The world of First Born Sons, like the world we live in, is messy and often heartbreaking but also full of profound moments of kindness and love. The book consists of multiple interrelated stories with a mosaic of contemporary characters, including four siblings, their spouses, children, friends, and neighbors, weaving their trials into a single novel where they fall in and out of love, search for identity, and chase their dreams. Themes of racial justice and inclusivity move the narratives toward breaking points both joyful and disastrous. Sons struggle with mothers (and would-be mothers), gay dads, and in one case, a firstborn daughter transitions to a firstborn son. Strangers become friends, parents raise their children, families go through divorce, a younger man forms a relationship with an older one, and death comes to an innocent. A global pandemic complicates the characters’ battles but also highlights what’s important in life.
August 2020
Each step took him closer to safety, one uncertain foot in front of the other, his biceps straining as he shifted the heavy load in his arms. On either side of the unpaved road he traversed, thick groves of redwoods towered above him, and the forest air wrinkled with dust and heat and smoke, causing his useless eyes behind dark glasses to burn. But his legs knew the way, knew the number of steps to the nearest house. If the neighbors weren’t there, he would have to make it all the way to the main road and hope for a passing car to pick him up.
A gust of hot wind rushed through the trees, and he heard the snap of a branch, followed by a thump on the ground. He picked up his pace, his breathing growing heavier, sweat trickling down his sides. He shifted the load again and hugged the equipment to his chest, things he couldn’t leave behind, the tools of his trade, his work, his life.
A few minutes earlier, he had been in a groove at the desk in front of the window, headphones on, crafting a set for an upcoming Zoom dance party called Apocalypse. Making a killer set was essential for people unable to go out, afraid of the virus, surrounded by wildfires, and bored with political discourse. They longed to dance, move their bodies, get their sexy on, even if it was in a little Zoom window. With outlets of entertainment shut down, people spent excess income on pricey headphones and ear buds. He took that into account as his fingers danced over the knobs and levers, adjusting everything by sound and feel, pumping up the bass to shake their brains, rattle their hearts imprisoned in ribcages of discontent.
His goal was to make them feel something, and he hunted for songs allowing extreme panning, mixes that bounced the sounds back and forth from ear to ear, playing with space and width as the music traveled through their heads. Getting them on their feet and shaking their asses made him happy, gave him a reason to go on when the darkness around him pressed in.
The odor of burning, pungent and slightly sweet, had wafted in the open window, filled his nostrils, and snapped him out of the trance he fell into when manipulating pitch, timbre, texture, volume, and duration, pushing one up, another down. He removed the headphones and, through the lingering pulsation in his ears, heard the incessant chirp of notifications from his phone. Five messages. They all told him the same thing. The fires were getting close. Get out. He unplugged his headphones and the controller from his laptop, gathered everything in his arms, felt his way to the door, and negotiated the steps to the ground.
A car approached, still a couple of hundred yards away, and his panic subsided. As it was the last house on the road, someone had to be coming for him. He breathed easier, and the playlist returned to his head, the order and choice of songs. The gravel crunched under his feet to the beat of the extended dance mix version he had found of the R.E.M. song, “It’s the End of the World as We Know It,” a trite but obvious choice for the set. The car got closer. He tilted his head. Though his ears recognized most of the cars that came down the road, this one was different, heavier.
The vehicle stopped. Two doors opened, and the sounds of unfriendly steps, the vibration of danger ground toward him. Two men, he guessed. His spine tingled with the all-overs as Granny used to say.
“Stop right there!” a man shouted. “Put your shit on the ground and raise your hands.”
The command brought a brutal end to the tunes in Lamar’s head like a needle scratching across a record. “What? Who are you?” Lamar continued his trudge forward.
The two cops turned to each other with confused expressions. The older officer with a thick mustache that hid his upper lip on a round face and a rookie who looked as if he spent way too much time admiring his blond good looks in front of the mirror at the gym unsnapped their holsters and put their hands on their guns. The senior cop growled, “I said stop. On your knees.”
Lamar’s spirit tumbled into a muddy hole of fear. It had been four years since he had nearly lost his life, attacked by men with guns and robbed of his laptop with all his stored music. This time his files were backed up, but he wasn’t about to lose the couple of thousand dollars’ worth of equipment in his arms without a fight.
“I don’t know who you are.” A murder of crows cawed a bitter song high in the trees above them. They could see what he couldn’t, looking down on the classic scenario of a Black man facing the police with their guns drawn, barking orders that made no sense.
“Stop where you are. Are you deaf?”
The birds cawed panic and flew away.
“No, but he’s blind,” said a voice from behind the officers. The younger one swirled around and pointed his gun at a man walking up the road. Byron’s long hair blew wild in the wind and his beard was thick from not shaving since the beginning of the shutdown. He liked to joke that he now looked like the Unabomber. When Lamar hadn’t responded to his call, he had rushed out of the house in a dirty T-shirt and sweats and jumped in his car, a disheveled cavalry to the rescue.
“You,” the officer said to Byron. “On your knees.”
“Whoa, man. What’s the problem with y’all?”
The rookie cop had the eyes of a cornered raccoon, looking back and forth between a tall muscular Black man in a tank top, loose basketball shorts, and sunglasses, and old white guy of dubious sanity. “I’m not going to say it again. Both of you, on your knees.”
“Lamar, better do what he says. They’re cops.”
“I haven’t done nothing.” Lamar’s voice vibrated with the agony of the many times he had been harassed, mistaken for a criminal, called a thug.
Byron got down and grimaced with the pain of the gravel in his knees. “Just do it, Lamar. Please. I’ll sort it out.” His voice shook with the realization the dullards thought Lamar had stolen the equipment. “Look, this guy is my friend. His name is Lamar Davis. He’s a DJ. That equipment is his.”
“A blind DJ?” said the rookie. “Yeah, right.”
“Makes a heap more sense than a blind burglar,” said Byron. “Lamar, put your things on the ground and do what they say. It’ll be all right.”
Lamar gently laid his babies—the laptop, the Numark controller, and Bose headphones—on the ground. Then got on his knees.
“He does gigs all over the Bay Area. He’s one of the best. And yes, he’s blind. In my wallet, I have his business card. That house he just came out of belongs to me. I let him stay there so he can do his mixes.”
The older cop lowered his arm but kept his weapon out. “Reports are coming in about a lot of looting in the area since the fires started. And he fits the description.”
A nerve exploded in Byron’s head. “Because he’s Black?”
“Calm down. We’re only doing our job. I’m Officer Garcia and that’s Officer Sims.”
Garcia holstered his gun, approached Lamar, and told him to put his hands behind his back.
Byron stood up. “Why are you doing this?”
The wannabe model, still with his gun pointed at Byron, moved closer to him. “Okay, grandpa. Back on your knees. You’re next.”
Garcia cuffed Lamar and told him to sit on the side of the road.
“Lamar, I’m right here,” said Byron. “We’ll be fine.” He tried to put that day with Thomas out of his mind: the woods, the guns, the wrenching shock of violence without reason. It was happening again so many years later, not in the deep South but in coastal California.
Sims asked Byron for his ID, and he handed over his wallet. Up close, the officer looked like Kelly, his childhood friend, one of the boys who killed Thomas. The same perfect nose and anemic lips, sending a shiver through him.
“Officer Sims, this is unnecessary. There’s a clear explanation. He wasn’t doing nothing but trying to evacuate, and he didn’t want to leave his equipment behind.”
“We’ll see about that. Put your hands behind your back.” He cuffed Byron and led him to where Lamar was sitting.
Sims scrutinized Byron’s ID. “I thought you said you lived here.”
“Yeah,” said Byron.
“This here says Byron Boudreaux from New Orleans, Louisiana.” He raised his eyebrows, full of a gotcha moment, as if he had busted a ring of DJ equipment thieves that worked across state lines.
“I know I should have changed it. Never got around to it.”
Sims got in the Santa Cruz County Sheriff's SUV and called in their information on the radio while Garcia leaned against the car and chewed on a fingernail.
Byron and Lamar sat in the dirt, facing a stand of redwood trees. Lamar allowed himself to soar above the heaviness of the air, up with the birds, a self-preservation technique his granny had taught him. If you gotta fight, fight. But if you can, rise above it. Spread your wings and fly.
He reordered the set list in his mind. The dance mix of Carmina Burana should come earlier, he decided, to give the listeners more of a sense of impending doom. And what about including the dub mix of Madonna’s “Fever.” Would that be too sick, tagging “You give me fever” with a whole new meaning? But for the final song, he wanted to leave them with a true sense of hope for the future. He was still looking for that song, had spent his whole life looking for that song.
Byron gazed at Lamar’s smooth face and marveled at his serenity. Wherever he was, Byron left him to it and stared at the trees, stalwartly awaiting their fate with the hazy yellow sky overhead. The old redwoods with thick bark and tannin have resisted fires over the millennia while the young and less protected trees can only hope the winds blow the flames in another direction. He loved these trees, their ancient, venerable grace. He loved the subtle, earthy fragrance that seeped out of little cracks. One minute there, the next gone, their velvety trunks resembling the muscular thighs of superheroes, sleek and powerful. He had bought the house in the area near Big Basin because of the redwoods, and now he was in danger of losing not only the house, but the beloved trees that stood guard around it.
Byron cleared his throat of the nasty smoke. “Sorry ‘bout all this.”
Lamar turned his head in surprise as if he had forgotten where he was and who was next to him. “Byron, the great white savior, can you get us out of this one?”
“You don’t deserve this shit.”
“Black people can’t have nice things. They assume we looted it or bought it with drug money.”
Sweat rolled down Byron’s face, and he turned to look at the officers. “These jokers better figure out what they’re doing or we’re all going to get burnt to a crisp.” He found himself using one of Sofia’s expressions as he often did. Mississippi was deep in his veins and Lamar was his connection to it, to Sofia who was still there, living with and taking care of his mother.
“They be thinking they made them the catch of the day,” said Lamar. “All the way out here in the woods the po-po can’t get in on no anti-Black Lives Matter action.”
Garcia spit out a sliver of fingernail and shouted at Byron and Lamar. “We have to go. Fire’s getting too close. Get in the car.” They rolled to their knees and stood up.
“The handcuffs?” said Byron.
“Get in. We haven’t been able to verify anything yet.”
“What about my car? I parked it down the road a piece.”
“Have to leave it. That’s protocol.”
“For the love of God!” said Byron.
With their hands still cuffed behind them, Lamar rested his head against the cool glass and let Byron argue their case. The sheriffs weren’t having any of it, insisting they were waiting for a confirmation of Byron’s ownership of the house down the road. “Something did come up,” said Sims with barely contained delight. “Lamar Davis has a previous arrest for stolen property and assault.”
“That was his own property!” said Byron. “Exactly like this time. The other party didn’t want to press charges, so they charged him with resisting arrest or some bullshit. Got probation.”
The officers stared straight ahead, unmoved. As the sun went lower, the sky turned from yellow to orange. The smell of smoke intensified. The air was still, the moment of calm before a storm.
About a quarter of a mile down the road, Garcia slowed when he saw an older man, a young couple, and a little girl packing a pickup. They all wore masks, the pandemic masks now serving to keep the smoke out of their lungs. Garcia shouted out the window, “You got the evacuation order then?”
George, the older man, walked over to the car. He raised his mask to cover his nose. “Yeah. We should be packed up in a few minutes.”
He looked into the backseat, and Byron moved his head against the closed window to make sure George saw him. George blanched when his eyes fell on Lamar in the other seat, saw that they were both handcuffed. His heart thumped an irregular beat. “What’s going on?” said George, nodding at the men in the back seat.
“Not your concern.”
“That’s my neighbor. And his friend who stays at his house.”
“You know them?”
“Of course, I do.” Annoyance shook his voice.
“The young man was carrying some fancy-looking equipment. There’s been reports of looting of empty homes.”
“You’re trying to tell me Byron was looting his own home with the help of his friend, Lamar, who is blind.”
“Can you verify Lamar’s work?”
“He’s a DJ. Pretty well known.”
The two officers looked at each other. The driver turned back to George. “Well, we weren’t able to verify the information. And Boudreaux wasn’t cooperative.”
Sims sneered. “I still think we should take Davis in. He’s got that previous.”
Byron couldn’t control himself. “Didn’t you just hear the man confirm everything I’ve been telling you?”
Garcia sat for a long minute, his hands on the wheel, staring at the road in front of him. “Okay. We’ll let you go. And then we need to clear the area.”
They all got out of the car and Sims stood aside in a huff, arms crossed over his chest, while Garcia undid the handcuffs. “Now get on out of here,” said Garcia. Sims shook his head and gave them a cold stare as he opened the car door and got inside.
George, Byron, and Lamar stood in the middle of the road with Lamar’s equipment at their feet. They watched the sheriff’s car disappear around a bend. “You okay, Lamar?” asked George. He wanted to touch him, hug him, make him feel safe, show him gratitude for the blessing of intimacy Lamar had bestowed upon him in recent months, but he felt shy in front of Byron. Their affair, for lack of a better name, was supposed to be a secret.
“Where’s your car, Byron?” asked George.
“Back aways. I came upon those idiots arresting Lamar. They thought I was some kind of wild man and must be restrained along with the supposed looter.”
“I’ll drive you guys back to your car,” said George. He turned to Lamar. “Why didn’t you call us? I would have come and gotten you. I thought you had gone back to Oakland.”
“I was supposed to, but I wanted to finish my project first.” Lamar smiled a little, thinking of the last time George had paid him a visit, the afternoon siesta they had shared, their bodies entwined, the smell of joyful sweat. “Anyway, I don’t like to bother people.” Lamar fiercely guarded his independence, hated the thought of needing others. It caused endless arguments with his partner, Ben, leading him to spend more and more time at Byron’s house during the week when Byron didn’t use it. Being away from everyone, isolated in the woods, providing for himself with a supply of frozen meals he could pop in the microwave, beer, and pre-rolled blunts, he could almost forget his blindness and the horrible attack that had left him so. Without other people around, he wasn’t constantly reminded of his disability, folks trying to do things for him. But then, he would get desperately lonely, call Ben and say he wanted to come home. Ben would drive the hour and a half to pick him up without complaint, and on the way back to Ben’s home in Oakland, Lamar would ask for forgiveness. He would sleep with his arms around Ben, touching every part of him, kissing the top of his head, and doing all he could without saying the actual words to show his gratitude for Ben sticking with him.
This time he was on his way home, not contrite and lonely, but forced by circumstances. And he had someone else to give him the physical contact he needed.
“You get in the front, Lamar,” said Byron. “I’ll put your equipment in the back.”
George pulled alongside Byron’s car. He reached over and put his hand on Lamar’s leg. “Call me when you’re home safe,” he said in a low voice.
“I’ll make sure he gets home,” said Byron.
They hurriedly transferred the equipment to Byron’s car and started down to the main road. Byron chuckled. “Hey there, Romeo. How’s everything with your new friend?”
“What do you mean? The neighbors had me over for dinner a couple of times. Nice people.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I would’ve loved to see your mug if we had ended up in jail.”
“See my mug? All right, I get it. You’re messing with me. And you changed the subject.”
“I sure coulda imagined it though.” Lamar laughed for the first time in a while. “Nothing’s going on. You always in my business.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t say anything to Ben.”
“Nothing to say.”
It was good to hear Lamar’s laughter, but it died quickly, and they fell into silence. The tightness in Byron’s stomach grew, his gut twisted in knots. They had escaped the racism that lifted its ugly head in his little oasis in the redwoods, but the fire devouring the nearby hills could still catch them. For months the country had reeled from one crisis after another fueled by ignorance and a distorted sense of freedom. The most vulnerable were getting picked off one by one, and his thoughts turned to his mother and Sofia in a crumbling house in a backward Mississippi town. “Don’t you fret none for us,” Sofia had said the last time he talked to her. “Your mama and me is jes fine.”