Tears flow like a river from Isaiah’s face as if he was a small child again.
Pain has a way of putting you in these moments. He places the letter on the
nightstand, his hands on his face in disgust. He examines the small handwritten
note with an address on it. He stands up, sauntering back into the Living room
to grab the box off the coffee table, placing the message on the
table.
Now he wants answers, so he pulls out a photo album opening it to a picture
of a man standing with a baby. He immediately drops the photo album as if it
was a snake. He flies backward on the couch. The terror of that photo hits him
as if he has been slapped. He cautiously grabs the album to look at the first
picture again. The man standing in the photo is a splitting image of him. His
phone vibrates on the table as at least thirty calls are missed. He tosses it
into the bedroom with a Frisbee motion.
He opens the self-adhesive paper to have a closer look at the photo. A lump
develops in his throat. His stomach knots up as the man in the picture doesn’t
look like his father. He grabs the small note as the epiphany is complete; the
purpose he ignored, scared of the answers he waited for a half-century to
solve, is right before him. He takes the picture and the note and races into
his bedroom. Isaiah grabs a duffle bag out of the closet. He opens his drawer
to toss in underwear, socks, and tee shirts. A curious tap of his bedroom
window. He opens the curtain.
“Not now, man. I got business to tend to.”
“Yo, man, Wilson has been trying to call you all morning. He is trying
to get you off those whack charges. Look, call him up. Do you want a B felony
on you?” Fuse states.
“I got business, so I’ll call him later. Keep it moving.”
“So that’s how it is? I’m trying to help you out, and what are you
doing? Getting ready to bail out…?”
Isaiah closes the curtains as he grabs some jeans and a jacket. This October
morning in South Los Angeles is a chance to rewrite his story. He takes his
cell phone off his bed. He franticly dials a number. He waits but is jumpy,
sitting on and off the bed.
“Hello, I would like to book a flight to New Orleans today, whatever
you have. I can make that- yes, it’s a round trip. Thank you. No… nonstop is
fine. The sooner, the better.”
A sense of calm comes over him as he dials another number.
“D, come shoot me to the airport. Now. Appreciate it, and I’m ready to
go. Cool, see you in a bit.”
The midday sun is warm as Isaiah checks his apartment, and Dwayne waits for him. He
hops into the car. They drive south to LAX.
“Man, what the hell is Fuse yapping about? Are you running from this
heat on you?
“No. I got some business to tend to, a family business. I know what I’m
facing.”
“All good. I know you are standing up, so I am minding my business and
respect yours. Wilson can get you out of that mess. You handle your
business.”
They have arrived at the departure circle, and Dwayne pulls
over.
“Man, you keep staying up; we got you here.”
“Appreciate you, Brother. I’ll catch you later.”
Off to New Orleans with a four-hour flight and a chance to sleep peacefully…
maybe. He lands, grabs a rental car, and pulls out the address to navigate his
journey.
Isaiah turns off the radio as he gets closer to his goal. He gets off at
Gonzales’s exit and quickly checks the directions. He sees the Worthy Road turn
as he turns. For October, New Orleans is unseasonably warm. Balmy as Isaiah
rolls down the windows looking down at the address. The air smells of the
South, a nutty and fruity scent of pecans and fruit trees. Isaiah pulls into
the property. The gravel is white rock, which is typical. He gets out to see a
weathered shotgun house as the wood has rotted with years of weathering—a
creepy noise of bugs perfumes the air. The giant moss trees have moss like an
unkempt head of hair. Isaiah cautiously pulls the picture out to confirm this
is the house.
He walks over to a body of water with all the features of a horror movie.
There are logs with an old, battered boat by the edge. He walks over, staring
out at the body of water. The smell of dead fish hits his nostrils as a bug wiz
by him as he defensively slaps it away.
He hears the crack of branches on his right flank. He sees a sign that reads
“Lost Bayou.” As he turns left, an old man stands beside him. Isaiah
immediately stumbles backward in the shock of seeing him. He is tall, wiry with
a gray natural of hair, and a toothy smile comes across his face as Isaiah
tripped onto the ground. He slowly stands up to realize the man in the picture is
an older version of him. It’s like watching your future unfold or a version of
it. The old man laughs as he speaks.
“Damn boy, I’ve waited on you. God couldn’t take me or that red sucker
until I see you. Come on in the house. Close your mouth, for a June bug flies
in it. You’ll be spitting too. City folk ain’t use to this here.’
The old man walks methodically around the corner to a brick house. His
country laughs burst at the two German Shepherds on a chain by the door. The
dogs bark profusely as Isaiah processes this surreal experience. The old man
stops at the front of the porch.
“You look like a good man…Well, a Matthews.’
“Excuse me. Who are you?
“I’m Jeremiah Matthews, your grandpa.’
“I thought you were…”
“Dead… no, that’s what your momma’s family wanted you to believe.”
Isaiah pulls out the picture as the man takes it in his grizzled hand.
“That’s me and you before your Momma left. You were about two months
old there. She couldn’t travel until you were two months. She left the day you
turned two months.”
“Why? Why didn’t I know about you?”
“Your Momma wanted it that way, so you’re weak-minded Daddy agreed to
it so she wouldn’t get him in trouble.”
‘Trouble.”
“That’s the Matthews name round here…we breathe trouble and breathe out
drama.”
On The Edge 
Leave a comment