Chapter 1
I turned 12 on a sunny morning in 1979. Excited about my birthday, I jumped from the top of the raggedy bunk bed I shared with my brother; I couldn’t wait to see the presents my parents got me. That year, my birthday fell on Labor Day, so I knew Mom would be taking me to the Labor Day Parade. Barely able to contain my enthusiasm, I ran to open the bedroom window and let the rays of sunshine into room. The morning air was crisp and refreshing—I took a deep breath.
My hair was nappy and there was still white crust itching the corners of my eyes. I was a little fat handsome boy, and most people said I looked like my mother. I was barefoot, wearing my dingy white Superman underwear and no T-shirt. I didn’t like to wear T-shirts—they made me uncomfortable—even though I should’ve worn one to keep the bedbugs from eating me.
I walked quickly to the bathroom, badly feeling the urge to urinate. I knocked on the door but there was no answer, so I walked in only to discover my father sitting on the toilet with a needle protruding from his arm. His eyes were wide open and white—even the pupils. He had a smile on his face and a long stream of dry blood coming from the needle to his forefinger. I’d never seen anything like it before. I called to him, “Dad?” but he didn’t answer. I called him again, “Daddy?”—no answer. Then I went to nudge him, but when I touched his dark skin it felt different. It didn’t feel natural. His skin was cold and clammy. I began to panic and I screamed, “Daddy!” waking my brother and mother.
They both came rushing into the bathroom wearing their old dingy bedtime clothes that had clearly been washed too many times. Mom was wearing a pink nightgown with a blue belt and her hair was tied up with a blue rag. She was so pretty, even first thing in the morning. My brother was wearing his blue Superman underwear and a white tank top undershirt. He was a shade darker than me and about two inches taller.
My mother quickly shoved me aside and shook my father violently. She started screaming, a deafening sound that filled the air. Then my mother began hitting him and cursing at him.
“You can’t leave me like this motherfucker! Wake up, wake up!” My mother fell to her knees as she half screamed, half sobbed, “Ricky, dial 911 quick!”
I ran to the phone in her bedroom because it was the closest and dialed 911. The dispatcher asked, “What’s the emergency?”
“I think my father is dead.”
“What’s your address?”
“365 Fountain Avenue.”
“Why do you think your father is dead?”
“There’s a needle sticking out of his arm and he’s not moving.”
“Is there another adult in the house?”
“Yes, my mom is in the bathroom with him.”
“We’ll send an ambulance immediately.”
After hanging up the phone I heard Mom yelling, “Peter, you don’t need to see this, go to your room!”
When I came out of my parent’s bedroom, my brother was just standing in front of the bathroom entrance in shock. He had a single tear rolling down his cheek and a dazed look in his eyes, as if he had lost touch with reality. I squeezed between my brother and the hallway wall to go sit down on our old worn out green sofa in the living room that should have been thrown away years ago. It had holes on the armrest and a yellow cloud of dust rose up from the couch every time anyone sat on it. I just sat there thinking, lost in my own little world. I realized. All the rumors the other kids in the projects used to tease us about are true. When we played the Dozens, an exchange of insults between two parties, they would say, “I saw your father on Logan Avenue nodding out. Your father is a dope fiend.” It was a birthday I will never forget.
Finally, about 45 minutes later, there was a knock at the door. I looked through the peephole. Two white men in blue uniforms were standing outside. Usually when white people came to our neighborhood, which was one of the worst sections of Brooklyn, they were either social workers, policemen, or EMS workers. In this case, they were with EMS. One of the men carried a black bag and the other carried a notepad. I let them in and pointed to the back without saying a word. They quickly walked to the back of the house where my father’s body was. They couldn’t get past my brother, who just stood motionless in the middle of the narrow hallway. I had to walk to the back to help them.
I took my brother’s hand and pulled him into our bedroom. The dazed expression stayed on his face as I guided him to the bedroom. I returned to the bathroom where my mother stood sobbing and talking to the two young EMS workers.
“Do you know what was in the syringe?” I heard one of them ask.
“He’s a heroin addict; I’m sure it was heroin,” she replied as she wiped the tears from her face with toilet tissue. After asking her several more questions, they wrapped my father’s body in a white sheet. I guessed it really made no sense to try to revive him as I had seen others revived on television so many times. My father was dead.
About an hour after the body was taken away my mom got a phone call from the coroner’s office. They asked her a series of questions pertaining to funeral arrangements. Thankfully, my father had very good insurance because he worked for the city. That really helped my mom out.
I stayed in the house for the rest of the day, trying my best to console my brother and mom. My brother still hadn’t said a word since my gruesome discovery. I made soup for my grief-stricken mother and a bowl of Bryer’s cherry vanilla ice cream for my brother. I knew that life would be much different without my father. I thought, Maybe this isn’t such a bad thing after all. At least I would no longer hear my mom screaming at night because my dad was beating her, a sound I dreaded and hated. The rage and anger I felt for my father in those moments was unbearable. I hated him for what he did to my mother, but it was finally over.
