Fall
It wasn’t just that David Dennis was slick, but he was righteous in his slickness. He was no punk. He didn’t play games—not even basketball. He was a caramel mixture of mean and kind. He didn’t like beating a man, or shooting a man, but he would if he had too and he’d done so several times before, over the 28 years of his young life. He made the conscious decision early in life to dwell in the duel worlds of good and evil. He worked hard and grinned harder, but he preferred the dirt and grim of the streets. The streets seemed more honest. People down on their luck had no reason to lie, they didn’t have to impress anything or anybody.
David got his disposition righteously from his parents. He saw both their dead bodies before he reached the ripe age of accountability. They died six months apart. Heroin was the culprit. His father, Jacob Dennis, had gone off to fight in the war, he returned barely, honorably discharged in just enough time to meet death on a commode. He was found on the toilet, his thin, limp body sprawled out, his boots without shoelaces, ashy ankles, and a needle projected from a track in his vein. David went to brush his teeth and saw him. His grandmother couldn’t protect him from the sight. David’s mother, Mariweather Dennis or Ree, the way people on the street referred to the dark-skinned lady, with the big teeth and long chin, suffered from the product of the follower. She followed the man she had loved into the same pit of addiction. She overdosed one Saturday morning after she partied three-days with her girlfriend’s in Lincoln Homes project apartments. In the wee hours of the morning, death met her at the front door and snatched the keys from her hands. David and his grandmother ran into her outstretched body on their way to church.
With both his parents gone, the matriarch, David’s grandmother, Carzella Dennis, became his mother and his father. Mama Dennis, the way most people referred to the stout older woman, who carried the holy bible, and absolutely refused to take a strong drink before sundown, was filled with the holy ghost. She had a personal relationship with tragedy and didn’t fear death, as she realized everything under the sun was meaningless—it was the Spirit that was essential. She shed few tears when her husband, a known gambler was stabbed to death and looked to the hills when three of her sons preceded her in death. They all suffered a violent death.
Only one of Mama Dennis’s four children lived long enough to see her body put in the ground. It was the middle boy, Marty. Marty was never right in the head. He ate glue in elementary school and never set foot in high school. He dropped out of school, went to work at the recycling plant, that’s where he met Betty Stokes. She was 10-years his senior. They lived together for about two years and had two sons, but he drank too much for her taste. After she got baptized, she decided they were unequally yoked, so she ran off one day and never returned.
Marty sought refuge in the basement of the family house. He only left the house to go to work at the recycling plant where he picked trash. After work Marty stopped at the liquor store, picked up four cans of beer, that were usually already bagged up when he entered, then he retreated to the basement to jug down the cans of cheap malt liquor. He was a harmless drunk. He drifted in and out of his own mind. There were times when he’d forget he had two sons, but sometimes he remembered Tyrone and Desmond and would call their names for hours with tears in his eyes.
When David was young, his conversations with Marty were sparked by the need for masculine discipline, for doing what young boys do as they grow up--test the water. David knew Marty didn’t enjoy scolding him. There wasn’t a mean bone in the man’s body and he never raised his voice, “You actin up?” He would say with base in his slur. Then he would stare at David, his pale-pink eyes always gleamed with a smile and his lips projected a factious sternness. When David got older, he and Marty would sit in the basement and talk about this or that. It always surprised David, how much Marty knew about sports, politics and even religion, though he never went to church. And even though Marty was a drunk he kept his room spic and span clean, and he always took out his trash in the mornings. David never antagonized Uncle Marty. He never made Uncle Marty feel shame for the loss of his senses. Instead he showed his uncle the utmost respect.
Mama Dennis died from too much sugar in the blood. She was a perfect example of an old fashion southern woman. She respected the law, knew right from wrong, tried her best to stray from lying and stealing, cleaned everything with bleach and was an excellent cook. But she ate too much. She gained just enough weight to be fat, but not obese. She often over-indulged on cakes, pies and cookies. Her favorites were 7-up pound cakes, which she loaded with sugar and butter, and she made sure to drizzle extra white powder over the tops.
On her death bed she rambled for days and days and hours and hours. David never left her side, not even for an hour. The night she took her last breath, Mama Dennis gazed at him with sugar-glass eyes and warned, “I see the Shadow of Death lurking above you. Remember if you stay in the house and danger strikes, you’ll be protected. If danger meets you on the street, it’s gonna be too late. But you can look up and catch’em—floating in the wind, then I’ll see you again. Promise me you’ll catch’em David,” she said.
He shuttered, “I promise.” Those were the last words David had spoken to his grandmother. He wanted to get a follow-up, to tell her not to worry, but it was too late.
Once she was buried, only Marty and David remained in the family house. Marty managed to hold things together. He kept things going with his recycle plant job, until right after David graduated from the local junior college. Then Marty went deep inside his own mind, to a place where only David could find him and bring him out. David had to have him admitted to the psychic ward at Mercy General after he called the fire department to the fire Marty concocted inside his mind.
Marty passed away on an extremely hot day. His liver was fried. David had paid him a visit that day. They shared a last supper: jelly and peanut butter sandwiches, they were Marty’s favorite. David made them each time he visited his uncle. On his last visit, Marty had told David that he’d imagined himself standing on a cloud and Mama Dennis was below ushering for him.
Marty said, “she wants me to come to her.”
David told him not to go, but before he stepped outside of the doors of Mercy General, a nurse stalked him down and told him Marty passed.
After Marty crossed-over David found himself all alone. Two years went by like a thunderclap and David transformed like lightening. He was no longer a dark-skinned youngster with a smooth face and a rank frame, afraid to step outside for fear of another death. He developed into a man with thick skin, broad shoulders, a bushy beard and stiff demeanor. Friendly on the surface, he preferred to be alone. He was determined, not to be like his father and he made sure not to fall in love with a woman like his mother. He had plenty female friends, but he kept them at a distance, he never made promises he couldn’t keep. Spiritually he had started reading the same holy book Mama Dennis had carried, and where it was once simply a passing fancy, it became part of his daily routine.
He managed to take care of himself and the family home by working at Mercy General. But it wasn’t enough to pay the bills, so he hustled the streets where his parents had copped stolen goods for fixes. He distributed the same poison that overtook Jacob and Ree. Never once, did he imagine the streets would call his number at such an early age. Until the streets dialed him up.
It was Yom Kippur. He fasted that day and was looking forward to a meal. It was one of those eerie nights in October. There was a full moon, but the black sky blocked the Seven Sisters and the Great Hunter. It was frigid outside. Temperatures so cold most people remained inside with the oven door opened for heat. David walked out of the hospital and headed to Lincoln Memorial Homes—a project apartment complex, not too far from his job. The apartments were across from a long field that led to Grace Temple Church, the church his grandmother had attended. Whenever he walked past the field and spotted the church’s bell tower, he thought about the night Mama Dennis warned him about death lurking above. He knew she wouldn’t be satisfied with his lifestyle, so he told himself things were temporary, knowing that was a lie.
He went down to Lincoln Homes to re-up his stash. He always re-upped at a girl he had known, Rachael Matthews’, apartment. Her brother Saul Matthews was a big-time drug dealer in the neighborhood. Saul had a lot of money but preferred to live in the projects, rather than invest in a house of his own. He once told David that he preferred to live among his own. He gave David bundles to distribute to dealers on the west side of town.
Pitch dark, David walked on the Northside, because there were more streetlights. He made his way toward building 23, walked across the basketball court and down the concrete walkway, with caution. The air carried the aroma of day-old collard greens and overcooked chicken grease. He walked past the first several buildings, happy to hear the sounds of kids laughing and playing in hallways that were lit by dim lights. As he drew closer to building 23, the laughter was overtaken by the sound of a woman’s screams. David glanced around in the darkness and attempted to discover where the screams emanated, but he saw nothing. He didn’t want to know anyway. He wasn’t the type to get involved in domestic disputes. He simply wanted to meet Saul, get his stuff, and go home.
He’d done it a million times before, never had a moment of trouble. But on this evening, there was a man dressed in all black standing in the shadows near building 23. David noticed the man loitering in the darkness. He sensed the man was his enemy, but he ignored his instinct, thinking the man and the screams were connected. When David glanced up towards the sky, he discovered Rachael’s sister, Mara was the one doing all the screaming. She lived one flight above Rachael and was a known lunatic. A schizophrenic that was normal sometimes and possessed by demon spirits other times, particularly when she was off her medication. Mara leaned out of the window, her entire torso perched over the sill. She had a knife in her hand. David gave a smirk. It was just another night in the projects. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head and continued to the building.
The man didn’t move. He lingered in the black space beyond the street light. He wore a black hoodie, black hat, black pants, black boots and a snarl on his face. He watched David walk up the steps. Before David had a chance to step inside, the man lurched out the shadows and yelled.
“She’s not there,” His tone was angry.
David stopped in his tracks and glanced at the figure, but he didn’t respond. Mara was still in the window. Her yells grew louder and louder, and then they started to fade. He still heard her yells in the distance, but she left the window. Left alone, fear crept down David’s spine. He learned fear had to be faced head on, but with caution. He hesitated. He carried a loaded Glock wherever he went and even though he felt the weight of the gun, he doubled checked his waist to make sure it was in place, ready to be fired.
David realized for the first time in his life what it meant to be a man. The realization was intentional, so he put his fear to the side, “who’s not there?” he asked.
“Rachael or Saul,” the man said, “she’s not home, she’s dead, shot through the head,” he placed his pointer finger to his temple and made an up and down motion with his thumb.
David knew the man lied. He’d left Rachael at Mercy General. They worked together. He had her keys in his pocket. She’d given him her keys just in case Saul wasn’t in the house. David stared at the man, tried to make out the face. Perhaps he’d known the man. Maybe they had met before, then he could have understood the animosity. Confused, he realized Mara’s screams were still at a distance. He was really all alone in the darkness, not another outside in the projects. David was disappointed, he wanted a witness, even a mad witness was better than none at all. He thought he should take flight, but he wasn’t the type to run without first putting up a fight. He hoped to brush things off, so he opened the door of the building and proceeded to take a step inside the door. That’s when he heard the first gunshot and felt the vibrations of the bullet in the wind. He ducked. The bullet hit the door but missed him.
He grabbed his Glock from his waist and returned fire, “what have I done to you, I don’t know you brother!” he screamed. He said the words with toughness, but he felt like a duck sitting on water, he was in a wide opened space with nothing but the ragged screen door between himself and the bullets, yet not a single bullet hit him.
The man ceased fire for a moment, “this is our territory, brother! You think you can step out of your house on the hill and don’t get permission from us to deal with punk ass Saul. You understand the disrespect—and know this Saul is next,” the man shouted and he took another shot. This time it nearly scrapped the side of David’s head.
David didn’t want to kill the man. He prayed that the man would cease his attack. But the man did not. Instead of retreating, he boldly walked towards David, with his arms out, smoke rising from the barrel of his gun and drifting into the air like the smoke from a blunt. David took two other shots. He aimed for the man’s head and didn’t even know where the bullets landed. They were firing back and forth, at one another, like they were in the wild west. David retreated when Mara, who returned to the window, screamed again at the top of her lungs and threw a silver cage out the window. David thought it a miracle when the cage hit the man in the head. The man dropped to one knee, stunned.
Without a second to hesitate, David made haste for the next apartment building. He almost got away. He was about to round the corner to take cover, when he turned around and noticed two blue feathers floating from Mara’s window, then he felt coldness drift through his body. He never felt the pain. He never felt the sting from the bullet that entered his shoulder blade, pierced right through his body and lodged inside his heart. As he drifted to his knees, he noticed, once again, those two blue feathers floating downward in the wind. One was bigger than the other, like a male and female, but he wasn’t given another second to contemplate. His knees hit the ground and his eyes shut.
David went to that place. God took him there. To the valley of the shadow of death. Funny he always thought of sunshine and blue skies and the serenity of a blue stream. But there was a black sky filled with gleaming stars, and a full bright moon, and a cool breeze that drifted over dark water. In the distance he saw them there: his mother and his father, his grandmother and his uncles—including Marty. They were standing across a great body of water, looking nothing like they appeared at their cross-over. They waved to him and clapped their hands. Like strangers passing in a car, first they appeared with brilliant smiles and then they disappeared, drifted away leaving him alone, seated at table with a great feast spread before him.
He was being served by a woman draped in a black robe, with gold hopped earrings and a gold necklace with purple stones. She carried a book in her hands and after she glanced through the pages, she smiled at him and said to a cook that stood next to her, “get the meat laid aside for him.” Then she gazed at David and spoke, with a voice that sounded like a sweet Harvest breeze, Welcome--Eat.
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