Push Comes to Shove (39 page)

“How do you really know that?” He gestured at the TV. “This thing is brainwashing you. You’re becoming more and more Americanized.” He said
Americanized
as if he were speaking of devil worshiping. “Trust me, Han; I know what it’s like to want to be different. Before my mother died, I used to pretend I was
someone else. You’re Hungarian. You look Hungarian, so why do you want to feel American? Be yourself and think for yourself. Don’t let the media dictate your thoughts and opinions. No human deserves to die at the hands of another human.”

“I’m entitled to my opinion, of course.”

“When it’s yours.”

“You did a great job of changing the subject. Americans are experts at deviating when they don’t want to address an issue. I haven’t adopted that practice.”

Smart ass
. He sighed. “I haven’t had any symptoms since high school; I haven’t taken any medicine since then, either.”

“Um…things change with time. At least see a physician before something absolutely terrible happens. I’m worried.”

The doorbell rang.

She shook her head. “Have a ball explaining why you slept on the neighbor’s lawn.”

“You shouldn’t have called the cops.” He adjusted his housecoat and went to the door.

Parrish was amazed at the UPS man’s size. He stood eight inches over Parrish, maybe nine. His blond hair balanced on his head as if it were a foreign object. His fingers reminded Parrish of jumbo Oscar Mayer franks; his knuckles of lug nuts.

“Good morning,” Parrish said as a police car parked in the driveway.

“I’m looking for Parrish Clovis. I have a package for him.”

Two uniformed officers stepped out of the car.

“How can I help you?”

Ace thrust the package into Parrish’s arms. “You must sign for it.”

The uniforms started up the driveway.

“What is it?” Parrish eyed the package. The cops lurching up the walk were in his peripherals, and he was rehearsing the lie he would tell.

“I do not know. I only deliver.” Ace gave him an electronic pen and a digital Toshiba tablet.

A Hispanic officer nodded at Ace in passing and then faced Parrish. “We got a call about a missing person.”

Ace headed for the truck and emailed Parrish’s signature to his personal computer.

Parrish tore the package open. It was empty.

10:39
PM
, O
CTOBER
1, 2005

M
urder. I had gotten away with it once; tonight was the perfect time to try my luck again.

The sky was dark and quarrelsome, reflective of my mood. Lightning split the night in two. The heavens cried a steady downpour of tears. The heavens’ choice of pain purging was tears. Mine? Double homicide.

The sway of my windshield blades was hypnotizing, sedative even. They seemed to wipe the blur away from my vision. They seemed to wipe her ugliness away from my thoughts. The SUV’s idling engine was smooth. Meditative. Healing.

Only a moment slipped by before
her
ugliness tormented me again.

My palms were slick with evidence of my nervousness. I gripped the steering wheel, thinking. I forced a fidgety foot to keep pressure on the brake. My worn-out brown eyes were fixated on the Italianate structure eleven yards ahead of me, a place that I was once proud to call home. Neighbors, passersby, and associates from our inner circle of influence considered this type of home a symbol of status, success. I, on the other hand, know that it represented four wasted years, failure, regret.

Everything beyond the handcrafted doors facing me, taunting me, was what I once loved. A love that was patient, kind. Neither was it envious nor boastful—just love. I stored no records of wrong, not until she had taken her mask off and showed me her ugly face.

Now, everything beyond the threshold of those doors, beyond the security system, is everything I hate worse than my mother.

Lightning parted the night again; thunder barked behind it. Call me crazy, but it seemed as if the thunder were cussing me like I were a little boy in need of scolding.

My BlackBerry glowed; its ring tone crooned a neo-soul tune by Vivian somebody. The sultry lyrics reminded me of what I must do:
Gotta go, gotta leave
. I wished I could blend with the rain and trickle down the sewer. I pressed S
END
but didn’t bother to say anything. I wasn’t in a talkative mood. I gave the caller nothing more than a deep breath.

“Parrish, is you…everything okay?” Sade said.

Stupid question. What can be said about any man wanting to kill his wife and her lover?
“I’m fine.”

“Twenty minutes is left before you hafta cross the Holland Tunnel and come to the airstrip. Then, we home free.”

Her raggedy cadence set fire to my loins’ erogenous zones. It’s strange how humans desire sex in the presence of death. Even sitting here staring at those doors I could smell Sade. Her pussy perfumed my mustache.

She said, “You there?”

“Wish I were there with you.”

“Is you sure you okay? Boy, you don’t sound like it.”

I put my eyes on the glove compartment. “I will be after tonight.” My palms were still sweaty. My foot was still on the brake. The doors of that home were still taunting me. The rain was still pelting the windshield.

“Where are you?” She sounded irritated. “We gotta schedule to keep.”

“Outside of my house…thinking.”

“You done, then, ain’t you?”

“No.”

“No?”

“
No!
”

“Damn, boy, you ’bout to blow everything. You trippin’.” Her voice was two octaves too damn high. “Hana deserves this. We done come this far; now ain’t the time to be fuckin’ thinking.” She sighed in my ear, much louder than necessary—her ridiculous signature.

I hate it when she does that. I’ve hit myself upside the head several times for becoming involved with someone so…ghetto. I’d like to know what the hell I was thinking.

“You was s’posed to be done and on your way back to me. This plane gots to be in the sky before our cover is blown.”

“Don’t press me. I’m not in the mood. We’ll make it.”

“You scared. It ain’t even difficult. Fuck that bitch.”

I stared at the doors, thinking of all that I had been through.

She said, “Stay right there. I’m on my way. I ain’t scared. I’ll do it my damn self.”

“I said, I’ll take care of it.”

A car horn was blown.

I studied the rearview; it studied me back, reflecting the pain trapped behind my eyes. There was a BMW with a missing headlight behind me. Behind it, from my Hoboken, New Jersey avenue, I could see the whore of America—the Statue of Liberty. Her crown and torch punctuated the night. I eased my fidgety foot from the brake.

Hoboken was a Hudson River city whose community was a cultural melting pot. The city had been long seasoned with writers, artists, singers, actors, professional athletes, and others. Most of us had chosen Hoboken because it was situated directly across the river from Manhattan. The commute to New York was swift and convenient.

The swift part would come in handy tonight.

It had never dawned on me that I was blocking the avenue this entire time.

I shut my headlights off and parked behind Hana’s Mercedes. “Listen to me, Sade.”

“Ain’t I here?”

“I never want to feel this type of pain again. Every woman who’s been in my life has hurt me. Promise me that it ends with you. I don’t want to hurt anymore. I love—” My confession was interrupted by the roar of thunder.

“Boy, ain’t I already done made that promise? How many times you wanna hear it? Keepin’ it real, if I wasn’t serious ‘bout us, I wouldn’t be mixed up in this bullshit with you. I woulda never aborted my baby for you.” There was a pause that felt empty. “Love is a verb. Now is a damn good time to show me.” She hung up.

Those ugly, ugly days rushed back. They poked their devious fingers at me. My eyes narrowed to slits. I opened the glove compartment and saw a Sig Sauer .9mm smiling at me.