Page 6 of Newly Tied

“Don’t worry about the why, it’s simply a no,” he made clear.

Most of all, he took me with him everywhere and made it clear to anyone who looked twice at us—especially guys who weren’t thrilled to see me and my cowboy hat and boots and the fact that I was not Black like Lang and all of them—that if I wasn’t welcome, then we, together, would go. I had been worried because I didn’t want him to lose older, close friends because of me, but his mother announced at Easter, to a full house, that I was the most important friend her son had.

“Mrs. Ross,” one of the guys Lang knew from elementary school said as he chuckled, “are you kidding with this right now?”

She pointed to me. “Del is the one following my baby through the door after he kicks it down. He’s the one who makes sure he comes home safe every night, and he’s the only one who has his back.” The way she looked around the room like I’d been taught in communication class in college, to make sure each and every person received her message, was terrifying. When her gaze reached me and she smiled, I felt the shiver run up my spine before she glanced again at the entire room. “Are we clear?” she asked loudly.

Lots of nodding and sounds of agreement.

“Good,” she said sharply. “Talia,” she instructed her daughter, “go on and give us the blessing now.”

Poor Talia looked at her brother like she wanted to die, so Lang smiled and told his mother he would do it. She was fine with that.

Lang was good at prayers. He included everyone, thanked them all for being there, sharing the day, and always ended with a wish for peace and safety in the name of Jesus, amen.

Funny to hear him be so good around his mother on Sunday, and then take the Lord’s name in vain every other day of the week.

“Bolts of lightnin’ are gonna come out of the sky and smite him,” I told Talia when we were out having pizza.

She almost choked on her Pepsi, she was laughing so hard.

“What the hell?” Lang groused at her as she scooted over next to me in the booth.

“Where are you?” Lang asked as we stepped into the elevator with Vargas between us.

I shook my head.

“Do you need to eat?”

Vargas piped up. “I could⁠—”

“Not you,” he snapped at him.

I had no words to give him, and was glad Vargas was there to draw attention away from me.

Once we got off the elevator, instead of walking Vargas to one of the intake rooms, he steered him to our break room, where an enormous fruit basket sat.

“Holy shit,” Vargas gasped.

“Go wild,” Lang instructed after he cut the zip ties off him, and then when our prisoner went to get whatever he wanted, my partner rounded on me, doing what he often did and taking firm hold of my shoulder. “And you, what’s on your mind?”

I tried to move away.

He grabbed me then and hugged me tight. And not like a bro hug, not a quick, friendly clinch, but stepping into me, putting one arm around my neck, the other under my arm, and clutching me against him so we were fused from chest to thigh.

Sometimes, not often but on occasion, it was like my brain got backed up. I got caught in a loop, like now, and all I could do was buffer because the emotion was overwhelming, and trying to put words there, to try and make sense, was too much. When it happened after an op—and he could tell from looking at me when I was incapable of words—Lang would always lean in close beside me so I could feel his shoulder against mine. He’d then do all the talking to whoever else was there. His brain and heart, his thoughts and feelings, never had a disconnect.

Lang was sure my shutdown had to do with my violent upbringing. When I was small and overwhelmed with emotion, I used to cry. My father had been swift with the whole I’ll give you something to cry about. The beatings had come often and furiously, the man savage with his fists, belt, or whatever was handy. Now I knew he’d been mad about his life, our lack of money, that my mother had died giving him me, and more than anything, about his place in the world. But back then, talking, sharing, had never been a good idea. I grew up nearly mute, bruised, bloody, and broken.

I’ve read that when a child has a mother or father, or anyone in the parental role that they can’t count on, that in those cases, sibling alliance is normally what occurs. You end up clinging to your brother or sister like a rock in the storm of childhood. When you have great supportive, loving parents, that’s when sibling rivalry happens because it’s able to in that safe, nurturing environment. You don’t need to lean on anyone but your folks because all your needs, like love and security, are already being met. I wouldn’t know. Neither scenario happened for me. My father had a hair trigger, and because of that, my brothers didn’t care about me or one another. It was every man for himself and if that meant throwing someone else under the bus—all bets were off. If you were pointing the finger away from you, that meant you weren’t the one being whipped with a belt until you were bleeding on the floor.

My older brothers left the house as soon as they could. One went to the Army, the other joined the Marines, and I played football and so hitched my wagon to a scholarship. Being alone in the house with my father was a daily minefield, and I might not have made it, but a miracle happened in my junior year when my father met a younger woman. He worked mowing lawns, pruning flowers and bushes, cutting down trees, and she was the waitress where he ate lunch every day. I saw him change with her interest, friendship, and eventually love. He moved her and her two daughters into our house, and very soon, she reshaped his business into landscaping. She went out and looked at yards, gave people quotes, and the two of them could turn an ugly space into an oasis. I was surprised that the man who had shown me and my brothers only anger, hostility, and violence had a gift for making things flourish and grow. He was kind and gentle to her daughters as well, neither his voice, nor his fists, ever rising. What was great for me was that he enclosed the small back deck, put in a toilet and shower, gave me my own door to come and go, and then basically forgot I existed.

Did I care that the four of them had family dinners and I was never invited? No, because I remembered too many meals that erupted in brutality if someone didn’t eat fast enough. Being made to eat off the floor was engrained in my memory. I had no desire to sit across the table from that man ever again.

I got a part-time job, ate at my friends’ houses, and bought a hot plate so I could fry up bacon and eggs now and then. I also made quite a few grilled cheese sandwiches. There was electricity out there, so I had a light to do my homework, a space heater so I didn’t freeze to death in the winter, and the guys at the service station where I worked took turns making sure I spent the holidays with them.

When my scholarship came through for Everson University, I was gone. I was loading my deathtrap of a pickup truck the last morning in my hometown when my father came out of the house, handed me a shoebox of things belonging to my mother that I had never seen before, and told me that Marcy, his wife, wanted to make me some food for the road. She had never offered to do anything for me before, and it made me wonder why. Perhaps it was as simple as she’d been afraid to be nice to me in case showing me kindness caused my father to stop being good to her and her daughters. The smartest thing she could do was not get involved, and I got that. I did. But either way, it was far too late for me to care.