Gumbo: A Celebration of African American Writing Part 28

"He didn't say anything." Momma touched my arm. "I'm okay, baby. Go back and finish studying for your test."

Daddy's back straightened, his bushy mustache crooked as his lips curved down, his eyes widened. "What you say to me, n.i.g.g.e.r?"

"I'm not a n.i.g.g.e.r. My name is Dante."

"So, the n.i.g.g.e.r speaking up for himself."

"You heard me the first time. And I ain't a n.i.g.g.e.r."

"You challenging me? What, you think because you got a little hair over your d.i.c.k you're a grown man now? Ain't but one man in this house."

Momma spoke carefully to Daddy. "Don't get upset."

I frowned at the shiny badge on the chest of his tan uniform, then at the gun in his leather holster.

He sucked his teeth, nodded, and jerked the badge off. He threw the gun holster on the love seat. He stepped away from the gla.s.s coffee table, opened his arms, and snapped out, "You want to be a man? Come on. I'll give you the first shot. n.i.g.g.e.r, I'll knock your black a.s.s into the middle of next week."

Momma gripped my arm tight enough for her nails to break my skin. I glanced at the golden cross she had on her chest, the one she had got from her mother just a few weeks before Grandmamma died. I looked into my momma's light brown eyes, eyes that looked like mine. "Let me go, Momma."

"No." She put her nose against mine and whispered, "Momma's okay. It's just a little scratch."

My knees shook when I stood and faced my old man. When his eyes met mine, his anger held so much power that I forgot how to breathe. Heart went into overdrive. He balled up his right fist, slammed it into the palm of his left hand; it echoed like thunder. "What are you gonna do, n.i.g.g.e.r?"

I trembled, backed away, and said, "Nothing."

"Nothing, what?"

"Nothing, sir."

I kicked my bare feet into the rust carpet, then slumped my shoulders, wiped my sweaty hands on my jean shorts, and turned around to go back to my room.

Then that motherf.u.c.ker chuckled.

A simple laugh that stoked up the rage inside of me.

I charged at him as fast and as hard as I could.

Momma screamed.

Daddy's eyes widened with surprise.

Pain. Anger. Fear.

Three screams from three people.

From the backseat of the police car, I stared through the wire cage at the colorful rotating lights that were brightening Scottsdale's earth-tone stucco houses. I was hostage under a calm sky. The spinning glow from twelve squad cars looked like rainbows chasing rainbows. Colors raced over all the sweet gum trees and windmill palms, moved like a strobe light over the vanhoutte spirea in the front of the three-car garage. The reek of cordite was on my flesh. Couldn't really smell it over the stench of my stress sweating. I concentrated on the colors to make the pain from the tight handcuffs go away. Watched the rainbows come and go.

The door opened. A dry May breeze mixed with the sweltering car air. A police officer stuck his sweaty head inside. His face was hard, his voice angry and anxious. "Your mother wants to say something to you before we lock your a.s.s up. We shouldn't let her say a d.a.m.n word to you after what you did. Do you mind?

I stared straight ahead. "No."

He raised his voice. "No what?"

"No," I repeated in a way that let him know I thought that all of them were a.s.sholes for making me out to be the bad guy. "I don't mind."

He gripped the back of my neck. "You're pretty belligerent."

I was a k.n.o.b-kneed reed of a boy. Hadn't lifted anything heavier than an algebra book and could barely run a mile in P.E. without pa.s.sing out. That was before I started pumping weights, before squats, before doing two hundred push-ups in the morning to start my day, doing sprints, before the hooks and jabs and side kicks and roundhouse kicks and spinning back kicks became my trademark.

I said, "f.u.c.k you."

With his other hand he grabbed the front of my throat and squeezed, made me gag and look into his blue eyes. He growled, "Say, 'No, sir. I don't mind, sir.' You insolent b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

He let me go when another officer pa.s.sed by. I gagged and caught my breath while perspiration tingled down my forehead into my eyes. I tilted my head and looked at him.

He smirked. "Now, what you have to say?"

I spat in his face.

His cheeks turned crimson. He stared at me while my saliva rolled down his scarred face into his ill-trimmed wheat-colored mustache.

"That's your a.s.s, boy."

Veins popped up in his neck while he stood there, handkerchief in hand, clenching his teeth and wiping my juices from his eye. He kept watching me, wanted me to break down and show my fear. It was there, but I refused to let it be seen. Another officer pa.s.sed by and scarface told him what I'd done. It looked like they were about to double team me, but the second officer said they had to report the a.s.sault and they both stormed away.

A second later the door opened again and my mother eased her bruised face inside.

She said, "Don't hate me."

"Love you, Momma." I smiled. "Get away from here."

She fondled her wedding ring. Tears formed in her eyes. She dropped the police blanket from her shoulders, took her cross off, and put it around my neck.

She used her soft fingers to wipe the sweat from my eyes.

"Somebody'll come get you out. Maybe Uncle Ray. You might be able to go back to Philly and stay with him for a while."

"Uncle Ray don't like us. We're Catholic; Jehovah's Witnesses don't like n.o.body but Jehovah's Witnesses."

"Stop saying that."

"It's true."

"I'll call him anyway. I'll tell him you made the honor roll, so he'll know you're still doing good in school. Let him know you might get a scholarship. You could help him around his grocery store in the evenings."

I shook my head. "Don't worry about me. Get away before he hurts you. All he's gonna do is beat you up, then go out to Fort McDowell and spend the night with that Indian woman. He ain't been home in two days, then walks in complaining about some stupid dinner. Tomorrow he'll be mad about his shirts. The next day his shoes."

My old man was standing in a crowd of badges, guns, and whispers. The ambulance crew had bandaged his head and he was back on his feet. I'd beat him with everything I could get my hands on.

He made a single finger gesture for Momma to come.

My beautiful momma looked tired of the life she was living, and that made me sad. She wiped her eyes and kissed the side of my face. "You understand, don't you? You're a big boy now. Almost a man. You can take care of yourself. You understand."

I kissed the side of her face as my answer.

"Don't be angry." She twisted her lips. "Don't be like him."

"I won't." I smiled for her. "Go back inside before you get in trouble. Stop taking so much of that medication."

She rubbed her eyes, then dragged her fingers down across her lips. "It calms my nerves."

"Why you wanna sleep so much?"

"Sometimes," she patted my legs with her thin fingers, "sometimes I have nice dreams."

She was distant, reciting and not living the words.

I said, "Dreams ain't real, Momma."

"Sometimes-" she started, then stopped and kissed my forehead. Her voice became as melodic as the poetry she always read. "Sometimes they're better than what's real."

I fought the dryness in my throat that always came before my tears. I was scared. Fifteen and a half and living in fear.

She wandered away, wringing her hands and looking back at me every other step. We blew each other dysfunctional kisses.

I'd be in juvenile hall, then a boys' home until I was old enough to register for the draft and vote.

Living with criminals would be like going to a different kinda school. Nigerians, Mexicans, whites, no matter what nationality, they were all caught up in the same game. And didn't hesitate to lend to the schooling on everything from Three Card Monte to Rocks in a Box to Pigeon Drops, even broke down how to pa.s.s bad checks. A few were bold enough to run telephone scams from the inside.

That was different from the education I was after.

I had dreams of getting into Howard, to a frat life and a world filled with sorority girls. Always wanted to stomp in a Greek Show. Make enough money to get a small place, get Momma to move in with me. I was working on our escape.

But that night, guess I had had all I could stand and couldn't stand no more. I wanted to be like a superhero and rescue my momma. That was my mission in life. What motivated me.

Hard to save anybody when you're locked up, when you're too busy trying to fight to save yourself. When you've made yourself a prisoner.

I did want to save her. That gave my life a lot of purpose.

But there would be no Howard. No sorority girl at my side. And the closest thing to a frat I would see would be a bunch of young hardheads lining up for roll call, all wearing prison blues, most with tattoos. Our Greek Show was marching in sync to go get our meals.

Momma would find her own way to freedom.

My momma would take too many pills and become an angel.

My daddy would be found dead behind the wheel of his Thunderbird at Fort McDowell. Ambushed and shot outside of a married Indian woman's place.

On that night of changes, I sat in the back of that squad car staring at the colorful lights that were dancing in the night to make my pain go away. Watched the rainbows chasing the rainbows.

* 1 The phone rang.

Jarred me from my sleep and severed me from my past.

Time to time, I had nightmares, I felt the pain from the fights and heard the screams from the midnight rapes in juvenile hall. But I learned to kick a.s.s before I got my a.s.s kicked.

The phone rang again.

I opened my eyes. Focused on the red digits across the room.

3:32 A.M.

Not quite yesterday; not quite today.

Traffic in NoHo-that stands for North Hollywood-was breezing by outside my window on Chandler. Somewhere down by North Hollywood High a car alarm was singing a song of distress.

I s.n.a.t.c.hed the phone up and answered, "Yeah?"

"Where've you been Dante?"

I knew who it was. Hearing his voice jarred me all over again. I sat up in my queen-size bed. The room had a chill and I kept the covers wrapped around me.

He chuckled, then said, "I was beginning to think you were dead or something."

"A'ight, how you get my number, Scamz?"

"There isn't a number I can't get."

"Just got it changed last week."

He laughed his irksome, sneaky laugh. "Happy birthday. You made it to the big two-five."

"On a hot wing and a prayer."

"A black man's not supposed to live past twenty-five."

"Then that makes me a senior citizen. I should be eligible for Social Security and a ten percent discount at Denny's."

"You crack me up." He laughed. "That's why I like talking to you."

I yawned, then checked my caller ID. No number was on the box. Last time he jingled, the ID box told me he was in New York, lounging at Fifth and Fifty-sixth at the Trump Tower. That was two weeks back. He didn't leave a message, he never did, but I knew that was my homey. Doubt if Donald Trump would be ringing me up to talk shop about the market. n.o.body but Scamz. Time before that he told me he was down in South Beach. Time before that Montreal. Before then it was the W down in New Orleans during the Essence Festival. Before that Playa del Carmen.

I set another yawn free before I asked, "You back out in La La Land?"

"For a hot sec. Wrapping up some business before I go on vacation. You should've accepted my offer and left with me last time. Aspen had great skiing."

"Whatcha been onto?"

He boasted that over the last few weeks he'd been running scam after scam after scam. All nonviolent. Most of his dealings were in credit and green cards. Since he had women who worked everywhere from the DMV to the IRS, I already knew there wasn't any information he couldn't get, so his criminally-gifted b.u.t.t getting my number didn't cause me to raise a brow. Not right then.