Grown Folks Business (26 page)

Finally Déjà said, “You don’t like me much, do you?”

What was your first clue?
“It doesn’t matter if I do or don’t, does it?”

“It matters to me,” Déjà said softly, “because I love Chris.”

Oh, brother.

“I really do,” Déjà said, as if she knew Sheridan’s thoughts.

“And he loves me.”

“Christopher is not old enough to be in love, Déjà.”

“I think he is, Ms. Hart.” She twisted in her seat and faced Sheridan. “You don’t know him like I do.”

Now Sheridan wanted to slap her too. “You’ve known Christopher for five minutes. I’ve known him since I carried him in my womb. Tell me again that I don’t know him like you do.”

Déjà sighed, popped another bubble, and said, “Why don’t you like me?”

She couldn’t say all of the words that would explain it, so instead she said, “Let me ask you this. You’re eighteen. What do you want with a boy so young?”

“He’s not that young, and he’s really not a boy, Ms. Hart.”

Sheridan gripped the wheel. “He
is
a boy, Déjà. He’s a boy playing grown-up. And you should know better.” As she said the words, her insides stirred. In some other place, at some other time, this conversation could be happening—but she wouldn’t be in the driver’s seat. Brock’s mother could be glaring at her as if she were some misfit corrupting her baby boy. His mother could ask her what she wanted with a man so young.

But at least he’s a man.
Still, her thoughts didn’t make her feel better. What was the difference between her and Déjà?

Déjà said, “I don’t see anything wrong with me and Chris being together. We have fun and he’s taught me a lot of things. He’s not like all those other guys I’ve been with.”

Oh, God.
“I’m sure he’s not like the boys you know,” Sheridan said, and then tried to suck back her words. “Look, Déjà,” she said, softening her tone. “In less than two years, Christopher will be going to college. He’ll leave home, probably leave California.”
If I have my way, he’ll be going to school in China.
“Besides the fact that he’s so young, that’s another reason why it doesn’t make sense for him to be in a relationship.”

Déjà leaned back. “He told me you liked Nicole Blake. What’s the difference between her and me?”

Only God’s grace kept her from laughing and really hurting this girl. “It doesn’t make any difference to me who the girl is. Christopher is too young, and I’m not going to allow this to go on.”

Sheridan clicked on the radio, but when she heard Luther crooning about how love had been good to him, she flicked to another station. She settled on KKLA and the Christian broadcast
Focus on the Family.
This girl needed to hear something uplifting, inspirational—a message that would convince her to keep her behind away from Christopher Hart.

Forty-five minutes later Sheridan stopped her car in front of Déjà’s home.

“Thank you, Ms. Hart,” Déjà said, and hopped out of the car.

Sheridan glanced at the clock. It was just after eleven. Too late to go into anyone’s home. But this was a desperate matter that called for a desperate measure. “I’d like to meet your father. Is it too late?”

Déjà frowned. “No, but I don’t know if he’s home yet. He usually hangs out when he gets off work.”

Sheridan nodded. “Let’s see if he’s home.”

They walked up the driveway of the stucco ranch-style home, past a gray truck with more rust than paint.

“What’s your father’s name?”

“Harold.”

“No, I mean, what’s your last name?”

“Blue. His name is Harold Blue.”

Sheridan nodded but then almost tripped on the concrete path when she realized what that meant.
This child’s name is Déjà Blue.
Before she had a chance to recover she stepped into the house.

It could have been the middle of the day, judging from the sounds of the Blue household. Although no one was in the front room, Sheridan’s ears were accosted by a baby’s cries and toddlers’ squeals. Still, she was able to hear the sounds from a television that was slightly overpowered by a CD blasting, “Lean over to the front and touch your toes.”

As her eyes wandered through the space, the first word that came to her mind was
brown.
Everything was the color of mud: the pleather couch, the stained recliner, the bookshelves, the carpet—even the curtains that hung at the window were a drab brown.

Déjà tossed her purse on the brown table and walked toward the hallway. “Daddy,” she yelled.

“What are you screaming for, girl?” a voice bellowed back.

“Daddy, Chris’s mom wants to meet you,” Déjà shrieked. Then she turned to Sheridan and spoke softly. “Have a seat, Ms. Hart.”

Sheridan looked again at the couch, covered with empty KFC bags, soda cans, and toddler’s toys. Her glance moved to the stains on the recliner and she wondered what they were. She shook her head and stepped back, moving closer to the door. “No, thank you. I won’t be staying long.”

“What did you say?” Déjà’s father spoke as loud when he entered the room as he did when he yelled from the back. He stopped when he saw Sheridan and grinned as his eyes roamed over her body one inch at a time.

Sheridan pulled the belt of her trench coat tighter.

“Daddy, this is Ms. Hart, Chris’s mother.”

Harold Blue was a big man who stretched his clothes beyond their size. His white T-shirt hugged his chest and barely covered his stomach. He wore jeans that were hip huggers, not because of style, but because he couldn’t get the pants to his waist over the rolls of skin that bulged from his side.

Sheridan kept her eyes on his eyes. “Hello, Mr. Blue.”

“Yeah.” His grin widened. “Nice to meet you.” He motioned for her to have a seat. “Do you want a beer?” he asked as he popped a cigarette into his mouth and sat on the couch.

And then she noticed it. His name shouldn’t have been Blue; it should have been Brown. He was the same color as everything around him. “No, thank you,” she said to his offer of beer. “Mr. Blue, I apologize for disturbing you so late.”

“Ah, it’s not late,” he said. “It’s not even midnight.” Then he screamed, “Would you guys turn that noise down? We got company.” But the chaos continued as if he hadn’t spoken. He looked back at Sheridan and grinned again. “Sorry.”

Sheridan didn’t return his smile. “I drove Déjà home tonight because she missed the last bus.”

His face stiffened when he turned to Déjà. “How’d you do that?”

Déjà flipped open the top of a soda can and shrugged.

He turned back to Sheridan. “Thank you. I know it was a long ride, because Déjà told me you guys live in one of those fancy homes near Ladera.”

“Mr. Blue, when I came home, I found Déjà with my son.” A baby’s wail came from the back. She paused and looked at Déjà. She leaned against the counter separating the living room from the kitchen. Sheridan was surprised; Déjà looked amused. “They were in…well, let’s just say I was upset.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harold glanced at Déjà, who rolled her eyes.

“Yes. And I’m concerned because not only does Christopher have a curfew, but they were in the house with his sister. This kind of behavior is unacceptable to me, as I’m sure it is to you.”

Harold shrugged. “What were they doing? A little kissing? A little making out?”

Sheridan took a breath. “That may have been the beginning.”

Harold chuckled. “That’s no big deal. Chris is your oldest, right?” Before she could answer, he said, “You haven’t been through the hormonal teenage years. So let me tell you, that’s normal. They’re just kids being kids.”

What kind of parent are you?
“I don’t allow that kind of behavior in my house, Mr. Blue.”

“Oh, now I get it,” he said. “You have a little one.” He paused and looked at his daughter. “Déjà, from now on, you and Chris should hang out here. Don’t be going over there, making out with that little girl in the house.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

He smiled at Sheridan as if he’d solved the problem.

Sheridan exclaimed, “Mr. Blue—”

“Please call me Harold.”

Sheridan had to fight to keep her voice down. “The problem is not just my daughter being in the house. The problem is that…” She paused and swallowed, taking a moment to pray that what she was about to say wasn’t true. “They were almost having sex.”

Harold frowned as if he didn’t understand her words. “What’s the problem?” He turned to Déjà. “Chris isn’t forcing you to do anything, is he?”

“No, Daddy.”

He looked at Sheridan. “So, it looks like it’s consensual.”

She wanted to tell Harold Blue that there was no such thing as consensual sex between an eighteen-year-old and a sixteen-year-old minor, but she stayed silent. He took a puff on his cigarette, and then said to Déjà, “And if you do anything you’ll use protection, right? With all those diseases out there.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He might as well have driven a stake through her heart.

“Look, Ms. Hart,” he continued, “I have seven daughters who I raised mostly by myself.”

Obviously.

“Déjà is the youngest, and she’s done well. She graduated from high school, and she’s the first one to do that before she had a baby. But I ain’t complaining about the others. They’re good kids too. They all got little ones, but their babies’ daddies are doing the thing and taking care of their children.”

It was shock that kept her silent.

“Anyway,” he continued, explaining real life to Sheridan, “Chris has a good head on his shoulders. And the best thing is”—he paused and winked—“he can’t get pregnant.”

“Mr. Blue…” And then Sheridan stopped. How could she explain what she wanted for her son? How could she tell him her son wasn’t going to be anybody’s baby’s daddy? “Good night, Mr. Blue.”

He stood. “Hey, don’t worry, little lady,” he said as he followed Sheridan. “I know these kids will be responsible.”

Sheridan climbed into her car and wondered if Mr. Blue or his daughter could spell
responsible.
She started her SUV and then floored the accelerator. Still she didn’t get away fast enough.

It wasn’t until she was on the freeway that she realized how hard her heart was pounding.

“Don’t worry, little lady.”
She heard Mr. Blue’s raspy voice. “Don’t worry,” she said aloud. She couldn’t do anything else. The man didn’t care what was going on with Christopher and his daughter. It didn’t matter to him. Christopher was probably the best thing ever to happen to that entire family—even if he was only sixteen.

Sheridan made up her mind. She didn’t care if she had to lock Christopher inside his room like it was a high-security prison if it would keep him away from Déjà and the rest of the Blue crew.

Sheridan looked at the clock, and then took the SUV to eighty. She had to get home. She had a son she needed to talk to, a son she needed to save.

It was after midnight, but Sheridan didn’t care. She marched into the house, up the stairs, and straight to Christopher’s room. Without her perfunctory knock, she swung his door open, and turned on the overhead light.

He stirred before she called him and he sat up.

He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light. “Mom, is Déjà all right?”

She wanted to shake this alien until he returned her son. “She’s fine.” He sighed as if he was relieved, and Sheridan wondered what he thought. Wondered if he imagined his mother taking Déjà for a long ride and then returning alone. She wished she’d thought of that.

As he turned to lie back down, Sheridan said, “We need to talk.”

He yawned.

“Christopher, I cannot tell you how disappointed I am.”

“I don’t know why, Mom. I was just waiting for you. I didn’t know you were going to be so late.”

She paused, unable to understand his nonchalance. She’d caught him, in her house, on top of a girl who was almost naked. Months ago, he would have been trembling at the thought of what his parents would do. But tonight he looked like he didn’t care.

And then she thought of Brock. In the hallway. With her and Christopher.

She pushed that memory to the back of her mind. “What was Déjà doing here anyway? You’re not supposed to have company on a school night.”

“She was helping me with my trigonometry homework.”

If she weren’t fuming, she would have laughed. She doubted if Déjà could add three numbers together.

He continued to plead his case. “And what could I do? She was stranded.”

“It doesn’t matter. Christopher, you are continually breaking the rules, and this is not acceptable.”

“Why are you hassling me, Mom?” When he raised his voice, Sheridan raised her eyebrows. “You keep stressing me.”

“Christopher, you have lost your mind. I’m stressing you?”

“Yeah. And I don’t know why,” he said more slowly, as if that would help his mother understand. “My grades are good; I don’t get in trouble. I do everything you want me to do. And I’m nothing like that jerk you married.”