CHAPTER THREE

 
 
 

Wayne Orkney scratched the scar on the back of his neck. His keloid itched constantly these days, to the point where he considered going to the doctor to see what he could do to get it removed. A hard-faced man, he had the build of a defensive linesman, stocky and chiseled, with the swinging step of someone who knew how to use their size should the necessity warrant. Passing the Indianapolis Colts training complex, he slowed to a brisk walk along the sidewalk of the West 56th Street corridor of Eagle Creek Park. His early morning amble counted as his aerobic exercise for the day. Despite the fact that he felt twice as good, twice as strong, in the morning, he often carried an old walking stick he'd picked up on a shortterm mission trip to Jamaica some ten plus years ago. This morning he clutched his new collapsible baton in a fist. From the six inches which fit into his hand like a roll of quarters, it extended out to sixteen inches of balanced bludgeon. It was his peace of mind, something to keep whatever predators prowled the early morning at bay.

It seemed that nowhere was safe anymore. It wasn't too long ago they had to haul a body out of the park. Merle and his crazy ass ran across a body. That Walters boy. Lamont "Rok" Walters. A good boy. Well, relatively good. A wannabe roughneck with more attitude than sense, he got involved in some foolishness. What either of them were doing in the weeds was beyond him. If it wasn't a family reunion or barbecue, because nothing brought a fool out like free food or… he couldn't begin to speculate what motivated Merle. It seemed almost criminal for youth to be squandered on the young. From the way the story laid out, Wayne knew King had to be involved somehow, but no one had seen him in weeks. But that was the way things went around here. No, Wayne couldn't hazard much of a guess about much that went on in his world these days.

The front entrance of Eagle Creek Park was a lush lawn of overgrown grass and trees in full bloom. The wind snatched at him, an odd brisk chill. Though late in the season for such a cool morning, he appreciated it for his jogs. Wayne maintained a peculiar pace, somewhere between a stroll and a speed walk, his arms nearly flapping alongside him. He wasn't much for scenery. On some mornings he might spy an errant deer since they ran about like squirrels out here. The smell of rotting meat hit him as soon as he rounded the bend. Wiping his nose, he twisted up his face as if that would cut the smell. A dead raccoon stretched out along the median of 56th Street. Its tongue lolled out of its mouth though its eyes were missing and its belly had been split open.

Vultures circled up ahead, just inside the entrance, with macabre intent. Wayne slowed. The calculations of curiosity stilled his steps – a feeling more than anything else. The sight of the birds, so many of them, circling and settled in the trees like a jury taking in evidence.

Wayne veered off the path.

Rush-hour traffic hadn't begun in earnest, barely a trickle with only the occasional car looking to get on I-465 south. The chain link fence cordoning the park quaked as he tested it with his weight. In a less than graceful scrabble, he made it over and stopped to smooth out his jogging suit once he was on the other side. His breath frosted the air. His stomach both hungry and nauseous.

Wayne had barely waded through the first wall of trees and into a clearing when he saw the body. The skeleton splayed at awkward angles, twisted in brush and leaves. Insects made a home in the remains of his face. Clothes with chunks torn from them as animals had gnawed past them to get to the cool flesh. His shoes were missing. The rent torso laid empty of lungs, kidneys, intestines, and liver; the ribs snatched free. A few fingers had been chewed off.

"Aw… damn." Young dude. Couldn't be but fourteen or fifteen. From what Wayne could see, he'd caught a couple shots in the chest after taking a beating. Yup, these days it was almost a crime to be so young out here. Even as he reached for his cell phone to call the police, another feeling seized him. "Damn it, King. What have you done started?"

 

The area around 34th Street and Georgetown Road was knows as Eagledale. Back in the 1950s there was such a demand for housing it was one of the planned communities constructed. Little pre-fab, all-aluminum exterior, sidewalks, and concrete streets from $10,000. The boom lasted into the 1960s with schools and churches and the Eagledale Shopping Center constructed.

The nearby village of Flackville – 30th Street and Lafayette Road – which had been around since 1900, was annexed by Indianapolis in 1961. Overshadowed by the expanse of the Eagledale suburb. That was then. The only remainder of Flackville was the eponymous abandoned school building. It was rumored that a group of Haitians owned the building but a church owned the property. With the two groups at odds, the building stood boarded up. Ripe for squatting though no one did. The words "No Trespassing. Especially trucks" spray-painted along its driveway acted as a near-mystic rune, warding off most would-be squatters.

Lady G recognized the pair of legs dangling out of the trash bin of the neighboring restaurant.

"Get out of my trash." A short man, with skin as dark as wrought iron, scrambled back and forth waving a broom, to little avail as the object of the threatening spectacle had the top half of his body buried in the trash bin.

"What do you care?" The voice echoed from within the bin. "Were you going to eat it?"

"It's trespassing."

"You have some control issues. If any of this meant so much to you, you shouldn't have thrown it away."

The legs danced about as the owner swatted him with the broom. Merle tumbled out, an arm full of containers clutched to his chest with dirty fingernails. A black raincoat draped about him like a cloak. Unwinking, Merle had a way of looking about at the world with the curiosity of a child inspecting a new toy. His craggily auburn beard came out at all angles. A bird's nest of hair retreated from his bald spot, capped by his aluminum foil hat. His slate gray eyes – big and round, yet knowing and without innocence – cast about, but without spying Lady G.

"Go on!" The owner yelled as if to a pestful cat.

Not that Lady G much blamed the man for chasing Merle out of his trash bin. She once knew a meth head who went through people's garbage searching for canceled checks. Or she snatched bills out of people's mailboxes. She would wash the checks and then make them out to herself for hundreds of dollars.

"I eat here twice a week. It's a good time, right before the garbage truck comes. My best luck is right after the lunch rush. You can't deny a man his fried chicken. Chicken!" Merle waved a chicken leg in the air in mad triumph, other boxes tucked under his other arm. Merle cocked his head at her, quizzical, like an owl befuddled by the sight before him, then wandered off, distracted by whatever internal song that called him.

Despite the warming temperatures, Lady G dressed in layers. A thermal shirt under a T-shirt, swathed in a black hoody. Nothing form fitting as to hide her shape. She chewed on her index finger, which protruded from her fingerless gloves. Acne bumps flared along her forehead, red and swollen against her toffee-colored skin. Lady G's stomach fluttered with unease. She couldn't quite catch her breath. She didn't know what kind of reception to expect from him. And she didn't want to admit her sheer terror. Isolating herself, she rarely left the confines of her room at Big Momma's, the woman who took her in when she was homeless. Lady G rarely met her eyes these days. All of her old haunts filled her with sadness. Her life was a maelstrom of hurt. And shame. Grief flayed her. She searched, hoped, for someone to confide in, who could make things clear for her, but King was no longer there.

Lady G barely kept pace with Merle's crazed lope, following him past the Flackville building to the small stretch of woods behind it. The stand of trees grew at odd angles, a small pool of shadows signaling the entrance. A sign caught her attention: "Warning: No Trespasing! This is Merle's camp. Anounce yurself."

"I see my prayer for noble weather has not been answered." Merle hunched over a Styrofoam container of tossed-out barbecue tips.

"I have a surprise for you."

"My dear, I don't think I can survive another one of your surprises. You are a chimp with a nuke."

"I…" Lady G held out a box of caramel-filled ice cream drumsticks. Part of her hoped Merle might be able to see past the hurt she caused and realize she'd been hurt, too. Even a self-inflicted wound was still a wound. Her friends abandoned her. They shunned her and she accepted her banishment. Profound loneliness, that punishing isolation, flensed her soul. Not knowing where to turn, praying for a safe place of refuge, she sought out Merle.

"It's always important to carry a towel." Merle didn't glance up from his rib tips.

"What?"

"The world isn't a safe place."

"We're coming apart. The family." She grieved the loss of something precious. She cried because she had no self, only her own mood and whim. Self-indulgent, selfish, she had no center, and had no thought at all of causing another pain. She was shadow. Wrapping herself in sheets of innocence and victimhood, her instinct was to blame. Her naïveté, she was a hapless plaything in the hands of more powerful personalities. She loved King, she really did. She longed to please him: read the books he liked, went to the places he did, learned as much about him as she could, wore her hair the way that pleased him. He read the poems she wrote, the rough sentences and poorly formed images and illconstructed rhythms, and praised her. He stared into the shadows of her soul, all of the gray and ugly bits, and loved her. Ill prepared for the possessiveness, the jealousy, she knew the totality of his love, and it broke her. "I'm doing surprisingly well for a pariah."

"That's the thing. Times like these, you find out who your friends are."

"And I have none."

"Ah, the melodrama of youth. Blind to the obvious. Complaining about being alone… to someone. Your instinct for female recklessness stalls your maturing. That and the false, hollow bravado you feel compelled to perform."

Big Momma had told her the same thing. How a teenage girl trying to get out of trouble will roll on anyone, including the very people she both loved and hurt. Big Momma's voice always had an undertone of concern, like she wanted to impart something to her. Like she was warning Lady G of her power. That she had a smile about her, trusting and innocent. And had her own strength of personality, a beguiling innocence that sucked people into her orbit. A disarming charm that caused people in her world to want to protect her. Because inside the fragility which seemed to seep from her, she truly was a bird with a fractured wing.

"Some ladies don't prize what they can have. But you have a lifetime to repair the damage. What do you have to say?"

"I have no words." Out of fear – fear of King, fear of the burdens of responsibility, fear of love and being loved – she did unbelievable things. Hurting herself to protect herself, she dragged Lott into her maelstrom of self-destruction. She loved him, too, and would know him intimately in ways she never knew King. But the men who defined her were no longer around to protect her. When it came to important decisions, she was incapable of making them, reacting emotionally and leaving it to others to clean up her mess. She wasn't the person they believed her to be, however, she didn't need anyone to catalog her list of sins. She knew her terrible acts. In her heart she feared she couldn't be forgiven. That some cracked trusts couldn't be mended. "I'm so sorry."

"Brave deeds. Honorable actions. Be the woman you know you were created to be. Let your life show your repentance. Even misery doesn't last forever. In the meantime, there's no pain like the present."

Merle sucked loudly on his ice cream drumstick. They shared a commiserating glance. Not nearly as alone as she would have believed. Both living in the crater left, the fallout of her choices. Hers. All the minds of her friends seemed now closed to her, sticking her in a story she knew she'd have to live with. Lady G could never have their lives, so she would have to forge her own.

 

The window latch clicked slightly as the glass slid up. An exhalation of a breeze jostled the curtains. The window screen had been easily dislodged, little more than decoration the way it was attached to the window. Many of the first-floor windows of the apartment complex had bars on them, an outof-pocket expense for the tenants which the landlord mentioned when they signed their rental agreements. The bars gave the appearance of coming home to a nicely decorated prison. But in this neighborhood, safety was a precious commodity. Better to feel safe in one's castle than worry about the many predators in the night.

He slipped in noiselessly. Despite his build he moved with the grace of a thief, light of foot and touch. The sleeping girl's mother certainly didn't lack for imagination. She wanted her daughter to have a magical, sheltered childhood. The little girl's room enchanted him. A white picket fence served as the bed's headboard and footboard. A clothesline hung between the bedposts with her old baby clothes pinned to the line (including the ones she wore home from the hospital). An unfinished toy trunk had been painted apple green, with the quilt her grandmother made for her resting on top of it. A sunshine-yellow, three-drawer wood chest had large cartoony ladybugs stenciled onto it. Stuffed animals took their seats around the small wooden table set for tea.

Whenever his emotions wore him down, he drove by the place. It made him feel better knowing he was near even if he couldn't talk to her. Touch her. Lately, he had to be closer to her. Let her know he was still a part of her life, even if he couldn't be there the way he liked.

She snuggled into a thick pink blanket and pillow. For a moment he stood over her, just watching her sleep. He covered her mouth and eased onto the bed next to her. Her eyes sprang open, large with panic. Her balled little fists slammed into him, then slowly ceased as recognition filled her eyes. He removed his hand.

"Daddy!" she whispered with enthusiasm, sitting up to give him a hug.

"Nakia," King said.

"I didn't think you'd come back."

"I'm not supposed to, you know that."

"But I wanted to see you."

"I know. That's why I'm here."

"Tell me a story." Nakia sat fully up and pulled her sheets up around her, making a tent with her knees. King loved her so much in that instant he took a moment to catch his breath.

"There once was a king. He was a lonely man because all the people he loved left him. But he had his kingdom and he had people he wanted to keep safe. This gave him purpose and mission, but in his heart he still wanted a queen. So he searched high and low throughout his kingdom, because you never know where a queen might be.

"One day he walked into a tavern…"

"What's a tavern?" Nakia interrupted.

"It's… a liquor store. With tables."

"Oh." She huffed a mild disappointment, expecting something far more exotic.

"One day he walked into a tavern and took a seat near the back so that he wouldn't be recognized by his people. Then he saw her. The most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He could tell by the way she moved that she didn't know that she was a lady of great beauty… which made her even more beautiful."

"Am I beautiful?" Nakia fished for the compliment she knew would be lavished on her. It was almost a game the two of them played. She knew her father was busy doing important things and that her mother was mad at him. So between the two, he couldn't be around much. And she had the sense that him staying away was him protecting her because there were bad men who sought to hurt King by hurting her.

"You are so beautiful. And you are loved. And if you hold that love in you, it's like a seed. And you will grow up to be even more beautiful."

"Like the queen?"

"Don't jump ahead. Let me tell you my story. The king definitely thought he'd found the one. But he didn't want to scare her off so he decided to wait until the time was right."

"Boys are so silly. He shouldn've asked her out then. He don't know she'll be around later. She might be too busy for him."

"Girl, you're gonna be fierce one day."

"That good?"

"That's great. You'll be a princess who won't need saving."

"So did he ask her out?"

"The king had his duty to attend to. One day a terrible dragon entered the kingdom. It scared the king's people, devouring them slowly, and seemed to be everywhere at once. It wasn't too long till people began falling under the dragon's power and fighting alongside the beast against their own people. Now it was the king's duty to battle the dragon. Everywhere the dragon went the king was there to fight it."

"Did he kill the dragon?"

"The dragon was so huge and so powerful, but the king didn't realize he couldn't fight it alone. So he continued to fight the power of the dragon."

"The king was brave."

"Or stupid. Or too proud. Or all of the above. One day the beautiful lady got caught up in their battle. The dragon kidnapped her and held her captive. The king grew even more relentless and chased the dragon to the ends of his kingdom. There was no place it could hide from him. Finally, fearing the king's wrath, the dragon released the lady and went into hiding."

"Was she the one?"

"He thought she was. He was prepared to make a life with her, offer her his kingdom or even set it aside for her… but then another took her away. The king was alone again."

"That's not true. The king still had his people. And maybe there will be another queen."

"I think the king realized he already had a princess he needed to take better care of. Keep her safe from his many enemies."

"That why the king doesn't come around very often?"

"To keep her safe. He should probably go."

"I'd rather not be safe."

"What do you mean?"

"If it means I'd get to see you more, I'd rather not be safe."

King leaned in and kissed her forehead. He never wanted to be that kind of a father. Absent. The kind who put his work, no matter how important he thought it, above his family. And now the choice had been taken from him. He'd made too many enemies in the game. Families, not even little girls, were no longer off limits. He needed to put an end to the foolishness and get out. Maybe start over. That was what he wanted most: the chance to do things over again. Make different decisions. Maybe choose different people to surround himself with.

 

King walked toward the rear of the Breton Court condominiums. In the gloom of night, the overgrown branches stretched like tentacles ready to snatch him away, and the sad stretch of creek was reduced to a trickle as it hadn't rained in a while. He stopped at the bridge along High School Road, the site of his betrayal. Closing his eyes, letting the pain of the memory of seeing Lott and Lady G together stab him anew. No matter how much he wished it, the darkness wouldn't swallow him. No all-consuming shadow reached out to snatch him into its ebon haze. Only the oppressive weight of anguish – the squeezing on his chest, his very being – reminded him that he was still alive. Memories replayed in his head. What didn't he see? The way they sat near. The furtive glances. Lott even sat in between King and Lady G on occasion and no one thought twice because they were all friends. Family. When did it start? What did he do wrong? Questions he never thought to ask. And why should he have? Lott was his ace. Lady G was his girl. He trusted them with his life. He wished he'd never seen the Caliburn at all.

His condo faced Big Momma's and he didn't want to chance seeing or being seen by Lady G. He simply wasn't ready. The image of her haunted him. He thought he saw her everywhere he went, in crowds, at coffeeshops, passing him on the sidewalk. The ghost of her lingered everywhere. So he had taken to entering and leaving his place through the rear.

A cement block pressed the back patio door shut; the trick was letting it fall into place when he left (though many times he simply scaled the walls). Either way, it was a lot of effort for "security" as all anyone had to do was push the door open.

Like Pastor Ecktor Winburn had done.

"What are you doing here?"

"A good shepherd goes after his lost sheep." A low-cut Afro with gray streaks drew back from his forehead, lengthening the appearance of his face. Like a scarecrow funeral director, his black suit hung from him, his tie too thin. He hunched his shoulders close and bridged his spider-like long fingers, his suspicious eyes taking the measure of King. "Figured I'd given you enough time to lick your wounds in your cave."

"I didn't ask you to come." The words came out in an angry rush. King balled his fist and released it, then pushed past Pastor Winburn to the unlocked backdoor. There was a time when he'd hung on the man's every word, but these days King could barely stand to listen to him. Somewhere along the lines things had changed, like somehow the pastor should have been there for him, been more solidly in his corner. Instead he felt like he'd washed his hands of him, distancing himself ("giving you time to lick your wounds" crap), and now doing just enough to cover his ass for when folks asked him about King.

"I'm here now." Pastor Winburn followed him inside. Better to give him something, any distraction to keep him from exploring any further down this dark path. Sometimes the best way to get over a problem was to get involved in someone else's. To take his eyes off of himself and his tiny corner of the world. "And you've still got a job to do. We're losing our men to the streets. To drugs. Hell, to their couches. There's nothing like comfort to make folks feel like they can get through life on their own. But no matter how good they have it, they're never content. Start getting that itch and feeling the need to scratch it. Wherever and with whomever they can."

"I been thinking a lot about my father." King reached to pull the Caliburn from his hip, his reflex ritual upon returning home. After all this time, he still forgot that he no longer had it.

"Yeah?"

"Wondering if we're all meant to be our fathers' sons."

Heavy, intense eyes rested on him. People loved putting folks on pedestals almost as much as they loved knocking them back down to earth. Hollywood stars. Pastors. Parents. Life was a set-up game which you couldn't let go to your head. "You know what I've always thought? The story of the prodigal son could have easily been called the prodigal father, at least to the son that stayed faithful."

"What do you mean?"

"Here you have two sons. One is faithful to his father, being the best son he can be. The other is selfish, self-focused, out for himself and his own good time. The faithful son stays with his father, continues his work, while the prodigal goes his own way and squanders his life. The faithful son sees his father bend over backwards to reward the wayward son. It can be a tough thing to swallow, seeing your father behave in ways you don't understand, yet love him anyway. Luckily for them both, they were still around to talk things through."

"My dad's no longer here."

"You are a hurt and angry child."

"What did you say to me?" King hated this. He wanted to punch something. Someone. And Pastor Winburn… he hated the man to see him like this. So weak. Pathetic. He wanted to prove himself to the man. To be the man Pastor Winburn saw in him. To even be better than him. Such was the way of fathers and sons.

"You were a… knight. A hero. Now you acting like some simp who's been played by a girl."

"You have no idea what it's like to think you know someone, to love them, and realize it's nothing but lies."

"Nope. Because love is strictly the provenance of the young. I was never young, never hooked up with anyone, and never got hurt by anyone. You're the only one who has ever been through something like this. In the history of mankind."

"You're not helping." King's face remained inscrutable. He kept his face a pallid mask, unmoved even by his own pain.

"It's all right to be angry with Lott. Lady G. Both of them. This whole situation. It sucks."

"I should be beyond that."

"Why? You still a man."

"And I don't want to put you in the middle."

"What middle? They did wrong. I'm pissed at both of them. Love them, but I'm pissed at them."

"They were laughing at me."

"Who?"

"Both of them. I did this for them as much as anyone else. To be a hero to Lady G. To be worthy of Lott's friendship."

"To prove yourself to them. I'm sorry if I don't seem real sympathetic. I'm not going to pretend to know what draws a silly country girl's heart. I'm not trying to minimize the dull shock of sorrow you want to wallow in. I'm really not. My heart hurts for you. I wish you could just remember the good times you had with them and hold on to the love you have for them. But I also know you can't just yet. Right now all you can do is think of the pain. All you can do is re-visit each memory through the lens of that pain and question everything."

"I just want to make all the hurting stop."

"I know you do. I know how hard it is to open up and reveal yourself, only to be rejected. That's the big fear of relationships." Pastor Winburn drew up his sleeves and revealed a scar line of old track marks. "The world is a painful place, full of things and people that will hurt you. And I know the temptation to numb yourself from it and do whatever it takes to keep us from dealing with life and what's going on. That's an easy path to walk down. You're no different than any other addict out here, you just used a relationship to numb yourself. Living life on your own strength, within your own fears."

"That's easy to say."

"What you've been doing hasn't been working." Pastor Winburn rolled his sleeves back down. "How about you listen to someone else other than yourself? You want to run away from folks and be all alone, that's on you. But you'll have no one speaking into your life except you. You don't want to be alone with your demons unattended. They are so many and it gets awfully noisy with all of those competing voices in your head."

"Everything just seems so… It's too much. Too loud. It's confusing."

"I wish I were one of those quick-to-forgive people. How when I feel dishonored, disrespected, or disavowed, or otherwise holding on to memories of someone's mistreatment of me, I can just go 'I forgive you' and all of the hurt and ill will just vanishes. It's like we feel this tacit pressure from other Christians. They hear our struggles with the pain of our situations – the anger, the hurt, the sheer pain of it – and confuse that with not being able to forgive. Almost as if we aren't forgiving on their time table or that a good Christian would have forgiven by now. Or faster. Or better. On-the-spot forgiveness works with smaller slights, but deeper wounds require more, especially if they tap into a familiar one. Sometimes we have to ask if part of what has wounded us is us carrying something else with us from the past that we are connecting to this present person or circumstance. That's part of what forgiveness is about, freedom from the things which hold on to us. A hardened heart can't feel the love nor the forgiveness a faithful and just God has to offer, it has walled itself off. Pursuing forgiveness is agreeing with God that there needs to be healing and trusting Him to heal us through the process. And sometimes it's a hard, long, messy process. But what's broken can be redeemed. And there's a real you that you have yet to find."

King leaned against his kitchen counter. "Help me understand how to do that. How to get to the real me."

"You're always asking 'what do I need to do to make this work?' because you operate out of a need to control. Faith and control don't exist well together. When you are moving from a place of faith, you're asking 'God, what are You going to do to make this work and how do I get involved with that?'"

"I want to be that man."

"Look, King… I've seen how you've carried yourself. How you've fought. There's always going to be someone stronger. Everyone loses some time. It's what you do. In defeat, that defines you. You can become broken and bitter, just like in victory, you could become petty and small. Victory is a matter of spirit, not might. You have a mighty sword by your side, but you do not have to draw it. To wield it is to draw blood. Real love risks and offers redemption."

"Where do I start?"

"Go back and clean up what you messed up." Pastor Winburn put a tentative hand on King's shoulder, not wanting to crowd him if he wasn't ready. But King neither flinched nor pulled away.

"You always have a lesson for me. Just like a father."

"King, I… I was never your father. Though I'd have been proud to call you my son."

"There's more to being a father than blood. How about you listen to someone else other than yourself."

 

Lott dribbled the basketball three times, took aim, bounced it three more times, held his pose for a moment, then released his shot. The ball arced through the net-less rim without sound. Putting on a limp pimp roll strut to chase down his own rebound, he pretended to evade a couple of defenders before laying back with a fade-away jumper. The game was easier this way.

The other day he was in a pickup game with folks he knew from around the way. And he was every bit as alone. No one on the court chatted with him. No girls flirted with him from the sidelines. No one met his eyes. No one passed him the ball. Getting a rebound resulted in elbows to his gut or face. Too aware of their scrutiny, their wariness, he retreated. He knew what to expect, but the pain of the reality was nearly too much. Maybe underneath it all he wasn't this awful person – the villain in everyone's story – maybe he was still the caring, loving little boy his grandmother tried to raise. But it seemed, he could sense it in his heart like stomachs turned in his presence. He just wanted to get away. To retreat.

Lott's disheveled hair needed tightening up, a week overdue. His large brown eyes checked for anyone who neared him. His tongue traced where his row of faux gold caps once grilled his teeth. A scraggly beard scrawled along his face in tufts like a child's cotton ball art project. Lott had lost his job at FedEx. It was the job Wayne had helped him get through Outreach Inc which took him out of the streets, and he'd been there for a couple years. He'd been doing well. They were even talking about promoting him again. Then the stuff with King and Lady G went down. He loved them both. He'd hurt them both. It was selfish of him to get with Lady G no matter the love he believed he had for her. She was King's girl. He was King's ace. And he betrayed them and it grieved him. He carried the weight of the pain he caused to work with him. The shame ground him down, affected his performance. His supervisor said he'd become bored and spiteful at work, not all the young man he thought he was giving a second chance to. And definitely not living up to the potential he thought he saw. Then that was that. Lott didn't disagree with his boss's assessment and would've fired him his own self. But the part that hurt was the fact that even during the firing, his boss had a sting of pain in his eyes, as if begging Lott to find the words to keep him from doing what he had to do. As if it hurt him to be adding to Lott's pain. Lott welcomed the firing. He welcomed the punishment. He knew he had to suffer for what he'd done and just wished everyone would stop giving a damn about him so he could throw his life away in peace.

"Why'd they have to do him like that? He was a good kid."

"No more than anyone else. And he was trying to put it behind him. Folks wouldn't let him."

So the whispers about him went. But he knew how they saw him. This unfeeling monster. Beyond tears. Beyond redemption. Sometimes a body had to move on, get away from a place. Run from the memories, history of hurts and betrayals, otherwise they became trapped by a story. A tale told by others and believed by more. Such was his story. A story that would define him in such a way that he began to believe it himself. One that wouldn't allow him to grow out of it. He had to break his routine, his habits, shake up his world and paradigm.

The ball swished through the net. But there was no roar of a crowd. Nor any elation in his heart. Only the dull ache of moving when he didn't want to. He ran down his own shot then dribbled out for another.

Lott could never figure out why he wanted, needed, to block it out, to kill off the person he was. Because he hurt. The pain bobbed and ebbed, varying in intensity, but always there, and he simply never wanted to hurt again. Pain drove people mad and the self-loathing he felt was a raging fire fed by bits of his soul. One he'd do anything to quench. His life in drugs was no different than how he treated women, they were both attempts for his selfish need to come first and allow him brief moments of escape. What he hated was how he was powerless to make any of the changes he knew he had to make. His life was a runaway train, one he tried his best to ride out because to change, to stop, meant he'd risk losing Lady G or his friends and that he couldn't bear.

Instead, he lost everything.

The scorched earth of his life left him with a profound regret at having taken himself away from the people who loved him. Whom he loved. Pangs of guilt gnawed at him whenever he went by their old spot, overwhelmed by a sense that home was forever lost to him. No one wanted any part of him, they all turned their backs on him so that he could move on. And perhaps they could escape the chaos he brought with him. He didn't blame them. He hated himself probably more than they did. He had no idea what real betrayal was, what depths he was capable of sinking to.

"I am not a man," he thought.

He always had this vision of the kind of man he wanted to be. Noble, but a bit of a roughneck. Honorable. Honest. True. Trustworthy. A hoodrat knight. He didn't want to be the kind of man his father was. Quick to dive into any bit of pussy that strayed across his path. No matter whose woman she was or whether Lott's mother was in the picture, Lott's father was a ghost in his childhood and absent in his adulthood.

Lott lined up his next shot. Dribbled again. Let it fly. It clanged off the rim and off to the side toward a group of fellas.

"Li'l help," he said, nodding toward the ball that rested in the grass by them. The men cut him a sideways glance, one sucked his teeth, and kept playing. Lott picked up his backpack and walked off, not wanting to feel their judgment or their pity.

Off 52nd Street and Georgetown, along a windy bend, was a tiny church, Bethel United Methodist, behind which was a cemetery. The last few weeks he'd called the spot home. All the drama in his world sucked up all the emotional energy, and he had nothing left to care about anything else. Not his job. Not where he lived, which was a good thing since he lost his room at the Speedway Lodge, formerly a Howard Johnson's, soon after losing his job. And the graveyard matched how he felt. Dead inside.

Lott knew too many bodies buried in this yard.

There was a spot under a tree out of view of most of the cemetery and far from the street where he stayed. The closest thing nearby was the utility shed of the apartment complex. Three men chatted up a girl. Lott's wary gaze followed them. He'd seen the "hey, you girl" routine often enough. Brothers pushing up on a girl, trying to talk to her. He didn't like their predatory leer nor how they crowded the girl. A pack moving to cut off her escape routes. A feral gleam leapt to the eyes of the tallest of them. With the hint of a nod, the man behind her grabbed her while the other scanned the deserted lot and unlocked the storage shed. They dragged her in with the tallest man being the last to enter the shed.

"Careful. Don't jump if you can't see bottom," Lott heard an internal voice say, but he was to his feet and half-running toward the shed before his mind caught up to things. The latch on the shed had been torn out at the hinges and the rust on the nails indicated that it hadn't been secure in a while. Pressing his ear to the door, he heard the sounds of struggle and muffled cries. His blood heated up. The door slammed open behind the force of his kick.

A vegetable odor filled the room, the smell of spent seed seeped into the woods. They turned and froze at Lott's entrance. Two of the men held the girl down, each one clamping down on an arm, though one attempted to cup her breast. The third, the tall one, pulled at her panties. Spitting into his hand, he slowly began to stroke himself. The more she fought, the more excited he got. Despite Lott's unexpected entrance, he kept touching himself.

"What the hell are you doing?" Lott yelled.

"What it look like, money?" The first one looked up from the struggling girl.

"You want in on this train?" the tall one asked.

The girl locked eyes with Lott. A few acne bumps dotted her forehead, red and swollen against her toffee-colored skin. For a moment, all he saw was Lady G. Then she came more into focus as the girl she was. A little thinner and lighter skinned, though still in need of having her honor defended. Lott took two steps in and planted his foot into the crotch of the first boy. The other two scrambled to their feet, but not before he put his full weight behind a punch that dropped one to the floor.

"Get out!" Lott yelled to her.

The girl tore out without hesitation. The third man leapt at Lott, grappling him about the middle. Lott kicked backwards, slamming them both into the wall, taking the wind out of the assailant. Then the ground fell away from under him. All he could think of was all the friends he'd hurt, the trust he'd betrayed. The life he'd fucked up. Panting, the tallest one noted the fight leaving Lott and began to punch him. Lott took the blows to the ribs and the stomach, but not in the face though, as he wrapped up and collapsed into a ball. Sirens snapped the men out of their rage fugue, the tallest administering another kick before cutting out.

"The hero got his ass wa-za-za-zah-whooppedzz!" the tall one shouted on the way out. Then, in case he was a snitch, too, he warned, "Keep your mouth shut."

Lott stayed on the floor, with the pain as comforting as any blanket.