Red Hot Blues (15 page)

She put the statue down.

Daddy groaned. A drunken groan. Waking
up.

“Why don’t I just take this here gun
from—”

And that’s when the gun went off. And Aaron
was shot.

By mistake.

Because my dad was too fucken drunk to
realize what he was doing.

I arrived some hours later. Dad hadn’t been
taken into custody, but was told not to leave the state. A
formality. The whole thing would be swept under the rug, and Aaron
wouldn’t press charges because Aaron’s a good man. He’s a good man
to his family
. And his family comes first. And if he loses
his position, he can’t pay for his daughters’ tuition.

A dirty game. A dirty truth. But truth
nonetheless. No one said life was perfect, or that justice is ever
served.

Justice
.

So daddy would get off scot-free. Again. For
the umpteenth time.

I stormed into the house, still unaware of
what had happened to Aaron. When I got into the parlor, I saw
momma, crying. And daddy, sobering up.

And the blood on the floor.

Some of Daddy’s boys were there. Friends of
his, no better than Bobby and Jed and Lewis were to me.

Randolf Berkeley was there. A buzz-cut
big-boy ex-military pal of his—one of those dudes who quotes
“scripture” that says blacks should be made into slaves. (I
actually saw that quote, in a bible, in the Tennessee State Museum
with Gin today.) One of those dudes who gives America a bad name by
thinking every social problem is actually a
military
problem. One of those dudes who thinks the Rodney King “situation”
was a PR one, not a civil rights one. One of those dudes who thinks
that the army rushing the streets carrying foot-long bayonets to
subdue L.A. rioters is the apotheosis of America’s ability to deal
with civil unrest. Yeah, more army, more police, more fuckin
firepower—
Yeah!
A true-blue Southern US Military man who’s
daddy’s granddaddy fought in the confederate army.

And so on.

Yeah, Randolf Berkeley and pops get along
real
good.

Momma said to me, “Honey, why don’t you sit
down. We have some unfortunate news.”

Aaron didn’t cross my mind because Aaron was
rarely in the house. His home was way back in the farm. About a
mile away. So why would he be here?

I thought of little Janice, not so little
anymore. I hadn’t spoken to her in several months so I just assumed
all was going OK with her, starting college up at Columbia. Had she
been here? Had she come home?

“Aaron...” my mom began.

And then I did think of him.

Aaron.

The blood on the carpet.

Aaron.

And he’s not here.

Aaron!

And momma’s been crying.

I knew enough without knowing the
details.

And that was enough to set me off.

I went for him, for dad.

I went for him directly. Years of pent-up
rage, fury, and hatred for this shithole of an excuse for a
father!

But I didn’t get to him. His military friends
got to me first. Two men on either side of me, gripping my arms.
And then Randolf Berkeley—one blow, hard, to the face, under my
left eye. Then another, same side, and that one cut me. Then my dad
came for me. He was aiming for my ribs. He almost got me, but I
lifted my knee and he got the kneecap instead, broke one of his
knuckles. Damn-well hurt my knee as well.

My mother was screaming. Randolf was about to
take another shot at me:

And then a gun fired.

The scent of spicy gunpowder filled the
air...

Randolf stopped, flung his head hard behind
him to look at momma.

Momma had grown a pair. Her face was livid.
Smoking gun in her hand. Ceiling falling to the ground from where
she’d fired the warning shot upwards. She looked like January Jones
in that long purple dress in
Sweetwater
, just before she
popped a cap up that peeping Tom’s ass.

I was proud of her.

“Don’t you fucking
dare
touch my boy
again or I swear to God Almighty that I will blow your goddamn
heads off! Now get out! GET OUT!”

It was the first time I ever heard my mother
curse in my entire life. Ever.

Randolf dared to say, “Now, Christa, why
don’t you just put—”

She aimed the gun at him. “Get out! Get the
fuck out or I swear to
Christ
I will blow your heads—”

“Christa, please.”

BOOM! Another warning shot. More ceiling
falling.

Randolf and his two friends beat it.
Quick.

Dad was in shock, staring at my mother, his
broken hand still aching. “Now, Christa—”

“You as well! Get out!” she screamed at him.
“Get the
hell
out of this house!”

“You’re gonna regret this, honey. You’re not
gonna have anything. You’ll be out on the street and—”

Mom pointed the gun at him.

“You
stupid
woman. You stupid,
stupid
woman! How dare you aim that gun at me!”

He hit her, flat across the face, with his
good hand. A loud, cracking,
thwack
of a hit. She fell back.
I
charged
for him but he ducked out the way and I fell on
the ground!

Then he kicked her on the floor before I
could get up. It all happened so fast. Her whole body went up like
a ragdoll. She still had the revolver in her hand, somehow. As if
she’d known, even then, as she’d fallen to the ground, that without
it, she’d be dead. Or I would be.

I got up, was just about to fling myself in
his direction, getting ready for one serious football tackle. His
leg was already up again, getting ready for another swing against
momma on the ground.

I’ll never forget this moment: His leg cocked
back, waiting.

And then the gun went off.

And then again.

And again.

Three bloody holes into his chest and
stomach.

He staggered, much like my mind staggered in
that precise moment. I was reeling. Unable to believe what the
fuck
I was looking at!

Dad. Bloody. Swaying. Blood from his mouth,
his stomach. His chest. Looking down. Incredulous—him, me, momma.
All of us, not a single one of us understanding, appreciating, the
gargantuanly
huge
game-changer we had all three just
effected.

The gun went off a fourth time. And I saw him
flinch back. And that’s when my reeling mind finally put it all
together. That’s when I realized that my mom had shot my father.
That she had
actually
shot my father. Four times.

I heard a click. There’d only been six
bullets in that gun, but she was ready to put another one in him.
How many more after that was she willing to lay into him?

Hate filled her eyes. Fear filled her
eyes.

Justice, I remember thinking, filled her
beautiful, green, lonely, and tired eyes.

He fell to his knees, gurgled something. And
then fell forward on her legs. Like a bleeding zombie.

She wriggled away from him. Shocked,
panicked, freaking out. Suddenly realizing what had happened, the
irrevocability of it. The finality of it.

She panicked.

She dropped the gun, started going into
hysterics. “Oh, my god, what have I done! What have I done! Call an
ambulance, Ace! Call nine-one-one!”

I called nine-one-one.

Dad was still alive when they arrived.
Miraculously.

I don’t know how I feel about that.

Aaron’s in intensive care. Logan Travers, my
father, is in intensive care.

I went and saw Aaron. They said he’s stable,
but needs to be monitored.

I didn’t see my father. But I heard his
chances are slim to none.

Dad’s affairs are not in order. From hints my
mom has given me over the years, I know that if he goes down, so
does the farm. So does Aaron’s family. Dad has never been known for
his prudence or his good judgment, only his ability to sweet-talk
people into doing things. Including the bank manager.

So, in a twisted, crappy way, I’m rooting for
my dad so that Aaron’s family can be OK. So that my little sister
Janice can be OK.

Yeah, it’s complicated. Very complicated.

If I had the money, I’d give it to Aaron
myself. But I don’t. If there’s one good thing my father ever did,
it was give Aaron his dues. Aaron’s two daughters are both at
Columbia with Janice.

Don’t ask me why the sonofabitch did it. But
he did. And it confuses me. Because I wanna hate him, I wanna hate
him for everything he did, and everything he
almost
did.
Janice.
But then I hear of this, of this generosity...

It confuses me. It confuses me
completely.

In the hospital, I was all mixed up.
Spinning. In a whirling turmoil.

So I ran. Because that’s what I do—I run.

I drove to Nashville. And I sang with Ginger.
And now I’m here, in this bedroom with her.

And this was the best damn thing I could have
ever done.

Because I had to get out of there.

Had to.

“Do you know if he’s gonna make it yet?
Aaron.”

I shrug, still looking up at the ceiling in
our Renaissance Hotel Suite. I also notice how Gin chose to ask
about Aaron, not my father.

She understands me.

I didn’t tell her about what he did to
Janice. I don’t know if I’ll ever tell anyone. That’s between me
and her and Aunt Nola. No one needs to know about that.

Gin puts her hand on mine. Holds it. Says
nothing. And we lie here. Looking at the ceiling.

Silently.

Some time later, I’m kissing her. I love
kissing her. I could kiss her all night. Slowly, quietly. Just the
sounds of our lips smacking, and the
whir-whir
of the
AC.

Kissing her eases my mind.

Kissing her makes me forget.

Kissing her soothes the buzzing thrum of the
pressure of uncertainty I feel in my chest, my heart, for things
that have happened, pains that I’ve suffered. It eases the anger,
the hatred. The desire to run.

The kiss leads to me climbing over her,
smothering her, falling in love with the sounds she makes, the
innocent calls of attraction, her music of arousal.

I widen her legs, find her, enter her. And
she arches, thrusting her hips into me, upwards, driving me crazy
for her.

I’ve fallen for her. But I wasn’t lying to
her when I told her I’d break her heart. I will. Not because I want
to, but because it’s who I am.

Will I be able to see her again afterwards? I
have to. Because I promised her.

And more than that: I
want
to. I don’t
think I could live without ever seeing her again.
Regularly.

Afterwards, I sit up to go to the gas station
and pick up some more rubbers. She grabs my wrist before I’m off
the bed. With fear in her beautiful blue eyes, she says, “Come
back. After tonight, you can leave, but tonight you’re mine.”

She smiles innocently, and the smile breaks
me.

I’m falling for her. Falling deep. Falling
head first, feet second.

It scares me. I don’t like caring for people.
Because the people I care about get hurt—mom, Janice, Aaron.
Everyone I care for gets bruised, punched, kicked. I have no love
in my heart to give, only hate. Black Hate. Hate that sits inside
me for a despicable man, a man who beat me, kicked me, hurt me.
Hurt my family, my mother, my sister. And now my best friend, my
true father. The man who truly raised me.

I hate him. Logan Travers.
Hate
him!

And now he’s dying. And I have to hope he
doesn’t die because if he does then more people I know will get
hurt.

Even though I want him to die. I do.

Facts are dirty. Truth is dirty. It’s just
the way I feel about it. And I’m not going to make excuses for it.
I am who I am.

Before I know it, there’s blood in my palms.
I’ve dug my fingernails into them. Gin’s on her knees in front of
me, on the bed. Naked. Beautifully naked. Holding me. She pulls me
to her. I don’t know where I went there, but now I’m in her
arms.

There’s tension all around me. My fists are
clenched. I’ll hurt her. I’ll hurt her if I don’t go. Because I
have a temper. I have a temper. A red temper. A hot temper. A
filthy, hateful, vengeful temper. And what if she gets in my way
when I’m angry about something that has nothing to do with her?

I’ve never hit a woman. Never even had the
urge to.

But, what if? I have a temper. I fought those
underground fights not only for the money. No. Sometimes I think it
wasn’t for the money at all.

I fought those fights because I wanted to hit
someone.
Hard
.

Or be hit.

I did a lot of both.

“It’s OK, baby,” she says, holding me,
rocking me, her mound pressed against the side of my body, my face
buried in her amazing breasts.

Where did I go there? Where?

Hate. Lots of hate. That man. That man.
That. Man.

“It’s OK. It’s OK, Ace. It’s OK. Shh. Shh.
Shh.”

Eventually, I feel my hands glide upwards. I
wrap my arms around her. All I want is to bury myself inside her.
Burying myself inside her makes me forget. Brings peace. Like her
voice, only a million times more. A
trillion
times more.
More than a single moment of it—it brings an eternal peace, being
inside her.

But I can’t now. Because I have no rubber
left. I need her, need her more than she knows.

Come back? What does she think?

It’s the first time the thought of running
sends blasting shivers of terror down my spine.

The ride to the gas station is a blur. I’m
furious. Angry. I realize I might be tired. That trip from Memphis
to Virginia. Hardly any sleep. Then back here to Nashville. Then
hardly any sleep at that godforsaken hostel because nobody sleeps
at a hostel. They only drink. And party. And think about their next
score.