Chapter 10: The Last Meal

 

After hours of bleeding on my clothes and not finding anyone close to the Ghost’s description, Lungile’s men give my throat and hands the bandages they’ve been aching and oozing for; war makes every soldier know basic first aid. With Lungile’s apologies and his assurances that they would be ready in a moment’s notice, they drop me off in front of Miguel’s place.

I walk toward the front door and smell chicken and tomato coming from the open window; watching only a few cooking shows over the weekend and Miguel suddenly takes after his mother in the kitchen, thank God for that. I knock on the door, barely able to make a fist.

Nia gasps after she answers the door, “What the hell is this?” She reaches out to touch the bandages on my throat. “What happened to you?”

"Shish."

The television is on and is covering the story. The reporter is interviewing angry residents yelling about gun violence and the city's problems with poverty and gangs. The reporter says that the investigators working on the case have no working image of what the suspects look like, but encourage citizens to go to the police department if they would like to become witnesses for the case. It’s not going to happen and they know it.

Nia touches my throat and I groan from the pain. I move her hand away, only to endure prickly pain from my fingers when my hand presses against her hand. “How was your day,” I ask her as I walk in, the smell of the tomato sauce is richer and more distinct.

After I hear her close the door behind me, she replies, “You come in here looking like shit, again, and you want to know how my day was?”

She takes my arm, puts it over her small shoulders, and slowly walks me towards a chair by the living room table. I turn off the television as the news starts to cover a flash mob in Time Square dancing in their t-shirts and underwear for a new clothing product. I like that plates, utensils, three open bottles of water, and paper napkins are already laid out. I’m starving, enough to eat lunch and dinner.

Miguel walks out of the kitchen with a breadbasket and a bowl of Fideua. He takes one look at me and shakes his head side to side. He puts the bowls on the table and sits down.

“I’m fine by the…ow…”

“Sorry,” Nia says as she adjusts her hold away from my still aching side.

She sits me down and sits next to me. “Seriously, you look like shit.”

“Too hungry to talk, I want some Fideua.”

I smile even though she looks at me with narrowing eyes. “Serve it yourself.”

She holds my hand and Miguel’s hand. Miguel then holds my other hand. “What’s happening…why am I being tortured?” Miguel presses my hand tightly for a second. “Hey, man!”

“Stop it the two of you! Show some respect,” Nia comments.

We’re older than her and yet we are the ones bowing our heads down first; old habits, like listening to woman with authority, die hard. Nia says a nice prayer, her voice respectful and her tone thoughtful. Afterwards, my hands know mercy when they let go of them. Miguel quickly serves himself a plate.

I look at my hands and sigh at the thought of holding a fork. “I’ll just order come fried chicken cutlets or something.” I reach for Miguel’s landline phone at the end of the table, but Miguel swats my hand with a fork. “Ok…really?”

“No calls, remember? We might get traced,” Nia taunts before she helps herself to the Fideua, removing the mushrooms from the angel hair pasta before putting it on her plate. She enjoys herself as she takes her first fork full, moaning loudly with pleasure, and I roll my eyes. With food in her mouth, she says, “The tomato sauce and parsley make everything taste so…fantastic.”

As my stomach grumbles, I mutter, “I hate you both.”

Indifferent, she takes a bite of a red pepper slice. “Miguel, is that garlic I taste?”

I reply, “If I could get a forkful into my mouth, I can confirm for you.”

She looks at me briefly, before turning her attention back to Miguel. “So, Miguel, is every ok with…what’s the woman’s name again?”

I bang the table to get her attention with my hands. “Ow!”

Mumbling curses is the only thing I can do as my hands pulse and the bandages start to have a thin red discharge on them from clenching my fists. But I hope they understand my needs now, no matter how childish. Nia slowly looks at me as Miguel sits quietly, cleaning up the water that is still spilling out from my water bottle with a paper napkin until he stands the bottle up.

She sighs as she wraps a large amount of pasta around her fork. “Say ah.”

“I’m not a child.”

“No, you’re a big boy,” she says in a baby voice.

She smiles when I give in, open my mouth, and eat what’s on the fork. She uses her free hand to wipe my mouth clean with a napkin. “A parent’s job is to steer their children into cleanliness.”

In response I chew with my mouth open. I relish in her sneer. Miguel once asked me why Nia and I were so different. I wonder if my explanation makes sense now. Our parents were more involved with her after they were saved by Christianity, so she grew up as a child who believed in the best in people and became judgmental to those stuck in their ways of sin. But during my childhood, our parents were absent, abusive, and sad people. My childhood was, at best, unhappy. Then again, to have my sister grow up not being able to have children, while I choose not to have any because of my upbringing, still proves to me that God is a comedian.

Miguel takes a largest piece of bread and slowly feeds it to me. After I am able to get it in my mouth, I mutter a barely audible, “Thank you.”

We all share a laugh. The moment is silly, but some of the best things in life are best left unsaid. Nia’s cell phone rings and stops the laughter. Her ringtone is a religious song I wish I could remember so that I could mock it.

“Don’t tell them where you are,” I quickly comment.

“Yeah, I got it. Just don’t kick my legs like at Tina’s place.”

I still watch her answer the phone to make sure she doesn’t make a mistake.

“Hello. Hello?”

I tense up as she looks at me as her eyebrows lower, she looks at a complete loss about something. “Who is it? They just hung up,” I ask her. She looks at her phone and nods with confirmation.

I wipe my mouth with a napkin, ignoring the pain, before I get up and walk to the corner of the window near the front door. I scan pass all the cars parked in the street and zoom toward the two rows of four silver motor cycles that are in front of the house, the riders are wearing helmets and they are all looking towards me.

“Miguel!”

The lead driver drives away and the rest follow, zooming by with a thunderous boom from the joint sounds of their engines.

“Are we in trouble?” Nia asks.

I turn around and Miguel is already in his liquor cabinet, taking out a small bottle of painkillers from Tina, his old black and brown AK-47 machine gun, and the black Ruger GS32-N handgun.

“You have a machine gun? That’s been there the whole time?” Nia yells.

Miguel hands me the bottle first, then the handgun.

Nia gets up and walks toward us as we check for ammo. “Let’s just get out of here!”

It was the Hyena, it had to be. She’ll never stop until I’m dead. All professionals see a contract through. I tell Nia calmly, “Nia, start packing our stuff and smash your phone.”

“You’re lucky I back up my numbers on-line,” Nia comments.

I watch as she throws her phone to the floor and smashes it into pieces. “You could have just put it on the table, used a hammer, and threw it in the trash. But that’s fine too,” I mention.

“Wait, are my friends safe?” Nia asks.

“Yes,” I answer I put my attention back to looking outside.

“How do you know?” Nia asks.

“You would have been sent pictures of them with a gun to their heads,” I answer bluntly.

The impact of my words doesn’t fully register with me until I look at Miguel and he gives me a brief look of disappointment. I look back at Nia as her mouth is open from shock.

“Forget what I said.”

Nia turns her back to me and runs down into the basement. I look down at the floor.

 

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Twenties minutes later, no signs of any motor bikes. The O.G.’s are driving around the block now, sending a message that we are ready. But nothing happens. I clean up Nia’s mess and I go downstairs. I see that Nia is putting the last of the bags together.

“Are you all done?” I ask.

“Oh, you mean putting your own shit together? Yup,” Nia snaps back at me, zipping my luggage bag only halfway through until it gets stuck.

I place the gun between my back and belt, walk to her, and press the top of the bag down with my hands. She doesn’t look at me as she zips the bag completely sealed. “Are you ok?”

“Just peachy and you,” Nia answers as she piles her bags together; just making herself busy from the looks of it.

“If you want to get your frustration out on me you can,” I suggest with little expectation that she would follow through.

But she faces me, punches me in the stomach and slaps me in the face. And because I am already hurt I actually have to cover myself from her tiny hands. “Ok, Nia.” She’s not listening to me, because she’s too busy cursing at me. “Ok, Nia! Ok, Nia!” I hold her hands and see her eyes water. “I get it. Do you feel better now?”

She stomps my right foot and I fall unto the mattress like freshly cut timber. “Now I feel better!” As I rub my foot she stands over me like a conqueror with her hands on her hips. “And you’re buying me a new phone when this is done!” She kicks my other foot, for good measure or just because she can. Then she walks pass me and stomps upstairs. I turn my head to make sure she’s gone and I see Miguel is sitting on the stairs watching me.

“Where were you,” I yell at Miguel.

“I was here, watching you get your ass kicked by your little sister,” Miguel comments bluntly, but I see him fighting a smile.