Page 1 of Roses Are Dead
1
Roishin
Fair is foul, and foul is fair. - MacBeth
Don’t be fooled by a pretty face, or by a pious countenance. Sometimes both hide the darkest secrets. Case in point, Carl Windgren. A preacher’s son, he was heir to the divine-infused, velvet-cushioned throne at the back of a broad stage in my hometown. He was also a notorious drug dealer who lived in the lowest-rent neighborhood of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, where he ruled as lord over a criminal empire. Since he couldn’t crown himself king of a church, he found the next best substitute. Drugs.
I’d done my best to gnaw my arms off to get free. Not only from that church, but from Carl.
So, why was I willing to put those shackles on again?
Beth. My best friend. My only friend.
In every way, she was the opposite of Carl. Beth Windgren-now-Smith was my savior, my first love, in a sisterly way, and the kindest person I had ever met. A mother to two boys and two girls, a devoted wife, a full-time stay at home mom, and a front-line volunteer for anything that helped make people’s lives more livable, enjoyable, or beautiful.
And she was dying.
The culprit? Aggressive Non-Hodgkin lymphoma. It was a deadly kind of disease.
No prayers could fix that. And believe me, there had been many.
Medicine and science had answers, perhaps not firm solutions, but offered hope. But even hope needs a nudge now and then.
I hid behind Carl Windgren’s couch for the third time that month and measured my breaths so Carl’s criminal visitor wouldn’t kill me. As I lay on Carl’s beige-gray carpet, I inhaled the rot of mildew, ancient pet stains, and the pervasively sharply “green” aroma of pot shake while the drama unfurled in graphic detail.
It started simply enough. A knock at the back door. Another minion coming to buy, right?
Carl checked his closed-circuit TV system and ordered me to hide. Missing were his joking manner and the veiled threat to make me witness his power play. Whoever it was, warranted Carl’s fear. I dipped behind the couch because he was already opening the back door.
“I thought Sketch was coming.” Carl’s voice was clear.
The other’s wasn’t. I tried not to listen. But whatever he had to say, Carl didn’t like. “What do you mean, you didn’t bring it?”
This time, the voice was clearer because the guest moved into the living room. “I checked the bag, it ain’t there. Someone fucked up. I’m calling, okay?”
“My time is valuable,” Carl reminded him.
The guest didn’t bother to answer. “Yo, Bear. I left Sketch’s and—” he was cut off by whoever he called. “Fuck. Sorry about that. I didn’t know. I picked up the car he said would be fixed. It was fixed—” a pause went on for longer than the last interruption. Answered with a vague, “No shit? Daaaaaamn.”
I didn’t have to look to see Carl’s face. He didn’t mind most swearing except for two instances. Damn, or goddammit. I knew that sour, holier than thou squint, followed by the slightest downturn of both corners of his mouth. The tight whiteness that replaced his natural pallor, proving he was stockpiling words like an arsenal but guarding it stronger than any army would.
“Cool. I’ll let him know.” The tone shifted because he must have had his back turned and now faced Carl. “Sketch is on his way. Maybe ten minutes, tops. He’s got your shit.”
Carl’s voice lowered to a hiss. “He clothed himself with cursing as his coat; may it soak into his body like water, like oil into his bones.”
“Yeah. Right. Anyway, that’s going to be sixteen K.”
A drug drop. Lovely.
“I’m not paying you.” Carl’s voice was calm.
“Listen, if you don’t pay, we fuck you up, and you don’t get your shit.”
I bit down on my urge to reveal myself. He hadn’t truly threatened Carl yet. And I’d heard this same refrain at least once before. Carl was a big boy, he could handle himself.
“Per my agreement with your boss, remember him? Jackson? I can ask for twelve days from delivery to payment.”
“What? You ain’t good for it?”
