Victor Lavalle - Slapboxing with Jesus

But David was not around. Munish told me, — I haven’t seen him all day. When he spoke his shoulders bounced, laughter and relief.

Cindac agreed. — David hasn’t fucked with us once.

We played: half a block between manhole covers, Todd and Chewy tossing the ball to each other, seven of us between them going base to base. Whoever was tagged had to throw next round. It was a long time before I went up because I was willing to run on cars. To our right was my building, six stories. Behind it, through a hole cut in the structure, was the backyard, a place of yellow weeds and broken swings. The only reason to go back there was when hiding for a game of ring-a-levio or to pop off Roman candles and blockbusters.

My mother’s voice came searching for me. With a job to do. She dropped a brown paper bag out the window when she found me. It floated erratically, the change inside giving it enough weight to keep from blowing into the street. — There’s a list in there too, she called.

I tried to make a joke with her, but she hadn’t been in the mood to laugh with me for a long time now. Grandma would try to assure me that it was too soon after having the baby for Mom to be lighthearted again, but I would see her smiling with Nabisase, even with the neighbors on our floor. Nothing as simple as an apology would smooth things. It was my fault. For so many reasons then, I turned to my sister. Everyone has their secret joys and she was mine.

Didn’t check the paper until I was near the pizza parlor (one of them). Baby items. David was chilling by Lou’s Diner so I spun around the back to run my errands, through the alley full of fumes.

My arms were numb by the time I’d run the last flight of stairs, hands heavy with items in plastic bags. To the fourth floor, to our apartment door, ringing the bell with my forehead. Grandma let me pass. Mom was in the living room, flopped against the couch like she’d been punctured. The blinds were drawn; all the times my football had crashed against them had left dents and bends so that, even fully closed, slight fingers of light felt their way inside. Grandma announced my name to Mom in a whisper, as though I were being granted some audience. She worked at a grin for five minutes, then said, — Just leave those things. I’ll get to them later.

— What do you need done? I asked. Is it for her? I was asking about my sister.

My mother sighed heavy, looked away from me. — I can take care of my own daughter sometimes.

I slid down onto the cushion beside Mom. My butt was already half on my sister before Mom threw out an arm and knocked me back. Nabisase lay wrapped in green, her head pointed away from the mother; her sad little cry spilled out in burps like a bottle you’ve tipped over. I hadn’t seen her. — You sat on her. My mother laughed.

Apologized as I pulled the girl into my arms, tested around her soft spot with a gentle thumb, shook her slightly to calm her. Apologized some more.

Mom became annoyed again. — You didn’t hit her with a car! Put her down. Go outside or something.

I still held her while Mom tried to put a glare on her face so I’d understand she was angry. — I’m your big brother, I said.

Nabisase was serious when she stared at me, one hand around my neck. With the other she grabbed the glasses off my face and threw them behind the couch like that should tell me something.

The next day I ran into David, his teeth so bright they seemed store-bought. I had been hiding in the backyard as, on the street, Munish counted to one hundred before starting his search for us. I was wearing skates my mother had bought me; she said they were for helping with my sister, a present. When I tried them on she put her hand on my back, ushered me to the door, saying, — You have to use those outside. They were white joints with two stripes: one red, one blue. Around my friends I felt proud rocking them, but older heads said they made me look 100-percent gay.

David had come to the backyard to smoke weed with some friend. I was behind an air-conditioning unit, the industrial kind. He pulled me from my crouch into a stand. In my skates we were about the same height. It was strange being of equal stature, so I looked down. Cindac had been hiding in some things we called bushes, when he saw me get yanked he hid harder.

— You trying to get in my business? David asked, his eyes already so red and cloudy. His face was flat and round.

— I was playing, I explained.

— Saw your ass go around me the other day, he said, blew smoke out but turned his face from me considerately. You don’t want to see your friend David no more?

— I just had to get stuff for my moms, I explained.

— So? You could have said hi.

I nodded, hoping that if I agreed with him we’d keep everything cool. I didn’t speak or move because I didn’t want to give him anything more to discuss.

— Nice skates.

I dropped my head.

— Them’s some girl’s skates right? His boy managed to ask between deep hits.

I burst into an uneasy wobble. David yoked me without talking a step. I was very bad on my new skates. He dropped me quick. He leaned down, close to me, his breath warm and rich, said, — You know what I need from you?

When I wrote David’s first letter I went geographical: taking her to Australia and the Great Barrier Reef, a picnic at the source of the Nile, kissing her as we leaned against the Great Wall. David wouldn’t tell me who the girl was so I had to keep it all vague, no playing with her name, alliteration was out.

I was with Nabisase when I wrote it. She, on her back, on my bed, with her feet hefted up to her nibbling mouth and me on my stomach beside her, touched pen to the yellow legal-pad paper Mom had pilfered from work. — Should he meet her at night or daytime at the Hanging Gardens? I asked my sister.

When I spoke she darted her little black eyes at me, but only to see what was rumbling. She saw it was only her brother and looked away, to the more fascinating lightbulb, screwed into the ceiling and glowing.

Written as best the letter would ever be, I dressed Nabisase, told my mother we were going for a constitutional. She and Grandma were on the couch eating dinner. They didn’t agree to let me take her, but their protests were less adamant this time.

Along with us and the letter came the change of diapers, bottle, pacifier, bib, talcum powder, cloth, baby wipes and two comic books. As we walked I did the little mommy-bounce, the calming up and down with the girl weighted against my left hip.

We rode the elevator to the top floor, sixth. At the door to David’s crib I waited and switched Nabisase to my other arm, moved the baby bag, smiled at her, kissed her baldish head. She pulled back from my lips to throw her arms at the slick, painted door. When I leaned forward to ring the bell she rested her palms against the surface. I had to ring it twice. Finally David opened up. — What?

— Letter.

He took it, turned on the light in his hallway, read it running his finger across each line, looked at me. — Nah.

— Nah?

— No.

— No? I asked. What’s wrong with it?

He twisted his shoulders absently, like he was getting ready to exercise. — What I did wrong was tell you to write me a love letter. This is a love letter.

— Right.

— And I want a fuck letter.

I pulled Nabisase back like the curse was a projectile. — How I’m supposed to do that?

— You live with women, you know how they like it. Say some shit about her face. Or her ass, like that.

I wasn’t going to get one decent idea from this moron; his dad was raising him alone.

— Why don’t you get that for me tonight, he said.

— Tonight? I got homework.

— You think I give a fuck about your homework? He crunched the paper and threw it at me. I gotta make a diorama for fucking Art class, feel like I’m in second grade.