Love in a Carry-On Bag (15 page)

Harriet Lake had needed
constant hand-holding, making Erica feel more like a babysitter than a powerhouse publicist. To make matters worse, Harriet lost the Image Award when she was expected to be a shoe-in. After the defeat she reverted to Ms. Impossible Bitch, barking orders and nit-picking at everything: the towncar smelled smoky and she was allergic; room service didn’t come when she called so Erica had to complain to the manager; her dress was too tight so Erica had to find a local seamstress. But the soot to fill her lungs was when Harriet demanded that she escort her to the Beverly Center to find a birthday present for her daughter. It was the last day of the trip and Erica’s patience had puttered out, so she told Harriet, “Go ahead, I’ll be waiting right here in the car.”

Forty-five minutes later, Harriet called Claire hysterical, complaining that Erica had left.

Claire called Erica livid. “I told you to make her happy. Where is your focus?” and rattled off ways to rectify the situation but
Erica was too pissed to take any of Claire’s suggestions. Furious, she stormed into the mall, where she found Harriet having an ice cream.

“Oh, there you are, dear,” Harriet said, and asked if she wanted a cone. It took all of Erica’s strength not to smash the bowl in Harriet’s face, and then dump the creamy mess in her blue-black hair.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Stormy Me

S
everal weeks worth of
clothes were piled in a heap on the bedroom floor. The kitchen sink overflowed with takeout containers and dirty coffee mugs. Loose papers were scattered about, and she must have tracked in something from outside because her bare feet kept sticking to the wood floor. But Erica had no intention of cleaning. Getting dressed for work took all the energy she could muster. That Monday morning, she slipped into the first thing she came across—black cargo pants and a faded v-neck. Not quite Monday morning work attire, but she dressed. Erica fixed her hair in a bun and stuffed a bottle of aspirin in her jacket pocket. On the five block walk to the train station, Erica gnawed at the skin on the inside of her jaw, begging for the physical pain to cancel out her internal suffering. She felt like a bicycle tire with a slow leak.

The train clanked into the subway station, and Erica battled for standing room. In the reflection of the train window, Erica recognized that she was the poster of misery. She hadn’t slept more than two hours at a time for six days, and her skin had sprouted a blotchy pimple on her jaw bone just left of her chin. Even her dark sunglasses couldn’t masquerade her gloom as she rocked with the train, staring at nothing. Every movement was robotic: get off train, cross the street, spin with the momentum of the office’s revolving door, morph from weepy mess into a no nonsense publicist who ate difficult reviewers for dinner. But this time, she hadn’t transformed once her feet stepped on the marbled lobby floor. It was a first.

“’Morning, Iris,” she greeted the fourth floor receptionist, and shuffled down the hall. In the publicity department, Erica had to step over the large boxes of books lining both sides of the floor to get inside her office. She quietly cursed the assistants for not putting the books in the storage room. Gloom circled her movements, and by the time she got settled behind her desk, she wasn’t surprised to see that depression had hitched a ride. She could feel it clinging to the gray walls, lounging on her bookshelves, swimming in the lake shown in the photograph, and attaching itself to the headlines in the
Daily News
that she had stretched across her desk. Erica could have been mistaken for a woman in an anti-depressant commercial. Perhaps that was what she needed: a little blue pill to make it all go away.

The telephone rang. It was the bail bondsman reminding her that her mother had court the next morning. Thanking him, Erica promised that she would have her mother there on time and jotted down the address. After hanging up, she swore again because now she had to take a personal day. Her mother couldn’t be trusted to go to court alone, and Erica wasn’t going to be stuck with the bill if she didn’t show. While typing the e-mail request to Claire, her assistant, Prudence, knocked and entered.

“Sorry about the boxes, we’re working on finding a place for them now.” She looked Erica up and down. “You all right?”

“Yeah, why?” Erica wiped her hands on her pants.

“You look a little, I don’t know, not like yourself,” said Prudence. Erica assured her that she was fine.

“Well, here’s the Jarvis update. Don’t forget he’s coming in to meet with you and Claire in an hour.” Prudence gave her a thick
file and took her leave.

Erica had forgotten about the meeting, but as she flipped through the pages, her fingertips started to lose their numbness, and a surge of energy slowly entered her body. Jarvis’ story was one that had excited her when the sales teams presented the book at the spring conference. Most of the books Erica worked on were chosen for her because she could handle high-profile authors, or had key relationships with media outlets that wouldn’t give ordinary books a play. Titles that she personally salivated over didn’t cross her lap often, especially those authored by an African-American.

LaVal Jarvis grew up on the south side of Chicago. His mother was a heroin addict, and at the age of five he witnessed his father stab her seventeen times, killing her at a bus stop. His father was arrested for the murder, and LaVal became a ward of the court. He began selling drugs around age 10, and by fifteen he headed the largest fraction of the Billy Goat gang in Chicago. A jealous rival snitched, resulting in his arrest. In his memoir,
365 Degrees of Change: My Life on and After the Streets
, Jarvis explained how being mentored by strong men during that two-year sentence at a juvenile detention center saved his life. Once released, Jarvis abandoned his control of the streets and moved to Dayton, Ohio, with an older cousin. There he received his GED, went to college and graduate school, receiving his law degree earlier this year. Claire had kept her in the loop while the project was developing and now it was finally on her desk, providing a much-needed distraction.

“Erica, reception just called. LaVal Jarvis is in the lobby. Want me to get him?” Prudence offered.

“I’ll walk over. Confirm that Claire is ready for the meeting.”

Erica opened her top drawer but realized that she hadn’t replaced her hand mirror. Instantly, she thought of Warren and
abruptly jumped out of her chair before a new flood of emotions could catch her. While hurrying down the hall, she moved a few bobby pins around to tighten her makeshift bun.

In the reception area, LaVal was sitting with his legs crossed, flipping through the fall catalog. They had met last week at Hunter College, and just like then, he was suited up. LaVal was a good-looking man, muscular and tall, with skin the color of sand and penny-sized dimples. When he moved, it was with enough swagger to establish street creditability, peppered with just the right mix of charisma that put white folks at ease. But even under his expensive cologne, Erica could sense a grittiness about him that she wasn’t sure she trusted.

“It’s good to see you again.” She extended her hand.

LaVal eyed her a second too long, and then replied, “Likewise.”

While walking down the
hall, they made small talk about his flight and the weather in Chicago. Once they arrived in Claire’s office, Claire hugged and gushed over LaVal like she was his professional mother. It was her way, and explained why everyone was comfortable in Claire’s presence.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she held him at arm’s length. As usual she was impeccably dressed, wearing a bone suit and snakeskin pumps. Erica was pitifully underdressed, and quickly found her seat, hoping that the wrinkles in her shirt went unnoticed.

Claire gestured for LaVal to sit, and the show began. “We’re all so excited to have the opportunity to work on a book with such emotional depth. Your story is phenomenal.”

LaVal gave her a schoolboy’s blush. “I just hope the public likes it.”

“They’ll love it,” she continued, lathering him with charm.
Karen entered holding a stack of papers and, on Claire’s nod, handed a stapled pack to each of them.

“We’ve outlined your publicity campaign from start to finish. I wanted you to have every bit of your publicity tour in one place so that there are no surprises.”

Erica took her copy already knowing the contents because she had written it.

“Eight cities in ten days?” LaVal looked up.

“It’s important to keep you moving so that we can create buzz and momentum,” Claire smiled, and then walked him through each page, illustrating how she hoped the campaign would play out. She was so awesome on her feet that Erica got lost watching her in action. That was how she aspired to be.

“Well, I really appreciate all of your hard work,” said LaVal, and Claire stood clasping both of his hands with hers.

“Our best work is yet to come.”

The two hugged again, and Erica offered to show LaVal out.

“So you’re my publicist?”
he asked, once they fell in step.

“Yes, I’ll be managing your campaign.”

“Well, I think we need to get to know each other a little better before I entrust my whole writing career to your hands. How’s lunch?”

Erica wasn’t in the mood. “I’m out of the office tomorrow,” she pressed the button for the elevator while glancing down at her feet. How could she have come to work in her old ballerina flats?

“Then Wednesday,” he said, sounding like a man who was used to women giving him what he wanted. Without waiting for a response he stepped into the elevator.

Erica moped back through
the halls, and just as she was about
to turn into her office, Karen told her that Claire wanted her again. An instant nervousness flitted through her. The meeting was no doubt about Harriet. She could feel butterflies flapping their wings in her stomach. She should have stopped at the bathroom.

Claire was ending a call when she entered, and Erica sat waiting anxiously, like a child summoned to the principal’s office after a schoolyard fight.

“You know about the call from Harriet.” Claire rested her weight on her fingertips, letting her words take effect. “She said you were neglectful and difficult to work with in Los Angeles. She didn’t call Genève so we got lucky, but what happened?”

“She was just impossible.” Erica shifted under the microscope.

“But you knew that going in. What made this trip different?”

Erica was tempted to let loose her personal problems and sob on Claire’s shoulders, but this wasn’t the time. She also didn’t want Claire to think that she was taking advantage because of the intimacy that they shared in Atlanta.

“My mother’s been ill,” the lie left her tongue before she could think it through, “and I’ve just been worried. I put in for a personal day tomorrow so that I can take her to an appointment. I hope that’s okay.” Erica raised her chin, to Claire’s sympathetic eyes.

“Anything I can do?”

“No, tomorrow off is enough.”

“Are you sure that’s the only thing wrong?” Claire’s eyes swept over her attire but Erica rolled back her shoulders and pretended not to notice. She wanted out of the hot seat and fast.

“That’s it. It won’t happen again. I’ll send Harriet flowers and a little note before I leave today.”

“Now you’re thinking,” Claire continued to study Erica, and then added, “Edie is out, and you’re up to bat. We need your A game, kiddo.”

Erica nodded her head, and assured Claire that she would have it, but on the inside she didn’t feel so confident.

Work was suffering and she couldn’t believe she had lied to Claire. But if she didn’t take her mother to court then she wouldn’t go. Being the responsible one was wearing Erica thin. Pamper the authors at work, manage up to Claire, manage down to Prudence, manage the expectations of the editors because their books were sure to flop, stay numb towards dad, send money to Jazmine, bail mom from the slammer. When did she get a break? For what felt like her entire life, she was jammed taking care of everybody. And now, in the midst of her heart vomiting all over her chest, she was still the go-to seamstress stitching up everyone’s problems.

Erica returned to her office to grab her coat, and left for lunch with a cloudy head. Warren was the first man she had truly loved. Those puppy-eyed relationships in high school and college never panned out because Erica wouldn’t allow them. She had only one goal in mind—to be successful. There was no future in birthing babies by different daddies, and trumping up a fake disability so the government would take care of her with low income housing. The below poverty check each month was not good enough for Erica, and her focal point never wavered.

Warren was the first man who pried her open without permission, kissed away her shame, and dismissed that which she deemed ugly. The connection between them was fierce, and she felt revered by his attention and care. He was her best friend, that person she could call and tell that one quick thing. She missed him. A fresh batch of tears gathered as she tore through the revolving doors, and with each step she tried keeping her emotions behind her fogging sunglasses. But like everything else in her world, it proved impossible.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

On With It

A lump the size
of a child’s fist had been pressed against Warren’s chest for the past three days, and he had
done everything he could to distract himself from
the breakup with Erica. He took on a difficult project at work, and went to Sweet Melodies on Tuesday. He went again on Wednesday and played even though it was amateur night. That morning he reorganized his record collection and cut back the leaves of his houseplants for a little natural therapy, but nothing worked. The mass stayed, and despite his best efforts, their break-up scene waltzed through his head more times than he wanted to admit.

When Erica proposed the Monday night getaway Warren had agreed, even though it meant missing yet another gig at Sweet Melodies, simply because she had asked him to. With everything going on, he never got to tell her about Shar’s boys and what he had overheard at the church. Besides, he had missed her, and he would have gone if only for the pleasure of smelling her hair. Warren went with the hope of rekindling that spontaneous urgency that made being together necessary. Leaving Philadelphia was a knee-jerk reaction to her deception. Erica knew about the trip to Los Angeles and she should have told him right away, instead of hiding behind her creation of a romantic fantasy in which to deposit her bad news. What upset him more was her not being there for him. The red-eye to D.C. was bullshit. With Erica’s track record something would have come up and she would’ve missed the plane, and even with that he still loved her.

The revelation made him pause, before slipping a 12-year-old bottle of Glenlivet from a brown paper bag. Ilsa, his cleaning lady, had come for her weekly visit and his apartment smelled like orange Pledge. He hoped that a spotless house and single malt scotch would make him forget his troubles. If only momentarily.

His keys dropped in the basket on the kitchen counter followed by his money clip, wallet and the ring with the two diamond stud that his father had given him for his twenty-first birthday. In the top right cabinet, he reached for the brandy snifter. It was next to Erica’s favorite cobalt wine glass that they had picked up at a street fair. Originally they had bought two glasses, but once they got home Erica started dancing with a music video, accidentally knocking one to the floor. Warren pushed the remaining glass to the back of the cabinet until it was out of sight, cursing the memory.

When he was honest he had to admit that he had never devoted himself to a woman the way he had Erica. Not his high school crush or his college sweetheart. The wounded look she threw at him just before he closed the hotel’s door was what seemed to torture him most, because he had seen the essence of it before. He called it her love burdened look, because in her eyes was a tender ache that magnified her raw feelings, stripping away all the shields that she usually placed to protect her soul. Hurting Erica was the last thing he wanted, but he was at his wits end from trying to make them work. His whole life seemed to be malfunctioning, and it was wearing him thin, like tattered soles on a pair of old shoes.

Cracking the bottle, he coated two ounces of the butterscotch colored mixture into his glass, nosed it with a swirl, and then sipped. In his kitchen, Warren longed for the old Erica whose appetite was
greater than his, and who would go out on the weekends in a simple ponytail without make-up. He missed the girl who tried to outdrink him at the bar, and later let him love her in the backseat of his car.

With his glass in hand, he walked into the living room. He hadn’t watched a single basketball game that week, and was not in the mood to play his trumpet, so he opted to listen to music instead. A female saxophone player named Tia Fuller sat in with his band last week, and she played with such depth that Warren bought her CD on the spot. He was rewinding the second cut of the album when his home line rang. The caller-ID read unavailable, but his instinct told him to answer.

“Salam.”

“Hello?”

“Salam, brother.”

“Billie?” Warren put his snifter down on the coaster.

“Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice,” she said.

“What’s going on?” Warren pressed pause on the music. He couldn’t remember the last time they had actually spoken. Billie had been on location for over a year working on a documentary about the dangers involved crossing the Sahara desert.

“Ready for Saturday? I’m so bummed I’m not going to be able to make it back because of our deadline to finish shooting. The producer has already threatened to pull the plug because we’re behind three weeks. Dad understood but I still feel badly.”

Warren wondered if she knew about the boys. He had so much to ask her, but she cut into his thoughts, “I have some big news. I was going to wait until I saw you but I don’t know when that will be. I’m heading to Spain next Wednesday to start some editing.”

“You don’t let any grass grow under your feet,” Warren said, borrowing one of their mother’s favorite lines, and Billie laughed
out loud.

“I’m engaged.”

“You’re kidding.”

“It can’t be that hard to believe with all of my fine qualities,” she joked, but it was really only a modest tease. Billie was smart, good-looking and free-spirited. A killer combination that would make any man fall fast and hard. “His name is Enrique. He was the Boom Operator on the film.”

“Well I hope he’s a good man. You know mom always put me in charge of keeping you safe.”

“Yes, and I’m so happy. I don’t know when we’ll marry but…we’re expecting a baby in six months.” Her voice rose with excitement
.

“I’m going to be an uncle?”

“It’ll slow me down a little. Okay, a lot. But I’m ready for the change.”

“Are you coming home to have it? When will I see you?”

“We’re thinking about coming back. I want the baby to have dual citizenship. Enrique is from Spain, so I think that’s where we’ll settle. He lives right along the coast.”

The conversation continued quickly. Billie caught him up on all of the details of the film—the actors, the hassles with the crew. Billie was the same fast-talking girl, jumping from one idea to the next. Warren could barely keep up. Before he knew it, her calling card had run down to one minute. He hadn’t gotten a word in edgewise and he wanted to tell her about Erica and ask her what she knew about Shar’s sons.

“Give Erica my love. I’ll call again soon. Take care of Dad,” she said right before the line went dead.

He was going to be some little person’s uncle, and with that he held up his glass, and toasted to their health. Finally there was something lovely to contemplate.