One Dead Lawyer by Tony Lindsay Read Free Book Online Page A

shit, my shit, D.”
    Drunk or not, she was crying and obviously upset so I pulled her close, closed the door and walked into my living area. I sat on the couch and allowed her to sob on my chest. I was still half ’sleep when I went to the door and didn’t think to put on a T-shirt. She didn’t seem to mind crying on my bare skin.
    Through continued sobs, whimpers and cries, she managed to put a sentence or two together.
    â€œIt has always been about money with me, D. Always trying to get more and keep what I have. You know my story. Neighborhood drunk for a father, got pregnant and lived in my parents’ basement.”
    I’d forgotten about her father. He was the initial reason I began spending time with Stanley. He was so drunk so often that he couldn’t play with the boy. I’d see him trying to do things with the kid, but he would either pass out to the yard or give up and stumble on in the house, leaving the kid standing there with a ball or toy in his hand. I started calling the kid over in my yard and we threw the ball around or whatever.
    â€œThe neighborhood pretty boy got me and four other girls pregnant the same year. Now I hear he’s living in San Francisco being gay. Gay! How the hell you gonna get five girls pregnant in one summer and be gay?” She looked to me with dazed, unfocused eyes as if she expected an answer, but the crying took over again.
    â€œI try so hard to do the right thing, but doing the right thing don’t pay shit, not a damn thing. I would still be in my mama’s basement doing the right thing. Seven dollars and twenty-five cent an hour wouldn’t feed and clothe a baby and me. I wasn’t wrong for wanting more. I wasn’t, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this, not like this, D.”
    One of her big rollers almost poked me in the eye. I tried to adjust her head while she sobbed.
    â€œMy baby wasn’t supposed to be involved in my mess, he wasn’t. Tonight my man, the same man who won’t help my son, told me things were getting beyond his scope of control and that I should find counsel outside of him. Bastard!”
    She dug her nails in my shoulder and really boo-hooed. I tried to move free of her grasp, but she grabbed hold of one of my pecs.
    â€œThe pain, it’s all inside of me. I want it to stop. Oh God, make it stop. Gina said you used to take her pain away.” Again her unfocused eyes were on me. Her whole face had drooped. “Help me, D. Make me right, make me feel right. Get this pain out of me, rod it out of me. Gina said . . .” Her hand fell to my lap and she gripped my jones. “She said you was big enough to . . .”
    That was the last understandable thing she said. She mumbled, sobbed, then passed out.
    I rose from the couch and got a sheet from the linen closet, took off her house shoes, stretched her out, covered her up and went back upstairs. That made it official; the past twelve hours had been whack.
    When I got up to my bedroom, I dialed Regina’s number.
    â€œHeellloooo?”
    She was drunk too. I hung up the phone.

    Later that morning, I woke to the smell of frying bacon, brewing coffee and buttered something. I don’t know if it was buttered toast, buttered English muffins or fried eggs cooked in butter, but I smelled butter and it got me out of the bed, in the tub and through the shower in record time.
    I enjoy, no, I love having breakfast cooked for me. There are few feelings better than waking up hungry and having hot food waiting for you. I paused after I jumped into my shorts, T-shirt and flip-flops and thought about a life lesson. In the past, good feelings have cost. I pushed the negative thought aside and followed my nose to the food.
    There on my grandmama’s kitchen table was one of my grandmama’s breakfasts: a saucepan full of bubbling grits with melting butter, a platter overflowing with bacon, a bowl of cubed cantaloupe, a stack of