If You Don't Know Me (3 page)

T
hat baby looks just like me.

I closed my eyes then pictured his head full of wavy black hair. I used to have his kind of hair until my first cut when I was one. Instantly my 'fro had gone from what Mama called “good to bad.”

My son's coconut was round. His hands and feet were large like mine when I was born. Zach was twenty-two inches long and weighed eight pounds. That was no coincidence. His genitals looked like they were in 3D and they were darker than the rest of his body, the same as the baby photos of me in my iPhone.

I missed Mama. That weird sound she'd made when she took her last breath echoed in my ear. I rattled my head. Stared at her body in the coffin. Mama had told my brother and me, “Don't ever say a baby ain't yours 'cause they don't look like you. Genes go way back in every family tree. Newborn babies change a lot. One minute they look like the father, then the mother. They come out light-skinned. End up dark. Born with blue eyes that turn green or brown.”

All I knew was I was no deadbeat. Why did women say they wanted a good man, then when I treated them like a queen they dogged me out? After they rode my big black dick, came all over it while screaming, “Oh my God,” they couldn't stand me? Oh, they'd give it up again but refused to commit to a relationship. I wasn't a mechanical bull. I had a heart, just like a woman. It was breakable, the same as theirs.

I wanted to cry. Madison had stepped on my heart with those pretty high heels like it was a cockroach. Then she squished until my guts squirted out. How would she feel if . . . a vengeful idea came to mind.

Hey, I should start charging them chicks to ride my pine. A hundred dollars a hump. Even when I wasn't trying to be funny, I cracked myself up. Starting to slap my thigh, I stopped. This was not the place for that. Almost forgot where I was at. I scratched my knee, then thought, “You should've been a comedian for real, dude.” Talking to people was cool but I loved getting dirty and operating heavy machinery. I drove my excavator with precision. Construction work was all I'd done since high school. My boss Manny praised me all the time.

If Madison didn't want me, I could deal with that. Fine. Not really. I was lying to myself hoping that would help me get over her. I loved her more now that she had my baby. There had to be a mistake that the DNA test was a match for her husband. But how could I get the baby, take my own test, and prove I'm right? Didn't want to go to jail for kidnapping or child endangerment. I wouldn't hurt Zach. He was mine and I'd take care of him.

Mama used to tell me, “You're never going to be the sharpest knife in the drawer, baby, but make sure you always have the right amount of edge.” She taught me to stand up for what I believed in. One day my third grade teacher gave me a U. She claimed my story was unsatisfactory because she couldn't understand my handwriting. I pleaded my case. I had the biggest fingers in the class and that skinny no. 2 pencil was too small for me. The fat pencil was too big. It made me write under the lines. I'd stayed up all night rewriting my paragraph. The next day when I showed her the other five pages where I kept starting over and reminded her she was the one that taught me to write, write, and rewrite, she gave me a G.

I wish Mama would've seen her grandson before she died a few days ago. My son was a week old. My son. You hear me! I'm not crazy. I wanted to jump off the bench and scream, “Zach DuBois should be
Washington.
He's
my
son, y'all!”

An elbow nudged me in the side. I opened my eyes to a woman singing, “
Why should I feel discouraged
. . .” Mrs. Mae stood at the podium near the altar. A black wide-brim hat sat on top of her dark-colored wig. Pressing a white handkerchief against her red cheek, she looked at me and said, “Sarah Lee Washington was an angel on earth so I know she's one in heaven.” She focused on my brother then resumed singing, “
Let not your heart be troubled . . .
”

Dressed in my best designer suit and cowboy boots, I sat on the front pew feeling guilty for what I was about to do. I needed to hear
His Eyes Are on the Sparrow
. That was Mama's favorite hymn. My aunt was uncomfortably close to my left. She was the one who'd poked me. My only brother sat to my right.

Nothing was going to bring Mama back. My mind was on my kid. Torn between the two people I loved the most, I was in my hometown of Port Arthur at my mama's funeral and my child was a hundred miles away in Houston. I wanted to see him, hold him in my arms, change his diapers, and feed him. Tell him funny stories about my childhood. Hearing his laugh would make me smile. How did his laugh sound? Could he laugh at one week? I didn't know. What I wouldn't give to have him throw up on my new suit then stare at me and grin. Did he have dimples? The sadness in my heart brought tears.

I stood. Massaging my chest, I missed my mama and my son. “This ain't right! I want my mama back,” I cried.

Beaux pulled the tail of my jacket. “Dude, Mama don't want this.”

He was right. I sat down. Her body was in front of me. The thing inside her body that made her tick, that made all of us tick, was gone. The mortician had done an amazing job of making that little woman look like a princess. My mama was my one and only queen. She was five-four, ninety-eight pounds. Cancer had eaten fifty pounds of her flesh. After she was diagnosed she refused chemotherapy. Didn't take radiation either. Said, “Baby, it's time for me to go be with your father.”

I wiped my tears.

“It's all good, bro,” my brother Beaux said patting my thigh.

What those people had to say about my family after Mrs. Mae finished singing was for them, not for us. There was nothing anyone had said that could bring my mama back. Her ticker was gone. If I could give her mine, I would.

Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a dude back there videotaping. Guess the people at the funeral home were going to try and sell it to us later. I wasn't buying it. Had to make sure he couldn't see what was about to go down shortly.

It was too late for Mama to see her first grandchild but I still had a chance to be a father to my kid. Mama would turn over in her grave if I didn't fight for what was mine.

I didn't care about Madison texting me a copy of the results showing her husband was 99.99-plus percent the biological father. That meant there was almost a .01 percent chance the baby could be mine. Miracles happened every day.

I was beginning to hate rich folks. People with money believed they could buy whatever and whomever they wanted. I might look dumb but I'm not. All that dough Chicago had didn't keep me from walking out of the courtroom a free man. So what if I did shoot him for marrying my woman. I wasn't crazy enough to do that again. I was forty-five going on forty-six. If I had been convicted, life without the possibility of parole meant I would've died in prison.

While I sat in the front pew, my mind wandered. Guess I had that attention disorder Mama told me about. In her last days, she had it too. Most dying folks did.

It didn't matter that my ex-girlfriend Loretta hated me, especially after I'd sexed and started dating her friend Madison. During my trial, I represented myself. I was responsible for making Loretta lie under oath and do thirty days at the Federal Detention Center for perjury. A dumb person couldn't have done that.

How did I know Madison didn't pay someone to give her the results she wanted? She'd fired me from my construction job at her company after riding my wood. It wasn't my fault her pussy snatched my condom off. On her video when I came out, it was gone. That's how I knew the baby had to be mine. I didn't want to but if I had to use that tape again, I would.

Worrying about Mama and my son, I'd almost forgotten about my wrongful termination. I had to find a way to do my own paternity test. Could I file for joint custody and take her to court?

Maybe if I showed up at their house tonight, she'd hear me out. Exhaling, I knew that wouldn't work. Or . . . Loretta hated me but she hated Madison more. Maybe I could convince Loretta to help me steal baby Zach long enough to have our blood drawn and prove I'm not losing my mind. Naw, she'd probably want some more of my dick. Sure was glad Loretta didn't have my baby. Her lil girl was cute though.

First, my brother and I had to bury my mom.

Other than getting a glimpse of baby Zach through the nursery window at the hospital the day he was born, I hadn't seen him in person. I'd watched the video of his birth two hundred times before someone took it off of YouTube.

“Man, it's time,” Beaux whispered in my ear. “We've got to get rid of this”—he patted his chest—“before they close the casket for the last time.”

We sat on the front pew. Beaux was still claiming the gun he had was the snub-nosed I'd used to shoot Chicago three times. Said he returned to the scene, found it stuck in one of the gutters in the swimming pool. How could that be if the man who'd just hired me to kill Chicago for two million dollars said he had the gun? Then there was a third gun that these kids found at the hotel by the pool. A news reporter alleged that might be the gun used to shoot Chicago.

I didn't know what to believe anymore. As Mama used to say, “Whoever is lying, tell the other one to shut up.” That worked on Beaux and me a few times before we figured it out. Couldn't use that in my situation. I'd never get Madison and Chicago to meet me at the same time. I hoped the gun found by those kids at the hotel wasn't mine. What made that six-year-old boy shoot his twin sister in the head was probably his mama and daddy's fault for letting him play violent video games.

Kill the pedestrian, Granville. Run over the old lady, Granville. How they knew my name?
I had a memory like an elephant. Yep, Mama wouldn't lie. Maybe I should change my name for those games.

Those messages were evil. My son was going to be raised the way my mama raised my brother and me. “Y'all go outside and play.”

I mumbled back, “All right. When you say your last good-byes, fall into the casket, then cry like a baby. I'll cover you. Make sure you slip the gun under the lining. When you're done, look at me, then I'll hug you and help you sit on the pew until it's time for us to carry her out. Oh, and stay close to me so dude in the back won't get us on tape.”

Beaux looked over his shoulder, turned back, then nodded. We'd gone over what we were going to do for the last time. Now that the moment was here, could my brother follow through with his plan?

I hadn't gone through with mine. I still hadn't opened the briefcase, more like suitcase, that Charles Singleton gave me. Inside was supposed to be one million dollars cash, a gun, and an iPhone. There was a Facebook account for me but it wasn't under my real name. The e-mail and password weren't linked to me either. Under this “Luvin-MeSumMe” account I was a girl. Chicago was my friend and I was his fan. I could track his every move as long as his locations were on. I didn't want to go back to jail for doing the same thing. Might not be so lucky next time if I represented myself again.

Charles might have hired that dude in the back taping. Can't put anything past a person who had me kidnapped from my penthouse, blindfolded me, and had his drivers bring me to his house. He'd sat in the dark telling me what I was gonna do. The money, if it was really in that briefcase, made me reconsider pulling the trigger one more time.

The pastor started closing the service by reading my mom's eulogy.

“Sarah Lee Washington was a woman of God. She had a full and fruitful life. This here is a celebration of her time on earth. She moved her family out of the projects of Port Artha and into a great neighborhood near the tracks.”

The pastor wiped the sweat from his face with his cloth, then continued. “Sarah moved physically but she never stopped being neigh-baly. Whateva she could do to help othas or help out here at the chuch she did it until her health wouldn't allow her to do it no mo',” he said.

I think my going to jail may have killed my mama. She was fine before then.

This pastor didn't know my mother. The preacher that knew Mom best had gone on to glory years ago. He'd died of cancer too. Mama was with Daddy now. He'd died of cancer too. Seem like everyone that lived close to the refineries in our town all their life got some kind of cancer.

I nudged Beaux in his side with my elbow. If we were carrying out our plan, now was the time.

“We're going to miss Sarah Lee just as much as her family. Sarah Lee was family. She leaves with us her two sons, Granville and Beaux Washington, and her sister, Wilma Sims,” the pastor said.

Beaux stood. I stood too. Side by side we walked up to Mama's casket. Forcing himself to cry, my brother fell over Mama's dead body. When he reached into his jacket, I leaned closer.

“Hurry up, bro,” I whispered as I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. I faked the kind of cry that was more sound than tears.

“It's going to be okay,” someone said. “Your mother is no longer suffering.”

Aunt Wilma came up just as Beaux finished covering up the gun. “Okay, boys. Sarah don' gone home. I'm here for you now,” she said.

“You know my sister don't want y'all doing this. Get yourselves together.”

My aunt was there to take charge all right. She'd be nice until she got the long list of things she wanted out of Mama's house—jewelry, clothes, furniture, china, silver—all that plus more. Then her life would return to normal and we wouldn't see her for years. If we outlived Aunt Wilma, we'd probably get all that stuff back, until we died. Then it'd be somebody else's turn to keep watch over Mama's possessions.