Kiss the Girls

I came,” he said offhandedly about his appearance at St. Anthony’s. “You okay? You look like the last of the big, bad bull elephants.”
    “Little boy tried to kill himself. Sweet little boy, like Damon. Eleven years old.”
    “Want me to run over to their crack crib? Shoot the boy’s parents?” Sampson asked. His eyes were obisdian-hard.
    “We’ll do it later,” I said.
    I was probably in the mood. The positive news was that the parents of Marcus Daniels lived together; the bad part was that they kept the boy and his four sisters in the crack house they ran near the Langley Terrace projects. The ages of the children ranged from five to twelve, and all the kids worked in the business. They were “runners.”
    “What
are
you doing here?” I asked him for the second time. “You didn’t just happen to show up here at St. A’s. What’s up?”
    Sampson tapped out a cigarette from a pack of Camels. He used only one hand. Very cool. He lit up. Doctors and nurses were everywhere.
    I snatched the cigarette away and crushed it under my black Converse sneaker sole, near the hole in the big toe.
    “Feel better now?” Sampson eyed me. Then he gave me a broad grin showing his large white teeth. The skit was over. Sampson had worked his magic on me, and it
was
magic, including the cigarette trick. I was feeling better. Skits work. Actually, I felt as if I’d just been hugged by about a half-dozen close relatives and both my kids. Sampson is my best friend for a reason. He can push my buttons better than anybody.
    “Here comes the angel of mercy,” he said, pointing down the long, chaotic corridor.
    Annie Waters was walking toward us with her hands thrust deeply into the pockets of her hospital coat. She had a tight look on her face, but she always does.
    “I’m real sorry, Alex. The boy didn’t make it. I think he was nearly gone when you got him here. Probably living on all that hope you carry bottled up inside you.”
    Powerful images and visceral sensations of carrying Marcus along Fifth and L streets flashed before me. I imagined the hospital death sheet covering Marcus. It’s such a small sheet that they use for children.
    “The boy was my patient. He adopted me this spring.” I told the two of them what had me so wild and crazed and suddenly depressed.
    “Can I get you something, Alex?” said Annie Waters. She had a concerned look on her face.
    I shook my head. I had to talk, had to get this out right now.
    “Marcus found out I gave help at St. A’s, talked to people sometimes. He started coming by the trailer afternoons. Once I passed his tests, he talked about his life at the crack house. Everybody he knew in his life was a junkie. Junkie came by my house today… Rita Washington. Not Marcus’s mother, not his father. The boy tried to slit his own throat, slit his wrists. Just eleven years old.”
    My eyes were wet. A little boy dies, somebody should cry. The psychologist for an eleven-year-old suicide victim ought to mourn. I thought so, anyway.
    Sampson finally stood up and put his long arm gently on my shoulder. He was six feet nine again. “Let’s head on home, Alex,” he said. “C’mon, my man. Time to go.”
    I went in and looked at Marcus for the last time.
    I held his lifeless little hand and thought about the talks the two of us had, the ineffable sadness always in his brown eyes. I remembered a wise, beautiful African proverb:
“It takes a whole village to raise a good child.”
    Finally, Sampson came and took me away from the boy, took me home.
    Where it got much worse.

Chapter 5

    I DIDN’T like what I saw at home. A lot of cars were crowded helter-skelter around my house. It’s a white shingle A-frame; it looks like anybody’s house. Most of the cars appeared familiar; they were cars of friends and family members.
    Sampson pulled in behind a dented ten-year-old Toyota that belonged to the wife of my late brother Aaron. Cilla Cross was good friend. She was tough and smart. I had ended up liking her more than my brother. What was Cilla doing here?
    “What
the hell
is going on at the house?” I asked Sampson again. I was starting to get a little concerned.
    “Invite me in for a cold beer,” he said as he pulled the key from the ignition. “Least you can do.”
    Sampson was already up and out of the car. He moves like a slick winter wind when he wants to. “Let’s go inside, Alex.”
    I had the car door open, but I was still sitting inside. “I live here. I’ll