Saint And Sinners (26 page)

“What the hell is going on?!” he screamed out, but no one answered. He felt like a
fool yelling up at the sky like that, but he didn’t know what else to do. Only the
occasional car passed on that early Wednesday morning in Hunts Point. The place still
stunk of sweet seediness and the worn building, once a place to hang a hat or two
in the 1950’s, barely stood straight, but it still stood tall, all the same. It had
only been grazed by flames, kissed by the heat of the fires from yesteryear. The windows
were still knocked out yet such a property would be worth millions of dollars if it
were located in a better neighborhood…but here is stood, rotting down to its stinking,
dry-walled gutted core due to vagrant neglect. Saint leaned against the wall covered
in scrawls, the uneven, sharp bricks pressing into his back like acupuncture. As he
pushed into it, he could feel the place’s damn soul. Yeah, it was alive, breathing,
doing a praise dance in spite of itself. Two dozen parties could have been going on
inside of the fucking place just then. Yet, he was certain he was the only one in
the world that could feel the rhythm and hear the beat.

He remembered the place as a little boy. Initially, it had been one of the few buildings
the whites and Jews stayed in and then, as more blacks, gays and Puerto Ricans moved
into the area, the ‘white flight’ ignited as quickly as flames biting at parchment.
The runaways vacated with a beat up luggage bag or two, clearing the way for what
they deemed unwanted, unruly riffraff. The minorities represented a wrinkle in the
fabric of all that was graceful in their blue eyes, and when the ‘unwanted’ came,
the care for life and dignity of real estate left. But, nobody had any place to go…nothing
to do. Joblessness had taken a chokehold on the community, thus crime rose like a
vine and sprung out the concrete wilderness, spreading until it had devoured the very
souls of dreamers and their delusional notions that would never come to fruition.
Saint sighed as he fell back into reality, the here and now.

He was duly surprised to not see much activity. Typically, four in the morning was
the last call for paid pussy. He didn’t see the wig-covered head or beaten and bruised
tail of any prostitute, working the area for one more romp in the back of some old
jalopy with tail pipes louder than an outdoor rock concert on a Saturday night. No
woman in sight who’d then slip into an alleyway to accept a fast fuck and an even
quicker buck. He shrugged, as if his thoughts had a listening audience. He tried to
piece together the tattered, old puzzle in his mind. It seemed the cars that
did
pass would do so in slow motion. Fuck, the whole place seemed to be in slow motion,
as if an old VCR had taken over the unabridged goddamn world, moving everyone with
a shaky, static-filled hand across one big ass screen. He glanced back up at the sky,
and the clouds still sat there, looking down on him, passing judgment and talking
amongst their fluffy selves.

“Today must be the last day the world spins…no whores in Hunts Point?” Saint whispered
to himself, hooking it on the end of a chuckle. Feeling bold and fearless, he zipped
up his jacket and made his way back to his parked Lexus. The damn thing, white and
shiny, looked ill-placed in such a spot. Up in the sky, the clouds still chased after
him, then abruptly stopped when he sat in his car and jammed his head out the window
to peer at the damn things. He studied them with a child-like curiosity as he started
the engine.

Un-fucking-believable…

They stood back like a crowd that had been dispersed by the police after a riot. Starting
the engine, he reversed from the half-crumbled curb. Taking a chance, he glanced in
his rear view mirror, deciding, like the people of Sodom and Gomorrah, to look behind
him lest he become a pillar of salt or turn to stone. The clouds were now over the
building, bubbling as if alive with carbonation, and they rained down on that damn
roof with gusto. The only problem was…it rained nowhere else but right over that decrepit,
haunting place painted in depressing memories. Shaking his head in disbelief at the
damn billows, he drove away, far from there, leaving that mind-blowing sight and a
trail of sooty South Bronx exhaust dust behind him…

*

Pam burst through
the doors of their home like a tornado powered by the electric company, the three
children in tow. Their faces registered a mixture of wonder and sleepiness. Porsche
now headed the crowd, clutching Dakarai’s hand as if she were his sponsor for the
Hungriest Children of All Foundation. She stood there like some caseworker, prepared
to deliver a devastating report. Xenia practically ran Saint over, her foot sliding
over his as she made a mad dash towards her offspring, who waited with their arms
up in the air. Screams of, ‘Mommy! Mommy!’ rent the air, no doubt music to the woman’s
ears.

He sighed, trying to keep a smile on his face but the toes on his right foot throbbed
after she’d trampled him, completely unaware he’d been wounded in her pursuit of happiness.
Saint didn’t miss the scowl on Mama Pam’s puffy face as she anxiously dug around in
her big, lime green purse. Removing a cigarette, she popped it into the side of her
quivering, purple-lipstick-covered mouth. It bounced about like a seesaw when she
spoke. She clutched a white lighter in her other hand with her long red painted thumbnail
poised on the trigger.

“Is there some damn grass, ’round here? A tree? A fence? A wilted head of lettuce?!
Anything green?! Damn it to hell!”

Before Saint could respond, she started up again.

“Like a backyard or something? I need to smoke this right here…and Xenia!” she called
out, yelling as if the woman was far away on another street all together. The room
grew silent when she glared at her daughter. “
You
are comin’ with
me
!”

“But Mama, I haven’t seen my children in almost a week. Give me a sec. Surely you
can—”

“Now, goddamn it! This ain’t no damn Family Feud, you just standing there giving me
the best answer you got, like I asked you, ‘What room of the house is ya favorite?!’
I ain’t
ask
you shit! I’m
telling
you to get your narrow behind ova here and take me outside!”

“Mama! Don’t speak to me that way and especially not in front of my children!” Xenia’s
forehead bunched as she gripped Isis to her heaving chest. It was obvious the woman
he adored was trying to keep her composure, to not cause a scene, but he feared Xenia
would lose the fight. An unfortunate turn of events had been born, but he couldn’t
make heads or tails of the delivery process. He rarely witnessed his wife and mother-in-law
arguing, and he sure as hell didn’t want it to take place right here and now. He’d
attempted to give Xenia first dibs on the hugs and kisses before rushing to his seeds,
anxious for the contact, but now everything had been derailed.

Everyone’s eyes appeared big as tea saucers, all but Xenia’s. Saint had an urge for
a cigar his damn self at that moment…paired with a glass of cognac…maybe two.

“Ohhhh, you Ms. High and Mighty now, huh?” Pam put her hand on her voluptuous hip
as she tipped her hefty weight to one side.

“A, Hassani and Dakarai, go on upstairs and take a look around. You’re going to love
your rooms!” Saint interjected. He resisted the urge to grab them up into his arms,
for then he wouldn’t want to let go. Affectionate hellos would have to wait. He had
to stay focused on what was happening, keep an ear out on the strange disruption.
“I’ll be up to join you in a little bit.” The two boys looked at one another, as if
having some telepathic conversation. It unnerved Saint, especially since he didn’t
have the energy or time to infiltrate their thoughts and find out what the fuck this
was all about.

“Alright…” Hassani mumbled as he made his way up the marble steps, his backpack slung
over his shoulder and Dakarai right behind him. He could feel their spastic energy;
they were definitely communicating with one another, but he kept his cool for this
was no time for psychic games.

Pam glanced up to where they’d disappeared, then started up all over again, not missing
one damn cigarette dangling beat.

“Let’s try
this
then, Ms. High Falutin’. Get-uh, your-ass-uh-over-here-uh, fuckin’-now-uh! That’s
Italian! Did ya like it?” Pam grinned, though it was more than apparent she was mad
as hell.

“Xenia.” Saint stepped into the fiery conversation, wishing to end it as quickly as
possible. He struggled but refused to budge until he could lasso the mess, calm the
torrent waters. “…Obviously something is going on. Just go on and I’ll take the children
on a tour of the house, get them settled.” Xenia fisted a hand at her side and her
lips tied into a damn knot that only a boy scout could undo.

“Well then, that’s all you had to say, Mama. You could have pulled me aside and said,
‘I know we just got here, but I need to speak to you right now, please.’ Instead,
you did what you typically do and cause a scene! I’m tired and stressed out, and you
come in here with all of your drama! I don’t need this shit! You got me all upset
in front of my children!” Xenia handed Porsche Isis and stormed away, making a mad
dash to the kitchen.

Yes, she’d had a rough night, and Saint knew it was partially due to him. This was
what he feared. After he’d returned home from his jaunt in the South Bronx, where
he’d inadvertently danced with rain clouds, he’d had a series of odd dreams that woke
her up and worse yet—Xenia told him later how he became violent, punching at the air
and yelling at someone about a damn bridge and a rainstorm and saying the word, ‘zoo’.
To add to that bizarre series of occurrences, he’d levitated so high to the ceiling,
his nose touched the damn thing. He awoke once he heard the shrill scream of his beloved…far,
far below…

“Pam,” Saint said calmly. “Follow her. You may also want to apologize. It has been
a trying time here, and she missed her children. This was all blown
way
out of proportion.”

The woman stood there looking as though she wanted to protest, but then seemed to
think better of it when Saint glared at her. He frowned, giving her a glance that
said,
‘Not today, Mama Pam…please, not today because you’ll get your feelings hurt.’
Instead she huffed, turned on her teal colored heels and made her way to the kitchen.
Soon, Saint could hear muffled voices of the two women in question.

“Well.” Throwing on an award-winning grin, he took Isis from Porsche’s grip, trying
as hard as he could to pretend to be in a stellar mood. “Porsche, you’ve been awfully
quiet. I hope the children weren’t too much of a bother… Hi, sweetheart!” He rubbed
his nose against his daughter’s face. The poor girl was worn out and slumped against
him, her eyes fluttering as if she could barely stay awake.

“No, they were fine.” She smiled back, holding herself as if she needed a security
blanket. “Saint…uh…” She looked down at her white tennis shoes then back up at him.
“Mama is just worried about your children is all. She gets this way when it comes
to her grandchildren, you know, if she thinks something is wrong.”

“What do you mean?” He cradled Isis’ head as if she were a newborn versus a three
year old. He needed to feel her heat and energy against his soul.

“Hassani seems out of sorts, and Dakarai was acting mighty strange, too. It is probably
just the move, but she’d not seen them this way, and it bothered her. She thinks they
are keeping secrets, like something bad is going on here and they are covering it
up.”

“What? Are you serious? Of course Hassani would possibly be acting different.” Saint
shrugged, trying to keep his voice down. “The entire world he has known has shifted.”
He patted Isis gently on the back. “Dakarai is the same way, just shows it differently
and children are allowed to have their own secrets…but the vibe I’m getting from you,
it’s like…it’s like she thinks they are being abused.” He swallowed, not wanting to
believe such a thing, but he had no other way to interpret the words she chose. He
was on the verge of being offended, and if it was confirmed, Mama Pam would be out
on her ass in a matter of seconds. Love or no love, he wouldn’t tolerate neither him
nor his wife being suspected of such an unspeakable thing.

“No! Please don’t think that. Not like that.” Porsche threw up her hands, waving them
around as if she were a referee screaming, ‘Saaaaafe!’ “Mama didn’t say anything like
that, Saint, not at all. But…I don’t know, I’ve said too much.” She huffed and leaned
lazily against the wall, as if she, too, were exhausted from the entire exchange.
Saint looked towards the kitchen. It looked so much like their old kitchen back in
L.A.—that surely would give the children some comfort. The thought granted him a meager
slice of contentment.

“Porsche, have a seat, please. Relax for a moment. I think I better join them.”