There were a few weeds around his seed that needed eradicating, and he was determined to rid his garden of them.
His deed his seed;
“Daddy,” the forthcoming novel from 5 times self-published Author G D Grace
Excerpt from the forthcoming novel, “Daddy,” by 5 times, self-published Author G. D. Grace.
“Harlem, son, what is so intriguing about those streets out there?” I asked, in a heartbroken tone that seemed to pull a little more of my soul out of me.
He just glared at me with defiant sixteen year old eyes that pierced my confidence with each passing second.
What was he thinking?
Why couldn’t he see that I only wanted the best for him?
Why did he love the slick and sly, Jensen, and not me, the father who adored him? I remembered that one brief moment when he referred to me as, “Daddy”…
When did the connection we had get broken?
I stayed intentionally still, waiting for him to respond, but the longer I waited the fuller his eyes watered, almost spilling the tears that he tried holding back.
Then, when I had almost given up hope, he spoke above a whisper and said something that practically finished me off.
“You killed her with your weakness. If you were strong enough she would have never left you for him. A real man protects his woman, his home, his son…”
Then, finally, they spilled, the tears. His tears. My only son’s tears. His words were harsh, but they were an opening into his heart, because I finally understood how he perceived me. He saw me as a weak man, something I was far from being.
“Son, I’m going to teach you what being a real man is all about…”
A tiny bit of me kept being chipped away as his words of resentment sunk deeper and deeper into the core of me. They penetrated my skin’s surface like hot coals atop a block of ice, but rather than allowing them to reach that depth that would burn, I emptied a truth about the vile Jensen Adams to shatter the prestige image Harlem had of him.
A drug dealer was a fatal scar on the face of humanity that offered nothing but death and hopelessness to life, and Harlem needed to see exactly what he was capable of.
This gamble I was about to take was one of the riskiest ones I might ever be taking in life, but my life would mean nothing if I lost my only son.
“Son, you see him as a warrior when he is nothing more than a gangster, a coward hiding behind a menacing image and a gun. What you don’t know is that he would cut out his own mother’s heart if she stepped in between him and his money,” I told him, thwarting the rage inside of me.
“You don’t know h…”
I cut him off, before he had a chance to complete his juvenile assumption.
“I do know him, Harlem! I’m going to prove to you that he will put a bullet in your forehead without blinking an eye. Now, you trust me just a little, and allow me the opportunity to save you from yourself, okay, son?” I asked with renewed vigor.
I promised myself right then and there that I would save my son even if I had to pay the ultimate price.
Harlem at his mother’s grave-site:
“Mom, you died without giving me a chance to say goodbye,” he tearfully said, gazing down at the black/gray iron and granite gravesite marker.
Beloved Wife & Mother
“Mom, I turned 16 and he bought me these cheap ass pair of tennis shoes. He made me wear them to school. I was humiliated mom,” he sobbed, burying his face into his hands to muffle the sound.
“I miss you so much, and all I can think about was you laying in a coffin beneath all this dirt in that pretty white dress that, Jensen, bought you from that boutique on Rodeo Dr.
It cost $3000, mom. That’s how come I love him, because he treated you like the queen you were,” he said with pride, as he knelt down on the soft mixture of soil and grass.
He leaned down then forward to lightly kiss the cold, dusty marker. Once he finished, he rose up slowly from off his knees, and then he stood in silence; immersed in his lone mourning of the mother he cherished so. A mother who was now deceased.
“Mama, I can’t make it without you! If I have to go back there I’ll kill myself! I hate him! He’s a square ass, weak ass, punk! I can’t stand his old know- it-all mama either. She…” Before completing his sentence, he paused and thought about.
“Naw, Grandma is cool, and so is his brother, uncle Quincy, but I cannot stand him! He told me he had something to show me about, Jensen, something that would…”
“Something that would what, Harlem?” the familiar baritone voice asked from behind, startling him.
His heart skipped a few beats because of the sudden snatch from private thoughts, but it quickly regained the rhythm once he identified who it was.
“My real father!” He said, smiling broadly without ever turning around.
Why did he have to?
He was safe.
Jensen had his back.
Nobody would ever mess with him again.
Jackson Young might’ve dropped the nut that brought him into the world, but Jensen Adams was his father. Blood was only a plasma that had to be shed sometimes to put people in check. Invoking fear made his young tree rock hard, and that’s why he was loyal to Jensen, because…
He had the money..,
And the respect.
He wasn’t interested in any life with a struggling warehouse worker with a bad back and civil rights stories. Like his mother always said, fuck all them dead ass Negros.
“She was the finest in my stable, Harlem,” he solemnly said, tossing two white roses on top of the gravesite.
Harlem looked back at him puzzled, and said, “Two?”
“The other is for your baby sister,” he said nonchalantly.
“Baby sister?” He asked without really asking.
“I’ll explain that later. Lets go, son, ” he said, pausing to look around.
“I don’t like spending too much time at a cemetery,” he announced, rubbing his large hands together.
“Where in the hell do you think you’re going with my son? Jackson Young asked, hastily exiting the car that he had just slammed the brakes on to a screeching halt. He was seething with wrought anger, seeing his son with someone he despised like an attack of spring allergies.
With each of the extended spaced strides he took, the more intense his rage grew. “Harlem, you bring your ass over here right now, or I’ll drag your ass all the way back to that car! What the hell are you doing out at this ‘got-dayum’ graveyard anyway?! You were supposed to have taken your little ass home immediately after school!” He growled, stepping to Jensen with bottled agitation and fury.
Harlem instantly grew afraid about the looming confrontation about to take place. Uncertainty and fear swooped around his entire spirit like the circular winds of an n F5 twister. It was then that he realized just how much Jackson loved him, and the guilt he felt inside grabbed a hold of his senses and shook all the prior foolishness from the rafters of his self-centered thoughts. He had never seen his father’s eyes so convincingly raw and, one proverbial brick at a time, the wall he had built around his heart was being taken down.
What had he done?
In his tunneled focus to reach for Harlem’s arm, he missed the combative reactions of a cunning foe, and it was a costly error on his part. Without being given a second to avoid and respond, he felt the cold thud of the butt of a gun strike him across the side of his face with the force of a downward micro burst, and it sent him spiraling down to the ground. Jensen’s calculated and accurate move was one of his most personalized responses to adversity. Jackson slid out and quickly back into consciousness out of necessity, but by the time he regained composure, he caught a glimpse of his screaming son being thrown into the backseat of a black, sported out, Range Rover.
“Daddy…!” Harlem cried out.
“Harlem…!” Jackson yelled, as he staggered helplessly, trying to find that certain footing, but the blunt blow to the side of his face had affected his sense of direction.
“Keep your ass away from this little motherfucker, Jackson, or I’ll put your ass in the ground with that whore I took from you! I’m done playing middle-class papa with you!” Jensen yelled, ducking inside of the waiting vehicle.
“Harlem…!” he screamed frantically.
“Harlem…!” he desperately called out again.
By the time he regained his balance, it was too late. He watched the vehicle with his son inside; make a right turn at nearby inner-streets within the cemetery, and his heart sunk. What just happened? Was everything that Harlem said true? Was he weak and incapable of taking care of his own? He turned around in anger to view the final resting place of his deceased wife, and he did a double take when he saw the additional name and details of a child on the grave maker who was obviously buried with Natalie.
Jeanette Sade Adams
Natalie had another child??????
The shocking revelation at the gravesite further rattled his already frayed nerves. Who in the hell was this child buried with her and why didn’t he know about her? He came to the realization that, Natalie Barnes, was definitely one trifling constriction in life and now in death. He also finally accepted what his wise old mother had insinuated a few days prior – he had been infatuated with Natalie, and he had confused that infatuation with love. Love; she never loved him, but she did have an extremely fond appreciation for a marriage that saved her from a life under the moralistic foot of an overbearing religious fanatic.
Reverend Cecil Barnes, her father, was one of the most powerful and respected ministers in the region. His influence extended far and wide, so there was no way she could escape his control without being married; in fact, her father’s irrational actions sometimes paralleled those taken by many czars in the underground economy. She had heard rumors that dear old dad could rough’em up with the best of them, and he held Jensen in a very high regard. As a matter of fact, Pastor Barnes treated, Jensen, more like a son – the son he always wanted and never had.
As he drove, Jackson’s temperament chilled then heated uncontrollably. There were times he had to correct his steering to avoid sideswiping other vehicles on the road. During one of those near misses, he came within inches of tangling his vehicle up with another’s and that driver of that vehicle blew a gasket.
“You fucking moron, where in the hell did you learn to drive, China!!!” the angry driver asked, clearly hostile and poised to throw some punches.
“Fuck you, trailer trash! You had better take your country ass back to that double wide you’ve got parked on hillbilly acres,” Jackson screamed back, as he braked to avoid slamming into the back of a Lexus SUV.
With traffic at a standstill, it created the perfect setting for a road rage confrontation in the middle of the gridlocked highway, and the guy he had just insulted wasted no time opening the door and step out of his big red F150. When Jackson caught a glimpse of how tall, wide, and buffed the man was, an imaginary white line raced down his back, but he was through with being a pussy for overbearing dicks. If this bearded Neanderthal wanted a dose of two-by-four, he was going to get a full dosage.
He had picked the wrong day to fuck with, Jackson Joseph Young.
“Today is your lucky day, you irresponsible coon. I’m going to smash your nose into the back of your…”
Jackson laid the two-by-four dead center of the unruly white man’s head.
When he hit the ground and settled, Jackson stood over him still brandishing the wooden sleep ease, and said “You hick ass mountain goon, who smashed whose what!”
The violent scene caught the attention of the occupants of a local news van stopped a few lanes over, and you know how the media is when it comes to breaking stories. The three people inside filed out like kindergartners at a fire drill, and joining them were nosiness, his brothers, sisters, cousins and other relatives. They were all looking for an extended show. The sad part about all of it was that no one tried to stop him from taking it further and making it a deeper mistake than it already was. Fortunately for him, he managed to inhale, relate, release.
“He got knocked the fuck out,” One youngster said, surrounded by his hooting and hollering cronies. They were in instigator mode as if they were watching a heavyweight boxing match.
“I know. I bet that motherfucker is seeing sheep jumping over his damn skull right about now,” the chunkier of all of them said.
“Sir, what happened,” the well-dressed anchor woman asked, holding the microphone towards Jackson’s mouth.
“Didn’t you hear what I just said, ho, he got knocked the fuck out!” the first young guy who made the previous comment said.
The woman shot him an annoyed look.
“What baby? You need a little something to ease that tension,” one of the other three asked.
“Now that’s disrespectful,” her colleague carrying the camera told him.
“Now that’s just disrespectful,” the young guy said, mimicking the cameraman.
“Sit your comb over down before I take that two-by-four and crack your ass over the head too,” the rotund guy in the crew threatened, walking towards the news crew.
“That won’t be necessary,” the woman said nervously.
“Youngsters like you give our people a bad name,” Jackson said, turning toward the young group of hecklers.
“Young people like us? Excuse me, OG, but aren’t you the one standing there with a two-by-four on your esteemed person?” The young guy sang, slapping five with his each member of his crew.
He was right.
What had he done?
He was slipping over to the dark side.
Was it ego and obsession, or was it really about Harlem?
With the police approaching him he felt that he would have plenty of time to think about it, but one thing appeared very visible through all that commotion he found himself immersed in…
Who was going to look after him now?
Author G. D. Grace
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