Saving Room for Dessert (21 page)

“What, you thinkin’ you coulda stopped him?”

“I don’t know! Yeah! Maybe! What the fuck … I don’t know.”

“You say this shit happened in ’68?”

“Yeah.”

“And he made it till last Christmas? That’s what, thirty years? Thirty years in a chair? Damn, Man had some kinda guts, you
ask me. Somebody told me I was never goin’ walk again? Much as I like to run and shit? I’d be reachin’ for my piece ’fore
the sun went down.”

“Rayf? Excuse me, but this is not about you.”

“I know it ain’t. I’m just sayin’ the man had a ton a guts. Motherfuckin’ ton more than I’d have, James, that’s all I’m sayin’.
Jesus, sentenced to a chair for thirty years? Damn!”

“Yeah. And the cracker that did it—”

“Yeah. What about him? That motherfucker, what’d he get?”

“Two to five, out in three.”

“Out in three?! Woo-ee, that’s some evil shit. Sometimes, James, I swear, life is the motherfuckin’ unfairest shit there is.
But, James, look at me, man. Look in my eyes now.”

“Huh?”

Look at me, James. You can’t go there, you hear? You can have that dream all you want. You can be schemin’ all you want, you
can plan it out all you want, James, you can vis-u-a-lize it, man, see every motherfuckin’ .22 go in that motherfucker’s flesh,
but you can’t be doin’ that shit, you hear me? You cannot do that, James.”

“Why? Why’s this prick different from all the slopes I killed in Nam? I didn’t have anything against those people. I didn’t
know them from that utility pole over there. This prick, I hate him with every cell in my body.”

“That was war, man, c’mon! Government said they was the enemy.”

“Oh, Rayf, man, please. In Nam, you’d be out there diggin’ up mines, tryin’ to keep a road open, kids’d come along tryin’
to sell you a can of Pepsi. That night, soon as it got dark, those same kids’d be out there helpin’ their fathers plant new
ones. And girls, girls that would spread their legs in the late afternoon? They’d cut your throat that night. I laid one for
five dollars one day, two nights later I dusted her right before dawn. She made it to within three steps from my LP before
I heard her.”

“Your what?”

“Listening post.”

“Well that’s what I mean, man, it was war. It was official, signed, sealed, executive orders, presidential orders, congressional
orders, whatever the fuck name they wanna put on ’em, you were there under orders, man, in uniform, under your flag. Didn’t
mean shit what the other guys was wearin’ or who they was, kids, ho’s, whatever. But you go down the old country, man, Mississippi?
You ain’t goin’ be wearin’ no uniform, you ain’t goin’ be marchin’ under no flag. And don’t tell me you don’t know that. What
you dreamin’ and schemin’ is murder, man.”

“Wouldn’t be the first.”

“Huh? Say what?”

“Never mind.”

“Wouldn’t be the first? Man, what the fuck are you talkin’ ’bout now?”

“Never mind, I said.”

“Damn, James. Sometimes, I swear on my momma, if I knew where she was, if you ain’t the complicatedest motherfucker I ever
met, I don’t know who is. Don’t talk that shit to me if you ain’t goin’ explain it.”

“You’re the one wanted me to talk. I don’t talk, you get pissed. I talk, you get pissed. Sorry I said anything. C’mon, lets
go. Time to go to work.”

“Oh yeah, now we just s’posed to go to work like nothin’ happen. Right. Shit. Your man eats his gun, you dreamin’ and schemin’
you wanna dust the motherfucker that caused the problem from the git, then you tell me wouldn’t be the first, and I’m just
s’posed to go to work. Hi-ho, hi-ho, off to motherfuckin’ work I go, like Grumpy, Sneezy and all the rest of them dwarfy motherfuckers.
Got-damn, James, you call in sick from now on, I’m goin’ come by your place every day you off, man, and your dago ass better
be in bed. Better never come by your place after you call in sick and find you and your ride gone. ’Cause I’ll know where
you’ll be, man, and you can’t put that shit on me, you hear?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t be puttin’ anything on you. Fact, from now on, we’ll go back to the way we used to be. You tell me all
about your problems, and I’ll help you solve ’em. Whether you want me to or not.”

“Aw, see there? There you go, mockin’ me again.”

“No I’m not. It’s just it was a lot less of a hassle when you were talkin’ and I was listenin’.”

“You a motherfuckin’ mockin’bird, James. I swear, man, sometimes you could piss Jesus off….”

S
WOMETIMES FOR
a cop compassion is a terrible thing—when did James say that? Why’s that important? Why’d I think of that? ’Cause of the
Scavellis or ’cause of those got-damn tests he’s always tryin’ to get me to take. No it’s not, it’s the got-damn Scavellis.
Question is, were they fucked-up
before
their kids died? Or are they fucked-up
because
their kids died? And how the fuck am I supposed to know that? And what difference does it make anyway? If it slows you down
when you have to bust a move, then James is right, compassion is a terrible thing for a cop. ’Cause when Scavelli got a shovel
full of dog shit and is heading for the Hlebecs’ house, what does it matter his kids died in a fire he started? Then is then,
now is now, and no matter how bad I feel for him, I still got to stop his ass.

Oh man, I got to stop thinking ’bout the Scavellis. Hear that shit about that fire, their kids, all I see is my kid. Now how
can your mind get so fucked-up so fast you hear about somebody else’s kids dyin’ in a fire and what you see is your kid fallin’
out the smoke and flames—how the fuck does that happen? What shit goes on in your mind to make that picture? There was no
fire when my kid … no fire when he fell. Just my ignorant-ass, ugly-ass, voodoo-believin’ MIL. James tell me how he wanna
go down the old country run over that cracker, he thinks I can’t appreciate that shit. He don’t know how many times I wanna
throw my motherfuckin’ MIL out the window. Aw, fuck he don’t, told him enough times. Why else he always be tryin’ to get me
to take those McGraw tests?

McGraw. Help McGraw take a bite outta your mind. Oughta make a commercial outta that shit. Hi. McGraw here. And I need your
help to take a bite outta yo’ mind. All y’all needs to do is read my book, life’s little strategies, doin’ what works, doin’
what matters. And be sure’n catch me on
Oprah
every Tuesday where I take a bite outta her mind and anybody else’s mind wantsa sit there and be humiliated on national TV,
tell the world how fucked-up they are. I’m humiliated when there’s just me, Charmane, and the marriage counselor in the room.
Let thirty million people in on how many pieces my shit is in? Not in this life….

Rayford reached into his briefcase and found the steno notebook he’d bought for just this purpose, to take McGraw’s tests
and “be surprised,” according to Reseta, “what you can learn about yourself.”

Rayford had read just far enough into the book to get to the second test. He ran into a wall on that one, so he backed up
to the first test and said maybe he really did have to write the answers down to see whether he was bullshitting himself or
not. He wrote the test down first and studied it for a while to make sure he understood what the assignment really was. “Your
first assignment is to challenge your beliefs right now, by listing in order of significance the top five things in your life
you have simply failed to fully and completely admit or acknowledge to yourself.”

Yeah, right. Like there’s five things in my life I have not fully and completely admitted or acknowledged to myself. Let’s
see now, what would they be? Oh, I know, how’s this for number one? I am an orphan. I don’t know who my daddy was and my momma’s
been gone since I was seventeen.

Number two. I am a nigger. I have been told this in one way or another by every motherfuckin’ honky I ever met. Not only am
I a nigger, I am a schizophrenic nigger. I speak and think two languages. I speak and think nigger. And I speak and think
honky. I can speak and think nigger with the best niggers. And I can speak and think honky with the best honkies—if there
is such a thing as a best honky. Well, shit, there are some. Two at least. Balzic is one. And so is James. If they got bigotry
in their bones, they hide it better than any honky I ever met. Course Balzic got two daughters now. Wonder how he’d be actin’
if I asked one of them for a date. Assuming they looked good enough to take out in public. Though if they look anything like
their mother, they should be awright. On the other hand, if they look like him, Lord have mercy, shame on their ass.

Number three. I have a boy child. I had a boy child. I hold my boy child in my heart every day of my life. I told James he
couldn’t be talkin’ murder in Mississippi, but if I thought dropping my MIL on her head from the second floor would bring
William Junior back, I would’ve dropped the bitch on her motherfugly head four years ago.

Number four. My wife wants to be with her mother more than she wants to be with me. If I murdered my MIL, would my wife come
be with me? If God murdered my MIL, would my wife come be with me? When you die, you dyin’ ’cause you dyin’? Or is God murderin’
your ass? People murder one another, we lock ’em up, put needles in their arm—why don’t we get pissed at God ’cause people
we love die? Why don’t we put God in jail? Why don’t we put him on a table, belt his ass down, stick a needle in his arm,
ask him if he got a statement he wanna make ’bout all the people he kills every motherfuckin’ day. If I coulda got my hands
on God the day I found that ambulance in front of my place I woulda said, motherfucker, pick—you or her. One of you motherfuckers
goin’ die today for this shit. And what do we hear from God’s salesmen? Preacher say this be all part of God’s plan, God got
plans for William Junior. Ours not to question why, ours but to do and die. Yeah, right. Some motherfuckin’ plan. Give me
the child for nineteen months, take him back in one motherfugly second. That’s a plan?

Not a sparrow falls that God don’t see it, Momma told me that every day of her life. I said if he sees it fall why don’t he
be catchin’ it? Why he wanna make it fall in the first place? Smart-ass. Little boy big mouth. Jivin’ my momma about what
she believe. Tell you true, Momma, I saw you tomorrow I’d fall down on my knees and beg you to forgive me for talkin’ shit
on what you believed. Shoulda slapped my face, what you shoulda done. Every time I got smart with you, shoulda slapped me
upside my head. Last person on this earth I got a right to trash what they believe was you. But when you fell, Momma, what
was God doin’, huh? Standin’ there watchin’? Sayin’ whoops, what’d she fall over there for, I had the net over here. Was that
what the motherfucker was sayin’? Is that a bird? Is that a woman? Is that a sparrow? Or is that Miss Rayford? And what little
William goin’ do now without his momma? Who goin’ tell him when he come home from walkin’ through Diablos’ turf with his lip
split and his shirt bloody that it goin’ be awright, you just have to find another way home, little sparrow? Who goin’ tell
him that now, God? Motherfucker? Hey?! You listening?! Who goin’ tell him where she buried, motherfucker? You seen her fall,
you know why she fell, you know where she fell at, I guess that also part of your big plan, motherfucker—you goin’ tell me
someday so I can maybe go put a flower on her grave? Pauper. Indigent. Busted-out nigger woman and her teenage boy don’t have
the first dime’s wortha no insurance, no nothin’. City of Pittsburgh buried her someplace. God knows where. ’Cause those motherfuckers
won’t tell me ’cause either they forgot where or else they never bothered to write it down. But God knows where, ’cause not
a sparrow falls. Oh yeah, William, it’s all part of the plan. Motherfucker just won’t let me in on it.

Stop your monkey mind, William, and get back to the test. Number five. Last part of McGraw assignment number one. “What is
it that you know in your heart is a problem not acknowledged or at least so painful that you avoid it?” Well now tell me,
McGraw, what I need number five for? Ain’t the first four enough? I need another some-motherfuckin’-thing to add to my list?
I don’t think so. I think the first four is about two more than I can carry as it is.

Rayford took McGraw’s book out of his briefcase and turned to dog-eared page 19. Oh listen to this, he said, I love this part,
reading it in a whisper. “I would wager that whatever made your list is at least in part a product of your own behavior. I
also suspect that the main difference between your problems and the more terribly tragic situations we hear or read about
is the result, not the behaviors that led up to it. For aren’t the patterns in your life, and those present in the more tragic
stories, very likely the same? You’ve driven a little too fast down a neighborhood street; you’ve left the kids unattended
while you ran next door ‘for a minute’; blah blah blah. The ‘shocking stories’ are often about people who have done the very
same things. But only because of a tragically different outcome, they wound up in jail, or burying a child, or dealing with
HIV.”

No, motherfucker, it ain’t
them
“burying a child,” it was me. And I don’t care what you or Oprah say, chat shit was not a product of my behavior. I did not
leave my child unattended. I begged Charmane, I begged her ass, don’t be leavin’ our child with that woman! That woman don’t
be watchin’ him! She be watchin’ them motherfuckin’ freak shows. I ain’t goin’ take the rap for this, no motherfuckin’ way.
William Junior’s life is a product of my behavior. William Junior’s death is a product of the behavior of a stupid-ass, ugly-ass,
voodoo-believin’ bitch think it more important to watch idiots screamin’, hittin’, and spittin’ on one another than to watch
the child her daughter put in her care, and if I’m lyin’ I deserve to be dyin’!

And what part of my behavior made me a nigger orphan, huh? What part of this does Reseta think I don’t know about me? What
part of my answer is goin’ light up my mind so I can know me better, huh? And how the fuck is knowin’ me better goin’ get
Charmane back?