No Time to Die (23 page)

“I know what the fuck it says. I put it there, didn’t I?”

“Well, I—”

“Well you nuthin’! You wanna know why it’s on there? You wanna know what happened? I’ll tell you about that son of a bitch, Nathan Milton. I’ll tell you what he did.”

She rose from the sofa abruptly, and instead of moving toward him, he was surprised to see her edge away, staring at him as if he had mutated into some alien
thing. She maneuvered until she could go no further and leaned against the wall.

“Our daddy,” she said. Her voice sounded as if she had swallowed marbles. He listened, dumbfounded, as she went on. “Yours and mine. You didn’t know that, did you? No, you too dumb to know anything. But you shoulda known somethin’ was up. You got the same damn ugly face. Every time I see you, I see him. He the one. Goddamn sommabitch.

“I’m fifteen,” she said, raising her hand to her chest. “Fifteen, and he come in the midnight hour, all fortied up, tellin’ me I oughtta be glad. Ugly and fat as I am, nobody want me anyway so be glad he willin’ to do the job.

“That’s what he said and that’s what he did, climbed on and started workin’ me, all the while calling me fat. Ugly. My own daddy. Your daddy. But after the third time, when I knew his shit was gonna be a habit, I sat down and figured out everything. I may be fat and I may be ugly but I got a brain. I figured out that rat bait work on the biggest rat. All you got to do is mix enough of it with sugar and put it in the coffee.”

She did not pause to see what effect this had on her son but moved away from the wall and toward the television, the remote gripped in her fist like a weapon.

“Even the fuckin’ doctors couldn’t tell or didn’t wanna be bothered tellin’. They didn’t cut ’im open or nuthin’. Looked at that gut blown up like a balloon and said it was ’pendicitis. That was the first time in my whole life I got to smile. Imagine that. ’Pendicitis. Ain’t that a laugh.

“He gone but you still here. You still here. And every time I look at you, I hear how ugly I am. You don’t even have to open your mouth and I hear him. It’s like a radio ain’t never been turned off.”

They faced each other, squared off like boxers in a ring too small to maneuver in, too confined to avoid the blows.

“So now you know, and can’t do nuthin’ about it. Can’t do shit! He already checked out, and I”—she slapped her hand to her chest proudly—“I did it. Me! I beat you to it!”

He did not move from the doorway but stared at her as she walked back toward the sagging couch. He had not seen her take this many steps in years, and when she moved, the folds shook under the filthy, tentlike dress.

He tried to imagine her at fifteen and wondered what had changed except that she’d given birth to someone who never should have been born.

Rat bait. His emotions seesawed between admiration—a keen, unfamiliar sensation—for her using the poison and profound hatred for how she’d made him pay. Day after day after day.

And he thought of the one earlier instance when she’d moved this fast. That time, when he had given up, when he stood on the counter so hungry he trembled, and jimmied the lock on the cabinet. Food was behind the lock and he hadn’t seen any the entire day. He had listened to her snores and tried to work fast, absorbed in the thought of what he would find. He knew it was food. It had to be food, because she kept it locked up tight
.

The cabinet opened under the light pressure of the butter knife and a whole store was stacked before him, more than he’d seen at one time in one place in all his eight years
.

He’d reached for the nearest and largest item, a box of cornflakes, and stepped from the counter onto the stool but it collapsed under his shaking weight, sending him to the floor to stare in fright at the scattered cereal and then at his mother standing in the doorway
.

He was surprised at how quietly she worked, sweeping it up slowly. Then she looked around thoughtfully and began to sweep under the table, in the corners, angled the broom into the narrow greasy space between the stove and the fridge, pulling out the dirt, dustballs, cobwebs, dead roaches, roach shells, roach eggs, and quietly mixed it all in with the cereal
.

Then in one swift maneuver, caught him in a choke hold and slammed him and the box of cereal into the hall closet
.

He’d had no idea how long he was inside because there was no light. All he knew was that he ate the cereal, swallowed the dirt, consumed the roaches, vomited on himself, and then ate some more. He kept eating, trying to fill the hole in his stomach which seemed to grow larger with each fistful he brought to his mouth
.

The box was empty when the key turned again and one of her “overnighters”—the old nice West Indian one who, when he spoke fast, could hardly be understood—lifted him out, stripped his soiled clothes, and rushed him into the bathtub
.

“God damn, Hazel! When you gon’ stop treat de boy like a yard dog? Smell like fuckin’ shithouse for sure.”

And she had yelled, “You want ’im, Pop?”

That was the first time in a month that he’d touched water, actually bathed, and while he strained to scour away the filth, he strained to listen. He heard her laughter roll down the hall like a cascade of stones
.

“I’m axin’ you, Pop. Do you want ’im?”

“Awh, mind now, girl. God watchin’ you, you know …”

He remained still, trying not to splash, waiting for the response from the old man that might have delivered him, but it never came
.

He heard low murmurs and an occasional giggle as they popped the cans of beer and whispered some more and he waited and waited until the water had grown cold but they had forgotten about him
.

He watched her settle back on the sofa, her chest heaving as if she had run a mile.

“So what you gonna do now that you know? What difference it make to you?”

None at all, he wanted to say, but he could not answer. He moved away and allowed the scrap of paper, stained with his sweat, to fall to the floor.

See, Ache. I coulda told you what the deal was. I knew it was somethin’ funny went down, but you know … looka here. Here’s what you gotta do
 …

In the room, he lay down on the bed and squeezed his eyes tight, trying to shut out the sounds that seemed to flow out from the cracks in the peeling paint.

Whatcha gonna do … Friday comin’. You ain’t got two coins to rub together. Not even for a hot dog. Can’t sneak in that kitchen. End up in that closet again. No food. No money. She kick you to the curb and you be nuthin’. She told you you was nuthin’
.

He opened his eyes wide now, staring into the dark, straining as the images came into focus. Ragged Natalie, the little girl left on the roof with the smile frozen on her face; the silver-haired artist in the garden who’d looked right through him; the pretty woman on Edgecombe who’d invited him in for that glass of water; the tough-talking sister on Seventh Avenue who’d put up one hell of a fight. And there were those three in the Bronx, anonymous and innocent.

He saw them all, and remembered how the smiles had iced over when they realized, too late, what was
happening. He saw them and the deep warm feeling welled up like a spring.

They knew I was somethin’. Knew I didn’t take no shit
.

Then the image of Mercy Anne drifted from the shadows, her eyes like silver discs. She opened her mouth and the laughter made him sit up. Or was it Hazel down the hall? The television was on again and the laughter flowed toward him.

He thought of the Gray Eyes who came in for that ice cream and made him lose his job, and thought of how he’d nearly connected the other night if only that cab and that damn dog …

Bile exploded in the back of his throat and he was off the sagging mattress, down on his knees, rummaging under the bed. His stash—what was left of it—was safe because Hazel could never kneel down in a million years to search the space.

His fingers sifted through the dust until he felt the coil of wire and the box of gloves but he reached past this until his fingers closed on the razor.

He could see the house again, sheltered beneath the thick-leafed trees lining the curb like sentries. Strivers’ Row. Gray Eyes was living large while he had no job, no money. He closed his eyes again, visualizing the door to her house. A door of intricately carved oak.

Hell, it ain’t gonna be like last time. All you do is ring the bell and she open the door. Hazel worked her rat stuff … fooled all them motherfuckers. Every one of ’em. You smart just like her. All that shit you perpetrated and ain’t got busted yet. That tell you somethin’ right there. Tell you, you way better than her any day. All you got to do is walk to that door
.

I tacked the sketches on the wall above my desk and stepped back to gaze at them from different angles. Based on the description Yo-Yo had given the artist at the precinct, I wondered if he had been smoking something special that night on the roof, when I showed the drawing to Bertha, she had stepped back as if she’d been hit. “Damn! Where you dig that up from?”

This poster brother had a face that would force a plastic surgeon into retirement. The eyes resembled a frog who’d been surprised by a larger predator and his mouth was stretched wide enough to swallow a plate. His face was clean-shaven but his hairline ended in a widow’s peak a few inches above his eyebrows.

The other drawing based on Ms. Irene’s description wasn’t much better, but neither Bertha nor Ms. Irene would confirm positively that the drawing was that of the man who had delivered their groceries. Bertha had looked at it and then shook her head.

“I don’t know, Mali. I just don’t know for sure. I mean the brother was ugly and nervous, but that don’t mean he’s a criminal. I’d hate to finger the wrong man.
Remember how my brother got tagged and if it hadn’t been for you, he’d’a been shipped upstate? No. I can’t do this ’less I’m sure. And I ain’t sure.”

Ms. Irene had also declined. “You know, Mali, this is not easy for me. I see a little similarity but not much. And there were several other delivery men at different times. I’m just not sure. Someone once said it was better to have a guilty person walking around free than to have one innocent person behind bars. And that’s how I feel. I’m sorry, but I’m just not sure.” I sighed and turned away from the drawing.

I like to think I’m considerate (most of the time) and somewhat well balanced (part of the time). And I try to keep my mouth shut if my opinion is likely to bruise someone’s feelings.

I’m vocal about minor inequities, figuring if I scream loud enough I can prevent them from developing into major stuff. I frown on displays of conspicuous consumption and tend to view modesty as a divine state. In short, I’ve got practically one foot (the good foot) in heaven and am pulling hard on the other. For this, I’ve received a few blessings in my life and I count Tad as one of them.

In bad moments I tend to squeeze my eyes shut and think of him. And depending on the occasion, my temperature either rises significantly enough to pull me out of the rut or it lowers gently to ease me into a semi-somnolent dream state. I focus not only on his extraordinarily deep eyes and soft mustache and silver-edged hair but on his gentle nature, his goodness, and how wonderful he really is. I focus so hard sometimes that I have to pinch myself back to reality. He is my private oasis and his love is like a sweet water.

Most sisters would brag for days about the fine
brother they’ve got draped on their arms. I never went that way, not even when Elizabeth first met him and then looked at me wide-eyed and said, “Girrrl, please! I see why you bumping into walls. You strolling half-dizzy!”

Yes, I am, I wanted to say but never did. I wanted only to remember that day at the precinct—I’d just reported for duty—when he had walked in, tall and broad-shouldered and dragging that fugitive, both of them covered with the dust and dirt of a sixteen-hour drive. I had looked beyond the layers of grime and chaos and I prayed, “Lord, don’t let this fine brother be married. Don’t let him be married. I’ll die if he is.”

Then I found that he was, and I didn’t die but tried hard to forget about him and to focus on the business of another cop, Terry Keenan, who was blocking me at every turn until I got tired of his nastiness and punched him out and lost my job.

I had never missed the job. I missed Tad. When he finally got his divorce and decided to part that beautiful mouth to say hello, really say hello, I had a hard time. I saw something close to perfection and it frightened me.

So I try not to measure other men by what I see in him. I remind myself that what the Temptations sing about is true: beauty is only skin-deep. I try hard not to focus on surface stuff but what lies beneath. Some days I’m good at it. Other days I flat out fail.

When Tad unfolded the sketches earlier, I had stepped back and failed.

“Damn. Just looking like this should be a crime,” I said, regretting it as soon as the words left my mouth.

Now, as I stared at the pictures tacked to the wall, something stirred within my own memory. Or perhaps
I had only dreamed it. Dreamed of seeing this face—not the face, but a fleeting impression, as one would a passing stranger exiting a subway or bus, never to be seen again. But when? Had I seen him at all or was the drawing so dramatic and I was staring so long that the image had imprinted itself in my consciousness?