The Eternal Engagement (6 page)

CHAPTER 12

Steven

 

 

“M
a, Pa—Mona and I are headed West,” Steven said, entering his parents' home. He sat a yellow gift bag on the coffee table. “It's that time. I've got to show up for that lucrative job I told you about working for the oil company in California.” He told the truth about the lucrative job, then lied about working for the oil company.

“What happened to you? You cut yourself,” his mother said, reaching for his hand.

“I'm fine, Ma. It's not that bad.”

His dad chimed in, “Leave him alone, Regina. He's not a kid anymore.”

Steven didn't know his own strength. He'd split the skin on his knuckle when he bashed Calvin in the back of his head. It was time to leave Selma.

The suitcases he'd packed—one for Mona, the other for him—were in the back of his black Chevy SUV parked outside in his parents' driveway. Mona's red convertible was locked in the garage at his house. The clothes he should've destroyed were in a garbage bag in the trunk of her car.

“Buttercup, that's too far away. You waited until you're leaving to tell us,” his mother said, then asked, “Why? How much are they paying you?” His mother picked up the gift bag, peeped inside.

Relocating was Mona's idea. He had no objections but refused to reside in Los Angeles. “Ma, I told you and Dad that we were moving to Bakersfield a week ago because I knew you guys would try and talk me into staying. My mind is made up.” He'd told the truth. “They offered me six figures.” Then lied again.

Truth was he was about to make a fast 1.5 million. He had two more hit jobs—Macon and Kansas City—and since Mona had insisted on going to Calvin's, she might as well go with him on the road. He was in no hurry to get to California. Settling in Bakersfield would take getting used to for both of them.

“Where's Mona?” his mom asked.

“I'm on my way to get her.”

Staying in the same town where they'd washed their hands with blood wasn't wise. He'd spoken with a few bail bonds business owners and had lined up some legitimate bounty-hunting work in Bakersfield.

After Calvin's murder, Mona turned in her resignation. Today was her last day on the job. She'd applied for a job as a California correctional officer and as a forensic specialist at a toxicology laboratory in Bakersfield. Mona insisted on working but said she didn't want to work for another police department.

“I love you, Ma, Pa,” he said, kissing his dad first. “I'll call you soon as we get there. The pink-wrapped box is for you, Ma. Don't open the other one.”

“Well, who's the other one for, Buttercup?”

“Katherine Clinton. It's a gift. I like how she delivers the news. Make sure she gets it, please.” He hoped she didn't think the diamond princess-cut earrings were too much.

“I always thought you should've dated her,” his dad said.

Me too,
Steven thought. But he didn't. “I'll call you guys when I get to California.”

Steven didn't want his cell phone to register at any of the towers while he was in transit to handle his business, so he'd powered it off. Mona could use her phone whenever she wanted.

“Is Mona going to come say bye to us?” his mother asked, still hugging his neck.

“No, Ma,” he said. “I'm headed to pick her up and then we've got to get on the road.”

His parents followed him outside. His dad yelled from the porch, “Don't forget to call us, son! We love you.”

“If you need any money, baby, call me,” his mother said.

“Love you guys too,” Steven said, waving from the driver's window.

En route to pick up Mona, Steven called her. “I'll be there in ten minutes.”

“Did you remember to pack my troll doll?”

“Of course. You called your mom?”

“See you when you get here,” she said, ending the call.

He'd packed all the things Mona requested, including her troll doll. Mona had her registered gun in her purse. Being so close to his parents, he felt bad that Mona hadn't spoken to her mother in over a year. When Mona and her mom held a grudge, they were two of the most unforgiving persons he knew.

En route to pick up Mona, Steven wondered whatever happened to that loser William Lincoln.

CHAPTER 13

Lincoln

 

 

W
hatever happened to voluntarily reenlisting?

Two years ago, Lincoln demanded his release. If he hadn't returned they would've considered him AWOL. Absent without leave was an offense that could've gotten him arrested. Wasn't his government supposed to be a democracy and not a dictatorship? Hadn't he fulfilled his commitment? Lincoln still wanted out of the hellhole madness!

“This is bullshit!” he shouted at his superior. “How you gon' tell me I can't be discharged?”

“You didn't read the fine print, solider? When our country is at war, we keep you as long as we need you. And I need you here in Iraq.”

The daily desert heat was unbearable. Visible waves floated through the air commingling with the stench of death, suffocating him. Lincoln hated walking around all day with layers upon layers of clothing with a metal helmet strapped to his head. Camouflage jacket layered with heavy body armor. Trousers with side, back, and thigh pockets. An M16 strapped across his shoulder, a semiautomatic in his hand, combat boots laced tightly to his feet.

He missed wearing basketball shorts, a cutoff T-shirt, and slip-on shoes. The days of enjoying a shower—what he wouldn't give to take a bath—were long gone. Being prepared to fight every moment of his life was mandatory. His handgun was strapped to his side. No grenade in his pocket. Needed to get one.

From Saudi Arabia, to Afghanistan, to Iraq, Lincoln walked away shaking his head. “Fuck you, man!” What was his superior going to do? Send him home? Lincoln felt more defeated by his country than by his enemy. Who was the real enemy?

Six years in when he'd only signed up for four was insane. There were many times he regretted making the decision not to follow his dream. If he could roll back time and change his mind about having joined the military, he'd be playing professional football. And if football hadn't been his destiny, he'd be on American soil like the rest, not caring much, if at all, about the soldiers fighting the war. He could be living comfortably in a big house with Katherine. If he had a kid, his child would be five years old now. Maybe he should write Katherine and Mona letters.

Randy patted him on the shoulder. “Let's hang in there, man. We'll get discharged together and go home together. This war can't last forever.”

Randy was right. But the war could last their lifetime. Thank God he had Randy Thomas. He didn't need any other friends. Every time he tried befriending a soldier, they were either wounded or killed. Being in the war didn't differ much from being in a gang. Neither gave the man fighting the cause—not his cause—freedom.

“I love you, man,” Lincoln said, patting Randy's back.

Before the war, Lincoln hadn't spoken the L word to anyone. Not his parents, grandparents, Mona Lisa, or Katherine. Didn't know what it truly meant until now. Caring about someone who could be taken away from you in a heartbeat, now he understood the meaning of love. Had a few more people he needed to say that to face-to-face.

“Randy, man, I've been thinking about writing my girls. What you think?”

“Okay, that's it,” Randy said, smiling. “Your ass is going to do that today and I'ma seal the envelopes and slap the postage on for you.”

Lincoln playfully nudged the side of Randy's head with his fist. “Man, if I die over here, how do I make sure Uncle Sam doesn't get the money I've saved up?”

“Why you dwelling on death? We can't worry about that, dude.”

“But seriously. I don't want the government to keep what I've earned.”

Randy looked in his eyes. “Who do you trust?”

“You.”

“Now you talking crazy, man. You ain't leaving me nothing 'cause you ain't leaving me. Who else you got? What about that kid you might have? Find out if it's true. If you really have one, leave it to 'em.”

Lincoln coughed. Randy coughed. Dust filled the hot air.

Pointing at an eighteen-wheeler driving toward them on the dirt road, Lincoln said, “Man, we're on the wrong side. Those dudes work for American companies. They come through here every day to transport oil. They get paid seventy-five thousand dollars a year. We get thirty thou. They don't have to risk their lives every day. And we have to deal with real threats of terrorism every fuckin' minute. At least now we know what we're protecting. The rich man's future!” Lincoln yelled, running toward the truck. He chased the truck at least five hundred feet down the road. He stopped, picked up a huge rock, hurled it at the company's name on the side of the truck.

Lincoln looked behind him. It wasn't the rock he'd thrown that caused the blast. Just like that, a bomb exploded.

“Randy!” The attack came from out of nowhere, and Lincoln's life went from bad to worst. He retraced his steps to his troops. Everyone except him was dead.

“Fuck this shit! I hate being here!” Why did he have to chase the truck? He could've died with his best friend, and the nightmare of having to live with what was in front of him would be someone else's reality.

“Randy,” he cried, holding his best friend in his arms.

Splattered on the dusty desert next to Randy's body was what was left of the suicide bomber, a little kid. Lincoln leaned Randy's bleeding body against him, drew his weapon. If he saw another kid within five hundred yards, he'd shoot 'em dead. He'd shoot 'em all dead.

“Why!!!!!” he cried to heaven. Randy was his best and only white friend. The racial tension he'd occasionally experienced in Selma didn't matter when you were fighting each day to save your life. Angrily glancing around, he saw one, two, three . . . ten, eleven . . . thirteen more soldiers were dead.

Lincoln closed Randy's eyes, then removed his combat boots. Lincoln unlaced his own boots, and put them on Randy. “I will walk in your shoes, my brother, until it's my turn to die.”

That could be a few minutes, a few days, a few months, a few years, or a few decades, but Lincoln wished that day would've been today. He prayed God had a purpose for sparing his life.

CHAPTER 14

Katherine

 

 

A
nother breaking news flash scrolled across her computer screen.

Katherine refused to lose hope that Lincoln was alive out there somewhere. “God, please keep Lincoln safe. Keep all of our soldiers safe and bring them home soon.”

In between reporting events that made local and national news, Katherine continued to pray for the troops and campaigned heavily for Barack Obama to become the next president of the United States. She needed hope more than ever before. Hope that Jeremiah's dad was still alive. Hope that one day she'd find him. Hope that one day soon the war would end.

She stood in front of her local grocery store. A two-by-six rectangular table was covered with applications and pens. “Register to vote today. Ma'am, are you a registered voter?” Katherine asked, handing her an application before the elderly woman answered. “If you are, take this application and pass it along to a person who hasn't signed up. Perhaps a family member, church member, or friend.”

The woman stopped, balanced herself on a cane, then proudly articulated, “Honey, I mights not be ables to write and speak a lotta fanzy words, but I've been registered to vote for over forty years. Give me a few of those applications. We've gots to encourage these young peoples to get out and vote for Obama.”

Glad the woman had made her efforts easier, Katherine gave her a hug and a stack of voter applications.

“Mommy, what about her?” Jeremiah asked, pointing at a young girl in tight denim short shorts and a white tank top.

“Ask her to come over here,” Katherine said.

Though the girl was dressed extremely provocative, had a sassy swing in her hips, and oversized breasts, it wasn't Katherine's position to judge the girl's character. The same as Amber, Nichelle, and Tyler had become her newest friends and biggest advocates at the station, Katherine allowed people to show her who they were.

Jeremiah ran about twelve feet, grabbed the girl's hand. “My mommy wants to talk to you.” He smiled. Didn't let go of the girl's hand until she was at the table.

Initiating the introduction, Katherine extended her hand. “Hi, I'm—”

The girl interrupted, “I know exactly who you are. ‘Good morning to you, America, I'm Katherine Clinton. ' My name is Makeda. I see you on the news all the time.”

Depending on the girl's perception and projection, that may be good or bad,
Katherine thought, then asked, “What's your age?”

“I just turned eighteen, just graduated from high school this summer. I want to be just like you.”

Wow, she was face-to-face with a girl who considered her a role model. How many other young people saw her that way? Handing out applications wasn't enough. Katherine was going to start publicly speaking at high schools and universities.

Jeremiah handed the girl an application. “Here.” His eyes appeared fixated on her breasts.

Katherine laughed. “Good job, Jeremiah.” She always complimented him when he did well. Never wanted him to think liking girls was a bad thing, so she didn't give the situation undue attention.

“Thanks, Mom. What about him?” he asked, pointing at a young man a short distance away.

“Go get him,” Katherine said.

The girl smiled a wide and inquisitive smile. “I see how this operation is running. Send the irresistible kid to reel us in, huh?”

“Are you a registered voter?” Katherine asked her.

“I will be as soon as I complete this application.” She looked at the young man Jeremiah led to the table, picked up a pen. “Here, fill this out,” she told him, handing the guy a pen and an application. “If you need help, let
me
know.”

He placed his grocery bag beside a chair. “Hey, thanks. I've been meaning to do this so I can vote for Obama.”

By the end of the day, Jeremiah and Makeda had become inseparable. Or more like her son had become attached to Makeda. Together they'd registered over a hundred people. Their persistence to make sure the applications were processed timely and the people showed up at the polls on Election Day was Katherine's next battle.

“Thanks, Makeda. You were a tremendous help. Whatever I can do to help you, you just let me know. Here's my card.”

Makeda hugged her, then kissed Jeremiah on the cheek. He jumped up and down. She clenched the card in her hand. “My mom is not going to believe this! Ms. Clinton, thank you so much! And if you and your husband,” she said, eyeing the ring on Katherine's finger, “ever need somebody to babysit this handsome fella, I'll come to your house and watch him for you. Bye!” she yelled, running off.

Katherine smiled at Jeremiah grinning at her. “Yes, she can come over sometimes to chaperone you and your friends. But only on weekends. Grandma could use a break.”

Truth be told, Katherine could use a break too, but she didn't want to make her son feel she was tired of him. Single parenting was arduous. Taking care of Jeremiah and working all the time consumed her. If she wasn't cooking, cleaning, or shopping, she was helping with homework, volunteering, at PTA meetings, working, or going to what they called pre-football practice preparedness.

The exercise was great for her son. She didn't want him sitting inside obsessing over video games and not caring about taking care of his mind and body. The hour that he'd practice, she'd run laps around the track and keep an eye on him with his teammates in the middle of the field.

“Hey, champ. Great job,” she said, giving him a high five. “What do you want to eat tonight?”

He yelled, “McDonald's!”

“You sure you want to use your last Fast Pass today? You know your friends are coming over tomorrow.”

Katherine never wanted Jeremiah to feel he couldn't have what he wanted, so she taught him moderation. He was allowed to eat twice a month at a fast-food restaurant of his choice. Giving him the option helped him to make better decisions. His Fast Passes were use or lose, because he couldn't use more than two per month. But she'd let him hold on to the unused tickets because somehow he thought saving them was a good thing.

“I'll wait. Let's go home, Mama. Can Makeda come over tomorrow? I want my friends to meet my new girlfriend.”

Whoa. New girlfriend?
“Jeremiah, you can't decide she's your girlfriend without asking her first. Besides, she's almost twice your age and she might already have a boyfriend. Let's continue this conversation over dinner with Grandma. See what she thinks.”

Katherine was going to have to start an open dialogue with her son about girls and sex soon. Real soon.