White Lines Read online

  WHITE

  LINES

  ALSO BY TRACY BROWN

  Criminal Minded

  Black

  Dime Piece

  WHITE

  LINES

  TRACY BROWN

  ST. MARTIN’S GRIFFIN

  NEW YORK

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  WHITE LINES. Copyright © 2007 by Tracy Brown. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.stmartins.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Brown, Tracy, 1974—

  White lines / Tracy Brown.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-312-33648-6

  ISBN-10: 0-312-33648-9

  1. Cocaine abuse—Fiction. 2. African American women—Fiction. 3. Inner cities—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3602.R723W47 2007

  813'.6—dc22

  2006052210

  10 9 8 7 6 5

  A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR ABOUT

  WHITE LINES

  I grew up in the eighties and nineties, decades when the crack epidemic destroyed families and communities. I witnessed the epidemic up close and personally, and I watched people fall prey to drug addiction. I’ve grieved with friends who lost loved ones to AIDS and other drug-related illnesses. At seventeen, I went to the first of several funerals for my peers, all gunned down in drug wars being waged in the streets where we lived. I watched helplessly as even more of my peers were hauled off to prison for crimes related to the game. The drug trade touched each of us in my generation profoundly. It affected our lives, our politics, the movies that we watched and the music that we listened to. And it destroyed our community piece by piece.

  In telling the story in White Lines, I want to shed light on every aspect of the drug game to show that no one ever wins in this game. There are only losers. The hustlers, the drug addicts, the family members, the friends. Everybody loses in the game. We lose loved ones to addiction, young men and women to tragic early deaths, and we lose years of our lives to incarceration. We lose. In every possible way. Many times the game is glamourized in the entertainment industry. Movies glorify the game, as do music, magazines, and even books. In White Lines, my objective is not to glamourize the lifestyle, but instead to call your attention to the pain that the game inevitably causes those who are bold enough to play it.

  This story is dedicated to the children of the drug game. To the lost little boys and little girls dealing with the pain of watching a loved one slip away a day at a time. To the husbands and wives forced to pick up the pieces for a spouse who can’t kick their habit. To the dealers, the pushers, the hustlers who supply the needs of these victims without realizing the destruction of families and communities taking place at their very own hands.

  This story is dedicated to love, which conquers all and costs nothing. May it help heal all our wounds, past and present.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you, God, for both the sun and the rain. Without the rain, the sunny days would be taken for granted. So thank you for the lessons and the joy in all things good and bad.

  My children, you make every sleepless night, every stressful deadline, and every early morning flight worthwhile. I love you. You are my inspiration.

  And, to the love of my life, you inspire me every single day. Thank you for all the ways you contributed to this story and for all the ways you’ve opened yourself up to me without fear. Your insight helped me to breathe life into these characters, and your honesty made me fall deeper in love with you than I ever imagined possible. Even though I have a way with words, your love leaves me speechless. It feels like my life was lived in black and white until you came and filled it with color. Each day together we write a new chapter of our love story—each one more beautiful than the last. I pray that our story never ends.

  WHITE

  LINES

  Prologue

  A BLAST FROM THE PAST

  January 9, 2007

  Born placed the card inside the envelope and handed it to the clerk behind the counter. He walked toward the door of the flower shop, thinking about what he’d written. He hoped Jada would know who the flowers were from, since he hadn’t bothered to sign his name. But more important, he hoped she would be happy to hear from him. After all, so much time had passed, and yet sometimes the pain of their split still felt like a fresh cut. He walked out of the store and toward his Denali parked at the curb. Now all he could do was wait and see if time really did heal all wounds.

  Born thought about something his mother had often told him over the years. She said that whatever you claimed to be in life, you’d be tested at. He had always thought that he knew what she meant. God knows he’d been put to the test in his life. Most times, Born had passed those tests. But when the time came for him to be tested at love, it was a different story. That was one test that Born wasn’t so sure he’d passed.

  Jada opened the door and saw a deliveryman standing there, smiling. In his hands he held a huge flower arrangement. “Jada Ford?” he asked. Jada did not return his smile but nodded, confirming her identity, and signed for the arrangement.

  “Thank you,” she said, in a soft voice. The deliveryman headed back toward the van parked at the curb.

  Jada had been accepting flowers for the past two days, all condolences for her mother’s death. Most of the flowers had been sent over by members of her mother’s small Baptist church congregation, who had become the dead woman’s extended family for the past several years. For years Jada’s relationship with her mother had been nonexistent. And then when one did exist, it had been complex. For years Jada had never seen her mother in charge or in control of her own life, or theirs, when Jada and her sister, Ava, had been kids. It had always seemed like they had been responsible for finding their own way in life, responsible for learning all their lessons on their own. The hard way.

  But then Edna had finally come out of the shadows, and had claimed her place at the head of her family. She had fought the toughest battles and found solace in the only comforter she ever needed. Then cancer claimed Edna Ford’s life. It was a sad time for Jada, compounded by the fact that she’d spent so much time consumed with the fruitless pursuit of happiness in the gutter of drug addiction. Prior to her death Edna had begun to pick up the pieces of her shattered relationship with Jada. She had watched Jada come back from the dark side, and seen that she had gotten her life together, that she’d regained custody of her son. But there had been some unfinished business between the two of them. Things they still had yet to conquer together. And now it was too late.

  Edna’s passing made Jada think about so many things that she had not allowed herself to remember for so long. She could still hear her mother’s terrified voice, still feel the fear that surged through her body every time she watched her mother beaten by J.D. Jada remembered the terror etched on her mother’s face as she curled in on herself to block her husband’s drunken blows. Jada remembered how she used to try and cover her little sister’s eyes and ears, to block out the horror they were forced to witness. Jada had resented her mother for not being stronger. She had wanted Edna to fight back. It was no wonder that a woman who had never been able to fight back in her own defense had been unable to fight for her children’s survival.

  Realizing that she was still standing in the open doorway of her home, Jada shut the door and placed the new flowers on the on
ly available space on the table in the foyer. She removed the card that accompanied the latest delivery, and walked into her cozy living room. She sat down on the sofa and tucked her feet snugly underneath her. Opening the card, she read its message:

  I’m sure that losing your moms has you feeling real emotional right now. I know what it feels like to lose a parent. I just want you to know that even though we haven’t spoken in a while, I’m here for you, if you need me. Believe it or not, I still think about you all the time. And I’m sorry for your loss. Call me if you wanna talk. (347) 555–1992.

  Jada tucked the card back into its envelope. It bore no signature. None was necessary. She recognized the handwriting, and the familiarity caused a shiver to travel down her spine. Jada laid her head back against the sofa, her back flush against the mountain of pillows. Her eyes were fixed on the smooth surface of the ceiling, and on the prisms of light reflecting through the partially open Venetian blinds, her thoughts far away. Some place so long ago and so bittersweet.

  JADA

  1

  A HOUSE OF CARDS

  Brooklyn, 1990

  “You don’t fuckin’ listen! I told you to come out of that room, Ava. I was knocking on the door, and all I heard was your nasty ass moaning.”

  “Whatever, Jada!” Ava smoothed her hair out of her face, and popped her gum.

  Jada and Ava knew they were in trouble. They were supposed to be home by the time the streetlights came on. But it had been dark for a while now, and they knew they were in for it. At sixteen and fourteen years old, respectively, boys were their favorite pastime, and they had snuck off to meet a couple of them.

  “Whatever my ass. I told you to stop letting these li’l niggas touch on you and hump you and shit.” Jada looked at her sister with disapproval all over her face.

  “Jada, stop fuckin’ preaching all the time. I only let Derek do all that. And you ain’t no saint. Don’t sit there and act like you wasn’t in the living room with Marlon being just as nasty. So—”

  “So, nothing! I knew when it was time to go home, though. We should have been home a long time ago, but your nasty ass didn’t want to leave. And you never listen to me when I tell you that we gotta go. Whenever we go somewhere together, and you don’t want to leave, I can’t leave you behind. You’re my sister. Anything can happen out here. And now ‘cause of you, we’re late. You know this muthafucka J.D.’s gonna be beefing all night now.”

  They walked through the streets of Brooklyn, silenced by worry. Neither of them wanted to face the fury that awaited them at home. They were pretty little ghetto superstars, mulatto girls with glowing complexions and encompassing eyes. Their mother was a blend of French and black, and their father was of Jamaican descent. They had a look that made them stand out from the rest, yet they still had a grit about them that was undeniably hood. The sisters were quite different in personality. Jada was bold, almost wild and adventurous. Everybody in the neighborhood—even the grown folks—knew Jada by name. She was always on the scene. Always with the latest slang and the loudest mouth. Jada’s soft brown complexion, shoulder-length dark hair, and striking bone structure made her quite stunning.

  Ava, on the other hand, was beautiful, but she was timid and delicate and tended to blend into a crowd. Not that she was innocent. Ava was quieter than Jada, but she was just as much a Brooklyn girl as her sister. Ava was boy crazy, and would often intrigue Jada with her stories of passionate make-out sessions with guys. Ava hid this side of her well. So while Jada was usually in the center of the crowd, with everyone hanging on her every word, Ava would be sitting on the sidelines—with some boy usually whispering in her pretty brown ears. Ava was a little shorter than her sister, but had a lighter skin tone, longer hair, and the prettiest pink lips anyone had ever seen. She was lovely, and her body was shapelier than average at her age.

  Realizing that her sister was right, Ava cleared her throat. “I’m sorry,” she said, avoiding her sister’s gaze. “I should have listened to you, Jada. But Derek is so cute.”

  Jada grinned at Ava and shook her head. “He is cute. But, not as cute as Marlon.”

  “Whatever!” Ava laughed, and shoved her sister playfully. They walked the rest of the way home giggling about how they’d spent their afternoon. Derek and Marlon were the cutest boys in school, and they just happened to be cousins. Both of them hustled, despite their young ages, and they were well-known around the way. Jada and Ava had spent many a giggle-filled night talking about how two boys that fine had to fall from the same family tree. All the girls in school wanted Derek and Marlon. They were always fly, always had dough. But despite all the girls who wanted them, they wanted Jada and Ava. So when the opportunity arose for the four of them to be alone, the girls had jumped at the chance. They’d met at Marlon’s house and proceeded to spend several unsupervised hours with the boys of their dreams. For the next few hours, both girls were on cloud nine, as they French-kissed and were caressed by the two cutest boys in school. Now it was almost 8:30, and they had a lot of explaining to do. Their time with Derek and Marlon had been a welcome distraction from the ugliness they experienced both at home and in their neighborhood.

  The crack epidemic had taken over ghettos across the country, and Brooklyn was the worst. Bodies showed up every night up and down Flatbush Avenue, and throughout the borough of Brooklyn. Gunshots rang out, and everybody knew the drill. They’d hit the deck and wait till it ceased, wondering if this time the victim was someone they knew. Crack vials littered the sidewalks, the stairwells, and even the schoolyards. Drug dealers fought over corners, and over customers. Car radios blared rap music at all hours of the day and night. This became the canvas of the girls’ young lives as they journeyed toward adulthood.

  They arrived at their building, and entered the littered lobby. They rode up on the urine-scented elevator, the walls lined with tracks from spit. Garbage littered the elevator floor, and for the millionth time both girls wished they lived anywhere except the projects. As soon as Jada turned the key in their apartment door, she could hear the yelling coming from the kitchen. It was going to be a long night. J.D. was in the middle of one of his tirades. Both sisters knew that the night would end in the usual manner—with their mother balled up on the floor, crying as she tried to block her man’s kicks and punches.

  Life hadn’t always been so hopeless for the girls. Edna Ford had gotten married and given birth to Jada and Ava when she was fresh out of high school. Their father, Sheldon Ford, a man five years older than Edna, married her when she was very young and easily manipulated. Sheldon had been the hardworking, financially stable father and husband that every woman dreams of. Edna had stayed home and cooked and cleaned, while Sheldon went out every day and worked as a truck driver, in and out of state. Jada grew up adoring her father. It was easy to do, since Sheldon had been such a handsome, strong, and charismatic man. Whenever Sheldon was away—often for days at a time driving his truck—Edna seemed eager, almost anxious for his return. She had a hard time making decisions on her own, or thinking for herself. And Jada sensed this early on. She could tell that her mother was not comfortable in a position of authority, that Edna needed Sheldon’s input and his direction. This was evident in everything, from selecting new furniture for the house to which dress she should wear when they went out. Edna always sought Sheldon’s approval. So whenever he returned it was a relief for both Edna and her daughters, all of them thirsting for the comfort they found in Daddy’s presence. Edna loved and doted on her husband. She knew that she was lucky to have a man like Sheldon. Someone who wasn’t in and out of jail, a man who worked hard and looked good doing it. What Edna didn’t know was that Sheldon was living a double life, and was secretly seeing other women.

  He left exactly four years after Ava was born. It was her birthday, and they were having guests to celebrate their baby girl’s special day. Jada and Ava had been decked out in their best dresses, and all the mothers from the neighborhood had brought their children to the party. Ed
na had been so busy flaunting her well-furnished home and her beautiful daughters in front of the jealous women from the block that she never realized so many of them had already slept with her husband.

  Ava was sitting shyly in the corner at her own birthday party while Jada was center stage, dancing her heart out with all the other kids. Edna was so distracted, as she soothingly encouraged Ava to join in the fun, that she only half acknowledged Sheldon when he told her that he was going to the store to get some more soda. Edna had waved him off and mumbled something about them needing napkins too. But Sheldon never returned. And Jada had watched her mother make feeble excuses for the rest of the night about where her man was. She entertained their guests while discreetly wringing her hands, eager for his return. But Sheldon never came back. Long after the guests were gone and the house was clean, he was nowhere to be found. When he finally had the decency to call his wife, he told her that he’d found somebody else with whom the grass seemed greener. And he never looked back. Edna had been heartbroken. She had stayed in her room and lain in her bed, crying for days at a time. Jada had been the one to put on a brave face and shield her younger sister from her mother’s sobs, by keeping Edna’s bedroom door closed and turning on the living room stereo in order to drown out their mother’s crying. While Ava asked where their daddy had gone, and why Mommy wouldn’t come out of her room, Jada changed the subject and made sandwiches for her sister. Despite being a mere six years old, Jada knew in her heart that their daddy wasn’t coming back. She knew that Sheldon had walked away, never to return. And she thought she must have been the most heartbroken of all. Yet she kept her game face on and played the role of the rock for both her sister and her own mother. Jada did a lot of growing up, and would later wonder who had been the parent and who had been the child.