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Shorty’s waiting downstairs with a car. He leans against the passenger door, arms crossed, key chain twirling on two fingers. “I heard you got yourself in some trouble,” he says.

I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life. We slap hands. He gives me this look, like he’s not sure what he’s seeing.

Shorty rounds the car as I leap into the passenger seat.

“What are you doing here?” I blurt out.

“Came to get you,” he says, pulling straight into traffic without so much as a wave to the cab he cut off. Horns blare. “Can’t have my best man getting clipped by some island thug.”

“I appreciate it, my man.” I’m looking in the rearview. Lately all I’m doing is trying to outrun one thing or another. After a point, it starts to feel like the easy way is not so easy.

I direct him back to the place I’ve been staying, but only halfway, because he’s Shorty, and like usual he just knows where to turn.

“Grab your things,” he tells me. “We gotta get you out of town.”

I don’t need to be told twice. I’ve had enough close calls in the past few days to last a lifetime. Like always, packing makes me realize how little I have. Nothing of real value except a little cash and some reefer, plus the bundle of letters I can’t make myself throw away. Two duffels and a satchel; I’m ready to fly.

Shorty bundles my bags into the trunk, and we’re off. I smoke some reefer out the window as we coast up the West Side Highway.
Highway
is the word for sure; I breathe the joint deeply.

I sink low in the seat, getting comfortable. Start jawing to Shorty about all the shit that’s gone down the past few weeks, about all the mess he just saved me from. The New York skyline whisks by and before long fades to miniature in the rearview mirror.
Stop looking back,
I remind myself. Better to pretend my old life has already disappeared.

Headed to Boston, 1945

Boston from New York is a long damn ride. All night it feels like. Shorty rubs his eyes. He’s been up for hours and hours, counting the drive down to get me and the quick turnaround.

“I can take a turn,” I offer, meaning to get behind the wheel.

“I doubt it.” Shorty laughs, not really like it’s funny, though. “Homeboy, you’re so high right now, you could float on back to Roxbury.”

He’s right about that. I’ve just been smoking reefer to while away the hours. “It’ll be good to be back,” I murmur, letting my eyes drift closed.

When I wake up, we’re still on the road. But the light is new, a painted sunrise.

“You OK?” Shorty asks out of nowhere. In the small space of the car, his words feel big.

I stretch my arms as wide as I can, against the window and the dash.

“You talked right through your sleep,” he tells me.

“Oh, yeah?” I chuckle. “What did I say?”

Shorty’s quiet. There’s a thing that almost never happens. Between the two of us, someone’s always jawing. He must be tired down to his bones. Like me.

“Thanks for coming,” I say. In the fresh light of day, I can see how it put him out. The long drive down. Finding me. The long way back.

“You’re still my homeboy, ain’t you?” he answers, drumming the wheel. “My namesake, too.”

“What?”

“I’m Malcolm, too,” he reminds me.

I pick my head up and laugh. “That’s right. I forgot. That’s some kinda fluke.” Saying it gives me a flashback, like the words are coming out of my mouth four years ago.

“Naw,” Shorty says. “Things happen for reasons, eh?”

“No reason for something like that,” I say, echoing my old self. I feel like I’m living through my life in reverse.

Our shared name doesn’t really matter. Neither of us is Malcolm anymore. He’s Shorty. I’m Red. I wonder if they’ll call me “Detroit” back in Roxbury now, or if I’ll be just “Red” again. Maybe I can be “Harlem Red.” I like the sound of that.

“I was making good in Harlem,” I tell Shorty. “I wouldn’t ever have left.” Even through my high, leaving there hurts like a giant bruise, one that covers every inch of me.

My body is tired of trying to heal. It’s funny — life deals me these punches, and I always get knocked down. But I keep finding a way to get up again. Must be there’s some kind of fight in me, somewhere.

“I used to have this dream,” Shorty says. “Over and over again, you know?”

I nod. We’re driving through a stretch of trees so thick that where the road curves up ahead, there’s no way to tell what’s around the corner. Boston could be right there, or it could be a hundred miles down the road. I think about the map my brothers and sisters gave me. It’s buried down in the bottom of my duffel, along with their letters. I don’t know where I am in the world.

“I’m with my mama,” he goes. “A little kid, right? Like six or seven.”

I finger the rubber crack where the window goes into the door. I wonder if everyone has that kind of dream. It never occurred to me to wonder.

“We’re just in the house, you know. And there’s plenty on the table. It’s a good day, coming to an end, but even though it’s dinnertime, the sun never goes down.”

His words are rhythmic. Lulling.

“It’s more perfect than it ever was in real life,” he goes on. “I forget about leaving. I look out the window, and I know that this is where I want to be forever. It’s home.”

Shorty glances at me. His wrist rides high on the steering wheel. We glide into the brightening sky. “You ever had a dream like that?” he asks.

I fidget. I don’t know why he’s telling me this. “What of it?”

“It’s just a dream,” he says. “I haven’t had it in a while.”

I’m not prepared for how great it is to be in Roxbury again. I’m riding high. My reputation precedes me — Harlem’s hottest hustler, Detroit Red, is back and he’s black and he’s looking sharper than ever. It seemed like a backward step at first, but now I know going back was the only way to show how far I’ve come.

I have a fleeting thought, from nowhere, about Mr. Ostrowski. I’m not just a nigger anymore; I’m
the
nigger! I want to serve it to him for breakfast, push it right into his bloated red grinning face.

People can’t get enough of me, but despite the enthusiastic reception, mostly I want to get high and lie around. I haven’t slept properly in a hundred years. I’ve been dozing with one eye open as long as I can remember, trying to keep a step ahead of the law.

If I thought I’d felt safe at Sammy’s place, it’s nothing compared to how I feel to be back at Shorty’s. I’m lucky enough to catch him between roommates, my old room wide open and waiting. If I get high enough, lie still enough, play the music loud enough, I can almost believe that my whole life in Harlem was a dream.

I play records through the day and into the evening. Shorty’s off playing a gig somewhere or other. He’s invited me to watch, but rest is what I need right now. I lie on the couch and just listen to the greatest of the greats jam on vinyl.

There’s a knock at the door.

Sophia. Dressed in yellow and white, clutching a tiny pearl handbag. Wearing a smile that’s everything but innocent. “I heard you were back in town.”

I keep the door half closed, blocking her entry with my body. “I heard you’re married now.”

“He’s in the army,” she says. “I hardly see him.”

“The war’s over,” I remind her.

She shrugs it off. “I still want to see you.”

Yeah. Seeing her makes it all complete. Moving the needle back to the edge. Except I’m not playing the same tracks over. I’m living the B side.

“You’re not going to let me in?” She pouts. Beautifully. There is nothing about her that fails to draw me. Nothing that would ever make me turn her away.

“Maybe I don’t want to share anymore,” I say. “Maybe I’ve got plenty of women.”

Sophia puts her hand on the door anyway. I kick it wider and let her in. My refusal was only a game. It will always be her and me. We both know it.

She wears her smooth blond hair neatly coiled into waves, exactly like you see on the big screen. I cozy a little closer, run my fingers through those locks. I shiver. Never felt that kind of silk on anyone else. She tilts her head to look at me, and the hair falls over her eye. I lift it back behind her ear. She smiles. Red lips, white teeth. She doesn’t stop me from leaning in. I take her mouth. She tastes like milk and honey liquor. Pure and sweet and potent, and, I swear, she makes me high.

“Baby,” I say. “I didn’t know nothing about a kiss till I met you.”

She slides her arms around my neck. The low sound in her throat is something sacred.
I don’t need no church,
I think.
Let me worship at the altar that is her.

“I have to go,” she says, looking over at the door. “My husband will be waiting.”

“Don’t lie,” I whisper, right against her cheek. “This is what you came for.”

She moves her hands at the base of my neck. The muscles are tight, eager. Her long, soft fingers knead them gently.

I nuzzle her throat. “Yes, baby.”

“Tomorrow,” she says, a little breathless. “Or the next day. He’ll be gone awhile.”

I don’t want to wait. It’s been long enough already. I lean her back against the arm of the couch. She goes easy, kissing me back.

Then her mouth breaks away. “I have to go,” she says again. But she doesn’t leave right away. No one’s waiting for her, at least not right this moment. But she keeps dropping the word: my husband this, my husband that.

“Stop talking about him,” I snap, feeling green all over.

“I can’t help it,” she says. “It is what it is.”

“What is it, exactly?”
Who am I to you?
is what I want to know. It’s not fair. I knew her first, knew her best.

“I have to go,” she says. She kisses me. In my mind, I’m not having it, but my body lets her snuggle close all the same.

The truth of the matter is she’s always got to go. She’s always just stopping by. The door is always going to be closing behind her, and I will always be here. All alone.

Boston, 1945

Shorty comes in from his gig, lugging his sax case and looking tired.

“Hey, homeboy,” he says.

“Hey.”

“It’s a mess in here,” he comments, looking my way. “What have you been doing?”

Same as always. Seeing Sophia in. Seeing her right back out. Reefer. “You wanna hit?”

“Naw.” Shorty’s been keeping his nose clean, what with all the paying gigs he’s scoring now with his band.

“Come on,” I say. “Party with me. It’s good stuff I got here. Real good. It’ll make you feel like nothing’s wrong.”

I’m flying high, running my mouth like there’s no business.

“Naw,” he says. “Clean it up out here, OK?” He goes in his room. Closes the door. I’m already on the floor. Can’t get lower. But watching Shorty walk the straight and narrow — Shorty, the guy who gave me my first reefer, the cat who schooled me in everything about the life I’m living now — it’s almost too much to take.

No matter how high you get, sometimes things pop out of the darkness at you. I’m asleep, or I think I’m asleep, I don’t know, but then suddenly I’m not.

I’m hit with it, hard. Right out of nowhere. This heavy feeling. I sit up, gasping and screaming. The sheets are twisted around me. I wrestle them. Can’t get free of it.

Shorty stumbles in. “What is it?” he’s shouting. “What happened?”

“It’s coming!” I shriek at him. “Get it off! Get it off!” I see flames. I see leering white faces. I see a streetcar running at me. Tracks laid with blood. I see the welfare man, Mr. What’s-His-Name. Apples rolling and chickens beating their wings. I see an empty house. A field full of dandelion heads, popped off their stems. In my ears, the echo of screaming.

I guess it’s my own.

“Snap out of it, man.” Shorty’s hands on my shoulders. “It’s just a bad high.” But it’s never been bad for me, ever. It’s not the drugs — I know it. It’s everything underneath them. Trying to rise up.

“I need a smoke, man,” I plead. “Get me another smoke.” His hands are on me, not letting me up.

“No, you don’t,” he says. “Just relax.”

I fall back, a puddle of sweat. Things are still now. Around me, if not inside.

“OK,” Shorty says. “You’re OK.”

“Um-hmm.” I close my eyes.
Just breathe. Just breathe through it.
Eventually I open them. Shorty frowns down over me. He’s sitting on the edge of my mattress, one leg folded underneath.

“What happened to you, homeboy?” Shorty says quietly. “You ain’t the cat I knew.”

The words cut through the thick fog around my head.

“You’re off the rails,” he continues. “Don’t know how, don’t know when, but you got off.” He holds my arm, smooths the sweat off my brow. Looks at me, does this brotherly sort of thing where he’s almost holding me.

“What’s the matter, Red?” he says. “How’d you get like this?”

“I need another smoke, man,” I tell him. I’m aching. I can hear him, and it hurts. I want to go past it. Past the place where he can reach me with these quiet pressing words.

“Naw,” he whispers. “You been hit hard enough.”

If there’s more after that, I don’t know it. I just drop back, away from him. Away from everything. Let what’s in me already carry me high. So high, I can’t be touched.

Shorty comes and goes for his lessons, rehearsals, and gigs. He’s always off, every which way, sax in hand. He never says anything about the night that everything came tumbling down. I’m grateful for his silence. I don’t want to go back there. I imagine he doesn’t, either.