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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781463416980 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 08/18/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 332 |
| File size: | 507 KB |
Read an Excerpt
RISE TO GRACE
A Genuine Street StoryBy Angel Huertas
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Angel HuertasAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4634-1697-3
Chapter One
THIS AIN'T NO "Leave It To Beaver" story. No Norman Rockwell painting. No pretty leaves turning color in Vermont. No Easter Parade down 5th Avenue shit. It's not a lullaby and it's not a fairy tale. It is the best truth I know; the truth the only way I know how to tell it. In it all, I'm not trying to mess with anyone or badmouth another living soul. I'm way past that.I pray to God that I'm done hurting others.
I know I'm far from a perfect man.
Humbly, I'm just seeking the truth. For any harm I've ever done to anyone, I am deeply and sincerely sorry. As for any harm that has been done to me ... I forgive, I forgive, I forgive.
* * *
June 1972. Not even July and it was already one of those hot, humid New York nights. If you've lived one, you know exactly what I'm talking about. The kind of night hangs on you like a heavy blanket dripping with hot water. The kind of night when the humidity is higher than the temperature and temperature is over ninety degrees. The kind of night where everybody that owns a fan has it whirring or if they got an air conditioner, they got it humming. The kind of night when, in the neighborhoods like where I lived, old folks sit at open windows all day and all night long, smoking cigarettes, fanning themselves with a wad of newspaper and praying to catch any kind of breeze the night might offer. The kind of night when kids sleep on fire escapes and young lovers stay up on the melting tar up of the rooftops, staring up at the stars. The kind of night when wives swat their husband's hands away because they can't even bear the thought of anything against their skin. The kind of night when cotton sheets feel itchy as wool, when they stick to the sweat on your skin like glue.
I was five years old.
A little boy. You ask me, I'd say I'd already had to deal with too much shit. More shit than even an adult should have had to deal with.
By that time in my life my father was already gone from my life, leaving me with exactly two good memories. One was when I was three years old. My father came home with one of those "Big Wheel" tricycles. Even now, as a man far older than my father was then, I can still see the look on his face when he gave me that tricycle. Man, he was so proud. Proud he'd gotten his little boy something, that he'd been a daddy to me for at least one moment. And I was so happy to get it.
What a trip.
A good memory. Nothing wrong with it. Except maybe the fact that it stands out so sharp and clear. That it was so unique. That nothing like it had ever happened before, or after for that matter. I think it was the only time in my life my father ever gave me anything.
Another time, another memory. The only other one that I hold on to because it is good. My father was giving me a bath. God, how old could I have been? Not even four. I remember him rubbing me dry with the thin, cotton towel. I remember the feel of his strong hands and the roughness of the cloth. I remember him turning me around and looking me straight in the eyes. I could feel the weight of his hands on my shoulders. I could see something in his eyes, some emotion, something ... something maybe he had no way of understanding. He knew that he would not be part of my life. I had no way of seeing it.
He cleared his throat.
"Nene," he said in a soft, raspy voice. "There's something about you. You hear me? Something special.
"I know you're too young to understand what I'm saying. But you listen to me. You remember what I'm saying to you. No matter what happens between mommy and me, know that I love you and you're number one."
I wrapped my arms around my father then and I hugged him tight. "I love you," I told him, hugging him tighter and tighter until it hurt my arms. I didn't know what it was but there was something in what he said that frightened me. I had the feeling that if I didn't hold on tight I would lose him forever or, more scary, I'd lose me!
Next thing I know, my mother and father split up and he was gone from my life.
Two good memories of my father. Two. That's it. Those two times.
I do have other memories. But those two are the only pure good ones – of my father or of much anything else. I'll never forget how he looked me in the eyes and said, "There's something special about you." Other people have said that about me all through my life, but that was the first time. And it was my father saying it.
He was saying it as a way of saying good bye.
After that, he was only a part of my life by the space he left in it after he was gone; he wasn't much a part of my life except in his absence.
It killed me not having my father around.
I used to see other kids in the neighborhood, walking up and down the block and holding their fathers' hand. I never had that in my life so that used to kill me every time I would see it, a father and son holding hands. Still does. I remember the pain that was etched in my heart like it was yesterday.
I remember.
Even the things I didn't want to remember, I remember. I grew up with the knowledge – from my mother, my brothers, rumors or from my own experience, I couldn't say – that my father was abusive to my mom. Verbally abusive and physically violent. He was an angry man. A boy has no understanding of why a man gets angry. He just sees the anger. Feels the anger. Fears for his mother and for himself. A boy has no way of understanding. As a man, I do understand more.
No excuses. Understanding.
A man like my father had his hands full with a woman like my mother.
No man on the streets where I lived had much chance of ever being the man he wanted to be; of being the man he believed he should be – to himself or his family. He couldn't ever provide for his family the way he knew they deserved to be provided for. He could never take care of his wife the way he wanted to take care of her ... and for my dad, that was saying a lot. He wanted to give her the world but all he had was the mean Streets of Brooklyn. And even those were kicking his ass.
It's an ugly truth that a beautiful woman will always hurt you. With my mom, my father never had a chance. Not really. My mom was a blonde-haired beauty. Blue eyes. Knock down, drop dead gorgeous.
It's hard enough to hold a beautiful woman when you got the means, when you got the money to drive her in your Cadillac; when you got the money to take her out and show her a good time. Without the money and the dignity that comes with it ... well, it's like every dog on the streets is sniffing your business. It makes a man angry and frustrated. He fears things he can't see. He lashes out.
He hurts people he shouldn't hurt.
A pretty girl has one thing to trade on. Her beauty. She uses it to get what she wants and what she needs. My mom ... well, a pretty woman gets used to being treated a certain kind of way and when that changes, she misses it. She thinks she deserves special treatment because she's beautiful. She gets comfortable with getting her way just because of her beauty. She likes the attention. When her man expects her to take care of him and his needs, it rubs her the wrong way. Then, when he stops paying attention the way he used to, well, she starts realizing just how much she likes the way other men look at her ...
I can only imagine how horrible it got to be for the two of them.
What I do know is that there always comes a breaking point. There comes a time in a woman's life when she just can't – or won't – take the same shit from the same man anymore. When she's just had enough. When she gets to that point, that's it. Even if she's still in the house, she's someplace else. Her head, her heart, her soul ... gone. Even if her body is still warm on her side of the man's bed.
She feels no pleasure from him. No joy. She has no respect for him. He knows it and it drives him crazy. No matter how hard he works it, she's someplace else. Counting cracks on the ceiling, doing laundry in her head. He feels that she's drifted away and he doesn't know what to do. So he does the very thing that makes everything worse – he gets angry. He uses his physical anger to bring her closer but he only drives her farther and farther away. So, the very first chance she gets to get out ... she's long gone before the door even slams shuts.
The man comes home expecting dinner and he finds an apartment with hungry kids. His wife's gone out dancing.
That's how it was with my mom. When she'd had enough with my dad's anger and violent ways, she jumped at the first man who came along and offered her and her kids a better life. And she never looked back except to look over her shoulder to make sure my father wasn't coming after her. She had us all lay low for a while, stay scarce and make sure that if my father did come looking for us, he wouldn't ever be able to find us.
After laying low for a little while, my mother got us to an apartment at the corner of Willoughby and Myrtle Avenue in Bushwick Brooklyn. Damn, I hated that apartment.
That place has nothing but sad, evil memories for me.
Wickedness.
Bad dreams.
"Nene, Nene. Wake up."
"Huh? What?"
"You were having another nightmare ..."
* * *
I had a lot of nightmares in that apartment. Unfortunately, some of the worst ones happened while I was wide awake. The building was up against a neighboring building which housed a homeless shelter. I don't know why – bad design, bad planning, corruption, you name it – but the two buildings were so close together you could reach out the window of one and scrape your knuckles across the bricks of the next.
If we kept our window open, and the person across from us in the shelter did the same, it was easy to actually step from one room in one building to the other room in the other building.
When I was going to sleep, I would stare at the figures moving back and forth across the windows, making shadows in the closed, thin drapes of the room I shared with my sister. Sometimes I would wake up at night and see those shadows moving back and forth and I would feel like I had ice water running in my veins. I was too scared to cry out and too scared not to.
You know how most kids want a light on when they sleep? I wanted that window bolted shut.
But on this June night it was too hot and humid not to open the window. There wasn't any breeze. The drapes, flaccid and weak, hung down on the side of the open window.
"Move over, Nene," my oldest sister insisted, pushing me further away from her in the bed. "It's too hot."
In my sleep, I kept moving closer to her and she kept shoving me further away.
"Nene, no. Stop ..."
I fell asleep.
"No ..."
I opened my eyes. I was awake now. My eyes widened as I looked over at the window. My heart jumped into my throat. A shadow stepped across the open window, leaving the shelter and landing softly in my room. I opened my eyes wider, trying to let in more light. Was there really something there or was it my imagination again? I wanted to reach out to my sister but I was paralyzed with fear.
Even when the shadow came closer, right to the bed and I heard the sound of the sheets ripping and the quick gulp of breath my sister took ...
It had not been a shadow at all. A thin black man had come in through the window. He was tearing the sheet into strips and then, quick as a cat, using the strips to tie up my sister.
"Not a fucking sound, you hear me?" he growled, his eyes white as snow against the darkness of the room and the even darker darkness of his skin. He was shirtless and there was a sheen of sweat that made his black skin shine even in the dark. He had a strong, wiry build, the kind that I had seen on many men in the neighborhood. They were the kind of men you would think, "I can kick his ass," only to find out that he was strong as a bull and quick as a tiger.
He tied my sister's arms together. He brought a knife out and pressed it against her neck. "One peep and I'll cut your throat," he hissed. "Got it?"
She nodded, her eyes wide with terror.
I could feel the mattress tremble with her fear.
"See this?" he said to my sister, pulling his cock from his pants. His eyes were on fire now. She tried to look away but he gripped her chin and violently turned her face toward him and his growing cock.
Her eyes widened even more as he pushed his cock toward her face.
"Suck on it, bitch," he hissed.
She tried to turn her head. He swatted her with the back of his hand. The sound of his hand against her cheek sounded as loud as a jackhammer. Why didn't anyone else hear it?
Even as he was pressing his cock against my sister's face, he was reaching down and tearing at her panties. He half-pulled, half-ripped them off of her. She resisted, twisting her legs away from him but she didn't have the strength to fight him for long.
He pushed her legs apart. Then, as he pushed himself between her legs, he took the knife and held it to her throat. "Maybe I'll cut your throat at the same time I fill you up," he whispered in a cold, evil whisper. "Hmm," he said as she whimpered. "You're tight ..." He chuckled. "I figured you were. Every time I seen you. Yeah, I seen you in this room. Teasing' me. You want this.
"You a bitch like your goddamned mother." He smiled a broad smile, showing teeth that were bent and misshapen.
He turned and looked directly at me. I couldn't take my eyes off of him. He smiled wider and nodded his head; like he thought I thought what he was doing was somehow the right thing to do, like he thought he was doing something that I understood.
He started moving faster and then he pulled himself away from her. I could hear her whimpering as he turned and faced me. He pointed the knife at me and formed the word "you" with his lips. Then he smiled again.
Just then, I heard my grandmother scream.
The man turned toward the doorway. My eyes followed. There, in the doorway, holding my two-month old brother, Nando, in her one arm, my grandmother took in the scene and screamed again, over and over, at the top of her lungs. Me, I was still frozen. Not a fucking sound came from me.
Nando was screaming in his shrill, baby shrieking way.
"Bitch!" the man sneered. Then he leaped from the bed and started to attack my grandmother, slicing his knife across her face.
With one hand, she held him off while she kicked at his shins. With the other hand, she held and protected Nando.
"Oh My God!" my grandmother screamed. "Help!"
I was three years old going on four. My mother called me sometimes her "little big man." But I wasn't no big man that night. I was frozen with fear.
When I suddenly found myself able to move what did I do? Did I run over and defend my grandmother? Did I kick and bite and claw at that fucking animal who had invaded our apartment and our lives? Did I run and get help? No. I ran into the next room and scurried under the bed and hid.
"Aayyeee! He stabbed me!" my grandmother shrieked in Spanish. "Help me! Help me!"
I pressed my face against the floor and pressed my hands against my ears. I tried to make it all disappear. But I could still hear everything. Fucking everything. I was so scared.
"Help! Help!"
Then I peed on myself.
I heard a thud and then footsteps hurrying past the room where I was hiding.
This sonofabitch seemed to know everything about our apartment and our family.
He kicked in the door to my mother's room and charged in. He lifted his knife. "You're mine now, bitch!" he shouted.
He had been calling the shots up until then but not everything was destined to go his way this night. It happened that my mother's boyfriend was staying over. So, just as this animal lunged at my mother with his knife, her boyfriend managed to kick out hard with his feet, catching the man in his exposed ribs.
"Ooof," he cried out, flying off in a different direction than the one he'd intended. He landed hard against the wall. "Fucker," he snapped as he quickly clamored back to his feet. My mother's boyfriend got up just as quickly and attacked at the man, kicking and scratching.
There are those who say that kicking and biting and scratching is "girl fighting." I'll tell you the truth. Those people are assholes who have never been in a fight for their lives. When everything is at stake, you fight with whatever you got. That night, surprised from a deep sleep, what my mother's boyfriend had was his quickness, his sudden anger, his fear and desperation.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from RISE TO GRACE by Angel Huertas Copyright © 2011 by Angel Huertas. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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