Hometown Favorite: A Novel (12 page)

"My mama's sick, but she says you can come in." The girl
stepped back.

Rosella handed her a couple of sacks and picked up the
ham at Dewayne's feet. They followed the girl into the kitchen.
Dewayne and Rosella gave a cursory glance to the other people
lounging on the broken secondhand furniture in the cramped
apartment before they dumped the sacks of food onto the table
in between the dirty dishes. The kitchen pass-through gave
them a view into the living room. A young boy about twelve
years old and three teenage boys stared back at them, bobbing
their heads to the beat of the music as if hypnotized. The leader
of the older boys wore a sleeveless shirt, dreadlocks scraping
along his shoulders; his arms covered with frightening tattoos of satanic power, and his demeanor reflected the art on
his arms. None offered a greeting. They seemed to be waiting
for Dewayne to make the first move to know if this colossus
would be a friend or foe. He did, but only a slight nod, not
enough to elicit a response from the muted quartet sprawled
over the room.

"We should help you put these away," Rosella said, waving
her hand over the mound of groceries, and the girl gave an
indifferent shrug.

That was enough for Dewayne. He was ready to leave, and
this was the fastest way out. When he opened the first cabinet,
the surprised roaches scattered for the nearest dark nook, and
Dewayne took a step back.

The girl gave Dewayne a look of amused disgust at such a
big man acting like a sissy when it came to roaches. She picked
up a can of green beans and tossed it to him. He caught it with
one hand and placed it on an uninhabited shelf.

"What's your name?" Rosella asked, hoisting the ham into
her arms and opening the refrigerator, as devoid of food as
the cabinets were.

"Sabrina;" she said, picking up another can and tossing it
to Dewayne, which he caught like a pass from a quarterback.
This playful action brought Sabrina's scowl up to a smirk, a
step in the right direction.

"You have a brother, right?" Rosella asked.

Sabrina nodded without suggesting that her brother might be
in the next room or showing any intention of an introduction.
She kept tossing cans to Dewayne, her interest maintained by
him showing off the skills that had made him a star. The pitchand-catch game Sabrina and Dewayne were playing helped
make Rosella's interrogation run smoother. If Sabrina had any
idea who was catching her passes, she gave no indication.

"Is he here?" Rosella arranged the ham on the lower shelf
in the refrigerator before she started filling it with other perishable items.

Unexpectedly, the loud music dropped a few decibels.

"Hey, baby, ask her if she's a lawyer." The raspy voice paused
to wait for Sabrina to carry out the request. She did not.

"'Cause if she ain't a lawyer or a cop, she sure is asking a lot
of questions ... questions you ain't got to answer"

Sabrina's cocked arm dropped to her side. Dewayne kept his
arms in position to receive her pass. When she did not throw the
canned peaches, he dropped his arms and stepped around the
column that was blocking his view of the living room. All heads
were lowered but one-the tattooed, dreadlocked one-and
Dewayne knew he was looking at the chief of this small tribe.

"He's in there with my boyfriend and his crew," Sabrina said.
She set down the can on the counter and folded her arms in
front of her.

"What's your brother's name?" Rosella said.

"Lady, whatever you do, you must be getting paid by the
question;" the boyfriend said.

The heads of the followers bobbed as they snickered at their
chief's joke.

"Hey, Bruce, come here;" Sabrina said, summoning her
brother from the living room.

The youngest and smallest member of the foursome got
out of his seat.

"Little man, you ain't got to go nowhere"

The boyfriend stretched his legs across the filthy coffee table
and rested his hands on his flat stomach, the easy posture of
one who is convinced of his own power.

Bruce dawdled into the kitchen and stood in front of Dewayne, a dwarf to this giant. His voice cracked as he spoke, the
sound of boy-to-man transition.

"Don't you play football?" he asked, his glum visage brightening at the prospect.

"I play a little," Dewayne said, and he leaned against the wall,
keeping a fixed stare upon the boyfriend.

"You play for USC, don't you?"

"Guilty as charged," Dewayne said, and he extended his hand
to the boy. "You must be Bruce. I'm Dewayne Jobe"

"I know who you are." Bruce's small hand was swallowed by
Dewayne's mammoth one. Then he pointed to Rosella stuck
halfway into the refrigerator. "She your ho?"

Rosella banged her head on a refrigerator shelf before she
pulled out altogether and whirled around to face the boy. Bruce
was sure his rude remark would gain him favor with his sister's boyfriend and his gang. There were spontaneous whoops
of approval coming from the living room, which would have
pleased Bruce except that Dewayne's clench of his hand suddenly became painful. Dewayne stepped around the corner
into the living room-Bruce in tow, his hand in a vise grip,
his efforts to break away fruitless.

Dewayne growled. The sound was so unexpected, it silenced
all derisive laughter, although the kid who appeared to be Sabrina's boyfriend kept a glare of defiance on his face.

Dewayne pulled Bruce back into the kitchen. "You want
your hand back?"

The strength had drained from Bruce's arm and hand, and
he had given up his endeavor to escape. He nodded his head.

"Then you tell this lady, my wife and your aunt Rosella, that
you are sorry.

No one had ever spoken to Bruce in this way. No one had
ever confronted him about what was considered unacceptable
words or behavior. His role models lay slouched over the living
room furniture, boys just a few years his senior who had only
provided Bruce with the knowledge and the skills to survive
in their hostile, insular world.

This new model had broken into his life; a new model causing physical discomfort and finding no humor in his remark; a new model demanding different behavior, a different mind-set,
and a new vocabulary that had never crossed his lips.

Bruce looked from Dewayne to his newfound aunt. "Sorry,"
he said. He felt the pressure consuming his hand ease, and he
quickly withdrew from the giant's grasp.

As he covertly massaged his hand, it occurred to him that
this giant was his uncle, but he had no idea what that should
mean to him.

"Where's your mother?" Rosella asked, too upset by the
combination of the squalid conditions and the treatment from
her own relations to accept the apology tortured out of her
nephew.

Once she thought she might be confronting her sister and
her children, Rosella had kept her expectations low, but the
moment Sabrina let them into the apartment, and she beheld
the flesh-and-blood family resemblance, an element of hope
began to work in her heart that there could be a future with
these strangers.

"I told you she's sick;' the girl said. A sour attitude had returned to claim her face and voice.

"I want to see her;' Rosella said. The tone of her voice made
it obvious that the only way to get rid of her was to grant her
wish.

Sabrina gestured toward one of two closed bedroom doors
with a bathroom in between. Rosella blustered past Dewayne
and Bruce. Someone turned down the music so the only sound
in the apartment was Rosella rapping on the bedroom door.

"Bonita. Bonita, are you in there?" Rosella said. A moan
came from behind the door, and Rosella took that as a cue to
enter.

Bonita lay stretched out on her filthy bed wearing nothing but a pair of panties and a T-shirt stained with vomit and blood.
Beside the bed was a milk crate with a piece of jagged plywood
for a tabletop. On it were a lit candle and all the paraphernalia
required for shooting heroin into one's veins.

Rosella stormed over to Bonita and began to slap her face in
an attempt to make sure she was still alive. Enough disgruntled
resistance came from Bonita to assure Rosella she was among
the living. Though she never opened her eyes, Bonita began to
thrash around, angered by this harsh treatment, until Rosella
grabbed the wrist of Bonita's right arm and caressed her hand.
This calmed Bonita, and Rosella stretched out her sister's arm
and examined the heroin tracks on her skin, their condition
ranging from the stale signs of partially healed wounds to the
freshest of punctures.

"How long has she been like this?" Rosella asked, but knowing her sister had been like this for years, she clarified her
question. "I mean today? She wasn't like this when I saw her
earlier. What happened?" The fury in her voice got a quick
response.

"She came home this afternoon, said she was gonna take a
nap," Sabrina said. She and Bruce stood in the doorway with
Dewayne towering above them, taking in the scene.

Dewayne could not help feeling an immediate rush of guilt
at the thought that his gift of forty dollars had contributed to
Bonita's current state. He watched Rosella fold Bonita's arm
over her stomach and tiptoe out the door. He and the kids
cleared the way for her to pass, and he followed her to the
kitchen. Rosella rummaged through the detritus on the bar
counter between the kitchen and the living room, found a pen,
and began to write her phone number on a piece of paper. She
thrust it into Sabrina's face.

"This is my cell. You call me ... you call me if.. " She could
not finish her sentence and walked out the door.

Dewayne took one last look at his niece and nephew and
followed his wife out the door. The last words he heard coming
from the apartment before he was out of range were, "Girl, cook
that ham." It was a command from the boyfriend.

On the way home Dewayne asked if they should go back, if
they should call an ambulance, if they should get Bonita to a
doctor, get her into drug rehab, do something for the kids. All
Rosella could do was shake her head, pausing long enough to
wipe the tears from her eyes. Dewayne gave up, laid his hand
upon her shoulder, and kept it there the rest of the silent drive
home.

Jake Hopper polished the tip of his cue stick with some chalk,
blew off the excess, and then eyed the eight ball.

"Corner pocket;" he said, and he bent over the table. It was a
gentle shot with the cue ball just grazing the eight ball, sending
it on its slow roll that won him the game. The crowd whooped
their rebel yells as the losers tossed tens and twenties onto the
pool table.

This game advanced Jake to the Rebel Rouser's final four,
which would pit him against the owner of the Tiger Mart, a
local Springdale gas station. Jesse sat in the second row of
bleachers lining the wall in front of the competition table. He
would play against one of the Rebel Rouser's own bartenders.
The winners of those two games would battle it out for the
championship.

Jake gawked at the cash strewn across the green felt. "I'd
have quit coaching earlier if I'd known I could make this kind
of money;" he said, setting his stick on the table.

He liked looking at all the cash waiting for him to collect,
like manna gathered by the children of Israel. He began to
ramble around the table, picking up each bill and smoothing
it out before stacking it on the table's rail.

Jake glanced over at Jesse, who had paid no attention to Jake's victory lap. Jesse's jittery hand sloshed the booze into
the air, and it splashed onto his fingers. His focus was on the
two TV sports commentators recapping Sly's final triumphant
game of his senior year, a coup for Sly, who had gotten his
team into a prominent bowl game and positioned himself as
a top contender for the Heisman Trophy and the first pick in
the draft come spring.

Jake paused from amassing his money and walked over to
Jesse.

"You can't be defined by one moment in your life;' Jake said,
but Jesse paid no attention, deaf to any words from anyone
other than those coming from the television.

When the show cut to a commercial, Jesse killed off what
remained in his glass.

"Go easy on that stuff;" Jake said. "You've still got the bartender to go before you have to face me." He laughed, hoping
to make his words not seem like a scold.

"Don't tell me what to do, Coach," Jesse said and slipped out
of his seat. "I can beat anyone in this town drunk, stoned, and
one arm tied behind me."

Jesse headed toward the bar for a refill, and Jake continued
his solemn collection like a church usher. The Rebel Rouser
scheduled the pool tournament on the weekend of the last games
of the college football season for maximum customer appeal.
Jake had entered the competition as a lark, never expecting to
have made it to the final four.

Since his resignation, he had found a new community. Jake
had become careless: leaving liquor bottles on top of his desk
at school, arriving late to practice, being ill-tempered with students and colleagues alike. All were signs the people in authority could no longer ignore. The student body applauded him in
the final school assembly, and the Tigers' athletic director gave him a cheap plaque for his contributions to the football team,
which he threw in the Dumpster behind the school along with
mounds of other trash his desk had accumulated over the years.
He had decided it was time for a fresh start, putting all the past
behind him, and he invested his savings into the soon-to-open
Hopper's Barbecue. He would put whatever money he might
win from this pool tournament into the business.