Victor Lavalle - Slapboxing with Jesus

Cocoa saw me turn, flinch like someone had set off a car alarm in my ear, but then he put his arm on my shoulder and pushed hard, said, — Come on. Keep going. Cocoa kept pushing until we got upstairs, to the door, green, on it the numbers had been nailed in and the air had oxidized their faux-gold paint into that blackened color so familiar to buildings across our income level. He rang the bell. (Are they artificially powered?) The sound was so shrill I guessed they were part of the enemy army. Our first battle, twelve years before in the drab brown medical ward, had been so quick I’m sure they’d thought I’d forget. But I’d squirmed after they set those wires against my little forehead, so when they flipped the charge that one time, the lines slipped and burned both cheeks black; years later the spots were still there.

She opened the door. The whole place was going: television, microwave, coffeemaker, VCR. Karen was surprised to see me, but still, expecting it in some way. She was used to this.

I went to the bathroom but didn’t shut the door. I filled my mouth with water and let it trickle out through my pursed lips, down into the toilet bowl so they’d think I was busy, held open the door some and my ears more:

Karen: How did you end up with him?

Cocoa: I ran into Sammy a few weeks ago, gave him my number, then he wouldn’t leave me alone.

Karen: You think he’s starting up?

Cocoa: I don’t know what else. It’s got to be. He hasn’t done this nonsense in years. He calls me one morning and in an hour he’s at my door, ringing the bell. I’m living with my girl’s family, you know? He started kicking the door if I didn’t answer. So I been with him three days.

Karen: You should have called me or something.

Cocoa: Called who? I wasn’t even sure if you still lived here. I got lucky you and your man didn’t get promoted or relocated. I called your mom but the number was disconnected.

Karen: She needed to get away.

Cocoa: Well, I know how she feels. You know I love that kid, but I can’t keep this up. My son is about to drop in a few months. I’m trying to take care of this school thing. He’s bugging, that’s all I can say.

Karen: You think you could help me out here, until Masai comes?

Cocoa: I can’t take five more minutes. I’m sorry Karen, I am, but I can’t be around him no more. I’m through.

I listened to him walk to the door, open and shut it quietly. That thing was a big metal one, if he’d just let it swing closed behind him it would have rattled and thundered, so my last thought of Cocoa was of him being delicate.

Washed my hands and crept out, pulled the door closed and left the light on so she’d think I was still in there and snuck into her bedroom. On the door was the family portrait everyone has from Sears. A big poster of my sister, her husband and that baby of theirs. My niece. There was enough daylight coming in from outside that I didn’t need the bulbs; besides, the light would have been like my rat-fink friend Cocoa, squealing to my sister about my goings-on.

There was a big bed in this big room, a crib in the corner, clothes in piles, just washed, on top of a long dresser. I walked to the crib and looked down at Kezia. She was wrapped up tightly, put to bed in a tiny green nightdress. Her diaper bulged and made noise when she moved. Dreaming little girl, she had dimples for laughing. I should have been able to make her smile even in her sleep.

From the hallway a slamming door, then, — Sammy? Samuel? Karen kicked into the room like a S.W.A.T. team. I looked, but she didn’t have a rifle. She flicked on the light and ran to me, but not concerned with me, looked down at Kezia and rolled her over, touched her face, pulled her up and onto Mommy’s shoulder. The big light shook Kezia into crying and it was loud, torturous. I laughed because my sister had done some harm even though there was love in it.

— What are you … is everything all right?

I looked at her and said, — Of course. I was just looking at my niece.

— You might have woken her up.

— Seems like you did that just fine, I told her.

Kezia turned toward me and then looked to her crib, twisted and latched on to it, pulled at that because she wanted back in. Karen finally acquiesced and returned her. The tiny one watched me, remembering, remembering and broke out in a smile. You know why kids love me so much? Because all kids are very, very stupid.

— She’ll never get to sleep now.

I thought Karen was wrong. I pointed. — Look at her eyes. She’s still drowsy. Kezia was looking at me, intently. I started rocking from left to right on the balls of my feet and Kezia mimicked me. She held the crib’s rail to keep her balance but when I leaned too far right she followed, tipped over on her side, huffed, grabbed the bars and pulled herself back up to try again. She made a gurgle noise and I returned it, she went louder and I went louder, she screamed and I screamed; Karen flopped back against her married bed, holding her face, laughing.

My hands went around Kezia’s middle, then I lifted her up as high as my arms would allow, brought her belly to my mouth and bit her there. She kicked her feet happily, caught me, two good shots right in the nose; that thing would be flaring up later. But she laughed and I did it again. I dropped her down two feet, quickly, like I’d lost my grip, and across her face came the look that precedes vomit, then a pause and like I knew it would, laughter.

Put her back in the crib and we returned to yelling, added movements with our hands and feet. Whenever I threw my palms in the air she did the same, lost her balance and fell backward; she lay there, rocking side to side so she could get some momentum for rising. I tickled her under the chin. We did it like this while Karen left the room and returned (repeat three times). Finally Kezia sat, watching me. I twirled in arms-open circles and she still had enough energy to smile, but not much else, and then she didn’t have energy enough even for that and she watched me, silent, as she lay on her back, then Karen had to tap my shoulder and shush me because the kid was sleeping.

The lights were still on: around the crib there were pictures taped up. Of our family and Masai’s, all watching over; the picture of me rested closer to Kezia than all the rest, but in it I was only a boy. Looking at my crooked smile I felt detached from that child — like we could cannibalize his whole life and you still wouldn’t have tasted me. Every memory would someday make the catalogue I kept in my room, eleven small green notebooks.

Me and Karen sat in the kitchen. She had been preparing dinner. I started making a plate. — Leave a lot for Masai. He’ll be home from work soon.

I covered all the pots and poured myself some berry Kool-Aid. Karen’s Kool-Aid was the only thing I would drink besides water. After I gulped I told her, — You need more sugar.

She sucked her teeth. — Masai and me decided we should still have teeth when Kezia gets to be seven. Karen finished her rice. You look awful, she said.

— Yeah, but I’ve always looked bad. You got the beauty and I got everything else.

She smacked me, gentle, across the chin. — I had my bachelor’s before you had been left back for the first time. Have you thought about coming to stay with us?

— I like where I’m at.

— You need to be around your family. You’re acting stupid out there.

— Whatever. I shrugged. You don’t know what I’m doing.

— I can see what you’re not doing: washing, changing your clothes. Probably not going to class.

— Man, I said. You don’t understand subtlety. You’ve got to bring these things up cool, easy, otherwise you’ll close all avenues of communication.