Benevolence

Chapter 26: Survivors Guilt

He would've turned forty-five today. He would've been the first one up—and you'd know because my record player would be missing and you'd hear James Brown & The Famous Flames blasting from the living room. You'd hear my mother's laughter as he danced and twirled her around the room. You'd hear his melodic voice synchronizing with hers... I'd run downstairs, not bothering to brush my teeth or fix my hair and start singing happy birthday. He'd sing along with me, right before thanking us. "Thank you, baby," he'd say to my mother. "My heart," he'd say right before taking me in his arms... He'd drag us out to the backyard and thank us again, force us to play tag, and tickle us whenever we got tackled....because that was the best gift you could ever give to Micheal Joseph: Your joy.

"I'm sorry I can't give you that today," I say, staring down at an old photograph of him. His bronze-brown skin, Cheshire smile, and vivid grey eyes I always wished I had. I haven't left his home office since last night. I said I wouldn't do this, that I'd be strong; that I'd call Drew and let him be here for me. But when I passed out on his desk last night and woke up to a stiff neck and sore muscles, everything hit me all at once. Today, the phone seems a bit too far away, and my bladder stretches a bit bigger than usual. The air's too heavy, it's too dark, it's too quiet. And this house... it's too empty.

When I do manage to move, I drag--my feet, my hands; against the walls, down my face, through the knots in my hair. I don't brush my teeth, I don't bathe, and I barely use my voice. I enter my room rubbing at my eyes and go straight for the dresser, digging into the first draw for my stash. I pull out a pre-rolled blunt and attempt to light it three times, the flame stinging at the pad of my thumb before it finally seeps through the tobacco. I hold it between my lips, walking across the room to search my vinyl collection, and after finding an Isley Brothers record, I grab my record player and head back out.

The hem of my pajama pants sweeps the surface of the stairs as I make my way down to the living room. If my mother were home, she would kill me. First for smoking and allowing it to flood the house, and second for what I'm about to do. I place the record player on the television stand and find the bar, pouring myself a large glass of whiskey and taking the bottle along with me.

"This song's for you," I whisper. A static-like sound emanates from the record player as I drop the needle, watching it sway gently before finding it's place. And soon The Isley Brothers "Drifting on a memory", infiltrates the room. I take hit after hit from the blunt until it feels like I'm levitating. My eyes close shut, the desolate, torn voices penetrating my ears calling forth memories. And I hum and float aimlessly around the room until it feels like I'm sixteen again.

"One step at a time," says my father.

"Like this?" I ask, looking down at our feet.

"Yeah—op." He chuckles when I nearly trip.

"This is harder than it looks," I say frowning.

"Let's correct that," he says, guiding me around the room. "It's natural." Our hands are clasped together, and while his free arm is wrapped loosely around my waist, my free hand rests on his shoulder. "Dancing is just as easy as listening to the melody of a song," he says. "Eyes up." I look up from our feet. "If the mind can receive and respond, so can the body." He uses my hand to spin me and I allow myself to be twirled before being pulled back in. "My heart, I want for you a man that can make dancing easy," he says. "And you'll know if he can dance because he'll show you the whole room without you realizing it." He stops suddenly, gesturing with his eyes for me to look around. And when I do, I'm stunned to see we've reached the other end of the living room.

"You did that thing again," I say gaping up at him.

"I guarantee you, that Yowanathan you're going to prom with won't be able to do that," he says jokingly.