The 'N' Word, Book 1 (42 page)

“I knew you never liked Clyde,” Aaron admitted as he chewed his lower lip.

“Clyde has always been jealous of you; he’s just a damn good actor. I think you liked his admiration, his kissin’ up. The ego and pride can be a terrible thing, Aaron. It can make us blind. ’Cause you knew him so long, you never put him to the same test as the others. He would have never passed. You would’ve seen clean through him and you’re right.”

He paused and shook his head as his lips curled downward like melting wax.

“I
never
liked the son of a bitch, but you knew him way before you knew me so, what the hell could I say? And besides, up until now he ain’t give me no real reason to stomp his ass. But now that we’re together, you know…” He shrugged.

“Well, guess what? Spoke to my lawyer. Clarence, the guy I fucked up, slipped into a coma… They don’t think he’s goin’ to make it. I could get hit with a manslaughter charge now. Darryl, if the warden thinks I am a part of any more riots and plottin’ some sort of takeover, I’m up shit’s creek. I had a situation I had to take care of the other day.” He paused when a flush of heat rose to his face, stinging his skin. “But I let the warden know in advance what was going on with the guy after talking to my therapist. And how the fuck did Clyde find out I was seein’ a damn shrink in the first fuckin’ place?!”

Darryl shrugged and yawned. “More than likely from the mole…”

“Anyway, that situation in here – they let me handle it. Huckleberry thinks I’ve been doin’ all kinds of crap in here. Most of the shit I was accused of I didn’t have anything to do with. He should know better; I claim
every
thing I do.”

“True…”

“And proudly. I’ve been in the hole, in isolation, because of this mess. They threatened to add on five more years to my sentence, and I’m in appeals right now. This will be no slap on the wrist; I’m in deep, Darryl. No one will grant my appeal if this shit keeps happening.”

“I know,” Darryl said simply. “I know, brother. That was the plan. Now, here is the situation… I need you to watch your back like you never have before….”

Aaron simply stared at him, seeing his future turn from flecks of bright promise to dim and dreary, diminishing into an abyss of nothingness.

“’Cause they are gonna try to kill you, man… and they’ve already alienated me. It was Clyde’s orders after I confronted him about the bullshit he was pullin’. No one is allowed to talk to me anymore. Only Fred talks to me, ’cause Clyde knows Fred doesn’t give a fried chicken shit what that man says and he needs Fred more than Fred ever needed him.”

“Fred’s a good man…” Aaron stated in almost a whisper.

“Damn good, true blue. Other than him,” he said with a shrug, “I’m shunned. So, that’s all I’ve got for you, man. If I find out more, and you know that I will,” he winked at him before placing the cigarette back to his lips, “I will clue you in, but for now, your back is up against a wall and you’re marked for slaughter. Keep to yourself, Aaron. Be careful, be
extra
careful…” The man’s eyes grew smaller, even the droopy swampy moss colored one. “Your life is on the line, and you’re in the deep end… Try your hardest not to drown.”

“Oh.” Aaron grinned as he peered upward into the sky once more. In the midst of all the chaos, he felt a sense of peace right then. He had no idea where it had rolled in from, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “I’m an excellent swimmer, Darryl. I’m Nathan Evans and Michael Phelps all rolled into one.”

Darryl chuckled. “Yeah, you got medals and trophies, huh?”

“Not yet.” He kept his eye on the sun. “But I’m goin’ for the gold…”

Chapter Nineteen

T
WO DUSTY JARS
of pickled pig feet sat on the kitchen island just as he’d remembered. Marcus slicked a cigarette out of his pocket, lit it, and enjoyed the momentary peace and quiet. The crowd had broken up, melted away and dispersed, leaving their after thoughts and remains behind. The air still stunk with dance-induced heated sweat, and it smelled oh so sweet. A few joints of marijuana, smoked down to the nub, lay in a nearby ashtray. Grabbing another trash bag, he cursed under his breath as he caught the digital time on the stove: 3:01 A.M.

“Baby.” His wife yawned from the doorway, her tattered lime green robe with an ivory lace trim along the hem barely hanging on. “You comin’ to bed? Don’t worry about all this stuff from the party.” She waved her hand lazily in the air. “I’ll get it all cleaned up in a few hours when I cook breakfast.”

“Naw, baby.” He moved sluggishly about the place, bumping into things along the way. The celebratory bottle of red wine he’d downed was swimming in his head, making him clumsy on his feet. “You done enough. I’ll get all this up. Promise I won’t be long.” He paused to smile at her, admiring her gorgeous oval, deep rich cocoa face, so blemish free. The woman barely looked real.

“Well.” She tucked her hands under her arms. “Don’t stay up too long, sugar.” She winked at him and disappeared.

He watched her walk away, wishing he could pull her back, make her just stand there in the doorway and continue to be subjected to his admiration. She made a glorious distraction, for he feared at any moment, he was going to break down like a damn hooptie with no engine coolant. He reached low and picked up barbecue-sauce-soiled napkins, empty red plastic cups, and crumbs of thick, red velvet cake. Each step became harder and harder, heavier and heavier, but he kept on, refusing to be still with the emotions…

But then, in the end, they grabbed him.

Letting out an exasperated sigh, he rocked into the kitchen island and the pickled pig feet jars shook. He glared at the damn things; pieces of reflection stared right back at him from the glass encasing the old, fermented flesh.

You gonna have to be strong. What’s wrong with you, man?

He kept moving, but it was no use. Snuffing out his cigarette, he tossed the remainder in the sink and ran water on the thing before throwing it in the trash bag. He’d been home for three days and though he’d gotten notification his release was coming faster than he’d ever anticipated, it still felt a bit surreal. He went from elation to misery in a nanosecond…

What am I going to do? I ain’t figured out how to bring in any bread… Who is going to hire me, huh? I’ll have to get a new skill set… I’m good at masonry though. I could do that for a while I imagine… but I need to do something else. That’s hard work, intensive. I’m gettin’ too old for all of that. But, it’ll tide me over. Maybe I should go back to college. But for what? Even if I get another Associates Degree, or maybe this time, a Bachelors, who gon’ hire me? I could graduate at the top of my damn class, but me bein’ a get-away driver is all they gonna care about and I won’t get hired… My family will struggle, and I’d be to blame for it…

His frustration grew, setting up residence within him – making his ‘You’re fucked’ stance official. At that moment, he began to hate himself a bit more as each second passed, each piece of trash was tossed in the bag, and each memory of his better past pinched him, made him feel the sting of bygones being bygones…

Gritting his teeth, he moved away from the kitchen and entered the small dining area. He got more of the same. The Big Lots store purchased table had been decked out with Grandma’s hand-me-downs. The room looked regal, despite the furniture being nice to look at, but far from sturdy and well made. His wife had a natural way of making things come together, and he loved their dining room, having Sunday meals in there after church, and talking and laughing with their daughter. Stacks of paper plates lined the table, and he reached for the piles, one after the other, until the bag in his hand was practically bursting, filled to capacity. He made his way towards the back of the small house and hit the light switch to shine bright on the back stoop.

As he made to pick up another plastic cup someone left behind, he took note of a hand-made game scoring card a few of his boys had been playing. He lifted it from the table then waved his hand in annoyance as a mosquito buzzed towards his face, like a long lost friend seeking to reconnect. After a few moments, he took a glance at the thing. He cracked into a crooked grin when he realized that Greg, his favorite cousin, had won the game. Greg never won anything, and he was certain no matter how small the prize, the kid could use the cash. His car had just died, and he needed new transportation to get back and forth to work. Any little bit counted, and though he couldn’t spare anything, he was elated that, in an unrelated way, he’d assisted. Feeling a smidgen better from the good news, he continued to pick up pieces of odds and ends lying about until he saw yet another slightly balled up wad of white paper with some words written upon it.

Figuring it was a part of the card game, too, he picked it up, but before he tossed it into the bag, he unfolded it and took a glance. He burst out laughing at someone’s drawing of a man running from another guy about to whoop his ass, figured more of his friends and family went about giving silly threats to one another as the liquor got them a bit looser and the music a bit happier, too. But then… his heart grew tight when an unforeseen memory took over, flashed before his eyes, and derailed his jovial moment in time.

The legs of the running guy illustration were drawn in almost perfect right angles.

…Thick.

…Black.

…Straight.

It was as if the lower limbs were made of heavy metals and his knees of pins and needles. The shape reminded him of the Nazi symbols on Aaron Pike’s neck, the lower half at least. Typically, the guy had it covered up but the thing would peek out here and there, allowing him a view before the man pulled his collar and shirt just so, seemingly not wishing for it to be fully exposed. Maybe it was wishful thinking…

That behavior was vastly different from how the man had acted when he’d first laid eyes on him. That time, Aaron had his tattoo in full fuckin’ view. But soon, the man seemed to change. He became more subtle, more careful and that tattoo looked just like the running legs on the cartoon…

Half a man…

Half hearted…

One foot in, one foot out…

Marcus paused, tasting a repeat of his wine rolling across his tongue and stinging his esophagus. He looked into the pitch-black sky, as if the answers to these strange notions lay there.

Man, Aaron, you’re crazy, you know that?

He smirked as the plastic bag drifted slowly from his hand and landed across his feet.

Marcus had thought about Aaron a lot after their conversation in Holman. He couldn’t shake him. The shit was unnerving, strange. He felt as if he’d had a dinner break with the Devil, but instead of feeling fearful when he got to his feet to leave, he’d experienced a sense of relief, as they both got a little something from the encounter.

Aaron had left an impression on him, caused his dreams that night to be awkward and not make a damn bit of sense, but something in the man’s glowing, amber eyes told him that Aaron was a façade wrapped in the toughness of a brick wall. Inside, the guy was hurting real bad, looking for something, searching in the darkness, like a child who’d lost track of their parents along the way. Normally he wouldn’t have given a shit about all of that.

Who cared if Aaron had some damn pain? He sure as hell administered his own – an iron hand of self righteousness, arrogance and evil, hate-filled justice served to those that didn’t look like him or shared his same beliefs. It served that racist punk right to land in prison, being what the hell he was for doing what he’d done. But something strange had happened to Marcus right before it was announced he was getting out; something that now sat back at the forefront of his mind…

When a man was about to grasp hold to freedom, demons crawled and oozed from the inner workings of the prison system. Everyone knew the code, regardless of whether they played the game right or not. The closer liberty came, the more others tried to ensure it eluded you. Release date? Cat and mouse… That was the time when the other inmates tested you like your name was Algebra, made life hard as if you were addicted to rocks, tried to fuck up your release and your life, and like Jesus – give you a second coming.