Thieves in the Temple: A Prequel to Purple Rain

CH. 1 Days of Wild- Prince

This time it was different. The amount of blood, liquor, and hate-filled words were the same but the result much different. Kid peeked through the closet door. Francis' fist swirled in the air at Juanita. "You're going to learn never to talk to me that way!" he yelled.

"You bastard!" she returned.

Their stumbling legs passed by the closet door. Kid shut his eyes tight even though he could have easily closed the door to avoid seeing anything. The thud of his father's palm hitting his mother's neck made him open his eyes again and poke his head through the door. Run! Why doesn't she just run? If the front door was open she could escape.

If Kid crawled fast, Francis would not see the wiry ten year old scoot under the dining room table, across the hallway and to the front door. Kid had to try. The wicker-backed dining chair fell down next to him as he crawled beneath the table.

Kid got to the front door and opened it wide. The neighbors stood outside on Clinton Avenue with hands cupped over their mouths. "Oh, how dreadful, the little boy is in there!" white-haired Mrs. Bernard said. The judgmental eyes of White people would make this situation even worse, so Kid slammed the door shut.

"Dad, stop it! Please!" Kid yelled as he scooted back under the table.

Juanita backed away, windmilling slaps at Francis. "Loco!" she yelled stumbling over the ottoman. Her head bounced on the floor. Francis mounted her like a wildcat. Kid heard the siren of the Minneapolis Metropolitan Police car but rage had stopped Francis' ears from hearing anything.

The cops busted open the heavy wooden door to rescue the lady straddled on the floor by the gangly Black man who was daring her to say another word, swirling his threatening fists again. Minutes before, Juanita had yelled her own drunken, defiant rant, but those words had vanished. Now she was sprawled on the floor knocked out cold. The gross amounts of liquor she consumed had more to do with her condition than the fight she'd been in.

The White policeman grabbed Francis from behind, "Get off her!" He yelled it again and again as he pulled Francis off of Juanita throwing him onto the dining room floor. He pressed his knee into Francis' back and struggled to handcuff him. Francis writhed and fought out of obligation but he really had no more fight in him. Drunken fatigue had deflated him.

He lifted his chin from the floor and saw Kid in the corner of the dining room, hugging his knees tight to his chest next to a broken stained glass lamp. As the police officers dragged Francis' stiff body onto the porch, he got a glimpse of Juanita's face, blood streaming from her mouth on to the hard wood floor. As paramedics stepped over him, Francis shuddered thinking he might have killed her. He'd rather have killed himself.

Finally, they lifted him to his feet and pushed Francis' stewed body into the back of the police car. "You know, you'll get some time for hitting that White lady, don't you?" the Black officer said. Francis raised his head, exasperated, "She ain't no White lady, she's just my wife from Tijuana."

The police officer let Kid ride in the front seat. Street lights passed by in slow motion on unfamiliar streets. Voices crackled through the police band radio, "Ten-four unit seven, what's your twenty?"

"Like football?" the officer asked. Kid shrugged his shoulders. "I think 1974 is our year. The Vikings are going to win the Super Bowl. They better! I got twenty dollars on the game." They stopped in front of a brick building with gold letters painted on the glass door; Minneapolis Department of Children and Family Services.

Kid kept quiet. There was not much to say to these strange people. He knew they could not be trusted and uncalculated answers could force him into a foster home. His mother had prepared him for this a long time ago. "Tell them you were in the closet and you didn't see anything," she warned solidly. "Next time, make sure you are in the closet so it won't be a lie." He wondered why she was so sure there would be a next time and why she was so concerned about lies. The office walked him in and left him to the care of a young, bespeckled woman in her twenties.

"Do you have an aunt or an uncle here in Minneapolis?" The White lady asked softly. She was not like his fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Pratt. Mrs. Pratt was old,Black, fat and talked like she was mad at everybody. But this lady, Jennifer enunciated each word carefully and slowly as if more syllables would make him understand the word, "facility."

"Kid, have you ever been to a fa-ci-li-ty like this one before?"

Kid shook his head slowly mirroring her cadence.

Jennifer smiled softly at Kid. Wrinkles formed across his honey colored forehead and thick jet black eyelashes rimmed his golden almond eyes. He was average height for a ten year old but a little skinny.

"You will have to stay here until we can find next of kin or until your mother is well enough to come get you. I'll get you a blanket and we'll worry about clothes in the morning."

The smell of pine grew stronger as they walked down the quiet hall. Once they turned the corner, they spotted the irritated face of the janitor who mopped his last stroke for the night (or so he thought.) He gripped the mop handle hard and glared singularly at Kid as the White lady trampled through his freshly mopped area.

Jennifer opened the door to a line of twin beds with steel frames. She walked to the middle and unrolled a rough blanket from one of the beds. "Try to get some sleep and I'll get you acc-li-mated in the morning." Kid did not want to be acclimated, whatever that meant. He just wanted to go to the hospital to make sure his mother was alive. If she was taking her last breaths, he wanted to tell her he loved her before she was gone. He wanted to stroke her face and take care of her as he had always done before. Who was taking care of her now? Who was bandaging her? Where they as careful and gentle as only Kid would be?