The Last Days of Ray Cobb

7. Chapter 7

3

Violence is not the answer.

Violence is not the answer.

Violence is not the answer.

Imani repeated the phrase in her head as she made her way down the block to the market on Vernon Avenue. George Washington Carver Middle School seemed to have bi-weekly seminars about how their bodies were going to change. How they needed to check themselves before letting their emotions get the best of them. Blaming gun violence on raging hormones.

Everybody in her class knew what was going on. They didn’t need some lady from the LAUSD in a non-threatening blouse to tell them so. Imani had breasts by the end of fifth grade and had spent two years trying to hide them from the world. Having someone come in and give an assembly about how growing pubic hair would lead to more violence was bullshit. Especially in her neighborhood. Boys on her block didn’t need their balls to drop before they dropped casings on someone.

But no matter what she told herself, she knew sometimes violence was the answer.

“Hey girl. What you doin’?”

She pulled down on the bottom of the baggy sweatshirt she was wearing and pushed past the corner boy hovering at the entrance to Vernon Market.

“I’m twelve,” Imani said.

It had become her standard response. Growing into her body early hadn’t just attracted the attention of the boys in her class. Everywhere she went, she could feel the gaze on her bubble butt and tiny waist. As she followed the gaze up her chest, she saw the surprise when they reached her baby face. Though that didn’t deter some.

“Don’t bother me none.” The corner boy laughed, but didn’t pursue her into the store.

The man behind the counter moved his eyes from the small TV to see who’d come in, then back to his show. Imani was in the store most days, but the two had never learned each other’s names. All the counter man knew about her was that she didn’t shoplift. All she knew about him was he always looked her in the t**s when taking her money.

She was careful not to trip on the missing floor tiles. She used to run her hand along the shelves as she made her way to the back coolers, but once had put her fingers into something sticky near the magazines and now kept her hands to herself. Banners above the coolers advertised 40s of Old English for five dollars, 16oz for a buck. The things people actually needed, like diapers and cleaning supplies, were marked up.

Imani sorted through the Wonder Bread on the dirty shelf, looking for a loaf that wasn’t smashed to nothing or opened by someone palming a couple slices. She found one that appeared to be intact. She swung it from the twist tie, the enriched white flour swatting against her leg.

Slim pickings in the meat department. Pimento loaf, watery ham. Everything had a bright orange price tag on it, several dollars over market value for near-expired lunch meat. She slipped a package of bologna off the metal spindle and gave it a once over. The black, dot-matrix expiration date was gone, but the glue on the plastic was sealed.

The counter man took her crumpled ten-dollar bill. He stayed quiet, leaving her to stand there biting the inside of her lower lip as she eyeballed the Snickers bars, knowing Darius would count the change. He threw the meat and bread into a black plastic bag.

The corner boy didn’t hit on her again as she left, but she could feel his eyes on her until she disappeared up the street. She never understood that about men. Animals driven by their pricks. She didn’t need to be a full-grown woman to know that.

“What you get?” Byron asked as she shut the gated door behind her with delicate ease. Her little brother was waggling his legs against the worn cushions of the couch, the backs of his heels scuffing the bare carpet.

“Shut the f**k up,” she said in a harsh whisper, one glance toward the back bedroom.

“Well?” he asked, shutting off the TV he’d been watching with the sound off.

“Sandwich stuff.”

“I don’t want that,” he whined, quiet.

“You don’t have a choice,” she said.

He followed her into the kitchen and leapt up on the counter, sitting next to the stove.

“Why didn’t you get like a can of chili, or even mac and cheese?” he asked, his legs waggling on the counter with the same pent up energy they’d been using to abuse the couch.

Imani grabbed his ankles before the backs of his shoes could hit the pressed wood cabinets a second time.

“Let go of me,” he puffed up, wiggling out of her grip.

“You know he’s trying to nap.”

“He’s awake. I can hear him.”

“Don’t matter.”

“Fine.”

“Good.” She let go of his legs. “Get off there and grab me the spread.”

Byron shoved off the counter, his feet hitting the cabinet with a loud bang. Imani gave him a harsh stare, but he shrugged at her and opened the fridge.

There wasn’t much. A few condiments. Cheap beer. A couple of McDonald’s hamburgers in a brown sack that were probably no good. Their momma might microwave those for dinner when she got home.

Byron plucked the mayo jar from the door and flipped it into the air. Every damn thing he touched turned into a projectile. Imani snatched it out of the air before it hit the ground and bounced off the old linoleum.

“Looks like there’s only a few dollops left. Mac and cheese woulda been better.”

“You got money for butter and milk?”

“If we went to the Ralphs, we would.”

“You gonna explain to him why he had to wait?” Imani asked, focused on collecting as much of the generic mayo from the side of the jar as she could.

“It ain’t that far away,” Byron said, under his breath.

“When you’re old enough to do the shopping, you do whatever you damn please.”

She slapped a couple of slices of bologna onto the white bread and handed it to him.

“You know I don’t like the crusts,” he said.

“That’s all you get for the night. You don’t eat ‘em, don’t you dare put ’em in the garbage for momma to find when she gets home from work.”

He pulled the brown strips off the top of the sandwich and took a bite of the white goo. The Wonder Bread stuck to the roof of his mouth and Imani watched him try to tongue it free before he stuck a finger in.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his mouth full and smacking, “I’ll give ’em to Zaps.”

Byron pranced out the front door, slamming the security gate behind him before darting next door to feed the neighbor’s dog part of his precious dinner.

Imani stood stock-still in the kitchen, waiting for the fallout from the whirling dervish of Byron’s exit.

The house was quiet for the eternity of ten shallow breaths.

Swallowing hard, Imani opened the cabinet above her head with the care of a safecracker and pulled a blue plastic plate free from the stack in the cupboard. She pulled two slices of bread from the bag and placed them on the plate, handling each of them like antiques as she spread them with the remaining mayo. Pulling twice as much meat for the sandwich as she had for Byron, she lowered the other slice of bread on top as delicately as a Jenga piece.

Violence is not the answer.

She didn’t knock. Just pushed the door open. It always creaked. There was no stopping it.

Darius was sprawled on top of the sheets. His boots tossed next to the bed, a dirty t-shirt dumped on top. There were oil stains on his work pants, some of them new enough to rub off on the bedding. One arm flopped over his eyes to shade the sunlight coming through the threadbare curtains. A cigarette was burning down between his fingers.

Imani tip-toed to his bedside and slid the plate down next to the ashtray. She stood there for a moment, looking at him. Should she take the cigarette out of his hand? He could burn the house down. Or worse, burn his fingers, wake up, and look for someone to blame for his pain.

“You need somethin’?”

Imani jumped at the sound of his voice and went for the door. Her mother’s boyfriend hadn’t moved. The arm was still slung over his eyes and the cigarette burned ever closer to the filter. Imani left the room, the door creaking behind her as she closed it.

Her legs were shaking as she went back into the kitchen. Pressing her eyes shut to hold back the tears, she squeezed her hands into tiny fists, then spread her fingers wide. Staccato breaths went in through her nose, a faint whistle through the dried snot. She opened her eyes and fixed them on the door she’d just closed. Watching and waiting for it to fly open. Ready for another afternoon it would take years to forget.

Zaps was barking in the yard next door, hoping Byron would feed him again.

The door didn’t open.

Imani steadied her shaking hands and slapped a single piece of bologna onto a single slice of bread. No more mayo. She folded it in half and took a bite, her dry mouth having trouble breaking down the processed food.

She knew she’d have to eat better.

She wasn’t just feeding herself.

She was also feeding the tiny life Darius had put inside her.