NOBODY KNOWS…

By

Granville Johnson

Part 3

Sevin, known as dad to those most important to him, was born in the drafty chill of Cook County General Hospital, the Welfare Wing. An over crowded, under staffed monument to poverty, ill health, and man’s inhumanity to children. ‘The Factory’, as it was lovingly called by it’s survivors, sat in the middle of the near Westside Chicago ‘super-slum’ like a monstrous bulwark of bureaucracy or ‘bucket of bullshit’. Depending on whom you talked to.

Irene raised him: a beautiful highly sensitive woman; a single working mother employed as a railway car cleaner in the B&A Westside Train Station. Sevin, the favored middle child, according to his younger brother Andy, of five children, was rich in the love of his enveloping extended family, yet poor in material possessions. Sevin’s hand-me-down clothes were often worn threadbare, yet always clean and well cared for.

The rich warmth of his familiar love was taken for granted and considered a given by Sevin. He viewed the early years of his life from the voracious perspective of what he didn’t have, of paramount absence, being a father. In latter years he would often describe himself sardonically as just another one of the hereditary ‘have-not’ children of a ‘make-do’ generation.

To Irene, Sevin was a post-war gift of life. He was Howard’s legacy to a fatherless family, breaking a tragic chain of nine miscarriages and stillbirths. Sevin embodied the living memory of the only man she would ever truly love; now dust long before his time. Irene, in her interminable rage over Howard’s abrupt submission to Viral Tuberculosis, two months before the birth of their child, never forgave Sevin’s father for abandoning her.

During one of the rare moments when she spoke of him, at Sevin’s behest, she would mimic his voice in a high nasal harangue saying, “I’ve got more health than the Board of Health!” In her natural voice, now an angry growl, she would continue, “What he had was… terminal ignorance!” Watching her performance, staged primarily for his benefit, Sevin would join in her rumbling laughter. Still he often noticed that throughout the monologue, her eyes never smiled. They instead reflected a deep sadness, frozen, entombed, timeless.

Howard Granville, a six foot – two-inch hunk of headstrong handsome blue-black macho manhood, was superstitious. He hated having his picture taken. He would go to extreme lengths of ‘mule-ish’ stubbornness to avoid having his image, “…and you won’t catch me alive or dead… caught up in that devil box… captured on film. For Howard it was also an, “…intolerable invasion of my personal privacy by that idiot-box pushed at me by nosey-ass dim-wits who would be better off mindin’ their own beeswax anyways. That is if they had any business worth mindin’ in the first place.” He would preach his mantra to the high heavens and anyone else who would pretend to listen or care.

Howard had never imagined that his fear of cameras and doctors with their ‘insidious’ powers would, with his un-timely death, rob his unborn son, his only son of any record of his passing or connection to the role model, source and resource of Father in his child’s life.

Sevin’s, life-loss and hunger for the love of father would colour, shape and define his world in angry shades of abusive degradation at the hand of ’wanna-be’ imposters.

For this betrayal, Sevin, like his mother, could and would not forgive.

After the shared tears and jeers amidst tales of dad had quieted to a simple silence embracing mother and son; from his bed, Sevin would listen to her singing… She was upset. When she was really upset or sad, she would sing through her tears. Those were times to leave her alone. So he would lie there listening to her, wanting to help her, sorry he had somehow caused her pain; crying with her, singing, “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Nobody knows my sorrow…” Sometimes sleep would come to hide the hurt ‘til morning. Still in his dreams, the song would go on and on, “Nobody knows… Nobody…”

Standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing out last night’s caffeine dreams, Sevin knew any excuse would do, to keep truth at bay. This morning’s excuse though was almost as painful as the truth. Herpes…again! He had felt the burn, searing through his crotch. The abrupt eruption had stolen his laughter. He had the sore, present and accounted for like a red-blistered ruby, it adorned his cock-crown. It throbbed, “Unclean, unclean…” in a spectral hiss: Terry’s voice, loud enough to drown out all the good that could possibly happen this day.

Since Terry, his long–lost Vietnamese whore and lover, Herpes had become his perpetual partner in this stress-dance called life. He had become adept in recognizing the flu-like early warning signs that invariably lead to cold sweats, bad nights and worst days. The familiar burning was no real surprise.

“Sevin! Sevin… Sev… wake up…Please… wake…” Terry hissed!

“What… what?” Sevin, not half awake was already halfway into his pants and reaching for his M-16, mouth already filled with acrid fear-taste. He knew and trusted that Terry would not wake him unless there was real trouble. He didn’t know the source of the danger. He didn’t care. A brother didn’t stay alive

for more than eighteen months in `Nam by asking stupid questions when the “Shit hits the fan.” Obeying Terry’s silent signal he moved, cat-like from the bedside, across the cold tiled floor to the back door, scooping the remains of his clothing on the way.

By the time Sevin had reached the semi-dark hole-in-the-wall, he noticed that all traces of his presence had had been erased, by Terry’s mama-san, in furtive efficiency. Sevin involuntarily wondered what it was going to take to erase him. That was when he did a ‘blind’ check of his weapon and ammo jacket. Finding it all there, a brief silent prayer of thanksgiving filled his heart as his eyes found Terry’s deep black gaze.

Terry had seen his surreptitious ammo check and knew that she had once again, proven, to this ‘round eye’, how much she loved him. She not only had warned him of trouble, but had also left him the means to defend himself even if it meant risking her and her family’s lives in the process.

Terry wondered why she bothered. A dark-skinned Mountainyard beauty from the northern mountainous region with long hair, muscular large-boned-frame, full breasted, and delicate features set off by huge black eyes that could swallow a man whole while stripping his soul of all he held dear. This she did upon occasion, to break the boredom or teach a life lesson to the rudely ignorant. She believed that American G.I.s did most of their serious thinking with the ‘brain’ that hung between their thighs. The other one, sitting on their necks, was there to provide camouflage (the pretence of resident intelligence) and to support their ears that didn’t work because they never listened anyway. At sixteen, she and her family were part of the growing migration of northern tribes-people lured south by the prospect of American war riches.

She liked this Black G.I. He was a good lover, for a G.I. He was kind with a gentle soft touch; and he did such wonderful things with his tongue. And… oh, the size of his long thick black ‘brain’…even her poor husband pales in comparison. Though she would never, ever, lay with the American if he didn’t pay Mama first and pay her well. She was a businesswoman, not a whore. Perhaps she would ‘marry’ him and go to America. Her husband would understand. It would be good for business. She could send enough money back to support their entire family in comfort.

Terry knew that she must move quickly. Hue, her beloved husband did not have mush time before he must rejoin his unit heading further south on the trail. The N.V.A. were moving against the Americans in force and demanded his V.C. unit in support. The fighting would be difficult; many would die or be wounded. They would need all the doctors, like her husband, they could find.

She may never see Hue again! She thanked Buddha for these few precious hours to love him once more, perhaps for the final time.

First she must stash this doting Black idiot. The goat shed will do nicely, following him into the shadows, “Please be quiet my number-one G.I., V.C. patrol scrounging for supplies. They may be looking for a place to stay for the night. Don’t worry I’ll be all right. One of them is married to my cousin. I’ll get rid of them as fast as I can; I promise. I love… you… Sevin.”

She kissed him briefly, yet deeply, as he insisted. His caress of her ample breast and nest drew deep moans of acquiesce. What a lovely touch, so warm… Perhaps she cared for him more than she dared admit. Slowly withdrawing from his embrace, she brushed away a solitary tear. She really did hope he would be very quiet. She’d hate to have to kill him, but she would… business is sometimes like that… difficult choices.

“Ouch, my pussy burns,” thought Terry, hurrying quickly to her shack that was home. “I must remember to wash well before loving Hue. It will be much fun to bathe together. Perhaps he has some medicine.”

Later her mother would angrily chastise her, “Blisters! Sores! It serves you right, those damn Niggers never wash!”

Sevin watched Terry’s swaying retreat, the gentle roll of her boyish hips held his attention. Heart throbbing in his chest and loins, eyes tearing, he sniffed then kissed and sucked his moist finger tips. Her pungent pussy-scent filled his nostrils and taste buds. He never tired of the taste of her. Closing his eyes tightly, to eradicate reality’s invasion, he relived their brief night of passion. Her hot cheeks and throat swelling with his throbbing fullness, as he teased and scintillated her purple-pink clit. Their unbearable heat drove them at each other in vain glorious an attempt to satisfy lust-insatiable. They came, and came, and came… eventually; thick rich juices of euphoria became dry heaves of exhaustion.

Sevin opened his eyes, startled by the tentative explorations of a raspy rough tongue belonging to a curious young Billy goat. Jungle-quick reflexes saved him from an injury that would be very difficult to explain back on the base, as sharp teeth and powerful jaws closed on the space where his cum-dripping cock had been dangling.

Sevin’s knees felt weak as his legs turned to soft wax. “Damn… Man! What’s wrong with you? Here you are stuck in… in… goat shit; dreaming about a woman, whom for all you know, could be inside selling your dumb ass to the highest bidder. And there ain’t a damn thing you can do about it. FUCK! At least get your act together, so you can take a few of them with you. Cousin… did she say cousin? Oh… Lord. Please get me out of this mess in one piece, preferably, without leaks.”

“Dad, where’d Mom go?” Kudo asked as he climbed up to his usual perch, the smooth six-inch varnished log banister of the staircase, leading to the second floor loft over looking the living room, dining room and kitchen. He and his two sisters liked to camp on the steps about half way up, arms and legs hanging through the railing posts, just below the kitchen ceiling lights. Like cats, bats, and lizards, they like the perspective of the high ground.

“Is Mister Rogers done?”

“Boring… dad. Where’s mom?”

Sevin, now measuring out four heaping scoops of rich dark-brown Columbian powder, abruptly decided to put in one more scoop for good measure. He would have need of the added kick in his ‘buzz juice’ this morning.

He had grown to hate this ritualistic morning question and answer period. Their questions were fair, necessary and honest. He couldn’t fault the inquiry of the inquirers. Rather, struggling with demands of painful integrity, he hated the inevitable answers. So carefully keeping his voice cheerful and his back turned to his son, he answered quickly. “She’s up stairs, in the guest room.”

“Is she with Quail?’ asks Onele’, joining her brother.

(Hated question number two.)

“Yes.”

(Heinous response: a matched set.)

“Can we go up and see them?’’ Eagerly, inquires Inez, as she slides down the rail.

(Right on schedule: he chokes on the bile of his rising self-loathing.)

“I’m sorry, guys your mother and Quail went back to bed because they tired, as well. (The brief image of the couple’s unfortunate early morning ‘fall-from-grace’ and subsequent crawl back to ‘their’ room bounced across Sevin’s “mind-scape” and burbled within his eyes to send ripples across his smile that visibly brightened, as the morning sun clears the clouds in a pristine sky.) They were up late last night. I think we should leave them alone; so they can wake up on their own. They should be down in a little while. What do you want for breakfast?”

“What’s wrong dad?’ asked Onele’ sensing her father’s apprehension, as he continued to busily prepare their porridge for breakfast. Her dad made great hot cereal, filled with lots of yummy fruit and nuts. It was way cool.

“I’m just tired Onele’; really tired. I didn’t sleep well last night, bad dreams.”

“Is that why you’ve been sleeping in our room sometimes?”

“Year babe, it’s been great to have all of you to turn to when the goblins and ghosts are hunting my dreams. You’re my safe harbor during the storm.”

“Last night was bad, huh?”

“Were there real ghosts and goblins, why did…?” asked Inez.

“What did they look like?” snapped Kudo, interrupting his younger sister, as usual.

“Yes, last night was rough. No, the ghosts and goblins were not real; just ugly things in my dreams. And no, I don’t remember what they looked like. Inez were you going to ask why I had bad dreams?”

“Yeah dad”

“I think that I’m carrying a bug.”

“The flu?”

“Probably… yeah.”

“Again?”

“Yes.”

“Dad, that flu bug must really like you”

“I guess it has a thing for old man, with bad habits.”

“DADDY!”

“Okay, okay, I know, I’m NOT old.”

“Look, our gourmet grub is almost ready. Just has to sit a for a few minutes. If you’ll hurry and get dressed while I set the table; we can try drawing some scary-night monsters, using our fertile imaginations, after breakfast. Deal?”

“Deal,” was he unison reply from the three-car-long-child-train as it slid down the smooth banister toward the kitchen floor.

“One more thing dad…”

“Yes Kudo, my man.”

“What bad habits?”

“Eating tender morsels! Starting with YOU…!” Sevin growled in his best monster voice, while chasing the three delighted “tender morsels’. Screaming down the hall, toward their room. They all wound up in a giggling pile on Inez’s bed.