Saved and SAINTified (49 page)

“Yeah,
Xenia has accepted her, and she’s great with the boys.”

“That’s good
.” Osaze cleared his throat. “I didn’t know her well, but I know who she is—a very nice woman with a lot of pain. Nizsm did a number on her.”

Saint
nodded in agreement. “I know. Xenia said the two had a nice talk.”

His father’s coveted grandfather clock ticked, the only noise besides the occasional passing car. The room was blanketed with unsaid words. This time, no feeling of anger or anxiety
materialized; it was merely a sense of, ‘how do we begin?’

“I came here, because I was drawn to come back home. It’s been gnawing at me. You and something else
... not sure what.”

Saint
’s father smiled. “I’m fine.”

“No you aren’t, Dad. But
,” he shrugged, “it feels fine to you, because you’re so used to feeling lousy.”

Neither man said another word for several minutes.

“Would you like something to drink, son? I just fixed some tea.”

“Yes, that would be nice. It’s get
ting kinda cold!” Saint rubbed his hands together and watched the older man stand from his seat and enter the small kitchen.

“It is!” his father called out. “The leaves are changing colors
. It looks nice.”

“That’s the strange thing about death sometimes
... it occasionally looks beautiful. It wears its best clothing, fixes its hair, puts on the finest jewelry and perfumes. Makes people crave apple cider and comfort food, while we all stand and watch it parade around in full dead glory.”

Saint
wasn’t sure why the thought had entered his mind, but he had his suspicions. He now regretted saying it. Regardless, it was time he addressed Mama with his father. The conversation was long overdue. Saint understood, now that he was able to put his contempt for his father aside, that this had to be done—the need to sit down like adults, like grown men, and discuss Min Jae.

His father returned and handed him a cup, then took his seat.
Saint leaned back in his chair as rivulets of light streamed through the partially split Venetian blinds. Parallel rows of light highlighted the flickering sparkly dust, showcasing neatly stacked hard bound books and framed photos.

Saint
took a sip of his hot tea, enjoying the way it trailed down his dry throat. His eyes met his mother’s—on Kodak. He placed his cup down on the table between them and walked over to the photo, picked it up, and traced the side of his mother’s face with his index finger. He knew his father was looking. He also knew that before he’d be able to turn around and stare at him, there would be no eye lock; his father would’ve already turned away. And just like that, the prediction came to pass. Saint stared at his father, who was now looking off into the distance, internally running away from his son, as quickly as possible. Saint reclaimed his seat, and crossed his ankles. More minutes passed, more tea sipped until it was completely gone.

“Dad, can we talk about
Mama please, without getting into an argument for a change?”

He waited for his father to acknowledge him. After a few moments, he gave a f
aint nod and placed his empty cup down.

“You and I, loved
... no, we
love
Mama a lot. We both handled her death in different ways. We grieve her differently. The day she died, I felt like a part of me died, too. We share that.”

There was silence.
Then, the older man cleared his throat.

“Actually, it’s funny you mention this. I was going to visit her grave today.”

Saint shifted in his seat. He knew where this was going. He avoided graveyards. A frightening situation had once happened to him as a child, when he’d tagged along with his father to visit his mom—and the dead began to speak to him. He thought he was losing his childhood mind.

“Would you
... like to go with me?” his father offered; his sorrowful eyes bore holes into Saint’s heart.

Saint
swallowed. “Yeah, I’ll go.” His voice cracked. This time, it wasn’t marinated in fear, but based on the loudness that was deafening. It seemed that whenever he got around the dead, they’d bum rush him, yell at the top of their lungs, begging him to tell their loved ones they were sorry, that they missed them, and other sort of carrier pigeon messages that he wasn’t equipped to deal with. It also happened to him at hospitals. He avoided those places like the plague but they’d find him anyway when he visited a friend or two, or worse yet, when he was waiting for one of his children to be born.

“Why do you look so uncomfortable?” his father asked.

“I’m not uncomfortable. Just let me freshen up and we can head out.” Saint stood.

“You
are
uncomfortable. I know what it is. You hear the spirits, right?”

Saint
looked at his father and frowned. “If you knew, why’d you ask?”

His father laughed. “I’ll have to teach you how to turn it off. When we get there, I’ll show you.”

Saint nodded and headed into the restroom to splash copious amounts of cool water on his face.

****

The wind bustled past the two men’s faces, blowing their hair to and fro. It seemed to pick up when the chill in the air suddenly increased. Collections of russet and tan leaves cascaded in the prickling breeze, tickling the drab scenery of gray gravestones, shadowed, somber skies and splotches of muddy brown grass with bits of muted green pigment. Neither man said a word as they stared down at Min Jae Aknaten’s grave site.

“Is it happening?”
His father broke the quiet.

“Yeah.”
Saint shoved his hands in his pockets and grimaced.

“I want you to concentrate on your mother, and tell them, telepathically
, why you’re here. Tell them they have to respect your wishes to be left alone right now. Do it respectfully, but be firm.”

Saint
took a deep breath and went into trance. The muted voices became louder, screaming as he pushed against them internally. He felt the voices twirling around him, as if they were tangible. His stomach knotted, he became queasy but he perservered as he told them,

I need my time alone right now. I am here for my father and mother. I can not help you today.

After a few minutes, Saint smiled and looked at him. “It worked. Thank you.”

His father nodded, then bent down
to place a bouquet of large pink roses on his wife’s grave. He removed a soiled tissue from his pocket and blew into it. As he sniffed, tears brimmed in his dull eyes. Smile lines the older man’s pursed lips, but they were not a sign of joy. The tall, handsome Egyptian elder had been stomped into the ground from a broken heart. It had wilted him so terribly that what he once had been was almost indistinguishable.

“You know, some days are okay,” the older man began as he rubbed his hands nervously together. “Some days, I can actually smile about a joke or not think about
what transpired. Then, other days, it is like it is happening all over again. I can ... smell her.” He shifted his weight and blinked tears away. “She’s around me, but,” he vigorously shook his head, “it’s just not good enough. I need her flesh and blood!” His jaw tensed and he lowered his head, broken, resigned.

“I know, Dad. I feel that way sometimes
too. She visits me, she is always around ... just like with you. Sometimes, I want just one more hug from her, a kiss on the forehead, her comforting words. But you know what?” He grasped his father’s hand as the older man shook like one of the leaves around them in the wind, his body vibrating with unyielding grief that felt only hours old.  “You had her and she was the love of your life, and you were hers. Mama never did, and never will, love a man more than she loved you, Dad.” Saint’s voice quaked with each syllable.

H
is father nodded in agreement, fat tears flowing down his face now.

“I gotta start living,
Saint. You were right when we had that fight, when you were in the hospital.”

“No, Dad, I wasn’t. I
—”

“No, you were
, damn it!” Osaze’s blood-shot eyes were wide and focused. “I have you here; I have grandkids ... beautiful boys they are. Your mother would be so disappointed in me if she ... well, she does know...” He shook his head. “That’s part of the reason why I came out there. I had the dreams about your daughter, but I needed to be around my family. I’m still the oldest, the chief. I’m supposed to be a leader. You needed me as a teen; I let the streets raise you. You were running around with damn gang members, even before she died, because I didn’t want to deal with your development so you found new father figures. You needed me!  And then, as a teen, you were hangin’ around drug addicts and getting into all sorts of trouble! I blamed
you
, instead of me!” Anguish riddled him, infused his tone. “It was a call for help! You were begging me for love!” Tears continued to stream down his face. Saint was startled, touched and crushed. “While I died inside my own little shell, feeling sorry for myself, my son was going through hell. I failed you!”

Saint
grabbed his father and hugged him tightly. He closed his eyes and rested his chin on his father’s head, rocking him as they both burst open with new understanding. He affectionately began to rub the back of his father’s salt and pepper hair, his caress loving and forgiving.

“It’s okay, Dad.”
Saint whispered in his father’s ear. “It’s okay.”

His father shook his head in disagreement, clutching tighter to his son with all of his might.
The faint scent of Min Jae’s perfume waved past them and fallen leaves enveloped them, enclosing their tall forms in autumn delight. The chill seemed to dissipate, and brilliant warmth touched them as their bodies lit with a soft glow. And that was how they stayed for quite a while, holding on to one another as though one man’s salvation resided in the other man’s heart...

****

Saint got off the subway and stood at the electronic ‘Don’t Walk’ sign. He pulled the collar of his black leather jacket tighter around his neck, his fingers working hard to keep it in place.

I’ve gotten spoiled.
L.A. doesn’t treat me this way. It ain’t even winter yet, and it’s already getting too damn cold. Back in the day, we’d get ghost when it got cold out here in these streets. Then, as soon as it was warm again, we came to life, spilling out into the thoroughfares. The shop owners hated summertime, with all of us kids hanging out, going wild. They’d get no peace. All the stealing of their wine, chips and candy ... that’s what we’d do. Kids stealing wine—common as a man reading a paper on a Sunday afternoon.

T
o his right, he spotted the remains of a building he used to hang out at. Evidence of a fire still remained. The South Bronx had changed drastically though. Very few signs of extreme poverty existed any more. Now, the property was at a premium. There were new schools, apartments and houses. And stores with nice displays and people milling about, not with the look he’d grown up seeing—scowls, cursing and fast feet. Now, people actually moseyed about. Pointing, looking and speaking to one another.

Saint
was happy that the taste of despair no longer lingered in the air, but a small part of him felt nostalgic. This was not the same place he grew up in. The despair was gone, but so was the soul. The turf graffiti was at a minimum, covered in paint or destroyed altogether. Gone—the familiar gang tags of ‘Savage Skulls’, ‘Savage Nomads’, ‘The Bachelors’, ‘Young Immortals’, ‘The Dirty Ones’, ‘Seven Immortals’, ‘The Turbans’, ‘The Ghetto Brothers’, ‘The Black Spades’, ‘The Ching-a-lings’, ‘The Reapers’, and many more.

Saint
didn’t see anyone flying cut sleeves and their colors.

He didn’t see anyone darting across the street, running from a rival gang that was out for blood.

Those had been daily occurrences and now, all he had were his memories. As bleak and violent as those recollections were, they were
his,
and he embraced them proudly. A crazy Puerto Rican motherfucker named ‘Bomb’ from the Savage Skulls had taken care of him—watched over him when his father wasn’t.

Bomb
hadn’t been the best role model, but one thing was for damn sure, that kid kept Saint’s ass safe. Too many times he’d walked the streets unsupervised, and junkies approached him, as well as perverts and people more than willing to hurt a child. And seemingly out of the smoke, the thin damn air, Bomb would appear, sometimes alone, sometimes with his boys—but once he was there, the trouble would vanish and Saint was safe once again.

He drifted out of his memories, and focused on his surroundings,
not even sure where he was going. His step was steady, regardless. His soul propelled him forward, but the destination? Unknown. The nagging notion to ‘get back home’ had come to a boil. He now realized it was to see his father but then there was also
this.

Looking
around for previous evidence, tiny morsels from the late ’70s and ’80s, was a daunting task. He passed the old Yankee Stadium, and smiled. He looked up toward the sky. There used to be a building in that spot where he could look out and see the twin towers—now all three were gone. He’d give almost anything to run into some of the old gangstas that used to rub his head and call him, ‘Little Pharaoh’. They’d hand him a dollar if they had it, and tell him and Raphael to go get some candy but bring back their change, and they meant it.