Me and Charlie catch up over a few drinks, a couple hits off a joint for me, and a line of coke for him. I listen to Charlie tell me about his job as a nightclub owner but try not to commit any of it to memory. If the police ever ask me what I know, I want to be able to say not a goddamn thing and mean it.
It helps that as the liquor and the pot loosens my limbs, my brain wanders and so do my eyes. It doesn’t help that my gaze keeps moving to the dancefloor, to Damita’s soft afro, to her hands waving in the air, and then to the man pushing up on her.
“What the fuck is this?” I say, squinting down through the darkness. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust and my brain to process what I’m seeing. A part of my brain wishes I couldn’t see clearly, but I do. a larger part of my brain starts to rage when I see what I see because I know what I know, and I know there’s a damn good chance Damita don’t know any of that.
“Goddamn,” I say in a hoarse whisper.
Charlie laughs drily. “Not you taking the Lord’s name in vain.” My gaze shifts to him for a quick second. I see the mirth on his face, but I also see the childlike worry. I realize at that moment that Charlie is one person I don’t have to remind that my mother has passed, because he feels her absence, but the routine – the childlike worry – is as much habit as the ripples of her memory, her impact, her love.
I’ve spent years thinking I was alone in this – that the heaviness of my loss was mine alone to share – but in that brief glimpse, I’m forced to wonder if I was wrong, and if I’m honest, I’m just not ready to confront that yet.
I nod toward the dance floor, gesturing toward the tiny figure I know is Damita, no matter how poor my eyesight, no matter how far away, no matter the fact that I have absolved myself of responsibility for her. “See there?” I point downstairs.
Charlie takes a quick swig of his drink. “It’s a lotta there down there. See what?”
My eyes are on her because if I’m honest, I can’t see anyone else but her. In all the crowd, in all the club, Damita stands out like a bright flame – like a raging inferno. “The girl in the middle of the floor,” I say, “big hair, dark skin, perfect smile.”
“It’s a lotta damn girls down there, Jimmy,” he says, but he sounds serious now. Maybe he finally sees her, or maybe he’s picking up on my mood; either way, I’m happy to hear the same gravity in his voice as I’m starting to feel in my chest.
It takes a few silent moments before I see Charlie squint and lean forward. I hold my breath. I pray to be wrong.
“Nigga, is that Malcolm?” Charlie blurts out.
The breath I’d been holding rushes out of my lungs in one long gust. “Yeah,” I sigh already turning toward the stairwell. “And that’s my boy Paul’s little sister.”
Charlie curses under his breath, downs the last of his drink, and then pushes past me. “Come on,” he says, calling over his shoulder.
***
DAMITA
Mama always says life has a way of breaking your dreams right along with your spirit.
I’m not gon’ lie and say I haven’t fantasized about Malcolm a time or two, but now that I’m seeing him up close and he’s grabbing onto me like this, I won’t be doing that shit again. Ever.
I just gotta get the hell away from him first.
The worst part of it all is that the people around us have shifted away, as if they know something’s not right, but don’t want to get involved. I look left and right but no one will make eye contact with me.
In my mind, I scream out for Tia. If I make it outta this moment, I won’t go to LA; I won’t leave her side again.
“You came here by yourself?” he asks, his mouth dragging along my ear.
I shudder and nearly bend myself in two to get away from him and then wipe the back of my hand over my ear, but it doesn’t make me feel clean.
“No,” I yell back. “My sister’s here,” I keep the silent ‘somewhere’ to myself.
“I ain’t know you had a sister,” Malcolm says, his hold on me loosening a fractioning of an inch.
“And I ain’t know you was outta jail, Malcolm.”
I could weep at the sound of Jimmy’s voice and a couple tears do fall from my eyes. This time when I look left, I swear Jimmy’s dark figure melts out of the crowd and I don’t know how it’s possible, but I see him all over again for the second time in a single night.
When my gaze lands on Jimmy’s face, he’s not looking at me, but his eyes dip down to my face and I feel a rush of relief that he’s here. That someone sees me.
“Jimmy? Jimmy that you? What you doin’ here?”
“Naw, nigga, the question is what is you doin’ in my club?”
I don’t recognize the other voice. For all I know, it’s Jesus who asks that question and I’ll make sure to thank him heartily in my prayers. All that matters to me is that as soon as Malcolm’s arm loosens enough for me to squeeze free, I run.
I reach out for Jimmy on instinct.
As soon as his hand wraps around mine, he turns and runs too, the sound of men yelling over the beat at our backs before a gunshot rips through the groove.
And then me and Jimmy aren’t the only people running.