someone else’s world. No apologies. The swarm moved on and hurried inside the store. Sade recovered, headed for the escalator, her straight-back charm-school sway shaken and disturbed. Looked like she stopped and took a breath, shook her head, profane dots and accent marks filling the air. I caught her profile as she ascended to another level, her face struggling to relax as she moved away from the pandemonium. She turned around and faced me.
Manumit.
I raced the sedan downstairs. Rufus was down there waiting for me.
He told me that he’d hide out one level down, told me to turn right and look for a U-Haul. That white and orange rental was easy to spot. Same for Rufus. His pale skin and gray eyes made him look like a colorless cat. Easy to find in a crowd of people, black, white, or otherwise. Over six feet tall. Messenger bag hanging over his shoulder. Dada jeans. Daredevil sweatshirt. Timberland boots. Honey-blond locks. Soft-shouldered stance. I hit my bright lights, screeched into handicap parking. His hips brought him my way, first with the hurried walk of a Vegas showgirl, then he squared up his shoulders and strengthened his body language, went into an almost unhurried gangsta stroll, mimicked the way Reverend Daddy walked.
Memphis ran through a fog that blanketed my mind.
I got out of the car, moving like quicksand was up to my waist. Slammed the door and my anger echoed like thunder. Took my glasses off. Rubbed my eyes. Faced my doppelganger.
When Rufus got closer I saw that his Daredevil sweatshirt was ripped, boots scuffed, scratches on his neck. His face had the most damage. His thick locks were pulled back into a ponytail. He’d taken a hard blow, hard enough to swell his left jaw up like a blowfish. Not as bad as Ali looked after he had that rumble in the jungle with Joe Frazier, but it looked like he’d been in a battle for his life.
26
Back in the day Reverend Daddy had an old boxing bag rigged up in the garage. The bag was black, had duct tape wrapped around the center where it had taken the most blows. He put it up there when we were boys. Made us cut grass, trim hedges, and hit that bag until we couldn’t hit it anymore. He said that evil was out in the streets training every day. We had to do the same. Think that bag might’ve been rigged up before we were born, from back in the day when Reverend Daddy used to get his workout on. In between sermons he broke a few jaws back in his day. His right hook wasn’t a secret. Made sure we knew how to deliver the same pain.
That was years ago.
Rufus had dug deep into his bag and called on those skills today.
I didn’t know my brother could do that, didn’t know he had that kinda animal inside him. He couldn’t kick ass like I could, was closer to being a pacifist than an aggressive man, couldn’t take a blow or deliver a punch the way I did, but he had done his best.
He’d been the last man standing in what he called hand-to-hand combat.
Reverend Daddy would’ve heard Rufus’s story, been happy, might’ve smiled. Might’ve been prouder than he was the day Rufus pointed a gun at Ulysses’s head and pulled the trigger.
Maybe. Maybe not. Reverend Daddy was in the ground so I’d never know, not for sure.
To be honest, somehow I doubt that Reverend Daddy would’ve been proud of his youngest son. Think I was just hoping for that happy ending. Maybe just missing those days.
Rufus hated those memories. I loved them.
Still Rufus had dug into the bag and used what Reverend Daddy had taught us.
Momma taught us in a different way. It didn’t end at lifting chickens from Boys Market. She schooled us on the art of self-preservation, the kind that was born with the death of Reverend Daddy and the birth of desperation. Within a year after Reverend Daddy was gone, we knew how to steal clothes from The Broadway, take what we had stolen back in a gift box, get full credit plus tax. Rufus would steal mail, cash checks, use credit cards, the whole nine.
Then came the drugs. The streets taught him how to make a dollar out of fifteen cents.
Here we sat. Brothers. Sons of a preacher man. Sons of a thieving woman.
Two men doing what they had to do to stay alive another day.
We were in