When We Were Young Page 8

furrowed forehead, the jaunty tilt of her head, and probing eyes all served to affirm that sentiment. Her usual, naturally authoritative manner added to my discomfort, causing me to plunge even deeper into confusion.

  “Naw, naw, Annette, on my way over here to bring you guys’s gift, I bumped into Benny, and girl, you know how things can get with him, I mean, the boy was really on a good one this morning,” I stammered in a rush of words.

  Her alarmed expression and a deep, sharp intake of breath behind me combined to knock me completely off kilter. When I turned around and discovered Darlene, I became totally overwhelmed and discombobulated, so much so that I never heard her emotion-filled question.

  “My daddy! You seen my daddy? Where’s he at?”

  In near panic I slammed shut the curtains of my eyelids and shook my head vigorously as I struggled to slow the torrid pace of the multitude of thoughts, visions, and conflicting emotions racing through my head. Annette…Sheila! Frieda…Darlene! Sheila…Darlene, Frieda…Annette! The four, who were two, and yet still four, each jockeyed for control of my thoughts and my full attention.

  As a backdrop, Benny stood pointing his lifelong accusatory finger, indicting me anew. Even farther back loomed the larger-than-life apparition that was Mitchell. His lips were moving and I was certain that he was shouting, “Dammit, bro, what’da fuck ya doin’ here?”

  “Are you all right?” inquired Frieda, who was in fact Annette.

  “Where’s my daddy at?” yelled Darlene. Or was she really Sheila?

  “Here, I just came to bring this!” I shouted as I flung the wad of bills toward my daughter, who was too much like Annette for me to face at that moment. Then I turned, rushed through and out her front door, and limped quickly toward Santa Fe Avenue.

  “Wait, Pops!”

  “Where my daddy at?”

  “Fuck you and yo fifty dollars! Ya fucked up my life, nigga!”

  “Dammit, bro!”

  “Grow up, Milton. Shit, things happen in life.”

  I could not count how many times the combined voices of Annette, Benny, Sheila, Darlene, and Mitchell shouted out, pursuing me as I peg-legged as fast as I could. Thankfully, with each successive step they diminished in volume and I didn’t feel so constricted. And once I shot past that big, shiny Budweiser beer truck, all was silent. I didn’t hear a thing, and I didn’t feel anything, either.

  “So, Sheila, where’s Annette?” I asked. My head moved constantly from side to side.

  I marveled at the divergent terrains that I saw. On my left, there were groves of trees, crystal-clear waters, and people dressed in flowing white robes wandering about. They appeared very content, at peace, and everything was green, full of life. I heard soft music playing. I believe it was from flutes.

  The view to my right depicted a barren, empty, dust-colored land. For miles all I saw were big rocks, granite boulders, smoke, and I heard a low, rumbling, hissing sound. And there were no people in sight.

  “She went over there,” replied Sheila, pointing to my right. “You know her, Miss Goodie Two Shoes, always trying to save other people’s souls. This time it’s Mitchell she’s gone searching for,” she added with a snicker. “Man, imagine her surprise last year when I showed up over here on this side. Took me two years to get outta all dat hot dust. But I made it, no thanks to her or to you, Milton,” said Sheila.

  I could hear her voice rising and her tone becoming angry. “Sheila, Sheila, Sheila. Girl, when will you ever learn to stop carrying grudges?” I asked in anguish. I closed my eyes and shook my head. I was weary.

  “Dammit Milton, you’re still taking her side,” shouted Sheila. Her voice suddenly seemed to be coming from far away this time. “See what’cha done now, always defendin’ her? Now I gots to go back to da other side. All your fault, your fault, Milton!” she shrieked.

  I opened my eyes and turned right, toward the sound of Sheila’s voice. Out in the distance I spotted a dark, shadowy figure jumping up and down, shouting all kinds of obscenities toward me. The voice became indecipherable and eventually ceased altogether.

  “Milton Paige,” a deep echo sounded out.

  I looked around, searching for the source. I saw nothing.

  “Milton Paige,” that voice repeated.

  I grew frightened and I started to feel foolish, like I did quite often when we were young.

  “Ba-ba-but, but if Annette is over there, an-and I just saw Sheila; dat...that means that…that means that I-I’m…that I’m…”

  • The End •

  About the Author

  Born on Laney Plantation in Helena, Arkansas, W.F. Redmond grew to manhood on the mean streets of Compton, California and on the killing floors of San Quentin and Folsom prisons. He is the author of the critically acclaimed breakout novel, Slapped by Injustice; the two-book epic saga The Compton Connection, Coming of Age and Heat; the soon-to-be-released Midwest thriller All is Fair in Hate, and what is sure to be next year’s period piece of the decade, Arkansas Has Rainy Nights Too.

  He is in the lab currently, working on more literary surprises and striving to add his name to the must-have list of every reader in America.