Monroe parked in front of his mother’s house, not far from Rodney’s on the street parallel to Heathrow’s main road. This street, too, concluded in a dead end. Dogs, even those who knew his smell, barked at Monroe from the yards of the surrounding houses as he crossed his lawn.
His mother, Almeda, sat in the den of their two-bedroom home. Monroe took her cool arthritic hands in his, bent forward, and kissed her cheek.
“Mama.”
“Ray.” Almeda’s eyes went to the overnight bag he clutched in his hand. “You staying the night?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She was seated in her husband’s old recliner, which Raymond had re-covered himself. Her hair was white, the moles on her scalp visible through the cottony wisps, her thin wrists and forearms prominently veined. She wore a clean floralpattern blouse from Macy’s and black pants with an elastic waistband. She was well into her eighties. The hump in her back was most pronounced when she stood.
Almeda would need professional care soon if she were to live much longer. Raymond was determined to keep her out of a nursing facility. She wasn’t sick, just weak. Money was not an issue. The house was paid for, and Raymond took care of the property taxes and utilities, and performed most of the maintenance. Almeda received modest Social Security benefits, along with a check from the VA, reflecting Ernest’s service in the war. They got along fine. Most of the time, Raymond enjoyed his mother’s company. He liked living here.
Monroe went to the television set and turned down the volume. Almeda was watching Jeopardy, and like most elderly folks, she kept the sound up loud. He sat on the sofa beside her and leaned forward so she could hear him clearly.
“Something troubling you, son?”
“Not at all.”
“It’s nothing to do with Kenji, is it? Have you heard from him?”
“I haven’t. He’s busy, is all it is. Out on those patrols he goes on. I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Problems with your girlfriend, then?”
“Nah, Kendall’s good. The both of us, we’re good.”
“Running back and forth between two homes is going to take a toll on your relationship.”
“Trying to kick me out?”
“I’m saying, you might as well move in with her. Get a minister, have a ceremony. Do right by her and her son.”
“I might. If they’ll have me.”
“Who wouldn’t?” said Almeda. “Fine man like you.”
“Listen, Mama…”
“What is it?”
“I visited a man today. One of the white boys in the incident, back in seventy-two.”
The incident. All involved had always called it that. Almeda’s shoulders slumped as she sat back in her chair.
“Which boy?” she said.
“The one Charles Baker hurt.”
Almeda folded her hands in her lap. “How did you find him?”
“I ran into him at Walter Reed. Alex Pappas. I recognized his name and put it together with his face.”
Almeda nodded. “And how has life turned out for him?”
“He was at the hospital delivering food. He lost a son in Iraq.”
“Awful,” she said.
“He owns a diner downtown. He carries the scar Charles gave him, but other than that, I don’t know much about him. I didn’t stay with him long enough to find out. He was uncomfortable, like anyone would be. I came up on him quick.”
“What did you see in his eyes?”
“I saw good.”
“Why, Raymond? Why would you seek him out?”
“I had to,” said Monroe.
Almeda offered her hand. He took it, a tiny tangle of bones.
“I suppose I understand,” she said.
“Couldn’t be an accident that I crossed paths with him. I pray at night for my son, knowing that I’m still unclean inside. I can’t be like that anymore.”
“Will you talk to this man again?”
“I left the door open. It’s on him now.”
“You should include your brother if the man wants to take it further.”
“I plan to.”
“It was him who suffered most.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is that all?” said Almeda.
He hadn’t told her everything. He didn’t want to worry her over James.
“There’s nothing else,” said Raymond Monroe, cutting his eyes away.
Deon Brown was in the living room of his mother’s house, alternately sitting in a chair and pacing the floor. Since the night before, he and Cody had managed to off most of the weed they had bought from Dominique. Their day was spent talking on their disposable cells, setting up meets, making deliveries in parking lots, garages, houses, and apartments, and collecting money. The balance of the ounces they had not physically unloaded had been committed. The transactions had been quick and successful, and they had each pocketed over a thousand in cash in less than twenty-four hours. Deon should have been happy, but he was not. He was tired of hanging with Cody, whose mouth did not stop, even when he was high. Cody had just about gotten on Deon’s last nerve.
He had come to his mother’s to find some peace, maybe have dinner with her, watch television together, talk. But to Deon’s annoyance, Charles Baker had been in the house when he’d arrived. Deon had heard Baker upstairs, raising his voice at his mother, and her sharp objections and replies. And then Baker’s voice, louder still and frightening, ending the argument with intimidation and aural force. Silence after that for a couple of minutes, followed by a rhythmic squeaking sound, which was the mattress springs being worked on his mother’s bed. Deon wanted to leave out the house, but he could not. He wasn’t about to abandon his mother to low trash like Charles Baker. Baker was on top of his mother, thrusting, the mattress squeaking and the legs of the bed lifting and hitting the hardwood floor. Deon rubbed at his temples and paced, but he did not leave.
The house grew quiet. Deon heard his mother’s door close up on the second floor, and soon Baker came downstairs. He stood at the foot of the stairs, tucking his shirt into his slacks, and nodded at Deon, now seated again in a cushioned armchair.
“How long you been here?” said Baker.
“A while.”
“You heard us arguin, then.”
“Sounded like you were doing most of it.”
“Your mother’s emotional. Women be like that.”
“Is she coming down for supper?”
“She needs to rest now,” said Baker with a vile grin.
“You’re not stayin the night, then,” said Deon. It wasn’t a question.
Baker held his smile and kept his eyes fixed on the boy. He didn’t like to be talked to this way, but he would allow it to pass. I’m done with that dry hole, anyway, he thought. Why would I want to stay?
“I’ll be sleepin at my group home tonight,” said Baker. “But I need to get over to Thirteenth and Fairmont, to see a friend. Can you drop me?”
“I was just leaving myself,” said Deon, happy to get this man out of his mother’s house.
Deon drove the Marauder east, Charles Baker beside him. Night had fallen, and the glow of the instrument lights colored their faces. Baker looked at Deon, filling up his space under the wheel though the seat had been pushed far back.
“You got some size on you,” said Baker. “What you go, two fifty?”
“Round that.”
“You ever play football?”
“Never.”
“You runnin to fat now. All them Macs and that slope food you be consumin. You need to watch yourself,’cause, lookit, you starting to get some titties on you like a woman.”
Deon kept his eyes ahead, braking and coming to a full stop at one of the many four-ways now on 13th.
“The way you built,” said Baker, “wouldn’t take long in a weight room to get you swole. When I was liftin, I was a beast.”