Kindness for Weakness (13 page)

“Damn,” Samson says. “You’re a professional, Freddie!”

But Freddie doesn’t even slow down long enough to smile, or to wipe the hot sauce smeared on his face. One of the lenses of his glasses sports a fingerprint of grease. I think back to the van ride from court, how his nice white shirt was covered with food stains. As I watch him polish off the rest of the wings and all of the celery and blue cheese, I realize that he’s doing something he truly loves. He smiles placidly as he sits back in his chair and sighs.

“My fat ass is finally happy,” he says. “Thank you, Samson.”

“Yes,” I say. “Thank you.”

But he shrugs it off as though giving Freddie his best meal in months is no big deal. As though teaching me how to get strong isn’t the thing I’ve wanted from my big brother, Louis, for so long.

Later, in bed, my arms and chest and legs are warm with the mild burn of my workout. It feels good, and I drift off to sleep easily, almost peacefully, for the moment forgetting all about Antwon and his boys.

After school we grab our Walter Mosley books and sit in a circle. Mr. Eboue and Samson sit with us.

“You guys are reading, right?” says Wilfred.

“I’ll read,” says Samson. “But today I want one of you to do Darryl’s part. You up for it, Wilfred? It’s just a few lines.”

“No disrespect, Mr. Samson, but I don’t read like that, out loud. I just want to hear about Socrates.”

Antwon, Double X, and Bobby mutter that they won’t read, either.

“Somebody’s got to step up,” says Mr. Eboue. “Who’s feeling brave today?”

I raise my hand.

“Good man,” says Mr. Eboue. We start reading this chapter called “Lessons,” where Darryl fights a gangbanger named Philip who’s been after him at school. Darryl puts up a good fight, but in the end, Philip has him pinned to the ground with a .45 automatic. Around me the boys seem to love the action, especially when Socrates
sneaks up on Philip’s friends and slaps them so hard on the backs of their heads that they fall down and drop their weapons. Double X laughs out loud when Philip calls Darryl “pussy boy.”

“He
is
a pussy boy,” says Antwon, looking right at me. Samson holds up a finger and moves it slowly back and forth. Antwon sucks his teeth, but looks down at his book.

Samson reads the part where after the fight, Socrates says,
“ ‘You stood up for yourself, Darryl … that’s all a black man could do. You always outnumbered, you always outgunned.’ ”

And even though Samson’s reading from a book, it feels like he’s really speaking to me. I’m not a black man, and I haven’t fought anyone, but I still feel proud, because Samson is someone I respect. Maybe one day I’ll hear those words for real.

Most of the guys think Socrates is right, and that you have to shoot first and hit harder.

“The chapter’s called ‘Lessons,’ right?” says Levon. “So that means you got to teach a punk like Philip the lesson before he teaches it to you.”

Mr. E and Samson try to make it a serious conversation, but everyone keeps blurting out stupid shit.

“My boys wouldn’t let no old man sneak up on them,” says Antwon.

“I’d take Philip’s gun and pop him with it,” says Bobby.

“Yeah, you know it, little man,” says Wilfred.

“Don’t call me that, mouth breather,” says Bobby.

When Samson gets control, he says, “Don’t you ever feel like the rules are stacked against you? Like you can’t win, no matter how hard you try?”

It’s quiet for a moment, and then we’re all nodding our heads, saying, “Yeah, yeah, it does feel like that.” Wilfred swears that he’s been doing his best at Morton for eleven months, and he isn’t even close to earning his stage. Bobby says he’s never going to pass the TABE test and qualify for GED prep.

Near the end of group Samson reads a scene where Socrates is cooking chicken and rice gumbo for Darryl over a camp stove:
“ ‘He wished that some man had had that kind of love for him before he’d gone wrong … He was a troubled child with no father; one of those lost souls who did wrong but didn’t know it—or hardly did.’ ”

“What’s this mean?” says Mr. Eboue.

I raise my hand. “That Socrates might have turned out different if someone had loved him and taught him to be a man.” I half expect the other guys to laugh, for Antwon to call me a pussy boy. But they don’t. Nobody says anything for a long time.

Finally, Freddie breaks the silence. “That’s deep.”

“Yeah,” says Levon, “mad deep.”

Another Wednesday, which is visitation day, and I can’t stop thinking about Louis. After all that’s happened, he can’t make the effort to come see me or even write a damn letter. How much would it take him to write a letter? Less than is needed to blow me off, I’m sure.

But then Pike bangs on my door. “James,” he says, “you got a visitor. Come on.”

Before I can even think about it, he leads me to a small windowless room. Sports posters line the walls, along with corny motivational slogans like
THERE IS NO I IN TEAM
and
A QUITTER NEVER WINS AND A WINNER NEVER QUITS
.

Louis sits in a fabric waiting-room chair. He’s wearing a plain black T-shirt that stretches tight over his shoulders and biceps. Physically he looks the same, but something is different about the way he carries himself. It’s not like his posture is slumped or anything; it’s more subtle than that, but I can’t put my finger on it.

Pike sizes Louis up and stiffens a little the way dogs do when they’re trying to decide who is alpha.

“You James’s brother?” says Pike.

“Louis.” He offers his hand, but Pike doesn’t take it. Instead the guard stands with his arms crossed, scowling at Louis, who is obviously bigger and stronger. But he doesn’t have the uniform. Or the radio. Or the cuffs. And in here that means something.

“Maybe you can talk some sense into your little brother before he goes down a bad road.”

“I thought he was doing okay.”

“Who told you that?”

“African guy. Mr. E-something. On the phone. He said James earned his stage and would be eligible for early release.”

“Eboue.” Pike says it like he’s got a bad taste in his mouth. “Did he tell you that kids lose their stages all the time? You should ask James about his new friend. Let’s just say his
friend
is a bad influence.”

Louis digests this. “Can we have our visit now?” he says. And a tiny bit of pride swells in me to see how Louis handles someone like Pike. He might not keep his promises, or give two shits about me, but still … he doesn’t let the assholes of the world mess with him.

Pike hooks his thumbs into his belt loops. “Go ahead. I’ll be outside.”

When we’re alone, Louis says, “What’s his problem?”

“Everything.”

“God, what an asshole,” he says. “I don’t know how you can stand it here.”

“It’s not like I have a choice, you know.”

The comment hangs in the air, until Louis slides a
paperback across the table. “I brought your book,” he says.

I look at the cover of the ship crashing through a dark sea. I pick it up and hold it; it feels good in my hands, like a Bible might to a religious person. I’ve got the Walter Mosley book in my room, and now I’ve got this one. It’s only two books, I know, but it feels like I’m building my own library of great books that are going to help me. I’m going to spend every spare moment reading them, until I find what Samson and Mr. Pfeffer want me to see. I’d like to stop the visit right now. I could go back to my room, bury my head in the pages of the book, and disappear for a few hours. Louis can go home or to Dirk’s Gym or wherever the hell he wants. He can feel good about himself because he drove out here to see me and did his brotherly duty.

But I stay in my seat. “Thanks.”

He looks away.

“How’s everything at home?” I say.

“Fucked up. The Bronco’s gone for good. I still owe money.”

I nod, but I don’t really care. I know how he feels about that thing, but I’d trade ten Broncos to get out of here. “You seen Mom?”

“You know I don’t go over there.”

“Does she even care that I’m here?”

“Honestly, I don’t know what she cares about.” He tugs at the collar of his T-shirt as though it’s choking him. “Listen, James. I’m sorry.”

It’s strange to hear him say that. I’ve never heard him
apologize. For anything. How can you live nineteen years without ever once being wrong?

“It’s okay,” I say. But the truth is, I’m not sure if it’s okay. I need to think. Things are different now and I’m not going to follow Louis blindly just because I want to be cool. Those days are over.

“No. It’s not.” He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. His words come out haltingly and shaky. “It’s
not
okay. I’m your brother. I’m not supposed to set you up.”

“I knew what I was getting into.”

“No, you didn’t.”

And I begin to wonder, because his eyes are filled with terror, like he’s about to tell me something bad, something that will change everything forever. Like the time he told me our father was leaving for good. I had only known him as a man who was sometimes home, sometimes not. But he always brought us presents, cheap balsa gliders, cap guns, and rubber balls that bounced super high. He’d pull up to the house in his white Jeep Comanche, and we’d all run out to the porch to greet him. And then, a few days later, he’d be gone. It’s funny, but I remember the presents more than I remember him.

When Louis first told me he wasn’t ever coming back, I said, “I don’t believe you.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Louis. “He’s still not coming back. Mom says.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t love us anymore.”

“Who’ll take care of us?”

“I will. I’m the man of the house now, and you’d better listen.”

Louis was right. He never did come back, no matter how many times I watched the driveway for his pickup. And my mother fell into a routine of work, smoking cigarettes, and bringing home different loser guys, the most recent of which was Ron. And now, locked up in Morton, my brother wants to tell me something else that’s big and important. What is it, that he’s leaving for good? That I’m on my own? Because if it’s the second thing, I already know it. I’ll tell him that I figured it out all by myself.

“Vern didn’t join the marines,” says Louis.

I wait to hear the rest, blood thrumming in my temples. Of course he didn’t join the damn marines. I knew that. But I accepted the lie, because I didn’t want to know the truth. Because I wasn’t strong enough. And now he’s going to tell me? Part of me wants to tell him to get the fuck out, before he says another word. I can live without his self-serving version of the truth. But the other part of me wants to know. Needs to know.

“He got locked up at Five Points. For possession with intent to sell, and also conspiracy. Three to five years, but he’ll do the max because he didn’t rat on me.”

I am stunned.

Louis is talking fast now, trying to get it all out. “The cops were trying to nail me, but they got Vern instead. They were watching and following all the time. And they thought Vern would roll on me.”

“But he didn’t?”

“No. He was solid. Like you. Strong.”

“I’m not strong,” I say, even though I’m trying to be.

He shakes his head to correct me; his eyes are teary. I’m trying to understand what he’s saying. Louis let his friend go down for him, and then set me up to take his place. All the time knowing that the cops were watching, waiting. It explains a lot of what the detective guy said, how they really wanted Louis, not me.

“I know how it sounds.” He looks away from me, pretending to focus on the motivational poster by a famous athlete that says
I’VE MISSED ONE HUNDRED PERCENT OF THE SHOTS I DIDN’T TAKE
. What do those words even mean?

I stare at the poster, trying to think straight. Does he know how messed up it is that Vern is in prison and I’m in Morton? He should leave right now and never talk to me again. I should tell him this. I should tell him that he’s not my brother anymore. But I don’t, because everything’s changing and I’m confused. I thought Louis was strong. I thought he cared about me. But a strong person doesn’t let his best friend and his brother go to jail. And a strong person doesn’t turn his back on his mother. Because even if she makes mistakes, even if she’s really messed up and drunk all the time, even if she chooses to be with a guy like Ron, she’s still his mother.

How many other things has Louis lied to me about? I think back to that time on Louis’s BMX bike, riding on the handlebars with my arms outstretched. “King of the world,” he said. Was that real? Did it actually happen, or is it another thing I just want to believe?

“You can tell them the truth,” he says. “I don’t care anymore. Maybe I deserve to be locked up.”

I am on the verge of crying or throwing up. Or maybe I’m going to bang my head against the concrete block wall, like Oskar. It doesn’t seem so crazy now. Maybe that’s how you get rid of bad thoughts.

“Why didn’t you help me?” The question sputters out of me like a sick cough.

He shrugs his shoulders. How useless are those big muscles when they’re gifted to a coward? The words form in my head:
Louis, my big brother, is a coward
.

“I was scared,” he says.

“What?” There’s an edge to my voice that’s never been there before.
I’m
questioning
him
.

“I said I was scared.” He’s sniffling, wiping at his nose.

“Scared of what? You’re Louis! What do you have to be afraid of? You’re tough and cool. Everybody wants to be like you.
I
wanted to be like you!”

“But you don’t anymore,” he says. “I understand. You shouldn’t.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“A lot of things. Like going to prison. I can’t do time, James. No way.” He sniffs again. “After Dad left, I told myself I wasn’t going to count on anyone ever again. I’d look out for myself. Make my own money.”

We sit in silence. A river of emotions burns hot and fast through me, and then suddenly I am empty, staring at the faded motivational poster, wondering what happened to all my feelings. Where did they go?