Unspeakable

UNSPEAKABLE

Michael-Christopher

MC Books

P.O. Box 75313

Washington, D.C. 20013

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www.michael-christopher.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright ©2008

Digital Release ©2013

Michael-Christopher

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the written permission of the publisher.

Edited by Lisa C. Moore

Design/Photography: MC

Printed in the United States

UNSPEAKABLE: A novel by Michael-Christopher

ISBN 0-9710398-9-5 • ebook

ISBN 0-9710398-6-0 • print

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Special thanks to Ransom Washington, Ricardo Nueville and Alonzo Lowery for your research assistance and most of all, your friendship.

Thanks, Mom & Dad, for your love, guidance and support.

I love you dearly.

To Clarence* J. Fluker: If it weren’t for your assistance, expertise and friendship, I wouldn’t be able to do this. Thank you.

To Elgin L. Grove, Sr.: Your contribution to this project was invaluable. Thank you so much for your love and support.

Many thanks, to all who loved and supported From Top to Bottom. Your compliments and enthusiasm has touched me greatly and is much appreciated.

* * *

UNSPEAKABLE

PROLOGUE

I thought the late night drive home to Philly would be therapeutic but I was wrong. I usually enjoy traveling at night when the roads are bare, feeling like it’s my personal runway so I can switch into autopilot and clear my mind. Sometimes, it seems as if I’ve actually left my body or like someone else is driving while I relax on the passenger’s side, chilling to R&B jams playing on the stereo. But that’s not happening tonight. Tonight, despite the brisk November air blowing on my face through the cracked window, my head is flooded with thoughts and feelings I’ve been trying to avoid. That’s why I’m running.

I know I’m already starting to sound like an ass—a typical, no-good black man, running away from his problems like some immature child—but really, I’m not that man. I’m a brother who cares about and is active in his community. I’m more than willing to lend a hand to friends and family, and I’m a Washington, D.C. schoolteacher, in Southeast, for god’s sake. D.C. public schools aren’t overflowing with applications for teachers, that’s for sure. You can’t get much more dedicated than that. I’m even a good boyfriend. I was until...well, the end.

Yeah, this has to do with relationship woes. We were really going good and it looked like we were going to go the distance, you know? I was practically moved in, we were talking about getting a place together, but out of nowhere, shit just got all complicated. So, I broke out.

It all happened so damned fast. One minute things were just fine, then the next thing I know we’re having irreconcilable differences. We had a lot of love in our relationship. Love, affection and honesty were things we both gave freely, but everyone has their breaking point—that button that gets pushed and sends you over the edge. Well, mine got pushed and off I went.

It’s probably not what you think. There wasn’t any anger and I wasn’t growing tired of our relationship, nor was I being purposely provoked. Things just got too scary for me. And it wasn’t about commitment either. I was in love. Was? Hell, I still am. We all got shit with us and what was going on toward the end got too close to mine.

Funny thing is, the place I’m running to is where all of my mess began. I guess that’s why I’m feeling the way I’m feeling right now. Confused, scared…and nauseated. But where else do you go when you need guidance and understanding but home?

I don’t even know how to do this turning to others for help thing. Usually, I’m the one people come running to when they’re in need. My mother, my brothers, my best friends—they all call on me when they need money, a helping hand and, to a degree, emotional support. I’m their rock.

I guess it’s because I’m a pretty strong, sturdy guy, physically, that I make people feel safe. I suppose it comes with the territory of being a six-one, two hundred and ten pound middle school Phys. Ed. and health teacher. And my kids all love me mainly because, for most of them, I’m the only positive and consistent male figure in their lives. I love being there for them, and I love helping the people in my life.

I also hate to disappoint people. That’s partly why I had to leave. I tried to make things work in my relationship, but it was beyond me. When I couldn’t be the man I was expected to be, what other choice did I have but to let things go? I mean, why continue if things were no longer what either of us wanted them to be?

Of all things, it had to do with sex, but it’s a lot bigger than that. I’m not even ready to go there in my own head, let alone talk about it with someone else. I don’t even know who I could discuss it with. Definitely not family, and my boys, well, that’s just too much sharing right there. Normally, I’d just put on my strong, silent face and keep it all inside, but I’m not sure I can do it this time. This time it’s serious. I’ve lost a very special part of me that will not easily be replaced and I don’t know how I’m going to handle it. I’ve lost my life’s rhythm, my step, my light. I’ve lost the one thing on Earth that gave me unfailing joy.

No. Actually, I threw it away. But like I said, I hit the wall. My very essence was at stake. I had to leave.

Virgil, please forgive me for leaving you like this. I love you, man.

CHAPTER ONE

It was just after eleven o’clock when I pulled up to my mom’s crib. I parked as close as I could to her row house on her narrow Philadelphia street. That house represents so much more than just a home; it tells the story of my mother’s character. She was the youngest girl of five children, raised by hardworking, God-fearing parents. I’m sure you’ve heard the single mother story before. Girl meets boy. Girl thinks they’re in love. They get married and have kids. Then boy gets restless and starts hanging out late at night. Boy starts coming home the next morning. Finally, boy doesn’t come home at all. Ever. Mom says she doesn’t know what went wrong. She’s not a glamorous woman, but she’s most definitely attractive, and even more so back in the day. Alone, Tonya Franklin raised three boys and put herself through school.

We were all pretty young when that was going on, so I don’t remember much. I assume things were good at some point. Me—Rodney—I’m the middle child and have few memories of my dad, but by the time I was four he was already acting up. My oldest brother, Tre, the one in jail, remembers him the most, but DeShawn, the baby, hardly remembers him at all. Through it all, Mom remained strong, never complained and continued to love and care for us.

As I got out of the car and walked up to the gate, I was reminded that this wasn’t our first home. Our first home was in a whole other neighborhood—a bad neighborhood. The projects, in fact, in a section called the Valley. It didn’t get unbearable until the ‘90s after crack was in full swing. Before then, it was your typical lower middle class, black, urban hood. There were lots of kids to hang with, a playground nearby and our school was in walking distance. Mom would let Tre take DeShawn and me outside to play until dark, but that stopped when one of the local dealers gave Tre some rock cocaine to sell. He told him he didn’t even have to pay for it. He could sell it and keep whatever he got. Tre never sold that rock. Mom found it, took it from him and flushed it down the toilet. Nonetheless, that experience was all he needed to become intrigued with making fast money.

Tre was a kid who bought into the materialism and self-serving attitudes of the street. His biggest aspiration was to buy a car so he could put fancy rims on it, install a boomin’ sound system, get a gigantic spoiler and tint the windows. The only problem was, he didn’t have a job to get his dream ride.

Tre wanted to live large, but didn’t want to work for his wealth. Working for some white man for minimum wage wasn’t happening. He found that to be a massive waste of time. He hated authority, did poorly in school, and had no work ethic whatsoever, so dealing was the only thing that appealed to him. He didn’t seem to care that he was poisoning his own community to get what he wanted. In the end, he got what he deserved. Ten years. I can’t say I felt sorry for him. I loved my brother and all, but I was never down with what he did.

DeShawn, he’s a lot like Tre in many ways, but after what went down with her oldest boy, Mom wasn’t playing. DeShawn was a fight-the-power, down-with-the-man, gonna-get-mines type kid. He wasn’t as hard-as-nails like Tre, but he still had a similar street edge. DeShawn wasn’t so much into selling drugs as he was into using them. Tre never saw the problem with DeShawn getting high, but of course Mom did.

DeShawn, I believe, was very distraught over never knowing our father and used weed to soothe his anger. He’d gotten himself arrested and charged with being under the influence of a controlled substance. Luckily for him, he only got probation and did some community service, as it was his first offense. After his probation was over Mom sent his ass down South to live with our Aunt Sheila. Her husband owns a small construction company and DeShawn’s been working full-time with him since he got his GED.

Where do I fit in with these wonderful brothers of mine? I was the one my mother guarded with her life. As Tre allowed his life to spin out of control, Mom was right there to point out every bad decision, letting me know that could be me if I didn’t do right. For a while, we were inseparable, Mom and me. While Tre was out on the street, and DeShawn was glued to the television, I would be helping Mom and she would be helping me. She got me excited about my schoolwork, reading and learning, and I’d help her clean, cook and take care of home. We were extremely close. She would tell me stories of how she came through her adversity by choosing the right path and not being tempted by the streets. There was plenty of trouble for a young girl to get in. It’s hard for me to envision my moms as a hooker or stripper, but hell, plenty of those girls were somebody’s momma. My mom was my role model and I’ve always loved her madly. I wanted to be just like her.

I rang the doorbell, shivering and hunched over for warmth in my Redskins jacket and cap, my duffel bag slung across my back. The door swung open and there was Mom in her sky blue sweats and slippers with her hair wrapped up.

Boy, is that all you wore? Mom said, already fussing.

Hey, Mom, I responded with a hug and kiss, not wanting to fuel a nagging session.

Hey, baby! she sung with a smile. After releasing our embrace, we looked each other in the eye for a second. While attempting to hold on to our smiles, we both mourned the years that had passed us by. I noticed a few more wrinkles and grey hairs and I’m sure she took notice of my shifting hairline when she took my cap and jacket. You really need a warmer coat, Rodney. Maybe I’ll get you one for Christmas. Something that will protect you from the cold a little better.

Thanks, Mom, that’d be fine, I agreed. I’m sure I could think of plenty other things that I’d rather get for Christmas than a wool coat that I’d wear twice a year, but I’ve learned to just go ahead and let Mom be a mom.

Come on in, child, she said. I’m sure you didn’t drive all this way just to stand up in the hallway. As I followed my mother through the dark hallway, past the living room and into the kitchen where she was making coffee, a familiar urge came over me. I felt like reaching for her hand to be led, like I’d done many times as a child, yearning for the parental guidance I’d needed so desperately. She reached up into the cabinet and got a mug for me and set it on the table, marking my place to be seated. You hungry? I got some leftovers in the refrigerator. Even though her generosity was more than sincere, I could tell she was filling up the empty space. My hunger wasn’t what was on the forefront of her mind. I knew that just as well as she did. She wanted to know what was going on with me and why her only self-sufficient son was showing up on her doorstep so late at night.

Sure, what’cha got? I said, prolonging the inevitable conversation. Avoidance aside, my moms can cook. I wouldn’t turn down her food even if I’d just eaten. Mom shuffled over to the fridge and pulled out some of her famous fried chicken, mashed potatoes, collard greens and corn bread while I sat there, mouth watering.

All your favorites, she said, uncovering the pots and pans and making a plate.

Mom, everything you cook is my favorite, I said. She just smiled warmly. Mom ignored the compliment, not out of conceit but from humility. She never liked to be fussed or fawned over. What she did in the kitchen was an expression of love from her to her family. She never demanded praise for that.

After dishing out the food, she turned to open the microwave oven, and placed the plate inside. I’ll be sure to fry up some more chicken for you to take home to Virgil, before you leave.

There it was: the lead-in. I wasn’t sure what to do.

I didn’t know whether to just say thanks, change the subject and keep the chicken for myself or tell her that Virgil and I weren’t together anymore. I decided to just smile and stay silent.

How’s he doing?

She wasn’t giving up that easy. She could tell I was avoiding the subject. She knew she struck a nerve.

Mom, I said, followed by a pause and a sigh. We’re not together right now.

Oh, baby, I’m sorry, she said, placing a comforting hand on my head and rubbing it. Are you all right? Talk to your mama.

I don’t think you really want to hear this, Mom, I warned her.

Rodney, you know you can talk to me about anything. I’m fifty-seven years old. Ain’t too much going on in this world that I don’t know about.

I had to hand it to my mom, she’s always been real open-minded. She probably had less hang-ups than I did, but still, I felt uncomfortable coming to her with my man-to-man relationship problems. Son or not, she didn’t want to hear the gory details. Hell, I didn’t even want to think about it.

Mom was always supportive of me, regardless of my same-sex attraction. I suppose me going to college and staying out of jail made up for all that. Compared to Tre and DeShawn, I was her perfect child. I remember when I told her I was attracted to men; she didn’t seem too surprised or upset. It could have been the fact that I never had a serious girlfriend. Even though I was an athlete through most of my years in school, no jock is that focused on sports that he doesn’t have time to hit a few cheerleaders every now and then. But when I told her I didn’t want to go to the prom because there weren’t any girls I particularly liked, I think that’s when she started putting two and two together. She ended up making me take my next-door neighbor’s niece, Shawnna. I made Shawnna swear not to tell anyone who she was or how the date came about, and when the prom was over, I took her back to her house and went home myself.

I was a quiet, shy kid, but I was good at sports. Football and basketball were my escape. I didn’t have to talk to anyone, I didn’t have to explain things or talk about my feelings. I could just ball. I was satisfied just playing at the neighborhood playground or in the street, but after things started getting bad around the block, and that stuff with Tre, Mom didn’t want me out on the street as much, so I had to play on the school teams. At first I was cool with it, but when people started noticing that I had game, I started getting a little too popular. My objective with playing was to blend in and be a part of something rather than just being myself. Disappearing. Instead, I was standing out, which was the exact opposite of what I intended to do. As a result, girls started talking to me and trying to date me. Some even threw themselves at me, which made me completely uneasy.

When I first made the connection between making a winning basket or touchdown and my newfound junior high school fame, I did the unthinkable for an athlete. I purposely became less spectacular on game day. I figured if I was just a mediocre player, I wouldn’t stand out as much and wouldn’t have to deal with folks—girls—anymore. The problem with that was we already had enough average players on the team, and if I wasn’t playing like a first-string player, I had to sit out. That wasn’t the plan either. It wasn’t just being on the team that put my mind at ease; it was performing. So, the next chance I got, I was back to my old self and back starting again. As for the girls, well, I blamed my apparent lack of interest on my fictitiously strict and overly religious mother who didn’t allow me date.

I never felt quite right around girls, anyway. I had little self-confidence, I didn’t think I was all that good-looking and I didn’t feel I had the kind of personality a lot of girls were looking for. They were attracted to the handsome boys, the funny guys or the brothers with the street swagger. I didn’t feel as if I fit into any of those categories or had anything else to offer them. I didn’t feel worthy. Actually, I felt dirty.

I eventually caved in and started having sex. When the football or basketball team would hang out together at parties, it was inevitable that one of their girlfriends had a friend who wanted to meet me. Just my luck, most of these girls were fine. After rejecting them time and time again, my manhood started to be questioned. I had to save face.

I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t even remember the name of the first girl I had sex with. One night, we’d crashed a party in another neighborhood across town. It was at some girl’s house I’d never seen before whose parents were away. She seemed like a nice girl, and was very pretty, but she started coming on strong while we danced. I can still recall the names of the songs we danced to, but not her name. I saw my boys watching nearby, waiting for me to ditch her when our dance was through. They were ready to clown me and call me all kinds of punks and faggots, but I didn’t let that happen. She asked me up to her room, I went and I lost my virginity. She’d obviously already misplaced hers.

Sex with the forgotten girl felt more like something I had to do, rather than something I wanted to do. I can’t say I enjoyed much of it until I came. We didn’t kiss, there was no oral sex or foreplay and very little fondling. It wasn’t passionate, romantic or filled with desire. We just got right down to the act. The whole time, all I could think about was the football team. As I was doing this girl I could distinctly see the faces of each one of my teammates. I knew they were downstairs taking bets on whether or not I was actually upstairs fucking or having an intelligent, heart to heart with our hostess. Desmond and Paul were calling me a fag, I was certain, but Jarvase, Marquese and Kevaughn, they had my back then, just as they did on the field. The look on our faces as we came downstairs let them know that we had indeed got busy. It also got them off my back.

I know you’re here for me Mom, I said, I’m just not ready to talk about it right now.

Whenever you’re ready son. Momma’s not going anywhere.

Thanks, Mom, I said, looking up at her with a smile as she set my plate before me.

So, what are you going to be doing while you’re here? she asked.

"I thought I’d look