The Union (4 page)

THREE

A slight glare from the sun’s rays squinted through a crack in the window shade as Mox sat at the foot end of his twin sized bed finishing off a second bowl of cinnamon toast crunch. His attention was on the exclusive news flash that came across the 32 inch screen in front of him.

It had been ten months since the World Trade Center bombing and the magnitude of the destruction was still inconceivable. He watched as video recordings played back the frightening incident that touched the world. All of his thoughts were on the families that suffered the loss of a loved one and how their lives were abruptly transformed within minutes; and he could identify with them. He felt the same pain they did.

The fateful loss of his parents was still fresh on his brain and the only way to cease the recurring visions was to find out the truth.

Mox placed the empty cereal bowl on top of the television and looked down at Priscilla while she peacefully slept.

 
Reaching down, he tugged lightly on the bed sheets, exposing her nudeness. Her skin was flawless; like an airbrushed model in a print magazine. She was delicate, like an invaluable piece of art, and extremely enticing.

Mox crawled into bed behind Priscilla and inhaled her sweet essence. The pleasurable aroma got him excited and his manhood began to pulsate. It escaped through the slit in his boxer shorts and tickled her ass cheek. He reached around, put his hand between her warm, moist thighs and let his middle finger slip into her kitten.

Priscilla moaned.

Seconds later, her love syrup dribbled down Mox’s knuckle.

She reached back and caressed his hardened manhood and whispered. “Get a condom.”

Mox rolled onto his back and snatched a condom off the small wooden nightstand. It was out the wrapper and on his dick in one breath.

He shoved himself halfway inside of her.

Priscilla’s walls tightened and she squeezed his muscle.

Mox went deeper.

“Oohh… Mox.”

He held her shoulder with his left hand and gripped her waistline with his right. The speed of his stroke increased by the seconds and the slapping sound of her soft ass cheeks against his well sculpted thighs grew louder.

Priscilla buried her face in the pillow and continued moving in rhythmic motion. Grunts of pleasure escaped her lips and she climaxed for the second time.

“Yes, Mox! Fuck me!”

Her assertive sex talk always turned him on.

Mox flipped her onto her stomach and proceeded to thrust himself deep inside of her until he reached his peak.

They rolled over, exhausted, sweaty and out of breath.

Priscilla looked in Mox’s eyes. She wiped the sweat from his forehead and kissed his lips.

“What’s wrong?” She questioned, noticing his mind was someplace else.

The expression on his face was silent and his eyes held a puzzled stare.

“Nothing, why you ask?”

Priscilla sat up in the bed. “Because Mox, we just finishing fuckin’ and now you act like you do want me to touch you.”

“It’s not that Priscilla.”

“Well, what is it?”

Mox rubbed his shiny bald head, pondering. “It’s this whole situation with my parents—it ain’t adding up to me, things don’t feel right.”

 
“Mox, listen.” Priscilla got up, walked around the bed and sat on his lap. “I understand how you’re feeling, but you can’t let this control your life.”

The frustration in the pit of his soul was boiling. Priscilla had no idea what it was like to wake up to a bloodbath. To watch your parents, especially your mother, take their last breaths in front of you. Maybe she did go through a few things, who hasn’t? But whatever her troubles were, they had no similarities to Mox’s experience.

“Stop comparing your situation to mine,” Mox moved Priscilla off his lap and got up. “It’s different, you still got your mother; she’s alive.”

“Mox, you know I don’t fuck wit’ my moms.”

“That’s because you choose not to. I never had a choice… this shit was cast upon me like a death ridden plague.”

“So, what are you gonna do?”

He picked a towel up and tossed it to Priscilla. “I’ma do whatever I need to do to fix it. Take a shower and get dressed… we going for a ride.”

An hour later, Mox pulled the polished Mercedes to the curb at the corner of 241st and White Plains Road in the Bronx.

As soon as he turned the corner, the area became familiar. His recollection was detailed and vivid, as if a mental picture was embedded in his brain.

His thoughts took him back twelve years and he could see his mother’s 1988 burgundy Nissan Stanza with the one hubcap, a blown out passenger side window that was filled in with a garbage bag, and malfunctioning brake lights.

That was her baby, as she called it.

Priscilla tapped Mox’s shoulder, breaking his concentration. “Why did you pull over?”

He took the key out the ignition and let his head fall back onto the headrest. “When I was younger, my mother used to move around a lot and I was with her most of the time, whether she was going to get drugs or we were going to church… I was right by her side. I saw plenty of things I probably shouldn’t have seen, Priscilla. But at the end of the day, those experiences shaped my way of thinking and forced me to become very observant.”

Priscilla thought about her own trials as a child and how her mother was the total opposite. She admired Wanda’s attempt to be in Mox’s life, unlike her mother, who was always quick to chastise and humiliate her every opportunity she got.

“There are things a child’s eyes shouldn’t see.” She said.

Mox looked into the rearview mirror. “Well, my eyes seen it all.”

“Nobody would watch you for her?”

“The only person she trusted to watch over me was my aunt Sybil and she worked a lot, so I
had
to be with her. Then she had Casey, and it was all three of us running around in these streets.” Mox opened his wallet, pulled out a picture and stared at it. “We would travel all over New York… that’s how I learned the highways and all the major streets in the five boroughs.” It was a photo of him, Casey and his mother in front of Rockefeller Center.

“Can I see?” Priscilla asked, reaching for the picture.

Mox handed it to her.

“Wow,” She smiled. “You and Casey look just like your mother.”

The brothers shared a lot of the same features as their mother, from their dark skin tone and structure of their faces to the size and shaping of their lips and ears.

“Everybody says that.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, where was your father?” She handed the photo back.

“That nigga only came around when he felt it was necessary. If my mother didn’t have no money, he didn’t wanna be bothered with us.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Not really.” He said. “The whole time I knew him, I never felt that father and son bond between us, so his absence didn’t really bother me. It might sound a little awkward, but that’s what it was.”

A silence settled in, and for a few seconds they sat staring into the sky, listening to the sound of passing cars.

Priscilla finally spoke. “So, why are we here?”

“Because I keep gettin’ a vision of this store every time I close my eyes,” Mox smirked. “My mother loved to smoke weed. I remember her bringing me here all the time. We would go to the store over there,” He pointed across the street. “And she would get whatever she needed to get and then we left… I’m hoping one of these dudes can lead me to some information. Maybe somebody in there knows her.”

“Mox, that was more than seven years ago. Do you think the same people still work there?”

He pushed the car door open. “I don’t know, but I’m ‘bout to find out. Come get in the driver’s seat and start the car up.”

“You don’t want me to come with you?”

“Naw, I need you in the car in case something happens and we gotta get outta here.”

Priscilla sat behind the wheel and watched Mox walk across the street. He got to the door, pushed it open and entered.

The inside of the store was just the way he remembered it; cluttered, dimly lit and clouded with smoke from the incense that burned all day. The shelves were overly packed with early dated vinyl records and up to date reggae CDs.

A tall, brown skinned man with a ragged beard and thick, long, golden dread locks stood behind the cash register.

Mox approached the counter, his ears filled with Peter Tosh’s tranquilizing vocals as he sang through the speakers, ‘Wanted Dred & Alive’.

“Yes, young one… how can mi help you today?” His accent strong, but clear enough to understand.

Mox focused his eyes on a painting that covered the back wall. It was a picture of a fair skinned man in a suit with a chiseled face, curly hair and a bunch of medals on his lapel. He was sitting at a table.

“Who is that?” He asked.

“Dat’s Haile Selassie I… him da emperor of E-t-opia fa four decades!” He lifted his right hand and held up four fingers. “He da reincarnation of Jesus Christ, bredren… him gon’ leed us to Zion!”

Mox felt the passion and reverence in his every word. He extended his arm and they bumped fists.

“My name is Mox.”

“Mox, eh... dat’s a very distinctive name, bredren.” He turned and called out to someone in the back. “Tyga!”

“Yah!?” They yelled back.

“Come to de front!... sorry bredren, mi name Lion.” He eyed Mox. “You look familiar bredren, you from ear?”

“Naw, not really.” He said, reaching into his pocket. “I got another question though,” Mox placed the picture on top of the counter. “You know her?”

Lion picked the photo up and looked at it closely. He pulled out a pair of wire rimmed glasses from the front pocket of his shirt and fixed them on his face.

“Bloodclaaat!” He screamed, throwing his hands to the sky. “Tyga, come now!”

“So, you know her?”

Lion sucked his teeth and slowly removed the glasses from his face. Within seconds, his entire demeanor had switched.

A short, dark, broad shouldered Rasta with dreadlocks stumbled out the back room gripping a black 500 Mossberg pump at his waistline.

“Mox meet Tyga, him a shotta! Now you gwan hafta tell mi a lickle more ‘bout why you ear…”

Mox remained calm. “I told you why I was here. That’s my mother in that picture.”

Lion turned and held the picture up to show Tyga.

“Dat’s da dead boy Reginald woman.” Tyga growled.

Mox stared at the husky man holding the shotgun. “Yeah, I’m Reginald’s son.”

Lion whipped his thick, golden locks around and faced Mox. “Reginald your father?”

“Yup.”

“Well, mi do a favor for Reginald; a fifteen tousand dolla favor… and him never pay me back.”

Mox shook his head. He knew where this was going.

“I’m sorry to hear that Dred, but he’s dead now.”

“Yes,” Lion chuckled. “Mi know him dead, but since him your father… now
you
owe me his det!”

Tyga rushed around the counter and put the barrel of the shotgun to Mox’s stomach.

The front door swung open and the nozzle of a double action, black polymer .9 millimeter Baby Eagle was the first thing visible.

“Drop that shit slowly or they gon’ be sweeping them nasty ass dreds off the floor.”

“Tyga!” Lion shouted. “Gun ‘em!”

“Shit!” Mox cursed. “Priscilla, I told you to stay in the car.”