36
36In anguish, Rock stares at the navigation lights on a boat easing across New York Bay. The brilliance of the lights waxes stronger in the waning luminance of the setting sun. How Rock wishes he was on board, no matter where the boat is going.
Claymont is gone.
The reality hurts worse than he can feel.
Rock recalls waking on what would be his last day of freedom. He spotted ten-year-old Claymont hiding in the closet, staring out at him with his big eyes and an even bigger smile. Had Rock known that would be the last time he would see Claymont for as many years as Claymont had been alive, he would’ve given him an uncustomary hug. Instead, he drove through the Holland Tunnel into Manhattan with forty-six pounds of marijuana stashed in the door panels of his 1960 Chrysler New Yorker convertible.
To Rock, Claymont’s transformation from bug-eyed innocent to gun-toting Cyclops happened overnight.
Or did it?
Despite collect calls from prison in which Rock encouraged Claymont not to make the mistakes he did, his greatest influence on Claymont was the memories—Rock the rugged, hood capitalist who organized red-handed black and Latino adolescents into Original Gun Clappers.
Something whizzes by Rock’s ear and cracks the sliding glass door behind his head. A violent beat erupts in Rock’s chest, and before he can react, a second blitz zips in front of his nose and leaves a pockmark in the window. A third projectile rattles the balcony rails as Rock hits the deck and peers down two stories below.
A drunken lady cocks her gangly arm back and prepares to hurl another igneous missile. Rock rises up before she launches.
“’Ey, lady! What are you doing?”
“Who you yelling at?” Miss Pincus slurs, hands fixed on her knobby hips.
“You just broke my window!”
“You gonna get more than that broke come Sunday.”
Rock quickly looks up and down the street to make sure he’s not being set up. “Who told you that?”
“I ain’t getting into all of that. But they coming and they ain’t bringing no offerings.” Miss Pincus wobbles as she turns to leave.
“Hold up!” Rock shouts.
He runs through the apartment and bounds down the stairs, but the staggering lady is nowhere in sight.
Although Andre is seated across from Hakeem at Fredrick’s circular dining table, his focus is across the Hudson on the Empire State Building as it lights up red, white, and blue for the night.
“You ever had one of those dreams that’s so real you can still feel the emotions it stirs up hours after you’re awake?” Andre asks.
“Oh yeah,” Hakeem says.
“The crazy thing about this dream is that I got upset with my grandmother and my aunt, even though I felt like it was wrong the way I talked to them. But what I got off my chest felt necessary.”
“Care to share?”
In his dream, Andre was sandwiched between Grandma and Auntie Cheeks at Cochrane Stadium. They were at a St. Peter’s College football game, watching Andre play.
The argument started when Grandma smiled at Andre after the three of them saw him score a touchdown. “I’m so proud of you,” she said. “But I’m not surprised. God has always had his hand on you.”
Andre took offense and responded with a tone that would have surely earned him a smack in real life. “How can you say that? My mom and dad are dead.”
Grandma turned serious. “And my son and daughter-in-law are dead. You do realize that millions of people are permanently injured in car accidents every year, don’t you? But you just caught a touchdown. Could you have done that if you were crippled?” Before Andre could answer, Grandma snapped, “No!”
“Well, why did you die then?” Andre asked.
“Because it was my time.” She turned from Andre in a huff and focused on the game.
Then Auntie Cheeks felt the need to get her two cents in. “Don’t you look at me like that, Andre. I already know what you thinking. What I told you was true. Did anything ever happen to you when you were in that house by yourself?”
Andre had to admit that it hadn’t, but he lashed out at her anyway because now he was old enough to say the things that he felt but couldn’t put into words when he was ten.
“Do you know how scared I was? All you cared about was getting high!”
Andre was mad that his voice trembled. He got madder still when he started to break down. But his words wounded Auntie Cheeks deeply.
“I had a problem, Andre. And I’m sorry. I froze to death. Is that good enough for you?”
Recalling the moment in the present, Andre is horrified that he felt no pity, whereas now he borders on tears. Nevertheless, in the dream Andre launched into another attack.
“I couldn’t even enjoy my high school graduation because I had nowhere to go since you let the house fall down!”
Auntie Cheeks pushed back. “You a lie, Andre! You had that brand-new athletic dorm to yourself for half the summer before anybody moved in! And who’s the one started you playing football anyway?”
“At that point I woke up,” Andre says now.
Hakeem considers what he heard for several moments before he speaks. “So what do you think about what was said in the dream?” he asks.
“I would be denying reality if I bought into the fantasy that somehow my life has been blessed.”
“Is that what your grandmother said?”
“Look, Keem. My life is what it is, so you’re wasting your time if you’re trying to get me to see it any other way.”
“Understand that this is not about what I see. This is about you accepting the truth about yourself. How long were you in jail?”
“Three days.”
“Seventy-two hours and you were caught trying to load ten thousand dollars’ worth of cocaine on a plane at Newark Airport?”
“Yeah.”
“What was your bond?”
“Five thousand.”
Hakeem laughs out loud. “I’m sorry, Dre. But black dudes who get caught trying to load coke onto planes don’t get bond, and even if they did, I’m sure it would be more than five thousand dollars in fines alone. It’s no way your professors would’ve been able to come up with that kind of money.”
“Maybe not.”
“So what would’ve happened then?”
“I probably would’ve been in jail for a few months, awaiting trial.”
Andre doesn’t adjust his poker face, but he slowly raises the curtain on the prospect that things could have been worse. Even so, he can’t release the “unique victim” status that, all of his life, has functioned as a sadistic measuring stick that he used to judge other people’s suffering. And if his horror trumped theirs, he beat his chest.
“How did the judge rule when you went to trial?”
“It never went to trial. They cut me a deal. Suspended sentence in exchange for ten years’ probation.”
“Aren’t there minimum sentencing requirements for a charge like that?”
“Three years, I think.”
Hakeem doesn’t interrupt Andre’s recollection of his story. After several moments he says, “Listen, Dre. No one can deny that you’ve had tragic circumstances in your life. But either they’ve been accompanied by a string of extraordinary luck, or something else is going on. Even with Sandra.”
Andre looks up, ready to pounce.
“She’s still alive, Dre. And breathing on her own. The miracle is that things aren’t worse. The three of you were ambushed at point-blank range. You sustained no life-threatening injuries, and Little Dre was untouched.”
Water collects at the edge of Andre’s eyelashes.
“Do you have any thoughts on that?” Hakeem asks.
One word pops into Andre’s head that he wouldn’t dare let pass his lips.
Fredrick arrives with a stack of takeout containers, and Andre is relieved because he’s spared the indignity of having to answer. His heart sinks when he sees the name stamped on the containers—Torch & Basil.
She’s in there and I’m out here.
Hakeem stands. “We’ll pick up here next week.”
“You might as well hang out,” Fredrick says to Hakeem. “The guys you met at the hospital are coming through for the Realness. We’re doing it here tonight since Andre is still on injured reserve.”
“And what is it that you do at the Realness, exactly?” Hakeem asks.
“Nothing formal. Just four brothers chopping it up and breaking down truth. You can’t get that on CNN, Fox News, or the New York Times.”
“Okay, I’ll hang out,” Hakeem says.
Strange-O arrives first. “Yo, Fredrick, this building is bananas! You must be rolling in it, ain’t you?”
Fredrick blushes. “God is good.”
“He’s good alright. I was walking through the lobby, and since I don’t curse anymore, I said what the fish said when he hit the concrete wall.”
Fredrick, Hakeem, and Andre look confused.
A grin spreads across Strange-O’s face. “Dam!”
All three men shake their heads.
Mark shows up next.
“Fredrick, the food’s getting cold, so we might as well eat while we’re waiting for Rock,” Andre says.
Mark grabs a plate and asks, “What’s up with him lately? He’s been acting strange for the last couple of weeks.”
No one has an answer.
Fredrick opens several takeout containers. “We have a variety of things here. Grilled pork belly with chilled corn salad, jumbo lump crab cake with buttermilk sauce, and vegetarian risotto with pencil asparagus.”
“This looks banging!” Mark says as he digs in.
Strange-O looks like he’s seen a ghost. “Man, where the wings at?”
“I just got off work,” Fredrick says. “The restaurant downstairs was the most convenient, and they don’t serve hot wings.”
Strange-O shakes his head and reluctantly serves a plate.
“This grilled pork belly is on point,” Andre says.
“So is this veggie risotto,” Hakeem chimes in. “My moms used to make something like this when I was a kid.”
Strange-O moves the strange food around on his tongue as he looks around the table. “Y’all ain’t gotta try to act all Food Network since we downtown. Chicken is a Realness tradition.”
A knock.
Fredrick answers and Rock drags in. “What’s real tonight, fellas?” he asks blandly and grabs a plate. “Sorry I’m late. I had to call everybody and cancel the meeting for this Sunday”
“Really? Why?” Fredrick asks.
Rock takes a bite of crab cake and says nonchalantly, “OGC put a hit on the building. And I’m not putting anybody in the middle of that.”
Anger swells in Andre’s stomach and extinguishes his appetite. He slams his fork on his plate. “This has got to stop. I’m not letting these dudes run me.”
“Dre, you already shot up, so whatchu trying to say?” Mark asks.
“I’m saying I’m not going to spend the rest of life being intimidated by no gang.”
Hakeem speaks up. “Why don’t you just call the police?”
Rock looks at him. “We talking OGC, man. Police don’t matter ’cuz they gonna keep coming. If not today, then a day when the police ain’t around. So we either raise up now and establish that we ain’t having it, or nothing’s gonna change. Ever.”
“And how are we supposed to stand up to OGC?” Strange-O asks.
“If you scared, just say so,” Rock says. “No need trying to rationalize your fear.”
“I didn’t say I was scared!” Strange-O says.
“You don’t have to. Your actions say it for you.”
“Everybody’s not an ex-con like you, Rock. So you can save the tough-guy act for somebody else.”
“Strange, you don’t want to take it there with me, alright?”
Mark intercedes. “Ain’t no need of us turning on each other.”
Strange-O ignores him and stands. “You puts no fear in my heart, Rock. Believe that.”
Rock smiles. “You really outta hand, Strange. So you might as well go ’head and sit down. But I’m gonna be in front of New Jersey Truth at eleven o’clock sharp with or without you or anybody else.”
“I’ll be right there with you,” Andre says and looks around the table.
Mark, Fredrick, Hakeem, and Strange-O appear to crawl deep inside themselves to count the cost of commitment.
“So they’re going to come through blazing and we’re going to do what?” Mark asks.
“Come on, man!” Andre shouts. “When are we going to stand up like men and take our hood back? They tried to take away the only two things in the world that matter to me. None of y’all even have kids, so what do you have to lose?”
“Our life,” Mark says, “which happens to be your most valuable commodity.”
Rock monitors the conversation with a resigned indifference. “If it’s just me and Dre, then it’s just me and Dre. And if you other guys find some heart, you know where we’ll be.”