Black Buck(64)

“Lucien and all of them flew in on a red-eye. They’re in there right now, tearing him apart.”

The elevator bell rang. Two figures with bulky silhouettes stepped out and paused in the elevator bay before heading through the transparent doors.

“Not this again,” Charlie said, pushing his seat out and walking over to Clyde.

Porschia and the two men, definitely cops, emerged from the far corner of the floor and walked in our direction. They were staring at us. Then I realized they weren’t staring at us, they were staring at me.

“Um, Buck,” Porschia whispered.

“Yeah?” My heart was beating so loudly, I could hardly hear; it felt like I was underwater. What is this? Did Jason tell them something? Do they think I was somehow responsible for Donesha Clark’s murder?

“These two men want to speak with you,” she said, avoiding eye contact.

I followed the three of them to Bhagavad Gita, my stomach full of wasps.

“I’ll leave you all to it,” Porschia said, closing the door.

“Take a seat, son,” the tall Italian-looking one with a strong jaw said.

“I didn’t do anything.” I slowly lowered myself into the seat while maintaining eye contact with him.

“Why haven’t you picked up your phone?” the other, red-haired, blue-eyed copper asked.

Fuck. They’re going to beat me down like Rodney King. This is how it happens.

“I broke it,” I said, shifting in my seat. When it came to cops, Ma always said to “cooperate, but don’t incriminate.”

“We’ve tried calling you all morning, son,” the Italian one said. “Even your neighbor, Mr. Rawlings, said he couldn’t get in touch with you.”

“For what? Like I told you, I didn’t do anything. And unless you’re going to charge me”—I stood up—“I’m leaving.”

“Son,” the Italian one said. “Your mother died this morning.”

I was suddenly standing outside Bhagavad Gita looking through the glass wall at the scene inside—me, laughing in disbelief. The red-headed cop leaned against a window, biting his nails. The Italian one stared at me sympathetically.

I heard the Italian cop say, “I’m sorry, son. So, so sorry,” as he kneaded his chin with his hairy knuckles.

I saw myself shaking my head, saying, “No, man. My mom isn’t dead. Can’t be. I just saw her the other day. Stop fucking lying to me.”

I saw the red-headed one walking toward me and placing a hand on my shoulder, saying, “Everyone has been trying to get in touch with you all morning, Darren. She had lung cancer, didn’t you know?”

Lung cancer? “No,” I heard myself say through the glass. “My mom didn’t have lung cancer. She just had a little cough, felt a little tired, but she didn’t have lung cancer.”

“I know it’s hard to believe, son,” I heard the Italian one say. “I’ve been through it too. It may be hard now, but—”

I saw myself push the cops. “Get the fuck off of me!” I heard myself shout. “You fucking pigs come here and start telling lies. You’re the enemy, trying to get in our heads and make us lose the war!”

And then I saw myself with my back against the dry-erase wall, sliding down, taking whatever grand plans were written on it along with me down to the floor. I saw my head drop into my hands; saw tears, snot, and spit cover my face; heard a deep, guttural, desperate sound emerge from my throat.

“Ma isn’ dead,” I heard myself whisper. “Ma can’t be dead.”



* * *





The cops drove me to Woodhull, where Ma’s body was. After I confirmed her identity, the staff left me alone to process. But when I looked down at her, already cold and stiff, I felt like I was going crazy. This couldn’t be real.

“Hey, Ma,” I said, stroking her hair. “I—I came as fast as I could, but I guess it wasn’ soon enough.”

I traced her wrinkles, which had been slick with tears the last time I’d seen her. “Ma. I’m sorry about—” I laid my head on her cold stomach, wishing there was some way she could hold me and say that everything would be all right, that we’d still have tomorrow.

I cleared my throat and stared into her gray face, seeing no light. Her eyes would never open again. Her mouth would never smile again. Those hands, the hands that took care of me all my life, would never hold mine again.

“You lied to me, Ma,” I said, my tears leaving dark stains on her clothing. “Why was it so easy for you to lie to me, Ma?”

I saw the signs: the weight loss, how her hands couldn’t grip a mug, the blood-covered napkins in the trash, how she inhaled before she lied about being fine. But she told me it was nothing.

“How could you leave me, Ma?” My voice shook uncontrollably. “You said you would be there, to root for me when I made it, Ma. Didn’ you see that I only did all of this for you? You lied!” I realized I was yelling when an attendant entered and put a hand on my shoulder. “Calm down, please. I know it’s tough, but we have a room where you can sit and gather yourself.”

“Get the fuck off me!” I shouted, shoving him backward.

I’d done everything she asked. The future you spoke of always had both of us in it, Ma. Why’d you leave me? As the questions multiplied, so did my anger. At her. At the world. And most of all, at myself, because I was helpless. I’d never felt more alone in my life.