White Lines

WHITE
       LINES

ALSO BY TRACY BROWN

Criminal Minded
Black
Dime Piece

TRACY BROWN

ST. MARTIN’S GRIFFIN
NEW YORK

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WHITE LINES
. Copyright © 2007 by Tracy Brown. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Brown, Tracy, 1974—

White lines / Tracy Brown.

     p. cm.

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-33648-6

ISBN-10: 0-312-33648-9

1. Cocaine abuse—Fiction. 2. African American women—Fiction. 3. Inner cities—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3602.R723W47 2007

813'.6—dc22

2006052210

10 9 8 7 6 5

I grew up in the eighties and nineties, decades when the crack epidemic destroyed families and communities. I witnessed the epidemic up close and personally, and I watched people fall prey to drug addiction. I’ve grieved with friends who lost loved ones to AIDS and other drug-related illnesses. At seventeen, I went to the first of several funerals for my peers, all gunned down in drug wars being waged in the streets where we lived. I watched helplessly as even more of my peers were hauled off to prison for crimes related to the game. The drug trade touched each of us in my generation profoundly. It affected our lives, our politics, the movies that we watched and the music that we listened to. And it destroyed our community piece by piece.

In telling the story in
White Lines,
I want to shed light on every aspect of the drug game to show that no one
ever
wins in this game. There are only losers. The hustlers, the drug addicts, the family members, the friends. Everybody loses in the game. We lose loved ones to addiction, young men and women to tragic early deaths, and we lose years of our lives to incarceration. We lose. In every possible way. Many times the game is glamourized in the entertainment industry. Movies glorify the game, as do music, magazines, and even books. In
White Lines,
my objective is not to glamourize the lifestyle, but instead to call your attention to the pain that the game inevitably causes those who are bold enough to play it.

This story is dedicated to the children of the drug game. To the lost little boys and little girls dealing with the pain of watching a loved one slip away a day at a time. To the husbands and wives forced to pick up the
pieces for a spouse who can’t kick their habit. To the dealers, the pushers, the hustlers who supply the needs of these victims without realizing the destruction of families and communities taking place at their very own hands.

This story is dedicated to love, which conquers all and costs nothing. May it help heal all our wounds, past and present.

Thank you, God, for both the sun and the rain. Without the rain, the sunny days would be taken for granted. So thank you for the lessons and the joy in all things good and bad.

My children, you make every sleepless night, every stressful deadline, and every early morning flight worthwhile. I love you. You are my inspiration.

And, to the love of my life, you inspire me every single day. Thank you for all the ways you contributed to this story and for all the ways you’ve opened yourself up to me without fear. Your insight helped me to breathe life into these characters, and your honesty made me fall deeper in love with you than I ever imagined possible. Even though I have a way with words, your love leaves me speechless. It feels like my life was lived in black and white until you came and filled it with color. Each day together we write a new chapter of our love story—each one more beautiful than the last. I pray that our story never ends.

WHITE
      LINES

January 9, 2007

Born placed the card inside the envelope and handed it to the clerk behind the counter. He walked toward the door of the flower shop, thinking about what he’d written. He hoped Jada would know who the flowers were from, since he hadn’t bothered to sign his name. But more important, he hoped she would be happy to hear from him. After all, so much time had passed, and yet sometimes the pain of their split still felt like a fresh cut. He walked out of the store and toward his Denali parked at the curb. Now all he could do was wait and see if time really did heal all wounds.

Born thought about something his mother had often told him over the years. She said that whatever you claimed to be in life, you’d be tested at. He had always thought that he knew what she meant. God knows he’d been put to the test in his life. Most times, Born had passed those tests. But when the time came for him to be tested at love, it was a different story. That was one test that Born wasn’t so sure he’d passed.

Jada opened the door and saw a deliveryman standing there, smiling. In his hands he held a huge flower arrangement. “Jada Ford?” he asked. Jada did not return his smile but nodded, confirming her identity, and signed for the arrangement.

“Thank you,” she said, in a soft voice. The deliveryman headed back toward the van parked at the curb.

Jada had been accepting flowers for the past two days, all condolences for her mother’s death. Most of the flowers had been sent over by members of her mother’s small Baptist church congregation, who had become the dead woman’s extended family for the past several years. For years Jada’s relationship with her mother had been nonexistent. And then when one did exist, it had been complex. For years Jada had never seen her mother in charge or in control of her own life, or theirs, when Jada and her sister, Ava, had been kids. It had always seemed like they had been responsible for finding their own way in life, responsible for learning all their lessons on their own. The hard way.

But then Edna had finally come out of the shadows, and had claimed her place at the head of her family. She had fought the toughest battles and found solace in the only comforter she ever needed. Then cancer claimed Edna Ford’s life. It was a sad time for Jada, compounded by the fact that she’d spent so much time consumed with the fruitless pursuit of happiness in the gutter of drug addiction. Prior to her death Edna had begun to pick up the pieces of her shattered relationship with Jada. She had watched Jada come back from the dark side, and seen that she had gotten her life together, that she’d regained custody of her son. But there had been some unfinished business between the two of them. Things they still had yet to conquer together. And now it was too late.

Edna’s passing made Jada think about so many things that she had not allowed herself to remember for so long. She could still hear her mother’s terrified voice, still feel the fear that surged through her body every time she watched her mother beaten by J.D. Jada remembered the terror etched on her mother’s face as she curled in on herself to block her husband’s drunken blows. Jada remembered how she used to try and cover her little sister’s
eyes
and ears, to block out the horror they were forced to witness. Jada had resented her mother for not being stronger. She had wanted Edna to fight back. It was no wonder that a woman who
had never been able to fight back in her own defense had been unable to fight for her children’s survival.

Realizing that she was still standing in the open doorway of her home, Jada shut the door and placed the new flowers on the only available space on the table in the foyer. She removed the card that accompanied the latest delivery, and walked into her cozy living room. She sat down on the sofa and tucked her feet snugly underneath her. Opening the card, she read its message:

Jada tucked the card back into its envelope. It bore no signature. None was necessary. She recognized the handwriting, and the familiarity caused a shiver to travel down her spine. Jada laid her head back against the sofa, her back flush against the mountain of pillows. Her eyes were fixed on the smooth surface of the ceiling, and on the prisms of light reflecting through the partially open Venetian blinds, her thoughts far away. Some place so long ago and so bittersweet.

Brooklyn, 1990

“You don’t fuckin’ listen! I told you to come out of that room, Ava. I was knocking on the door, and all I heard was your nasty ass moaning.”

“Whatever, Jada!” Ava smoothed her hair out of her face, and popped her gum.

Jada and Ava knew they were in trouble. They were supposed to be home by the time the streetlights came on. But it had been dark for a while now, and they knew they were in for it. At sixteen and fourteen years old, respectively, boys were their favorite pastime, and they had snuck off to meet a couple of them.

“Whatever my ass. I told you to stop letting these li’l niggas touch on you and hump you and shit.” Jada looked at her sister with disapproval all over her face.

“Jada, stop fuckin’ preaching all the time. I only let Derek do all that. And you ain’t no saint. Don’t sit there and act like you wasn’t in the living room with Marlon being just as nasty. So—”

“So, nothing! I knew when it was time to go home, though. We should have been home a long time ago, but your nasty ass didn’t want to leave. And you never listen to me when I tell you that we gotta go. Whenever we go somewhere together, and you don’t want to leave, I can’t leave you behind. You’re my sister. Anything can happen out here.
And now ‘cause of you, we’re late. You know this muthafucka J.D.’s gonna be beefing all night now.”

They walked through the streets of Brooklyn, silenced by worry. Neither of them wanted to face the fury that awaited them at home. They were pretty little ghetto superstars, mulatto girls with glowing complexions and encompassing eyes. Their mother was a blend of French and black, and their father was of Jamaican descent. They had a look that made them stand out from the rest, yet they still had a grit about them that was undeniably hood. The sisters were quite different in personality. Jada was bold, almost wild and adventurous. Everybody in the neighborhood—even the grown folks—knew Jada by name. She was always on the scene. Always with the latest slang and the loudest mouth. Jada’s soft brown complexion, shoulder-length dark hair, and striking bone structure made her quite stunning.