The Innocents Nathan Senthil (i wanna iguana read aloud TXT) 📖

clear of drugs and debauchery. And it never filled as far as he knew.

“How’s sales, Ma?” Ryatt asked.

“You know…” She put her head down and gave out a small smile, which was supposed to encourage him, but only made his eyes watery. Goddamn it. He quickly dabbed at the edges. He should never cry.

But apart from the lack of business, something else was not right. Though Iris was blind, she always tried to make eye contact when she spoke. Except when she was trying to hide something. Her eyes weren’t teary, or her shoulders weren’t slumped, the woman was made of the strongest stone. No apparent clues to suggest that she was battling inside, but Ryatt knew, just from the atmosphere, that she was disturbed. Which meant only one thing: Bugsy.

As usual, Iris digressed. “How’s school?”

“Not bad,” Ryatt lied without a stutter, because he expected this question, and massaged his wrists pensively. It was eight months since he had seen the school campus.

“Ma?” Ryatt’s voice turned grave. “Did Bugsy visit here?”

“N—no,” she said abruptly.

That moment’s hesitation was all Ryatt needed for a confirmation. She was lying. Between them, this telltale sign inferred that one person was uncomfortable with the truth and the other should drop the subject.

Bugsy was a ‘sottocapo’, underboss in English, of a prominent Mafia family in their neighborhood. He had loaned Iris’s mom, Ryatt’s grandma, $5,000 to start a new business after their electronic shop had been plundered during the riots. Now Bugsy harassed Iris to pay back $20,000. Plus whatever interest these loan sharks saw fit to charge people who were desperate enough to borrow from them because the banks had abandoned them.

No one crossed Bugsy because he had two things that most peace-loving citizens didn’t: gang and guns.

Word on the street was since Ryatt’s mother was a beautiful Italian American woman and she married a black, not Bugsy, another Italian, he gave her shit whenever he could. Some even said he… assaulted Iris in the worst way one could defile a lady, and Ryatt couldn’t bear hearing those words. Could be just rumors. Should be just rumors.

But his mom had never gone to the police, that’s not how things worked here. Pigs didn’t trouble guys like Bugsy. In this shitty economy, criminals’ earnings surpassed the government’s, and their kickbacks paid pigs a lot more than their salaries. Finally having their first black mayor was supposed to change everything. How wrong had they been. The only way out, Iris had said, was to pay the man up. And she had already settled an upwards of $10,000. Still that bastard was Shylocking what little Iris scrimped and saved. Not that he needed the money. It was a show of power.

Ryatt blamed Bugsy for everything wrong with his life. His mom was permanently blind, due to the botched surgery she had risked in order to give her eye to Ryatt, whose vision was destroyed because of Bugsy.

Maybe, just maybe, if there were no Bugsy in this world, Ryatt might have really been playing football right now.

In spite of Iris’s colossal efforts, life treated them both like a really sticky gum under its shoe. It just wouldn’t stop stomping and smearing them across the curb, tearing them apart bit by bit.

“I can cook you a snack.” Iris changed the topic.

“Not hungry, Ma.” Ryatt lied. He was a stray dog; he was always hungry. Since he spent most of his life in hunger, he just couldn’t get enough of food. But he reckoned it was more psychological than real. “Save it for later.”

“Okay.” Iris extended her arm on the table. A sign she felt perturbed. And he knew what he had to do.

Ryatt held her hand. So soft, yet the strongest. He mouthed, “Love you, Ma.” He didn’t have the audacity to tell her he loved her when he was unable to emancipate his angel from this hell. It would sound like bullshit.

They stood there like that for a few seconds. It was her who let go first but not before giving a gentle squeeze. As if she understood he was dying inside.

“Alright. I am going to church.” Ryatt headed towards the entrance.

“Sweetie?”

“Ma?” he stopped at the door.

“You seem so quiet lately,” Iris said. “Are you doing okay? Is that why you’re meeting with the pastor?”

“What’s he gonna do if I ain’t feeling okay?”

“Guide you towards the right place. Most times we don’t know what we need, but yearn for what we want, and suffer.”

“I am old enough to decide what I need, Ma. What we need.”

“If you’re wise enough to make decisions, then you should also be responsible enough not to make bad ones.”

“I am responsible, Ma,” Ryatt said.

“Negativity or positivity is like a plant. And time is water.”

“Water?” Ryatt’s asked, confused.

“Yes. The more you feed your plants, the stronger their roots get and the bigger they grow. But the catch is, you must be careful which plant you water.”

“Sure, Ma,” Ryatt said and pondered over it. Then he quietly left the building.

Too bad his mom didn’t know that his plant had already become a monstrous banyan tree. And the schemes he conjured up, sitting under its shade, were the only respite in this scorching poverty.

* * *

Given all that was happening in his life, Ryatt surprisingly wasn’t an atheist. In fact, he went to church regularly. He talked to God whenever he could. For instance, that morning Ryatt had looked at the sky and prayed.

For a meteor to strike his home.

It wouldn’t even have to destroy the world because Ryatt was sure that so many of God’s beloved children lived here. It’s just that Ryatt and Iris weren’t on that list. So even just a pocket-sized meteor capable of disintegrating their home would suffice.

All the pain had made Iris