Authors: Dorothy Phaire
“Look here, DL, I can’t pay you right now but I got me another gig, man. Starts on Monday,” said Jerome, lying easily to his former friend. “It’s a night security job at a mall.”
“Hey, I ain’t plannin’ on waitin’ ‘til you collect social security, asshole,” said DL.
Jerome responded, “I understand Baby but like my Grandmama says, you can’t get blood outta a turnip.”
“Maybe not but I can get blood outta your sorry ass,” countered DL.
“Hold up, Man. Lemme, have some time to …” Jerome pleaded.
“Your time is up, chump. Consider yourself marked.”
DL hung up. Jerome stood holding the phone to his ear for what seemed like 30 seconds or so listening to dead air until the silence was broken by the sound of the dial tone.
“Ah, DL just talkin’ trash,” said Jerome to himself and walked towards the bathroom, “Me and that fool go way back. I’ll just borrow a coupla dollars from Uncle Ike tomorrow. That should hold him until I get the rest of their goddamn money.”
Jerome hit play on the CD player, went into the bathroom, closed the door, and turned on the shower. He could no longer hear the rap lyrics to the song that was playing, just its thumping bass. Jerome hummed the rhythm of the familiar tune as he bathed his bronze muscular body. Although he knew the baby slept soundly in the nursery, Jerome didn’t want to linger in the shower too long in case the little guy woke up. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hear him crying through the pounding force of the shower’s water flow and the bass playing in the background.
The intruder waited just inside the kitchen window for one minute as he had been instructed for an incoming call to his cell phone, which for obvious reasons was set to vibrate. This was the call that would have canceled the hit on Jerome Antonio Johnson. After exactly one minute of silence, the intruder quietly ascended the staircase and stepped over the threshold of the door to the first bedroom at the top of the stairs. The intruder could see steam seeping under the bathroom door and could hear Jerome singing in the shower.
He can carry a tune,
thought the intruder.
Too bad his singing days are over.
“I gotcha now, baby,” whispered the intruder.
He doused the bed and floor with gasoline. Then, stood back just outside the bedroom door, and dug into his pocket for the matchbook. He ripped off a match and lit it. He hesitated, squeezing the lit match between thumb and index finger until both fingers were singed from the heat of the match. “Hell, too late to turn back now,” he shrugged. He tossed the lit match on the gasoline soaked floor. The match ignited the gasoline and in seconds the fire rolled across the floor. The entire room roared, completely engulfed in smoke and flames. He picked up the gasoline can and threw the can into the fire. He stood transfixed at the bedroom door, watching yellow-white flames and black smoke drift upward. When the gasoline can exploded, the intruder turned to leave. He walked calmly down the hall much like a man leaving the office after a hard day’s work.
Jerome’s back and shoulders tingled from the shower’s massage setting. Man, this shower feels good after my workout, he thought as the hot water beat against his back. He had been lifting weights downstairs in the basement and the forceful gush of hot water and stream soothed his muscles. Brenda didn’t know it but he had more problems than just losing his job at UDS. He hadn’t been able to pay back a past drug debt to the Crew on Wednesday night like he had promised Bombillo, the finance manager for the Crew. Bombillo had already talked DL into waiting until Wednesday but when the time came to meet that night, Jerome didn’t show up. He had been concerned for his safety if he had shown up empty handed so he played it safe and stayed away. The other deal he had going to get the money fell through and now in addition to helping to get his job back, he had to depend on Uncle Ike for a loan to get from under the Crew. He didn’t want to think about what might happen if he couldn’t get the money from Uncle Ike. Jerome had explained to DL that all he needed was another week or so for his uncle to borrow against the equity in his home. He had begged DL to consider their friendship from the old days and give him some more time. But after the telephone conversation with DL just now, Jerome had an uneasy feeling that he was in deep trouble.
The way he figured it, in another month or so, he’d be set if only the Crew could wait a few more days for him to get the cash from his uncle and pay off his debt to them. Other than the debt he owed, Jerome had completely broken his ties to the Crew. He knew this had further fueled the Crew’s anger with him since they had lost a regular customer.
The hot water beating against his body felt good. Baby Buddha should be waking up from his nap soon he figured. After he woke up, he’d take the little guy out for a walk in his stroller, maybe even swing by the park if it wasn’t raining or too cold outside. He hadn’t told Brenda that he’d decided to keep his son home today instead of taking him to the baby sitter. She had been running late this morning and asked him if he would drop Baby Buddha off for her. What Brenda didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her he figured. When he called the babysitter that morning to let her know she wouldn’t be needed today, the sitter had made it clear they would still have to pay the full amount at the end of the week. Jerome didn’t care about that. He wasn’t ready to give up his role as full-time daddy yet. It had only been a week, but Jerome and the little guy had gotten into a routine before Brenda found their new babysitter. Jerome had the hang of it now and he thoroughly enjoyed taking care of his son. No more catastrophes with feeding and diapering.
Suddenly, Jerome detected a strong odor that mingled with the shower steam. It smelled so potent his nose cringed. It couldn’t be gasoline, he thought, but that’s exactly what it smelled like. As soon as Jerome turned off the shower, he heard the popping noise from a crackling fire outside the bathroom door. He couldn’t hear it while the shower ran but now the sound grew louder. He felt the door and quickly pulled his hand away because of heat. With heart pounding and an unsteady hand, he opened the door enough to see that his bedroom was ablaze. He slammed the door shut. Panic swept across his face and his heart raced. Baby Buddha! Somehow, he had to get to the nursery to save his son. That’s all that mattered. He grabbed the towel from the toilet seat and pulled down the shower curtain. He turned on the shower to drench the towel and curtain in water. He wrapped himself in the water-soaked curtain and threw the dripping wet towel over his head. He tried to open the door again but flames and black smoke pushed into the bathroom. Jerome slammed the door shut again.
I gotta get the hell outta here!
Oh God, Help Me! I gotta get to my son!
Jerome threw open
the door and leaped through the flames. He yelled in agony as the fire burned his flesh. The heat was so intense Jerome only got a few feet from the bathroom door before he collapsed to the floor shrieking in pain, his body completely covered in flames. His howling screams echoed throughout the house until the thousand-degree heat and black smoke seized his last breath.
The intruder raced down the steps. Once back outside, he picked up a big rock lying beside the porch steps and hurled it at the rear kitchen window, shattering the glass and further feeding the fire with oxygen. The smell of burning, human flesh filled the air. The intruder turned to leave but stopped when he heard something else coming from inside the house. It was not the screams of a burning man but instead he heard the cries of a baby. “Damn!” he said under his breath, “they didn’t tell me there was a baby in the house. I ain’t no baby killer …” Without hesitation he turned and ran back into the house. He stayed low just like a well trained fire fighter would and moved along the floor towards the stairwell and the sounds of the crying baby. He paused at the bottom of the stairs which were by now almost completely covered in flames. “Shit!! Shit!! Damn!! Hell!!” he cursed. He took a deep breath and ran through the flames up the stairs and down the hallway to the room at the end where the crying was coming from. He pushed the door open and saw the baby lying in a crib in the smoked filled room. He grabbed the baby and put it under his jacket. He turned and escaped back down the hall, back down the flaming stairs, across the kitchen floor and crawled through the broken window. He jumped to the ground and landed on his feet to keep from falling on the baby, which he held onto with one arm. The intruder ignored the sound of the crying baby in his arms. He ran down the alley in the same direction he had come from, firmly holding the baby under his jacket until he disappeared from the alley. The chilling screams of death emanated through his memory—sounds that would not go away long after he fled the burning house.
A
lonely French Colonial mansion sat atop a hill, spotlighted by the halo from a globe lamp and guarded by massive sycamores that hadn’t yet shed their October leaves. The limbs spread out like hinged ribs on an umbrella—their brilliant yellow leaves now faded. It was now dark outside. Quietness enveloped this secluded Washington, D. C. enclave known as Foxhall Crescent Estates where the Hayes’ mansion was the centerpiece on a sprawling landscape. Except for a rising wind that sounded like an old woman’s raspy voice, all appeared peaceful.
Inside the mansion, Dr. Renee Hayes sat looking out at the moon from the breakfast window. She had delayed preparing dinner until 8 because she didn’t want to eat alone again. Her husband had come home late for the past five evenings with no reasonable explanation. She knew he wasn’t working late since he often complained that he hated his job as Senior Technical Instructor at EduTech Computer Training Center. She tugged at her wedding band until it finally slid over her knuckle. She tossed it onto the kitchen counter where it clanked against the marble. She washed her hands in lotion soap before preparing the appetizer, lemon-tarragon shrimp salad on a bed of romaine lettuce.
Removing her wedding ring a half dozen times or more for the simplest tasks, like hand washing or chopping onions, had become a habit. Mood lights brightened the French Provincial kitchen just enough for Renee to see the seasonings she sprinkled into the Alfredo sauce while the shrimp salad chilled in the fridge. The strong aroma of chicken tenderloins sautéed in onions and garlic drowned out the apple-cinnamon air spray. She had already set the table in their formal dining room. Two place settings of gold-rimmed china and a pair of wineglasses waited at each end of the elegant table that could easily accommodate 12 guests. A crystal lily-filled vase kissed by the flames of two white candles created a lustrous centerpiece while a saxophone jazz tune moaned soothingly in the background from the built-in CD player.
Renee heard the garage door open. When Bill entered the kitchen, glancing quickly at her, then away, all he said was, “Hi Babe.”
She tried to sound cheerful but her voice fell flat. “Dinner should be ready by the time you wash up and change.”
“No thanks, I grabbed something downtown.”
Her insides tightened but she said nothing, too hurt to respond. It was a shame that after fourteen years of marriage, communication had deteriorated to a simple nod and a stiff greeting that could have easily come from a passing stranger on the street. Renee dumped the angel hair pasta down the drain. She had suddenly lost her appetite and in another ten minutes it would taste like paste anyway. Bill shrugged his shoulders, unfazed. Briefcase in hand, he walked down the hallway towards his office.
“You could have called before I went through all this trouble.” Her voice sounding hard, rather than hurt. He disappeared down the hall as her voice trailed after him. She couldn’t leave things like this. Renee followed him to his office where she found him leaning into the desk with his head buried in his hands.
“Bill, what’s bothering you? Talk to me,” she said leaning against the door and staring at him attentively.
He sighed and rested his head against the back of the leather chair, eyes closed. “Nothing. I mean, there’s nothing you can do.”
“Maybe not but I can listen.” She moved towards him and gently touched his shoulder.
He lifted his eyelids slightly and stared at her through narrowed slits. “Yeah, I know. That’s what they pay you the big bucks for.”
“What's that supposed to mean?” Renee raised her eye brows and jerked her hand away from his shoulder.
“Forget it,” he said, rubbing his temples, “I’m not in the mood for this.”
“No, let’s not forget it. Are you jealous because I make more money than you? Is that it?”
Bill grunted out a dry laugh. “Yeah that’s it, Doctor. Once again you’ve psychoanalyzed correctly.”
“Do you enjoy putting me down? It’s obvious you don’t respect my profession.”
“Hey, I wasn’t attacking your career. I’m just sick of being put under a microscope. I’m not one of those losers stupid enough to pay a week’s wages for somebody to listen to their problems.”
Renee folded her arms across her chest and ignored his sarcasm. “I want to know what’s going on with you,” she said firmly.
He turned away from her glare, and flipped open his laptop computer and booted it up. Then he glanced back at her, “Look Renee, do you mind? I have to work.”
Renee felt like everything had spiraled out of control. All she wanted was a quiet, romantic evening for a change. What the hell had gone wrong? She’d been married to this man for 14 years and she still couldn’t feel his love. As for her dream of becoming a mother someday, doctors had told her she’d never be able to conceive and carry a child to term. So far, they had been right. Her last attempt at motherhood was six years ago—an ectopic pregnancy that had to be aborted in order to save her life. That left adoption as their only option. An idea that Bill was vehemently against for his own selfish reasons, which she could not understand because he had refused to open up and share that part of himself no matter how many times she had relied on her years of textbook and clinical psychotherapeutic training to get him to open up. Meanwhile the clock continued to race forward towards a bleak and lonely midnight. On the eve of her forty-fifth birthday, Renee felt fearful of changing what she instinctively knew was wrong in her life. And, Bill became an easy target for her frustrations.