Concrete Rose, page 8
“You might be right,” he admits. “I like to be reminded that beauty can come from much of nothing. To me that’s the whole point of flowers.”
I smack my arm. These mosquitoes ain’t playing. “Summer gon’ be over soon. You ain’t worried they’ll die?”
Mr. Wyatt slip on some gardening gloves. “No. We’re planting them well before the first frost. That’ll give them time to grow some roots before they go dormant. There’s a small chance they’ll die. Roses, they’re fascinating li’l things. Can handle more than folks think. I’ve had roses in full bloom during an ice storm. They could easily survive without any help. We want them to thrive. We’ll have to prune them, things like that.”
He may as well speak French. “What pruning mean?”
He grunt as he get down on his knees. I’ll know I’m old when I start grunting. He set a rosebush in a hole and pack dirt around it. “Pruning means getting rid of what they don’t need. Thin canes, dead canes, damaged canes. If it doesn’t help them grow—” He does his fingers like they’re scissors. “Snip it off. Hand me another bush.”
I slip on the gloves and grab one. “Why you call them bushes? They look like twigs.”
Mr. Wyatt chuckles. “I suppose it’s like the Word says: ‘Calleth those things that be not as though they were.’ Romans 4:17. Hmm!” His shoulders shiver like he caught a chill. “That’s a good one.”
Mr. Wyatt is a deacon at Christ Temple Church. He’ll throw a scripture into a conversation in a minute. Hope he don’t go into one of his mini sermons. We’ll be here all night.
He grunt again as he straighten up. “These knees can’t handle a lot more of that. Plant the rest of them for me.”
I do like he did – set a bush in the hole and pack dirt around it. Then another.
Mr. Wyatt watch me. “Looks like you’ve got the hang of it. Here I was, thinking you would give me some lip about messing up your clothes.”
“Nah. This nothing compared to what I dealt with earlier with my son. He pooped on me before school.”
Mr. Wyatt laughs. “Sounds like you had a rough morning.”
“Rough day more like it.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
I look up at him. Nobody ever really asked me that. “I’m a’ight, Mr. Wyatt.”
“I didn’t ask if you were. I asked do you wanna talk. I can tell something on your mind.”
I been tryna shake Lisa outta my head for hours, and I can’t. Like I’ll get caught up in something else, then I remember that crack in her voice, and it’s all I can think about.
“I saw Lisa earlier,” I say. “She refuse to give me another chance.”
“Well, this isn’t exactly the kinda situation a young lady gets over,” Mr. Wyatt says. “Frankly, that’s a lot to ask of her.”
“I ain’t asking her to get over it, Mr. Wyatt. I just want another shot.”
“Which would require her getting over it, son,” he says. “Have you considered how she feels about all of this?”
“I know she hurt—”
“No, have you really considered how she feels? What if the shoe was on the other foot and she had a baby with some other boy? Would you be willing to give her another chance?”
Just imagining it make me a little tight. I’d be pissed, fa’sho. And hurt…
The same way she is.
I can’t say that to Mr. Wyatt.
I don’t have to. “You can’t ask her for anything right now, son,” he says. “You gotta love people enough to let them go, especially when you’re the reason they’re gone.”
I can’t say nothing to that either.
He pat my shoulder. “Go ’head and get those other bushes planted. I’m gonna check on my collards.”
Mr. Wyatt leave me alone with the twigs. It seem as impossible for them to turn into rosebushes as it is for me and Lisa to get back together.
I grab one and plant it. Unlike me, the roses deserve a chance.
CHAPTER 9
This job is no joke.
I been working for Mr. Wyatt for a month now. The days I’m in the store are the easiest, ’cause that garden is a lot. I haul bags of fertilizer and pour them out. I get on my hands and knees and yank weeds. I pull fruits and vegetables when they ripe. Saturdays, I cut the Wyatts’ grass along with Ma’s, and on Sundays I rest up to do it all over again.
So yeah, no joke. The pay, on the other hand, that’s a joke.
Maaaan, that first check? Pissed me all the way off. After social security and some mess called FICA, I only had enough to help Ma with the light bill and buy diapers and formula. All that hard work for practically nothing. Ma says it’s still a big help, and that’s the only reason I ain’t quit.
Plus, I gotta admit I like working in the garden. Flowers and plants a trip though. One day everything can be cool with them. You could water them, feed them, and do everything right. The next day, them shits look half dead. I mean goddamn. They switch up on you worse than girls. It’s cool when they grow like they should.
They remind me a lot of my son, honestly. See, with plants and babies it’s all about survival. Nobody flat-out say that when it comes to babies, but it’s the truth. I gotta make sure the plants get everything they need to grow like I gotta do with Seven.
Far as I’m concerned, that’s my son’s name. I know I’m supposed to talk to Iesha, but she basically MIA. At first, she kept saying she needed a break; straight-up begged me to keep him a little while longer. Then like two weeks ago when I called, her momma said she had moved in with a friend.
“She got tired of my rules and decided she was grown enough to live on her own,” Ms. Robinson said. “Fine by me. I have enough to deal with.”
I don’t got words for that lady right there.
She didn’t know who Iesha moved in with. My first thought was King, but nah, he said she wasn’t with him. I asked Lala the next day at school. She said it was none of my business. Made me think Iesha told her to keep quiet.
Ma want me to talk to Cousin Gary regarding legal stuff. Nah, man. One day Iesha gon’ show up and we’ll figure this out.
I hope. ’Cause I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Between work, school, and Seven … I’m barely making it. Li’l Man still don’t sleep through the night, meaning I don’t sleep through the night. Sometimes I drop him off with Mrs. Wyatt, sneak back home, and sleep until it’s time to go to work. Ain’t no way my first report card gon’ be good with all the skipping and sleeping in class I do.
Straight up, school the last thing on my mind lately. Tonight a real good example of that. It’s Friday, and instead of tackling my pile of homework, I’m dealing with this pile of laundry my son made. His clothes stay dirty from when he pee, poop, or puke. My clothes stay dirty from when he pee, poop, or puke. Boy won’t give me a break.
I sort through his stuff on the couch. Ma took extra hours at the hotel this weekend, so it’s only me and Li’l Man. He lying in this bouncy seat thing Dre bought. Bugs Bunny got Elmer Fudd looking like a damn fool. Seven real into it, cooing and kicking.
“You going to bed soon, man,” I tell him. “You not staying up all night.”
I don’t talk to him like he a baby. Nah, I talk to him like I talk to anybody else. He understand it, that’s why he whining now.
The phone ring on the coffee table. “Stop talking back,” I tell Seven as I pick it up. “Hello?”
“Whaddup, fool?” King says. Goodie Mob blast in the background. “What you getting into tonight?”
“All I’m getting into is some laundry, homie.”
“Aw nah, Mav. I’m finna hit Magnolia with Junie and Rico. You oughta roll with us and get out that house.”
On Friday nights it’s like an outdoor nightclub on Magnolia as folks cruise up and down the street, showing off their rims, their paint jobs, and their sound systems. I used to hang with the homies in some parking lot until gunshots sent everybody running.
I miss it. Except the gunshot part, of course. I don’t get to chill with my friends no more. Dre the only one who come over. The rest of them not tryna watch me take care of a baby, and I’m too busy to go out. Got me feeling less and less like a King Lord.
I guess this my life now. “I wish I could, King. Ma at work, and I gotta be here with Seven.”
“Goddamn! I don’t know why I keep asking. Can’t you hire a babysitter? You got Mrs. Wyatt right next door.”
“She keep him during the week, King. I can’t afford to have her keep him no more than that.”
“Maybe if you didn’t let Dre punk you outta making money, you could,” he says.
“I told you, I—”
“Do you, Mav,” he says. “You wanna waste away in that house, fine. Holla at you later.”
He hang up.
I set the phone down and put my face in my hands. He act like I don’t hang out with him and the homies on purpose. I didn’t choose none of this. Trust, I’d give anything to get out this house.
Seven watch me instead of the TV, almost as if he sense something not right. Now I feel guilty as hell.
“Daddy a’ight, man,” I say, and pick him up. I could use a break from laundry, and he need tummy time. It’s basically where I lay him on his stomach on a blanket. The more he lift his head, the more strength he’ll get in his neck. This parenting book said that’s real important.
I put Seven on the blanket and get on my hands and knees. “Hey, man.” I smile. “Hey.”
Seven roll over onto his back, laughing. It don’t take much to entertain him. Pops claim I was the same way.
We haven’t had a chance to take Seven to meet him yet. It’s a three-hour drive one way, and that’s a lot with a baby. I mailed Pops some pictures, and he called a day or two later, talking ’bout how much Li’l Man look like me.
I play with Seven on the floor for a while. Eventually he whine and rub his eyes. That’s that sleepiness kicking in. Soon as I pick him up, he start crying. He know I’m taking him to bed.
“Ay, stop that,” I say. “Sleep a good thing. Trust, I wish I could go to sleep now.”
He not hearing me. He cry into my shoulder. He cry the whole time I put him in his pajamas. I stick his pacifier in his mouth; he stop.
I put him in the crib and turn on his mobile. It’s got planets and stars on it. “Fussing for nothing.” I kiss his forehead. “Night, man. I love you.”
I can’t be in here when he tryna fall asleep. He’ll watch me and stay awake. I take a shower and change for bed. When I peek back in, Seven looking at his mobile all wide-eyed.
This boy. I don’t know why he fighting sleep. I go to the living room and plop down on the couch. The pile of laundry and my homework wait for me on the coffee table.
Shit, man. Never thought I’d be spending my Fridays this way. Nights like this used to be the perfect time to invite Lisa over. We’d watch some movies – a’ight, we fool around while some movies played – and eventually head to my room to do the damn thing.
I definitely miss that. I handle things myself, but it’s hard, no pun intended. Considering how sex put me in this predicament, I probably need a break.
Still. If me and Lisa were together…
I can’t think on that. I gotta get this laundry done. I put Seven in his last clean outfit, but damn if my bed ain’t calling me.
“C’mon, Mav,” I mumble. “Push through.”
Just when I make myself pick up one of Seven’s onesies, the doorbell ring.
“Shit!” I hiss. Last thing I need is for somebody to disturb Seven. Who the hell coming over this time of night anyway? I peek out the front window.
Dre’s car out front. He not.
I open the door. “Dre?”
Nothing. There’s a Super Soaker on the porch, one of the bigger ones that you gotta pump water into. Dre love collecting them things.
I go down the steps. “Dre, where you at?”
Nothing.
I pick up the Super Soaker. It’s full of water. “Why would he—”
Water blast me in my face.
“Say hello to my little friend!” Dre says, like he Scarface.
He got a big-ass Super Soaker, the kind with the water tank you wear on your back. He spray the hell outta me. Got my shorts and my tank top soaking wet.
“What the hell, dawg?” I yell. “You play too much!”
“Ain’t nobody playing, cuz! This is war!”
He spray me again. He never should’ve left this Super Soaker for me. I spray him dead in his face. We soon got a full-out water-gun war in my front yard. My Super Soaker don’t hold nearly as much as his. I end up grabbing the hose.
Dre put his hands up. “A’ight! A’ight! I surrender!”
“You what?” I spray his face again.
He try to block it with his hands. “I surrender! Stop!”
“Drop your shit first!”
“A’ight, a’ight!” He toss his water gun.
I turn off the hose. “Goddamn,” I say, looking at my clothes. I’m soaked from head to toe. “I just got out the shower.”
“Now you real clean,” Dre says. “Probably need to wash them dusty cornrows anyway.”
I wring water outta my shirt. “Forget you.”
Dre bend down and pick up something glistening in the grass. His watch fell off at some point. “Damn, got my shit scratched up.”
I look at it. There’s a little scrape on the glass of the face. “That’s what you get, asshole. Why you not over on Magnolia?”
“Aw, I can go over there any Friday. I figured I’d chill with you and itty-bitty cuz.”
“Damn, man. I can’t tonight. I got laundry and homework.”
“Can’t you do that this weekend? I got us a pizza from Sal’s, and I got that new Lawless CD that drop next week.”
“Yooo!” I say, into my fist. “How you get that?”
Lawless this rapper from the east side. He raw as hell. Can hit you with some real shit and give you them club bangers. Word is he roll with Garden Disciples, as most dudes on the east do. A lot of King Lords don’t mess with him ’cause of that. Ay, if you the bomb, you the bomb. Me and Dre will listen to you.
“I put a new sound system in his ride,” Dre says. “He paid me and gave me his new shit early. So you down or what?”
I do need a break.
Separating light onesies from dark onesies or that new Lawless?
History report or pizza?
Laundry and homework can wait. That pizza can’t. “Hell yeah, I’m down.”
We use some of Ma’s good towels to dry off. She gon’ kill us, but that’s all I could find that was clean.
I check on Seven real quick. He finally knocked out. I take the baby monitor with me in case he wake up.
Me and Dre hop in his Beamer and let the windows down. Dre put the Lawless CD in. When that first track hit, I nod along.
“Goddamn! This tight.”
“Yep,” Dre says. “Law on the come up for real.”
Dre set the pizza box on the dashboard. I ate not long ago – Mrs. Wyatt sent me home with gumbo – but I can never turn down pizza. I pop the box open. It’s got ham, cheese, and—
“Pineapple? What the hell?”
Dre pick up a slice. “It’s called Hawaiian pizza. This shit the bomb, I’m telling you.”
I pick the pineapples off mine. “Fruit don’t belong on pizza, Dre. Can you eat anything normal?”
I swear, he always eating weird stuff. Ketchup on popcorn, potato chips on peanut butter sandwiches. Just nasty.
“Not my fault you got simple taste buds,” he says. “I got Keisha to eat it, and her picky ass love it.”
“Keisha not that picky. She marrying you, ain’t she?”
He push the side of my head. “Whoever get your behind ain’t got no taste at all.”
“Man, I doubt I’ll get a girl anytime soon. You see how I did Lisa.” All these weeks later, and that one still sting. “I messed up, Dre.”
He squeeze my shoulder. “You’ll be a’ight. Learn from it and do better next time. Focus on Seven and on school for now.”
“I don’t got much choice. Lisa won’t have shit to do with me; King, Junie, and Rico don’t come around. When I ain’t at school or work, I’m stuck at home. Shit is whack, Dre. Feel like I ain’t me no more.”
“That’s what defined you?” Dre ask.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I just miss the way it used to—”
“What y’all doing?” somebody shout.
Me and Dre jump.
“Tony, what the hell?” Dre yell.
Bus Stop Tony lean in through Dre’s window with a toothless grin. “I scare y’all?”
“You can’t be sneaking up on folks!” I say.
“If your heart racing, it’s working!” he says.
Tony a crackhead, ain’t no getting around it. He sleep at a bus stop near Magnolia, so we call him Bus Stop Tony. Anybody sit there and he’ll raise hell. Don’t nobody wanna sit there no way. It smell like piss.
“What y’all doing?” He stretch his neck, looking all in the car. “That’s some Hawaiian pizza? I love me some Hawaiian pizza. Pineapples make it good!”
Dre got the same tastes as a crackhead.
“You ate today?” Dre ask.
“Nope! You hear my stomach growling, don’t you?”
Dre laughs. “Nah, I guessed. Here.” He hand Tony the box. “You can have the rest.”
“Bless ya, brotha! You got some drink to wash this down?”
I know damn well… “Hold up. He was nice enough to give you the pizza. How you gon’ ask him for a drink, Tony?”
“Close mouth don’t get fed and thirst don’t get quenched!”
Dre shake his head. “Go on, Tony.”
Tony huff off down the street, talking ’bout, “Stingy asses!”
“That fool,” I mumble. Suddenly, Seven cry on the baby monitor. “Shit! He probably need his diaper changed.”
“Hope he don’t poop on you this time,” Dre says.
“You not the only one. Ay, let me whoop that butt on Mortal Kombat a couple of times.”
Dre turn off his ignition. “Fool, you wish. I’ll be there in a minute. I need to call Keisha and tell her good night.”
