Chapter 1
Memory Lane

I had exited the house; leaving the two women who’d effectively penetrated the hard exterior and accessed my heart. Their reasoning couldn’t have been more different and both of them risked subjection to the wrath of Ed LeBeaux if either had dared move or so much as spoken a word in my defense.

BB King, the master of the blues, began doing what he did with the company of his famed guitar, Lucille, while I allowed the Impala to creep along the dusty dirt lane, away from the memory of who I had been. I stared in the rear view mirror and watched the small wood-frame house slowly get smaller in the distance until it eventually disappeared. While the blues master commanded attention from the Bose speakers, I found myself trying to master the blues that had demanded to accompany me on the drive back to New York.

In the time it required the car to essentially drag me along the edge of the tobacco field toward the highway, a conflicted mind recanted the unpleasant tale entitled my life. The sadness was suddenly displaced by resentment for my father and his masterful art of manipulating the people and circumstances around him. For years, he’d reigned as the self-appointed king of his house. Permitted mainly because, though mom had no fear of him, she allowed a reverence for the Lord to govern her behaviors; which had been the reason for my leaving home several years ago, at the first opportunity I could. Contrary to what he’d have anyone believe, it wasn’t for fear of work or the disdain of being an indentured servant which did, honestly, manifest later. It had proven more difficult with age for me to witness him openly disrespect his help mate in the name of religion. My reasoning suggested he treated his wife more like an indentured servant than anything else. She’d cook his food, take up his plate, and deliver it to the table before preparing hers and sitting for them to eat. When he was finished, she’d take his plate and still have to clean the kitchen. All he did was sit down, feed his face, and leave the table to go make a mess somewhere else in the house that she’d spent the entire day cleaning.

I honestly couldn’t quite figure out how mom just accepted the, seemingly subservient, role she’d played for more than forty-two years and still maintained her peace. There had only been a couple occasions during my young life that I could remember ever seeing Martha LeBeaux the least bit twisted. Funny thing; those were the two incidents when Mr. LeBeaux discovered there was more of a need for him to be anywhere other than in his wife’s path. Though she will, in rare instances, display a humorous side, it’s a well accepted fact that mom is certainly nothing to play with and has no problem setting those straight who dare venture off into the forbidden territory. Though my father would be quick to assert his place as head of the household, he did it more with the authority established from above than any boundaries set by himself.

Realization soon began to settle on me as to the reason I’d been so drawn to Oz; someone who had represented all the things you’d want to see in a father figure. He’d been a man with the ability to demand a certain level of respect because he was first willing to give what he desired. Even though what he had represented went against the very foundation of all I’d been taught growing up, there was some way Oz had made the task of making a living doing wrong make good sense. Remarkably, his role as the head of an organized crime family afforded a certain level of comfort but he’d possessed a vulnerability, of sorts, that always had to be closely guarded.

The reminiscent moment, by default, led to thoughts of Oz’s unfortunate fate which drew me to consideration of judgment levied against Amp and Jerome for my boss and mentor’s death. That, of course, brought with it the realization of a sentence soon to be served both co-conspirators. Amp had ousted Jerome but he now feared I’d unseat him so the two of them schemed to take what Oz worked so hard to build. Logic details the fact it’s a dog eat dog world and he had been a master craftsman…who’d just gotten too comfortable. But it’s never supposed to be dangerous to trust your right hand. That was a score yet to be settled as my focus, and purpose, suddenly shifted.

And how could I contemplate blatantly breaking the law without thinking of the law? My involvement with a New York City police officer was definitely never part of the plan but Ernestina had appeared from nowhere. I reasoned calling things off with her might be for the best as our paths couldn’t possibly end with us riding off into the sunset together. Her name spoke volumes; Ernestina Lady, as she was a true lady in every sense of the word but, like mom, nothing to play with either. Was my attraction to her becoming more than it should? If so, was that really what I wanted? The question that had yet to be answered; what was it that she wanted?

Truthfully speaking; there was no way of knowing what would happen if Ernestina stumbled across information concerning my true lifestyle. Then again, neither was there any indication as to how she’d react if I volunteered to tell her…which I reasoned couldn’t happen prior to me taking care of settling Oz’s score. But the life I was living put every decent thing in it at risk; from the chance of a relationship with Ernestina right down to my involvement with Sam and Eunice.

It had taken the two of them; him from South Carolina and her, from Georgia, moving to New York City in order to find each other. Theirs was a peculiar relationship that contained all the ingredients to signify why a marriage wouldn’t work but somehow, they’d been able to survive raising eight children and still maintained a solemn devotion to one another…for better or for worse.

Sam, after twenty-two years with Kenny Parking Systems, enjoyed his retired life…which consisted essentially of perching on an empty milk crate with his amigos outside the corner store across the street. They’d gather on the sidewalk each day about mid-morning and sit for hours drinking beer, playing the illegal numbers, and talking. Poppy, as I called him, always joked, “I can’t speak a word ‘o Spanish ‘an they say dey ain’t un’erstand nothin I says neither…but I thanks dey be knowin,” he’d specify.

Eunice ventured out every day to do what she’d report as house cleaning that amounted to her sitting and drinking coffee with a few people for several hours three or four days throughout the week. If she was up to it Moms would, maybe, wash a load of clothes, cook, or clean the kitchen for them but they mostly just sat together to talk and watch television. I’d joke with her about the fact she got paid just to keep people company and drink up their coffee supply. “Hell, if they gone pay me fo my time,” she’d say, “I’ll do whats’never they wonts me to.”

No matter how Moms and Poppy had figured out a way to make the strange connection work, it seemed the two of them were happy with the arrangement. That was, until one of their adult children found their way over and intentionally stirred up confusion. To date, I’d only encountered the two youngest; Cherrish and Junior. Poppy’s name sake actually lived in another area of the same apartment building but never showed up unless he wanted something. Cherrish, on the other hand, lived on the west coast and would occasionally venture across the country to get a break from California which, after more than a day or so, prompted Moms to need a break from her. I remembered meeting Cherish and…she sure was a looker. We’d tangled before my leaving New York but I already knew that wasn’t going anywhere simply because she wasn’t interested in anyone “keeping her from her purpose.” But she sure was a looker.

That thought resulted in my recalling the unscripted experience with Natasha, the Polish neighbor. Even the fact that she was living with a man didn’t stop her from finding my door which, I realized, only served to make returning to the city even more of a snafu. It only magnified the issue when I considered the fact that she, herself, didn’t do any damage to the eyes either.

The time of my drive from Georgia seemed to have been grossly abbreviated as I strolled down memory lane…only to end up back at one in the middle of a tobacco field with no ditches for drainage. I’d realized no matter how far you run or the places to where you might travel in effort to get away from yourself, home is never more than the nearest mirror.

It had been around one o’clock Tuesday afternoon when I stopped at the station outside Savannah, Georgia to fill the car and grab some grub for the trip back to the Big Apple. To avoid pulling off the interstate for food during the drive was the sole purpose for my unscheduled pit stop. Few people enjoyed traveling long distances with me for that very reason. As a general rule, the only time I’d stop would be to get gas so that I could keep going. Even bathroom breaks had to be coordinated with pit stops at the stations while en route.