The Residue Years (29 page)

You hear of fools losing new car money in a night, losing that much and returning the next day, hear of games going all night
and through the morning, shoot-outs that start with bet the dub and end with two men standing and heaps of cash. And if the games are legends, Mister's (it's almost impossible to beat the inexhaustible bank) the hero, mythic for winning big, for never getting duped by a scheme nor jerked on a debt.

Mister smooths his tie, brushes dust off his knee, gives Red, who's holding his sport coat, a clutch of wrinkled hundreds. He blows on the dice and shakes them near his head. Taking all bets, gentlemen, he says. Tonight's a good night. Tonight could be your night. His first roll shows four and five, and he scoops the dice and rubs them together. Who else wants a shot at the bank? he says, and taunts the reluctant into wary side bets. Mister kisses the dice and shoots. He shoots and shoots and shoots. You could fall out and die waiting for him to hit his point or crap out, and, shit, I almost do. But he does—he hits it and sends Red around to collect the loot.

The hope, a foolish hope, fleets that his mood is such he might forgive what I owe. We (the
we
being anyone with even a toe in the streets) all know if you owe this man a cent, you pay this man that cent, or else.

Don't leave, gentlemen. Please, he says. He gives the dice to an old head and signals me and I follow him into a room cordoned by a dingy curtain and stacked with dusty crushed boxes. The room is either twice as hot as anyplace or else the day's long dread is a flame in my gut.

It's about last night, I say.

Mister throws up his hand. So I hear, he says.

You heard? I say.

A long shadow flits past the curtain. The dice game kicks into a next round.

He moves closer and rolls his shoulders.

Did I ever tell you how well Red could swim? he says. Did I ever tell you how strong he was, how fast? Back home, we never lived more than a bike ride from the beach. We lived that close and my brother was always there, always in the water. Don't know why, but this one day I decided to go with him. Not too long after we got to the beach, we started woofing about who could do what, and who was the best and biggest and strongest. The woofing ended with a bet to see who could swim out the farthest. On the face the bet was a no-win for me. Anyone who'd ever seen us near water knew Red was twice the swimmer I was. Red knew he was twice the swimmer I was, but I knew what he didn't. We both dove in and right off Red was Red, out front going fast and strong, while I lagged stroking slow and steady. I kept the same pace until I passed the buoys, until I couldn't see my brother swimming beside or ahead of me. I swam till I was out so far that the current was tugging me where it wanted. Got out that far and swam farther, swam as a matter of fact until I thought I might die. That's when I turned and headed back. It took every ounce of me to make it to shore, Mister says. And collapsed as soon as I touched the sand. The next thing I knew, Red was standing over me shaking his head, calling me crazy, asking me how I did what I did, claiming it must've been a trick. He hovered until I caught my breath. He asked again and I told him yes, it was a trick. And the trick was, he swam worried the whole way whether he'd make it back to shore, but making it back was never the bet.

Mister walks over, parts a crack in the dirty curtain, and shows me his brother ghosting over the game, mute and thoughtless, a sport coat (Mister's coat) draped over an arm. Look, Mister
says. I love him, but he and I are not the same. Mister eclipses the space between us and turns to me. But the question is, which one of us are you?

Mister unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves and gapes at me and my one safe resort is to look away.

Hold tight, he says, and saunters into the gambling room. I can feel myself shrink while he's gone, hear broken parts in the unfit machinery of me. If I were braver, I'd mention my plans to buy the house and ask/beg for tolerance. That's what I would do if my nuts weren't, right this very second, the size of mustard seeds.

Mister returns carrying a strap in plain view, its barrel facing the floor. He hands it to me by the grip. It's black and sleek, with its serial number scratched off, and feels lighter than you'd imagined it would.

So this, this, is why these niggers feel super. Held this shit for all of a nanotick and now, this very instant, I'm as gallant as a nigger with nothing whatsoever under the sun of value to him to lose.

They take from you. They take from me. And we can't have that problem, mister says. You don't want that problem, he says. With them or with me.

I'm going to get you what I owe, I say. All of it.

Mister slaps me on a trapezium and smirks a smirk to melt my face. Sure you will, he says. Sure you will, and soon. That's the way this works.

And you don't know what that means.
—Grace

Should've seen me.

In the lobby fighting myself. We can't do this. We can. We can't do it without him. We can. What's different about where it will come from? Should've seen me a foot in and a foot out the door, riding the elevator for trips. But in the end, what else can I do?

My eldest answers dressed in a tank top and basketball shorts and this is the first time I've noticed his arms, a man's arms, protective. I need you, I say, and fall into him. He catches me, holds me up, presses his chin to the top of my head. I step back and gather and we step inside. He pulls out a chair for me at the table.

Is this about Big Ken? he says. The custody?

How do you know? I say.

He mentioned it, Champ says. But I didn't think he meant to see it through.

Well, he has, I say. Or he intends to. I'm scheduled to go to court.

Court? he says. When?

In a month, I say. Champ, I thought I could do it on my own but I can't. I can't keep fighting this fight by myself.

You're right, he says. So what now?

We need a lawyer, I say. Can you pay for one?

He sighs from someplace other than himself. He drops his head and rubs above his eyebrows. He lifts his eyes and looks away and looks at me.

What's wrong? I say.

Timing, he says. You wouldn't believe this timing.

So do you have it? I say.

No, I don't, he says. But how much do you need?

Forget it, I say. I'll find a way.

No, you won't. I will, he says. How much?

He leans into a shaft of light and you can see a tiny scab on the high side of his face, see flecks of red in the white of an eye. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know, I say. Whatever you can spare and I'll make do.

He ventures into his room. There's the sound of the closet door sliding open, of Kim murmuring. This while I jitter in my seat and wonder whether I should stay or leave, whether this is yet another test of what I sacrifice
every
time the time comes. Champ slugs out and plops in his seat. Let's start with this, he says, and slaps down the key to the Honda. It's attached to a silver key chain. That and now this, he says. He takes out a knot, counts out a stack, and lays it in front of me. I don't pick it up to count. Whatever it is, it's what I need. What I should know not to accept.

My God, I say.

Mom, let's leave Him out of this, this time, he says. You came for help and here it is. My help.

Son, thank you for this. For all you've done.

We listen to what wafts in from the street, a motorcycle revving by, the shrill voices of kids. Kim, in leggings and a tentish
shirt, totters over to us and she lifts the bills off the table showy and sets them down. Wow! Looks like you won the lotto, she says.

I scoop the money off the table and dump it in my bag. How's my grandbaby? I say. How are you?

Me, still instasick every morning, Kim says. But she's just fine.

Did you say she? I say.

Yes, she says. He didn't tell you? Your son will soon have a baby girl to care for. He might want to start practicing now.

I throw Champ a look and he shrugs and says that he's sorry, that he meant to mention it sooner.

Kim wanders over and checks herself in the hall mirror—pinches her thigh, turns this way and that way—and groans. She takes out a jacket and wrestles on the sleeves. Oh, I sooo can't do this, she says.

You sooooo can't do what? Champ says.

Look! she says.

Why don't you quit complainin and get some that fit? he says. It's simple if you ask me.

She toddles over and poses. All right, Mr. Simple, she says. You must be feeling generous today.

What about what I gave you last week? he says.

That was last week, she says.

He looks to the ceiling. This isn't a good time, he says.

Oh, so you don't care if I feel like this another week? she says.

He thumbs what looks like less than he gave me and holds it up for her to grab. Take care of me, you take care of her, she says. She pecks him above his eye and dodders out, the sweetest scent in her wake.

He apologizes for Kim, but I shrug it off. He asks if I'm
hungry and tells me to stay put and goes into the kitchen. He fixes us breakfast—sausage, eggs, toast—which is more than I thought he could do. He makes me a place setting and serves me with that gap-toothed grin of his and sits across the table with his back against the chair and his elbows off the table just like I taught him when he was a boy.

Since when did you start cookin? I say, forking a mouthful.

Since I live with a girl who scorches meals on the reg, he says.

A man can only stand but so much suffering.

She'll get better when the baby comes, I say. And the baby will be here before you know it. How are you two doing otherwise?

You just seen it, he says. And that's been for weeks.

Hormones, I say. The first time's the toughest. Be kind. Be patient.

Yeah, the estrogen attitudes I get, he says. But she's been talking marriage.

Has she? What's wrong with that? I say. That is how it's supposed to be done.

Says who? he says. Not for me. A father now, yes. But a husband, hell no.

Champ, that's foolish, I say. And selfish. Don't be so selfish. You've got to learn to give, son. More than what's in your pocket.

We finish and he digs the bag—it's as swelled as it was when New Years I brought it back—from a closet stocked with boxes for my grandbaby. He carries it out behind me to the Honda. It's filthy; its hood and roof are painted with bird drops. He drops the bag and kicks a hubcap. As you can see, it's been sittin since you left it, he says. It wouldn't be a bad idea to spend a few bucks on new juice. He loads the bag in the trunk while I circle the car
checking for dents or a low tire. I climb inside and he closes the door and stands at the window while I settle, while I grip the wheel and let it go, while I adjust the seat and shift, while I flip the visor and case myself in the mirror.

He motions me to lower the window. He ducks inside and keeps balance on his arms.

If it ain't enough let me know and we'll see what else we got, he says.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, I say, and ask if he can get his brothers together before we go to court.

Done, he says. I got you.

Yes, you do, Champ, I say. And you don't know what that means.

He taps the car and backs a step away.

Do you really think it's selfish? he says.

Do it for you. For you and for her and the baby. Champ, you have to believe me. Living against the risk of love is no way to live.

She points to the sky, to where birds sail high and silent, a prayer in flight, their flock formed in the shape of a V.

How are we supposed to do that?
—Champ

This stays between us PEOPLES.

The us being you and me. The us being you and me and no one, meaning—No. One.

That cool?

Okay cool, if it's cool with you then put that on something.

As a matter of fact, swear on what you need.

Mom says I'm selfish, but that ain't it and though I can't, no, I won't say it to her, she should know. All this time I didn't bare it because I couldn't and I couldn't because there was only so many times she could leave before the next time was it, before the next time turned me into another me. Wasn't but so many times before that happened and I knew, even back then when I knew next to less than nothing, to be scared of who I'd become. So I put this abject slab where neither she nor no female could reach it forreal. And that's where it's been for so long you can't know, where it's been stashed until just this blink. But between us (what's your word worth?), I'm going to risk it out again for my mother. It's time to chance it out a last time for Grace and for me.

For the address that Jude gave, there ain't no sign at all, just some copper-colored numbers (damn near nondescript) painted on a
metal door smack between a tax prep business and Lock and Key Security. How I know, the windows of the others are scripted with company names, with phone numbers and slogans, the whole nine. The blinds are drawn to the window of Jude's business, got me questioning whether I wrote the address down right or not. Even more uneasy, cause where Jude's office is (or should I say where I hope it is) is out here where I don't much roll, where most of the people I know don't go either. Am I surprised when he answers? Let's just say I wouldn't have been shocked if he didn't. Hey, he says with the zealousness of someone who's lived evidence that the world plays fair. He slaps a sweaty palm in mine and invites me in. He tells me to have a seat and smashes into the leather office chair beneath a gargantuan plaque.

The Real Estate Guy

BUY. SELL. INVEST.

SINCE 1990

The office is sparse. An oak desk, metal crates stuffed with manila files, tweed-seat chairs pushed flushed against a wall, FOR SALE signs stacked in a corner. Jude tells me to pull up a seat and pushes a slab of bound sheets at me with the words BIG BUST written on the cover. I scan the top pages, peek to see Jude reclined in his chair, his super-sized dome pressed against the wall below his plaque. When the market is strong, people think the goodness will last forever, Jude says. That they've stumbled upon the gleaming gold gates of the kingdom of fortunes. And history says that's all the people need to toss the old rules right out a high-rise window. Jude blathers (imagine a hella-effeminate Don LaFontaine) minutes more of voice-over, and might keep on if I don't speak up.