Love You to Death Read Free

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the jerk that beat you up.”
    “He’s okay, Cherry. Don’t be mad.” He
shuffled along beside me. “It was my fault. I didn’t do what he
told me. I’m a dumb tard.”
    “You’re not a tard, Stewie.” I cursed,
kicking an empty paper coffee cup, pretending it was Angel Face.
“What did I tell you about that?”
    “Stewie is special,” he said slowly.
    “And...” I prompted.
    “I’m not a retard.” He smiled, showing me all
his teeth again.
    “You got it, big guy. Remember that.”
    As we approached the street that led to South
Charles, and the free clinic, I knew what to expect. When Stewie
was afraid, he strapped on his disguise, assuming the badass alter
ego of Bruce Wayne. Stewie stopped to reach into his bag. I
patiently waited for him. He pulled out the Batman mask and snapped
it around his head.
    “Let’s go get you patched up, Batman.” I took
his hand, coaxing him forward.
    “Batman isn’t afraid of the doctor,” he said,
taking on a deep baritone.
    I gave him a much-needed reassuring smile.
The twists and turns of my life had led me where I never thought
possible. But even in the midst of all my woe, I could still find
things to be grateful for. Looking at Stewie—wearing a child’s
mask—I added a few more.
     

 
    Chapter
Two
     
    I managed to keep an eye on Stewie for about
six weeks. Then one Tuesday I woke up from my afternoon nap—fresh
and clean once again—to find the cot beside me empty and Stewie
nowhere to be found. Miss Vinnie couldn’t help me much. She said
she’d seen him talking to a guy at the entrance about an hour ago
but had to get the dinner line started. She didn’t see which way
he’d gone.
    “What’d the guy look like?” I asked. I had a
bad feeling.
    “Oh, baby girl, he was fine lookin’. Flashed
them baby blues and just about had Miss Vinnie in a swoon,” she
cackled.
    “Blond, well dressed, about yea tall?” I
raised my arm six inches above my head.
    “Yes, honey, that’s the one.” She turned
serious. “I take it he ain’t a friend?”
    “Nope.” I licked my lips. I had to think.
What was the street he wanted Stewie to stay on?
    “I’ll ask one of the guys out front if they
saw Stewie.” She wobbled away, her plump backside jiggling from the
quick mincing steps.
    I grabbed my pack, a newly acquired jacket,
and followed after her. The hot weather was long gone, and the
street people, more comfortable in the autumn chill, gathered
outside the shelters in small groups to pass the time. I skipped
down the stairs and searched for a familiar face.
    “Hey, Buck Rogers...” I called out.
    A painfully thin man raised his head. If
Ichabod Crane had been a black man, Buck Rogers would’ve been him.
He was black as pitch with short, almost shaved, hair that was
peppered with gray. He’d claimed to have worked for NASA somewhere
down in Laurel, that’s how he got his street name, Buck Rogers, the
space man. That was his previous life. But he lost his job, then
his family, and finally his home, to the battle with the
bottle.
    “Hey, how ya doin’ Cherry?” He grinned,
waving me over. I was pleased to see his dark eyes were clear and
focused. He was sober.
    “Hey, have you seen Stewie?”
    “Yeah, yeah. I saw him walk up the street
with some pretty white boy. They drove off in a Porsche.” He
squinted, giving me the once over. “Are you in trouble?”
    “No, not me.” Bless his heart. He had taken a
shine to me, for whatever reason I couldn’t figure out. Buck Rogers
was a father figure for me. He actually cared about what happened
to me. When he was sober.
    “I knew that guy was trouble. I should have
stopped him.” He shook his head, looking very sad.
    “Nah, it’s all good. Don’t worry.” I had to
be careful with Buck Rogers. Any little fault he found with himself
was a binge waiting to happen. “He’s a friend. I just wanted to
talk to him, that’s all.” I lied. I was good at it too.
    “Oh, alright, if I see him again