Baylon hated the way they discussed him as if he weren't there.
'Ain't my call. My man has to make his choice. What you think, B? You ready to step up?' Dred asked.
Still jumpy and unhinged, his nerves drained of all resolve, Baylon realized he was a man of fluid loyalties. After the misunderstanding which ended his and King's friendship, perhaps his future interest was with Night and Dred. Every story needed a villain. Maybe it was time for him to embrace his calling. As hollow as that thought ran, at his core, Baylon was practical. The best way to survive was to stick with survivors. Dred, no matter the level of chaos around him, always managed to survive.
'You cursed, you know,' Dred said.
'I don't know shit about no curses,' Baylon said.
'Death follows you,' Night said.
'Death follows all of us.' Baylon grew annoyed at their steady rhythm. He felt pressed in and doubleteamed. The Escalade became claus trophobic. He stared out the window. He had a selfdestructive impulse he wrestled against. Got in a bad way, a dark head space and wants to take a torch to his life. 'We born to die.'
'Not all of us. Some of us even death won't touch.' Dred stared into the rearview mirror until he locked eyes with Baylon.
Baylon fidgeted with the handle of his knife then shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He ticked off the streets as they headed east on Washington.
'Why you want to help me out?' Baylon eventually found his voice.
'The enemy of my enemy…' Dred said.
'So we friends now?'
'Better than that. We're partners.'
Baylon nodded. This was the life he wanted, the opportunity he'd been waiting for. It only cost him his friendship with King. They hadn't been close of late, but they were still boys. They'd depended on each other for so long, they had become comfortable. And now it was evaporated. He was dead to King. He would have to find his own way with his own people.
'And then you brought me in,' Griff said.
Baylon jumped. The voice was so real in his ear, he searched Dred's face to see if he heard it. He couldn't be here. Not here, not now, not in this memory. Griff came later. Smoke filled the car, a billowing cloud so thick it now obscured the front seat. The smoke's heady aroma disoriented Baylon. Soon, all he knew was the smoke. It isolated him. The world beyond its fringes ceased to exist. All there was, his entire reality, had been reduced to bodiless voices.
'You wanted in. Remember what I asked you?' Baylon asked.
''Now you want to get your dick wet and do some work?'' Griff quoted.
'Yeah, you were always the first in line to get paid.'
The smoke began to clear. The cloudless sky beamed with such an intense blue it hurt Baylon's eyes. The landscape shifted until it coalesced into the familiar. He grew up in this playground. His house was across the street, behind the community center. His neighbors' houses lined the alley which cordoned off the park. Baylon spidered his hands up along the chains of the swing in which he sat until they reached a comfortable height.
'You remember when we used to race swing?' Griff sat idly in the swing next to him as if he had been there the entire time.
'We were damn fools,' Baylon said sharply. 'Surprised we didn't break our necks.'
'You were a beast. Could get higher than any of us.'
Baylon smiled at the thought, the secret compliment, and he remembered. Swings different back in the day. Taller, with wood seats. A fool of a boy could stand on the seat, pump for greater height and at the apex of a swing, jump off to fly through the air and land past the scree of pebbles and dirt that filled the swing area.
'I don't know how any of us survived our childhoods,' Baylon conceded.
'There were no children here. There were soldiers in training.'
'We were fierce though.'
'Yeah. We were fierce. It all worth it?' Griff's words hung in the air, the perfect playground beesting. He was gone. Baylon was alone on the swings.
Then Dred's voice drew him from his brief respite.
'We in this deep now,' Dred said.
'I never thought we'd make it this far. Or this long.' Baylon stumbled for words, hoping his matched whatever conversation he was having.
'Some of us didn't.' Dred smiled, a rueful and wholly unpleasant thing.
'You ever think of him?'
'Think of who?'
'Griff.'
'Naw, man. Best to not dwell on things best left in the past. What's the matter, brotha? You look like you saw a ghost or some shit. You paler than a motherfucka.'
The weather ought to have been drizzling, overcast at the very least, but the noonday sun dazzled overhead. Lackluster warmth did little for King's mood. He towered over the small plaque. MICHELLE DAVIS. 1984–2004. Another person he had failed. His life had become a litany of failures, of lives derailed, ruined, or tragically truncated by his involvement in them. The swelling sentiment pained him more when it was family. He couldn't even afford to bury her. Outreach Inc. put up the money to cover her burial.
Burial.
His cousin laid under six feet of dirt, a secret kept from the rest of the world for eternity. A secret that didn't have the chance to blossom, to chart her own way, to fulfill her potential. King ached at the hole in his heart whenever he thought about her. He ran the heel of his hand across his brow, then held his hand like a visor. Lott walked up to him. Fleeting eye contact, afraid of what he might see there. A gain, a sorrow, which matched his own. Combined it might create a well of anguish so profound they might not escape. Or worse, they might break down and cry. And neither would admit or want that.
'How'd you know I was out here?' King asked.
'I didn't. Come to see her on my own.' Lott adjusted his FedEx uniform. The heat of it didn't bother him. He rather enjoyed the comfort of its cloying presence. The thin skim of sweat, as if girded for battle.
'I don't know what made me think of her today.'
'Me either. Something in the air.'
'Like we share a special bond.'
'We're brothers. Brothers born of tragedy and pain.'
'What?'
'I don't know. Something Merle once said about us… before going off about cycles and cursers. You know how he gets.' If he held still enough, Lott could still smell her. Could feel her run her fingers through his hair. She liked long hair, so he rarely cut it. 'Seen too many funerals.'
'I know she meant a lot to you.'
'I don't like to think back on it,' Lott said.
'It was a bad time. A hard time.'
Obscured by clouds, the full moon created a silvery cast to the sky. Wind skirted the rooftop, thickening the deep chill of the night. The layer of rocks on the ware house rooftop made it difficult for Wayne and King to keep their footing. Tarlike ichor trailed along it. It was why it was so important that they wore old sneakers: they never knew what muck they might step into. Small alcoves which formerly held airconditioning units, a mix of brick and wood, spaced in a series, the ridged spine of the building. Tarps or blankets were draped across the individual bays, a tent door opening.
Wayne toted the massive backpack filled with bot tles of water, an assortment of snacks and materials about contacting Outreach Inc. King trotted noisily be side him, a long flashlight in each hand. With no additional volunteers that week, and Wayne not wanting to miss a week, he asked King to join him. He was proud of the work he did. Having started several programs within Outreach Inc., from their inschool assistance program to the tutoring session and bible study programs on site, Wayne had poured himself into the ministry. A quiet joy hidden by his gruff exterior, he didn't take for granted the rare opportunity he had, matching his passion to his profession. Wayne's realization that working with hardtoreach knuckleheads was his gift was another revelation. Took one to
