Shake Down the Stars (14 page)

Mom puts her face in the window. “Harold Roberson? Is that you?”

“No, Sister Wright! My name is Justin.”

“Stop lying and get out of the car!”

Harold sighs and buttons the collar of his shirt. “Dear Jesus, please help me,” he whispers. “I am in so much trouble.”

He gets out of the car with his head hung low as though prepared to take his rightful place at the guillotine. Mom, meanwhile, is already waving her hands and pacing. “Harold Roberson, you'd better get inside that church right now! You are supposed to be a youth leader, and you're out here acting as if you've lost your mind. Your duties are hereby suspended. You hear me? Suspended. And you
will
have a talk with Reverend Wright about this.”

“It's not my fault!” he says, pointing my way. “That woman tempted me!”

“What?”

“It's her fault!”

Mom steps closer with her hand on her hip and says through gritted teeth, “Unless she dragged you into that car by force, you had something to do with this, too. Now get inside the church before anyone sees you.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

He rushes off while I put on my sweater and climb out of the car. I start to open my mouth to speak, but then I'm staring at asphalt and there's a ringing in my ears. I raise my head slowly and bring my hand to my burning cheek.
I've just been slapped. Mom slapped me.

As soon as I lower my hand, Mom slaps me again—and again. She then starts pummeling me with her fists. My body doesn't understand that it should protect itself, because my mother of all people is the source of every blow. “Mom, stop it! Quit!”

Finally, I raise my arm to defend myself against the next onslaught of fists.

When she raises her hand again, my instincts kick in and I swing back. My aim is off, but I manage to hit her on the arm.

“Don't you raise your hand to me! Who the hell do you think you are? How dare you come here behaving like this! What is wrong with you?” She shoves me, but I push back, hard enough that she falters.

She looks around at the empty parking lot as though making sure no one is around and then cuts loose. “What the hell is wrong with you? I can't believe I find you out here—at your father's church—having sex!”

“We weren't having sex. He barely touched me!” I probe the side of my cheek as though realizing what just happened. “You hit me!”

“Damn straight I hit you. You deserved it, too! I should hit you again!”

When she lunges toward me, I quickly get in my car and slam the door. “Piper Michelle, I am talking to you!”

After fumbling with my keys, I start the engine and roll down the window. “You don't have a right to say a word to me. Not a single fucking word! How dare
you
hit me! I should call the cops on you!”

She grits her teeth and pulls at the door handle. “Open the goddamn door!”

“No!”

She continues to hold on to the handle even as I start to pull away. “Open the damn door, Piper. Right now!” She doesn't let go until I boost speed and head toward the street.

I watch as her reflection diminishes in the rearview mirror. A man runs up to her, ready to help.

I look out toward the road. My face burns hot as I speed away.

•   •   •

I
press my head deeper into my pillow, but I can't drown out the rock music someone is playing. I close my eyes and pull my blanket over my ears, but it doesn't help. When a man with a high-pitched voice screams over a tortured guitar solo, I give up and roll onto my side and open my eyes. It takes me a good minute before I realize I'm not at home and not in my bed.

I blink a few times and wait for my brain to tell me where I am. My hungover synapses creepy-crawl to their final destinations while the rock music continues to blast. I follow the noise until I see a speaker hanging in one corner of the room. I then catch the sound of running water and assume whoever lives here is taking a shower.

Gathering my nerve, I take a cautious peek under the covers. A man's T-shirt. No underwear. I sit up and try to take in more clues. My purse is on top of a dresser next to two half-empty bottles of scotch. Just above the dresser hangs an eight-by-ten glossy of a silver race car. On the opposite wall hangs a signed picture of a bodybuilder—
To Kurt, Stay strong!—Walt.
Next to it hangs a picture of a boxer, also signed—
To Kurt, From Antonio “The Brute” Chavez, Middle Weight Champ '06.

I look around the room for more of my things. When I see my pants and sweater, I stop trying to figure out where I am and start putting on my clothes as quickly as I can. I'm reaching for my purse so I can get the hell out, when a man steps inside the room. He's naked but for a ratty blue towel wrapped around his waist. Trails of steam float off his lobster red skin. He's massive, all muscle and bulk, and stands with his legs apart and hands on his hips à la Yul Brynner in
The King and I.

“Dressed already?” He walks over and kisses my cheek. Wet gray curls frame an angular face that's all jawline. His hair is misleading, though. He can't be more than thirty-five. “You're not trying to sneak out, are you? I thought we'd get breakfast. I know a place up the street makes a mushroom spinach omelet that's to die for.”

“I . . .” I take a step toward the bedroom door. I have no idea who he is. “No, thanks. I think I should get going.”

He taps my nose with the tip of his finger. “Not acceptable. 'Sides, it's my treat. Your body needs fuel after such a long night.”

He bends down and kisses the tip of my nose. I think about string theory, except in this alternate universe I'm dating a bodybuilding Neanderthal.

I look at the photos on the wall in hopes of kick-starting my memory. The race car catches my attention again, its sleek silver body and the number twenty-six painted on the door. I stare hard until a flash of speeding down the highway with the sound of my own penetrating scream in my ear comes to mind.

The Neanderthal follows my gaze. “We can take her out again after breakfast. We can even go down to the track. Let me put my clothes on and we're outta here.”

Something about the word
track
brings more specific images to mind: a wood sign advertising Liberties Pub; the Neanderthal in a bowler hat and leather jacket—“You're gorgeous”; lots of talk about the race car he built from nothing; how he loves to go to the track at the end of the month and “show her off.”

Riiiiiight.

Race car guy.

I remember now how he walked into the bar—the I'm-the-shit swagger. I knew right off he was the worst kind of man, vain and boring, but I was already plastered by then and upset about what had happened with Mom. He walked right up to me and set his bowler hat next to my shot. “You're gorgeous.”

“That hat,” I said by way of response. “Very
Unbearable Lightness of Being
.”

“What?”

He leans in now and touches his nose to mine. I shudder when I feel the wet tendrils from his hair on my cheek. Something about this one gives me the creeps. “Actually, I really should get going. Rain check?”

I rush to the bedroom door, but just as I open it, he says, “I don't think so,” and slowly closes the door with a sly grin. “How about one more time?”

“I can't. I'll leave my number.” I haven't had a chance to put on my shoes but try to open the door again. When I do, he immediately closes it shut.

“You were incredible last night. Kurt wants more.”

“Look, I'll be honest. I'm seeing someone. Last night was a mistake. I have a boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend? You a two-timer, gorgeous? You a bad girl?” He grins in a way that says the fact that I have a “boyfriend” means absolutely nothing and is only getting him off. He presses his lips down on mine, then startles me by prying my mouth open with his tongue. I squirm and try to push him away, but when he doesn't notice or care, I drop my things and use both hands to push hard at his wall of a chest until he gets the message and steps aside.

I pick up my shoes and purse. “I really have to go.” I'm too quick for him this time, and I slip through the door and start down the hallway.

“Wait a sec.”

I do nothing of the sort and move faster. I see the front door, but then he catches me by the wrist and pulls me back.

“You should dump him and be with me. You gotta be with me one more time at least.”

The towel drops and he grabs me around the waist. “Kurt wants to be with you. You turn me on.” I try to knee him, but he's all brute force and stupidity. There's enough fear surging through me by now that I know this isn't a joke, and he's serious, but he's all muscle and as much as I try to fight him off, I know there's no winning. Physically there is no fight. Physically he's twice my weight, twice my body mass. But mentally, mentally I'm sure I can think of something.

His breathing slows as he begins kissing my neck. “I like you a lot, Samantha.”

Samantha?

“I like you, too, but like I said, I have a boyfriend.”

I try to push him away again. All the while I'm thinking . . .
thinking
. I need to get out of here. Of course, I knew something like this could happen, sleeping around like I've been, but now that it's happening, I feel oddly out-of-body—heady, cerebral, but not in a way that's of any help. When I feel his hand reaching under my sweater, I hear Sharayray's voice—see her in the back of the class talking to Kristine and Michelle. Was this last year? Two years ago? The girls were having lunch in my room, and I remember eavesdropping, smiling to myself at Sharayray's hubris, proud of her for always being so tough.
“It's exactly like they be saying. No means no. I don't care how horny the motherfucker is. So when that fool wouldn't listen, you know what I did? I pulled a Mike Tyson on that motherfucker. Girl, I bit down so hard on that fool's ear, I had that motherfucker screamin' like the bitch he is. I was like, motherfucker, don't you ever
ever
keep foolin' with me when I tell you no. Who you think you playin' with, bitch? Bitch was holdin' his ear and cryin' and shit. I'm tellin' you, girl, I had that motherfucker in pain.”

So I wait. And wait. And when the Neanderthal turns his head just to the left, I take Sharayray's blessed advice and pull a Mike Tyson on the motherfucker. Before he realizes what I'm doing, I'm biting through cartilage and flesh, clamping down hard until I hear the motherfucker screaming like the bitch he is.

He cups his ear and whines.
“
Owwwww!
My ear! Holy shit! My ear! Sammy, I thought you were kidding!” He holds his ear and whines like a petulant child. “I'm sorry, Sammy. Don't leave.”

“You're a fucking idiot.”

“I wouldn't hurt you, Sammy. Kurt really likes you!” He clasps at his ear. “You hurt me! Why'd you hurt me, Sammy?”

I can hear all of his blubbering even as I slam the door and escape. I run down the apartment corridor and take the stairs that lead outside two at a time. When I'm at least three blocks away, I sit on someone's stoop and put on my shoes.

The setting sun throws me. I had assumed it was morning. I look up and down the street. Back and forth.

I have absolutely no idea where I am.

Shit.

I stand and try to get my bearings. It's when I'm at the corner that I realize I'm not in Oakland but San Francisco.

The Mission District.

Fuck.

I head toward the nearest BART station. As I walk, the whats and hows start to pour in. Church. Harold. Mom slapping me more than once in the face. My drive through Oakland until I wound up in Rockridge where I had several drinks at a high-end restaurant with a bar. And then . . . then . . . I couldn't drive, so I thought I'd take BART home, but I took the wrong train and thought it was funny that I was headed into the city. Once here, I didn't bother taking a return train back home. Instead, I ended up taking a walk. And that was when I found a pub called Liberties.

I find a seat on the train and close my eyes. I expect to feel a sense of relief for getting away from the Neanderthal, but honestly? All I feel is deep and abiding shame. I think of the guy in the church parking lot. I think about what a lousy teacher I've been to my students. I think of Mom slapping me and the disgusted look in her eyes.

I can't go on like this.
What would Hailey think of my behavior?
I feel tears coming. Except for a few people, the car is practically empty, so I don't bother trying to hold them back. It's as if my heart has become too weak, too drained from trying to keep things together.

No, I absolutely cannot continue like this. What's more, I know I need help. I feel the Neanderthal's hands on me and bring my feet up on the seat. I hear myself say through my tears, “I need help.” A man three rows up turns and scowls. I'm sure I must look mentally ill or like a drug addict. I don't care, though. “I need help,” I whimper. “Somebody, please. I need help.” I curl up into a ball on my seat and let the tears come. I cry through several stops and through the tunnel leading back to Oakland. I cry and cry and cry.

I
crawl into bed once I'm home and stay there well into the next morning. I spend most of the day throwing up, sleeping, and crying. When I finally get the strength to get out of bed, I go straight to the bottles of scotch in my kitchen cabinet and start pouring them out. As I watch the liquor run down the drain, I admit that I have a problem. I've been trying to trick myself into believing that because I have a respectable job and a fair number of smarts, I can handle my liquor, but I can't. What's more, I need to stop using Hailey's death as an excuse to drink. What happened with the Neanderthal scared the shit out of me. I have to quit. I have to.

After emptying four bottles, I take down an as-yet-unopened lovely fifteen-year-old Glenlivet, an oak-based scotch with a hint of citrus. It's a sad sad thing to see the golden liquid pouring into the drain, and it's not long before the aroma overwhelms me, and somewhere near the base of my cortex, my brain begins its rebellion—
Drink! Drink!—
sending preliminary signals to my nerves and cells that they must stand together at all cost and break my will—
Drink!

Even as I set the empty bottle next to the others, I know my brain and my body will eventually win. Sure, the kitchen is free of alcohol now, but what happens tomorrow? Hell, what happens
tonight
?
Frustrated, I put all of the empty bottles in a bag, quickly dress, and take them to the recycling bin downstairs. I then start walking up the block with the hope that a tour of the altars will help clear my head.

I visit Tank's altar first. The candles and teddy bears are still there; someone has added a bowl of uncooked yams and fresh flowers; the poster boards are still in place, as is Donne's poem. Just next to the poem someone has written:
I miss you, Tank. Your turn to look after me now.

I walk up to Sixty-fifth and visit Dexter Allen's altar. Dexter's altar is on his parents' front lawn. There are a row of vodka bottles and candy bars spread in front of a small trickling fountain. At the foot of the fountain is a plaque:
DEXTER ALLEN, SON, FATHER, BEST FRIEND. IF MY TEARS COULD BUILD A STAIRWAY TO REACH YOU, I'D CRY FOR ETERNITY
.

As I come up to the corner of Fifty-fifth, I notice a ten-speed bicycle chained to a stop sign and painted entirely white. Plastic flowers have been tied all around the bike and candles placed on the sidewalk. The front tire, also painted white, is smashed and juts off at a crooked angle. A large flyer with a photo is taped to the pole:
PLEASE DRIVE CAREFULLY AND WITH RESPECT TO EVERYONE AROUND YOU
.
In the photo a young man is playing outdoors with a girl of eight or nine. Beneath that are the words
MICHAEL, WE WILL MISS YOU AND LOVE YOU ALWAYS
.
I close my eyes and do my best to send supportive thoughts to Michael's daughter and family. I then think:
I have to stop drinking. I have to stop drinking.

Finally, I make my way to the corner of Fifty-fifth and Market where I light a candle for Lil' Sonny. Sonny was shot next door to a liquor store. Two balloons are tied to the chain-link fence, separating the store from the house next door. Someone has made a poster that has pictures of Sonny. Sonny dancing. Sonny holding who I guess is his little boy. People have written things like
Save a place for me!
and
I love you, baby, Always and forever. Lil' C.

Next to the poster board is a bright yellow flyer.

Prayer and support for those who have lost beloved family members and friends due to illness, police brutality, gang violence or drugs or any unforeseen circumstance or act of God. Please join us. First Congregational Church AME. 122 43rd. Seven p.m. Second and fourth Sundays. Rec Room. Punch and cookies provided.

I check my watch. Six forty-five
.

•   •   •

T
he mourners' group at First AME is the antithesis of Friends of Friends in Mourning. The walls are covered with yellow and pink wallpaper, fading and peeling in spots. A sign that reads
NO SMOKING
is inexplicably burned crisp at the edges. As promised, there's a table set up with cookies and punch next to a two-foot-high Christmas tree that droops under the weight of too many ornaments. Two people help themselves; the others, six in total, sit in a circle in the center of the room. I join them, returning polite smiles while promising myself that if I start to feel remotely like I did while at the Reverend's church two nights ago, I'm outta here.

A man who looks to be in his early seventies, mustached and bald, introduces himself as Deacon Morris. He then claps his hands and says, “All right, let's all get started.” He's slack in body, and the top of his pants reach into his chest. But his muscular arms tell another story, hinting that he was strong back in the day; his booming voice adds to my hunch. “Sister Arlene, will you lead us in prayer?”

Everyone bows his or her head on cue except for me. Instead, I look around at our ragtag bunch. One guy's face sags in on itself thanks to his missing teeth. The woman next to him wears a red wig that looks more like a crooked hat. I think briefly that if I leave now, no one will notice, but Arlene begins her prayer, and I can't get up the courage to sneak out.

“Dear Lord, we thank you for this meeting and this time to come together to worship you in your glory and to share our pain and losses, and our successes, too.”

“Amen.”

“We thank you for your son who had to lose his life in order for us to know life.”

“Yes, Lord.”

“Thank ya, Lord.”

“You yourself, God, know what it's like to lose a loved one, and we thank you that you understand our grief and heal us in the name of Jesus.”

I can't help but think, it's not the same. God, if you buy into the myth, didn't
lose
his son at all. His son rose from the dead. Big difference. Our loved ones aren't rising from anything.

I start to reach for my bag so I can leave. I want to kick myself for thinking that a mourners' group in a church rec room would be of any help, but just as I grab my bag, the prayer ends, and Deacon Morris asks each of us to give our names. When we're finished he says, “Now, we are assembled here to share our grief and our pain, but we are also here to share love, as our loved ones would want us to do. Who would like to start?”

A young man in his twenties, who introduced himself as Marcus, raises his hand. He sits hunched down in his chair; his jacket sports the name of a hip-hop artist. “I lost my cousin Greg last March. His name was Greg, but everybody called him G-love. He wasn't even doing anything except going to the store to buy a soda and some Cheetos, and he got robbed and beat up so bad he went into a coma and died. Died over, like, five dollars he had left in his pocket. They don't even know who did it. But if I ever find out whoever beat him like that, because I swear I think it was Cornelius, they is going to pay.” He bounces his leg rapidly as he looks around the room. “Oh, you best believe that.” He nods firmly. “I will find whoever it is and show them what's what.”

Deacon Morris says, “Careful now, son. Eye for an eye leaves everybody blind. Why don't you tell us what you liked about your cousin. What made you all close?”

Marcus looks at him as though it's a trick question, but then he thinks to himself and chuckles. “G-love—G-love was called G-love for a reason. That dog had all the ladies, round the way and then some. But he was a gentleman—don't misunderstand. G-love was a
real
gentleman, like, all old-school about it. He knew how to treat a lady well, and that's why they all loved him. Everybody loved G-love. He never had nothin' negative to say about nobody, and ain't nobody had nothin' negative to say about G-love. We all just loved him.” He takes his hat from his knee and hides his face.

The man next to him reaches over and gives his shoulder a firm squeeze. “No shame in showin' your grief, son.”

Deacon Morris says, “G-love, in his own way, has reminded us all here tonight about the importance of kindness and love and of being a gentleman. We all thank him for that. We thank Marcus for sharing. You are welcome here tonight, son.”

Several in the group say, “Amen.”

The woman to my right, Coco, begins rocking back and forth. She wears a pink T-shirt with plastic rhinestones made into the shape of a cross. She's a large, heavyset woman with short braids that frame her round face. She holds her purse in her lap as though waiting at a bus stop. “Yes, Jesus.” She rocks. “Yes, Lord.” She rocks and calls out Jesus's name a few more times, then takes a breath. “I just wanna thank you all for having me here tonight.
Yes, Jesus.
I needed to come here and be with you all. I really did.” She takes a handkerchief from her purse and dabs at her eyes. She then pulls her skirt past her knees and crosses her weighty calves at the ankles. “Brothers and sisters in Christ, I lost my son Reginald Michael Jeffries due to gang-related violence. Yes, Jesus,” she whispers. “Help me through it, Lord.”

The woman next to her pats her back as she rocks. We all wait.

“Yesterday,” she continues, “my son would have turned eighteen. He would've been eighteen years old. How long had I been waiting to see my boy turn eighteen?” She looks at each of us as if we know the answer.

“Long time,” a man to my left says. “You were waiting to see your boy become a man.”

“That's right.” She nods. “That's exactly right. A woman raises her boy so she can see him into adulthood. Ain't natural to have it go any other way. He was turning into a good man, too. He was just graduating from high school.” She digs in her purse and takes out a pocket-sized photo and hands it to the woman next to her. We all take turns looking at the picture. I fear that I might recognize him from MacDowell, but I don't. He's skinny and all teeth, and he's obviously proud of the trophy he's holding. I pass the picture on.

Coco looks at us all. “So tell me this: Why they have to go and kill my son? What did he do to anybody?” Her rocking starts again. “I feel like if I could understand why, I could feel better; but I'm just as lost, y'all, I really am.” The picture is returned, and she stares down at it as if she's never seen it before. Then, without any warning whatsoever, she bursts into tears.

Like a trained professional caregiver, the woman next to her rises from her seat and begins using her hands to make small comforting circles on her back. Coco cries without any inhibition, and she is soon wailing loudly like a dying animal. It's so heartbreaking, I lower my head and begin to cry softly.

Eventually a woman goes over and hugs her, then another. Deacon Morris begins praying, while Coco rocks and cries until her body is nothing more than a trembling mass.

Deacon Morris says, “That's right, can't nothing you do but sit with that pain and let it carry you over. Just be with it.”

I feel as though he's talking to me. Coco has calmed down by now, but I'm crying harder. “I want my baby,” I hear myself say. “I want my baby back.” I begin choking on my tears and hiccupping wildly. I try to tell them: “I can't live without her. I need her back!” I let out my own wail and cry with everything I have. I cry for Marcus. I cry for Coco. I cry for everyone in the room. I cry for every parent who's lost a child and every child who's lost a parent. Our loss is too much to bear, and I cry because it
is
too much to bear.

I hear Deacon Morris. “Go ahead and cry, young lady. Let it all out!”

I cry all the harder.

“Let it out!” he shouts.

I realize he's standing right next to me, pressing his hand into my back as if loosening a cancer lodged deep inside my body. A new level of grief that not even I, dowser of grief, knew existed slowly begins to seep out of my body. I cry and moan as my voice rises and falls, and my body shakes and convulses like a fish caught on a line, flinging itself to and fro.

“Let it out!” Deacon Morris shouts. I wail and moan all the louder. I'm not sure if I'll ever stop. I cry because of my horrible fight with Mom. I cry because I've lost Spencer. I cry because I can't forgive him for having another child. I cry because I can't forgive myself for driving so fast that day.

“That's right. Brothers and sisters, you can take that pain and you can turn it into a source of love. Let it soften you, weaken you, humble you. That is how you can turn it into good!”

I hear someone cry out, “Amen.” Soon someone else is touching my shoulder, while another holds my hand. My convulsing has turned to rhythmic rocking, much like Coco's rocking earlier. I don't fight my body or my tears, nor do I fight the words that come back: “Please help me. I can't do this anymore. I need help.”

I hear Deacon Morris say, “Your loved one is here saying you can go on. Let that pain take over you. It's a wave that'll crash you down, but you'll be standing tall in the end. You are strong enough to hold on to it. You are a beautiful child of God. He's letting you know you can go on.” He sounds jubilant. People clap and sing out.

When I feel someone taking my hands in theirs, I open my eyes and stare directly into Coco's tear-streaked face. I feel as though I've never seen a kinder, more compassionate face. She doesn't say a word as we gaze into each other's eyes, one mourning mother to another. Everyone, I see now, is standing around me, touching me in one way or another. Someone from behind smiles and says, “That's real good. You doin' real good.”

I feel myself coming back to my body. My breath slows. Coco takes me in her arms, and we hug tightly. I inhale the smell of baby oil deep in the crevices of her neck, the perfume dabbed behind her ear. I feel her arms hold me close, and I hold her. We don't dare separate.

“Angels all around,” I hear Deacon Morris say. “Our pain, our great pain gives us the capacity to have compassion for others. That's a blessing.” He touches my arm, and Coco and I slowly separate.