them. Saw him smile. Saw his hand wave slowly. Saw his mouth open and say . . .
“Later my niggaz. Peace out.”
I froze, cringing at what I’d just heard.
Wincing, Sherm whipped around. Still smiling, John turned toward us, saw the horrified expression on our faces, and stopped.
“What? What are you guys looking at? What did I do wrong?”
“Say what?” Markus spat. His face was ashen. “What the fuck did you just say?”
Wallace took a step forward. “Somebody please tell me that this stupid motherfucker did not just drop the N-bomb.”
“You’re damn straight he did,” Kelvin growled. He reached inside his baggy pants pocket, and I saw him clench something. I knew what it was before he pulled it out. Without thinking, I ripped the lid off the box and reached inside.
“Hold up!” Sherm stepped between us, hands outstretched. “Just hold up a fucking minute. Let’s not do something stupid, ya’ll.”
“Stupid? STUPID?” Wallace pulled a gun of his own. “You hear what that racist piece of shit said? How’d you like it if we called you a honky or a wigger? Get your skinny Irish ass out of the way, Sherm!”
John was terrified. “I’m s-sorry, you guys! I didn’t think it was a big deal. You call each other that all the time on the radio. I was just being friendly.”
“Oh what, so now you Eminem, you punk-ass bitch?” Kelvin stalked toward him, pistol in hand. I don’t know what kind it was, but it was big, bigger than the one I was holding.
“Wallace”— Sherm placed his hand on the man’s chest—“he’s retarded, man. Slow. He don’t know what he’s saying. He’s got like a fourth-grade reading level and shit. Let’s just let it drop, okay? You and me are cool, and you seen for yourself that Tommy is cool, right? Do you really think we’d bring a fucking Klansman around?”
Seething, Wallace glanced from Markus and Kelvin, pointing their guns at John and me, and then to me, pointing my gun at Kelvin. He looked down at Sherm’s hand, and Sherm pulled it away. Slowly, his scowl vanished and Wallace actually grinned.
“Look’s like we got us a Mexican standoff, boys. Chill out, ya’ll.”
Kelvin didn’t move. “You heard what this punk-ass, motherfucking, cocksucking wigger said.”
“And I said chill the fuck out, goddamn it. You step the fuck off right now, Kelvin, or I’ll bust a cap in your ass instead. Don’t you go forgetting who’s in charge here. I’m the one that’s deep in this street. You work for me.”
Shaking, Kelvin’s eyes never left John’s. Only his nostrils twitched, flaring in the dim light. He seemed frozen with rage.
Wallace glanced at Sherm.
“Don’t bring that motherfucker back here, Sherm,” he warned. “Not ever. If Kelvin and Markus don’t kill him, I damn sure will. I don’t want to see him in my hood again. Not anywhere near here.”
“I hear you, man. Don’t sweat it, Wallace. You won’t be seeing him again, I swear. You know my word’s good. We cool?”
“Yeah,” he nodded and spat on the cracked pavement. “We cool.”
“Better hope I don’t see you on the streets,” Kelvin threatened John a final time. “If I do, that’s it for your ass!”
They stood down, lowering their pistols. All three men were shaking with rage. I lowered my own gun, and it was only then that I realized I’d forgotten to cock the hammer.
* * *
Ouch! Cut it out, Sherm!”
John took one hand off the wheel and rubbed the knot on his head.
“Why’d you hit me, dammit?”
“Because you’re a dumb ass,” Sherm shouted, leaning forward to smack him again.
“Ouch! Knock it the fuck off, Sherm. You’re gonna make me wreck.”
I’d sat quietly, simmering. Finally, I could keep my mouth shut no more.
“John?”
“Yeah?”
“What the fuck is wrong with you? ‘Later my niggaz’? The fuck is that? You actually said that shit. What the hell were you thinking? Why not just go down there dressed in a fucking white sheet and burn a cross in their yard while you were at it?”
“You know I ain’t like that, Tommy. I ain’t no racist. I said niggaz, not niggers. There’s a difference. They say it in the songs all the time. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
I was so angry I couldn’t even respond.
Sherm smacked him again. “We told you to keep your fucking mouth shut. Why couldn’t you just do that?”
John pouted. “I was just trying to be friendly. That’s all. I like black people and they seemed like cool guys to hang out with. Remember when I was going out with Rhonda? She was black, and I never said anything wrong to her. I didn’t mean to offend nobody. Honest!”
And that’s the thing. He really hadn’t meant to offend anybody. He’d genuinely been trying to be friendly. John didn’t have a racist bone in his body. He was just John. Big, simple, stupid John. And he was going to drive the getaway car . . .
I leaned back in the seat and rubbed my temples. My head was killing me. Well, actually, it was the cancer that was killing me, but the headache was helping it along quite nicely. I sighed, wondering if my friends would beat both the disease and my head to the punch, and do the cancer’s work themselves. At the rate we were going, it was a distinct possibility. We were quiet for a while. John sulked and Sherm smoked and I massaged my head. My eyes grew heavy. It had been a long night and I was exhausted. Daylight was just a few hours away, and Michelle would be wondering where I’d been all night. I wasn’t sure what I’d tell her. After a while, I spoke. “You guys want to hear something weird? Back there in the alley, when things got tense? I felt alive. For a few moments, I forgot all about the disease. I forgot that I was dying.”
“You ask me,” Sherm replied, “and that’s how I’d rather go out. Given a choice between dying in some crummy hospital bed or being gunned down in a blaze of glory— I’d pick the gunfight every time. And I’d pump some slugs in the motherfuckers before I was gone. I’d kill everyone in sight. I’d . . .”
He kept talking, but I fell asleep in the middle of it. Looking back now, I wish I’d stayed awake and listened.
Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.
EIGHT
I was at a funeral. I didn’t know whose. It must have been for somebody important because the turnout was enormous. For some reason, it wasn’t taking place inside a church. Instead, we were at the old, abandoned movie theater downtown, the one where little Kaitlin Roberts had been killed about ten years ago. I was fifteen when that happened. They found her body, along with the bodies of a homeless guy and a mailman inside the vacant theater, which had closed down a year earlier when the multiplex opened across town. Their killer was never caught and their deaths haunted the town to this day.
That was how I knew it was a dream. Who in their right mind would hold a funeral at the location of a series of grisly murders?
Disembodied, I floated above the proceedings, watching as the crowd of people filed by a coffin made out of solid gold. The coffin lid was closed, and I wondered who lay inside. I listened to the hushed murmurs and whispers of the crowd below, but couldn’t make out anything other than sobs. Just by willing it to happen, I drifted down for a closer look. Michelle and T. J. were there, which surprised me. Michelle looked beautiful in her black dress—
not the type from Wal-Mart or Target or the Goodwill store. No, this was something you’d see on television, a gown you could picture Julia Roberts promenading around in at an awards show. A huge diamond sparkled on her finger, and a matching set dangled from her ears and around her neck. T. J.’s hair was slicked back and he wore a little black suit and tie, with matching black shoes. This outfit was new as well. His Sunday clothes (when Michelle’s mother took him to church) had consisted of a pair of tan Osh Kosh and a fraying sweater. I couldn’t believe how great they looked. This was the kind of clothing they’d always deserved, the kind I could never provide. Expensive.
