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  He wasn’t hungry at all. In fact, he had just finished up lunch with Tommy at Captain D’s, but he knew better than to deny her. He took a deep breath in, hoping he would have room in his stomach for more food.

  “Sure mama, whatcha got?”

  The screen door banged shut behind them as they went into the house. She moved like molasses, heaving from one foot to another, as she headed towards the kitchen.

  “I tell you, Jimbo, that jackass Martin’s got it in for me... sit down right there.” She pointed to the only chair in the kitchen that hadn’t yet buckled under her weight.

  James sat and pulled his cigarettes out, tapping the pack on his palm before pulling one out and holding it up to her, eyebrows raised.

  “Yeah, sure, but I’m gonna quit next week. Not today, Martin’s got me needin’ a smoke today.”

  She stuck it between her pale pink lips and leaned towards his outstretched lighter.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled around the cigarette before inhaling, bringing the small embers to life. “Anyway, I’ve only been late. What? Three times this year? And he wants to tell me I gotta pay him by the 15th or he’s kicking me out! Well, I’d like to see him try, that little shrimp would blow over in a stiff wind. He can’t make nobody do nothin’, ‘specially not Sandra ‘goddamn’ Porter. I wish a mother-fucker would. He’ll get it when he gets it.” She winked at James, “You want an egg sandwich?”

  Without waiting for him to answer, she pulled a carton of eggs out of the old fridge and grabbed a skillet from underneath the counter.

  “So his mama was tellin’ everybody down at Tasha’s Salon that he got himself a new woman and she’s bleedin’ him high and dry. Prancin’ around town in those high heels and fancy dresses. Her dresses are so tight, she looks like a busted ass can of biscuits. What the hell does she need to get dressed up for? Looks like she’s goin’ to the damn prom.” She chuckled. “Ain’t no damn prom in the Third! Anyway, she’s not workin’ ever since she got caught stealin’ from her boss. You remember Alfred down at the laundromat? So she was stealin’ the coins down there so he fired her. Never got his money back, neither. Betsy was sayin’ he only fired her ‘cause she stopped sleepin’ with him. He didn’t mind her takin’ the coins long as he could get some, but she stopped that when she started sleepin’ with Martin.”

  James nodded along, smoking his cigarette. She popped two pieces of bread in the toaster and pulled out the sliced cheese and mayo from the fridge. The eggs slowly cooked as she stood in front of the skillet, spatula in one hand and cigarette in the other. She leaned on the counter for support and took a deep breath, her cheeks still pink.

  “I tell ya, she must have some good stuff. She’s got him all kinds of twisted up. His mama said she’s tellin’ him he’s too nice, and he’s gotta get tough and get his money when it’s due, blah, blah. She don’t care none ‘bout his business, she just wants him to keep buyin’ her stuff. You want one or two cheeses?”

  James held up two fingers, and she unwrapped the cheese slices from their plastic covering. The toaster popped the bread up and she grabbed the hot slices and tossed them onto a paper plate, shaking her fingers to cool them off.

  “So now he’s all ‘I need my money’ and what am I supposed to do? Shit the money? I can’t do nothin’ ‘till my social security check comes in and he knows that’s not until the 1st!”

  She spread mayo on one slice of the toast and stacked the cheese on the other. Holding the cigarette in her mouth, she tipped the skillet over onto the cheese, scraping it down with the spatula. James watched as ashes fell into the eggs. She either didn’t see it or didn’t care. James figured the latter. Not that he really cared either. He’d been eating ashy food all his life.

  “Now his mama, she’s good people. She don’t deserve a son like that, you know? He don’t even call her no more, he’s too busy layin’ up with that hoe. Want a coke?”

  She didn’t wait for him to answer as she grabbed an orange soda from the fridge and popped it open, handing it to him.

  She leaned against the counter again to catch her breath. “But I got this.” She narrowed her eyes, “I see your face. That’s your ‘Imma handle it’ face. But don’t you worry none, Jimbo. Your mama been around for a long time and I didn’t get this way by lettin’ people take advantage of me. No sir, I learned that lesson a long time ago. You’ve done enough for your mama. I got this one, you hear? Martin can just kiss my big white ass. How’s the sandwich?”

  James nodded his approval, mouth full of toast and eggs. He wiped mayo off his chin and swallowed.

  “It’s good mama, thanks.”

  “I can make you another if you want.”

  “No, I’m good. Really, it’s delicious, but this is enough.”

  “Why don’t you like it? Did I put too much mayo?”

  “Mom, it’s good. I just don’t want another one.”

  “See now you used to always want two sandwiches back when you weren’t so damn skinny. It’s probably the mayo, I had to buy it on clearance, but they said it was still good. You know those ‘use by’ dates are just suggestions. They’re good a long time after.”

  “It’s not the mayo.” James decided he needed to change the subject before she started cooking more eggs. “You doin’ all right? With money, I mean?”

  She waved her hand in front of her face, “Oh sure, don’t you worry ‘bout me.”

  “Seriously. I got a few jobs coming up and I can help out. How ‘bout I take you down to the grocery store this weekend and help you pick some stuff out?”

  “Jimbo I ain’t never needed help pickin’ stuff out, where the hell do you get shit like that?” She laughed and leaned back against the counter, wheezing.

  “I’m just saying, I can help out, mama.”

  “I thought you said you wasn’t workin’ down at the shop with Tommy no more. Boy, you’re havin’ your own problems without worryin’ ‘bout mine.”

  James finished chewing another bite and took a swig of the orange soda, trying to think of how much to tell her. “I got somethin’ new comin’ up, it pays real good.”

  “I’m proud of you, baby. You goin’ to the plants finally? I been tellin’ you for years you gotta go to the plants for the real money.”

  He finished his sandwich and stood up to take his plate to the trash. “Screw the plants, that’s just a bunch of yes-men bending over every day. No lube, neither. No, this is something else, something me and Tommy been working on. Sit down, mama, you’re gonna have a heart attack.”

  The chair legs groaned under her weight as she plopped down. Beads of sweat glistened on her pale forehead.

  “Oh, I like that Tommy, you need to bring him ‘round more. Tommy’s good people. He’ll steer you right, he don’t do drugs or nothin’.”

  “Yeah, Tommy’s all right. So anyway, I gotta go mama. I was just checkin’ in on ya. You sure I can’t handle this Martin business? I don’t mind talking to him.”

  “Okay, my shows fixin’ to come on, anyway. And no, don’t you worry about Martin. I told you I got this.” Her smile faded as she held his gaze, “Don’t go doin’ nothin’ stupid now. You done did enough for one lifetime, you need to stop tryin’ to take care of me.”

  “Fine, I’ll leave it be.” He wouldn’t, of course, but that’s what she wanted to hear.

  He washed his hands, hoped the churning in his stomach wasn’t the expired mayo, and wrapped his arms around her sides as far as they could go. As he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, he breathed in the cheap perfume, mosquito spray, and cigarette smell that had always surrounded his mama.

  She stood on the front porch, waving to him as he pulled out of the driveway and onto Ave J. He took a left on Eleventh St. and headed out of the Third Ward. He’d take care of things. Hell, he’d been taking care of her since he was ten, he wasn’t about to stop now. That Martin wasn’t nothing he couldn’t handle.

  7

  James was ten when he killed his father.

&n
bsp; It was a school day, an otherwise normal day filled with otherwise normal happenings. James was waiting for his mama to pick him up in front of his school, surrounded by a crowd of otherwise normal children. Since he was bringing home his science fair project, she offered to give him a ride instead of his usual spot on the bus. The styrofoam solar system balanced on his knees as he sat on the curb and waited for her. He watched the buses pull away from the lot, filled to the brim with tired school children. The stragglers had been picked up and teachers were walking to their cars when he realized she wasn’t going to come get him. James gathered his things and set off on foot towards home.

  Four miles wasn’t a terribly long walk for a ten-year-old, but the project was awkward to balance and try to see around. As he continued on, he stumbled over cracks in the sidewalk, his vision blocked by a bouncing red ball labeled ‘Mars’.

  He was two houses away when the first scream pierced the late afternoon air. Hours of hard work hit the ground with a clatter as thin metal rods fell to the sidewalk and planets rolled into the ditch. James was at his front door in seconds. Inside, his mama was on their kitchen floor surrounded by amber colored pieces of glass and a dark sticky liquid. Her long brown hair hung limply, obscuring her face. She wiped a cut on her mouth with the edge of a yellow kitchen towel embroidered with ‘Bless This Kitchen’. Red streaks snaked among the green letters. She lifted her chin and her bloodshot brown eyes widened when she saw James. She gestured frantically for him to go to his room and stay quiet, but for the first time in his life, James didn’t listen to her.

  “James, go!” she cried out as quietly as she could.

  But he stayed there, feet frozen to the chipped linoleum. He didn’t want to run and hide, wondering when it would be his turn. He was tired of the routine. If his dad was going to beat on him anyway, at least he could offer himself up now and hopefully take the attention off his mama for a little bit.

  “Boy, didn’t you hear your mama? Go to your goddamn room!”

  His dad stood in the doorway to their living room, bent over slightly so his head didn’t bump against the wooden frame. Steel brown eyes – so dark they were almost black – glared at James. He was still in his work clothes, dark blue pants and a matching button-up shirt. An electrician at one of the big chemical plants, he was usually still at work when James got home from school. They must have had more layoffs; that was the only reason he ever came home early. There had been rumors for weeks but until then, his dad had been able to avoid the cuts.

  James raised his chin defiantly and his small voice trembled as he whispered, “No.”

  His dad was on him like white on rice, wrapping calloused hands around James’ throat before he could regret his reply. James struggled for breath, clawing at his dad’s fingers as his mama screamed and tried to pull him away. No one said no to Gary Porter. Eyes bulging with rage, whiskey scented spittle flew from his mouth. This was it, James thought. This is how he was going to die. He stopped fighting back and looked his dad in the eye. For a minute, he was relieved. Death meant that he wouldn’t have to take his math test in the morning. That Mrs. Thompson could be a real bitch. She had it in for him; he knew it.

  Disgusted, his dad shoved James into the side of the fridge. It wasn’t as fun if he didn’t fight back. “Get me a beer,” he growled. “Your mama forgot to buy more whiskey so now I gotta drink that piss.”

  His mama dropped back to her knees to clean up the mess on the floor, her hands shaking and her tears mixing with the glass shards and spilled whiskey. Blood soaked through the knees of her jeans, and more had dripped down onto her T-shirt from the cut on her mouth. She was smaller back then, just a normal-sized mama putting up with an asshole-sized dad. Frustrated, James opened the fridge and yanked a bottle of beer out. Stepping over pieces of the broken bottle, he made his way to the drawer by the microwave. That’s where his dad liked to keep the bottle opener so he could pop a few while waiting for his dinner to heat up. It didn’t matter if he had whiskey or not, Gary Porter always found a reason to chug a PBR, or five. James tip-toed to the living room. His dad didn’t like a lot of noise when he got that way, which was more often than not.

  James was sick of it. Sick of worrying about her, sick of tip-toeing around his dad’s moods, and most of all sick of his asshole dad. He didn’t look up from the TV when James held out the bottle. He just reached for it and took a big long swig. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and slammed the bottle down onto the end table next to him. He would never stop, James realized. Not until he killed his mama or him, anyway. Not even then, James supposed. He would find someone else to marry and beat on before grass started growing back over their graves. That was just who Gary Porter was, who he would always be.

  When James walked back through the kitchen, his mama was leaning against the counter, holding the stained yellow towel and looking wistfully out of the window over the sink. James leaned forward to see what she was looking at, but it was just their front yard. Nothing special or different about it. The same yard that needed mowing, the same sidewalk with grass growing up between the cracks, and the same old cars parked there. The mailbox hung at an angle ever since someone hit it with a baseball bat a few months before.

  “Mama, you okay?”

  She didn’t turn around as she answered, her voice shaking, “Yeah, baby. I’m fine. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get you from school. You know how he gets when he’s laid off… how’d the teacher like your project?”

  “I got a ninety-five, it was one of the best ones,” he beamed, before realizing all of his hard work lay smashed on the sidewalk outside where he had dropped it.

  “That’s good, baby. I’m proud of you.” She continued staring out of the window.

  One year, when he had turned five, his dad had given him a pool float for his birthday. It was magnificent, an almost life-sized great white with a big grin on its face. His dad had howled with laughter at the confusion on James’ face. Having spent all summer asking for one of those big above-ground pools, James couldn’t understand why his dad would give him this when his answer was always an angry ‘no’. Maybe he had changed his mind, James hoped, looking up at him with excitement. His dad helped him blow it up with his rusty bicycle pump and James had stood next to him, excited at what it might mean. Maybe they had gotten him that pool after all. That was the moment Gary Porter took out his pocket knife and stabbed the shark just under the fin. Dragging his knife along its side he looked at James through narrowed eyes, “now will you stop asking for a goddamn pool?”

  James never forgot that day, or how his shark looked crumpled up on the ground with all the air out of it. That’s how his mama looked right then, leaning against the sink. Deflated. Ten years of anger welled up inside James. He ran to his parent’s bedroom before he could change his mind.

  He knew where his dad kept his gun, the Beretta M9 he had shown James how to shoot on a rare afternoon of father and son bonding in the field behind the Quick Mart. James spent most of that day worried his dad would shoot him, but he didn’t, so it was a pretty decent afternoon overall.

  The gun stayed loaded. His dad liked to stay prepared for anything.

  “I bet he didn’t prepare for this.”

  He tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans and covered it with his shirt. Afraid it would slip down the inside of his pants, he carefully shuffled back through the kitchen towards the living room. His mama was still standing at the sink, staring blankly at the blood-soaked towel. James took a deep breath and quickened his step. He should have done this months (years?) ago. His dad, hearing him come into the living room, yelled at him to get another beer, not taking his eyes off the television set.

  “Okay.”

  James tiptoed closer until he stood behind the overstuffed recliner. He pulled the gun out of his waistband and raised it to the back of his dad’s head. He thought back to that day in the field. Arms stiff but elbows slightly bent. Right hand holding the gun, left hand cupping the botto
m of his right firmly. Safety off. He pressed the tip of his index finger on the trigger, but it was harder to pull than he remembered. He took a deep breath and moved his finger to get a better grip.

  Bits of dandruff floated among the dirty blond hairs at the back of his dad’s head.

  His mom sniffled in the kitchen.

  James squeezed the trigger.

  A deafening boom filled the small living room, and the gun kicked up and over James’ head. His sweaty hands struggled to keep hold of it while the ringing in his ears deafened him. His mama ran into the living room, eyes darting around frantically as she took in the macabre scene. Staring at what used to be the back of his dad’s head, James still stood behind the patched tan recliner. There was only a tangled mess of blood, hair, and what looked like brains. James had never seen a brain before, and it was nothing like he had imagined. But he had imagined a brain fully intact and his dad’s... wasn’t. His dad’s brain was all over the front of the TV, even on the empty bottle of beer sitting on the table. James wondered if he had known it would be his last bottle, would he have savored it more? Probably not. His dad wasn’t exactly the ‘savoring’ type.

  With the gun still in his hands, he felt like he could take on the entire world. He was proud to have finally stood up to his dad and protected his mama. The corners of his mouth hinted at a smile as he tore his gaze from the blood and hair draped beer bottle and looked up at her, his eyes wide. She was staring at him with a blank expression on her face.

  She carefully took the gun from his shaking hands.

  “Don’t say a word. Wash your hands, real good, not like you normally do. Then, go to your room. You’ve been there all evenin’ and only came out when you heard a gun go off... understand?”

  “James, do you understand?”

  He nodded and walked to the kitchen. His ears were still ringing and he couldn’t get his right hand to stop quivering. He stood close to the door and tried to listen as his mama called 911.

  After telling them her name and address, she coolly said, “I just shot my husband, please come quickly.”