Ball Don't Lie (5 page)

Baby Dressed Up

sexy on Friday and Saturday nights after dinner. All through the time Mico was hanging around the apartment.

She’d high-heel through the bedroom door frame like a movie star, creeping slow-motion like a cat sneaking up on a mouse. Black skirt riding high, slits on both sides. Or the sequined pink deal with the silver zipper down the front. Legs shooting out six laps around the track when she plopped down on the couch with makeup and a mirror.

Sticky couldn’t take six-year-old eyes off his mom when she dressed like that.

On the way out the door one Saturday night, the day Mico moved all his stuff in, Baby butterfly-kissed Sticky on the cheek. Like she always did. Fluttering eyelashes that tickled his skin.
Mommy’s gotta go to work now,
she said.
My little Sticky Boy
. She squeezed his shoulders and smiled so big her eyes almost shut. And no matter how uneasy Sticky was about staying with some random guy again, he couldn’t help himself: when she smiled, he smiled. Even if they were just playing it as a game, see who could keep a straight face longest, he was always the first to fold.

Bye, Baby,
Sticky whispered when she hugged him.

Bye-bye, little boy
. She touched a finger to his nose.
My
little dirt-faced Sticky Boy.

She went over to Mico and kissed him all over his face.
I’m so glad you’re here, Mico. Little Sticky Boy is too
. She stood back and put her hands on her hips.
This is just going to work
out so great. You’ll see.

Just go make us some money,
Mico said.
Then it’ll be all
good
. He glanced over at the fridge and pointed.
You gonna
bring over that six-pack before you leave?

Baby hopped over to the fridge like a bunny, giggling. She opened the door and reached her hands in for the beer.

Mico and Baby were a six-month team. They counted twenties every Sunday morning while Sticky watched cartoons. Mico had connections on the street, made sure Baby was safe and took his cut. Baby liked eating good meals and getting her hair done at a salon. She also liked having a man in the house. A big strong man with a confident walk. If it had been up to her, Mico would have stayed a lot longer than the six months. Even if he did punch her in the mouth once when she’d talked back. Even if when he got super-high he sometimes thought it was funny to toss empty beer cans at her sleeping boy.

But Mico ran off with a girl even younger and prettier than Baby. Took off in the middle of the night and left half his stuff.

Back before Mico showed up it was just Baby and Sticky living together. Eating tuna out of a can or noodles with butter. Cold hot dogs. Both walking around the dim, run-down apartment with bare feet. Plates of ceiling paint would flake off at night, float to the ground like little flying saucers. There were trails of ants. Roaches. Daddy longlegs sleeping in every corner. Dust balls spinning across the dull kitchen tile when a gust of wind came through the rusty screen.

Baby didn’t work, and Sticky didn’t go to school.

They slept together on a broken futon bed in the middle of the room. Their apartment in a shady part of Long Beach. Rumbling trains would wake them throughout the night. A loud earthquake of power rattling their thin windows.

During the day, Baby was either dancing around the place on her toes or sobbing under the covers. There was nothing in between. She either rolled up a magazine like a mike and sang with her favorite radio songs, or she sat in the open window with tears streaming down her face, saying:
I
swear um gonna do it this time. I swear to God um gonna
jump
. She’d look down at the sidewalk with both hands white-knuckled against the window frame.
You’ll be better off
without your crazy mom.

Before falling asleep each night, Baby would tell Sticky stories about his dad. And every night he was a different person. An actor. A construction worker. The head of some prestigious company overseas. Sticky would snuggle in close to Baby, shut his eyes and try to picture it all in his head.

Some nights his dad loved sports. Lettered in everything back in high school. During big games on TV, he would sit Baby down and explain all the rules. Other nights he hated the violence of football, preferred sinking into a comfortable chair with a thick Russian novel. Sipping gin and puffing a cigar.

Sometimes he’d sailed across the Pacific in record time. Battled high winds and monster whitecaps. No lifejacket. Then she’d turn it all around a week later, say the man’s only real fear in the world was the Lord’s dark oceans.

A lot of times she told Sticky his dad was dead. Shot down in a foreign country. The medals still in a box back in Virginia. Or he was taken out during a big-time drug bust while working for the FBI. One time he’d died when his car spun out of control and launched off the Golden Gate Bridge. Sticky would picture the car flipping over, again and again, then the giant splash.

But other nights Baby would claim his dad had placed a call that very day. That he was thinking about swinging by for a quick visit.

The story Sticky really believed, though, was the one Baby told most often. His dad was a country-western singer she’d met only once.
He had the voice of an angel,
she’d say all dramatic, staring into the flickering light hanging from the ceiling.
And those boots, little boy. When you get old enough
you have to buy yourself a pair of boots
.

Sticky had this story memorized. How when his dad came out to L.A. from Virginia, to try to make the jump into movies, Baby packed Sticky up and followed her singer out by bus. How she and Sticky stayed six months at a YMCA in East L.A., shared a bathroom with the entire third floor. How at night she would put him in an old TV box so he wouldn’t crawl away. Cover him with two or three pillowcases from the Salvation Army. All that effort and her singer didn’t return even one of her phone calls. Didn’t answer even one of her letters.

Sticky believed this story because Baby would lower her eyes when she told it. She’d get all quiet and stare at the floor.

Baby stood at the door waving before she left. She did a twirl and waved some more. Mico shook his head and turned to the TV. He pulled a can from the plastic rings. Sticky watched Baby and laughed.

She laughed with Sticky as she waved. Got on one knee and began blowing dramatic kisses.

Don’t I look pretty, Mico?
she said, standing up, resting a hand on her twenty-four-year-old hip and spinning around like a fashion model. Subtly covering her birthmark cheek with her free hand.
Don’t you think I’ll be the prettiest one on
the block?

You probably blowin a big score with all this messin
around,
Mico said.

Baby made a face, and Sticky laughed.

That afternoon Sticky had watched Mico show up with a pickup truck full of his stuff. Watched him take load after load into the apartment and dump it. As Mico brought stuff in, Baby took Sticky’s stuff out of their one bedroom and piled it up next to the TV.

This will be so great for you,
she said as Sticky watched her.
Every boy needs a daddy. Hey, maybe he’ll wanna throw
the football around if you ask him
. She skipped back into the room singing with a B-52 song playing on the clock radio.

In a few minutes she skipped back out with Sticky’s pillow, his two blankets folded.
We’re gonna be a real family
now,
she told him.

Soon as Baby was out the door, Sticky ducked into a corner of the living room and sat with his back against the wall.

He stood up and sat back down again.

Back up and back down.

Back up and back down.

Back up and back down.

Mico looked over and Sticky stopped. They sized each other up for a sec, then Mico tipped his beer and went back to the TV. Sticky went up and down a half dozen more times until it felt right. When he sat for good he wrapped both arms around his knees and spied the room: Mico’s jacket hanging off the kitchen table like a leather waterfall. The bedroom door, closed for the first time ever. Keep Out. Mico kicking his feet up on the table and picking something from his teeth.

Sticky shifted around a bit. He pulled his legs in tighter and rested his chin on his knees.

Why you so quiet, kid?
Mico said. He took a healthy pinch of something out of his black smoke box and started rolling it up like a cigarette.
Come sit up here with me and I’ll show
you how you roll em
. He licked the Zig-Zag and pulled a lighter out of his pocket. Aimed and sucked in. He held the smoke in and talked at the same time.
All the little kids in
your school would be impressed
. He looked at Sticky and let the thick gray smoke snake through his lips.

Sticky looked down and picked at the rug between his feet.

What, you ain’t wanna be the big man on campus?
He pulled in another long drag and held it.
Couple years,
man . . . You gonna start chasin the ladies
.

Mico cracked open a can of beer and scooped up the remote. He blew the smoke through his wide nostrils and took a long swig. Flipped through channels.

Sticky kept his mouth closed. He stared at Mico’s sharp brown face. His nappy black hair down to the shoulders. The green words and pictures scribbled up and down both muscled arms. The way he sank into the couch and rested his beer can between his legs.

Your time’s gonna come,
Mico said, flipping through channels.
Grab one a them little cheerleaders and pull her behind the lockers
. He pulled in a drag and blew it out.
Them’s

the best days of your life, kid. Chasin after the fine girls. Even
the not-so-fine ones
.

Mico laughed and turned his head to look at Sticky.
I was
a equal-opportunity type of dude
.

Sticky watched Mico tilt the can against his mouth again. Watched his lips work the can like a baby with a bottle. The front of his neck driving up and down as he swallowed.

That night, Mico stayed up late watching late-night comics and
I Love Lucy
reruns. He talked on the phone with a deep voice and kicked his dirty boots up on the end of the couch.

Sticky tried to stay awake too. Gave everything to keep heavy lids from sliding down tired eyes. He went back and forth between the TV and Mico. Watched guests wave to a cheering crowd before taking a seat next to Leno, and Mico crumple up empty beer can after empty beer can. Watched singer Bette Midler extend her free hand out whenever she went after a high note, watched Mico flick cigarette ashes onto one of Baby’s beauty magazines. Sticky listened to Lucy’s jokes and Mico’s laugh. Ricky’s heavy accent and the long, deep belches Mico blew up at the ceiling.

The longer Sticky watched Mico, the more he warmed up to him. He liked how Mico laughed at everything. A deep manly laugh. And he was so big and strong. Like he could beat most people in a fight. Sticky pictured Mico walking with him down the street to the market. He pictured everybody making room as they walked past, not wanting any trouble.

At one point Sticky even thought:
Maybe this guy could
be my dad
.

The later it got, though, the more Sticky lost the battle with his tired eyes. And soon he drifted into sleep.

Sticky woke up an hour later with Mico tapping him on the forehead.

What?
he yelled, shooting to his feet.
What?
His blurry eyes darting around the room.

Mico pulled a cigarette from his mouth, let it hang between two fingers.
You should go to sleep, kid
. He unfolded one of Sticky’s blankets and spread it out on the rug.
Sleep on
this,
he said, pointing to the blanket.

Sticky walked over to the blanket and went to his knees. Mico tossed another blanket on his lap and walked to the fridge. He reached in and pulled out another beer, cracked it open.

Sticky smoothed the blanket over his legs, went to lay his head down but realized he didn’t have his pillow.

Pillow’s over there,
Mico said, pointing toward the table. He tilted the can back and sucked down a few swigs. He leaned his elbows on the blotchy counter and looked all around the tiny apartment. His eyes drooped, head swayed. He laughed and shook his head, then stumbled back to his spot on the couch.

Sticky was up fast. He grabbed the pillow with one hand and pulled it behind him. But as he passed the table, his pillow knocked Mico’s black smoke box to the ground. The box tumbled and landed upside down. Clumps of pot scattering everywhere.

What the hell you doin?
Mico yelled, quickly reaching for the box, turning it right side up.

Sorry,
Sticky said, nervously trying to pick the crumpled green out of the thick, dark rug.

Mico crushed his cigarette into Baby’s magazine and got down on his knees. He pushed Sticky’s little hands away and sifted through the rug himself, trying to rescue some of the bigger clumps.
Man, I just bought this shit
.

I’m sorry,
Sticky said.

Mico quickly realized it was useless, that most of his stuff had been swallowed by long tentacles of rug, and then he flipped.

He jumped up and gripped Sticky by the ear. Shoved his nose into the rug and told him:
Sorry don’t do nothin for me
now, do it?
He pushed Sticky’s face into the rug so hard that his cheeks and lips smashed.
See that? Huh? I just bought all
that weed yesterday
.

I’m sorry,
Sticky said.
I’m sorry.

Mico jerked Sticky’s head again and let go.

Sticky sat up quick like he’d just been held under water. Almost drowned. He sucked air through his nose. Fought the lump in his throat, swallowed at it a couple times and made a frown out of his eyebrows.