Harlem Girl Lost (11 page)

When they'd passed him, Silver turned around and noticed that he was still watching.

“Auntie, why didn't you give him some money like my mother does?” Silver asked.

“Because that nigga ain't shit!” Birdie snapped. “The more you give those types some money, the more you help them kill themselves, and that nigger back there done killed himself long time ago.”

“So is that how my mother is going to end up?”

Birdie stopped in his tracks. “Baby, your momma is far from what he is,” he tried to assure her. “That won't ever happen to your mother because she is too strong.” He nodded as if trying to convince himself. “You know as well as I that your mother
been through this before and she always pulled herself together. Just you wait and see.”

Silver was not convinced. “But why doesn't she come home anymore? I miss her, Birdie.”

“I know you miss her, baby,” Birdie said. “I miss her, too, but all we can do is wait for her to be willing to stop on her own. As bad as it may sound, that's the only way for her to see.”

Silver looked up at Birdie. “What do you mean by the only way for her to see?”

Pondering the question, Birdie bit his lip. “Well … it's sort of like when a mother eagle teaches her baby eagles how to fly to survive. See, when they are born the mother eagle flies out all day getting them food. As they get older, the mother eagle knows that they will die from starvation if they don't learn how to fly and learn to feed themselves. The problem is they get so comfortable having their mother hunt for them they don't want to leave their nest. So the mother eagle takes them out one by one, high in the air, and drops them.”

Silver gasped in shock. “That's cold.”

Birdie nodded in agreement. “Yes, it is, but guess what happens after she drops them.”

“They learn to fly?”

“Exactly,” Birdie said.

Silver frowned in confusion. “So you saying we should drop Mommy off a cliff?”

Birdie laughed softly. “No. It just means that the baby eagles are the only ones to decide to either fly or fall.” He paused and looked Silver in the eyes. “Your mama has to make that same decision; no one else can spread her wings for her.”

“What if she doesn't spread her wings and falls?” Silver asked sadly. “What is going to happen to me?”

Silver had developed a deep phobia of abandonment as a result of her mother's erratic drug use and brushes with death. Most children of alcoholics or drug abusers will eventually develop issues due to their dysfunctional upbringing, and Silver was no different. She had many nightmares that something bad would happen to her mother and she would never come home.

Birdie bent down and looked her in the eyes. “Silver, look at me. No matter what happens, I will always be there for you. I will never, ever let anything happen to you—I promise!” With that he wiped the tears from her eyes and hugged her tightly before they continued on their way to school.

Near the school, they unexpectedly ran into Silver's grandmother. Birdie gripped Silver's hand tighter and took a deep breath as they neared Mrs. Jones. Birdie had met her once before with Jesse and had immediately gotten bad vibes from the woman.

Birdie knew from something Jesse had once inadvertently let slip that Mrs. Jones called him a freak behind his back. Normally, Birdie would have quickly told someone off for such an offense, but since she was Jesse's mother, he'd acted as if he didn't know about it. But like Birdie always said, a person only got away with that shit one time, no matter who they were.

Silver spoke first. “Hi, Grandma.”

“Hello, child.” After a moment, the older woman spoke again. “So, child, I haven't been seeing your mother around these days. Is she missing in action … again?” She then turned
toward Birdie and said from behind her hand, “Is she still on those d-r-u-g-s?”

Birdie scowled at her, but said to Silver, “Silver, baby, why don't you go ahead on to school now? Auntie Birdie would like to speak to your grandma alone.”

Silver looked up at Birdie, knowing exactly what was going to happen next. “Okay, Auntie,” she said. She said good-bye to her grandmother.

“Good-bye, child,” Mrs. Jones replied.

They watched Silver walk off to school. Finally the woman spoke again, her tone heavy with sarcasm.

“ Auntie’ would like to speak to her grandmother, huh? Where is she?”

Birdie took off the gloves. Hands on his hips, he moved his head from side to side, trying his best to control his temper. “I don't know who you think you are, but don't you ever talk that way in front Silver about her mother again. You think she can't spell? And it is none of your damn business where she is and what she does, anyway.”

“Why, I have every right to inquire about the whereabouts of my daughter,” Mrs. Jones replied haughtily.

“Your daughter?” Birdie's voice rose in disbelief. “Since when have you been concerned about your daughter? You ain't never did anything for Jesse or Silver, and you have the audacity to want to know her whereabouts? You don't have that right—you gave that up long time ago.”

“How would you know what I ever did for Jessica?” she snapped. “Her father and I gave Jessica everything she ever wanted, and what did she do the minute she got a chance? She
spread her legs to anybody who came along, got pregnant, and embarrassed her father and me.”

Birdie stepped closer. “For your information, Jesse was a virgin, and that was her first time. It was a mistake, but you wouldn't know nothing about that because you put her out the first chance you got!”

Dismissing Birdie's account totally, Mrs. Jones shook her head. “It doesn't matter. I gave her a choice, and she could have stayed.”

“Choice?” Birdie said, astonished. “What choice? Have an abortion or get out? If it weren't for Jesse being strong enough to make her own decisions, that precious little girl would not be here today.” In a sincere effort to reason with her, Birdie continued, “Do you see how beautiful your granddaughter is? Do you know how intelligent she is? She's in the top of her class in every subject and is planning to become a doctor when she gets older.” The old woman looked away from Birdie, and he thought he had struck a chord, so he went on. “Jesse made a mistake … a bad mistake, but she was only fifteen years old.”

After a long pause, the older woman spoke again, her tone laced with contempt. “Well, she's certainly paying for it now.”

Birdie stared at her in dismay. “What type of person are you? It's almost like you get off by seeing Jesse suffer! If you can't find compassion in your heart for Jesse, you could at least have some sympathy for your own granddaughter. Does she have to suffer for the rest of her life, too? You should be ashamed of yourself! And you call yourself a Christian? Huh—I've seen dogs get treated better than the way you treat Jesse!”

“Suffer?” she cried in exasperation. “I'm not the one who has that poor little child around a—a—freak, and living in that inhumane and deplorable building.” She rolled her eyes. “And you would know how it feels to be a filthy dog.”

Vexed and at his wits’ end, Birdie grew tired of being nice. He pointed his finger in her face. “Let's get one thing straight, you old bitch—I ain't Jesse, and I'm damn sure not a child. So I suggest you watch what comes out of your mouth, ‘cause I'm the right one to be fucking with. You talk slick to me one more time and I'm gonna forget I'm a lady and proceed to putting these size fourteens up your ass!” The woman's mouth dropped open in shock, but Birdie wasn't finished. “You are nothing but a miserable old woman who is incapable of loving anyone else because you really hate yourself. I'd rather be a filthy dog and happy than being a snooty, miserable bitch any day.” Birdie turned and began to walk away, but felt compelled to stop and add one more thing. “And your granddaughter—her name ain't child, it's Silver! That's S-i-l-v-e-r. And my name ain't freak, it's
Miz
Freak to you. You can k-i-s-s my entire black a-s-s!” With that, Birdie proudly swaggered away.

It was the first
of the month so the shooting gallery was especially busy with an abundance of customers spending their welfare or disability checks. A drug dealer's favorite days are the first and fifteenth of the month. They would keep more than an ample supply of product on hand to be sure they didn't run out. Dealers knew that once crackheads beamed up, it was over and they would spend every dime before the night was through. It was
always just a matter of who they spent it with, and dealers would find every way to keep them inside the house and not let them out of the spot until all their paper was gone. Dealers lied to the fiends, claiming five-o was staking out the spot and grabbing niggers as they came out, so it was best if they relaxed until the coast was clear. Fiends, already paranoid and geeking, weren't in any condition to chance it. So they sat and smoked for hours, sometime days, until they were on their knees searching for little pieces of anything that looked white. And once that happened, guess what … they had to go. That's the Harlem way!

Jesse no longer craved the more expensive heroin. She now preferred the instant rush of the pipe. The house tolerated Jesse because she could suck the shit out of a dick—straight deep throat—without complaint. Though Jesse couldn't sell pussy any longer because of the way she looked, it didn't stop niggers from getting quality head. Men might say they wouldn't let one of those crackhead bitches suck their dicks, but let someone claim that one of them could suck a dick like Michael Jordan played ball, and that nigger is gonna want a shot! Jesse became the official in-house hoe, only this time she didn't get paid cash—it was strictly for a blast.

At the moment, Jesse was making good on a promise to one of the dealers to deep-throat him and to swallow all his cum. Jesse was on her knees in one of the back rooms serving home-boy something lovely. Caught up in the moment, he had both hands on her head while thrusting in and out rapidly. “Yeah, bitch … right fuckin’ there … oh, shit … oh, shit … don't stop that shit, bitch … don't stop … !” He was in blissful pleasure
when suddenly a loud crash from out front stopped them both cold. He quickly tucked his limp dick back in his pants and pulled out his silver .45 automatic.

Eyes wide, Jesse cried out nervously, “Oh, shit, it must be the police! I can't go to jail!” Homeboy eased toward the door and slowly turned the knob, but a volley of gunshots followed by loud screeches and cries stopped him short. Jesse watched in alarm as he paced the room, obviously looking for a way out. He glanced at the windows, but cursed when he saw they were bolted with Master locks. All the rooms were heavily fortified to keep out thieves and desperate dope fiends looking to break in and find the dealers’ stashes, regularly hidden in walls and floorboards. She heard more gunshots and screamed.

“Shut the fuck up,” Homeboy hissed, glaring at her. Easing toward the door again, he placed his ear against it, hoping to hear a cop's voice, the crackling of radios, anything to signal him to what he was dealing with. Jesse heard footsteps and watched as Homeboy braced himself against the wall. As the footsteps grew louder, he gripped the weapon tighter and closed his eyes briefly. He decided at that moment that if he was to go out, he wasn't going out like a chump, and he damn sure wasn't going back upstate. Hell no, he reasoned, he couldn't take another bid, so he was down for whatever—whatever! He looked toward the ceiling, mumbled a quick prayer, and cocked the trigger. Fear rushed through Jesse as she read his eyes when he looked at her again. She knew what would happen next. Frantic, she searched the room for cover, and her eyes fell upon a pee-stained mattress. She ran toward it and quickly slid under it.

Under the shelter of the mattress, Jesse had a limited view
of the door at floor level. Homeboy suddenly jerked open the door and started blasting. The noise was deafening, and rapid flashes of gunfire lit up the hallway. Then, just like that, it was all over. Jesse heard a loud thud, and saw Homeboy laid out like a rug. She prayed that this was some kind of demented dream, but what happened next confirmed her greatest fear— a green pair of Pumas appeared. It was then that she realized how much trouble she was in. Jesse had never seen a cop wear that kind of sneakers. No, these weren't cops—they were killers!
Lord … please save me
, she silently prayed.
Please help me!
But all hope diminished when she heard a man give an order to kill everyone. It seemed like the gunshots lasted an eternity. She silently cried, sure that she also would meet her maker. When the gunfire stopped, the eerie silence gave way to the pungent smell of blood, death, and gunpowder. Terror overcame her when she heard the voice of death—the man who had spoken before—order the back rooms to be searched for “the rest of the shit.” She thought of just getting up and begging for mercy, but she was physically incapable—she couldn't move. She held her breath as she saw someone enter the room and step toward the closet. She heard the rickety closet door open and close. She watched the sneakers turn, pause, and inch slowly toward her hideout.

She felt something poke the mattress, and in one swift toss, the mattress was lifted off her. Blinded by the sudden exposure to light, Jesse scurried like a cornered rat and cowered flat on the floor against a wall. Gasping for breath, she looked up and saw a masked man take aim at her head with a sawed-off shotgun. Then and there she knew it was over, and didn't try to plead, but instead accepted her fate. Ready to die, she closed
her eyes and awaited eternal darkness. Seconds passed, but nothing happened. She wondered whether she was already dead and just didn't know it, so she slowly opened her eyes and saw the masked killer staring at her the way a curious dog would.

The killer lowered his weapon and continued to stare at her until the voice of death yelled, “Yo, nigga, you find anything?”

The gunman quickly picked up the mattress and threw it back over Jesse. She did not know what was going on, but she thanked God anyway.

“Oh, shit, nigger, it's fuckin’ payday!”

An unseen man entered the room. Jesse guessed he was showing his partner what he'd found—probably stacks of cash and bags filled with hundreds of colorful caps of bottled crack. “Look, my nigger … we fuckin’ rich! Let's be out this bitch!” Jesse heard footsteps, and figured that the second man had left the room.