Page 25

Story: Vow of Vengeance

CHAPTER 25

Haze

I rent a cheap car that will fit in around my old stomping grounds, the government-funded housing the rest of the Bronx calls the projects. Living here is what led me to becoming a builder. A neighbor who ran a framing crew offered me a job one day and I kinda fell into things.

He’d be shocked if he saw me now—flying helicopters to private islands to build futuristic buildings we never could have dreamed of living in back then.

I pass his place as I head to Mom’s. Too soon, I’m standing at the red door with its peeling paint and crooked numbers. One number plate is missing.

The address is technically 1134, but it only contains two ones and a three. Her name, Sharon Harden, is etched into a gold nameplate I created as a Mother’s Day gift some time ago when I lived here.

She knows I’m coming since I called ahead, so I let myself in. Holding that brass doorknob in my hand, memories come rushing back. Too many bad ones for me to want to be here right now. I swallow the tightness from my throat and open the door.

The first thing that hits me is how dimly lit she keeps the house and the familiar scent of mothballs and dust and Pall Malls.

Clearly expecting me, Mom sits on her worn plaid couch, one long, shapely leg crossed over the other. A ladder creeps up her sheer black tights. An unlit cigarette is between her fingers, and her red nail polish is chipping. Her hair is bleached and broken at its tortured ends.

To this day, I can’t hold a conversation with a woman who has a bad platinum dye job and not itch to walk away.

She wears the same outfit she wore to court so many years ago. A black turtleneck, a black and red patterned blazer with a matching skirt that was too short for court. Scuffed black pumps on her feet.

If you think this is a coincidence, you’re a fool. There are no flukes in my mother’s world. She’s as sharp as the tip of a poisoned arrow.

She doesn’t believe in fate. She is the hand of fate.

She knew I’d come here eventually, and she saved this outfit for that moment. It’s a manipulation tactic. She chose this outfit for me, for this day that we finally see one another again, and it works.

Memories flood my mind. I smell the dry, stuffy air of the courtroom. I hear the quiet whispers, a cough, and the shuffle of feet as we await the verdict. I see the jury filing in, one by one, until twelve worn leather seats are filled. My stomach knots, and a weight like a stone settles between my hip bones.

She wore this outfit the day I testified to her innocence.

The day that, over two hours of questioning, I not only committed perjury, I ultimately betrayed my father.

I’m not here to avenge him.

For so long, I’ve hated my mother in a singular, solitary way, thinking of her as an unattached being who exists solely on her own. Hating her from afar. A hazy figure, like a hologram, would appear in my mind as I imagined her death. Only—as I stand before her—I realize how foolish I was to think I would be capable of killing her.

“Hello, Mom.” I cringe, the word sounding foreign and pathetic all at once.

You’ll always be your mother’s child, no matter how old you are.

I cut to the chase. “I found out I have a brother. I’ve come to meet him.”

“What?” She gasps in fake shock. “You mean you didn’t come here to visit your dear mother? I get it—of course, you want to meet him. Everyone loves him. The kid is golden. Nothing like his dad, Billy Brooks. What a deadbeat.”

Deadbeat.

Hearing her say the phrase again, I cringe, remembering her using the exact words about my own father.

The words catapult from me. “Did you kill him, too?”

She gives a dry hack of a laugh.

“Did you?” I ask, realizing if she killed my dad, she could have easily destroyed his, too. There was nothing in that file about his father.

She waves her hand through the air, dismissing her guilt. “You know I was found innocent. Those charges were dropped.”

“How could I forget?” The words taste metallic on my tongue.

“You were a convincing little actor.” Her gaze narrows. “I never thanked you for that.”

I’ll stop hating myself for what I did long before I get a word of gratitude from her. And I’ll never stop hating myself. Yes, she’s a master manipulator, whispering in my ear, telling me she killed my father in self-defense, and she was in a position of power over me.

Still, ultimately, I’m the one who robbed my father of the justice he deserved.

I’m loyal to the core. He was already gone. I couldn’t put my mom behind bars for life as well. I knew no matter how terrible she was to him, Dad would not have wanted that.

Family is family.

Now, seeing her still as bitter and vindictive as she was the day I last saw her, I’m thinking maybe I should have told the cops the truth and had her locked up. Especially now that I know she’s gone on to procreate.

“Seriously, though,” I say, “I know it’s only the one kid”— Thank God— “but how many more ex-husbands have you accumulated since I last saw you?”

She grins. “Just the two.”

“Two?” I try not to look surprised.

“Yes. Two. Billy Brooks, who fathered your brother. Half-brother, I guess you’d say, even though he’s your damn spitting image?—”

I stand there, absorbing her words and feeling dizzy. I have a brother. And he looks like me.

She tosses her stiff hair over her shoulder, and I tune back in as she says, “And we have my most recent marriage to a pawn shop owner named Falcon, which only lasted a little while. He has a daughter, Cleopatra, from a previous marriage, so you had a stepsister there for a moment, but you just missed her. They moved out on Thanksgiving.”

I quickly calculate, making sure I’ve got no responsibility to the girl, blood or otherwise.

The unlit cigarette is still between her fingers as she flips her hand through the air. “Just signed the divorce papers last month.”

“Better divorce than death,” I say. “I’m glad they both made it out alive.”

“Aren’t you funny? Yes, tragically, we lost your father, but both my current exes are alive and well.” She gives a dramatic sigh. “Unfortunately. There are bills to pay, and child support only goes so far for Blaze. Life insurance was such a nice chunk of change.”

I cringe. My heart squeezes, a pain zinging through my chest. I always did wonder if she killed my dad for the money. I guess I don’t have to wonder anymore.

There’s a glint in her eyes. A hardness there. An anger. For my father, or for me?

“You know I have a distasteful sense of humor,” she says. “I joke, but jokes don’t kill. I didn’t murder your father. I tried to tell you that, but you never believed me.”

“I honestly don’t know when you’re kidding. I think you killed him, then forced me to testify on your behalf. And now, after mentioning life insurance, something most people don’t joke about, you’ve got me thinking you did it all for money.” Poison drips from my words. “How much was Dad worth to you dead?”

“Sit,” she says, patting the open seat beside her.

I stay where I am, shoving my hands in my pockets. “I’m good standing.”

She briefly eyes me before changing the subject, “So, where have you been all these years? It’s like you fell off the face of the earth.”

I’m aware I sound like a petulant child. “Not like you were looking.”

She surprises me, saying, “I did. I even hired a private investigator to find you. He had no luck.”

She was looking for me.

My throat tightens. A bit of that childhood desperation to be loved sneaks up on me. No matter how old you get, it never goes away, does it?

I swallow it back down.

“Yeah. It’s been a minute,” I say. Don’t ask. Don’t be pathetic. Don’t ask. “So…” I clear my throat again. “You looked for me?”

“Yeah. No luck, though. Two-hundred dollars, and all he came up with was some cockamamie story about—get this—” She does that laugh again and flips her hair, but in its damaged state, it barely moves. “He gave me some story about you joining the mafia, of all things!”

“I moved to Italy,” I offer.

“Oh! That explains the tall tale. There was no way his cheap ass was going to make it across the world to track you down. I guess everyone stereotypes Italians as mafia—like they do us New Yorkers.” She laughs.

Having been part of a mafia in both places, I only shrug. “Why were you looking for me anyway?”

She shrugs. “Can’t a mom worry about her child?”

“I guess an old dog can learn new tricks.” Was that disrespectful?

“Ha! You call your mother a dog? I’ll match your saying with another one. Apples don’t fall far from the tree.” She stands, moving across the room to examine me. “You still have my nose and your father’s bad attitude.”

Wanting to move away, I hold my ground.

“You look the same.” Her gaze narrows. “A little older. Is that gray by your temple.”

She goes to reach for my face.

I step back.

She laughs. “Jumpy.”

“More like keeping my distance,” I say. “I am standing across from the woman who murdered my father.”

I’ve never said the words out loud, making the accusation directly. She freezes, her hand hanging, still reaching out as if to touch me. She snaps her hand back, and it drops to her side. The statement hangs between us, sucking the air from the room.

“Funny. You’re funny.” She turns so I can’t see her face, returning and settling herself in her dip on the couch. Finally, her eyes settle on mine. “You’re funny, but you’re wrong.”

“About what?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I didn’t kill your father.”

“How can I believe you?” I demand.

“You were young. The state wanted someone to blame. They put all kinds of thoughts in your head before you testified.” She smiles. “But you stayed loyal, and I thank you for that.” I wait, needing to hear more, wanting nothing to do with it. Finally, she says, “I didn’t kill him, Harrison. It was an accident. Truly. And I’m sorry.”

The details of that day are hazy. It was so long ago, and I will never truly know the truth. I find myself void of energy to deal with the past any longer.

I simply say, “Okay, Mom.”

She’s less confident than I ever remember her being. She’s fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve as she says, “I’m doing it better this time around. He’s got proper meals, and I’m working two jobs to pay for his sports. I’m working hard at it?—”

“Hard at what?” I ask.

She says, “Being a mom to your brother.”

The sound of the front door opening grabs our attention.

She stands back up, saying, “Speak of the devil and he shall appear.” She tosses the unlit cigarette into her pocket.

I turn to the door. What I see causes my breath to whoosh out of my chest. All the blood in my veins rushes to my head at once.

The doorway of my mother’s apartment has become a time warp, some kind of funhouse mirror showing me an alternative version of… me. I’m staring at a much younger, slightly better-looking version of myself. Tall and broad, he has dark hair like mine, more wavy than curly, but he must have his father’s green eyes.

“Yes, Mother, it’s me. Your son, Lucifer.” He grins, a dimple appearing on his cheek, a mirror to my own, and I’m confident he smiles much more than I do. “Though Ms. Enid called me an angel for raking her leaves for her last week.”

“Harrison,” Mom says, “this is my son, Blaze.”

“Haze and Blaze,” I mutter, still stunned by the presence of my brother standing before me in the flesh.

She laughs. “I wanted a more respectable name. Something like Ascot or Wolfgang. At the time, his father was into arson, so here we have Blaze.”

“Not true. Mother’s attempt at a joke.” Blaze turns to me, explaining, “My father was into gambling. If I was a betting man myself, I’d put money down you could guess the horse’s name that won him some money.”

“Blaze,” I offer.

“Correct.” The young man reaches out to shake my hand. “Blaze Brooks. A pleasure to meet you, Harrison.” He eyes me, curious. “And you are?”

“I’m…”

There’s no denying that the young man in her house is my flesh and blood. I can’t stop the protective energy that shoots through my chest. I can’t leave him here. But he seems clear-eyed. Happy. Is it fair to come in here like this? Dump this information on him? Then demand he come with me, a stranger, and have him leave everything he’s ever known?

Just like I did to Ophelia…

My revenge was foolishness. I should have left Ophelia alone. Now, my vengeance for my father’s legacy would be to take Blaze with me. I won’t make the same mistake twice.

I take one long, last look at my only sibling in this world and say, “I’m no one. I used to live here…. Was passing by and wanted a peek.”

He gives me a quizzical look. “Cool.”

I shake my head. “I was just leaving. Sorry I interrupted your day.” I move to the door.

My shoulder is inches from his, almost brushing against him as I go to leave.

He gives an easy, “Alright, man. Take care!”

And I’m forgotten.

I hold the knob, open the door, and give one final glance over my shoulder before I leave. He moves to Mom, leaning over her to plant a quick “hello” kiss on her cheek.

“Ma, you got any of that wedding soup left from last night?” he asks her. “I’m starving.”

And just like that, I’m dismissed from their world.

I leave, closing the door behind me. I drive back to my hotel in a bewildered state. A million questions come over me, including:

Why did I leave without telling him who I am?

I didn’t want to ruin him like I did Ophelia.

My mom is not the only one who can destroy people.

As she said, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

I rent a cheap room at the hotel where I lost my virginity, a drunken, fumbling escapade with a girl whose name I no longer remember. I collapse onto the bed and pull my phone from my pocket.

I call her new cell number, the one for the Bachman phone I gave her when we left the Villa on our trip to Scotland. An eggplant-purple thing with a glittering case that Eros’s sister assured me a “girl Ophelia’s age” would love.

She did.

Ophelia picks up on the first ring. “There you are! I’ve been dying to hear from you. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye. How are things?”

You denied my proposal. I’m halfway across the world. I didn’t even introduce myself to my brother. And didn’t press my mom for the full truth about my father. So, the answer to your question is that things are going terribly.

Things are totally. Completely. Out of my control.

Needing to gain some of my power back, I turn all my heated attention on her, growling into the phone, “Did you touch that pretty pussy, baby?”

“Maybe.” She gives a shy excuse. “It got a little lonely here in the castle without you.”

God, she even sounds sexy. I reach down, rubbing my already hardening crotch. “Then you’ll have to be punished, naughty girl.”

“Punished? Pff.” She laughs. “What can you do over the phone?”

She has no idea the reach of a Bachman man, but she soon will when she sees what I have waiting for her. “You know I can reach you from anywhere. Anytime. You’re all mine now, little wifey. And always will be.”

“Wife-to-be,” she haughtily corrects. “Kind of.”

“I might make you say your vows over this phone now.” She’s denied my proposal. Does she need to remind me that she’s taken away my control? It’s time I demanded it back. “I’m teasing about the vows,” I say. “But one thing I’ll never joke about?”

“What?” Her question is a breathy whisper.

“Punishing you.”