Outcast (2 page)

“Are you sure about that, Ellis?”

“I'm more sure about this than I was about signing up in the first place.”

“I don't know why I'm surprised. Though, for what it's worth, I think you're making a mistake, son.”

“With all due respect, sir, it's my mistake to make.”

The captain leaned against his desk and shook his head. “All right.” He nodded to the guards. “Take him back. Perhaps some time in the stockade will clear your head and give you the opportunity to reconsider what all of this could mean for your future. That's all.”

The soldiers saluted and turned to leave.

“Sergeant Horton, I need you to stay. We need to talk,” the captain said.

Back in his cell Tirrell found that his cellmate was no longer there. He sat down on the edge of his bunk and gingerly rubbed his hands together, contemplating his punishment. Would the price he'd pay be worth his unbridled aggression?

 

 

Twenty-nine days slithered by at a snail's pace. The stench of incarceration had almost been enough to derail Tirrell's resolve. Sit-ups and pushups occupied his time as he grappled with the likelihood of a prolonged sentence. On the thirtieth day his answer came, along with the documents that would earmark his disgrace.

“Let's go, Ellis,” Sergeant Horton barked.

Tirrell closed the magazine he was skimming, rolled off the bunk, and laced up his boots. He didn't look up, but he could sense his superior's scorn and hear the disgust in his voice.

Tirrell was led back to the barracks to collect his belongings. The handful of soldiers present who were preoccupied polishing boots, playing a raucous game of dominoes, or writing letters to loved ones snapped to attention when the sergeant walked in.

“As you were,” the sergeant allowed.

They relaxed and quietly watched Tirrell as he moved to his bunk and began stuffing his things into a duffel bag. One of his comrades who was with him the night of the fight hurried over to him.

“Are you okay, man?”

“Yeah, Hutch. It's all good,” Tirrell responded without looking at the man.

“You sure you wanna do this?”

“Nothin' I can do about it now.”

The last thing he did was remove a photo of his mother and father he had taped to the inside of his footlocker. He smiled sadly before putting it into his shirt pocket and turning to face his friend.

“You take care, Hutch. Keep your head down.”

The man nodded. “You too, bruh.”

Tirrell threw the duffel bag over his shoulder and walked toward the sergeant and the MP who were waiting near the door. As he stepped toward them he sneered at one of the other guys and flipped him the bird: his last “fuck you” to someone, other than the man he'd beaten up, who had given him the most grief.

Another MP, sitting behind the wheel of a Jeep, waited as he walked through the gate at the mouth of the base. No more words were exchanged between him and his sergeant. He was being banished. There was nothing more to say. Tirrell would never know that it was this same crotchety authoritarian who interceded and spoke to the injured private and appealed to the captain to change his mind in regard to the judgment he was within his right to impose.

Tirrell tossed his duffel bag into the back seat and hopped in. Before pulling off, he took one last look over the expanse of Fort Bragg, and relief washed over him for the first time since this all began. Whether it was the wrong decision or not, at least he wasn't going to spend any more time locked away, at least not here. That was enough—for now.

Peering out the window, Tirrell sat anxiously at the back of the Greyhound bus as it motored up the highway toward the Georgia state line. The dusty haze of heat that suffocated the countryside was almost visible; he was thankful for air conditioning. There were hardly any other passengers on the bus; for that he was grateful. He was equally relieved that they all stayed to themselves. For several minutes he considered getting off the bus when it stopped. He thought that perhaps it would be best to head for Charlotte, or Greensboro, or Raleigh-Durham and start over in a place where nobody knew him; somewhere no one had expectations. But, he'd been enough of a coward running away from the Army.

He could already hear the disenchantment in his grandmother's voice telling him how he demeaned his grandfather's memory and all that he stood for. He hadn't called her in over a month, and he still didn't feel ready to talk to her. At least the ride back home would give him enough time to devise an adequate cover story for his unexpected return to civilian life. Regret was slathered on his tongue like harsh-tasting medicine as he sat plotting the details and trying to make the words fit the crime. He was a man now and men had to take responsibility for their actions—cowardice or not.

He'd hoped that Noonie would understand. Maybe even in time she would forgive him. “Noonie” was the endearment his half-brother, Kevin, bestowed on their grandmother, which grew out of her inexplicable love of Moon Pies. As a boy, Tirrell jokingly called her “Moonie,” but “Noonie” was the moniker that stuck. Despite his misgivings, he would be glad to be back in her house again, if she would have him. She was the only one in the family who ever cared enough to love him regardless of his shortcomings.

The twenty-two-year-old Ellis was a product of an affair between his Puerto Rican mother and an African American father. Tirrell's grandmother often reminded him of how much of his father, Curtis, was in him. There was a lot of his mother in him, too, especially his volatile temper. Tirrell missed them both more than he ever confided to anyone. They died when he was ten years old, after the car his father was driving skidded on a patch of black ice and careened off an embankment on their way back to Atlanta from Tennessee. Curtis Sr. and Betty Ellis took Tirrell in without hesitation; regardless, he never really felt that he was wanted or belonged.

Changes began to manifest in his behavior soon after. Initially, he was withdrawn and despondent, but once he settled into a new school and had to make new friends, he began to lash out. Tirrell was expelled from school three times for fighting and ended up repeating the fifth grade. That set the tone for what was to come.

“I'm just gonna love that devil right out of you,” Betty would say. After many deserved whippings, she would pull the penitent child to her generous bosom as he cried tears of repentance. She loved him, knowing all too well that it would take more than a belt to his naked backside to cleanse him of the anger that festered within him.

Kevin didn't help matters. When he was sure no one was within earshot, he viciously reminded Tirrell that he was their father's bastard son. It didn't matter what Betty did to show him that he was as much an Ellis as either Kevin or his sister, Jacqui; he knew he was still an outsider.

Still unsure of what he would say to his grandmother, Tirrell reached into his duffel bag and pulled out an envelope that contained tangible proof of his dishonor: his DD-214 discharge and separation papers.

“Dishonorable discharge,” he spat. “I'll be damned!”

For a half second he thought about ripping the papers up; instead he stuffed them back inside the envelope and shoved it in his bag. Extracting an iPod from one of its pockets, he plugged in the ear buds. The driving groove of Kanye West's “Stronger” began to soothe his anxiety. He laid his head back against the seat and closed his eyes and mouthed the words: “That that don't kill me can only make me stronger. I know I got to be right now 'cause I can't get no wronger.”

By seven o'clock that evening, the bus pulled up outside the downtown terminal. The passengers nosily gathered their bags and filed off. Tirrell stepped onto the sidewalk and inhaled Atlanta. He turned and observed the varied faces inside the bus station: some greeting loved ones—others sending them off. But there was no one there to welcome him. He needed to keep the fact that he was back under wraps for a little while longer. He thought about calling one of his partners to pick him up, but instead decided that it was female attention that he needed.

As he started up the block to the MARTA transit station he was amused by the stir he caused. With his well-defined physique, mesmerizing hazel eyes (more brown than green), and deep dimples that showed when he smiled, it was easy to see why men and women alike tried to capture his notice.

This area of downtown was known for its questionable inhabitants. All sorts of interesting and unsavory characters loitered there, especially after dark. It seemed to be as much a point of departure as it was a haven for mischief. The homeless weren't the only obstacles in or around Forsyth Street. The vicinity was inundated with surreptitious exchanges of drugs and sex.

Tirrell felt a tug on the strap of his bag and sharply turned to see a scantily clad woman in an unflattering platinum wig.

“Hey, cuteness. You lookin' for a good time?”

Tirrell couldn't even offer the woman a smile. He shook her off and continued walking toward the MARTA station. He made it to the platform just before the train doors closed, jumped in, and found a seat.

A broad-shouldered dark-hued man with short, cropped, twisted locks sat across from him, motionless. He was dressed in a pair of oversized blue jeans that sagged at the waist and showed the top of his striped boxer shorts, and a wife-beater T-shirt that exposed excessive tattoos on his arms. The name CALVIN was etched around the side of his neck, and a distinguishing scar cut from his left ear and ended in the middle of his otherwise flawless skin near his mouth. Despite the mirrored sunglasses covering his eyes, Tirrell could feel them boring a hole through him. His bearing would have bullied most men, but not Tirrell.

“Dude, what the hell are you starin' at?”

The man stood and Tirrell stilled for a fight. The few people around them moved nervously in their seats as the announcement of the next stop filtered through the speaker. A couple of passengers advanced quickly to the door, keeping a watchful eye on the pair. As the train came to a stop and the doors sprang open, the man laughed and sauntered off. Tirrell rode on to the Kensington stop, got off the train, and connected with a bus that took him the rest of the way.

He bought a pack of cigarettes, gum, and a beer at a gas station on the corner across from the apartment complex where his girlfriend lived with her cousin. He hadn't seen her since she visited him in North Carolina eight months earlier and he couldn't wait to surprise her.

It was Thursday night and, for the most part, Tasha Parker was a creature of habit. That was one of the things he liked about her. Her predictability was also one of the things that frustrated him at times. Still, he was sure he would find her at home after a long day on her feet at the hair salon where she worked. She didn't go out much and when she did it was hardly ever during the week. As he thought about the possibility of sex and a good meal, he decided to pick up a bouquet of the half-wilted flowers that sat in a bucket of water near the cash register.

A short hike to the complex and he was at her door praying that her cousin wouldn't be home. He knocked and covered the peephole with his fingertip.

“Who is it?”

“It's the police,” Tirrell shouted, trying to disguise his voice.

Tasha didn't respond.

“Open the door, ma'am.”

“What do you want?”

“We have a warrant to search your apartment.”

“You what? Um, I'm gonna need to see some ID.”

Unable to maintain the pretense, he laughed. “Open the door, baby. It's me, Tirrell.”

The lock clicked and the door flew open almost as soon as he announced his name. The cocoa-skinned five-foot-eight-inch female jumped into Tirrell's arms and kissed him.

“Oh my God,” Tasha squealed. “What are you doin' here?”

“Ain't you glad to see me?”

“What do you think? I'm just surprised, that's all. What would you have done if I wasn't home?”

“I would've camped outside your door until you got here. That's how much I missed you, girl.”

He held her at bay and examined her as if it were the first time they'd met. “Damn, look at you. You look good!”

“I've been working out.” She blushed. “I've lost twelve pounds.”

Tirrell smacked her rear. “You know you don't need to lose none of this here.”

Tasha giggled.

Tirrell took a couple of steps into the apartment, dropped his duffel bag, and set the tangled mess of flowers on the coffee table. He laid her down on the sofa and rested his weight on top of her. The heat between them caused his nature and his temperature to rise simultaneously. In one movement, he pulled her tank top up over her head, exposing her plump, bare breasts, and discarded his T-shirt as well.

“What happened to your arm?” Tasha noted.

“It's nothin'. Don't worry about it.”

“It looks like it hurts.”

“I said don't worry about it.”

He undid the button of her shorts and tried to pull them down.

“Baby . . . baby . . . wait,” Tasha pleaded, pushing his hands away. “We can't do this out here.”

“Why not?”

Tasha motioned toward the bedroom up a hallway past the eat-in kitchen. “Darnell's here.”

Tirrell sat up as Tasha retrieved her tank top and slipped it back over her head.

“Yes, I'm here, honey. I pay half the rent. Why shouldn't I be?”

Tasha pulled her legs from around Tirrell's waist and stood up. Tirrell looked up to see her lanky six-foot-tall cousin, Darnell, traipsing up the hallway.

Darnell picked up Tirrell's T-shirt and took a whiff. “Ooooh, there ain't nothin' quite like the musky scent of a man to make a girl weak, baby!”

Annoyed, Tirrell reached out and snatched his shirt.

“Hey, Magnum, P.I. How's it hangin'?”

“Darnell,” Tasha injected. “Aren't you on your way out?”

“I was,” he chirped. “But we got company now, and I hate to be rude.”

The flamboyant man lit a cigarette, took a seat facing them, and crossed his legs. “Damn, Tirrell. You have really filled out. Shit, you were cute before, but you fine as hell now. What's a girl gotta do to get some of that action?”

Revolted, Tirrell rolled his eyes. “Be a real girl for one damn thing.”

Darnell ran his hand over his shock of dyed-blond hair, and stood back up. “Oh, okay. It's like that, huh?” He started back toward the door. “When y'all get through doin' whatever the hell y'all be doin' up in here just make sure I don't come home and find your nasty-ass used condoms in the trash. Keep your
dick-
tecting private, okay?”

“Darnell,” Tasha snapped.

Tirrell shot Tasha a look.

“Ooops,” Darnell teased. “Sorry, I guess that was s'pposed to be just between us girls. I'm just gonna get on out of here.” With that, the man picked up his keys and backpack, and headed out the door.

Tirrell sat back on the sofa and squeezed his legs together. “Damn, what was with all the dick jokes?”

“You know Darnell. He was just bein' . . .”

“A sissy.”

“C'mon, baby. It's not like that.”

“Really? Then what's it like?”

“We'd had a little too much to drink one night and he was goin' on and on about his boyfriend, and I kinda let it slip out.”

“Let what slip out?”

“We were talkin' about a man's size, and if gay sex is better than straight sex.”

“You're kiddin' me, right?”

“Well, it ain't like he ain't never heard us through these thin walls before.”

“That's because of all that noise you make.” He threw his head back and mocked her. “Oh . . . Oh . . . Oh, shit, daddy. Right there. That's it. Oh, hell yeah.”

Tasha slapped his head. “I do not sound like that.”

“Yes, you do.” Tirrell laughed and pulled her into his lap. “You know I love it when I make you scream, girl.” He cupped her breasts and licked the nape of her neck.

Tasha trembled and caught her breath. “It's not that I'm not happy to see you, baby, but what are you doin' home?”

“I'm on leave.”

“For how long?”

“A couple of months.” Tirrell halted his seduction and reached to collect the loose flowers strewn on the table. “I bought these for you. I guess they got a little banged up on the way here.”

Tasha took the nearly petal-less arrangement from his hands and smiled, rewarding the gesture with a long, deep, wet kiss.

After several seconds, Tirrell pulled away. “I'm hungry. What do you got to eat?”

“I made a salad earlier.”

“Salad? I want some meat.”

“Me too,” she purred, stroking his escalating passion.

“Uh huh, I need to take a shower.”

The corners of Tasha's mouth curled devilishly. “You can shower after.”

She pulled her top over her head again and let her reddish brown mane fall loosely around her shoulders, and took his large, warm hands and placed them on her succulent breasts.

Tirrell squeezed gently, feeling his manhood strain against the denim of his jeans. He leaned over and his tongue flicked her protruding nipples as he continued to hold them firmly. His hands glided over her smooth brown body and he coaxed her out of her shorts as she lay back on the sofa. He slowly pulled at her laced panties and kissed and licked her stomach.