Cam Montgomery - By Any Means Necessary

BY
ANY MEANS
NECESSARY

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FOR MY GRAMMA HONEY.

I LOVE YOU.

THAT CHIPPENDALES CRUISE IS STILL WAITING FOR US.

XO, KITTEN

There is a special kind of hell for people who wait to open their official-looking mail. People like me.

Its not my fault.

Can I say that?

Shake the blame, here? Its the way my aunt Lisa always operates. Having her in my life for seventeen years has ingrained in me a long habit of avoiding bill collectors, debt companies, delinquent hospital bills, and Girl Scouts.

Those cute little assholes will finesse you for $50 and ten boxes of Thin Mints before you can blink twice. The Girl Scouts, not the debt collectors.

I like to call this horrific habit a symptom of Poverty PTSD. (I wont trademark that, youre welcome, have at it.) The avoidance, not the addiction to waxy, chocolate-mint cookies.

Comes from being broke all the time, from being a Black kid constantly screwed over by the system, unable to catch a break, from hearing your uncles been gunned down by the police for no discernible reason.

So, here we are. Jump cut to me, standing just over the threshold of my new home, my new dorm room at college, duffel heavy on my back, phone to my head as my auntie Lisa yells in my ear.

Torrey, did you hear what I just said?

Yes, but my brains, like, waiting for a jump start or something, and my dumbass doesnt own jumper cables. I also suddenly have to pee, but I dont think I passed a mens bathroom on the way up.

Lisa, my aunt by marriage, is the one in charge. I put things in her hands as I left for what I naively thought was my way out. My one and probably only chance to walk away from the thin strings holding me to the shreds of my sad excuse for a family. But this, my bees: I trusted her to handle this, and I dont know how things have already fallen apart.

I laid everything out. I put the entire operation on a silver platter and said, Here, Auntie, bees, simplicity, moneyall you. She isnt the best at organization. But shes smart. Capable. A scientist, even!

But shouldve expected it, you know? The neighborhood doesnt just let you walk. It doesnt just let you out sans so much as an ass scratch or a backward glance.

Torr. Listen to me. And then she enunciates, which is probably a good thing. This letter is talking about shutting down and selling the apiary.

Even though I just dropped my bags, I say, Im coming home. Calling it home is such a farce. Home is a safe haven. Baldwin Hills is a place I reside.

What? No. Youre not. Theres no reason for you to come home. Yet.

Then why the hell would she call me with this letter, all panicked? Where are you? Wheres Theo?

Im at Theos now.

So he knows? Whats he saying?

For a second theres some shuffling on her end of the line and it prompts me to walk fully inside the dorm room. Its a double. Not huge but big enough for at least (and at most) two people to breathe in at the same time.

Aunt Lisa exhales slowly. She mostly does this for me, to help regulate my breathing. Well. You know Theo, baby.

I am very self-actualized. Self-actualized enough that I understand that Lisa is my stand-in for maternal comfort and has been for a while now. She doesnt have any kids of her own. And shes only, like, a decade older than me. But still. Shes all I got anymore. And all I want, really. My high school counselor used to say I was lying to myself about wanting more because I never got a real mom, whatever that is, and I guess Im supposed to feel cheated out of that? But like I said, Im self-actualized. And Lisas enough.

Titi. Can they really do that? I ask. Titi. Kinda funny, isnt it? How universal the nickname is. Its a term all Black kids grow up knowing their favorite auntie as.

Her voice gets thick, and I can see in my head, clear as day, that shes sucking on a cigarette, cherry-red lipstick staining the paper. She didnt start smoking until her husband, my uncle Miles, died.

I havent even gotten to make sure youre settling in okay. Shes shaking her head right now, I know it. Technically, yes. They can. The letter states there are unpaid property taxes, and as a result the property is being seized.

Unpaid propertyWhat? But Theo ?

Fell behind. Couldnt catch up.

Fell behind. Thats some bullshit. My back finds the wall and I give in, sliding down into a melted heap of boy on the floor.

True as that may be, dont you curse at me, boy. Im not the one.

She really isnt. I apologize. I know better than to say, Im sorry. Not in Black families.

You aint sorry, boy. You aint never sorry.

Mm-hmm, she says. I understand what youre saying. And I want you to know, Miles never wanted this kind of stress on you. Hed encourage you to save yourself before ever thinking about those bees. But Theo, on the other hand

Yeah. He never wanted the farm, Titi. You know this. I know this.

Theo only agreed to handle the financial end of things because when Uncle Miles died, he left his bee farm to me, and I was underage at the time. But Im sure to Theo it felt like a way to keep his son with him. It felt that way to me.

Its what I thought I wantedowning and running the apiary. Ive been working with or learning about bees forever. Working with bees meant working with Uncle Miles. Uncle Miles iswasthe apiary.

It was always just me and Uncle Miles out there, shooting the shit. Talking, commiserating. He met me on his level. Never treated me like a kid who couldnt understand things. Bothered to take the time and teach me things that were new. Bothered to educate me. Bothered to give a shit.

Yeah. Just me and Uncle Miles and the bees. Ive loved bees longer than Ive loved those frosted brown sugar Pop-Tarts and, for real, that is saying something, I promise you it is. Uncle Miles made sure of that.

But Theo. He never wanted any of this. Thinks the apiary is a waste of space, time, and money. Commonly refers to it as punk-ass rich shit. So I wouldnt be all that shocked if this nigga fell behind and just decided not to give a single shit about it when things got hot.

Low-key, I feel like Im about to cry when a deep voice behind me says, Hey. This is real heavy, could I get some help?

And just inside my open doorway is Desh. Desharu but Desh.

I recognize his tree trunk of a body and head full of almost too much curly black hair.

Coming to an immediate stand, phone crushed between my shoulder and ear, I grab the largest suitcase from him. Its covered in Sharpie tags, doodles, and different stickers but the largest and most prominent of them allthe ones I catch and can differentiate at a glanceare the two flags. One for Korea. One for India.