Born at Dawn (23 page)

Marvin waved his hand at Pastor David. “I didn't come here for that. I told you I just wanted to speak to you, man to man.”

“That's how I am speaking to you, as a man—a man of God—and I will not come down for you. I hope one day that you will come up for me and for your family. Now if you can't accept that, then there isn't much else for us to talk about,” Pastor David said, patting Marvin on the shoulder and walking away.

Keith sat on the edge of his bed using his video game controller to shoot at the terrorist on his television screen. He had one round of ammo left that was being wasted because he kept missing shots due to his lack of focus on his targets. He was more focused on trying to figure out when Bridget was going to tell him to beat it.

All week long he'd overheard all the pillow talk Bridget had with Marvin about making this weekend special. It was the anniversary of something or other: the first time they met, their first date, or their first phone call. Bridget celebrated every trivial event that happened in their relationship.

Keith did not sulk like James did when he was informed no one would be traveling with him and his team this weekend to the Super Six high school basketball tournament at Rutgers University. Instead Keith tried to map out his evening, which he wouldn't be able to pull off without a financial backer.

Keith didn't plan on budging until he got Bridget or Marvin to invest in his night on the town if they wanted him out. In no way was he trying to hinder the progress of Marvin and Bridget's relationship; unlike his little brother he wasn't angry with Bridget. James and Bridget clashed with each other very often.

The shroud of silence that James draped himself in was often mistaken for rudeness or contempt. Daily, they battled each other. Bridget shot underhanded words of fury at James, and James threw daggers back at her with his cold stare. Despite her smart mouth and sarcasm, of all the girlfriends Marvin had after Cynthia took off, Bridget was Keith's favorite.

She didn't try to become their mother. She just blended into the family like butter melting into a frying pan. Keith favored her because she didn't comment on his rambunctious nature nor try to curb his wily ways. Bridget didn't waste her breath chastising him about roaming the streets for hours and only coming home for a bite to eat and to use the bathroom.

Bridget just took Keith as he was. She helped to guide him through adolescence, which might have proven to be awkward for other boys with the same gangling frame as Keith. Bridget fawned over him, telling him he was handsome every day, and he was, with Marvin's pointed nose, full bottom lip, and indolent gait. She constantly reminded him to moisturize his skin. Bridget's compliments bolstered his confidence and encouraged his strange curiosity for the opposite sex that Cynthia's absence had spawned.

Often in the hallways of Freedom Academy High School, he found himself surrounded by a gaggle of girls lathered in honey blossom body sprays and strawberry-flavored lip gloss vying for the opportunity to allow Keith to sample their wares. Despite having been left back, his stature and street cred made him every girl's fantasy.

Keith found himself almost always caught up in those moments. He was intrigued by their soft skin and the scent that their bodies emitted when he got close to them. Hypnotized by the fluidity of the waves of their hair and the bounce of their flesh, Keith prodded them like cattle and changed them like underwear. Bridget refrained from doing the afterschool special thing about diseases and bashing him over the head with speeches about respecting women.

Bridget never harassed him. Instead of speeches on respect, Bridget offered Keith advice on how to make his exploration of the female terrain a more pleasurable experience for both parties involved, and she slipped condoms into his sock drawer. With that in mind, Keith just sat patiently waiting for the moment when she would ask him to leave and he could ask for the cash. With James away for the weekend at a basketball tournament Keith figured he might get more than the usual seventy-five dollars. He didn't have to wait long either. Before he completed his first mission on the game, Bridget was rapping on his door with her French-manicured nails. “Enter,” Keith said.

Bridget twisted the knob and pushed the door open gingerly before walking into the room. She had a flare for dramatics. Keith glanced up and stared at her meaty thigh, which hung out of her black satin robe.

“Here.” She extended her arm toward him holding up a roll of money. His game controller fell to the ground as he snatched the cash.

“Thanks, Bridge.” He licked his thumb and peeled back the bills, snap counting each one. He slid off the bed, grabbed his fleece-lined navy blue Pelle Pelle leather jacket, and slapped on a navy blue Yankee fitted cap.

“Where are you going, Key?”

“Probably over to Rock's girlfriend Nikki's house to meet the fellas. First, I'm going to look for AJ and then hit up Nikki's.”

“Fine. I'll tell your father.”

“All right,” he said, stepping around her and exiting the room. Bridget followed him to the door.

“Come here, Key.” He stood in front of her. She straightened the collar of his jacket. “Now you look a'ight.”

“Bridge, no matter what people say about you, you're good in my book.” He flashed her a smile before jetting out the door.

Keith went down the stairs two at a time. With his pockets lined with $150, he was going to have a good time tonight despite the chill in the air as March made way for spring.

He scanned the block with his eyes for his friend AJ. He and Keith had joined Black Ice on the same day and had become like brothers. AJ didn't move without Keith, and Keith didn't move without AJ. Keith planted himself on the corner of St. Nicholas Avenue, asking each person that passed him by if they knew where AJ was.

One of the older dudes said to him, “I saw him in the back of Lucky's shooting pool.”

Lucky's was a hole-in-the-wall bar on Eighth Avenue that had been raided by the cops so many times the whole neighborhood was shocked the doors were still open. Every law that could be broken was broken in there, from operating an illegal gambling enterprise to selling liquor to minors.

“Thanks, big man.” He gave the guy a pound then galloped to his right toward Eighth Avenue before the money burned a hole in his pocket. He reduced speed when he spotted Tricia who looked like venison, and Keith wanted to be the hunter who caught her. Her hair was cut in a short bob tapered in the back. Generally Keith wasn't into girls with short hair, but her long, smooth neck and amber-infused eyes popped because of the way her hair framed her face making her simply irresistible to Keith. The fact that she had a boyfriend, Dutch, who was reportedly insanely jealous, also made Keith want her more.

“Ay, Trish, where are you going looking so good, girl?”

“To mind my business.”

“Can I mind your business too?” Keith asked, standing directly in front of her to block her path.

Smiling and holding on to the belt of her coat, she said, “Keith, you so crazy. I'm going upstairs to get in my bed.”

“May I get in your bed too?” he asked, tracing the portion of her collarbone that peeked out of the boat-neck collar of her jacket.

“Dutch wouldn't like that.”

“Trish, I don't want to get in there while Dutch is in there. I'm talking about just me and you.”

She stepped back. Keith grabbed her. Pressing down on her wrist, he could feel her blood begin to boil. He pulled her back into close proximity of his body. “Think about it, Trish,” he said, using his free hand to stroke her high cheekbones. He bent down and whispered in her ear. “I know what you've heard about me, but I promise I'll be gentle.”

She grabbed Keith's cell phone from his back pocket and punched in her number. Satisfied with the new acquisition, Keith returned to his rooster's strut.

All of the patrons greeted Keith when he arrived at Lucky's, the men with high fives and the women with tight hugs. No one even thought twice about Keith being underage considering the other violations that took place at Lucky's. Keith slung his jacket around the back of a barstool at the end of the bar and retreated to the rear where the pool table was stationed next to a small door that opened up to one of Harlem's many vast alleyways and served as an escape route for several of Lucky's patrons.

“Yo, Luck, when are you going to get rid of this thing and get with times?” Keith asked pointing at the pool table. “You need some TVs and video games to spice up this place,” Keith suggested.

“Naw, I'm good. Business is good, and your mama ain't complaining when I lock up and lay her flat on her back on that table. Can't do that on a television.” The whole bar laughed at Lucky's crude comment.

“Ay yo, Key
.
Come on, man
.
Get in this game, I'll let you shoot first,” AJ barked at him.

Keith dragged his fingers across the hips of a Dominican girl who had volunteered to chalk Keith's stick, slapping her thigh before he squared up at the table to take his shot. He scratched.

“AJ, lemme do that over. My mind was—”

“In the gutter,” AJ finished. They fell over each other laughing and slapping five. Keith arched his back over the pool table, pulled back his stick, and someone pushed it.

“Watch where you're going,” Keith said, not even glancing up from the green velvet that covered the pool table.

“What?”

“I said watch where you're going. I didn't stutter,” Keith said, standing straight up, staring into Dutch's dark eyes. Dutch stepped a tad bit closer to Keith. Dutch's posture wavered.

“What do you want, homie?” Keith asked sarcastically. “I get it. You want me to bless you with another round of drinks,” he continued taking a step back after catching a whiff of the scent of alcohol emanating from Dutch's body.

“Naw,” Dutch slurred. “What I want is for you to stop smiling all up in my girl's face.”

Keith turned his back on Dutch and laughed. He fixed his eyes on the pool table. “Red ball corner pocket,” he said, dismissing Dutch's comment. “Do you believe this guy over here stepping to me about some chick?” He directed his comment to AJ.

“He better go and tell his shorty to stop smiling in my face,” Keith advised, letting a raucous set of laughter ring from his belly.

On cue AJ began laughing as well. He laughed so hard he doubled over holding his sides and leaned on the pool table for support. The Dominican girl joined in on the laughter.

“You laughing at me, too, baby?” Dutch said, glaring at the girl. “I got something for y'all to laugh about.” Dutch drew a .22 from his waist and let off several haphazard shots. He tried to just aim at Keith, but in his drunken stupor he was unable to hold his hand steady. He fired until the chamber of the empty gun clicked; then he bolted out the back door into the alley.

The piercing cry of the Dominican girl ruptured the silence as she tried to push Keith's limp and bloody body off her.

Keith heard his name being called, but he could only respond by grunting. Sirens could be heard in the distance. The bullet burned and burst inside of him. He wanted to cry but all he did was grunt. He called out for the only one who could ever make him feel better when he was hurt. The only sound that came out were unintelligible gargles and grunts as he choked on the blood that filled his mouth, but he did not stop calling his mother's name until he could no longer breathe.

“Mr. Barclay, open up,” a voice boomed between pounds on the door. Instantly Marvin recognized the voice of AJ, Keith's best friend.

“Stop banging on my door, AJ,” Marvin yelled. “Keith is at Nikki's. He left here looking for—”

“Open the door, Pops,” AJ cried sounding panicked. “Something happened to him.”

Shoving Bridget out of his lap, Marvin vaulted over the arm of the couch. Frantically, he tore the door open, practically ripping it off its hinges. He focused sharply on AJ.

“He . . . he's been shot. I don't think he's okay. Some dude just ran up on us and started shooting.”

His brown skin turned pallid, his knuckles cracked as he clenched the doorknob. His mouth dried up. Marvin felt like he'd been chewing chalk. The veins in his neck stiffened and bulged. AJ did not say that Keith was dead, but Marvin was smart enough to read that ghastly look in AJ's eyes that said his son wasn't coming home tonight or any other night.

The knot of guilt in his back had to make room for the grief that paralyzed him immediately. Keith was his favorite. Marvin knew the dangers that lay in elevating one child over another. When Cynthia left, all he had was wound up in his sons. At first they were both angry at Marvin. He figured the anger would subside once they realized she betrayed them all and was never coming back. They were young boys, and he expected to become their hero. On the contrary, the gap between Marvin and James became a valley. Keith, on the other hand, clung to him, which helped Marvin get through losing his wife.

Wishing sorrow came in a candy-coated chewable rather than this hard and bitter pill, Marvin screamed through his tears, which curved over his cheeks and fell into his open mouth.

Bridget tiptoed to the door. Placing her hands on Marvin's stiff, broad shoulders, she began to massage him. The coolness of her palms snapped him out of the catatonic state threatening to kidnap him.

“Go put on some clothes,” he said to Bridget over his shoulder. She dashed to the bedroom and Marvin remained still.

“Pops, you coming?” AJ asked, tapping him on the shoulder. Marvin bobbed his head. Without so much as saying good-bye to Bridget, he walked out of the apartment.

 

“Where do you think you're going, buddy?” the officer said with three of his fingers pressed into Marvin's chest in an attempt to keep him back. “This is a closed crime scene, buddy, there's nothing to see here.”

With a quick swipe of his hand, Marvin escaped the officer and barreled past him with the crime scene tape wrapped around his waist declaring, “That was my son who got shot.”

Marvin made his way through the maze of fire trucks, ambulances, and patrol cars around the detectives on their cell phones calling all their informants, and over to the coroner's van.

He froze and stared at his son's body as the medical examiner zipped the body bag. “The paperwork is going to be simple to complete for this one: DOA.”

Those three letters brought Marvin to his knees. Tossing every molecule of pride in him to the side, Marvin collapsed on the concrete and cried. With his head buried between his legs, he wailed and moaned so loudly he didn't notice when Pastor David arrived at the scene.

“Marvin, Marvin.” Pastor David squatted to look Mar-vin in the eye since he wasn't responding. “Marvin, I'm—”

Marvin swatted the pastor out of his way, stood, and reapplied his menacing scowl. “What do you want, man? I didn't call you.”

“Marvin, I can't say I understand your pain.”

“Then don't say anything at all.”

“Marvin, the death of a loved one can be hard, especially when it's unexpected. If you're going to make it through this, you're going to need a comforter.”

“What are you going to do, hold me?” Marvin said in high-pitched ladylike voice.

“Jesus is the comforter, and He has promised to heal your dry and broken land, if you would just submit yourself and your family to Him. This isn't some kind of game.”

“Awww, get out of here with all of that. I don't want to hear about the power of God and my son is being rolled away in a Ziploc bag,” Marvin said.

“Maybe nobody wants to hear it at a time like this, but you should listen with gladness. Do you remember the vision I shared with you? You were walking through the desert.”

“Nah, not really,” Marvin said rolling his eyes, trying to recall this vision.

“I know it was a long time ago, yet it seems to be coming to pass. You only have one son left.”

“What?” Marvin barked, stepping off the curb and right in Pastor David's face.

“You only have one left, brother,” Pastor David said, “The doors of Mount Carmel are open to you and your family at any time in this difficult hour.” Pastor David patted Marvin on the shoulder once more before walking away.

Marvin returned to his cement seat. The bile that gathered at the bottom of his belly catapulted out of his mouth and onto the sidewalk as his heart convicted him of his role in this tragedy.

He was wrong for beating Cynthia, and she was gone.

He was wrong for leaving the church, and James was swallowed by his silence.

He was wrong for not putting his foot down when Keith joined Black Ice, and now he was dead.