One Blood (9 page)

The figure offered a muffled laugh. “Let’s see how bad he wants you now.”

* * * * *

Chapter Ten

Nine months later

1974

Houston, TX

Juanita lay on a lumpy mattress, legs spread wide. Harsh afternoon sunlight stabbed her through a small, barred window. Instead of giving birth in a hospital, Juanita was in the bedroom of a too small Frenchtown apartment, tucked inside the Fifth Ward ghetto. The one-bedroom safe house she refused to call home was now a prison.

Malcolm patted her sweat-soaked face with a once-cool rag gone warm.

Juanita took her eyes away from Malcolm’s dark face. Staring at the scar tissue where his left eye used to be brought unhealthy visions of birthing a baby Cyclops. She knew she needed to focus on bringing this baby into the world, but her mind was stuck in a putrid whirlpool of negativity.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

“
Almost time, baby,” Malcolm said, grasping Juanita’s hand in his large sandpaper paw.

“
God, it’s so hot!” she gasped.

“
Everything is gonna be fine,” Malcolm said, looking over at Velma Baker, the midwife. Velma was a short and stout woman, fair-skinned like Juanita, known as much for her sense of propriety as her competence. “Right, Velma?”

Velma responded by spreading Juanita’s legs even wider. “This is it, Juanita,” she said. “I need you to bear down now. Give us one last big push.”

Heart-rate galloping, Juanita tightened her swollen abdomen until her vision burned and blurred from the sweat and strain. A scream escaped her lips. Despite her exertion, Juanita tried to visualize Walter’s hands gently dabbing the rag against her feverish skin. When she opened her eyes and saw Malcolm hovering over her like a living, breathing nightmare, she remembered Walter was gone forever.

“
I can see the head! Keep pushing, baby! Keep pushing!” Malcolm shouted.

He sounded far away, as if he were in the apartment downstairs. Juanita couldn’t feel the mattress beneath her anymore. An all-encompassing bitterness about the life that had been stolen from her left no room for other sensations. She was coldly certain that whatever was inside her, struggling to get out, would not, could not, be human.

Babies were supposed to be born out of love, yet loathing enveloped her. Juanita squeezed her eyes shut and pushed like her very life depended on it. She needed to get rid of this hatred within her.

* * * * *

After collapsing on the floor of Walter’s burning office, Juanita had resigned herself to perishing in the inferno. The next time she opened her bleary eyes, she found herself in the backseat of Malcolm’s car, alive. Once she was coherent, Malcolm explained how he burst into the office, found her lying on the floor, nearly lifeless, and dragged her to safety. She asked him repeatedly about Walter, but his only reply was, “I didn’t see him.”

The newspaper helped Juanita fill in the blanks.

After the Lake City Fire Department put out the raging fire, they found Walter’s barbecued body in the closet; a pair of bloody handcuffs connected to the desk; a twenty-two caliber pistol with rounds fired; and the body of Carla Bean—the secretary.

The headline declared, “Foul Play Expected Cause of Death for Mayor Walter Simmons and Secretary: Missing Wife is Lead Suspect.” The police searched for weeks but were unsuccessful in identifying Juanita’s whereabouts.

Meanwhile, Juanita and Malcolm took up residence in the ghetto safe house in Frenchtown. She tried to goad herself into leaving him and starting over on her own, but then the morning sickness started. That last night she and Walter spent together rendered more than a broken heart. It produced an embryo Juanita thought of as a curse from her dead husband.

As she entered her third trimester, she learned Walter’s five million dollar life insurance policy and the bulk of his estate would be deferred to Lake City. To add insult to tremendous injury, Randy Lafitte, newly appointed mayor, vowed to the people of Lake City that Walter Simmons’ legacy would “live on” through his deeds. He pledged to build a community center on the Simmons Estate, named in honor of the first black mayor of Lake City.

Watching Lafitte’s pronouncements, Juanita became convinced that he was the man in the mask inside Walter’s office. Lafitte had tried to blackmail Walter, and when that didn’t work, he used his knowledge of the affair to set him up. He must have forced the secretary to call Juanita, knowing she would show up.

Juanita’s survival was a happy accident. Had she perished in the fire alongside Walter and the secretary, there would have been many more questions to answer. With her gone, everything pointed solely in the direction of the jealous wife. Randy alone reaped the benefits. He got the money, the mayoral office, and a public mandate to make the changes he saw fit for Lake City.

Whenever Juanita closed her eyes she saw Walter’s bloodied face staring up at her, pleading for her to save him. When Malcolm pledged that Lafitte would be justly punished for his crimes, she promised never to leave him.

* * * * *

“
Something went wrong during labor,” Malcolm said. “The baby is sick. Velma has to take him to the hospital.”

Juanita wasn’t surprised. She hadn’t lit the fire that sealed Walter’s fate, but she was as guilty as the papers described. Her breasts lactated, swollen with life-sustaining nourishment. But Juanita knew how putrid she was on the inside. Her milk was poison, her birth canal a watery grave. Nothing could come out of her unscathed.

Still, she needed to see for herself. “Bring it to me.”

The infant was a helpless mass of wrinkled humanity squirming in the crook of Velma’s arm.

“
It’s a boy,” Velma declared.

“
Let me hold him.”

Malcolm intervened. “There’s no time, baby. He’s not breathing right.”

Juanita glared at him.

“
We’ve talked about this,” Malcolm continued. “We have to let Velma take him. She will make sure they fix whatever is wrong and that he ends up in a good home. And when the time is right, I promise I will find him and bring him back to you.”

Back in Walter’s office, with everything burning around her, Juanita knew she was going to die; but then Malcolm pulled her from the burning tomb. Less than a month later, Juanita learned she was pregnant.

Juanita didn’t believe in coincidences. It was no simple twist of fate that led her to Walter’s side. No miracle that Walter’s best friend saved her life and helped her pick up the shattered pieces of her porcelain existence. It was destiny.

Juanita felt her purpose returning. She gathered herself and replied, “Malcolm, no! If he goes to the hospital, we’ll lose him.”

“
If we don’t take him now, we’re gonna lose him right here,” Malcom said softly. “I’m not willing to take that chance.” He motioned to Velma to get the baby.

Juanita tried to sit up, but her arms were too weak. “Velma,” she admonished. “Don’t you dare take my baby!”

“
Wait,” Velma said in a shaky tone, trying unsuccessfully to break the tension. “What are we going to call him?”

Juanita had considered only one name for a boy. The man Walter had patterned himself after. “Lincoln,” she replied. “His name is Lincoln.”

Velma put the baby in the bassinette and hurried out of the apartment with Malcolm. Lincoln started crying.

Each wail pierced Juanita to the core. Her body and instincts were on edge—she had to take action. In her mind, Velma Baker had morphed from a dedicated helper to dark schemer. Juanita clawed at the wall for leverage, screaming, “You can’t take him, you bitch! You can’t take him!”

The apartment door slammed, cutting off her baby’s cries. Despite tremendous pain, Juanita made it out of bed, but collapsed on weak legs. She crawled toward the door, just as she had during the fire, screaming and stretching out her arms to welcome her child into the world. As his cries drifted away, her pain grew too intense to bear.

Curling her legs into her abdomen, she lay on the floor wishing for death. But not for herself. She passed into unconsciousness, fantasizing about how Lincoln would one day grow up to kill Randy Lafitte.

* * * * *

Chapter Eleven

24 years later

1998

Houston, TX

Amir Barber paused just outside of room 311 in the Houston Medical Center, preparing himself for what he would see when he pushed through the door. He rubbed his boot camp bald head compulsively. When he felt ready, he entered his mother’s suite with a nervous smile.

Dear God
.

Amir gazed down at his mother in the aftermath of her stroke. Always the picture of strength, Juanita had degenerated into a muddy puddle, waiting for the sun’s rays to evaporate her into nothing. He whispered a silent oration to Ogou Balanjo, the Vodun spirit of healing, and set the flowers down on the nightstand.

Kissing her clammy forehead, he sat down in the chair next to the bed, clasping her hands in his own. Amir traced his fingers over the faded scar on her left wrist. He’d always wondered about how she’d gotten it and had sworn to himself he’d protect her against future harm. But he’d failed again.

I never should have left home.

Amir knew these thoughts were useless and unproductive. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what might have been if he’d stayed home after graduating from the University of Houston last year. Instead, he took his shiny new degree and enlisted in the Army as a Communication Operations Officer. He vividly recalled the look of betrayal in his mother’s eyes when he told her of his plans. Dad’s reaction had been predictably aloof.

* * * * *

“
This is something I need to do for me, Dad,” Amir said, as he and his father rested in the Kempo Dojo after their workout. Dad was still slightly out of breath. Amir realized for the first time his father was getting old.

They were seated in front of a large mirror. Amir compared his twenty-two-year-old frame to that of his father’s. His father’s skin was dark and course, Amir’s fair and smooth. Amir’s skin tone was the only physical trait he’d gotten from his mother. Other than that, he was the spitting image of his father. “You know I was in the service, right?” Dad asked.

Amir nodded. He knew all about his father’s tour of duty in ‘Nam. Anticipating his father’s next words, he said, “Dad, I know you always tell me that the Army is no place for the black man, but just hear me out, okay? I’m not some dumb eighteen-year-old kid. I went to college, just like you asked me to.” Amir swallowed his fear and continued the speech he’d been practicing for a week. “But if you hadn’t joined the Army, you never would have discovered Vodun, right? So in a way, it was a positive experience for you. And you recruited your men over there in Vietnam, so had you not gone, the Black Mob probably wouldn’t exist either. Shoot, you and Mom might never have gotten together.” Knowing his father’s one soft spot, Amir saved this point for last.

“
That’s not fair,” Dad replied. “You know me and your mother are going through a rough time.”

“
Believe me, I know, Dad. But once I go away to boot camp she will be all alone and she’ll need you. Ya’ll can get back together.”

“
Don’t change the subject. This is about you, not me.
You
want to join the white man’s army.
You
want to die defending a country that does not give a damn about your people. You want to be a pawn…when I raised you to be a king.”

“
You don’t understand, Dad. I read the book.” Amir watched his father’s good eye squint in anger as it usually did whenever anyone mentioned
Inside the Black Mob
, the unauthorized book written about his life and work. His father had maintained for years that one day he would write his own account and set the record straight.

Amir continued, “I need to learn what you learned, Dad. I know you think I’m too young, but I’m ready to do my part in the Liberation. You and I both know the other men in the Black Mob will never respect me or follow me if I don’t do this.”

His father’s only reply was to stand up and walk out, leaving Amir alone to consider his future plans.

* * * * *

“
Lincoln?”

His mother’s voice startled Amir out of his memories. He looked down to see her gazing at him through pained eyes.

“
Who’s Lincoln?” Amir asked.

“
No one. I’m so happy…to see you…my son.” She tried to smile, but paralyzed muscles on the left side of her face turned her smile into a sneer.

“
I brought you flowers, Moms.”

“
I…I saw. They’re…beautiful.”