10

The Jersey City Free Public Library is a four-story, Italian Renaissance building on the corner of Jersey Avenue and Montgomery Street. The elaborate lintel detail along the roofline looks like a row of patina-green afros set ablaze.

Andre climbs the palatial marble steps from the first to the second floor. He’s not accustomed to being out at this hour on a weekday. He spots the perfect place to write, an empty table drenched in midmorning sun. The light that cascades through the large window warms Andre’s face despite temperatures outside that are barely above freezing.

He produces his notebook and is confronted by the dilemma of the blank page. In search of inspiration, he looks to the street. A New Jersey Transit bus turns off Montgomery onto Jersey, and all of a sudden Andre feels free, like his whole life is ahead of him and his future is pregnant with possibility. The thought is so full of life that it gives Andre pause, because he’s not sure where a notion so fanciful would come from.

Auntie Cheeks appears in his mind, and it’s as if she’s sitting directly across the table from him. She flashes that wry smile that reveals her three missing teeth. She launches into what she always said before she left him. “You don’t have to be afraid, because God’ll protect you. But don’t open the door for nobody.”

The image makes Andre numb, so he invokes more comforting thoughts of his grandmother. He can almost feel her gentle hand rub his head while she sang:

Grandmother’s little baby.

Grandmother’s little sweet baby boy.

Grandmother’s baby is Grandmother’s boy.

Andre covers his face. Tears bleed through his fingers as he whispers the words of the song behind the privacy of his palms. “Why?” he asks softly. He doesn’t expect an answer, but something deep inside of him forces the question up from the depths of his yearning.

He wipes his nose with a finger and a sniff. The library has lost its allure, so he heads back to the street.

Rock stands on the large porch of a well-maintained house on Warner Avenue, two blocks from Sandra’s apartment on Martin Luther King Drive. Most of the proud, working-class families Rock grew up with have been replaced by renters. The new landlords are Rock’s former playmates. They grew up, moved to other cities and states, and inherited the homes they grew up in after their parents died. Most of them had no desire to forsake the privileged middle-class lives they had built for themselves to return to Greenville, so they carved the homes into rooming houses to maximize the income on their Schedule E’s.

In less than a generation, the block went from a cozy family haven of manicured yards, where the entire village raised the children, to a hovel of dismembered denizens blindly going their own way in search of cheap rent. Unfortunately, the attendant problems that accompany such metastases are now as common on Warner as the grassless yards that Rock observes as he somberly looks up the street.

First crack, then Section 8.

Grammy Lee finally opens the door. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t even hear the doorbell ring.”

Rock gives her a hug and a kiss. “That’s okay, Momma. Where’s Claymont?”

“I don’t know where that boy is half the time.”

“Stop calling him a boy. He’s a grown man.”

Grammy Lee belts Rock on his broad shoulder. “That’s a figure of speech and you know it. Did you try him on his cell phone?”

“He never answers when I call. I’m telling you, Momma. It’s time for you to put him out. He’s twenty-five years old.”

“He’s also my grandson. And at least if he’s here, I know he’s not somewhere dead in the street.”

Clops walks in. “What’s poppin’, Unc? How long you been here?”

Rock looks at his watch. “You’re late.”

Clops flashes a platinum-toothed grin. “Better late than not at all.”

They hug, slap backs, and head to the basement. Each man selects a pool cue from the rack on the wall and chalks up.

“Age breaks,” Rock says.

“You the only one that play by that crazy rule.”

Clops racks and Rock scatters the balls with a devastating first shot.

“Claymont, I practically raised your dusty behind. So you’re more like my little brother than my nephew—”

Clops jumps in, probably because he’s had this conversation before.

“Did I tell you I was thinking about taking a class at Hudson Community College?”

“What class?”

Clops hesitates in nothing flat. “Business.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that you can’t out-slick the slickster? But here’s the deal. I’m not asking you to move out anymore, I’m telling you.”

“Unc, why you tripping? This is the only home I ever had.”

Rock makes a bank shot in the corner pocket and tosses Clops a compassionless gaze.

Clops tries another angle. “Why should I move out and pay Jersey City rent when I have the perfect setup right here?”

Rock places his cue on the table and abandons all tact. “Because you’re living foul, that’s why. When I started OGC, we just sold weed. And not that I’m trying to justify that, but you’re selling crack. That’s a whole ’nother level. What happens if somebody runs up in here blazing, trying to take you out? ’Cuz if anything happens to Momma, I’m blaming you.”

“Blaming me? I’m handling your business. You OGC for life no matter how righteous you try to act now. Look at your hand.”

Rock doesn’t have to. The crude OGC initiation tattoo that he personally designed is still stamped on the web between his right thumb and pointer finger.

“And you must be crazy all up in my face right now, Unc. I ain’t no little kid no more!”

Rock hardens. “I’m gonna make this easy for you, ’cuz this is not a debate. Either you leave tonight, or I’m dropping a dime. I’ll be a snitch.”

Clops breaks his pool cue across the table with a crackling thwack. He holds the bottom half in his hand like a splintered spear.

Rock gets in his face. “Oh, I’m supposed to be scared now? I broke up cats ten times harder than you in the joint. Try me, Nephew. I’ll snap you in half just like that stick you holding.”

Clops slams the broken cue to the floor. “You foul, Unc.” He passes Grammy Lee on his way up the stairs.

“Rocky, what’s going on down here?” She notices the shattered wood on the floor.

“Claymont’s leaving.”

“Where’s he going?”

“Not our responsibility. That’s for him to figure out.”

Hakeem’s elbows rest firmly on his desk, and his fingers are clasped in a two-handed fist. He pays particular attention to Andre’s every word.

“Rough week.” Andre sighs. “I get to my girl’s house and a dude answers the door.”

“So you’re back together?”

“No, same deal. So I show up—”

“Andre, I have to stop you right there. If you and—what’s her name?”

“Sandra.”

“Sandra Horton from St. Peter’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Y’all were together all those years?”

“Yeah, long time.”

“Wow. Okay. But still. If you and Sandra aren’t together anymore, you have to stop calling her your girl.”

Hakeem’s demand jars Andre as much as someone telling him to no longer call himself Andre. He slinks back into his chair.

“Like I told you last week,” Hakeem says, “my primary goal is to get you to arrive at the truth about yourself, and that starts by acknowledging the truth about your relationships, especially with the people closest to you.”

Andre feels dizzy, as if all the vital fluids in his body have dried up. He continues his story, albeit with less panache.

“Supposedly she met this guy at work. He opens the door, and I’m ready to straight smash him.”

“Let me make sure I’m remembering correctly,” Hakeem says. “You broke up with her, right?”

“Right.”

“Andre, believe me when I tell you that I’m familiar with a man’s impulse to try to control his girlfriend, even his ex-girlfriend. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve been guilty of that myself. But my question is, is that reaction ever justified?”

“Hakeem, you’re killing me with all the questions. I’m just trying to lay it all out for you.”

“Okay, go ahead.”

“I didn’t swing on the guy, even after he interrupts my conversation with Sandra. And then she threatens to call the cops on me.” Andre’s eyes are wide, and he’s waiting for Hakeem to express similar alarm. “Can you believe that?” he asks finally.

“How tall is Sandra?”

“I don’t know, five eight, five nine.”

“And you’re what, six feet, 205?”

“One ninety-five.”

“And how big is this guy?”

“A little shorter. A little slimmer.”

“If you would’ve lost control, would Sandra have been able to stop you from hurting him, her, or even yourself?”

“Probably not.”

“So then, do you think she was justified in preparing to call the police?”

Andre considers. “Maybe. But at the end of the night, I tell her that I’ll meet her relationship demands and that I want to work things out.”

“What did she say?”

“She said no. But I think it’s because of that dude.”

“Are those her words?”

“Man, women don’t admit to that kind of stuff. To let them tell it, they never like anybody. Then six months later, you see them at the mall pregnant by the guy they supposedly weren’t feeling.”

Hakeem smiles. “Andre, let’s establish a ground rule. No sweeping generalizations. You can’t speak about every woman because you haven’t met them all.”

“You sound like Dabrowski.”

“Anyway. So what else happened?”

Andre narrows his eyes. “I go to the library to write and I get this vision of my aunt and my grandmother. That messed me up.”

“Why?”

“After my parents died, I came here to live with my grandmother. That’s how I wound up in Jersey City from down South. When I first got here, the only way I could go to sleep at night was if my grandmother sang this song she made up for me. It was like I could feel her hand rubbing my head. Her singing was the only thing that made the images go away.” Andre looks at Hakeem. “A year after I got here, she died too.”

“How?”

“Diabetes.” Andre sucks in every oxygen molecule in the room and lets his breath out slowly.

Faint voices of fury can be heard outside. Hakeem parts the curtain to take a look.

Across the street, Rahjaan and Smooth B. jeer at each other, their faces twin violent visages. Clops wedges himself between them.

“Chill!” he says.

Rahjaan lunges at Smooth B., but Clops flips him to the ground and puts a knee in his chest. “I said calm down!”

“I told him not to say nothing else to me!” Rahjaan woofs.

“How you gonna hold down a block without talking?” Clops lets Rahjaan up, and as soon as he’s on his feet, he levels Smooth B. with a devastating right cross.

“I’m ’a kill you, son!” Smooth B. snarls. He leaps up from the ground and rushes Rahjaan.

Clops pulls his gun. “I told y’all to calm down! Now who wants to get it?”

The young lieutenants stand at attention.

“Y’all must’ve forgot what you out here for. We’re here to occupy. Do business.”

Two of Jersey City’s finest round the corner in a marked cruiser.

Clops tucks his weapon and announces, “The beast.”

So keep cool and they’ll just roll on by.

Clops, Rahjaan, and Smooth B. walk composedly toward the police, because to flee or look nervous would be akin to screaming, “We’re shady!”

His session now complete, Andre slides down the stoop outside Hakeem’s building just as the cruiser passes Clops, Rahjaan, and Smooth B. The two officers and three OGC engage in an ocular chess match—I stare, you stare, and I dare you to do something.

Andre heads in the opposite direction, clueless as to how close he came to meeting the weasel-eyed gunman face-to-face.