Chapter Twenty-Eight

Douglas Barnes hated his mother. At one point in time, this wasn’t the case. During the day, they’d watch Sesame Street together, and she would point out the little black boy on the screen. “See, he knows his letters. You can learn yours too.” They’d sit and sing the ABCs, and his mother kept her hair nice and sometimes even wore lipstick. But then something bad happened to Auntie Anette. She died and everyone was sad. He assumed his mother was, too, because she kept her pajamas on during the day, and instead of Sesame Street, she put on soaps that taught Douglas you could never really trust a person. They could pretend to love you and then end up having an evil twin sister they’d pay to finish you off.

The world was never predictable.

That’s why Douglas had long ago vowed that he would control every inch of it he could. He started out doing that by getting good grades, relieved that he no longer had to be taught by Luke and Laura and the rest of the General Hospital gang, but soon enough he found a much easier and beneficial way to stay ahead of the game: call the shots and make sure others were listening.

As early as second grade he was rolling dice and taking bets at recess like he’d watch his father do in the backyard. It started with McDonald’s happy meal toys, but soon the boys wanted Douglas’s respect, so the winnings graduated to cold hard cash and even things they stole from their parents like earrings and wristwatches. He got found out eventually, which was his first (but certainly not his last) foray into the principal’s office. Spellman. That was the guy who first had the honor of paddling his bottom so hard, it made Edwin laugh when he saw how cherry red his son’s backside was.

“You better have done something worth the trouble,” he guffawed and then shuffled out the front door to meet his friends at the bar.

At lunchtime, Douglas got the best picks. He even scored homemade chili once in exchange for a cheap peanut butter sandwich that didn’t even have any jelly on it. They had run out, and he didn’t bother telling his mother who had started to talk about things like hellfire and brimstone, having progressed from her soaps to TBN. 

It didn’t stop with the lunches though. Every time Douglas made a score, there was an eerie feeling in his chest, and sometimes, a voice in his ear. “Just a little more,” it seemed to say, so he not only stole that forty in the fifth grade from the corner store but threw a rock through the window for good measure. It felt like feeding a hungry dog that wouldn’t stop barking unless it got its fill.

He asked himself, “Where’s Pop?” because moments would come along in middle school where his father was as present as smoke. Douglas could barely tie a knot, but his teacher, Mr. Klem, was a kind, older man and would invite Douglas to Boy Scout meetings anyways. They did a father-son camping trip, and when Douglas had to make some shame-faced excuse as to why Edwin couldn’t be there, his teacher offered to fill the role, which was even more embarrassing, considering his kid was also attending the trip.

That night was one of the worst of his life. He had to sit there and see everyone so happy, even the guys who thought the whole thing was lame. At least there wasn’t an empty space sitting next to them. Douglas had to share a tent with Mr. Klem and his son, both of whom fell asleep soundly while Douglas stared at the darkened walls of fabric, wondering why God had to hate him enough to make this his existence.

The next week, he quit the Boy Scouts and stole a gun that his friend’s dad had left out on the coffee table. He didn’t say a word, just picked it up, put it in his pants with his shirt tails untucked to cover it, and gave his boy the peace sign as he walked home, head held high.

Things were going swimmingly, but then there was always Franklin. Franklin had been around since he was a kid. He was Jamal’s father—his Auntie Anette’s husband—and spoke as much as a church mouse. That was another thing about Franklin. He seemed to love church, which Jamal loathed, not because he knew anything about it but because he didn’t trust it. Church, or at least TV church, made his mother batty.

He was kind to Douglas, Franklin, and sometimes he and Jamal would come over, but that was only when Jamal was still alive. When he died, he was replaced by Travis, Jamal’s son, whose skin looked like white bread. That’s what Douglas would call him in his head, White Bread.

But he could never say it to his face. Travis was too small for that, an age where he didn’t even understand what he looked like. So, Douglas started calling him Baby T instead. And Douglas’s resentment slowly turned towards protection. He didn’t want Travis to know what cruelty felt like and realized quickly his cousin would be nothing like him. Travis would never be able to protect himself.

So, it was Travis who Douglas told his secrets to, testing them out like it was nothing but a joke at first just to see what the young kid would say. But Travis always looked at him solemnly like he understood more than he let on. Douglas figured that’s what happened when your daddy died, and your mama lived in the clinker.

They grew up together, Douglas being only a few years older than his cousin. He’d strut around his room showing six-year-old Travis the forty he stole, sneaking him sips of the drink, and then later, he’d let nine-year-old Travis practice walking around with Douglas’s gun in his pants. Douglas could feel Franklin keeping his eyes on him, and it was something he hated intensely. When he was in the second grade, Franklin had gotten him a small Bible and told him all the stories of the great men in it—David and Samson and Moses. But then Franklin always shared the other side of their stories, their sins they collected like coins, only serving to sever themselves from their God. Douglas smelled weakness in it, asking questions like, “Then they ain’t men, right? Bellyaching all the time.” That last comment was borrowed from his father who didn’t like whenever Douglas cried and needed a hug.

“Real men know their faults. They can say them out loud and ask for forgiveness,” Franklin answered him. They were in the kitchen at the tiny round table next to the window. They could see Edwin stumbling up the walkway, checking for his keys in his empty pockets.

Douglas had held onto what his uncle had said for a few days until Max Archer brought in chicken and dumplings for lunch. Douglas had stolen them with relish, and figured he was too young for his sins to count.

Thinking about Franklin and Travis made him sad, but he swallowed down his sadness by studying himself in the mirror. He had ripped off a set of dumbbells that Antonne and Kelvin had helped him swipe, and now he had the privilege of looking at what a body of a god looked like.

“That’s it, Douglas. We’ll be catching that tail tonight.” He splashed some aftershave onto his hands and patted it into his cheeks. Flashes of the old white guy’s face hit the screen in his head. He blinked them away. All that crying and whimpering. It had almost made him angry. He wanted to tell him it wasn’t personal—that in a way, he was sorry this was the world they lived in. But that was the truth: it was the world they lived in, and Douglas wasn’t going to be taken for a fool.

He combed over the lightning bolts on the side of his head. He tried not to think about Travis, but the harder he tried, the more he lost that battle. His cousin was in a detention center somewhere, and because of him, would most likely be going to prison. He could even get the death penalty.

But Douglas shook his head, the lightning bolts striking the mirror one at a time. It wasn’t his fault Baby T got caught. Sometimes things just happen, and that taillight—well, none of them had known. And Douglas had lived long enough to know that guilt was a useless emotion.

If you’re going to do something, then do it. No use bellyaching over it.