Slipping (6 page)

Going over to the door after his exit, Wanda slid the dead bolt lock home. She turned and looked at Juanita. With a syrupy sweet voice she asked, “Nita girl, while that petty-ass nigga gone to get you some Tops, why don't you let me throw one of them boulders on the whistle?”

Juanita complied. “Gone head, girl. You know I ain't got no problem wit you. It's that punk motherfucka Raoul. I hate his ass. Shit, you might as well have stayed with my damn brother if you needed a nigga to disrespect you. You need to cut his fake ass loose, Wanda. All he do is sit up and wait on you to get yo aid check and them crazy checks you get for them damn kids. That's a good-for-nothing-ass nigga, plus he low down as hell. That nigga would fuck a snake if
somebody hold the head for him. Thirsty-ass nigga need to get him some business.”

“You ain't never lied,” Wanda agreed as she picked a choice rock from the plate and deposited it in the bowl of her pipe. “But I can't lie and act like he ain't the only man that tried to be here for me and them kids. All them other niggas will pump a bitch belly full, but when it come time to take care of the baby he be gone with the wind.”

She flicked one of the rigged cigarette lighters and waved the flame back and forth over the bowl before sucking it in. She pulled the dirty, gray smoke into her lungs and exhaled after a few seconds. Moaning like she was experiencing an orgasm, Wanda exaggerated the effects of the hit. She pretended to let the pipe almost slip from her hand.

Her voice barely a whisper, she squeaked, “Girl, grab this pipe for me. Just hold it until I stop shaking.”

Juanita rushed to Wanda's side and grabbed the pipe from her hand.

“Girl, what's wrong with yo ass? You bet not OD on me. I ain't finta be blowing in yo asshole or whatever you got to do to bring a motherfucka back from a OD.”

Wanda waved her hand and clutched the neckline of her ragged nightgown. “I'm alright, girl. It's just that sometimes, when you get a good hit of yay without all that comeback, soda, and B-12 shit on it, it make you come on yo'self. Yo panties be wet, but the shit is worth it.”

While she fanned herself, Wanda watched Juanita. She could tell by the way the girl was staring at the pipe in
fascination it was now or never. Catching Juanita completely off guard, she asked, “Want me to hold the torch for you?”

They locked eyes for a few seconds, but to Wanda it seemed like an eternity. Thinking that she had overplayed her hand, Wanda was prepared to make light of the situation. The last thing she wanted to do was make Juanita think she was forcing her to hit the pipe. Inside she hoped that Juanita didn't get upset, take the crack, and leave. She allowed herself to breathe again when she heard Juanita say, “I know how to hold the torch—I ain't handicapped. Shit, I done watched you do it enough.”

Before she got a chance to change her mind, Wanda snatched a piece of crack from the mirror and dropped it in the bowl for Juanita. She handed Juanita a torch and sat back.

As Juanita put the pipe stem to her lips a small voice within her cried out to deny herself this first real hit of crack. Ignoring the voice, she flicked the lighter and waved the flame across the pipe bowl. In a trance she watched the smoke curl through the pipe and then into her.

By the time Raoul returned from the store there was no need for Tops. Juanita had found a new friend.

DON'S NEW HABIT WAS INCREASING AT A MONSTROUS
rate. Since Juanita had made off with his small supply of crack, he had secretly begun shopping with Diego's people. He hated to admit it, but he missed Juanita. He found himself thinking about her even when he was surrounded by other girls. He knew he missed their wild, drug-inspired sex sessions, but he also missed the fact that when she was around she shared the secret of his drug use with him, something he wouldn't tell even his closest friends.

The money he and his crew had won in the dice game from Diego and Lonnie allowed the party to continue for a few more days, but the constant celebration had decreased their funds at an alarming rate. Don had managed to cuff close to a thousand dollars for himself. His friends had no
idea that he'd taken the money, but the paranoid mind frame the crack joints kept him in made him think that they were on to him and beginning to mistrust him. They were sitting back drinking beer and trying to figure out where all the money had gone when Don stormed out of Semo's house leaving his friends totally shocked.

When he opened the back door of his mother's house, Rhonda was in the kitchen making a sandwich. His older sister put down the piece of bread in her hand when he brushed past her. She started to initiate an argument with him, but one look at the expression on his face and she decided that it would be better to leave him alone. For the first time in her life she felt like she didn't know her younger brother. Somehow he managed to appear much older than his seventeen years. His boyish face was gone, replaced by a man's face—hardened and lined. His eyes seemed to hold a strange, hungry look.

Don bound up the stairs to his room.

Rhonda found herself sighing in relief as he went upstairs and wished that he would return to wherever he had been for two weeks.

Later that night his mother came into his bedroom, hollering at the top of her lungs.

“Donald Haskill! Wake your ass up right this minute! Where the hell have you been for two weeks? Boy, you ain't grown! You must be losing yo gotdamn mind! Who the hell do you think you are walking in here after you been gone for two damn weeks?”

Don awoke at the sound of his mother's irate voice and stared at her for a minute trying to focus his weary eyes. “C'mon Ma, you acting like you didn't know where I was at. I called Rhonda and told her to tell you where I was. You hollering and I got a headache.”

“This is my damn house! I can holler around here as long as I want to! You don't pay no damn bills around here! Boy, I know for sure that you have done lost your damn mind! Who do you think you talking to? I ain't one of your little hoodrats! I wish your father was here to set your ass straight! You wouldn't be doing this stuff if your father was alive! I swear, I work too hard to have to put up with this bullshit!”

Deciding that he had his fill of his mother's yelling, Don turned toward the wall with his back to her. That only made her yell louder.

“What the hell is wrong with you, boy? Your ass is gone end up in jail running them streets like you ain't got the sense God gave a billy goat! I didn't raise you like this! I don't go to work and school so you can have a place to lay your head when you're tired of running the streets! You think it's a joke out there! Yeah, it's big fun! It always is until somebody blow your gotdamn head off or you get yo ass into some trouble that you can't get out of! I see young boys like you all the time! Think they so smart and they know it all! We stuff little boys like you into body bags every day! Donald Haskill, I am talking to you! Do you hear me?”

He pulled the cover over his head. “Yeah, I hear you, Ma. Everybody in the neighborhood can hear you. You
picked a fine time to come up in here with all that hollering. You finally managed to remember that you got two kids and now you want to act like a mother. You don't be acting like a mother when you over yo boyfriend's house. You don't come home, so why should I?”

Baffled, Hazel Haskill stood for a second looking at her son's form under his covers. She let out a disgusted sigh as she quietly said, “I don't believe you just said that. I guess that I was wrong thinking that my almost-grown children could understand that for the first time in a long time, I'm happy. You are not about to make me feel guilty for living my life. I've always taken care of my children and you're not going to make me feel like I haven't. What I don't deserve to have someone who cares about me and that I enjoy spending time with?”

“I don't care, Ma. It's your life. Like you said, we too old for you to be worrying about. I won't do it no more. Now can I go back to sleep?”

“You know what, Donald, forget it,” she said. Knowing that she was wasting her breath, she stormed out of his room and slammed the door.

Don knew from experience that his mother's bark was a thousand times worse than her bite. She had yelled at him millions of times, but she never hit him or threatened to put him out. It was so rare that he saw his mother, he hated that she seemed to be yelling whenever he did. Underneath the covers he drifted off into a fitful sleep.

It was storming outside when he awoke the next afternoon. With his bedroom window wide open he sat and watched the jagged lightning flash across the sea-water–hued sky. The heavy rain pelting against the trees, cars, houses, and concrete made him depressed. After checking to make sure no one was home, he returned to his room and watched the thunderstorm as he smoked premos.

Later in the evening the storm passed and he ventured out. His small supply of drugs was dwindling and he needed to pick up a few bags of crack. He still had a couple of nickel bags of weed, but without crack he just didn't want to smoke it. As he dressed, looking out the window, the dark streets of the ghetto looked inviting.

He headed out the door with the pool hall in his mind, but his feet steered him toward Harper Court. Along his journey he spotted a familiar figure standing at the bus stop. He slowed his walk to make sure that he wasn't hallucinating or mistaken. It was Juanita.

Quietly he snuck up on her. She never felt his presence until he had backhanded her in the mouth. He complemented the slap with a left jab to the ribs that buckled her knees. He rocketed a right hand to her jaw that lifted her off her feet to finish her off. With a whoosh she landed on her butt, hard. He prepared to stomp her.

“Bitch, where my shit at?” he snarled.

Juanita lay on the ground holding her jaw with one hand and her ribs with the other.

“Damn, Don, you ain't have to hit me like that. I ain't do shit.”

The sight of her on the ground with her miniskirt hiked up exposing her scar-free, caramel legs aroused him. Don realized that he really wasn't all that angry about the crack she had stolen. He was just going through the motions. Grudgingly he admitted to himself that he really missed her—her company, her soft body, her expertise with her mouth. Extending his hand, he helped Juanita to her feet.

Inches from her face, he threatened, “First of all, bitch, if you ever steal anything from me again, Imma stomp yo fuckin’ guts out. Imma shoot you in yo fuckin’ thieving-ass hands. Second, now you my motherfuckin’ woman so where the fuck is you going?”

Cowering, she answered, “I was finta go to the Westside and try to find my brothers so I could get some money to get something to eat. I'm hungry as hell.”

“Well, bitch, you ain't going to the Westside no more, you going with me. I'll feed you as soon as I pick up this package from them niggas at Harper Court. C'mon.”

Don started walking. Happy to be let off the hook Juanita fell right into step—plus she knew what he was going to Harper Court to get. They walked along silently until they reached the gate to enter the park. Diego wasn't around, but his workers peddled his wares, regardless of weather, time, or police. Don swung the rusty gate open. He approached one of the workers and purchased an eightball. Elated that his cop was successful, they went to Don's house.

At home, Rhonda was preoccupied in her bedroom with studying and talking on the telephone, so she didn't see the couple walk past her room. Once in his room, Don went through the ritual of placing a towel at the bottom of his door. Juanita sat on Don's bed and looked around. It was a typical teenage boy's room. Posters of basketball players and rappers hung on the wall and a few small trophies were displayed on the top of Don's dresser. Clothes were tossed on the floor.

As Don prepared to smash down a piece of the eightball to make crack powder, he asked, “Bitch, what was you thinking when you ran off with my shit? I couldn't even believe that you peeled me like that. What—you wadn't having a good enough time?”

“It was cool,” she pouted. “When y'all got to gambling you forgot all about me like I didn't mean shit to you. That hurt my feelings. At first I thought you was really digging me, but the minute Diego and those fools showed up you didn't pay me any more attention. That made me jealous and mad. That's why I took yo stuff so you wouldn't never forget me again.”

“Shit, you tripping on that dice game, Diego and them goofies had big paper on them and we was trying to separate them from it. I'm sorry that it took so long, but when the gamble is good you got to stick with it. Now gone stick a few Tops for me and help me break down this weed.”

In silence they removed the stems and seeds from the weed and each of them set up a joint to be rolled. Don sprin
kled his with crack rather thoroughly, but if his was a snowfall, Juanita's was a blizzard.

“Damn, girl, I can't even see the weed on that boy with all that coke on it,” Don commented as he sealed his premo.

“It's just that Diego and them shit be a little weak,” Juanita said bashfully. “You got to really lace these motherfuckas to get high.”

“Whatever,” he said as he waved his lighter back and forth on his joint to dry the rolling papers and fuse the marijuana and crack together. After smoking his premo and engaging in another marathon sex session with Juanita, Don fell fast asleep.

However, Juanita was wide awake. She waited until she was sure that Don was sound asleep and called his name softly several times. When he didn't respond she was satisfied that he wouldn't awaken anytime soon. She retrieved her purse from the dresser. She opened it and removed a glass crackpipe and a cheap cigarette lighter. Wanda had shown her how to take the metal part off the lighter and use the small lever in the back to turn the gas up to produce a makeshift torch. Her crackpipe wasn't as elegant as Wanda's, but it got the job done. First she inspected it for cracks in the glass and then she made sure that the screen was still in place. She pinched a rock from the pile of crack on the saucer under the bed and dropped it in the pipe bowl. Flicking the lighter, she held the orange flame to the crack and with her lips on the stem pulled the white-hot smoke
into her mouth. The rock sizzled on the pipe screen and melted.