Free Freedom's Child by Jax Miller Page B

struggle, I give up on trying to break the window with my forehead. I think at one point I bite his hand. Probably. Mattley sighs with heaviness and turns to his partner.
    “Next time I tell you to do something quick, do it quick and ask about it later.” He’s composed. See? That’s what I love about Mattley. The coolest and most collected man you’d ever meet. “When Freedom starts singing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow,’ she’s about to hurt herself.”
    “So, now what?” The kid asks. “We put her in the drunk tank for the night?”
    “No.” I scream bloody murder, as loud as I can, and throw myself around the backseat like a slug on a salt mine. I lie on my side to kick the shit out of the back of the front seat.
    “No, Freedom, don’t worry. I promise we won’t take you to jail, got it?” Mattley has a way of calming me down, but it always takes a few attempts. He really should be canonized for his patience. Saint Mattley. “There’s no point. She’ll be like this the day after tomorrow too,” he explains to the newbie. We pull up to my house. What a fucking depressing sight. Mattley pushes me up the steps to my shoddy apartment.
    “Have I ever told you about Layla and Ethan?” I ask him. “Only now they’re Rebekah and Mason, or some stupid shit like that. I mean, who names their kids Rebekah and Mason? Amiright?”
    “Shush now, Freedom. No need for any of that. You just get some sleep,” Mattley hushes as we reach the second story.
    “Quakers! Quakers name their kids names like that.” I begin to laugh. “Like that Quaker Oats man on the oatmeal cans with the white curly wig.” Suddenly, I do my best impression of a Quaker. “Ho, ho, ho, I’m a fucking Quaker, and my Quaker offspring shall be called Rebekah and Mason Quaker Walton,” as I mock in a Santa Claus voice. I actually don’t know anything about Quakers.
    He directs the conversation to Newbie, who stands behind in case I fall. Even I’m surprised I haven’t yet. Mattley knows to never take me through the front entrance. I just can’t stand the sight of the meth-head super, hate him telling me to keep it down. Sometimes it turns ugly, if I’ve had enough to drink. “Never mind what she’s saying. Just grab her key from under that plant.” He motions to the fake plant on the wooden fire escape at my front door on the second story of the building. And what fucking good are wooden fire escapes, anyway? Mattley carries me to my bed, kicking the mess in the dark with his toes.
    “Try and go to sleep, Freedom.” God, I love his plummy voice. It’s audio Valium. I look up at Officer Mattley in the dark. He’s a stern copper with most everyone else, but for whatever reason, gentle with me. He feels sorry for me and I hate it. I don’t need anyone’s pity. I’m no victim. Faint white light from the shades paints him into a recognizable being in the bedroom. I can smell his spearmint gum and see his bald head, but he’s sexy. Good Lord, he is a sexy man.
    Mattley helps my head onto the pillow and grabs a few blankets from the floor to drape over me. I pretend I’m dead. I pretend he wraps me in a sheet to take me to the morgue. I shut my eyes. I will have no recollection of any of this in the morning. Mattley is a good soul. I truly love his soul. Too bad he’s a Goody Two-shoes, and too bad I’m the town drunk and too bad for a lot of things.
    “Mattley, I need a huge favor.”
    “What’s that, Freedom?”
    “Those letters in the living room.” I point to piles by the hundred. “If anything were to happen.”
    “We’ll talk about it when you’re sober, hon.”
    “Third-Day Adventists. Mason and Rebekah Paul, Goshen, Kentucky.”
    Mattley strokes my forehead for just a second. “Get some rest and forget all that.”

Glass flutes of gold ascend into the air with the cheers and salutations of the firm of Tyndall, Finn, and Moore, Esquire. Tight collars, crooked smiles, and ugly ties welcome Mason back to the