Baby Huey: A Cautionary Tale of Addiction (22 page)

“I ain’t family. You are. This the country, not Little Rock. People here don’t shoot family. They get mad, you know, but they don’t shoot family. Nobody will suspect you; everybody thinks you went back to Little Rock.”

“That pink blob riding around in the Caddy, somebody bound to know that’s my car.”

She mimicked the buzzer sound game shows use to indicate a wrong answer. “It’s not your car--you sold it. Anyway, Doughboy put new rims on it, waxed those scratches out, washed it up real good.”

Again I fought the urge to pop her head.

Two days later, and forty miles on my tennis shoes, the money ran out. Once the smoke cleared the ugly truth was apparent: I couldn’t stand the sight, or the smell, of Zelda. And she couldn’t stand me.

The boys were outside playing. I was reclining while Zelda searched the floor for crumbs. She asked me to get up so she could search the couch.

“I already looked,” I told her. “Not a crumb here.”

She got to her feet, twisted her face up. “This my house, you forget? You don’t live here.”

I ignored her.

She went to the door and looked out at the boys. “I’m on welfare, got three boys to look after. I can’t have a man lying round here all day. A man ain’t got no job! Welfare people come by see you here not doing a damn thing they cut off my benefits. I can’t jeopardize that for a sorry-ass man.”

When I didn’t respond she said, “What my boys gonna think they see a lazy-ass man lying round all day, no job, his shirt off? Huh? What they gonna think?”

“Probably the same thing they think when you half-ass feed them.”

Her head snapped in my direction. “Mister, for your information, I take care of my boys. And I don’t need you or no other motherfucka telling me how to take care of them!” Her bird chest huffing and puffing. “You don’t like it round here why don’t you move your ass? Better yet, get the hell out my house!”

I picked at a toenail. “That’s interesting. Why didn’t you say that when you were smoking all my dope?”

“Mister, I don’t owe you any-damn-thing. Not a damn thing! You got what you wanted, I got what I wanted.”

“If you implying your pussy worth thousands of dollars and a vintage Cadillac, you out your damn mind.”

“Get out! Get the hell out! I ain’t playing, get out!”

“I think you gave me something too. VD or some shit.”

“I didn’t
give
you no damn VD. You
bought
VD!”

That made me pause, and I hoped she was just talking shit.

She crossed the room and picked up a broom. Came back and said, “I’m not telling you again get the hell out my house!”

I sat up. “You might as well put that broom down, ’cause you hit me with it, you gonna have a bigger problem than no hot water.”

She swung and I jumped up, caught the broom in one hand, her throat with the other. Gagging, her eyes wide with fright, she dug her nails into my wrist. Snot flowed out her nostrils and the nose ring hole. Her hands fell to her sides. Red lines appeared in the white of her eyes.

“Mister! Mister, you killing my mama!”

I looked at the boy, standing on the couch, and for a moment I thought he was Lewis. The other two boys were hitting my legs, crying and screaming. I let go, and Zelda collapsed on the floor, holding her throat, making a guttural noise. Her boys moved to her side. The little one patted her back.

I sat back down on the couch. Breathing hard. Legs shaking. My head hurt.

Zelda sat up, waved her sons away. The little one hugged her.

I almost killed her! What the hell am I doing? I almost killed her!

A shaky voice I said, “You need to get your ass up and clean this place up! Looks like a damn pigsty!”

Zelda cut me a hateful look before struggling to her feet. She picked up the broom as if it were a hundred pound dumbbell and started sweeping. The boys started cleaning too, picking up piles of clothes and putting them in another pile.

Watching Zelda sweep the same spot again and again, I tried to make right what I’d done in my mind. She was a whore. A crack whore. She duped me into selling the Caddy. She smoked all my dope. She…
she didn’t deserve that.
Neither did her boys.

Not the first time I wondered if crack was driving me crazy.

An hour later the cleaning stopped, and the shack didn’t look any better than before. Zelda opened a can of green beans and fed it to her boys. Then she lay on the mattress in a fetal position and her boys huddled beside her.

The sun went down, extinguishing the light inside. One of the puppies on the porch started whining, scratching the door. The bold rat skittered back and forth under the couch.

I couldn’t sleep, just sat there in the dark listening to Zelda and her boys snoring, wondering if I’d lost my mind.

In the morning I took off walking to the EZ Mart two miles away. Seven dollars and some change in my billfold, no car, I had no choice but to come back.

At the EZ Mart I bought ten candy bars for the boys and a forty ounce of Bud Light for Zelda. A guilt purchase, no doubt about it. But I hoped the stuff would smooth things over long enough for me to figure a way to get back to Little Rock.

Chapter 20

There was a black Ford Expedition parked in the yard. One of Zelda’s relatives, I thought. Maybe the one with hot water. On the left side of the house clothes were scattered on the ground. They weren’t there when I left. I noticed a silver-and-black Dallas Cowboys shirt. Those were my clothes.

Zelda stepped out on the porch, a smirk on her lips, the fake diamond stud in her nose. She’d changed the shirt she’d worn since I met her. Same jeans, though.

“Why you throw my clothes on the ground?”

She said nothing, started smiling, bobbing her head.

A man came out of the house: forty-something, my height, but much heavier in the middle. Salt-and-pepper afro. He threw an arm around Zelda and pulled her close. He was wearing a light-blue denim jacket and jeans over white Fila tennis shoes.

Again I asked Zelda why she threw my clothes on the ground.

“This here’s my boyfriend,” she said. “I told him how you choked me yesterday.”

With his free hand the man lifted his jacket a bit, showing the pearl handle of a small pistol tucked in his waistband.

Zelda got loud: “Yeah, motherfucka! You choked me in front of my kids. They were big enough they would’ve kicked your ass. My neck still hurting.” The man nodded, inviting me to try something. “You were big and bad yesterday--come up here and choke me now, motherfucka!”

The walk back I’d rehearsed a long apology, but to hell with that now, with her shouting and talking shit. I crossed to the porch and the man stepped back, put his hand on the pistol.

I put the bag on the porch, turned and walked away, Zelda’s abbreviated motherfuckers following me to the end of the road.

* * * * *

On a bench outside of Wal-Mart, I watched people come and go. A white man in overalls sat beside me and struck up a conversation about Nolan Richardson, the former University of Arkansas basketball coach.

It started raining, moving east to west, bringing a dank smell with it. A van pulled up and the white man got into it, rolled the window down and told me to have a good day. The rain ceased, but the sky turned black.

An hour or so later I got up and started walking. Thick fog hovered above the highway, forcing me to walk in a ditch in fear of the infrequent headlights appearing out of nowhere.

Each step the air felt cooler. At the Willie Powell sign I stopped and reminded myself that I didn’t have any other option but to go up to the house.

If I humbled myself before Uncle CJ, told him the truth--I blew the money, didn’t have a ride back to Little Rock--he would tell Beverly or Jackie to feed me, and he would tell one of his sons to drive me to Little Rock in the morning.

But if I did that Uncle CJ would also give me that look, the same look when he snatched the rifle out of my hand and gave it to Shep. And Aunt Jean would crack jokes all night long.

Uh-uh.

Uncle CJ wouldn’t cry over a few dollars missing from his safe. Hell, he might not even notice the difference. The minute I got off the bus in Little Rock I would find a job, save up enough money, and mail every dime back to him, maybe more than I borrowed.

Stomach growling, I started toward the house.

One light was on in a second-story window, emitting a fuzzy, yellow glow in the fog. Probably the witch reading instructions to a spell.

Two blocks from the house I slid under the fence and sat down at the base of an oak tree. And waited. Freezing now. Regretted not picking up a long sleeve shirt before leaving Zelda’s shack. An owl hooted from somewhere close. That was an omen I didn’t heed.

The light in the window went out and I waited an hour before getting up. As I neared the side of the house, a single bark broke the silence, followed by a cacophony of barking dogs, coming closer and closer.

Damn, I’d forgotten about the dogs. I ran and flattened my back against the wall, my heart pounding so hard my chest hurt. The hounds materialized, encircling me, yapping, fog flowing out their mouths, making a helluva racket.

They suddenly realized I wasn’t a threat, or maybe they recognized me, and scampered off in search of something more interesting than a man shaking like a leaf.

Again I thought to knock on the door, ask for food and board, and deal with the humiliation.

But no lights came on inside the house, and no one came out to see what had caused the ruckus.

I crossed the yard to Uncle CJ’s office. The door was unlocked. I stepped inside and stood there looking at the house for a long time. No way could I justify being in here. I felt my way to the safe.
Shit!
It was locked.

No other choice but to knock on the door now.

Instead I crossed to a truck parked in the yard. The door was unlocked. The keys were in the ignition. This was Uncle CJ’s truck. His new truck. Not even ten thousand miles on it.

Fuck it!

I hopped in and started the engine and backed it up to the office door, then got out, dropped the tailgate, and ran to the back of the house, sweating big time, large drops raining down my head, causing my underarms to itch.

Waiting, listening for movement inside the house, I figured to park the truck in Little Rock and then call the police and tell them where it was located.

Nothing happened. I tiptoed inside the office. The damn safe was heavier than I thought. I couldn’t push it with my hands, so I eased down between it and the wall and pushed with my back. It slid a few inches across the hardwood floor.

I stopped, went back to the door and stared at the house. Back to the safe, moving it another few inches, and then back to the door. Push and look. Push and look. Push and look. Now my clothes were soaking wet.

Getting it near the doorway I saw another problem. The tailgate was lower than the office floor. No way could I push the safe onto the truck bed without making a noise loud enough to wake someone up.

A blanket, that’s what I needed to cushion the fall. But where the hell would I get a blanket this time of night?

Fuck it!

A second after the safe landed I would be behind the wheel.

Again I hunched down and flattened my back against it. All a sudden the office lit up in a bright white light. My heart skipped two beats.

A voice outside said, “You need some help with that?”

I stood up, and was blinded by the light. Stepped out with my hands up. What seemed like a lifetime I stood there, wondering when the police would step forward and handcuff me.

The light moved away from my face, and when my sight returned I saw Uncle CJ, Aunt Jean, Beverly, Jackie, Vince, Dexter, and Isaac standing a few feet away, everyone in night robes. Each wore the same expression, mildly shocked, as if viewing yet another birth of a two-headed pig. No one said a word.

I stared at their feet, slippers and house shoes, racking my brain for a good lie.

“Ten…nine…eight…”

Uncle CJ would count down to zero and the Powells would all rush me and kick my ass.

“…seven…six…five…”

I wouldn’t fight back, simply take whatever they dished out.

“…four…three…two…”

The pause after two was longer, much longer. I looked up to see what was the problem, and stared at the double-barrel shotgun Uncle CJ was holding. Hadn’t noticed it at first.

“One!”

I ran, just as the shotgun exploded, the loudest sound I’d ever heard. Down the road, onto the highway, I continued running, not looking back. Lungs burning, a stabbing pain in both sides, I slowed down to a jog, then a fast walk.

That close, and Uncle CJ had missed. The next time he wouldn’t. I started running again, but stopped less than a block away.

Stooped over, holding my knees, I realized Uncle CJ and family weren’t chasing me. They hadn’t even started; would’ve caught me a long time ago if they had. And Uncle CJ hadn’t missed; he didn’t want to shoot me. One of them would tell Mama, and she would be crushed.

Goddamn!

What the hell was I thinking? Even if I’d gotten away, no way in hell could I have opened the damn safe?

Nothing else to do but walk, all the way to Little Rock.
A hundred fucking miles!

Headlights came toward me and I moved off the shoulder of the road. The car slowed but kept going. I watched the taillights turn bright red and a strobe light toss red and blue patches on the trees. The car backed up. Stopped. Running crossed my mind, but I didn’t have the energy.

A tall, heavyset black man in a beige uniform got out of the green-and-white cruiser. Shining a flashlight in my face, he shouted over the hood, “Keep your hands where I can see them! Come here!”

Hands held high, I walked over to him.

“Where you going this time of morning?” I told him Little Rock. “Walking? Put your hands on the hood, spread your legs.” He patted me down. “Let’s see some ID.” I got out my wallet, handed him my license. He looked at it and then shined the flashlight in my face again. “Deal honest with me, what’s your drug of choice? Meth? Crack? T’s and Blues?”