Monk by Ivy Black

Chapter Ten

Monk

Pulling to a stop next to a line of bikes, I cut the engine and dismount. I take off my gloves, then my helmet, and hang them on the handlebar. The parking lot is full of people, some of them coming, some of them going with bags full of food and other necessary supplies.

Blue Rock Bay isn’t huge as far as cities go, but we have a fairly large population of the homeless and the working poor on the south side of town. Most of the people on the north side—which we jokingly call Beverly Hills—pretend they don’t exist. They’re on the south side, out of sight, out of mind, as far as those pompous, elitist pricks are concerned. But everybody else—the middle and upper middle class—rallies together to help care for those who need help. The Pharaohs included.

Prophet developed a relationship with Father Gilson, the head of St. Agnes, some years back. He grew up Catholic or something, and still goes to church regularly. So, Prophet thinks it will be a good idea for the Pharaohs to get involved in some of the programs Father Gilson has going on. That it will be good for our image and let people see that we’re not bad guys.

Honestly, though, I’m not sure it’s doing much good for us. People are always going to see us how they want to see us. And handing out bags of food isn’t going to change that. Some people like us, some tolerate us, some loathe us, and still, others fear us. I’m sure things like the incident at the gas station doesn’t help, but again, people’s opinion of us is already set, so it’s not going to make people hate us even more than they already do.

I walk into the courtyard and see a host of different booths and tents set up. The buzz of conversation is loud as people move along the row, picking up the various items from the tents. I find our booth, which is just a pop-up tarp with a table set across the front, and I walk over to it.

“You’re late,” Cosmo says.

“Had to take care of something.”

He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes critical. It’s like he can smell the fight on me or something. He sighs and shakes his head.

“There going to be blowback on the club?” he asks.

“Nah. Doubt it,” I tell him. “Cocky little prick isn’t gonna want to admit to anybody that he got his ass kicked by a piece of trash like me.”

“He said that?”

I nod. “Sure did. And if it eases your mind at all, I only gave him two shots to the gut.”

“Glad to see the anger management classes are really helping.”

I say to Cosmo, “Hey, if they weren’t helping, I would have left that guy laying in a puddle of his own blood and teeth. I just wanted to make a point with them.”

Cosmo runs a hand through his long black hair, frowning. “Prophet’s gonna be pissed if he finds out. He’s talked to you about your temper, man.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’m not gonna let a couple of snot-nosed punks talk shit about me.”

“I hear you, brother. I’m just sayin’. But if you’re sure there’s not gonna be blowback on the club, it’s all good.”

“I guess I’ll deal with that when and if it comes up.”

He nods. “Best way to do it. Don’t call attention to yourself. But you know, maybe you should go back to your counseling sessions.”

“I don’t know, man. I feel like that shit ran its course.”

“Apparently not. You obviously have some more shit to work out.”

I blow out a long breath. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“I’m going to keep on you about this, kid,” he says. “And it’s not just for the club. It’s for you. One of these days, you’re going to lose it on the wrong guy.”

I kick at the grass under my boot and nod. I know he’s right. Opening up to share my feelings and shit has never been my strong suit. Therapy for me is something to be avoided at all costs. But I know Cosmo’s only harping on me about it because he cares about me.

“Yeah, I know. I’ll make an appointment through the VA,” I tell him.

“When?”

“Soon.”

“How soon is soon?”

“Jesus,” I roll my eyes at him. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “Good lad. Okay, I’m gonna take off. You’ve got the booth.”

“Where’s Prophet?”

“With Father Gilson.”

I nod and look around at the crowd, but I don’t see Prophet anywhere. He’s got such a pipeline of information in Blue Rock, if word of what’s happened at the gas station is anywhere on the street, he’ll know about it. So, I kind of want to see him coming and get a read on his face before he gets to me.

“Okay, man. Go home and nag your wife and kids,” I tell Cosmo.

“Don’t need to tell me twice.”

I step up to the table as Cosmo takes off. An older woman stops by my table. She’s no more than five-two, a bit stooped, and has thin white hair. She’s got lines etched deep into her face, but her dark eyes still sparkle with intelligence—and probably a hint of sorrow. Her flowery dress is a bit worn and threadbare and has seen better days. She’s obviously one of Blue Rock’s seniors who can’t make it on Social Security alone.

“How you doin’ today, hon?” I ask.

She gives me a smile. “Why, I’m doin’ all right today. I just want to thank you boys for doin’ what you’re doin’.”

“If we don’t take care of each other, then who will?”

She smiles and takes my hand, giving it a squeeze. Her hand is so small and delicate, but she’s surprisingly strong. I give each of her hands a pat, then I pick up one of the bags from under the table and hand it to her. She opens it up and looks inside.

“Nothing too fancy, but it’ll help fill the void.”

“Oh, it looks wonderful to me,” she says.

I suppose if you don’t have much, what we’ve managed to put together is a step up from what some of these folks are used to.

“Bless you. You are good boys. Don’t let the uptight jerks around here get you down. Just keep being yourselves,” she tells me.

“Thank you. I appreciate that.”

I smile as she puts the bag into a wheeled basket and moves off. And so it goes for the next hour. I hand out bags with bread, tuna, lunch meat, mayo, peanut butter, jelly, some other canned goods, and oatmeal. Like I said, it’s nothing fancy, but it’ll help fill those empty bellies. At least for a little while.

A little while later, Prophet comes over with Father Gilson, Sister Cathy, along with Poe, and Doc, Tony Jefferson, who served as the medic in Prophet’s unit when they were serving in Iraq together.

“Father. Sister. Fellas,” I greet them, shaking hands with everybody.

“It’s nice to see you out here with us, Monk,” Father Gilson says.

“Good to be here,” I reply.

Father Gilson studies me closely, making me shift on my feet. Prophet frowns at me, and that look’s enough for me to know he’s already heard about the incident at the gas station. The grapevine here in Blue Rock wastes no fucking time. With the way the priest is looking at me, I can’t help but feel like he’s been conspiring with Prophet and the others—a thought that’s quickly confirmed when the others step up to take over distributing the bags of food as Gilson beckons to me.

We step to the front of our booth and watch the flow of people in the church’s courtyard. Gilson isn’t a big man. He’s maybe five-nine and lean. And yet, the way he carries himself makes him seem so much bigger. His dark hair, graying at the temples, gives him a dignified air, and his eyes, darker than pitch, seem to be able to cut straight through to your soul. The man has a sense of gravitas that can’t be denied.

“We do so much,” Gilson says. “And yet, we aren’t able to do enough.”

“We can only do what we can do.”

“I’ve watched you with the people who come through here. You’re good with them. You truly seem to care.”

“I do. I don’t like seeing people go without.”

“You’re a good man, Jake.”

Hearing somebody use my actual name is jarring for me. For a good, long while now, I’ve only been known as Monk. And that suits me just fine. I feel like it was the name given to me when I was baptized into this new family of mine. The only family I have. And Monk is just who I am now.

“And yet, I know you are… troubled. I know you still have demons,” Gilson says.

“Don’t we all?”

He shrugs. “It’s true. But it’s what we do about them that matters.”

I already know where he’s going with this, and I don’t think I like it. Clearing my throat, I turn my gaze out to the people in the courtyard again. But then, Gilson turns to me, his eyes piercing and direct.

“I respect you, Jake, so I’m not going to keep beating around the bush. Prophet, Poe, Cosmo, Doc—they’re all worried about you. As am I.”

“All due respect, Father, there’s nothing for you—or any of them—to be worried about. I’ve got it under control.”

He arches an eyebrow at me. “Are you certain of that?”

“Yep.”

“Then why did Prophet receive a call just a little while ago, telling him about an… altercation… at a gas station parking lot?”

“Because people in this town can’t mind their own fucking business,” I reply, seething.

He looks amused, and I cringe inwardly. Slipping my hands into my pockets, I frown.

“Sorry about the language,” I say.

He shakes his head a little. “Trust me when I say I’ve heard worse. And don’t tell anybody, but I may have used language just as coarse a time or two… before I joined the church, of course.”

My frustration is starting to build once more. Clearing my throat, I do my best to stuff it all down. Blowing up here isn’t going to do anybody—most of all me—any good. I know Father Gilson is simply trying to help me and is the last person I’m supposed to be pissed at. I know I need not be pissed at any of them. But there’s that voice in the back of my head telling me that they’re getting involved in shit that’s not theirs to dick around with. It’s telling me that this is my life and I’m in control.

“Listen, I’m not going to stand here and preach at you, Monk…”

“That’s a good thing. Can’t say I’ve ever been the religious sort.”

His smile is soft, but his eyes are filled with concern. “But what I want to offer you is a chance to actually deal with some of your demons before they get out of hand and you end up doing something you can’t take back.”

“I’ve got it handled.” My voice is low. Hard.

Gilson frowns and falls silent for a moment. Like me, he is looking out at the crowd, which is starting to thin as we get closer to the end of the day. Some of the people look disappointed at not getting what they need, the tents having run out already.

“You know, Prophet was a lot like you after he got back from the war,” Gilson says. “Angry. Drinking a lot. Just filled with rage and always wanting to fight. Always wanting to beat the tar out of somebody.”

It’s hard for me to imagine simply because Prophet is usually so mild mannered and even keeled. Yeah, he gets angry, and he’s certainly intense, but he usually seems so collected.

“He, too, had demons from his time in combat. Which is understandable, of course. War exacts a heavy toll on people,” Gilson goes on. “Anyway, he knew his path was unsustainable and that if he didn’t do something about it, he was very likely going to kill somebody. So, he came to me and we began our weekly sessions together. It took a little time, but he was able to eventually cast those demons out.”

My lips are compressed into a tight line on my face. “Yeah, well, Prophet grew up Catholic, from what I understand. He feels comfortable in a church. I don’t. Never have.”

“You don’t like the church, do you?”

I shrug. “Let’s just say it’s God I don’t much care for. He was never around when I needed him most. Didn’t really take an active part in my life, you know?”

Gilson nods sadly, but I see the determination in his eyes. He’s definitely not going to let this go. I turn to the crowd and catch the sunlight flashing on a head of long, red hair moving among the press of bodies, and I am hit with a wave of nostalgia as my mind instantly goes back to a better time in my life. Or at least, to some better memories in what was still a shitty time in my life. I can’t help it. Even now, after all these years, whenever I see red hair, my mind always flashes right back to my memory of her. Like an involuntary reflex.

“I’d like you to come set up a time and come in to talk to me, Jake. I really—”

“I already told Cosmo I’ll set up an appointment with a counselor I used to see.”

“That’s all well and good, and I encourage you to do that. But I still want you to come spend some time talking to me.”

My eyes keep moving, looking for the red hair in the crowd. I know it’s not her. By now, she’s probably moved on, gotten married, had a brood of kids, or some shit like that. Or maybe she’s decided to forego children and is now some bigshot lawyer in New York or something. The crusading attorney, putting away all the bad guys. That sounds a lot more like her. She always did want to get out of Blue Rock and live a more exciting life, somewhere that offered more than this place, and make a difference in the world.

Gilson’s voice draws me out of my head and back to the present. And when I turn back to him, I see that he’s genuinely concerned.

“You need the Pharaohs, Jake. You need the family and fellowship they provide. Maybe more than anybody I’ve ever known. If you don’t get a handle on this anger that drives you to violence, Prophet may not have any choice but to cut you loose. And I don’t want to see that happen.”

My stomach lurches and I suddenly feel lightheaded. The idea that I can have my patch taken from me has always been in my mind, of course. But it’s always been in the abstract. It’s not something I’ve ever thought possible. We’re brothers. We share a bond. And what Gilson is telling me, that it can all be snatched from me, leaving me alone and adrift, starts to hit me like a runaway freight train.

“Call and schedule an appointment with me, Jake,” Gilson urges. “Prophet and those men love you. And they want you to get past this.”

I’m still reeling, trying to process everything he’s saying when I feel a presence to my left. Turning toward it, I expect to see one of the punks from the gas station—because that’ll certainly be the cherry on top of this shit sundae. Instead, I see a ghost that’s risen from the grave for no other reason than to taunt me… because my day hasn’t been fucked up enough as it is.

The sun turns her red locks into flames that sway gently in the breeze and makes her green eyes sparkle like chips of emerald. Her skin is so fair it seems to glow with an inner light as it always has, and the only word I can think of to describe her is… ethereal. She’s as beautiful today as the last time I saw her more than ten years ago.

She stands there looking at me with the same expression of shock on my face, but she recovers more quickly. Her expression morphs from one of surprise to that of pure rage, a snarl forming on her mouth and her face suddenly turning bright red.

As I watch her walking toward me, my heart is slamming against my ribcage and it feels like a nest of oily snakes is twisting and writhing around in my gut. My every muscle seems to have locked up and I’m rooted to my spot. All I can do is stand here like an idiot and watch her approach me, the darkness in her expression growing with every step she takes.

“You son of a bitch,” she hisses as she draws within a couple of feet.

“Young lady, there’s no need for this.”

Gilson’s voice seems very far away, and I can barely hear it. She acts like she doesn’t even hear it at all. I watch it all unfolding and know exactly what’s about to happen but seem entirely powerless to do anything to stop it. More than that, I don’t think I even want to stop it. It’s what I deserve, after all. It’s probably far less than what I do, if I’m being honest.

The sharp crack of flesh meeting flesh, loud as a gunshot, fills my ears first. A moment later, I feel the stinging in my cheek beginning to explode, and I’m fairly sure there’s a red mark now in the shape of a hand on my face. My eyes settle on hers, and the surreal feeling of the moment only gets thicker. As if shocked by what she’s done, she takes a step back and looks up at me, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging open.

“Hi, Kasey,” I say. “It’s been a while.”