Page 6 of Chemistry: The Chemist

I’d comb every cranny to dead every nigga with a Perry stench so Rugger wouldn’t have to. Some shit was below her pay grade and Perry niggas were at the top of the list. Her attention was better elsewhere.

“Rhea,” with difficulty, I sputtered.

I expected my father’s baritone on the opposite end of the line. Her silky, feminine resolve caught me off guard.

“Yes, son.”

“I received a call from my father.”

“He’s been napping for a while now. By the time you arrive, he will be awake.”

“I didn’t insinuate my–”

“There aren’t many reasons he’d call, Chem. He’s requesting you.”

“Then, I’m en route.”

Wordlessly, I ended the call. The altering of direction made it clear Aden had gotten the memo and knew my father’s compound was the new destination.

Knots gathered in a central location, twisting my stomach to the point of discomfort. Coiled and contorted, it increased the saliva in the pit of my mouth.

Weekly, I shook my father’s hand and sat at his table. Often, I joined him on the golf course. Spring, early fall, and particular days in the summer when the weather permitted and the winds were low, our shoes treaded the artificial greenery for hours as our bellies grew hungry and we’d quenched our thirst a hundred times or more.

In forty-eight minutes, exactly, we arrived at the gates. Our entry was granted immediately. They were waiting. They always were.

A semi-loop around the fountain in the center of the estate led to the double doors of my family’s home. A perfectly manicured yard would impress his neighbors if they lived close enough or could see over the brick. My father valued his privacy. He didn’t care if anyone ever knew who was behind the walls he’d built, as long as he was living comfortably behind them, then all was well.

I entered the familiar space. The comfort that usually wrapped me in its arms was replaced with a cold stillness I quickly learned I wasn’t fond of. Nothing felt right. Everything was displaced.

I stopped, momentarily, hiking my nose in the air. There was a stench, a repulsive one that began to drain the blood from me without considering the failure of my organs, including the large one that was surrounded by vessels that kept me alive.

Death. It was potent. The smell of it was one I was far too familiar with to dismiss. Flared nostrils and a panged heart led me toward the dining hall where I could feel my father’s presence. It pulled me deeper into his home until I reached him.

Quickly repulsed, I slid my back teeth across each other, applying pressure. Naturally, my hands drew inward, fingers curling to accommodate my palms.

Unkempt.

Unwell.

Unrecognizable.

My father sat before me without the beaming smile one would miss if they blinked or the stern gaze he wore most often accompanying him. Confusion gripped me by the neck, threatening to end every single thing right then and there. I tugged the fabric around the button closest to the top.

Finally, once I’d freed the small, round piece of plastic, did I feel my lungs refill with oxygen. There wasn’t a day, not one, I recall seeing my father anything other than at his best.

The finest threads covered his body, daily. A gold tooth covered each tooth next to the largest in the front of his mouth. A toothpick rolled between them nearly every waking hour of his life.

Crisp.

Though one word, it described everything about him. Everything about his appearance.

Hairline.

Pant crease.

Shoes.

Jacket.

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