Forged by Fire (12 page)

“Angel hasn't called Kiara much lately. How's she doing?”

“It's hard to tell. Angel cries a lot too, but I don't know how much of that is teenage girl stuff and how much is because Monique is all messed up.”

“But Jordan's not.. . bothering her?”

“No,” Gerald said with a sigh, “at least that's not a problem right now. But Jordan isn't happy, and that's not good.”

“Why don't you and Angel come over this weekend. It's been a while.”

“Thanks, man, but I gotta keep an eye on Monique. Maybe Angel can come. She hasn't seen Kiara since school started.”

“Kiara is pulling on the phone. She wants to talk to Angel. In the meantime, take care, Gerald. Call me anytime. You know that.”

“Yeah, man. Thanks.” Gerald sighed and held the phone out to Angel. “Hey Angel—telephone. It's Kiara.”

“What's up, girl?” Kiara asked when Angel got on the telephone.

“Not much.”

“How's your mom?”

“She's not bleeding or anything, but all she does is sit and watch TV. Her mind kinda fades in and out, if you know what I mean. I think she's takin' too many of those painkillers the doctors gave her.”

“Do you think it's gonna get better?”

“Yeah, the doctor told Gerald that she'd be back to normal in a few months, but I sorta miss her, you know—the way she used to be?”

“Yeah, I hear you. Your mom always had it together. Her nails, her hair,
and
her shoes always matched!”

Angel laughed. “You got that right. And her clothes! Remember that time she went to work and we tried on all those dresses with the sparkles and the sequins? My mama was a real fancy lady.”

“She still is, Angel,” Kiara reminded her. “She's gonna be back like she was. You'll see.”

“Yeah, I hope so. You know, even though she wasn't always the best mother in the world, she's all I got.” Angel started to cry.

“It's gonna be okay, Angel. It's gonna be okay,” Kiara soothed her friend over the phone. “You want to come over this weekend?”

“Yeah, that'll be cool.”

“I'll see if my dad can pick you up.”

“Thanks, Kiara. I'm glad I got somebody to talk to.”

“Hey, you can tell me anything, girl. Peace.”

No,
not everything,
Angel thought as she hung up the phone. Some things had to stay in the secret places.

O
CTOBER WAS UNUSUALLY
hot. The temperature stayed in the 90s every day. School was unbearable for Gerald and Angel, and when they got home, the small apartment was hot and miserable. The electricity went out almost weekly—power surges, the electric company said.

After school, it was too hot to play basketball, too hot to dance, too hot even to eat. Angel had a small fan in her room. Gerald had nothing but whatever breeze decided to find his window. Monique and Jordan's room had a small window air conditioner, but she kept the door closed, watching what Gerald called “the parade of weirdos” on the talk shows. Even when the power went off, Monique sat in front of the TV Sometimes she laughed at the dull, empty screen. She wasn't getting much better. She used beer now, instead of water, to wash down the pills that Jordan brought her.

“Here, Monique, drink some ice water,” Gerald said to her. “It will keep you cool in all this heat.”

“Water makes me gag,” Monique said without taking her eyes from the TV screen. “Bring me another beer. It
settles my stomach. And one of those red pills from the doctor. Gotta do what the doctor said.”

Gerald sighed and left the ice water next to her bed. He knew she would get up and get the beer herself while the ice slowly melted in the water glass.

Jordan hated the heat. He stayed in their room, ignoring Monique and her nonstop television, with the air conditioner turned up as high as it could get and blowing directly on him. When the power went out, he cursed and fussed and left the apartment in a fury, heading for a bar where he could sit in cool air, sipping cold drinks.

The trouble began on an especially hot Saturday. Angel usually enjoyed Saturday mornings because she had them to herself. Jordan, who was working days now, had gone to work, and Gerald had found a part-time job at the fried-chicken store around the corner. She would turn the music up really loud and dance through the apartment, with Tiger her only audience.

Jordan slammed open the front door, cursing the heat and cursing his job. He kicked the cat as it scurried to get out of his way. Angel looked up, alarmed, and ran to her bedroom. She heard Jordan yank open his bedroom door with fury. It was then that she heard him bellow, “WHO STOLE MY AIR CONDITIONER?”

Monique smiled sweetly when she saw Jordan, totally unaware of his raging anger.

“MONIQUE! YOU WITLESS IDIOT! WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY AIR CONDITIONER?”

She glanced over to the gaping hole where the air-conditioning unit had been, and gasped. She hadn't even noticed that it was gone. Monique looked confused and tried to remember, but gave up with a small shrug of her shoulders, then headed back toward her favorite chair to watch TV.

“I don't know, Jordan. I'm sorry. I should have watched it better. I'm sorr—”

Jordan could take no more. He raised his arm above his head and slapped Monique with the back of his hand so hard that she fell onto the bed. Pain and confusion filled her face as she reached up to feel her bruised and bleeding lip.

“I said I was sorry,” she mumbled through her tears.

Jordan looked at her with disgust and stomped out of the room.

Angel peeked her head out of her door, but darted back in when she saw the look on Jordan's face. He was purple with rage. He stormed across the room and got to his bedroom door just as Gerald was coming back from his job. His fist hit Gerald full in the face. Blood spurted from Gerald's nose and lip as he staggered to the floor.

“THAT'LL TEACH YOU TO STEAL MY STUFF!” Jordan roared at Gerald as he left. The sound of his cowboy boots on the steps thundered, then gradually faded away.

Gerald sat on the floor, stunned. Angel ran from her room. “Are you okay?” she asked fearfully.

“Yeah, I think so,” replied Gerald, who was getting more angry than scared. “What set his fire off?”

“Somebody stole his air conditioner from the window.”

“So let him sweat like the rest of us,” Gerald retorted.

“I wonder if he got into some trouble at his job,” Angel added. “He's home so early.”

“I hope he didn't get fired,” groaned Gerald. “That means big trouble.”

Gerald went to the bathroom and wiped the blood from his nose, which was bleeding but did not seem to be broken. He was angry—hot, seething angry—but he knew that, because of Angel, he had to control himself. He also knew that a final showdown with Jordan had to come.

Monique emerged from the bedroom then, lips bloody and face swollen from crying.

“Mama!” Angel screamed. “I didn't know he hit you too. Mama, are you okay?”

“Sure, baby, I'm fine, I'm fine. You know what? I didn't like that! I didn't like that at all.”

“Monique, here's a washcloth. Wash your face. Are you gonna be okay? Should I call the doctor?” Gerald asked.

Monique washed her face obediently. She looked as if she had just awakened from a terrible nightmare. “No, I didn't like that at all,” she repeated. “I don't think I'm gonna let him hit me anymore. Did he hit you too, Gerald? That's not good, not very good. No, we're not gonna let him do this anymore.”

Angel and Gerald looked at each other in amazement. Monique was almost making sense. She still didn't sound quite normal, but she was making some kind of sense. Maybe Jordan's slap had made her come to her senses.

Angel hugged her mother. “We gonna be okay, Mama?”

“We gonna be okay, baby,” Monique repeated. Angel hoped that Monique was really on the way back to her. Monique smiled at her daughter. The moment faded.

“Almost time for
Police Patrol,”
Monique said suddenly. “My lip hurts. Where did I put those pills?” She wandered back into the bedroom.

Angel sighed in disappointment and let Monique return to the bedroom and the TV.

“She's getting better, Angel,” Gerald said with a touch of enthusiasm. “If we can flush those pills down the toilet, she might be okay. In the meantime, speaking of that TV show, do you think we should call the police?”

Angel thought for a moment. “Are you hurt?”

“Not really,” Gerald admitted. “But he had no business hitting me, and I'm sure not gonna let him hit Monique again. Suppose he decides to hit you next time?”

Angel considered carefully. “Is Monique hurt?” she asked Gerald.

“I think she's all right, but her lip is gonna take a day or two to heal.”

“Let's think this thing out. If we call the police, they will take Jordan away.”

“Good,” Gerald replied with force.

“Maybe not,” Angel said thoughtfully. “How long will he stay in jail? A week? A month? And what will he do to get back at us when he gets out? And he
will
get out.”

Gerald looked at Angel in amazement and admiration. At thirteen, she was really pretty, with her golden-brown skin and long, slightly fuzzy ponytail that she liked to toss as she walked. The problems of the past had given her a toughness and strength that most girls her age had yet to find. “So you think we shouldn't call the police?” he asked her. Gerald was used to making the decisions for all of them. It was a good feeling to be able to listen to her input.

“I'm not sure. I just think that right now, we need the money he's bringin' in. Mama's not quite right yet. She's probably not even capable of filing charges. There's no telling where her mind might be when the police get here. They might take her away, too, and split me and you up. I couldn't deal with that.”

“Okay,” Gerald said slowly. “No police this time. But he gets no more chances. I just hope we've made the right decision.”

“Me too,” she added with fear in her voice. “Me too.”

J
ORDAN DID NOT
return until the next morning. Monique refused to smile at him this time. She rolled her eyes, frowned at him, and refused even to speak. She turned the TV up as loud as it would go and ignored him.

He looked at Gerald, but did not apologize. Jordan had bought doughnuts and milk, along with fresh fruit and a dozen eggs. Angel unpacked the groceries quietly. Except for the blaring of the TV coming from Monique's room, all was silent. Jordan knew that they had not called the police. He knew that they should have, and he understood why they didn't. He accepted the silent conversation, agreeing to their unspoken terms. They understood each other. The incident was not mentioned again.

Jordan found another job, sweeping up in a factory, but he hated it, and was tense, restless, and irritable. Gerald was surprised he stayed around. Monique had many good days now. Gerald and Angel watered down her beer, and when she asked for her pills, they brought
her multivitamins instead. Gerald had flushed the pills Jordan brought her. He and Angel had cheered as they circled down to the sewer where they belonged. Monique never even noticed the switch. She was like a flower that had been battered by a storm, but not quite destroyed. Gradually, she began to strengthen and bloom again.

“Isn't it time for basketball, Gerald?” she asked one day.

“Yeah,” he answered with surprise. “We practice every day.”

“I remember,” she replied foggily. “You play for the Lions.”

“No, Monique, but you're close. It's the Tigers. The Hazelwood Tigers.”

“Oh, yeah.” She smiled vaguely. “Tigers.”

Gerald was a starter this basketball season along with Robbie Washington and Andy Jackson. He felt good about himself for the first time in a long time. Rob's dad came to every game and cheered them all on. Angel was dancing again, Monique faded away less often, and Jordan, although always tense and irritable, left them alone.

Gerald looked forward to his basketball games, for the physical release, and when he could he liked to hang with the boys on the team. He didn't have many friends, so Andy, Rob, and B. J. meant a lot to him, although he never told them. Angel stayed with a neighbor until Gerald got home, but he didn't like to stay out too late. He still didn't trust Jordan.

The game of November 7 went well. Gerald felt relaxed, and although he was nowhere near the high scorer, he had played one of his best games.

“Hey, Gerald, what's up, man?” asked Rob as he changed his shoes.

“Nothin' much—cold-blooded game, Rob. Twenty-seven points—you be dealin' out there!” Gerald replied with real admiration.

“What can I say? College scouts from all over the world are knockin' on my door, beggin' me to drive six new Cadillacs to their school, to instruct the women in the dorms on the finer points of, shall we say, scorin', and to teach skinny little farm boys what it is!”