My mother pulled the van into the driveway, and as we started to get out—well, I should say as they waited for me to lower down the ramp—Tad told my mother to go ahead inside, and that he wanted to go for a walk with me.
Then—and remember, I’d found humor for four years at this point—I said, “You mean go for a roll?” I knocked on my legs with my knuckles. “These babies are out of commission.” I smiled. Oh, and I know I said ‘I found humor,’ I never said I was any good at it.
“Well,” my mother said, “okay. Just hurry. I’ll get supper ready soon. How does grilled chicken, salad, sweet potatoes, and dessert sound?” She looked at Tad.
“Sounds to me like you already got that covered, Ma. Don’t worry; we be back in time to help you set the table, aight?”
“Aiighhtt,” she said, four octaves higher than normal and smiling. “My, God, I don’t know how on earth I understand a word that comes out of your mouth.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
“Yeah,” I added, “thanks, Ma!”
She disappeared inside the house, and Tad started pushing me down the sidewalk.
Now, if you can get past Tad’s speech pattern—or ‘ghetto slang,’ as my mother would call it—you’ll come to see that underneath, he’s a caring, loving, and dangerous individual. Mostly caring. Mostly loving. And sometimes dangerous. It’s the dangerous part that keeps me up at night.
It was hot that day. Florida has a unique way of putting you in your place.
“Look,” Tad said, pushing me, “I know it’s tough seeing me like this and all. Five years is a long ass time, and I don’t know how to apologize for it.”
“It’s fine, Tad. I know why you did it.” I watched this little kid ride by on a bicycle. He was on the opposite sidewalk. His legs looked strong, and they spun the pedals effortlessly, like he’d been riding that bike for a million years. I wondered if he understood the freedom he had, but I knew better. Nobody knows what they have till it’s gone, and someone much smarter than me said that first.
“What makes you think I did it?” He stopped pushing, then walked in front of me, crouching.
“I just thought—well, Mom said—I don’t know, Tad. She said that Jacob and Lucas testified against you. That beating that man was your idea.”
He looked away from me for a second, then he darted his head back. Those green eyes of his looked deadly.
“That’s not how it went down. They ratted on my ass ’cause I was clean. I woulda been cool with it; that’s what brothers are for. But naw, they didn’t just let me take the fall; they let me break my damn neck. That shit wasn’t part of the game.”
“How come you wouldn’t let me see you?” I said, ignoring him; the question had been bubbling in my subconscious like an active volcano for half a decade. I had to ask.
“You my baby bro, how the fucks I’m gonna let you see me in the pen like that?”
“I didn’t care. I needed you! Look at me; I’m a fucking circus act for Christ’s sake.” Those five-year tears were at the gates, but I fought them back.
“I’m sorry, aight. I’m sorry.” He wrapped his arms around me.
I wasn’t ready for that, but I’m glad it happened. I felt safe, and I didn’t feel alone anymore. Then he started to cry. I acted like I didn’t notice, but I did.
We made it home just in time for dinner. Tad ate and ate; I assumed it was the home-cooked meal, but it was only later that I found out the truth: Tad was in a hurry.
He excused himself from the table, and drove his 2001 Nissan—my mother renewed the tags in time for his release—to God-knows-where. I watched him pull out of the driveway from the living room window.