Fade In:
SLIP BACK INTO CAMI’S SKIN
Another day, another dollar, as your grandpa used to say. At least, you really, really hope you can make a few bucks the semi-easy way. Waylon needs new shoes, and you’re not about to put anything less than Nikes on the kid’s feet. That boy is worth it.
He’s worth a lot, Cami.
But does he merit
the confines of marriage?
More and more, you feel
Too often lately, you think about where you’d be if you and Rand hadn’t hooked up. Definitely not married. You’ve stay-at-home parented for, like, forever. It’s getting old. Some girls are happy to do nothing but babysit, watch TV, and eat. You’ve got more ambition than that, but exactly how much do you possess?
School was never much your thing, but if you’d graduated, maybe you would have gone to college. It’s even possible you would’ve liked it, but that prospect is dim now. You don’t even have a GED.
PUP (Pre Unplanned Pregnancy), you had no clear career goals in mind. Not like your sister, who knew exactly what she wanted to do—and look where it got her. Exactly nowhere. See, that’s the problem with keeping your eyes on the prize. Sometimes it’s snatched away from you. Life ain’t always fair.
You do feel sorry for Noelle, at least usually. She should have an art school acceptance letter by now. But she doesn’t, and probably never will. All the big dreams she’s had since she was young are on permanent hold. It would suck to have a malfunctioning brain.
Still, that’s no reason for her to get snippy, especially not with you, her older sister. You did not appreciate her bullshit last night, or Grace’s either. Thank God your brain seems to function correctly, unlike theirs.
“Where we goin’, Mama?” Waylon asks from the backseat.
“I have to see some people, then I’ll take you to the park. Sound good?”
“Yeah! I wanna slide.”
That kid loves the slides, especially the big spiraling ones. You used to worry about that, but Rand talked you into letting him try. “He’s a little man. He should act like one.”
It’s weird, really. On one hand, Rand thinks french fries will kill the child. On the other, he’s not the slightest bit worried about sending Waylon up an extremely tall ladder for a long, fast, circular ride down a piece of hopefully substantial plastic. So far, so good, you have to admit. Not a single fall.
But it does make you wonder if good parenting is something you inherit, or something you learn. Your mom and dad are decent, and raised you with care and concern. There was no hint of abuse or neglect. In fact, if anything, they were on the overprotective side, at least when you were younger. Once adolescence hit, they kind of lost track of you, mostly because you were an excellent sneak. Then when Noelle was hurt, they necessarily directed all their attention toward her. That didn’t bother you, and when, in the midst of her long recovery, you managed to get pregnant, they supported your decision to have the baby, although your mom did try to persuade you to postpone the wedding.
“No reason to hurry,” she urged. “You can always make it legal once you’re absolutely certain that’s what you want.”
Too bad you didn’t listen.
But you didn’t. Like tuning in to your mom and dad was ever a trait. Still, your kickback parenting philosophy reflects theirs. McDonald’s every now and then isn’t going to turn Waylon into a porker. Finger painting on otherwise neutral walls (rather in need of painting anyway)? Maybe the kid is an artiste in the making.
Rand’s childhood was a shit show. Jeremy, his career air force dad, was strict but fair, at least according to Rand, who claims, “He never spanked me unless I had it coming.” Which means, duh, he did get whacked a time or two.
After Jeremy and Pam split up, Rand didn’t see his father much until he got older. And then when Jeremy remarried, he had new kids to play Daddy to. Rand’s mom has always been all about herself and the bottle. Any abuse there was verbal, other than whatever punishments her man-of-the-moment might inflict, and you’ve got a feeling that happened more than once.
The offshoot is, nature or (lack of) nurture, Rand keeps cold fury boxed up inside like dry ice. Lift the lid, the frigid smoke roils and rises. Probably not the best trait for a cop, not that you’d voice that opinion out loud. You’ve never seen him direct it toward Waylon, but you’ve witnessed it pointed at others, like yesterday with Silas. And it has flashed your way.
The other night, after soothing Waylon to sleep, you discovered Rand hyperfocused on his computer. First you thought he must be viewing porn, something that doesn’t bother you much because afterward sex is generally good. But when you asked, “What are you up to?” he slammed the lid of his laptop closed.
“Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.”
His eyes, when he turned to look at you, swarmed with rage, not lust. And there was no sex at all when he came to bed. In fact, he curled up away from you. Whatever he’d seen on-screen had flung that box wide open, and the frozen steam that escaped burned, searing into his dreams.
He woke you with his nightmare-fed ramblings. “No! Stay away!”
You reached out to stroke him, try to calm him. He bolted out of sleep, into confusion, and came up swinging. Luckily, he only connected with air.
“Rand! Stop!” Your heart hammered.
Zombie-eyed, his head swiveled side to side, searching the room for something not present. “Where’d he go?”
“Who?”
The question went unanswered. Instead, Rand vowed, “I will kill him.” The frost in his voice lifted goose bumps on your arms. He threw back the covers.
“Rand, there’s no one here. It was just a bad dream. Go back to sleep.” Tentatively, you coaxed him against his pillow, smoothed the blankets over him again.
Somehow, he settled back into slumber. You tried, but after several anxious minutes you clambered out of bed and crept to the bathroom for a nerve-induced pee. The entire episode was chilling, especially the calm, even way Rand declared he would murder someone.
That was not the by-product
of a nightmare.
“Mama, I hungry.”
Waylon’s plaintive plea reminds you that he didn’t get breakfast. Rand left without his lunch this morning, and you wanted to deliver it to him so he wouldn’t come home and wonder why you weren’t there. You’ve got a pickup scheduled, and a couple of runs to make after, and don’t want to worry about explanations. Better he doesn’t even ask questions in the first place.
The dashboard clock confirms you’ve got plenty of time before Hector’s expecting you. Like most big-time dealers, the dude is relatively confined to his dwelling anyway. “Okay, baby. Let’s get some pancakes.”
“Yay! Bacon, too.”
Fortuitously, Denny’s happens to be right over there. It’s a bustling location, but a nice older lady, name-tagged Nadine, seats you right away. Waylon bounces up into the booth as she hands you a menu.
You build your own Grand Slam. Waylon can have the pancakes and bacon. You’ll take the two eggs, scrambled. Pretty good eating for under seven dollars.
Waylon’s blowing bubbles in his chocolate milk and you’re about to check your phone when all of a sudden two guys plow through the door, wearing hoodies and masks and pointing handguns. “Everybody down!” yells the taller one, punctuating the order with a bullet, which hits the far wall.
People move. Drop. Sprawl on the floor. You jerk Waylon under the table, wrap him up tight in your arms.
“Gun go bang, Mama!”
“Shh. Stay quiet.”
“Open the register!” orders one of the men.
A gun goes off again, followed by the sound of shattering glass. “Don’t be a goddamn hero. Next time, you’re dead.”
Helpless beneath the scant shelter of a gum-encrusted table, you watch a pair of feet move past you. The man darts around the restaurant, collecting valuables. No! You’ve got to get your purse, but it’s beyond your reach on the seat beneath the window. Too far. Too dangerous. And you don’t dare let go of Waylon, who’s snuffling against your chest.
The guy grabs hold of your bag instead. “Holy shit. This bitch is loaded.”
Your stomach lurches, like you just jumped out of an airplane, unsure of the state of the parachute. You clench your teeth and hold on, forcing yourself to stay still when instinct insists you should run.
You’re the only thing
between Waylon and them.
“Hurry, goddamn it!” yells the dude up front.
“I—I’m try—”
Another shot silences Nadine, and now the feet are running. “Why’d you do that?” one man shouts.
The answer trails them out the door. “She pissed me off.”
Nobody moves for several long seconds. Once it’s clear the men are really gone, there is motion. Still holding Waylon, you work your way out from under the table. Other people stand, assessing their persons, possessions, and neighbors.
“Oh, my God,” says a woman near the front. “He shot her. Call 911.”
You inhale.
Exhale.
Wheeze.
Rasp.
Stress sometimes triggers your asthma. Dazed, quaking, you retrieve your purse, now emptied of money. Luckily, your inhaler is there, at least. One quick draw quiets your air exchange, though your heart still feels like a kettledrum.
“Mama okay?”
Not so Nadine, who lies prone on the floor. A couple of people kneel beside her, trying to stanch the blood. That guy had no reason to shoot her.
The harsh cry of approaching sirens comes faster than expected, and a half-dozen cruisers whip into the parking lot. And now you’re sucked into the vortex. Police. Rescue. More police. An ambulance. Another. Apparently “the hero” was also hit, though by a piece of glass, and the wound is superficial. Unlike that of Nadine, who at least is still breathing.
You sit panting softly, willing the race of your pulse to slow as you wait to give your statement. Waylon keeps repeating, “Cops, Mama. Look. Where the bad guys?”
“Gone,” you tell him. “They’re gone now.”
He bounces on the booth seat, chattering, until a skinny policeman with a buzz cut and eyes like ice comes over and hands you a report to fill out. What can you say, except the guy who stole your cash was wearing pricey red-and-black athletic shoes? When he returns to collect it, you ask, “I don’t guess I’ll ever see that money again?”
The officer chuckles. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Can we go now?”
He scans what you wrote. “All he took from you was cash? No credit cards or other valuables?”
“No. That’s it.” As if you owned a credit card, and the only other thing of worth in your purse, other than your inhaler, is your cell phone. Too easy to trace that, is your guess.
“Okay, then. You may leave.”
Waylon waves as you exit. “Bye-bye, cops! Bang-bang the bad guys!”
You’d like to bang-bang the bad guys.
That’s what crosses your mind as you buckle Waylon into his car seat. That, and thank God those jerks didn’t take your keys and steal the car.
“Where my pancakes, Mama?”
Oh, man. The poor kid still needs to eat. Your appetite has dissolved, but he has no clue what just happened. “That nice old lady got sick, so they closed the kitchen.”
He’s hungry, and you are fresh out of cash. You root around in the cup holders, locate enough change for a cheeseburger, drive through McDonald’s, and spend every last cent. The cashier even spots you a nickel, mostly because your kid is in the backseat crying about starving to death.
A nickel is nothing. Getting Hector to spot you five hun worth of weed is a whole different thing, but you have to ask him. He’s not the kind of guy who wants to be kept waiting. Surely he’ll understand this was the random will of circumstance, not in any way your fault.
It’s a ten-minute drive through a risky neighborhood, one you wouldn’t want your car to break down in. As usual, when you cruise these streets, you’re slightly uncomfortable having Waylon in the backseat. Stray bullets have been known to . . .
It strikes you again how very close you came to that very scenario today, only in Denny’s of all goddamn places.
Too bad you didn’t have your own gun along.
The weird thing is, as scared as you were under that table, it also gave you the tiniest thrill, like walking on the very edge of a cliff, knowing the sandstone beneath your outside foot could crumble. Stupid, for sure, especially because had you gone over the precipice, Waylon would’ve gone with you.
Which puts you right back in the moment. You remember the first time you drove through here, petrified, and not only about the neighborhood. You wanted to meet up with Hector, you did, but you were pretty damn certain he was a scary guy.
He didn’t seem that way in high school, though he was older and you only knew him tangentially through his sister, Lara, who was a classmate. You happened to run into her at the park, where she was babysitting Hector’s son. She asked if you wanted to smoke a little weed, and you said sure. It was the first time since before you got pregnant. Waylon had just turned two, and while he showed off his sliding ability to his new little buddy, Lara and you passed a joint.
That was enough to get you thinking about a way to supplement Rand’s income, and one day you rode along when Lara was on the score. You kind of ducked down in the seat, and your friend laughed. “Don’t worry. You’re with me. Nobody in this hood is gonna mess with us. Hector takes care of his people.”
That has proven to be the case, at least for the most part.
You pull up in front of an old cinder-block house, help a ketchup-faced Waylon out of the car. Holding him protectively, you stumble through the litter-strewn yard, trying not to trip. When you knock on the door, Hector’s humongous Akita barks gruffly, announcing your presence. As you wait to be let inside, your apprehension grows.
“Get down, goddamn it,” Hector yells from the far side of the threshold. “Melinda? Do something with this fucker, would you?” Another sixty or so seconds, the door opens. “You’re late.”
“Sorry. Not my fault. I’ll tell you inside.”
Admission is granted and you follow Hector into his small living room. That, at least, is neat, except for a few of his kids’ toys. The two of you have that in common. Waylon wriggles out of your grasp and goes to investigate some Hot Wheels cars.
Might as well dive right in. “So, we went out to breakfast . . .”
As you relate the story, Hector watches you, suspicion building in his eyes. But two people shot at Denny’s should be easy enough to confirm, something that must finally occur to him, because when you finish, he says, “What do you want from me?”
“Can you front the weed? Please?”
“Hey, I ain’t no payday loan.”
“I get it. I’d never ask if this didn’t happen. But we’ve known each other a long time. . . .” True, almost a year, and you know him well enough not to ever try and cheat him. “I’ll bring you the money ASAP. I’ve got people waiting on me, so it won’t be a problem.”
He keeps eyeing you like a jackal scoping out roadkill. Finally, he decides, “I want the money by Monday.” He stands and goes over to the cabinet housing his stash, comes back with two ounces of very good green.
When you reach for them, his fingers close around your face, squeeze your cheeks just hard enough to let you know he means business, but not quite enough to loosen teeth. “Stiff me, you’ll be sorry.”
Your heart stutters fear, but that is momentary, and replaced by a hot shot of fury.
If he ever touches you again
you will make him very sorry.
Fade Out