Chuck's Vigil

By Kevin Luttery

Chuck Foster was a talented painter, having attracted the attention of a gallery owner while he was only seventeen years old. Later enrolled in an art undergraduate program, with a supportive girlfriend and a newborn son, Chuck regards his future as one filled with promise and hope. Then unthinkable tragedy strikes the family, sending him down a lonely road of drug abuse, homelessness and a state of psychotic behavior.

Although surrounded by darkness, Chuck relies on his spiritual faith to guide him back to a semblance of his old life and self. This is a story not only of loss, grief and guilt, but ultimately one of compassion and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kevin Luttery
• Release date: May 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476078809

Kevin Luttery

Writing in various genres, Kevin Luttery has published several essays in Essence, Upscale and Natural Life Magazine. His editorials have appeared in The Atlanta-Journal Constitution, and two short stories, adapted from his novels, were published by Every Day Fiction.

Book preview

PART I

BEFORE THE FALL

CHAPTER ONE

Chuck Foster believed in monsters. Ever since he was a small child, like most small children, he remained preoccupied with all the dark places in his house monsters may have been hiding. Downstairs in the unfinished basement, in the back of his closet and underneath his bed. Chuck even believed monsters hid inside certain people.

When he was ten years old, Chuck became convinced his teacher was the keeper of something evil. The previous semester, just before school let out for summer break, he’d begun hearing the warnings about Ms. Sinclair. Mean, they called her. Hard, they said.

She’s big and fat ‘cause she eats kids for breakfast.

The more Chuck heard, the more he believed, and the more he believed, the more he prayed.

Please, God, don’t let me get her next year. Please don’t let me get her. I’ll clean my room and take out the trash, and when Christmas comes I won’t ask mama for too many toys.

Although Chuck’s prayers were sincere, God had more important concerns than assuaging such childish fears. Not only did He stick Chuck in Ms. Sinclair’s fifth grade class, but He stuck him on the front row, dead center, right beneath her wild, roaming eye.

Chuck tried not to stare at the woman or her crooked gaze, but he couldn’t help it. Ms. Sinclair demanded that she be seen. She was a large, imposing woman. Six feet tall, 300 pounds. Her skin was tar-black and pitted with deep acne scars. She walked with a limp and sometimes spat when she talked. Worst of all was the woman’s atrocious breath.

A few weeks into the school year, Ms. Sinclair stood in front of Chuck’s desk glaring at her students. More than anger, she looked at them with disgust and contempt, perhaps even hatred. Chuck sat still and tried to make himself invisible.

I said no talking! None!

First came the booming voice, followed by the horrible, wretched stench. Chuck lifted his upper lip to his nose. Worse than vomit or shit or a dog rotting in the August heat, Chuck knew breath that bad could only come from one thing.

A monster lives inside of my teacher, Chuck said. When she talks, I can smell it.

The first time Chuck told his mother this, she attributed it to his overactive imagination. She placed a hand on his shoulder and looked into his eyes.

Don’t be silly, she said. Ms. Sinclair is just a regular person. Only a little strict is all.

Chuck remained unconvinced. As the school year progressed, Ms. Sinclair became more monstrous in her behavior. Catching a student in the slightest infraction—whether talking, passing notes or eating a piece of candy—she yelled until her eyes bulged from their sockets, banged her fist on her desk and threw erasers across the room.

You kids are evil, she said. And you’re all going to hell. Hell!

Her first time cursing was met with amused, excited giggles. To a kid, hearing a teacher curse was funny, titillating, but as the reprimands became more personal and vicious, the hee-hee’s and ha-ha’s faded into silence. Then the silence turned into shock. She called the girls nappy-headed hos, the boys nigglet bastards. All of them, she said, were monkeys fit for a zoo.

When Chantel Griggs grew tired of the abuse, she threatened to tell her mother. Ms. Sinclair gripped the edge of the little girl’s desk. The top of her blouse fell open, exposing a few coarse hairs on her cleavage. Chantel clamped her hand over her nose. Not that it mattered. She still smelled the funk from the woman’s open-mouth breathing. Ms. Sinclair leaned down close to her face.

I don’t give a rat’s ass, she said. Not about you or your welfare mama.

She then limped from the room, slamming the door so hard the geography poster taped to the back of it uncurled onto the floor.

Ms. Sinclair is crazy, Demarco Yates said. Y’all better leave that woman alone.

Nina Bryson shook her head.

She ain’t crazy. She’s just mad ‘cause she ain’t got a husband or any kids. My mom says she’s mean and bitter ‘cause she’s probably lonely.

Everyone speculated on the cause of Ms. Sinclair’s meanness. Demarco offered an explanation for her bad breath too.

She got halitosis, he said. It’s a disease. No matter how much she brush her teeth, her breath still smell like shit.

Kids jumped out of their seats rocked with laughter. They slapped their palms against their desktops and filled the air with hoots and hollers.

I thought I was gonna die, Chantel said. Her breath stank!

Demarco pointed across the room.

Look! I can still see her breath. It’s doing karate chops.

He jumped up and simulated a martial arts move.

Hi-yah, cha-cha yaaaaaah!

Everyone howled with laughter. Everyone except Chuck. He never mentioned it to his classmates, though he knew all the same. A monster was eating their teacher from the inside out.

When the second semester rolled around, Chuck could see it more clearly. Ms. Sinclair began losing a lot of weight. Under different circumstances this would’ve been a good thing, something healthy and natural, but Chuck suspected the weight loss didn’t come from diet or exercise or any other natural cause.

As the months unfolded, Ms. Sinclair took on a sick, wasted, ghastly appearance. Thin flaps of skin dangled from her arms and shook beneath her chin. A few bald spots dotted her head where patches of hair had fallen out. By the time April rolled around, her limp had gotten so bad she resorted to using a cane. She also began missing a lot of school, and when class resumed after spring break failed to return altogether. Principal Mullin came to their classroom and made the announcement.

It’s with much sadness, he said, that Ms. Sinclair won’t be coming back. She battled cancer for a long time, but over the spring break she passed away.

Everyone got quiet. They all stared at each other and then stared at Principal Mullin. Demarco broke the silence.

So, uhm, who’s gonna be our new teacher?

The question sounded as insensitive as it was. No one asked about a memorial service, or sending flowers to her family, or signing a card expressing their heartfelt condolence. No one, so it appeared, even cared that she had died.

Principal Mullin turned toward the pretty woman standing next to him.

Class, he said. This is Ms. Martinez. She’s going to be your teacher for the remainder of the year.

Ms. Martinez was the exact opposite of Ms. Sinclair. She was young and thin and had smooth, copper-toned skin. She tossed up her hand and flashed a sparkling smile. Chuck turned around and looked at Demarco. His buddy sat in the same row three desks back. Demarco’s face broke into a grin, his head nodding up and down.

Yeah, he said. Now that’s more like it.

That afternoon at lunch, everyone was still talking about Ms. Sinclair’s unexpected passing.

I’m glad she’s gone, Demarco said.

Chuck stared across the table at him.

You mean you’re glad she’s dead?

Demarco shrugged his shoulders.

Don’t make me no difference, so long as she ain’t our teacher no more.

He bit into his hamburger. Harold Young frowned at the lack of sympathy.

You shouldn’t say that. My dad died of lung cancer.

Ain’t nobody talking about your dad.

Yeah, but you still shouldn’t say it. Cancer is a real bad disease. It kills a lot of people.

Everyone kept using those words—cancer, disease—but Chuck knew what really killed Ms. Sinclair. Had the doctors cut open her body, rather than this thing called cancer they would’ve found a hideous monster hiding among her guts. This he no longer believed. In his heart Chuck knew.

CHAPTER TWO

Sylvia Foster wasn’t a religious fanatic, but she did believe in the Word and all its power and glory. Having been raised Southern Baptist, she continued to practice her faith and tried instilling in her sons a deep love and respect for the Lord God Almighty.

He sees everything you do, she often said. You can either walk in the light or walk in the darkness. The choice is yours.

Chuck believed his mother and, to the best of his ability, tried to stay in God’s good grace. His younger brother couldn’t care less.

As Sylvia waited for her boys to come home from school, she sat in an armchair reading her Bible. Gospel music played on the radio, the joyous shouts and praise filling the wood-frame house. A cheap painting of the Last Supper hung on the wall. Sylvia gave it a glance then continued with her scripture. She called this time of day the peace before the storm.

Moments later, Chuck and Reginald burst through the front door. Chuck tried to corral his brother and quiet him down, but Reginald, even for a six-year-old, was like a full-blown tornado bent on hellish destruction. He charged into the middle of the room, stripped off his backpack and slung it to the floor.

Mama, he said. I ain’t going back to school. Never!

He stomped down the hallway and slammed his bedroom door behind him. Sylvia set her Bible on the table and turned off the stereo. She sighed deep and heavy, though there was no need to chase after the boy, to sit him on her lap and discuss his most recent troubles. Reginald claimed he was quitting school every other week. Whenever Sylvia asked him why, he said his teacher didn’t like him, or the lessons were too hard, or his classmates cheated at recess, or that school was just plain stupid and boring.

Well, she once said. You’re only six. What would you do all day if you didn’t go to school?

I don’t know. Watch cartoons. Or maybe get a job.

No one’s gonna hire a child, especially one without a good education.

So I won’t get a job. You’ll take care of me.

Mama can’t take care of you forever. And besides, what if something happens to me?

I got Chuck.

What if something happens to Chuck?

Reginald thought about it for a few seconds. He then shrugged his shoulders.

I’ll make do.

Sylvia couldn’t help but laugh at her son’s naïve innocence, yet at the same time there was something worrisome about his nonchalance. Whereas Chuck seemed to have inherited more of her genes, Reginald was a carbon copy of his father, though he had never met him. A few months after Reginald was born, Karl Foster packed his bags and vanished without a trace. That was six years ago, each day having passed without nary a phone call or a letter saying where he had gone or if he ever planned to return. But Sylvia didn’t fret, not over her runaway husband or the unruly child he left behind. She kept herself busy in motherhood and worship, leaning on her faith for both strength and comfort.

And so it was that every morning before going to bed (she worked the night shift), Sylvia asked a special prayer that Reginald would come to his senses and finally see the light. God answered her prayers too. By the end of the day, Reginald always abandoned his crazy idea of becoming a first grade dropout.

Sylvia went to the kitchen to get dinner started. Chuck sat at the table and watched as she poured cornmeal and milk into a large mixing bowl. She cracked a couple of eggs and dropped them in with a soft plop.

So what’s ailing your brother this time? she said.

Nothing. His teacher just made him stand in the corner ‘cause he wouldn’t stop talking. Reginald says she picks on him more than the other kids.

And how about you? How was your day?

Chuck dug inside his backpack and found the letter he and his classmates had been given. He set it on the table.

I’m supposed to give you this, he said.

Sylvia placed a heavy black skillet on the stove, walked across the kitchen and picked up the letter.

What’s this? You in trouble too?

The question was rhetorical, as Chuck, unlike Reginald, never got into trouble. He was a good student. Smart, talented and gifted. If anything, she expected the letter to extol the virtues of his classroom performance. That it was something entirely different took her by surprise. Having finished reading, she folded the letter along its two sharp creases and set it on the table.

I’m sorry, she said. I know Ms. Sinclair was strict, and none of the kids cared much for her, but it’s always sad when someone dies.

It was the monster. The monster finally got her.

What monster?

The one that lived inside of her.

Sylvia slid a chair from beneath the table and sat next to him. She looked into his eyes.

There’s no such thing as monsters. I’ve told you that before.

I could smell it whenever she talked. And then I could see it, behind her skin, trying to crawl out and find somebody else to hide inside of.

Sylvia took his hand.

Ms. Sinclair died of cancer. You know what cancer is, don’t you?

Yeah. A disease.

That’s right. It’s a disease. A very terrible disease. And there are different kinds of cancers too. Lung cancer, ovarian cancer, bone cancer. But there’s no such thing as monsters living inside of people.

Chuck normally believed what his mother told him without question. He believed her when she said God was watching over him. He believed her when she said he could be anything he aspired to be. He even believed her when she said she would lie down and give her life if it meant saving him or Reginald from harm’s way. But Chuck didn’t believe her claim that there was no such thing as monsters. He had seen it and smelled it and knew that it was so.

Mama? he said.

Yeah, baby?

You’re always saying there’s a war going on between God and Satan, right?

Um-hm.

And you say God’s soldiers are angels, and Satan’s soldiers are demons. That’s what you said.

Sylvia recognized where the conversation was headed and tried to steer it down a different path.

Well, sure, but…

Isn’t a demon the same thing as a monster?

Symbolically speaking, yes. But…

Then how come demons can’t hide inside of people?

Sylvia had always taken pride in how smart Chuck was, and she felt good knowing he accepted her word as the absolute truth, but now, sitting at the table holding his hand, looking into his eyes and listening to this earnest talk of monsters and demons, she understood he had reached an age in which he questioned the world around him, seeing it through his own perspective and formulating his own worldly beliefs. She knew her word alone wouldn’t hold sway much longer.

Chuck, she said. The things I tell you about angels and demons are only meant to be taken symbolically, not literally. There’s a big difference. I know you’re only ten and probably don’t understand, but one day you will understand. For right now though, just trust mama and know there was no monster hiding inside of your teacher. There was nothing inside of her but a horrible disease.

She patted his hand, hoping that would be the end of that.

Okay? she said.

Okay.

Sylvia smiled, though her mind wasn’t totally without worry. She saw the doubt in Chuck’s eyes mixed with a childish eagerness to please. He didn’t believe her, but he didn’t want to disappoint her either. Feeling with time he would realize how silly all this talk of monsters was, she didn’t press the matter any further. After all, Chuck was normally a very level-headed boy. She kissed his cheek and then walked over to the kitchen counter. Chuck remained at the table watching her beat the cornmeal into a smooth batter.

Go check on your brother, she said. Make sure he’s all right.

He’s all right.

Check on him anyway. I worry about that boy.

Chuck grabbed his backpack and stood from the table. When Sylvia heard the chair scrape across the floor, she looked over her shoulder.

And remember what I told you.

He nodded his head, grabbed Reginald’s backpack from the floor and went to carry out his brotherly duty.

Reginald sat on his bedroom floor fighting a couple of action figures. Chuck stood in the doorway for a moment and then stepped inside.

Hey, he said. What’s that you’re doing?

Fighting. This me, and this Ms. Lester. Bam bam bam!

He made one toy attack the other, knocking it down and then stomping on its head with two plastic feet.

I killed her. See? Now I don’t have to go to school no more.

Sure you do. My teacher died but they just got a new teacher.

Did somebody kill her?

Chuck sat on the edge of the bed.

Naw, he said. She was sick.

That’s different. If somebody killed Ms. Lester, like a student, then all the other teachers would be scared to teach my class. They would be scared of getting killed too.

He made his imaginary self stomp his imaginary teacher a few more times.

Unh unh unh! I killed her twice. Now she’s really dead.

Although Chuck was only ten, he had always been an observant, sensitive child. Sitting there watching Reginald engage in play fighting, hearing the anger and hatred in his voice, he shared some of the same worries as his mother. While it was true most young boys delighted in playing violent games, there was something about Reginald’s play that seemed a bit too real. He felt his brother relished the violence, at brief moments actually becoming the violence. Chuck leaned over, scooped up the toys and tossed them into a corner.

Cut it out, he said. You need to start your homework before mama goes to work.

Reginald jumped up and went to retrieve his displaced toys.

I ain’t got none, he said.

Chuck grabbed his arm.

Yes you do.

He dug inside Reginald’s backpack and pulled out a thin book. He plopped his brother on the bed and tossed the book in his lap.

There. Practice your reading.

Reginald slapped the book off his lap onto the floor.

I already know how to read.

Then show me.

You ain’t my daddy.

As Chuck retrieved the book from the floor, his mother’s voice echoed inside his head.

Be your brother’s keeper, today and tomorrow.

Naw, Chuck said. I ain’t your daddy. But I’m your big brother, so do like I say.

Chuck sat next to him, opened the book and made him practice his reading. Reginald read with the stuttering, unsure pace of most six-year-olds, but he was, in fact, a decent reader. When he encountered a word he didn’t know, he sounded it out. The few times he still couldn’t pronounce a word, rather than throwing the book on the floor in frustration, he looked at Chuck and silently implored his help. Staring into Reginald’s eyes, Chuck again heard his mother’s voice.

Be your brother’s keeper, today and tomorrow.

Chuck never questioned his mother’s mantra. He knew the words were inspired by a biblical story—as his mother had often explained—and so he accepted them as personal instruction, vowing to do his best in looking out for his temperamental brother. But Chuck was only ten, himself a child, and he often wondered who would be his keeper. Certainly not his father, a man he couldn’t even remember, and his mother, despite her love for him, was simply a woman. Even at such a young age, Chuck felt the void of a male presence in his life.

He thought about his friend Demarco, how his dad played catch with him in the yard, took him fishing and to football games, and how he often talked about keeping Demarco on the straight and narrow path.

Chuck looked at Reginald—both his brother and his surrogate son—and for the first time in his life felt the weight of his responsibility.

CHAPTER THREE

Although Sylvia worked the night shift, she always made time to sit at the table and eat dinner with her boys. That evening they had pork chops, cornbread, black-eyed peas and turnip greens. Chuck sat quietly at the table waiting for their mother to sit down and bless the food. Reginald wasn’t so patient. He picked up a piece of cornbread, slathered it with butter and took a big bite. Chuck tried to stop him, but before he could do so Sylvia hurried across the kitchen and slapped Reginald’s hand.

Ow, mama!

We give thanks in this house before we eat. You know that.

Reginald crossed his arms over his chest and pouted. After staring at him for a few seconds, Sylvia sat down at the table, reached over and took Chuck’s hand. She extended her other hand toward Reginald, but the little boy remained firm in his defiance. He squeezed his arms tighter against his chest and stuck out his bottom lip until a strip of wet pinkness showed. Sylvia slammed her hand against the table.

Boy, you wanna go to bed hungry?!

Reginald shook his head.

Then give me your hand.

Reginald had always thought his mother was mean, but she was also a terrific cook. Staring at the juicy pork chops and fluffy cornbread, he reached over and took her hand.

Now tuck in that lip and bow your head.

Reginald did as told. Chuck and Sylvia bowed their heads too.

Gracious Lord, she said. We thank you for this food on our table. Not everyone is as fortunate as we are, and some people will go hungry tonight, but we ask that you shower them with your blessings so that tomorrow may find them in a better place. Amen.

Amen, Chuck said.

Reginald quickly began devouring his food. He licked his fingers and smacked his lips. Bits of cornbread spilled onto his chest and tumbled into his lap, which he picked up and popped into his mouth. Between telling Reginald to exercise better table manners, Sylvia engaged Chuck in conversation about his new teacher.

Ms. Martinez, she said. Is she Hispanic?

I guess so.

Does she seem nice?

Yeah, but it’s only been one day. Most teachers are nice in the beginning.

Nunh-unh, Reginald said. "Ms. Lester was mean to me on the first day of school. I wish she would die."

Sylvia pinched her lips together and raised her hand.

Mama no!

Chuck’s voice rose like an invisible wall against her fury. Aside from spanking Reginald a few times, Sylvia had never struck him. Feeling a bit embarrassed beneath Chuck’s stare, she lowered her hand, picked up Reginald’s plate and carried it over to the kitchen counter.

Hey, he said. I’m not done.

Go to your room.

How come?

Because you don’t wish people dead. I taught you better than that. Now go in there and think about it.

Reginald looked at Chuck, but there was nothing his big brother could do, so he jumped to his feet in a huff, sending his chair clattering to the floor.

I don’t wanna eat your stanky food no way!

He stomped from the kitchen with his arms pinned across his chest. When Sylvia heard his door slam shut, she sat down at the table, shook her head and sighed.

I don’t know what’s wrong with that child, she said. He sure didn’t get that ugliness from me.

Chuck hoped his mother wouldn’t lay it all at their father’s absent feet. She had spoken of him in a bad way before, usually when Reginald was acting out, and although Chuck didn’t remember his father, hearing his mother talk about him always deepened the void he felt inside. Chuck lowered his head and avoided his mother’s eyes. They ate the rest of their dinner in relative silence. Once they’d finished, Sylvia wrapped Reginald’s plate in aluminum foil and placed it in the refrigerator.

I put your brother’s plate in the refrigerator, she said. If he gets hungry later on, warm it in the microwave and let him have it.

Okay.

And wash up those dishes for me. I gotta get going.

While Chuck washed the dishes, Sylvia went to her room to get ready for work. As a cashier at a nearby convenience store, she made only enough money to barely scrape by. Certainly there wasn’t enough for a babysitter. That she had to leave her kids home alone each night filled her heart with anxiety. Yet there was nothing else to be done, having made up her mind never to go back on welfare. She had depended on government assistance until Chuck’s ninth birthday. That evening, sitting around the table eating cake and ice cream, she gave Chuck an art kit consisting of colored pencils, paintbrushes and a vinyl sketchbook.

You’re a gifted child, she told him. God blessed you with a talent that’ll help guide you through life.

Sylvia was the first to notice Chuck’s propensity for creating art. As a small child, even before he could read or write, Chuck began drawing with crayons and markers on anything he could get his hands on. Brown shopping bags and old newspapers, the back of advertisement flyers, napkins, toilet tissue and faded church programs. The drawings were good too, much unlike the crude depictions one would expect from a five- or six-year-old. In her heart, Sylvia truly felt that God Himself had reached down from heaven and laid hands upon her boy.

God has something very special in store for you, she said. Always remember that.

I will, mama. Thank you.

Chuck threw his arms around his mother’s neck and hugged her tight. He then picked up one of the paintbrushes and balanced it between his fingers. He set it down, stroked the pencils, ran his hand back and forth over the black sketchbook. All the while, he stared at the objects like they were something holy, reverent, like the tiny crackers and grape juice offered at first Sunday communion. Reginald reached over with cake-smeared fingers. Sylvia smacked his hand.

No! she said. Those aren’t toys for you to play with. Chuck, make sure you keep that someplace safe now.

I will, mama.

If Reginald felt the sting of rejection, neither Chuck nor Sylvia noticed. He dismissed the admonishment as though it never happened, scooping up a chunk of ice cream and shoveling it inside his mouth. Chuck returned to admiring his art kit. Sylvia watched the light beaming from his eyes. It was then that she vowed to find herself a job. If she expected Chuck to make his own way in the world with his own two hands, then surely she had to do the same. She had to lead by example, be someone he could look up to.

Two weeks later she got a cashier’s job at Ray’s All Nite Shop. It was the only black-owned store in the neighborhood, previously owned by Ray’s father. Sylvia knew Mr. Jameson ever since she was a kid, and as she still lived