Possessed-Carl J. Crawford
IT WAS ABOUT 10:30 AT NIGHT and Nathan Chapman Jr. was returning to his home in West Philadelphia, high as usual. He was blasted out of his mind, like an old lizard trying to cross a four lane highway. He had been shooting speed all that day and the night before.
The phone rang early the next morning. It was still dark outside as he reached for the receiver and immediately heard his sister Zara shouting, “The police just left my house. They’re looking for you. They said you molested a fifteen-year-old girl, you know, the girl who lives with you along with her mother and sister.” Nate informed her that he asked them all to leave days ago along with their crazy Doberman, that he would just as soon was dead.
A knock on the door ended the conversation. The lights were out in the house, but there was no question who was rattling the front door. The cops! They sure got here in a hurry. Paranoia began to set in. He crawled across the living room floor to the front door, stood up and used the peephole. Nate could see the big, bulky cop, but the cop could not see inside. Ducking down, he crawled to the back of the house and looked out the kitchen window. There were no surprises. A police car with two more cops and a third arriving in a second vehicle were watching from the back alley. How did they know I was home? They must have had my place staked out.
Now more paranoid than ever, it became obvious that he had to escape. He had to get out of there. I have to get somewhere to think. Sweat was running off his body like water from a faucet. He crawled back through the house, military style, and up the stairs to the bedroom where he could move about more freely.
He had several thoughts at once, but only one made sense: he had to get his gun. He raced to the closet and removed his .38 from an old shoe box. He checked the load. There was a bullet in each chamber. He stood there frozen, unable to move and asked himself, Am I ready to die? He knew he was not, but he wasn’t ready to return to jail, either.
Nate had been out only a few weeks after spending six months in the lockup on a stolen vehicle charge. Three months for the car and an additional three for violating his parole. That was a joke. He had seen his parole officer every month for a year and signed the card every time, and then the officer stood in front of the judge and witnessed, “He never reported to me, judge. I don’t even know this guy.”
No more. If they take me back this time I will be gone for a long time, six years minimum. What ever happened to the truth setting someone free?
“Chapman, open up. We know you are in there,” the officer shouted, “We just want to talk with you.” Sure. The house is surrounded and all the cops want to do is talk. Then a thought hit him like a bolt of lightning. The skylight in the bathroom could be his escape route. If he could reach it, he would be free. It seemed impossible but there was no way back, not now. He would never survive in a state prison without his drugs; he knew that for sure.
Nate moved the chair from his bedroom into the bathroom, directly under the skylight. He reached for the support beam and grabbed hold. He threw one leg over the beam and with his other leg, kicked out the glass. Open! It was open! He pulled himself through the small space and crawled out onto the roof.
“I heard something break,” the nameless officer shouted. “He’s trying to get away.”
Nate looked across the city block-long roof covering the endless row of attached houses that filled the landscape of Philadelphia’s West Side. In the summer, mothers sat on the stoops watching their children play in the street, while fathers gathered along the curbs smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. Every apartment looked identical.
He knew he could cross from one to the next until he reached the far side some distance from his place, and the cops that were sure to enter his apartment would find only the open skylight. If only there’s a way down before they discover my escape hatch. He ran in a panic, losing his footing several times and crashing onto the gravel-covered roof. His hands were open wounds and his knees scrapped, but he remained focused on the wall at the far end of the building, as he moved closer.
Keep running! Not far to go. I’ll make it; I have to make it. How many times have I practiced this in the Air Force? How many times have I heard them give instructions on how to land when you jump with a parachute?
He didn’t have a chute but he had motivation. Just bend your knees and rock when you land. It was do it or die. He stood on the edge of the roof, arms flapping like a big black bird of prey. Seconds later he felt the impact of the hard earth, his knees bent as he rolled on the grass. He jumped up, winced at a twinge in his right knee, but that was all. Nothing was broken. He was free and he was on his way, leaving the cops behind. He knew if he could get to the South Side he would find a safe haven with Cynthia.
He jumped a small fence and walked across the street to the bus stop. Then he heard the siren and
watched a police car as it rounded the corner and whizzed past. He froze and tried to look like any ordinary citizen waiting for a bus, but knew he had to get out of sight. Fortunately, the bus arrived five minutes later.
When he exited the bus he walked around the corner, took the key from his pocket, inserted it in the lock and opened the door. Cynthia was standing at the top of the stairs waiting for him as he expected. Of all the women he knew she was the one he loved, but he knew it could never be, not here, not now, even though her old man was his friend.
“Hi baby, I didn’t mean to wake you.” They embraced.
“That’s okay, I wasn’t really asleep anyway. I was worried about you ’cause your sister called and said the cops were by her house looking for you. What happened?”
“Baby, let’s not talk about it now. Where can I put this?” He pulled up his shirt and revealed his revolver.
“A gun,” she cried. “Follow me.” She led him to the bedroom upstairs, opened the closet door and handed him an empty shoe box.
“Baby, tell me what happened. Why are the cops looking for you?”
He explained that he didn’t really know because he hadn’t spoken to them, but he was sure it had to do with Fran and the girl that was staying in the house while he was in jail.
“Right now I don’t want to talk about it; I’m tired.”
They turned off the light in the bedroom, but not before he fixed himself a drink. They held each other, kissed, crawled into bed, and made love. Loving Cynthia was difficult for Nate to explain. He had feelings for her unlike those he had for anyone else, the tingles and thrill and the desire to never have it end, but he knew it must.
Morning came quickly. Cynthia was up early getting the kids together for school and the baby-sitter. Teresa was dressed and ready to go, and Jim was pulling on the bed covers demanding that Nate get up. They were not his children, but they were very close, especially Jim. There was a time when he wasn’t certain if she was carrying his child or her husband’s.What a relief it was for everyone to see how much he looked like Johnny.
“What are you going to do today?”
“Stay right here in bed and watch TV. I’m not going anywhere.”
He watched her in amazement as she dressed. Everything was in the right place and a place for everything. When she needed something, she knew exactly where it was. Her half-slip pulled up over her breasts as she ran around doing what she had to do, like a sergeant marshaling her troops. It wasn’t long before she was ready to leave.
“I’ll call you from work, or you can call me when you get up.”
It was about eleven o’clock when he finally came to for real. He was still tired, dehydrated, and his right knee hurt from the jump, but mostly he was disgusted with himself. He picked up the phone and called Cynthia to inform her he was back in the land of the living and recovered. He got up, fixed breakfast, and lay back on the bed trying to figure how he got into the situation he was in, and more importantly, how to get out of it.
His first thought was of Fran. She was the foundation of the entire mess. They met one night some time back while he was taking a walk along 54th Street. It was a beautiful night, star bright with a full moon and you didn’t even need the streetlights to see.
Suddenly, there she was with her blonde hair and her magnificent looking-legs, with her huge Doberman. It was about 12:30 A.M.; they approached each other cordially. “Hello, how are you?” “I’m fine, how about yourself?” He inquired about her dog and she was anxious to talk about him. His name was Shaffie, a pure bred, and as big as he was, still just a pup. Fran and Nate seemed to hit it off right away. She informed him that she lived on Berks Street, alone, just Fran, her daughter, and her dog. Nate was taken with her mocha coffee skin color, the way she carried herself, and mostly her compelling smile. She was about five foot-two inches and no more than 110 pounds.
That night was the start of a long relationship. He was convinced she was the answer to his prayers so soon after his breakup with Pamela. Then, there was Cynthia on the South Side, but that was just too dangerous and complicated. Fran presented none of those complications. She was the perfect one to help him get over Pamela, and cool the situation with Cynthia.
As the month proceeded she told him her life story, how she split with her husband, how she had been a loving wife and mother, and about how her man cheated on her the way he did. She finally just walked out and never returned. Later, she hooked up with a guy on the South Side, a gangster, she called him. He was tall and handsome, and she had fallen in love with him, but there was one problem she couldn’t overcome. When they had sex he hurt her, so she stopped and called off the relationship and moved. Conveniently, there she was walking along with her Doberman just so Nate could make her acquaintance, or so he thought.
It wasn’t long before Fran and her daughter, the dog, and her round bed moved in with him. The truth was, he had a case coming up in court for the stolen car and if he got “knocked” for that, she could keep the house while he was away. His preference would have been to have Cynthia care for his house, but that would have led to bloodshed. There was plenty of gossip already. His mother was catching some of it, her being the head of two choirs and an outstanding member of the Beulah Baptist Church. So, in respect to another man’s wife, he allowed Fran to move in and not Cynthia.
The time was fast approaching for his appearance in court, and although Fran was on welfare, she would be able to get by, especially since she could have her girl with her and not have to pay for sitters. They reached an agreement, and the night before his court appearance, they enjoyed a steak dinner together and plenty of sex. “My mother always told me to be a lady on the streets and a bitch between the sheets,” she said. He thought to himself, you certainly are both.
