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  When We Were Young

  W.F. Redmond

  WHEN WE WERE YOUNG

  Copyright © 2012 by W.F. Redmond

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form—mechanically, electronically, or by any other means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system—without permission in writing from the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-938727-04-7

  Dedication

  To date all of my work has been dedicated to Rosie Lee and SaLisa, my mother and daughter, for they have inspired me to become a better person. However, in addition it must be said that I dedicate this project to Sandra and Deirdre, the other two-thirds of the SANDEIJUN team. Without them, and God, none of this would be possible.

  To Sherita and Shelonda, my much-loved daughters; the only thing perfect about me is my love. And along with SaLisa, you two own huge condos in my heart.

  To Tracy, Meredith, Janet, and Donna; you ladies are the epitome of friendship and I love you all.

  To Richard Mejico, founder of Criminals and Gangmembers Anonymous; the program works miracles in freeing us from lifestyle entanglements. I am free and so are many because of your stick-to-it-ness. I miss you, my friend, and so does C.G.A.

  Finally, to Judge Steve White; a truer and more firm friend could never be found. Your faith and trust in me has pushed me to higher heights than I ever thought possible. Thank you!

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I wish to acknowledge the “Wordsmith,” Cris Wanzer. Thanks for believing in me and hopping aboard the W.F. Redmond express. For us as a team, the very best is yet to come! 

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  About the Author

  • 1 •

  “Come on Sheila, ya don’t really believe that, do you, girl?” I asked in consternation.

  Silence. Always silence from her every time I pointed out just how ridiculous she sounded making such an outlandish accusation.

  “Well, shit, Milt. Why in da fuck shouldn’t I think so?” spat Sheila venomously, rolling her big, caramel-colored eyes to accentuate her point.

  Man, talk about shock. I was speechless. All I could do was stare down at her petite, diminutive figure as she glared up at me defiantly. Though she stood only 5’2” — a full foot shorter than my 6’2” and change (I know because we’d measured ourselves a couple of times when we were young) — Sheila more than made herself my equal with attitude, energy, and smarts.

  “Ba-but come on now, girl. In order for Annette to wreck her car by ramming into that Sparkletts Water truck just to get back at you after so many years, she would’ve had to hate you more than she loved life. That’s hard to believe, don’cha think?” I stated, trying my best to interject a bit of logic into our conversation.

  She took one small step backward and craned her neck upwards, as if by doing so she could see me better, or some other such Sheila Knightism.

  “Thas, th-that’s entirely possible. You yourself know that the woman has always been jealous of me, constantly accusing me of interfering in her marriage. Knowing her ass the way I do — shit, like we both do — who knows what a wife who has been cheated on her entire marriage, and even before, might’a been thinking? Shit, dat girl might’a just got ta where she couldn’t take it no more and decided to end it all, and to take me wit her. But she could never do no wrong in your eyes. Pure, clean, innocent, holier-than-thou Annette Reed. Yo ass is constantly making her good and me bad, just ’cause of one stupid mistake. But she wasn’t perfect, Milton, no more’n I was. Stop making excuses for her!”

  I knew right then that the conversation was over, or at least anything resembling rationality had run its course. Since ninth grade, when I’d transferred to Stevens Junior High School in Long Beach, from Vanguard in the city of Compton, the Reeds, the Knights, the Paiges, and — well, I suppose if the truth is to be maintained, I must include the Calhouns. In any event, our four families had been connected since I was 15, and by more than just the fact that we all lived on the 3200 block of Gale Street on the Westside of Long Beach, California. Suddenly, it was almost like I was standing there all by myself and there was no Sheila berating me.

  •

  “Boy, hurry up with that box and go git another’n,” ordered my mother. She stood beside the rented truck, decked out in jeans and a man’s old Pendleton shirt, staring at me, obviously trying to be patient.

  Although I heard her loud and clear, I didn’t move or respond. How could I? Movement for me was held at a standstill, locked into immobility by a set of eyes which, from the 10-foot distance separating us, appeared more tan than brown.

  “Milton Paige, git’cho ass in gear. Dere’s plenny’a work dat needs ta be done, right now!” screamed my mother, using her no-nonsense tone.

  More than her direct command, which usually caused all five of her kids to jump in terror, it was the loud, heckling laughter emanating from all around me that broke the spell and caught my attention. When I glanced to my left, I saw a brown-skinned kid who stood about my height, but was much broader in the chest and shoulders. And if looks could kill, they could’ve fitted me for a coffin and written my epitaph then and there. Rays of rage bounced off him toward me. To my right stood a fine-boned girl with long, silky hair and an angelic face, dressed in homely clothing. When our eyes locked, she at least had the courtesy to stop laughing. She even flashed me a warm smile, which I returned fully.

  “Boy, what da devil dun got in’ta you? They charges extra if we don’t git dis truck back by 5:00, and we gots at least two more trips back to our old place. Now quit’cha stallin’ and git a move on, ya hear me?” barked Iva Jean Paige.

  This time I jumped so hard that I banged my shin into the metal bed frame that my youngest brothers, Neal and Norman, were lugging into the house. Again there was a brief round of snickers, which caused me to hunch my shoulders and shrink in shame. This time, even the tiny girl with the big afro hairstyle and cat-colored eyes laughed at me uproariously. My humiliation was complete.

  •

  “Dammit, Milton, are you even listenin’ to me? Milton. M-i-l-t-o-n!” screamed Sheila, snatching me back from memories of that very first day on Gale Street some 44 years earlier. “Thas it, tired of your ass ignoring me. But she kilt me, took my life, left my kids all by themselves. And it’s all your fault. Ya always favored her over me. Well, we’re both dead now, and you’re by yourself,” whined Sheila as she slowly faded out.

  Oh damn, it’s just a dream. I jerked myself awake. “Whew,” I exhaled. Not again. For three long years, differing versions of my recurring nightmares of that fateful day, December 24, 1999, had haunted me. That was the day that changed so much in my life; the day when it all came crashing down on me. It was the day that I lost it all — the only love I’d ever known, and the day that all three of my children became motherless.

  I lay in bed under the covers taking a slow inventory of my body parts. They seemed to all be in place. The room was chilled. I could tell because my left foot hung over the side of the mattress and the sheet at that end was cold. I jerked my foot back under the protection of my blankets, instantly intertwining my legs into a pretzel. It felt good. Almost against my will, my mind drifted back to the dream I’d just been mercifully rescued from. I say “rescued” because whether it was Sheila or Annette pointing accusatory fingers at me, it made no difference. They were both dead, run down by the drunk driver of a Sparkletts Water truck. The tragic accident was mad
e all the more devastating because it happened one day before Christmas, three years ago.

  That fact alone would’ve been enough to send my world into a tailspin and me into a depression. But because it was my idea, nay, my insistence that they go shopping for our kids and grands that day, together, I’d been haunted ever since. I felt guilt because although the two of them didn’t want to be in each other’s company, I was persistent. I even felt guilty because my pension and disability checks had arrived late — matters out of my control. But I had spent years lamenting the fact that the late arrival of the checks necessitated that ill-fated, late shopping trip. The main source of my guilty feelings was the fact that I’d played a dirty trick to get them both to my house at the same time, in what had to have been my millionth attempt to bring an end to the enmity, rancor, and discord between the mothers of my three children and grandmothers of my eight grands.

  Guilt, guilt, guilt. So much guilt and grief that no matter which of the two dead women haunted my sleep — and both did on a regular basis — it left me shaken and ridden with anguish and guilt. Today being Christmas Eve made Sheila’s little visit even more poignant and heart wrenching for me. Hard to believe that it’d been three whole years. I often wondered if it would always be this way. People seem to be fascinated with the word “closure.” Huh. So far, all I’d experienced was misery, guilt, self-recrimination, rage, and