Strange Fruit

By Meredith

She burst into uncontrollable sobs. And he let her get it out, wanting to reach out and embrace her, hold her but daring to interrupt the flood of raw emotion now being released through so many tears. She cried like a little helpless baby until he had no choice but to hold her. And when he took her into his arms where he could feel her body close to his, he was falling backwards through the memories of their romance...
His career was the perfect American tragedy, layered by those darker images reflected in the shadows of the invisible black man. He was that rare commodity and commercial powerhouse with artistic value and street credibility. His rapid ascent to fame came actually from the dark side of the American dream, which afforded him a chance to develop a reputation and image that made him one of Detroit’s most infamous personalities. He was living the hustler’s life through the poetry of his art. Outside the walls of the biggest walled prison in the world, he stood in the broken sunlight and took council with himself, a man consciously trying to decide what course to follow...
Strange Fruit is that broken memoir that imagines a journey through the mind and madness of a starving artist trying to reconcile sins of a generational curse. Success would be the better revenge. He was well aware of the contradictions in his lifestyle. Society wouldn’t let him forget. Determination couldn’t be disenfranchised. Donavon Taylor was raised in the trashy back alleys of Detroit and the systematic racism of old, at a time police were killing unarmed black people on video and getting away with state sponsored murder. He was a diamond in the dirt. He had no real choice but to fight against his own character flaws and survive both the sacred and the profane. He was a native son of the city. He was Detroit everyday...
He was an artist who hustled all his life through the poetry of being black in a day and time when being black meant you had to march and protest for Black Lives to Matter. He was forced to be humble and stand on the front lines fighting injustice and inequality. Trump republicans were losing the culture battle while unresolved grievances and bitterness revealed itself through America’s painful politics: voter suppression, police violence, mass shootings and the rise of right wing militant hate groups. QAnon supporters were living their American dream in the cult of an alternate universe quarantined in a bubble of lies and conspiracy theories. Donny was forced to deal with the drama of being the black antagonist in a global pandemic while America stare into the abyss of insurrection, old Jim Crow antics and ghosts of the Confederacy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665527989

Meredith

Meredith is the author of many other novels: Concrete Jungle Iscariot’s Kiss Strange Fruit Negro Spiritual Cinderfella No Ways Home Burning Daylight Acoustic Soul Detroit native, Meredith is creating and defining his own path in the Hip Hop urban fiction publishing world.

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© 2021 Meredith. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/02/2021

ISBN: 978-1-6655-2795-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-2798-9 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Inspired By

Thanks To

Story Start

The song Strange Fruit is a haunting protest against the inhumanity of lynching Black Americans

Southern trees bear a strange fruit

Blood on the leaves and blood on the root

Black bodies swingin’ in the southern breeze

Strange fruit hangin’ from the popular trees…

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to my Ride or Die!

William Meredith IV

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Lazar Favors

Marshalle Favors

Janaya Black

Rocky Black

Nina Simone

Billie Holiday

James Baldwin

Abdulla Shaef Alshaef

Renee Harris

Sylvia Hubbard-Hutula

Rosland

Maggie

Lois

Katie

T-Mann

INSPIRED BY

Daryn

Dylan

Tristen

Aniyah

D’Naiyah

Daphne’

THANKS TO

Detroit Black Film Festival

Trinity International Film Festival

Black-Smith Enterprises

Motown Writer’s Network

The entire Geek Squad staff at Best Buy Dearborn

Ben Brown

Ben C

Younis A

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B lack people are the only people in America that get put on trial for being murdered. The GOP fog machine was fighting on the wrong side of history in an adversarial relationship with the truth, where today Trump supporters felt bold enough to crash the peaceful protest of a Black Lives Matter rally at Hart Plaza in downtown Detroit. It was known all over the world that no one in the western hemisphere lied more than president Donald Trump. He had taken his presidency and white evangelical Christians down a rabbit hole of hate groups cluttered with nothing but billion dollar grifting and the chaos of hideous politics. They along with their cult followers seem to only exist in an alternate universe where white supremacy and privilege was the only platform holding up the new Confederacy of old Jim Crow tactics with outlandish ideals of equality. Trump was bound to get somebody killed.

Donny loved to paint in Hart Plaza, so he and his cohorts spent a lot time in pop-up shops where he could be close to current events while hustling his posters of black political art. Today he was painting signs for the BLM movement, selling them for twenty dollars and up, if protesters wanted caricatures posters of Trump portrayed as the idiot avatar of a multibillion anger industry. The pandemic had announced itself with a vengeance, so the city was in a lock down mode for social distancing. The Black Lives Matter rally was getting ready for a peaceful march down Woodward Avenue in protest of all the police shootings of black and brown folk around the country. The rally was really vibrant and started out in the spirit of justice and camaraderie, where Donny painted six quick posters and sold them without a problem. Things were going well until Trump supporters showed up with their confederate flags and MAGA hats chanting All lives Matter and throwing rocks and bottles at the police and bystanders. All hell broke loose when a Trump supporter didn’t like the posters Donny was selling and people started screaming and fighting in the midst a lot of adrenaline and pepper spray.

Donny and his girlfriend Naja were caught off guard and trampled by rioters who came to the Plaza to purposely start commotion and disrupt the march. Someone hit Naja over the head with a rock and set Donny off on a journey of no return. He fought off most of the hate filled racists until they began to get the better of him with clubs and sticks. Out of nowhere came his boy Woody to the rescue, firing off three rounds of a forty-five caliber that sent people scrambling in every direction. And while Donny was helping Naja off the ground he was tackled by three cops who immediately went in with the pepper spray and started beating him with their clubs.

News reports tried to blame the BLM movements for the riot while conservatives shouted bloody murder for the way peaceful protesters defended themselves. When the police finally released Donny and Naja, the White lieutenant tried a half-ass apology.

Sorry for the mix up—Friendly fire. Sometimes it’s hard to identify the good ones in a riot. Sometimes we have to fight in uncomfortable spaces.

Donny glared at the woman, I was born black—I’ve always fought in uncomfortable spaces.

He took Naja’s hand and limped out of the precinct.

Later that evening.

Racists mutha fuckas didn’t know who dey was fuckin with, Woody said after all the commotion was over, and they were all back at the house. He was still admiring his pistols.

Naja and Donny had collapsed on the sofa—tired as hell. The police had beat the shit out of them before officers were willing to realize the young couple were just defending themselves against a racist hate group calling themselves Proud Boys.

You’re still bleeding, Naja whispered to Donny. She was tending his wounds. I’m still glad we were there.

Donny grimaced, Those MAGA people stupid as hell. They gon let Trump get they ass killed for real.

Woody growled, Wish a mutha mucka would come at me with that racist bullshit—Man, and you gotta be careful painting so much political art.

Naja glared at woody, Black art is political art—

Donny whispered, Glad you was there, man. Don’t know if I could’ve held out any longer. Glad you had my back. Silence. You my right hand man.

Woody was looking at Naja as if waiting for her to thank him. She rolled her eyes.

You gonna always need me around to watch yo back, Woody said to Donny but looking straight at Naja. Yo Paintings ain’t never gon bring in the kind of money you really need. But that’s yo thang—I’m a real hustler. I’m gon stick to the dope game.

Now Naja couldn’t hold her tongue. A real hustler ain’t somebody who sell drugs—a real hustler is somebody that taught themselves more than one way to make money.

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One would think that there was some kind of street code of ethics, an honor among thieves, but those illusions were shattered not too soon after the last customer was served the last dime pack of crack cocaine through a small hole in the door of an abandoned storefront building on Linwood Avenue.

Naja and Woody were only two of a trio of brazen hustlers partnered in a crime of peddling despair to the neighborhood crackheads on the trashy westside of Detroit. They were counting money from the day’s receipts, smoking a blunt as they waited for Naja’s boyfriend Donny, the third member of the crime syndicate who had took a trip to Pontiac to meet up with a connection for more product. Donny and Woody had also sold dope together in a cluster of run-down buildings at the western edge of town called the Jeffries Projects. The main joint stood in the middle with the casino to the west and downtown to the south.

Woody and his rag-tag crew of ruffians held down one half of the projects, while Donny and Naja held down the other with good weed. Often the two crews worked together serving the diabolical habits of the fiends around the way, giving Woody many opportunities to know Naja who only respected him as the rough and rowdy nigga he was, beardless and broad shouldered from heavy workouts in jail. His big hands were usually calloused with the signs of an extracurricular occupation of a knockout artist. He was careless of his general appearance, so that he was not the kind of person Naja would normally hang out with, and now in her boyfriend’s absence she began to fear him, for it was obvious that he had become obsessed with her. Whenever she was in sight he stared at her lasciviously. Ignoring his own woman, he tried to situate himself so that Naja would have to pass just close enough and at each opportunity his hard-calloused hands reached for her thighs. She avoided him whenever possible, but the proximity in which they lived and worked made contact inescapable, and she grew to loath his sudden gestures of grabbing and touching and staring and instigating the creepiest notions of sex.

Behind closed doors, alone with him, was a contact sport of psychological torture.

One day he finally cornered her when his own girlfriend was in the next room dozing and was so disgusting in his behavior that Naja cried out, Nigga, umma tell Donny!

You ain’t gon do nothin but get dat nigga killed, Woody threatened, but Naja beat him about the face until he had to let her run panic-stricken to her apartment. While she huddled there alone, she could hear the rising of the wind blowing through the halls as a storm blew in from the north, bringing in the reality of winter to Detroit. The night would bring frost to some parts of the tri-county area; the homeless would hurry to their favorite shelter and families in the projects would don their warm clothes and cluster together around small kerosene heaters, listening to the winds howling through the apartment complex.

Michigan on the northeastern edge of the country was especially susceptible to these wintry storms, and immigrants from Europe who had always imagined coming to America’s free commerce society were often bewildered when they found Detroit as cold as their homelands. For Naja it was a miserable period. During the bleak winters she had always enjoyed being with her man, in the warmth of his arms and safe in his protection. Now alone in a crack house, she felt afraid to leave her cold room, one that she and Donny often used for privacy whenever they worked the Linwood spot, lest her man’s best friend try to molest her. Even now, when customers came knocking and calling her name, she kept to herself, praying for the swift return of her boyfriend from Pontiac. But the drought held up his connection, forcing him to stay away longer, and then the moment finally came when Woody felt brave enough to make a direct attack on her. He was impelled to do so by a curious logic with which he had convinced himself that she was hungry for his advances.

Look at her? Nice fat ass. Fine ass bitch with wide hips and me the only nigga in the hood strong enough to handle her. She’s alone in the spot with me sharing a blunt, she must want me to come to her. One look in those beautiful eyes tells me she wants to be loved. Her hands tremble nervously whenever I’m nearby.

He honestly believed that he was doing Naja a favor by approaching her, and this led to the conviction that she had, by sly games, invited him to do so. Consequently, in the middle of the morning, when he should’ve left after his shift was up, he slipped out the backdoor of the joint, scurried through the back alley to dart into the BP gas station for cigarillos and cigarettes. He went to the BP to see Abdulla Shaef Alshaef and his man-child son Yahya Abdulla Alshaef. The BP gas station was owned by this beautiful family from Yemen who secretly owned no less than ten of these gas stations around the city. Woody, assuring himself that his baby mama was preoccupied in the projects with her children, returned to t for a little amusement, busting into the room, appearing before her and suddenly grabbing and squeezing her butt.

He vigorously tried to kiss her, jamming a nasty tongue down her throat. She tried to push him away, but with a skill that he must’ve practiced in his imagination he pinned her arms with his body, used one hand to cover her mouth and another to throw aside his loose-fitting coat and unbuckle his pants so that he stood exposed and furious before her. Suddenly he started tearing away at her clothes while she kicked and struggled vainly against his superior force. When he had her nearly nude, he forced her to the floor, still keeping his hand over her mouth, and in a violent scene of rage and brutality tried to force his massive way into her. When the struggle reached its final stage, she was afraid that she was about to faint, for she was barely able to breath.

But when she felt his body stabbing at her, and his animal-like breath enveloping her, she fell into a desperate panic to protect herself, kicking at him with her knees and digging her nails into his face.

The unexpected pain enraged the boy, and with an uncontrollable blow with his fist he bruised her face and knocked her nearly unconscious. Unable to resist any further, she felt exhausted in a kind of wintry haze while he ravaged her.

When he was gone, she whispered to herself, Oh God— What the fuck am I gon do!?

And like many women who face this ultimate indignity she made a fatally bad decision. Alone and bleeding on the floor she was so mortified by what had happened that she did not immediately cry out. During the rape she had tired to do so. She had done all that a woman could do to defend herself, but her mouth had been smothered so that the cries she did utter were not heard. Now, when she heard customers within hearing distance, she remained mute in terror and shame, and the hours passed, stifling all sense of self.

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A cold rain fell on Detroit and winter was at hand. That night Woody reported to work with scratches across his face but glowing with an animal contentment. Satisfied that the silence of his home girl proved her pleasure in the morning tussle. He grinned at her with open longing, and she was distraught when she realized the interpretation he was placing on her muted behavior. Donny asked who had scratched up his face, and he replied, leering at Naja, A crack hoe who liked it rough.

The next two days were marked with terror. Outside, the storm continued, the dark clouds riding in from the river so that streets were hidden in the darkness while inside the crack house on Linwood Woody stalked his best friend’s girl like primitive hunters once stalked the lioness. Finally he trapped her near the kitchen, where with a grandiose gesture he grabbed his penis, revealing himself hard and hungry for her, confident that she too had been plotting for this moment, convincing himself that she loved him so secretly that he ignored her anguish to retreat. Moving toward her, he offered to repeat the game but this time she was prepared. Producing from her jacket a nickel plated 380. She stood ready to shoot him if he dared to touch her again, and for a moment he was halted by the surprising development. Then, with bewildering speed, he unbuckled his belt completely and with a deft faint towards her head caught her off guard, and with a quick hand wrestled away the pistol and with the other silenced her mouth before she could scream. It could’ve been game, Woody thought. It could have been that she pulled the weapon only so that she could be disarmed and overpowered, as if some kind of pleasure was heightening her wild responses to the sexual act. Responding to her strange sense of play, he struck her across the chin, and before she fainted, undressed her and threw her down on the floor.

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Donny had been going with Naja for two years, and his joy had not diminished. She was as perceptive as she was beautiful, and as affectionate with the neighborhood crackheads as she was with the neighbors around her housing projects. She wore her hair braided with a weaved in ponytail and loose strands of braided hair drawn down over her forehead so that her bronze bright face was framed in black. Naja lived most of her seventeen years of ghetto life inside the locked gates of an apartment on the twelfth floor of the projects, for her father had wisely anticipated trouble if such a lovely girl was allowed to be seen by the young men of the neighborhood. And after meeting Donny, her father had also asked her to stay close to home for that very same reason.

There had been many incidents where attractive young girls were raped and killed or kidnapped for sex trades, and the authorities could find no way to punish the male factors principally because the judges were reluctant to interpret rough play with project girls as in any way criminal. So for the next couple months, Naja worked the spot on Linwood with her boyfriend. She would’ve sold some pussy for him if it would have meant adventure with the boy she loved. She spent most of her time cooped up in a rat infested dump with a bag of crack rocks, getting to know the dope game and the dope fiends who had fallen in love with it. And here she shed a kind of radiance which made the condemned building livable.

She was not a streetwise person, but most of the time the boys wanted her to be with them during the toil of cooking up product, weighing and packaging nickel and dime packs. She was gifted for putting the right kind of cut to cocaine and heroine. Selling the weed was her idea. Best of all, she had a vivid imagination and loved to invent ways to cheer up an otherwise boring job. The trap house was doing close to five grand a day, mainly because it had been there for so long. It would get busted one day and there would be new crews setting up shop before the old crews probably got sentenced. It was a gold mine resting upon the ruins of its predecessors, reaching endlessly back in hood history. When Donny and Woody decided to break from the projects and set up their own solo project in the Linwood Dexter area where their will was imposed upon the neighborhood and would finally squeeze from its secret inner places the remnants of a once vital existence.

Donny was the quiet brainchild of the clique. His mother and father had been separated since he was an infant, so he lived mostly suspended between two existences; sometimes he’d stay with his father in Highland Park and other times he would go live with his mother, whenever he could find her, but mostly he would roam the city streets living here and there with aunts and grandmothers whenever he felt sentimental and missed his little sister who was being raised by his maternal grandmother. Donavon Taylor was an artist who fed and clothed himself off the imagination of a street hustler. Tall, slender, two years older than Naja with deep set eyes peering from beneath dark eyebrows, Donny had dimpled cheeks but full lips that were sexy when he smiled. His hair was kept layered in French braids always, and when he took his hair down it came well past his shoulders. He moved with the grace of a young man confident in his own ability to make money, who had been both a street solider and scholar. He was probably the best educated person of the trio; no one else completing high school yet, and having connections handed down from uncles, he got his cocaine and weed at extremely low prices. His greatest vice was the fact he smoked Black and Mild cigars, which he had a habit of twisting between two fingers until he came to some kind of sensible decision about money making matters.

People nicknamed him The Cigar and sometimes it was said, I wonder should I ask the cigar for a raise? Crack heads were like, Ask the cigar if I can go short.

Woody was the crazy one of the three; loved weed, liquor and money and had at least four baby mamas stalking him for child support. He was a thick dark skinned brother who could not read a lick but could count and do math at the college level. He had no family, no history, only raw drive. Together the trio was making large profits. Each was prepared to use their own mind, money and imagination as skillfully as they used a knife and a gun.

They were really protective of this new spot on Linwood and fought vigorously to keep it pumping until any neighborhood competition or haphazard crews were crushed. Donny wasn’t always at the spot serving customers, but when he was, his presence at any time meant that the highest standards would be enforced and that good spirits would be preserved among workers and customers alike. A lot of times, when he and Naja wanted to go on a real date and get away from the spot, when they couldn’t catch Woody on the cell, Donny would recruit his boy Gruff who he’d known since grade school at Franklin Elementary. Gruff was a cool operator, wanting only a few forty ounces of Miller Genuine Draft and maybe fifty dollars. He would sit in the spot sometimes two whole days. Naja liked Gruff, who was solidly trained and not given to nonsense at six-two and two hundred-thirty pounds.

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One March morning, at a motel in East Pointe where he had Naja stretched out naked in his bed after an exquisite session of lovemaking, Donny idly spotted a picture on the wall which at first glance teased his curiosity. It had been a different kind of picture from those ordinarily found in the room of a motel: A huge cherry tree sending forth the first flowers of spring. The trunk was gnarled several feet across and apparently dead, except that from it sprang one splendid branch which was vitally alive and about to be covered with flowers.

That’s a cool ass picture, he told Naja, kissing her inner thigh. It looks dead but then again it looks to be struggling to stay alive—the story of my life.

Dead!? She echoed in disbelief, talking still about the tree. It’s a painted picture of a bonsai tree, probably hundreds of years old. They’re famous in japan.

And with a few quick gestures she went into her Cass Technical mode of explaining how the Japanese prized such a tree above all others, for it reminds the viewer that it is ancient and near death, but that one powerful strain of life still pulsates through the bark. And as he was laying there enjoying the girl and the quiet motel and the tree in the picture frame, he caught something of the spirit of Japan and its strange values.

Know what? he said, entering her yet again, I wanna be able to paint shit like that. Paint stuff that make people feel shit.

Later that day Naja took him to both the African American Museum and the Detroit Institute of Arts, where they browsed many different paintings by many famous artists, and his pleasure in their beauty had been so evident that she immediately took him to Oakland mall and made him buy himself an easel and some brushes. When he smiled at her she beamed.

Now paint yourself a new life. Paint me a picture of success. She was uniquely pretty.

Donny put his arm around her and kissed her. On you there’s no blemish, he said lovingly, One day um gon get you outta these streets and put you on a red carpet. He kissed her again and spoke with his mouth smothered in her hair, I love you with all your heart. Just then his cellphone vibrated. Aye? he spoke into the mouthpiece. What up?

It was his father telling him that his mama was just taken to Henry Ford Hospital through emergency.

What happened!? He asked a little too loudly.

What’s wrong? Naja was reading his face—it was a look of terror.

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Donny and Naja drove to the hospital in his ‘89 Cutlass and met Bubble in the lobby. Bubble was Donny’s daddy, father and son looking like they could almost pass for twins. Bubble was a laid back old dude with a twenty year weakness for fat women and Christian Brothers brandy.

She had an asthma attack, he told Donny with Naja listening on. They found her in some run down flat over on Grand River. She ain’t never gon find a nigga care for her more than I did.

Where is she? Donny asked, ignoring his father’s usual complaints.

Bubble pointed toward a pair of double doors leading to triage, Back there some where. They won’t let me in.

Naja went to get some information while father and son talked. When she returned, she told the men that the receptionist had no information on the patient but that only one visitor was allowed to go back in the red area and find out what’s become of the patient. Donny and his father looked at one another for a moment, communicating in unspoken words and then Donny walked through the double doors. After the nurse gave him directions where Maggie Taylor was, Donny immediately strolled through the maze of corridors until he found the bed where his mother lay. She was still on a stretcher left in the hallway with an IV stuck in one arm. She smiled through the oxygen mask when she saw him.

You alright? He kissed her on the forehead. What they say?

Maggie was still a beautiful woman at the age of thirty-nine, her skin smooth and her hair hung clear down her back.

Hey baby, she wheezed, Mama’s alright. I thought I was having a heart attack, though. You lookin’ real good boy. She reached for his hand, Where your girlfriend?

Naja’s in the waiting room with Bubble, but we worried ‘bout you. Where you stayin?

Maggie winced in pain, I don’t wanna see Bubble, but you can tell Naja to come on back—

Mama, Bubble was the one who called me. Y’all need to talk—

I got a man! Old bitterness was whipped up instantly. Bubble can go to hell! She gasped for another breath, I’ll be home in a little while.

Where’s home, mama?

She went silent for a moment. I know you don’t like Tank, but he’s a good man, better than that no good daddy o’yours.

Donny scowled, Mama, that nigga got you living in the streets. Niecy don’t never see you. She’s only fifteen.

His mama seem to drift into some kind of trance, thinking of her fifteen year old daughter.

Your granny mama takes damn good care of Niecy. Imma go see ‘bout her once I get on my feet.

Donny sighed, But ma, Niecy need you right now. Tell you what—I’ll make you a deal. If you want to have your own place, I’ll find one and pay all the bills. Me, you and Niecy can all stay there all by ourselves—

Naja will be there, won’t she? You should go ‘head and marry that nice girl and make me some grand babies. She gave him a stern look, Do somethin’ for her Donny, and do somethin’ for both of y’all—get that girl outta them damn dope houses.

I’ll do that if you do something for Niecy and get her outta granny mama’s house. That old lady got her over there hostage for a monthly check and a bridge card.

Don’t you talk like that ‘bout your granny—she’s a good Christian woman.

Donny sat on the end of the bed. Mama, he whispered.

Huh?

I miss us having our own.

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He looked around the house in disgust. It was no better than the crack house he worked out of, exactly the same pitiful atmosphere except the dope house wasn’t so infested with rats and roaches. He shook his head and stared at his mama.

Baby you gotta get outta here, he told her, watching her boyfriend’s grandkids squabble over some old broken up Xbox controller, bad ass kids running around with shitty diapers, couldn’t even wipe their own ass but could give the average grown-up a run for their money. Donny sat on the edge of the chair, daring not to relax, for the chair felt as if it would collapse.

Mama, don’t you worry ‘bout nothing, okay. Umma take care of everything.

Got a cigarette? she asked, hands trembling, in need of a drink. She noticed that he was looking. Don’t worry, Donavon. I haven’t had a drink in three days.

He knew she had lied. The house was a rundown flat on Steele Street, off Fenkle Avenue. The whole neighborhood was no better than any other ghetto on the west side. The spring season would no doubt bring out the hibernating madness, dawning a brand new era of crime and punishment. Donny stared out the window, wishing he’d brought Naja along. She and his mama always enjoyed each other’s company, and it would have meant a good lift for them both.

Baby, what you worried ‘bout? She lit her cigarette. Donny didn’t have any to give her, so she had gotten one from her boyfriend. Tank was a muscle of a man, medium height, with a sprinkle of gray about his hair. He was stone-faced and known to get crazy when he had Vodka in his system.

Baby um talking to you—what you thinking ‘bout!? She pushed again, but Donny was staring at Tank now who was rolling up Bugler tobacco on a makeshift coffee table. Donny was still ignoring his mama when he decided to approach her nigga. He did not attempt to break his stride, but signaled the man toward the back of the house.

Lemme holla at you, was all the boy said, and Tank licked his last cigarette paper and followed Donny into the kitchen.

If you really love her, Donny began when they had modicum of privacy, Get her the fuck outta here! She deserves better than this shit—

Tank humbled himself at the boy’s concerns, never saying a word, only nodding slowly.

I really believe you care, Donny admitted grudgingly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of bills. Take this and get yo shit together. He peeled off five hundred dollar bills. Please don’t hurt her.

The man crumbled the money into a dingy shirt pocket. I never lay a hand on ha, he finally whispered.

Donny shook his head and sighed, gesturing the filthy walls and floors, This is hurting her, he said. And nope, you haven’t lifted a hand.

I see what you mean, answered Tank. I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of yo mama—

You betta, said Donny. Or else I’ll kill ya. He walked away somberly, feeling assured his money was in sober hands. He kissed his mama on the lips and grabbed his coat.

Where you going? she asked, standing wobbly on her feet now. Stay and eat sumptin, I cooked beans and neck bones—

He hugged his mama and slid two hundred dollar bills in the pocket of her robe, You should be cooking for your own family—Niecy needs you now.

Maggie sighed embarrassingly and put her head down. I know Donny, she said. I know.

She watched as her only son walked out of the door and got in his car, smiling as she discovered the money he hid in her pocket. That boy— she whispered in thought. A tear fell.

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They lived on Louise Street right off Hamilton in Highland Park. The small city was a ghost town compared to Detroit, but there seemed to be more fire and ice concentrated within its gruesome alleys. The city was suffering the ruins of bankruptcy where taxpayers saw no returns on their investments towards water and sewage, police and fire departments, as well as parks and recreation. The streets had been taken over by crime and despair. The police were not only killing people at an alarming rate but robbing local drug dealers also. Woodward from Six Mile to Davidson was nothing but a commerce of whore traffic, drug wars and gay bars. To survive growing up in the streets of Highland Park was to take the devil by the tail and spin him on his ass. Highland Park was once a very beautiful place. Some people cherished fond memories, but to some it was the jaws of a great and terrible beast, devouring lives and spitting on graves. One lost soul was Mattie Jackson, Donny’s grandmother; a stubborn relic of bold ancestry and sheer bible faith. She looked at Donny as if he was a sex-crazed suitor come to trick the panties off her granddaughter.

Boy, why you ain’t in church or working somewheres?

She held the door only halfway open with one hand boldly resting on a hip. Donny said nothing just simply smiled lest he would unleash the fury of her religious wrath.

She would whip him with the bible the way an abusive father would beat up on a juvenile delinquent.

Take yo hat off in my house—Boy, you know better! She probably thought it would raise her light bill. And before he was beyond the threshold, his little sister greeted him with a hearty call.

Donny! she hollered with a leaping hug.

Mrs. Mattie rolled her eyes and shook her head before walking away toward the kitchen. Niecy was a stunning child, petite—small boned, beautiful, bright-eyed, a pleasure to be around. She was very smart too, with an unusual capacity to memorize things. Donny called her a walking encyclopedia. The most commendable thing about her was that if she didn’t know something, she said so.

Hey, baby girl, he kissed her on the forehead. Doing good in school?

Hell yeah, she cussed without surprise.

She had learned a lot from her grandmother, who could quote bible verses one minute and the next minute cut a person off at the knees with words shaming a gutter whore. Brother and sister sat down in the living room, which was no better than a roped-off museum of old pictures and funeral parlor curtains.

Hell naw! yelled Mrs. Mattie, Now y’all know better—this living room’s for company. Come on in the kitchen. She disappeared from the doorway.

We never have company, said Niecy. She always worried about her fifty year old furniture. I hate living here. She act like an old drill sergeant.

They walked into the kitchen and Donny was quickly reminded why he ran away. He and his grandmother couldn’t stand each other sometimes, she had her religious doctrines and him with a ruggedness inherited from his father’s side of the family. They endured one another, while undercurrents of old rivalries loomed.

You ate something—You hungry? Mrs. Mattie would always serve up the best of her soul food, unconditionally.