Black Ice

iv

four | antonio

I lugged my bag along with me up the stoop, noting how the bountiful flora that bordered the steps had fallen victim to the sweeping cold of late November.

Yellow grass and wilting leaves gave way to red bricked stairs. The crimson stacks led to a small porch that sheltered wicker furniture and a couple of autumn themed trinkets and decor.

I rang the doorbell and awaited entry. Blowing air into my hands, hoping to appease the stinging frostiness nipping at my skin, I glanced around the neighborhood.

The sun was sinking, and the neighborhood was lined with more cars than I was used to seeing. There were probably a lot of people visiting for the holiday.

The doors thudded and screeched upon being opened, the white iron door being the louder one of the two. The warmth of the home came rushing out right alongside Ms. Shondra's sunny smile.

"Tony!" She urged me inside.

"Hey, Ms. Shondra," I grinned, closing and locking the doors behind me before she took my coat.

She quickly hung it up before facing me again with a grin.

"It's so good to see you," her hands rested on either side of my defrosting face.

It was a comfort to hear, especially since I let her down in the worst way, at Will's repast.

She had let bygones be bygones, but I wasn't so forgiving of myself.

In fact, such guilt was part of the reason I refused to visit at all.

That, and the eeriness of Will's absence.

Ms. Shondra instructed me to put my bag with the rest and get settled. I didn't hesitate to do so.

I climbed the staircase, the chatter of the living room becoming more and more muted the higher I ascended. I entered Will's room, the door wide open and the light on as if it were expecting my arrival.

I found the mountain of duffel bags right in the middle of the floor, tossing my bag right on top of another.

My eyes lifted to the walls, finding posters and memories frozen in time.

I'd never spent much time in Will's room— ever, really. Any time I swung by, it was to have a meal or scoop him for a day of money-making or recording.

Tasks like that never required us to be upstairs.

I'd been in here maybe once, propped against the door jamb while waiting for him to find his rhyme book. I took a quick scan of the room, noting high school memorabilia and a couple obituaries of past friends before we were on our way.

The room hasn't changed much since then. Will was a man that appreciated order— a creature of habit— and once he found what worked, he hardly ever deviated. Even when shit didn't work anymore, he'd tussle with his loyalty to the status quo.

That's probably what made breaking him, getting him accustomed to the street life so damn hard. And that's probably why leaving the game was so hard for him; it was probably even harder to tell me.

Why was it easier to understand him now that he was gone?

He'd sit there and explain shit to me in so many ways— in layman's terms, with nuance, he'd even break it down like life was one big business deal— and yet, it was in the echo chamber of his silence that I was able to hear him loud and clear.

"Damn, McKay," I sighed, staring at the worn composition book that sat on his bed.

It lay there as if Will had left it there himself, keeping it in plain sight because it would never be long before he'd need to hop up the stairs— two at a time— grab it, and go.