Friends and Lovers (25 page)

“Well, if you turned the answering machine on, I could call right back and leave the information when it picked up.”

A ticktock later she said, “The machine’s broke.”

“Okay.”

“Uh-huh. Is that all?”

“Tell him I said, ‘The cat’s in the cradle.’”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a song.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Never mind. Tell him I called. I’ll call back.”

Mrs. Williams hung up.

Twin fumed, “See, that’s why I don’t call that bastard.”

I’d had Twin on a three-way when I called Daddy.

She was in an uproar. “I’m not a psychic, not a prophet, but didn’t I tell you that bitch was going to do that?”

“Don’t curse in front of the kids.”

“They’re downstairs in the den.”

Twin was at her home in Atlanta; I was in my leased condo in Oakland, cordless phone in hand, walking around like I woke up, butt-naked.

I said, “Twin, no matter how far he goes, he’s our dad.”

“Momma could’ve found a better sperm donor.”

“Sounds like you want to kill the messenger.”

Her anger kicked into overdrive. I sat on my queen-size black iron bed, shifted to avoid a wet spot on the rumpled green sheets, cut her rampage off and said, “Hey, no matter what, he’s your dad.”

“Unfortunately,” Mye said. “Tyrel, if he wanted to be bothered with us, he would’ve called by now.”

Mye had called me Tyrel; that meant she was upset.

I said, “He’s just busy. He’s got three stores out there.”

“How many years has he been busy?”

“I’ll call him back and leave the number.”

“The bastard didn’t even give me away at my wedding. Hasn’t called his own grandchildren. What kind of shit is that?”

“Mye—”

She snapped, “Tyrel, get a fucking clue.”

Me and my former womb mate let the hush settle between us.

Red pumps with a blemished heel and a dark scarf were jumbled in front of my television. A dark jacket with stripes on the sleeve rested underneath my newest piece of original artwork—an erotic scene from
Porgy and Bess.
I’d picked it up at a “starving artist” sale in San Francisco at the Exhibition Center.

My sister said, “Twin?”

“Yeah.”

She blew her nose, then spoke in a low and controlled tone. “You can’t make him feel something he’s incapable of feeling.”

My shower was still running. A soft voice was behind the bathroom door, singing along with the shower radio.

I’d been on the phone with Twin for ten minutes; we started talking about Daddy, and I told her I’d call him on the three-way and leave it up to her to say anything, or nothing. She could either stay in the background and listen to his voice, or speak up and say whatever words her heart shoved out of her mouth.

Another wasted call.

Twin said, “You ever hear from Shelby?”

Bitterness grew in my mouth. “Nope.”

“She still in San Diego?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“So, who’s over this time?”

“Tina.”

“Tyrel, what does this Tina do?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s her last name?”

I made the same stupid I-don’t-know sound.

Twin went off on me, dogged me out, talked about me in the same tone she had used for my father.

The Bay had a plethora of distractions to offer a brother with anesthetized spirits. Oakland was home of an abundance of cocoa-brown stones that were ready to be turned over and spanked from the rear.

Mye lectured, then said, “Look, be careful.”

“I am.”

“A tisket, a tasket, a condom or a casket.”

“Trust me. No glove, no love.”

We said a few more things, said we loved each other. I told her to kiss the Dynamic Duo, then we disconnected.

Tina was still in the bathroom, fixing herself up.

Leonard had asked me if San Francisco was my countermove to Shelby’s sudden move. I told him that life wasn’t a chess game where I was chasing the queen. I said that on a personal level L.A. wasn’t working out. I’d given the dysfunctional sisters of Los Angeles thirty years, but they couldn’t get it right.

After I had called Joshua Cooper in the middle of the night, within three days my job had sent a moving company to pack everything down to the last crumb. I gassed up my car, threw on my Ray-Bans, and took the scenic route up the 101.

My bathroom door finally opened. The radio turned off. Humidity drifted out and settled on the wall like a morning dew. The light went off; the motor to the fan stopped humming. I heard the
psst
from her deodorant. She was singing. Sounded good enough to make Mariah Carey beg for a lesson in soul.

Tina had an orange towel wrapped around her body. She stopped in the hallway and checked out the family pictures I had on the wall. She did a double take at the wedding pictures.

“You know this guy?”

“Leonard’s my best friend.”

“I saw his movie last month.” She made an impressed sound. “We saw him at a comedy club in Walnut Creek last year. He’s married?”

“Yep.”

“His wife is pretty. Is she a model?”

“Nope. A nurse.”

“Her maid of honor’s beautiful too.”

I almost said that that maid had no honor.

Tina’s skin was the color of Folger’s straight out of the can. She had a thin space between her front teeth, high-waisted, legs shaped like drumsticks from KFC. With her hair cut shorter than mine, and golden Africa-shaped earrings, she looked like a risqué centerfold for
National Geographic.

She said, “Okay, sexy black man, do you have any lotion?”

“On the dresser.”

She came into the bedroom. Blushing. Her sweet aroma spiced the cherry freshener in the room.

Tina made an untamed animal sound while she kissed me. then she tossed her wet towel on my clean white comforter and started searching through her yellow overnight bag.

My eyes were on her damp towel.

I waited until she had the lotion, then said, “Tina.”

She stopped massaging the lotion on her breasts.

I said an easy, “Please don’t put wet towels on my bed. White comforters stain easily.”

Her eyes darkened.

Maybe my tonicity wasn’t as agreeable as I intended.

The liveliness left her features.

I watched her.

Tina turned her back to me.

Eased into a pair of lime French-cut panties.

Squeezed into her jeans.

I said, “Tina?”

She pulled on her red and white sorority T-shirt.

“Tina?”

She was as mute as a mime. She shot me a look, then lowered her head, raised it, bit her bottom lip with her top teeth. She was probably mad because I didn’t shower with her.

“Hey, Tina, did you still wanna go to breakfast?”

She picked up her red pumps, took a breath, shook her head a few times, calmly collected her clothes, and said, “Why don’t you ask Tina?”

“What?”

“My name is Lillian.”

She walked away in silence. Her shoes made soft thumps on the carpeted part of the hallway, then moved in a depressed stride when she got to the sand-colored hardwood floor. My front door opened slowly, then slammed hard enough to make the milky-white venetian blinds in the front room rock to and fro.

Purple panties and a dark padded bra were still drooping on the back of my maroon wingback chair.

Richard’s momma, Mrs. Vaughn, was cool the first day I met her. Yep, we got along for about ten minutes. Richard talked me into going over there for dinner. His whole family was there. The problem was, nobody told me that many people were gonna be there, or that the Thanksgiving-sized dinner was for me. Because if they had, I would’ve told them from jump street that I didn’t eat red meat or pork. There was a big ham, collard greens cooked in ham, beef, corn bread doused in fattening butter.

Mrs. Vaughn insisted I eat and slapped a mountain of food on my plate. One of us wasn’t listening. I politely pushed the plate away from my face, let her know that me and the pig didn’t see eye to eye. She humphed. Said she’d eaten the pig all her life, said her momma and her momma’s momma ate the pig every day and both lived to be a hundred. I ignored her diatribe, sipped on a cup of 7
UP
, and called it a day.

What made it worse was when I went to church with Richard the next week, his double-chinned momma
acted like she didn’t remember me. Richard introduced us again, and the heifer ignored me, raised one of her chins to the sky and huffed, “Why she wear pants in the house of the Lord? Ain’t she been to church before? She sho ain’t as pretty as that
light-skinded
girl you used to spend all your time with.”

That was my first time being speechless since words were invented. Richard apologized for his momma, and I didn’t hold what she’d said against him; just like I didn’t expect anybody to hold what my momma did, or what my daddy didn’t do, against me.

* * *

Another month dragged by, went on and on, felt like I was riding the back of a snail through Texas. I’d never been so happy to be able to change a calendar. I had a couple of days off and went where everybody knew my name.

While the plane was coming down into ocean air and smog, it felt good to see crowded freeways and surface streets that were familiar. I saw the towering MCI, Blue Cross, and Herbalife buildings. When the plane banked, I caught a glimpse of the Dan L. Steel structure standing tall too. That made me hold my breath for a moment. Guess me and that bowlegged tyrant would have to finally be in the same space for a few minutes.

Leonard had set it up for all of us to powwow with some teenage girls in Watts. I wasn’t down with the program, because even though I’m a gabber, I’m not a public speaker, but Leonard had made a big deal about me growing up in a single-parent home.

Whatever. With perfume dabbed all over, I had my own agenda.

I left the plane with my luggage-on-wheels in tow, and Debra was at the gate waiting for me. She was holding her shades, had on a dark green business suit, with slim pants and a hip-length jacket. My brown miniskirt was the bomb, plus the matching jacket hugged my waist and drew attention to all the right spots, and I’d brought out the brown shade with a beige camisole.

Debra made a face of surprise and said, “Damn, you
look good. Don’t take that outfit off. I might borrow it forever.”

“Thanks. You look good too. If I was like Nancy the Nympho, I’d be hounding you and trying to get your phone number.”

We laughed.

She hugged me, told me how much she had missed me. She even had the nerve to shed a single tear. People from about twenty nationalities wrestled their carry-on luggage around us and gave up sideways stares. One Asian woman raised a brow.

I said, “Debra?”

“What?”

“Get a grip and let me go before people think we’re funny.”

“Hug me.”

“Don’t get your war paint on my new clothes.”

“Hug me.
Now.
“

I showed her what a hug was and said, “How’s that?”

“Ouch. You’re so cynical.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“You act like you ain’t seen me in years.”

“You act like you see me every day.”

“Debra, I can’t breathe.”

“Stop acting silly. Why have you stopped calling me?”

I said, “Sweetheart, you’re married.”

“All that to say?”

“You don’t need to hang out with wild and single women.”

“Shelby?”

“Uh-huh?”

“It’s okay to make new friends, but cherish old ones.”

“Hush before you make me upset.”

We put on our shades and headed down the escalator toward the lower-level parking. If you asked me, we looked like one-half of En Vogue—two-thirds since one of the sistas flew the coop—and we were more supreme than the Supremes. I was so exhilarated I was ready to break out in song and dance.

Debra said the meeting was going to have thirty-five girls, ages thirteen to eighteen.

I said, “I wrote down a please-go-to-college bit.”

“No, talk to them and tell them how you grew up. Be real.”

“It was just me and a momma who cooked food at the school cafeteria and cleaned up after white-collared white people.”

“And you made it through college on her blood, sweat, and tears. We went, we struggled, and we graduated.”

“You’re a bonafide nurse. I’m working for a funky airline.”

“You have a dream job. I wish I had your freedom.”

I’d never heard her say that before.

“Other than making my life of welfare and food stamps an open book to a room of strangers, what’s on your agenda for this little town hall parley?”

“I’ll tell them I grew up around the corner, then do a few minutes about teen pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases.”

“Doing a slide show?”

“Leonard found a twenty-minute video.”

“Hope the girls don’t eat before the movie.”

She laughed.

It felt like old times. USC old times. When we were ready to kick the world in the seams of its jeans. My soft and sweet aroma was so vivacious it made roses bend in envy. I hadn’t been this concerned with my looks since God knows when.

In Debra’s Hyundai, I pulled down the mirror on my side, double-checked my new Matte Espresso lipstick. Some new Victoria was covering my rusting secrets. My suit was fresh off the rack.

Debra had the radio on AM talk; I turned the radio to FM and feasted on a helping of KJLH’s musical soul food. Karen White and Babyface’s old love duet dissipated; Maxwell crooned a snazzy solo about a little something-something. That was my exact mood.

Debra said, “Turn that up.”

We sang along while she fought her way out of LAX’s lunacy. We had to flirt with a couple of Buckwheat-looking brothers driving a dirty Fleetwood to get invited into traffic. They pulled up and begged for our phone number, pager number, cellular number, any number they could get. Just like old times. Debra raised her ring hand, shrugged, and wiggled her finger. I laughed at Stymie and Purina, and showed them the ring on my right hand. One I’d bought for myself at Mervyn’s.

She floored the accelerator—which didn’t make too much of a difference in an asthmatic Hyundai—whipped from lane to lane, and chugalugged out of the airport into the six lanes of insanity on Sepulveda, headed toward the 105 freeway.