Affliction (3 page)

Oh, Selange wanted to scream at the injustice. Her eyes were stinging; she didn’t want to cry, dammit, she didn’t want to feel the pain of loss anymore.

Philanthropic endeavors weren’t a choice for Selange, but a way of living. H
unger and poverty were in such abundance, to have wealth was a blessing. She requested mercy for her wretched soul and used family’s blood money to fight the guilt. Every dime she put to good use, perhaps her life and the innocent people who died would not have suffered in vain.

‘
Take the clothes off my back, take all of my material possessions, whatever I give is pittance because I am given life when so many have had theirs taken,’
her mind wailed.

Teresa liked the pocketbook,
fine; she could have it, especially if a purse eased her sadness. Frankly, purses are nothing compared to life.

Selange snatched the
items out of the pocketbook. She could feel the overwhelming grief beckoning. “Amelda designed this, but I want you to have it. She’ll send me another one.”

“Oh for real ch
ica!”

Selange placed
the bag on the sofa. The retail price of the crocodile handbag cost several grand, but she didn’t mention the sum. Teresa liked the pocketbook and that’s all that mattered. She hurriedly hugged Teresa and bee-lined out of there clutching her wallet and make-up case before the waterworks started. She needed air, she wanted to call Shanda and listen to her voice. She wanted to thank her friend for helping her find inner strength when she didn’t know she had any. But, Shanda was gone.

Selange made it to the car without crying. “Head over to the Brooklyn Bridge,” she instructed the driver.

The bodyguard who held the door slid in beside her and she scooted over to peer out of the window in misery. She watched the landscape. Tall buildings, stores and people who’d gotten an early start on their weekend chores. She could remember those normal days, grocery shopping with her mom, pushing a shopping cart while chatting with Shanda on the phone or hitting the mall to purchase clothes.

There’s a part of a person that hungers for a sense of knowing where they came from and New York had been that place. There was nothing here for her anymore, she realized. Everybody she loved before Alfonzo had perished
while she lived on. But, she had to keep going for the children and her husband.

She put a hand to her chest
to feel the heavy thumping which proved she existed and Shanda’s death hadn’t been a bad dream. If the guards were not present she’d scream.

The FDR sort of whizzed by during her reverie. The Brooklyn Bridge came suddenly and she recited an address from memory. One final look at where she was born would close this chapter. Maybe when she peered upon Marcy projects, a sense of peace would come. That’s what she hoped but when the car cruised to a halt, only
disappointment emerged. Nothing had changed, the squalor persisted.

Derelicts
walked the streets and young people in ill-fitting clothes were clustered near her old building. She chose not to go there and gazed across the street. The bodegas red and yellow colors were life in the dismal environment. She survived this place, yes; the seeds of loving parents were how she navigated through the grime. But, not everything was terrible in the ‘hood, there were fun times and also good people.

She wondered if the owner of the bodega was still around
. He was a kind man she remembered. It would be nice to look upon a face from the past that always brandished a smile. She exited the car and heads turned in her direction. Whistles and cat calls were how brothers without game tried to get the attention of girls. She ignored their ass and crossed asphalt and tar to the store to purchase a tea with lemon like she had when she was young.

The owner
was leaning on the counter when Selange entered. Vega hadn’t changed. He had the same jovial essence that brightened her day.

Vega
recognized the patron. She was the studious girl with that fierce look of determination. The pretty girl had become a knock-out as an adult. He’d heard rumors about her marrying some guy from uptown after her mom and stepdad were murdered. Years later, other stories circulated about her husband’s ties to the mob. Vega didn’t care for any of the gossip, who she married didn’t change his opinion of
her
.

He
remembered a respectful girl who never used foul language unlike those wildlings that frequented on their way to wherever because he doubted they actually entered any building of higher learning. Many of the wayward youth lacked basic common sense. In fact there were times he had to put some of those vulgar kids out the store because they’d be in his place making noise and cracking jokes at the studious girl and her books. He had always known she’d do okay. Those eyes of hazel reflected a fiery spirit.

“Selange Brown, que pasa chica?”

Vega hurried from behind the smudged glass petition where snacks were displayed in small boxes to give her a hug. Well, that was his intention until the big man at her side intervened. Vega put up his hands and slowly backed away. “Whoa, tranquilo. It’s all good.”

Selange rolled her eyes
at the bodyguard and then gestured for him to move aside and when he did, she embraced Vega like a long lost uncle. “Hi, it’s good to see you’re still around,” she said.

“You
’re looking good mami,” he replied but then added, “no offense big man. I’m only speaking the truth.”

The bodyguard didn’t crack a smile
.

“Thanks
, so are you. I came for my tea, with no milk, and a little lemon in lieu of sugar, please.”

Vega returned behind the counter to make her drink. He talked
as he worked. “This and turkey bacon on a wheat roll was your favorite breakfast. You were asking for turkey bacon before people around here knew how much healthier it was.” He laughed.

“While you
’re back there you might as well make me a sandwich too.”

“All right.”

“How’s your family?” she asked.

“Kids are getting big. The wife’s still the wife,” he said with a chuckle.

“And your brother, Raymond, how’s he doing?”

“He opened a store a few years ago in Bed-
Stuy. Somebody tried to rob the place a few months ago. He got shot.”

Selange cringed. “Crap, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He’s alive. The souvenir is the bullet lodged in his arm. He’s fine otherwise.”

“Did he close the store?”

“Raymond?” Vega snorted. “No, this is our livelihood. He didn’t want a gun in his shop but now he understands the necessity.”

A female customer entered the store
holding the hand of a crying toddler. “I’m hungry mommy!”

The
child was clean and well-dressed; neither wore designer fashions with logos everywhere. Selange viewed a struggling mother doing her best under unfavorable circumstances. The mother had a scratch mark on her face and a ripped earlobe. The ghetto life could be tough. The hard exterior put on for the world was merely a front. Not everybody in the ‘hood likes where they’re living, and if many had a choice they would leave.

“Stop crying, I’m buying you a juice,” the woman said to the
child as they passed the counter.

“Here you go,” Vega said when
he finished cooking. He covered the white Styrofoam lid with a thin napkin and the sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil he placed in a paper bag. “This is on the house.”

“Thanks, but I prefer to pay.”

“Okay, pay me with a smile.”

Selange laughed and Vega
said, “You pay well.”

From the corner of
Selange’s eye she noticed the little girl point to a bag of chips while her mom retrieved a sugary drink from the glass case. Selange knew the lady didn’t have the money. Those cheap sweetened drinks were around forever. The only reason anybody bought them were their affordability when funds are low. The first of the month or the fifteenth is when government aid is siphoned en-masse to the poor.

“Ni
ce seeing you Vega.”

“Same here honey and stop by anytime.”

“I will.” Selange took a sip of the hot tea. “Um I needed this.”

The woman
reached the counter and Selange took her sandwich.

The toddler had a sad face
because she hadn’t received the chips. The woman dug in her pocket and Selange could hear the change jingling. Before she pulled out coins, Selange said, “Excuse me, I think you dropped this.”

P
eople in the ‘hood aren’t dummies. The child’s mother didn’t require prompts to take the hundred. Her face stayed as cool as ice. “Girl thanks. I didn’t even realize I dropped my money.”

“No problem.” Selange bent
to give the cutie a banana she’d taken from the bunch stacked in a box near her leg. “How about a fruit. Vega has some really good bananas. I eat these all the time, right Vega?”

“Si, she sure d
oes,” Vega lied.

The child nodded shyly.

The mother smiled when her daughter took the banana. She decided to exchange the drink for orange juice and hurried back to the counter with the chips as Selange departed.

In the car,
cradling tea, Selange’s cell rang. It was Alfonzo calling to make sure she was on her way to the airport.

“Yes, I am.”

“What are you doing in Brooklyn?” he asked.

Selange forgot about the tracking devices. “Visiting.” She frowned as the car
returned to the road. “I’ll see you shortly.”

She would’ve disconnected but Alfonzo had more to say. “I don’t like you in that area
babe.”

“Then you don’t like me because this is where I’m from!”

“Stop putting a spin on what I’m saying. You know exactly what I mean chica.”

“Good-bye
Alfonzo.”

She hung up and he didn’t call back.
Ever since, Shanda’s death he walked around emotionless. He hadn’t shed a tear that she’d seen over his cousin and that’s cold considering how tight they once were.

The car turned right on
Linden Boulevard heading toward the South Conduit. They were away from the public housing complexes in an area of well-kept residential homes. This is where Shanda’s parents resided.

A
pedestrian caught her attention. Selange craned her neck to view the woman dressed in block heel shoes and wearing a horrendous leopard print trench. She recognized the face and the nose in the air to sniffing her self-importance.

“Pull over, hurry
!” Selange demanded.

The vehicle stopped and Selange flung open the door.
She flew in her heels to catch the figure before she turned the corner.

“Mrs. Johnson!”

Shanda’s mom halted.

They were face-to-face without
the barriers of an ocean. Selange had a lot to get off her chest. It didn’t matter where they stood or who watched, Shanda’s mother needed to hear her out.

“How could you blame me for what happened
. How could you say all those mean things to me?”

“Because it is your fault Selange
my daughter’s gone,” Mrs. Johnson replied with a sanctimonious scowl.

“No it isn’t. Shanda died in a car accident.”

“She wouldn’t have been in that car or over there if she wasn’t trying to copy everything you did. Selange this, Selange that is all she talked about. My daughter couldn’t see anything pass the fancy clothes and money. If she had she would’ve known there’s nothing admirable about a bunch of crooks. You introduced her to that life and she changed into you!”

“
Shanda was an adult. Whatever decisions she made she did without my help.”

A nasty look is what Mrs. Johnson gave Selange. “You’re here to talk in your defense; Shanda’s not.”

“Now I see why my mom didn’t like you,” was Selange’s contemptuous response.

Mrs. Johnson scoffed. “
The feeling was mutual. But I never wished
death
on Darlene. You don’t have to like somebody to be civil, you just leave them be. I can tell you this; your mother didn’t deserve to die the way she did. Your piece of garbage husband is to thank for that.”

The hurtful words struck Selange as if she’d been pum
meled with a pipe. “Call him whatever you want you mean bitch but you’ll never hold a candle to the loving person he is!”

“
There you go defending him, girl move out of my way. I’m going to pray for your lost soul. If the devil is at work, he’s working through you both. Too bad your man isn’t the one in the ground. That’ll save other mothers burying their children, maybe even save you!”

An ear-splitting scream unheard resounded through Selange’s body. She
always respected her elders. Never once had she raised a hand to a middle-aged person but today she tossed away manners. Her fist collided with Mrs. Johnson’s mouth, not once but twice. The cut which opened bled before she careened to the ground.