"How's the little man?" Wayne teased the blankets away from his face to get a better look.
"Good."
"What's his name?"
"Haven't made up my mind yet."
"So what do you call him?"
"Baby."
"Girl, you a trip. Let me hold him." Baby struggled as if he wanted to crawl back into her womb and wait for a better world. Wayne hoisted "Baby" with ease and noted the brief grimace of worry on Rhianna's face, and it reassured him in an odd way. Her attachment to the newborn.
The child was all Rhianna would know of love. She'd spent too much of her teen years going to parties or hooking up. Too worried about food to dream of a future. She had no room for baby thoughts or baby dreams. And a still, quiet voice within her hoped his thoughts and dreams would rub off on her. From the moment she found out she was pregnant, she knew she didn't have a choice but to be with him. She'd have this baby. Have someone to love. Things would be different this time.
Rhianna's mother once crossed a set. She had the rep for sleeping around, not caring which block they came from or what set they claimed. And she had a knack for choosing the precise wrong ones. Word on the street for those who listened, had it that she once dumped Geno for Speedbump, two up-and-coming young princes of the streets. The two men exchanged words. The argument was heard by Speedbump's brother, who came down to get his brother out. Bama, who was country crazy and only needed an excuse, saw the brewing fight and got his weapon. When Bama came out, all he saw was Geno and Speedbump's brother after Speedbump. He didn't realize or care that Speedbump had broken away from his pursuing brother — who only wanted to keep his brother safe. Geno caught three bullets to the back. He survived, but he was never the same. Dropped out of the game.
The streets buzzed with the news, the blame quickly traced back to Rhianna's mom, who was set to get a retaliatory beat down. Possibly take a bullet herself when the female members of the crew caught up with her. They caught up with her at her aunt's crib. She called the police even before she heard them bang at the door. Rhianna couldn't have been older than four. Her mother beat her, slamming her face into the bathroom sink, and when Five-O showed up, she blamed the girls. The confusion bought her mother time. That evening, she was gone.
"You alone?" Wayne asked.
"With my boyfriend."
"Where'd he go? Or does 'boyfriend' imply much more of a commitment to the relationship than he's ready for?"
"He didn't even leave a tip."
"Chivalry is dead."
"Said he was coming through though."
"You see Lady G lately?"
"Nah, I ain't trying to hang with her no more."
"Thought she was your girl."
"She was. Till she did King like she did."
"Everyone makes mistakes."
"You hang with Lott?" Rhianna asked.
"No, but he's been on the creep tip. No one knows where he's at."
"Cause he know, too. You don't just do your boy like that."
"We supposed to be family. Family can work through problems together, no matter how hard, because at the end of the day, we still blood."
"I ain't trying to hear that."
"If we can't find a way to forgive and…"
"Ain't. Trying."
Someone pounded on the front door then — either impatient with the lack of immediate response or just noticing the doorbell — rang the doorbell five times in a row. Wayne passed Baby back to Rhianna, his mood spoiling with each additional ring.
"Hey, my dude." The young, white, red-headed boy had a heroin thinness to him and the disposition of someone who would sell out his dying mother for his next fix or to avoid prison. A patch covered one of his eyes, the surrounding area of his face webbed with healed-over scars.
"What's up?" Wayne said. "You here for drop?"
"My breezy said I could swing through. And I'm all about the free swing, you feel me?" He raised his fist for a bump. Wayne let it hang there.
"I'm Wayne."
"My people call me Fathead."
"Where you stay at?"
"Used to stay with this one dude. Partner had a cat. One day the cat turns up missing and he blamed me. Said I let it out and shit. So he kicked me out."
"Did you?"
"I ain't trying to keep track of no pussy that walks on four legs. Shit. Dude still owes me so I took his bike and pants."
"You took his pants?"
"Wasn't like they were his no way."
This was the kind of introduction that made his job both frustrating and exhilarating. Wayne had met many "Fathead" s over the years. Nothing was ever their fault and trouble just seemed to always — completely randomly — follow them about. Still, they had their quirky charm about them — so genuine in their utter bullshit — that he couldn't help but be drawn to them. Every Fathead was an opportunity to show God's love and mercy. Wayne stepped out of the doorway to let Fathead in. Rhianna rushed up to him as if they were long-lost friends reunited at long last, and hugged him for several moments.
"We'll be having dinner in a few minutes." Wayne put his hand on Fathead's shoulder, nudging them apart.
"Hey man, do you have any points?"
"We don't do needle exchanges here."
"Oh my bad."
Esther walked into the dining room carrying a large bowl of salad as one of the other volunteers for the night toiled away in the kitchen. She hesitated when she saw Fathead, then not wanting to stare at his eye patch, arranged the array of salad dressing.
"No worries, baby. I ain't self-conscious of this shit. My pops put a cigarette out in my eye when I was a baby. Had a glass one, but I lost that shit. Got a marble I use sometimes. You want to see it?"
"No, that's all right."
"Not 'Baby'." Wayne glanced over at Rhianna and smiled at the irony. "Her name's Ms Esther."
Percy wandered out of the kitchen. Tipping nearly three bills, he had a darker knot above his left eyebrow in the shape of a crescent moon. His downcast eyes rarely met people in the eye. Carrying a tray of cinnamon graham crackers and milk, he liked to pretend that he'd made them from his secret recipe. They were the last addition to the food set out for that evening's drop night. Wayne stood at the dining room table and gestured for them to join him. He took Esther's hand as they all clasped hands.
"Percy, you want to bless the food?"
"God is great, God is good. Let us thank Him for our food," Percy said. "By His hands we all are fed. Thank You, Lord, for our daily bread."
"Amen." Wayne clapped Percy on the back. He'd come a long way from the shy boy too spooked by his own shadow to speak. And there were still untapped pools of potential they hadn't begun to reach. Percy radiated a peace about him, a simplicity many confused with him being simple.
"Has anyone seen Prez?" Percy asked.
"Prez ain't right." Rhianna sprawled down low in a wooden dinette chair which only matched three others pulled around the table.
"What you mean?" Wayne passed a bowl of mashed potatoes.
"He stays up in his crib. Avoids us."
"You know why?"
"Cause of… how things went down. You know how tight he was with King."
"Yeah. I keep meaning to check in on him," Wayne said.
"Someone ought to. He up in his room all day."
"He back with Big Momma?"
"Naw, he on his own." Rhianna piled salad on her plate. "He's just sort of… lost… without King."
King's personal mission, Prez, had come far, too. He'd fallen into drugs, but King walked with him through his addiction to the other side. Addicts could always find one another, like they had a radar for that weakness.
Despite the familiar sickness in his stomach, Fathead still chased after his high. Though he remembered the first time he got high with crystal clarity — a memory driven home by the fact that he had sex for the first time while high — the rest of that summer he could barely recall. Not feeling whole, he doubted himself. But when he smoked marijuana, it was like aspirin for the soul and fixed the ache for a while. The shameful things he had to do to earn only gave him more of a reason to get that high. Shooting up was the next obvious progression. The first time he shot up, he shot his load straight into his muscle. It burned so badly, he didn't think he'd walk again. Luckily, he had internet access and taught himself how to properly shoot up. Setting up his rig, he located a vein on his wrist and got off. The high was perfection. Effortless. For the first time, he knew wholeness. All his hopes, dreams, and worries faded; fear no longer consumed him. Life suddenly worked. A few hours later, it was over and he was scared again. After that, it was a short trip to the land of an addict's broken promises and second/third/fourth chances: snorting crystals up his nose, drunk on Stoli, stoned on Ambien stolen from rehab, breaking into his parents' house, and writing checks to himself.