with him… but I wasn’t.”
“Good to know that your needs came first, Jenny.” He dragged the book across the table and roughly opened it. Page after page showcased articles, black and white photographs from computer print-offs and xerox copies of his career achievements. There were even some local flyers he’d long forgotten about, the kind stapled to a street pole near those for missing dogs and cheap violin lessons. On another page was a collage of transcripts from in-person interviews he’d had all over the country. Screenshots, concert ticket stubs, promotional stickers, GUTTER paraphernalia—arm bands, postcards, album artwork and mini-posters. And in the back was a handwritten list of every single one of his songs.
He paused and focused for a fleeting moment on the music from her radio. The Verve’s, ‘Bittersweet Symphony’ was now playing.
“…You did come first. You, Zach, and Zina always came first. I bought a lot of your concert tickets.” She pointed to the page he was on, a miserable smile on her face. “I knew I wasn’t going to be able to go to most of ’em, but I still wanted to buy one. I’d try to get the most expensive seat sometimes… then I’d pretend I was there in the front row cheering you on. I’d sometimes buy ’em and give ’em away. I was watching you from a safe distance by not being there. Boy did I want to come, yet I didn’t want you to see me. You’d let me know the last time we’d seen each other just how done you were…” She paused to catch her breath. He turned the page. “I was trying to be in your life, Zake, from afar. You got famous though, so I wanted to be careful. I never told anyone at work, or my associates, that you were my son. Except my ex-boyfriend.”
“This is the part where I ask ‘Why?’—right? You say something that provokes a question. An emotion. I respond with a question. And we keep playing this game until you get what you want.”
“You say that to me a lot. I don’t think I look like I’m playing. I don’t sound like it, either. I’m serious. Why do you always think I’m playing a game with you?”
“Because if you’re for real right now, it’s fuckin’ crazy.” He slammed the book closed and pushed it away. She caught it before it tumbled off the table. “You just couldn’t keep quiet, could ya? I told you I didn’t want to talk to you about any of this shit unless you were ready to be real. I know bullshit when I see and hear it! A bunch of fuckin’ excuses… If excuses were love, I’d be the most loved motherfucker in the world right now.”
She clasped the album to her chest, resting her chin on the top of it.
“Your song, ‘Homeless and Blind,’ is about me, isn’t it?” She laid the book back down on the table and opened it to where a folded piece of paper sat in the back pocket. She pulled it out and began to read the lyrics to the song he’d written over a decade ago.
“You can live in a house but be homeless.
A house is not a home, if you’re all alone…
You go crazy, and you think you’re losing your mind
Then you see her for what she is, but wish you were blind.
There’s a monster in a dress. You don’t know her
Your old man is drinking, so she becomes a blur.
You can live in a house but be homeless.
A house is not a home, if you’re all alone…”
She stopped reading and folded the paper again.
“It seems people thought this song was about some woman you were romantically involved with and she broke your heart. You never corrected the misconception.” After averting her gaze for a while, she turned to him with piercing eyes that seemed to glow with need. Moist, glistening, threatening to release tears. Don’t you fucking cry. You don’t have the right to cry. “You saw me as a monster in a dress?”
“Weren’t you? Oh, I get it.” He smiled at her. “It’s wrong, right? Would you have preferred I wrote it as, ‘A monster wearing pink leggings?’”
She slowly got up from the table and poured them both some coffee. ‘One Headlight,’ by The Wallflowers, was now playing. As she slipped back into her seat, sunlight from the kitchen window brushed her face, making her shine like a snowflake melting under a heated kiss from the rays. Deep sadness radiated in her eyes, the kind born of regret and the shreds of a tattered and abused soul.
“I didn’t want to be my mother. And yet, I was becoming my mother. Bitter. Cold.” She took a sip of her coffee. “I married young to a man who swept me off my feet.” She ran her hand across the cover of the book in slow, circular motions. “Your father was big, strong… like you. He was handsome, like you. Hard working, street-smart, quick-witted, and dedicated, like you, but so, so controlling, baby. I didn’t have a dad, so I thought initially that was okay. That that’s how a man treats you when he loves you deeply. But it became too much.” She shook her head and ran a slightly shaky hand up and down her arm. “I felt like I couldn’t even breathe, Zake, without havin’ to ask him first.” Her voice rattled and the veins in her neck strained.
“He loved you.”
“I know he loved me, but his love was suffocating me. I was in a coffin. A small coffin half my size…”
“I’m sure Zina, me and Zach didn’t see everything that went on between you two. Maybe I missed something. Did he ever hit you? Did he run around on you? He said he did neither of those things. Is he lyin’?”
“He never hit me. He didn’t have any affairs to my knowledge. He took care of me, paid the bills. But emotionally, he wasn’t there, Zake. He was dead. I think it was his upbringing… Showing emotions was frowned upon, and he didn’t want me to do it, either. He was abusing me emotionally, but he didn’t understand that. He had rules. Lots and lots of rules. He wanted perfection, but I was a beautiful mess.” Tears streamed down her face.
Zake’s mind began to wander, zoning in and out. He stepped back from the dark puddles she invited him to jump in and walked away…
“I don’t know what you felt as it pertains to Dad. I know what we saw as kids doesn’t match what you’re telling me now, but you know what, Jenny? It doesn’t matter.” He set his coffee down. “Even if it’s true, you were still wrong…because you had children with this man.”
“I know that you think—”
“Don’t tell me what I think. You coulda left him, but not left us. Yet you divorced us too, by not callin’ or seeing us anymore. No Christmases with Mom. No birthday calls, Thanksgiving turkeys, no nothin’. You fuckin’ vanished.”
“I had to! I was broken inside! A mess! I was no good for you and—”
“Broken people have choices, too. We can break other people or crawl our asses over to something else. Something that’s going to make a difference, so that we can paste ourselves the fuck together again. Choose your glue! When does it end, huh?! You broke us when you walked out that door. We could’ve just lain there, torn apart. Blaming you for every time we fucked up in life. Instead, you got a son who’s the head of an IT Department at Google in California. My little brother is a fuckin’ genius. You got a daughter who is an incredible e
lementary school teacher, got a Teacher of the Year award twice in a row, and a son who sells hit records faster than IHOP can flip a pancake. That wasn’t because of you. That was because of our father, and he may have been controlling you, making you sad, I don’t know, but we weren’t controlling you, Jenny. Apparently though, we made ya sad, too!”
“You didn’t make me sad…”
“Words mean nothing, Jenny. Your actions say it all.”
“Words mean a lot. Your songs make people feel somethin’ real.”
“That’s because of my actions, and the way I connect with my fans. How I speak. How I look when I’m singing and playing the guitar and the drums. How I move and relate with the crowd. Words that aren’t heard don’t mean shit. Someone out there has to be listening. The words alone are empty…”
Jenny sat upright and the tears kept coming.
“Go on… I’m listening,” she urged after a few seconds.
“Dad had a hard time of it, if you care. Maybe you think he deserved it, I don’t know. He had three kids to raise by himself, all while working a full time, physically exhausting job. Even when he got remarried, that was short-lived. Zina had some problems here and there. Dad couldn’t help her with a few things that only a woman can help another woman about. Zach stayed on the straight and narrow, but I was the worst. I was the black sheep. He couldn’t handle me… Did you track that, too? Did you see my criminal record, Jenny? Your middle son was out there sellin’ drugs, fighting all the time, doing practically everything under the fuckin’ sun. Do you know how many times I’ve been in situations that coulda easily ended up with me being dead? This isn’t a joke! Ya just left us out there waving in the wind.” She turned her head from left to right, her face now bright red and her eyes barely visible. “I took my anger out on Dad, and I’m not going to even tell ya all the shit I did over the years just to survive and run from the fact that my own mother abandoned me.”
“I couldn’t stay with him!”
“I DIDN’T ASK YA TO FUCKIN’ STAY WITH HIM IF YOU SO WERE MISERABLE! I DON’T EVEN BLAME YOU FOR MY FUCK-UPS ALONG THE WAY. THOSE WERE MY CHOICES! ALL YOU HAD TO DO WAS STAY IN OUR LIVES! LET US KNOW YA STILL GAVE A DAMN ABOUT US! GOT US ON THE WEEKENDS! CALLED! ANYTHING! You didn’t do SHIT!”
She looked away.
“Now you’re sick. Dying. You wanna put your mind at ease.”
“This isn’t about puttin’ my mind at ease, Zake! This is hard for me, too!” She slammed her fist against the table. “I’m not good with words. I don’t write good songs like you. I’m trying here! Please!” She clutched the fabric of her poncho, winding it into a ball.
“You didn’t want to be your mother, so you decided to not be a mother at all. Thank you. Zachary and Zina will appreciate that explanation, I’m sure.” He got to his feet to the sounds of ‘Dreams,’ by Fleetwood Mac. His ears throbbed and pounded, and his throat was suddenly dry from labored breathing. “When you bought my concert tickets, you should’ve gotten backstage passes, too. You had no plans to attend, so you could’ve kept on pretending, ya know? Make it Oscar-worthy. I get more love from strangers online than I got from you. You thought this was going to fix it? You thought I’d look at this book and think, ‘Oh gee, Jenny! Ya made a scrapbook! Wow! THAT CHANGES EVERY FUCKIN’ THING!”
He stared her down, his heart leaping and pounding. “Thinking about me, showing my face in a fuckin’ book you put together with Scotch tape, but not being there for your kids doesn’t mean diddly shit.” He slammed the chair against the table, making her startle. The woman regarded him from the corner of her eye as she shrank down in her seat. “I’ll pick ya up on Thursday for your doctor’s appointment,” he stated calmly after getting himself to calm a little. “Don’t wear leggings. Wear a dress like what you wore when you walked out that damn door…”
Promise sat on her living room couch facing her brother, who was still standing in his police uniform. He looked tired, but content. Four years her senior, he’d always been the protective big brother, which had both pleased and annoyed her.
Although they were practically best friends, Westley never wished to talk about family matters much. Maybe he was running from it all, but she knew not to bring up the past unless she wanted to see him turn from easygoing to aggressive and uptight in a matter of seconds. She didn’t even bother bringing up Mama trying to get her to see their father again.
“Yes, he was butt ass naked. I’m serious.”
They both burst out laughing as he tossed his hat on her coffee table.
“Don’t laugh. This was messed up.” He sat down beside her and massaged the bridge of his nose, as if trying to fend off a budding headache. She adjusted her body on the sofa, crossing her legs beneath her. Her oversized matching pajama top and bottoms with little pineapples on them felt warm and cozy on this rainy night.
“When was the last time you had to arrest a naked man though, Westley?” she said with a giggle.
“I’m NYPD, girl… Last week,” he admitted, cracking her up.
“Oh boy. That’s New York for you!”
“I’m thirsty. What do you have?”
“You want some wine, water, or beer?” She got to her bare feet and went to her small gray and ivory tiled kitchenette.
“A beer. But just one. I gotta be back at work in six hours.”
Westley had been working overtime as of late to save up for a badly needed Caribbean vacation with friends. She opened the refrigerator door and moved a big cantaloupe out of the way to reach a six pack of Heineken. Taking one, she brought it to her brother. Westley’s eyes lit up as if it were a gift from God.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She grabbed the remote control, turned on the television, and perused her taped programs in her DVR recordings.
“Turn to ESPN.”
“Hell, no.”
“Come on, Promise! Damn! I’m only going to be here for a little while,” he whined, just like he used to when their mother would make him take her with him to the movies when they were kids.
“Look, I just got off work, too. You could’ve gone home, Westley, but instead, since you’re between girlfriends again, you decided to come over here and bum off me like my name is Marketplace. Food and beer. Same shit, different day. I pick the show.” She smiled at the now frowning man, then playfully socked him on the shoulder. “Oh look, Wes, Real Housewives of Atlanta.”
“I’m not watching this shit. Give me the remote.” He snatched the remote control from her and began flipping the channel.
“Stop!” she screamed, tickled and angry all at once.
The bastard kept pushing her away with one hand and working the remote with the other, as bold as he pleased. He seemed damn proud of himself until she smacked his leg, causing his knee to give out. The remote control tumbled to the floor.
“ESPN!” he yelled out, as if that would somehow justify his cause.
She grabbed the device before he got a chance, and when she went to change the station, a car commercial was playing, with ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay’ as the theme song. Flashes of memory involving Gutter immediately entered her mind.
“Turn the station unless you’re in the market for a car. You don’t know how to drive.” He relaxed on the couch, chugging his beer and breathing hard from their playful scuffle, just like when they were children.
“No, it’s not that.”
“What? You like this song?”
“Do you know what a song cover is?”
“Yeah. It’s when a singer sings a song that was originally by someone else.”
“Right. Well, have you heard of the singer, Gutter?”
He twisted his lips and rolled his eyes. “I know you think I’m old and crusty, but who the hell hasn’t heard of Gutter, Promise?” She fought a smile but lost. “Yeah… That one White guy. He got some lungs on him. I ain’t gonna lie. Plays the fuck outta the guitar, too. He worked with Kanye West on an album a few years back. Shit was tig
ht. He’s from Staten Island, right?”
“Red Hook. Brooklyn.”
He nodded in understanding.
“Well, he did a cover of this song a few years back. I got to hear him do it live recently because he came to my job with his mother and sang it at the funeral home. She’s dying of cancer and wanted to plan her memorial in advance.”
“Damn, that’s a shame. Gutter just walked up in there? That’s crazy. That’s just the thing though.” He shrugged before taking another swallow of beer. “In this city, you never know who you’ll run into. Remember when I used to see Woody Allen all the time?”
“Yes, I remember you telling me that.” She leaned back on the couch. “Gutter and I went out last weekend. On a date.” She burst out laughing when her brother’s head whipped around as fast as helicopter wings. “It was amazing, Wes. We’ve been talking daily ever since, and he’s a good conversationalist. Funny as hell. I like him.”
“You’re making this up.”
“No, I’m not!” She laughed.
“Well, in that case, tell him your brother needs ten thousand dollars if he wants to keep on dating you. I know his rich ass is good for it. Ouch!” She swung a pillow at him, beating him about the head. “I was just kidding, damn!”
“No, you weren’t.” She looked him up and down, then sat back up. “Anyway, he isn’t on tour right now, so we’ve been able to talk quite a bit.”
“Be careful.” Westley’s face grew serious. “Singers, rappers, actors, ballers, they run through women like water.”
“What about police officers? Because I know a tall, dark, and handsome one who for sure likes to play the field, and he looks a hell of a lot like my brother.” Who did resemble her as well, although more their father in voice and form.
He grimaced and rolled his eyes.
“We’re not talkin’ about me. I’m just looking out for you.”
She handed him the remote control and plumped her pillow. Westley turned to ESPN and leaned back against the couch again.
“What’s wrong?” he asked after a while. “I’m not trying to say stop seeing him. I’m just warning you to be careful. I mean, think about it. You know I didn’t—”
