When I Was the Greatest (19 page)

John sat there for a second. He wiped some of the tired off his face.

“I understand,” he said. “Word is bond. I ain't no snitch neither.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Doris demanded.

“That means that what he tells me—us—stays right here in this room, got me?” He nodded his head at Doris to make sure she understood.

It felt good to know that John had come back to cool. All that foot-putting-down wasn't hitting on nothing.

“Okay,” I said, feeling like maybe I could breathe again. “Tasha invited us.”

“Who exactly is us?” my mother asked. Then she thought about it. “No, wait, let me guess. That Noodles went too, didn't he?” Whenever something went wrong, he was that Noodles.

“Yeah, but Needles was with us too,” I said quickly, hoping that Needles's name would soften the blow, since she had a soft spot for him.

“Needles! Lord! Y'all dragged that sweet child into y'all's mess? Y'all really are something,” she fumed, looking at John, shaking her head. “And exactly what happened at this party, Ali?” I swear, my mother was getting her TV lawyer on.

“Nothing. We partied,” I said. Short and to the point.

“Nothing?” Doris said, once again looking at me sideways.

“Nothing?” John followed up like a bratty little sister playing copycat.

“I mean, not nothing. Something happened. But nothing to be worried about. Everything is cool,” I quickly assured them.

My father, his eyes squinting, was now taking in my split lip, I could tell. But instead he asked, “What happened to your hand?”

I looked down, and I couldn't believe it—it was swollen twice its normal size. It had blown up like a balloon animal.

“Jesus Christ, what happened!” my mother shrieked, jumping to her feet. She took up my hurt hand and compared it with the other one.

“What happened?” she asked again, this time her voice gentler, more worried. “And I want the truth, Ali! No more beating around the bush!”

So, I laid it out.

“Okay, the truth,” I started. I winced as my mother softly pressed at each finger, which, believe me, did
not
feel good.
My father leaned forward just to make it clear that he was listening as well. I knew part of him wanted to hear this story for no other reason than the fact that it was juicy. He was funny in that way. Immature sometimes but cool about it.

“We went to the party because Tasha works the door, so she let us in. When we got there, everything was chill. Just music, food, drinks, and a bunch of people.”

“What kind of people, son?” My mother closed her eyes when she asked that. It's what she did when she was getting upset.

“All kinds. Lots of girls—well, women, and lots of dudes who seemed to have money. I only say that because of the clothes they were wearing. But I could be wrong, they all might live at home like me, and just borrowed clothes from their homeboys or their fa—”

“Ali!” John said, pissed. I realized I almost slipped.

My mother spun around toward him. “Wait a minute. You knew, didn't you! You knew he was going to that party. That's why you were checking on him!”

“Don't be mad at him, Ma,” I begged. “None of this is his fault!”

She stared up at the ceiling for a second, then turned back toward me. “Ali, I ain't got enough mad for both of y'all, so since you my responsibility, I'm gonna save all the mad for you. And now you're going to tell me exactly what happened.”

“Okay. So we're there, and after a while the three of us split up. Noodles was close to the door talking to Tasha.
Needles was in the corner with his yarn, knitting and staying clear from any trouble. And I was just dancing around, doing my thing or whatever.”

“Get to the point, Ali!” Doris barked.

“Okay, okay! So, long story short, Noodles had gotten into a stupid confrontation that really wasn't his fault. Some guys were trying to chump him. So then Needles comes over to see what's going on and ends up stabbing one of the dudes with one of his knitting needles.”

“He what?” my mom gasped.

“On purpose?” John asked.

“No, fool. Needles wouldn't do that,” Doris insisted.

“He has ticks sometimes,” I reminded my dad. “Y'all seen it, when his arms jerk out. Noodles said that's what he thinks happened. Either way, Needles was trying to protect his brother, and that's all that really matters.

“Of course, after that they start jumping Needles, and Noodles punked out and ran, so I had no choice but to jump in it. And that's really it. I mean, I don't know what else to say.”

I felt kind of embarrassed all of a sudden.

By now my mother had one hand over her mouth and the other fanning back the tears in her eyes. My father was gently rubbing her back.

“I had to. They would've killed him, Ma. I swear.”

The tears started coming down my mother's cheeks, and she started trembling like a child on the first day of the flu. She wanted to say something, but she couldn't speak. Doris is a tough woman, but she did not do well with violence and
fighting. She wasn't even too cool with the fact that I had been boxing all these years, but let it slide because I got to be around Malloy. Plus she knew I was too scared to have a real match anyway. Violence just wasn't her thing, especially when it came to either of her kids, or good, genuine people like Needles. And I don't mean special in the sense of mentally ill, I mean special in the sense of good, genuine people, and that's definitely Needles.

My father stood up. He seemed taller, more like a parent.

“Man to man,” he started, “did you handle yourself?”

I knew what he meant. He knew fighting had never really come easy for me, and wanted to know if I made those guys pay. It's a question that I'm sure my mother wanted to know too, but she'd have never asked.

Without going into detail, I answered, “Yeah.”

He nodded his head and put his hand on my shoulder, squeezing it enough to tell me that I had done the right thing and that he was proud. My mother sank back down on the couch. John walked over to the kitchen and began to fill a few glasses of water.

I sat down next to my mom. I felt terrible. Really terrible. She was totally upset, and it was my fault. Now I didn't know whether to hug her or just ask her to dismiss me.

She pressed her thumb against her eyes and took the water that John brought her. He stood to the side and gulped down his own glass, each swallow oddly loud.

“Is . . . ,” she started, stopped, then started again. “Is Needles all right?”

“Yeah. He's beat pretty bad, but he's okay. I got him home and took care of him.”

She nodded and flashed me a half smile. That smile let me know that she was mad at me for going but happy I took care of my friend. That I did what they taught me to do, take care of the folks I love. I could tell Doris knew I did what I had to do. So, feeling like she wasn't too too mad, I laid my head on her shoulder.

She drank the rest of the water, and after a few seconds she bounced her shoulder just enough for my head to pop up.

“You know you in trouble, right? I mean, grounded. Big-time. We'll talk about it tomorrow,” she said, her voice suddenly calm. Sleep was all over the room. We were all exhausted. John was leaning against the wall like a zombie.

“And maybe have Malloy look at that hand tomorrow too, if your mother lets you out,” John suggested.

I didn't say anything. Just nodded and made my way back to bed.

12

The next morning I woke up later than usual, probably because I hadn't gone to sleep until four in the morning. My face felt heavy, sore, and I knew that there would probably be a bruise. I was in no hurry to rush to the bathroom to see it; I knew it was there. I could feel the blue color. I held my hand in front of my face. It looked like one of those big foam hands you get when you go see the Yankees or the Knicks, except it was stiff and throbbing. I've never seen either of them live—the Yankees or the Knicks—but I've seen those hands on TV enough. John always said he'd take me and Jazz to get one, but never did. I don't think it's because he didn't want to. I just don't think he could ever afford it.

I eased out of bed like an old man, my body cramped and stubborn. The TV in the living room was buzzing with its usual “You are not the father.” Jazz was having her daily coffee in the form of trash talk shows. I could smell that she had cooked. Bacon. Eggs. French toast maybe. But my smelling breakfast was interrupted by my suddenly wondering
whether or not I was going to tell Jazz what happened last night. I knew she'd wonder why I was staying in the house all day, which I surely would be, for who knows how long. Maybe I would tell her I just wanted to spend some time with her. But she ain't dumb. Plus she'd notice my swollen hand and bruised-up face and have a heart attack, and go right into mother role, trying to ice it, heat it, wrap it. I'd look like a mummy when she got through with me.

I would have to tell her then. But I knew she wouldn't do well with news that I got into a fight, and that Needles got beaten pretty bad. So maybe I'd leave that part out, the part about Needles. No matter how old she acted, some things were still too much for her. Doris could barely take the news, so I knew Jazz would be crushed. So I decided to just not say anything at all about it, then shoot from the hip when she started asking questions.

The light from the hallway blinded me for a second. I thought about how this must be what it's like to go to heaven—walking toward the blinding light, with the smell of bacon and eggs all around. Jazz was jumping from the talk shows to the news and back to the talk shows. It was all so predictable.

The floor creaked.

“Ali?” Jazz called, sort of excited.

Just the sound of her saying my name made my eyes water. I don't know why, but it did.

“Yeah,” I said, turning the corner so she could see me.

She, hopped off the couch and ran toward me, almost tripping over her oversize socks, my socks, dragging behind
her like two tails on her feet. She threw herself at me, wrapping her arms tight around my waist and squeezing as hard as she could, which wasn't very hard, but hard enough for me to be reminded again that I had been fighting the night before.

“You okay?” she asked me, her head pressed against my chest.

“Of course. Why?” Why was she asking me this?

She pulled away so that I could see her face. This morning she looked innocent. No grown woman stuff. No old soul–ness. She looked eleven.

“Y'all were making so much noise last night, I couldn't sleep,” she said. I felt my heart drop to my knees. “I wasn't listening, Ali, but I could hear, y'know?”

Now her little face was all tensed up. This is why I didn't want her to know about this. Another layer of guilt came over me.

“Let's sit down,” I said, taking her hand, walking her back over to the couch. “I'm fine. Everyone is fine, Jazz.”

“Even Needles?”

“Even Needles.” At least I hoped so.

Jazz wiped a tear from her cheek, but more kept rolling down. She grabbed a napkin from the table, where two plates were set, both empty, except for crumbs of bacon and bread dust.

“Dang, Jazz, did I sleep too late? You ate mine and yours?” I asked, laughing, trying to lighten the mood.

“No, man,” she said, looking at me more like her usual young-old self. “When I came out here this morning, Dad was knocked out on the couch. So I made him a plate.”

“Dad?”

My dad hasn't slept here since . . . I don't even remember the last time! For Doris to actually let him stay was big. I mean, it was late and all, but still. My mother is the type of woman who, once she puts her foot down, it's down, no matter how late it is. It wouldn't have surprised me at all if she sent him packing in the middle of the night. But she didn't.

“Yep. He was laid out just like a little baby. I couldn't believe it.”