C
am sat in the dark. It wasn’t that late, but the power was off, so their tiny apartment borrowed light from the street. Mama hadn’t paid the power bill. Any money she got went straight to that pipe. No lights. No TV. He could have gone to his friend’s house to watch
Fresh Prince of Bel-Air
, but ever since Mac did what he did, Cam felt different around his friends. Like they could look at him and tell. Or they would smell Mac’s musty cologne. That somehow they would know.
So he sat in the dark, eating malt balls Lashaun slipped him at the skating rink a couple of nights ago. Tomorrow was Old School Night. His friends thought he was crazy for liking all the old songs. At school and on the corners they played Jay-Z and Nas and Pac, but sometimes Mama would listen to the radio, and it was always Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding, Smokey Robinson. Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On,” Bill Withers singing about the sun not shining when she’s gone—hard to hear, but he couldn’t help listening. He couldn’t help but think Marvin and Bill had somewhere to put the hurt, and Cam could hear it. He could feel it in every song. Only he couldn’t sing or play any instrument, so his hurt had nowhere to go. And sometimes it puffed up inside of him and leaked onto his pillow at night. He couldn’t tell the guys any of that.
A sound out back behind the apartment, a small pop muffled by the noise of the street, caught his attention. One of the guys got a BB gun for Christmas. It kind of sounded like that. That would be better than eating malt balls in the dark, so Cam went out back.
It wasn’t a BB gun.
And that wasn’t fake blood like in the movies spreading through Mac’s pants. He sat on the ground, back to the wall, long legs stretched out in front of him. Someone’s broad back hid part of Mac’s face, but Cam would know every part of him anywhere. He must have made a sound because the man with the broad back turned, and for the first time in his life, Cam stared down the barrel of a gun.
“Get on back upstairs, if you know what’s good for you,” the stranger said.
The man’s lips barely moved, but his words were like pellets, hitting Cam in the face. Cam was numb to threats now. One too many made good on would do that to you. He just looked back at the man with the gun. A hoodie pulled over his head hid his face, but Cam could see he was tall and muscular. He wore a baggy T-shirt, tan work boots, and a thick gold chain around his neck.
“I said get back in, kid.”
Feet nailed to the ground, Cam looked past the stranger to Mac bleeding on the ground. His rat eyes remained alert, sliding from the gun to the man. Cam knew how Mac looked right before he pounced.
“He’s moving!” Cam said, knowing the man with the gun couldn’t be more evil than Mac.
The stranger turned and didn’t ask questions, just shot Mac in his other thigh. Mac howled like a coyote, and despite the fear shaking like Jell-O in his belly, Cam laughed, leaned against the wall and pointed laughing. The stranger looked over his shoulder at Cam.
“Who you, kid?”
Mac’s eyes rolled in his head with the pain, but he managed to focus long enough to give Cam a dirty smile. That made Cam stop laughing. Mac might be shot up and on the ground, but that didn’t change nothing.
“He’s my mama’s pimp.”
“Well, he gon’ be a dead pimp tonight.”
Cam didn’t flinch. His heart lifted in his chest like a feather floating from under a stone.
“Good.” Cam trained his eyes on Mac, not quite believing relief was this close. He’d believe it when he saw it. And he planned to see it. “Do it.”
The man flipped his hood back, and Cam knew it was going to happen. It was Deuce Williams. Even Cam knew him. He’d dropped out of high school and he wasn’t big-time, just dime bags and no real weight, but he was mean and he was hungry. Everybody knew he was a hustler and he was dangerous. He’d pull that trigger.
“He ever touch you?”
The question stabbed Cam in the throat. Mama knew, but she didn’t care. No one else had ever asked. No one else had ever cared. Only the rats and roaches had seen what Mac did. Cam saw one time on a TV show they told the man to blink twice for yes. His voice had left him, so he blinked twice, but Deuce didn’t seem to get it.
“He touched my little brother, Rollo.” Deuced growled like a pit bull. “Took him in the back of the corner store.”
Cam knew Rollo. The kids called him special and slow because he never talked. Even though he was older than Cam, sometimes the kids called him a big baby. He was weird, but he didn’t ever bother nobody. Had Mac done the same nasty things to him?
“He thought my brother couldn’t talk, but he can a little.” Deuce turned back to where Mac lay in an oozy, bleeding mess behind him. “He talks to me, and he told me what you did, you nasty son of a bitch.”
Deuce looked back at Cam, running his eyes over him piece by piece. He shoved the gun just inches from Cam’s face.
“You do it.”
Cam looked at the gun. And then he looked at Mac. The pain had a hold on him. Shot in both thighs, he looked like he wanted death.
And Cam wanted to give it to him.
Deuce placed the gun in Cam’s outstretched palm. It seemed to vibrate against his skin. It wasn’t heavy. You’d think something that could kill would weigh more than this.
“I never shot a gun before.”
Deuce grinned like it was no more than playing jacks.
“Aim and shoot. There’s two bullets in there if you miss the first time.”
Cam looked past Deuce, saw Mac on the ground, bleeding and whimpering, and he wasn’t sure he could do it.
“Head or heart?” Deuce asked. “You’re close enough that you won’t miss.”
Fear and shame and all the hurt had been packed into this gun. Rolled into these bullets. Cam stared at Mac and it all came back. That first time, waking up with Mac like a cannon behind him. Nights on his knees. Mac’s hand knotted in his hair and his sweat dripping onto Cam’s shoulders. He could see it all in Mac’s rat eyes. And then he noticed Mac’s lips moving, barely, just barely, but saying the same thing over and over.
“Make me proud.”
This man had beaten Cam’s mama. Kept her on drugs and on her back. He’d ignored Cam’s begging, crying, praying every time. Head or heart? Those lips curled into the devil’s smile. Mac didn’t have a heart.
So Cam shot him in the head.
“You killed him.”
Jo sat with Cam on the bedroom floor, their backs to the bed, knees up.
“Yup.” Cam flopped his head back onto the mattress, eyes on the ceiling. “Like an animal in the street, and I felt nothing but relief. At eleven years old, I shot a man and felt nothing but relief. What does that say about me?”
“He was a monster.” Jo slid around on her knees to face him. “You weren’t the only one he hurt. Nothing would have stopped him from hurting other boys.”
“I always tell myself that, but something still feels wrong about it. At first I worried that someone would find out, but in my neighborhood the cops weren’t exactly falling all over themselves to figure out who murdered some pimp. Deuce is the only one who knows.”
“So that’s your connection to Deuce.”
“After that he kind of looked after me. I’d come home and there would be a bag of groceries at the door. Or money in the mail slot, or whatever. He helped me until my mom got arrested and social services stepped in.”
“And that’s when you came to me.” Jo grabbed his hands hanging limply from the wrists draped over his knees.
Cam disentangled his hand from hers, then got up and walked to the wall where he had replicated her backyard. He propped himself against the painted tree, eclipsing the heart embossed with their initials.
“I held a gun to your head.”
“Cam, it’s okay.”
“Do not say it’s fucking okay, Jo.” Cam dug his fingers into the sides of his hair. Guilt mushroomed over him like an atomic cloud. “That is the same gun I used to kill him, and there is still one bullet.”
She hadn’t even processed that. You wake up with a gun held to your head, you almost wet your pants. Cam confirming the threat had been that real only made it worse, and she hadn’t thought it could get worse.
“You wouldn’t have shot me.”
“Not awake, but the line isn’t there anymore. It feels so real. He’s fought his way from hell and back into my life, and I won’t have him anywhere near you.”
“Do you hear yourself? How ridiculous this all sounds? The man is dead, baby. He can’t hurt you.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about.” Cam banged his head against the wall. “I knew I shouldn’t have…”
His eyes picked up the trail his words left hanging. The regret there took a sledgehammer to her heart.
“You shouldn’t have what?” Jo made herself ask, even though she already knew.
“I shouldn’t have started this with you, Jo.” Cam traced his fingers over the tree behind him, shaking his head. “I was weak and gave in, and now…Damn.”
“Wow. I wait seventeen years to be with you and you have the nerve to regret me?”
“I was never going to be the right man for you, but now…”
“Now what?”
“When I came out of the bathroom, you were on the floor, shaking. Your pupils were dilated. You were scared shitless.”
“Cut me some slack. It was…I wasn’t expecting—”
“To wake up with your boyfriend holding a gun to your head? Yeah, I can see how that would be a shock.”
“What do you want me to say?”
Cam deprived her of his expression, dropping his head until the dark hair eclipsed his face completely. Directing his words to his feet.
“I want you to admit you’re afraid of me, because you should be, Jo.”
“I won’t say that because it’s not true. What scares me is that you’ll give up on us. That you’ll run.”
His silence gnawed at her peace of mind. A gun to her head she could handle. But she couldn’t consider Cam leaving. Jo pulled herself from the floor and onto the bed, dragging the covers around her shoulders. Naked under the robe, she shivered. Was it from cold? Or the fear that still penetrated her bones? Still rattled her composure. Cold fingers dug their nails into Jo’s heart, scraping across the muscle and leaving trails of dread.
Cam didn’t move away from the wall, but it was like he’d already left the room. Left the house. Left this conversation. Like someone was standing in proxy for him, entertaining her but already mentally out the door. And she couldn’t bear the distance. Feet became miles and seconds became eons the longer he was over there and she was over here. She gathered the covers around her shoulders and shuffled over to him, until she stood close enough to tempt his touch. Until he would have to smell her. Have to feel the heat from her body. Have to remember how absolutely perfect they had finally been together, before all of this.
He only touched her with his eyes, and she wanted his hands. Wanted his kisses. The need for him stamped an ancient, urgent rhythm in her chest.
“I need you to hold me, Cam.”
“I…I can’t.” His hands made it halfway to her arms before falling away. “I want to protect you.”
“From you?” Jo stepped an inch closer, even though a stretch as vast and dry as the Sahara still lay between them. “I don’t need protection from you.”
Jo reached her arms around his neck before he had time to pull away, allowing the comforter to fall from her shoulders and onto the floor. She ached while she waited for him to respond. He stood like a corpse in her arms for a few seconds, but she could feel his resistance weakening. Felt it topple like a game of Jenga. He needed this as much as she did. She pressed closer, wanting to slide beneath his skin and cuddle up to his bones and marrow. Wanting to course through his blood and head toward his heart. His arms inched around her waist, and his big hands that could bring nightmare and heaven to life on canvas sketched comfort into her back through the silk robe.
“There is only one bullet in that gun.” Cam pushed the hair away from her face, licking his lips to prime them for his next words. “But if I had pulled that trigger, I would have found another one for myself. I couldn’t stay here without you.”
From someone else it might have been melodrama, hyperbole, but she read the truth mingling with the torture in his eyes. She was more frightened for him than she was for herself because she knew Cam loved her. Sometimes she wasn’t sure how he felt about himself.
She feathered kisses over his jaw, soothing him with her trust. She licked at the seam of his firm lips, but his mouth was a line she couldn’t cross.
“Please don’t shut me out.” She left the words as offerings on his lips, waiting for him to accept them.
“Baby, I can’t—”
Jo didn’t waste time; she pushed her way in, her tongue seeking out the sweet, tangy spaces inside his mouth. He opened, moving his mouth over hers, groaning when their tongues found each other.
“I can’t make love to you, Jo. I can’t trust myself.” He squeezed his eyes closed. “It still feels violent.”
“I’ll make you forget.” Jo untied the robe, letting the sides fall open. She hijacked his hands, brushing his palms across her nipples, the flesh blossoming under his touch. “Please don’t shut me out. I need this.
We
need this.”
Cam traced her rib cage, wrapped his hand around her hip, mapping her naked curves beneath the robe. He slid both hands under her thighs, lifting and turning her until her back met the wall. She reached down between them, unzipping his shorts and pushing them down with shaking fingers.
“I need to feel you, baby.” A moan broke free from her throat. “I need to—”
He plunged into her like she was the ocean and he was seeking the ocean floor, diving for the bottom. Drilling into her like he wondered where she ended, but she had no end. She was fathomless, depthless for him. She had no boundaries. She was as open as the sky for this man and as endless. She gripped his shoulders and locked her ankles around his back.