We gave Gutter author, Fox, a bit of extra elbow room so he could say a few words about his mom. She left us recently and he wanted one last goodbye.
But just in case you thought he'd forgotten to deliver the goods, Fox drags you back to South Philly to show you no Forgiveness. Just the way mom would have wanted it.
But just in case you thought he'd forgotten to deliver the goods, Fox drags you back to South Philly to show you no Forgiveness. Just the way mom would have wanted it.
Forgiveness by T. Fox Dunham
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The
front page dedication to my first book, The Street Martyr, simply reads:
To
Janine Gossett – me mum.
Without
this teacher in the world, this book wouldn’t exist.
After
she died on Jan 2nd, a timely death, her sister found a copy of my
book on her nightstand by her bed. Janine kept it there by her pillow, even
though the book has been out for several months. I never quite knew how special
I made her feel. She entered my life in a pivotal time, when an accident by the
state threatened the medical insurance that was keeping me alive, and I
suddenly had a massive bill and a threat of immediate termination. With a
mother’s love, Janine helped me pay the bill. She saved my life so I could
write this book. Next year, it will be a major motion picture. She deserves the
credit. I was merely the tool that created it.
Janine
was a woman with a great sister, nephews and nieces and a mother, but she never
married in her real life. There was Ivo, her online husband, and I was always
glad for my adopted father. She taught students through life, sipped beer and
ate pork rinds, and it was this American life-style that would eventually kill
her. I watched her slip away and pleaded with her to stay alive for my wedding,
to see the birth of her grandchildren. I know she tried to hold on, but she
suffered. I think just seeing me with Allison and a family was enough for her.
Goodbye
Blackbird. Daughter of Texas. We have many mothers come to us in life—old
sisters of the tribe—and I have lost many loved ones in my life; but whenever I
try to write this letter of love, I still cry.
Forgiveness
“You
shot him in the head,” Ritchie-Eleven said. “I picked bits of his eye out of my
leather coat. The bullet crushed his temple, blew out the side of his skull.”
Ritchie-Eleven
pulled up to a stop sign, looked down the intersection checking for traffic.
Cops liked to park behind the derelict factory’s loading dock and watch for
speeders. Once they had you pulled over, they could sniff out dope, make you
blow for DUI. Dominic, their Skipper, would burn their nuts if they didn’t
appear law abiding after dumping a body. Guys turned rat after getting
caught. Joe had clipped two rats in the last year.
“His
chest was still moving when we dumped him. He was still breathing. I should
have put another bullet in his ass, but we spotted that cop.”
Ritchie-Eleven
accelerated when the light changed green. He stuck a cig’ on his lip and pushed
in the car lighter. His extra finger—a stubby child’s digit jutting out after
his pinky—still gave Joe chills up his spine.
Joe
reached into his trench coat pocket and flicked his finger against the edge of
his knife. They’d ditched their pieces after they shot the small-time pusher.
The dick kept pushing H in Dominick’s territory in South Philly. They’d warned
him nicely, but the idiot didn’t stop dealing. So, they went back and cracked
his ribs with a nine iron. Two months later, they got a tip from a degenerate
gambler who owed Ritchie-Eleven a couple grand from his shy business,
trading it for a break on that week’s vig. The dick was back selling
Percocet in the bathroom at Kingdom Pizza. Joe and Ritchie-Eleven laid in wait
outside the joint and followed him into the alley. Joe shot him in the side of
his head. They didn’t worry about witnesses hearing the gunshot, not in
Dominick’s territory. They carried the body to a storm drain in Fair View Park
outside Philly International Airport and wrapped it in garbage bags. They heard
the body splash then drove to West Philly to dump the guns in a dumpster behind
a Baptist church.
“Just
turn your ass around,” Joe said.
“Chill.”
“Joggers
run in that park at dawn. If that loser wakes up and starts howling, Dominick
will have us clipped for being sloppy. Remember what he did to Kid Louie?
Louie’s own mother knifed him.”
Everyone
knew the story. Dominick kept Kid Louie’s ear on his desk. It showed a
particular cruelty that he’d forced Louie’s junky mother to make that hit. It
sung Dominick into an urban legend. People’s fear gave him power.
Ritchie-Eleven
pulled into a warehouse parking lot and turned around. He drove out onto Walnut
Street. The sallow streetlights glowed red over the vacant avenue. Joe flicked
the sharp knife tip in his pocket, cracking his thumb nail. They drove ten
minutes in silence. Ritchie-Eleven kept sighing. He lit another cig, smoked it
then lit a third.
“I’ve
got a crisis of the spirit, Ritchie-Eleven said.
“Do
I look like a priest?”
“You’ve
read the bible, right?”
“When
I was a kid and too dumb to know better. We read it in Catechism before I was
Confirmed. After that, my parents split up and stopped taking me and my sister
to church.”
“Well,
I love God. I know I’m a wicked man, but if I ask Jesus to come into my heart,
he’ll forgive my sins and take me to his Father’s house.”
Joe
flicked the knife too hard, and it slit his thumb. Blood dripped down his palm.
“So
what are you whining about?” Joe asked. “It’s foolproof. Just ask for
forgiveness on your deathbed, and you’ll be like that thief crucified next to
Christ. A free ride.”
Joe
wiped his palms on the seat.
“There’s
just all these contradictions in the bible. In Exodus, the bible says the Lord
is a man of war, but in Romans, He’s known as a God of peace.”
“Maybe
your ass is going to burn in the fiery lake after all.”
Ritchie-Eleven
tossed the butt out the window. It hit the pavement and casts red coals.
“Keeping
me up at nights.”
They
pulled into Fair View park. They got out and hiked to the storm drain.
“Yo
dude,” Ritchie-Eleven yelled down into the pit. “You alive down there?”
They
waited, listening to the silence.
“He
might be keeping his mouth shut,” Joe whispered. “Worried it’s us.”
Joe
walked back to the car and grabbed a crowbar. He pried off the iron grate.
“Shit.
You’re not going down there?”
“My
dad, before he shot himself, used to say, ‘Best place to find your god is total
darkness.’” He jumped into the pit, braced his legs and landed about ten feet
down. Rats scattered. Icy water soaked his shoes, and he shivered. He felt
around the muddy concrete, the only light coming from a distant lamp above. He
found plastic scraps from a garbage bag.
“Son
of a bitch is gone,” he yelled up to Ritchie-Eleven.
The
water drained down a series of pipes, just big enough for Joe to crawl through.
He felt along the inside of the rusty pipe then held his hand to the light,
seeing fresh blood on his fingers.
“Ritchie,”
Joe yelled. “Go get that rope out of the trunk.”
A
couple minutes later, Ritchie-Eleven lowered it down. Joe climbed up the slimy
concrete side of the drain. He jogged back to the car.
“What’s
the rush?” Ritchie-Eleven said. “We ain’t never going to find him.”
“Just
drive the fucking car.”
They
got in the car. Ritchie-Eleven pulled out of the park.
“Where
we going?”
Joe
slipped the knife out of his coat pocket.
“Over
to Dominick’s house in West Chester. Drive fast.”
“Skipper’s
not even awake yet,” Ritchie-Eleven said. “We’re just going to piss him off.”
“We
need to surprise him,” Joe said. “Or fall to our knees and pray for
forgiveness.”
