Street Soldiers (19 page)

“Hell no I’m not familiar with that shit,” Nigel says, sitting on the stool next to me at the kitchen island. I love Chase’s house. It’s not as big as Jeremy’s house but it’s just as fabulous with an equally spectacular view of the ocean. “And if it sounds anything like what you’re trying to sing I don’t want to be.”

“They’re not that bad,” Chase says, grabbing the chips out of Nigel’s hand. “My mom keeps the band in rotation.”

I don’t know why Chase is fronting. We both know I downloaded this song from his iPod.

Nigel looks from me to Chase realizing he’s not in LA anymore. I know he misses hanging with Rah. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why Rah does half the shit he does. He’s as much an enigma to me as he was five years ago when we first met. As soon I think I know him he pulls a fast one bringing us right back to the beginning. I guess to some people it’s nice to keep the mystery alive, but to me it’s just plain exhausting.

“Chase, you can’t listen to whoever the hell Jayd’s listening to and listen to Lil Wayne,” Nigel says, taking a sip from his drink. “It’s against the rules, man.”

Chase laughs at Nigel but I can tell he’s nervous. I would bust him out telling Nigel it’s because of the dude formerly-known-as-Chance that I like alternative music in the first place. Chase will be hearing about this later when we’re in private. I’m all for him finding his black self but the white part of him is hella cool, too.

“Anyway, like I was saying before the karaoke show,” Nigel says, tossing a bag of chips to Chase. “Me and Rah have to find a new supplier. Lance is tripping and it’s affecting our bottom line.”

“I can hook you up with a couple of my boys in the O.C. but it’s high-grade, top shelf type herb,” Chase says, pointing to the liquor cabinet in the adjacent dining room. I could probably pay my college tuition with just a few of the pretty bottles in the glass case. “It takes green to get green, you feel me?”

“We’ve barely been breaking even the past few weeks,” Nigel says, frustrated. He needs to take his stubborn ass back home. “What are we going to do? The weed man don’t take credit cards.”

“I feel you, man,” Chase says between bites. “Look, we can take a meeting with them and see what they’re willing to invest in a start up.” Chase sounds more like a Wall Street businessman than a teenager hustlin’ on the streets. This sandwich is too good for me to give my verbal input but I’m taking mental notes.

“Start up?” Nigel says, tossing his food onto the plate. “Fool, we’ve been making money since you were in diapers.” Nigel stares at Chase who doesn’t back down. Nigel cracks first realizing how ridiculous he sounds, especially since we’re all the same age.

“My brotha,” Chase says, imitating Jesse Jackson. “What I am trying to convey today is that you have been dealing with one type of supplier, and I am going to introduce you to his daddy.”

We all bust out in laughter. Chase can be so stupid sometimes.

Chase walks around from the opposite side of the island to stand directly in front of our friend. “Can the church say amen?” Has he been watching my grandfather’s sermons on YouTube?

“Chance, what are you doing?” Mrs. Carmichael asks, stepping into the kitchen. She still calls her son by the name she gave him rather than the one his birth mother chose.

“Nothing mom,” he says, kissing her on the cheek.

She looks great, wearing a trendy yoga suit and sneakers. Mrs. Carmichael’s a living testimony of how getting rid of dead weight can work miracles on a person’s entire being.

“Here, Jayd. Hand deliver these to Teresa and make sure you let her know that she has exactly three days to get back to me with her response.”

Nigel looks pensive at the mention of his mother’s name. He has to miss being home, even if his mom’s a lot to handle.

“Thank you, Mrs. Carmichael. I’ll drop them off on my way home,” I say, wiping my hands clean with a napkin. Mrs. Carmichael hands me the heavy manila envelope three times as thick as the papers Mrs. Esop served Mama. Whatever’s in these pages is no joke.

I know Mrs. Carmichael’s been busy working on her own divorce. From what Chase has said, not only is she going for half of all of his dad’s assets—claimed and unknown—but she also wants half of his law firm, and for he and his secretary to be fired for professional misconduct by getting knocked up on company time. Her legal swag is so fierce that she almost makes me want to become a lawyer.

“No problem. And tell your grandmother I said thank you for the sweet gift,” Mrs. Carmichael says, smelling her hands. “Text me after you deliver them.”

“Yes, ma’am. I will.”

It’s going to be interesting seeing Mrs. Esop again after all that’s happened. She hasn’t been in the best shape since Nigel left home and blames one of my best friend’s for it. I don’t blame Mrs. Esop for being hurt by a few of my actions even if I had no power to prevent them, but she didn’t have to drag Mama and Netta’s shop into this mess. I hope she’s ready because one thing we Williams’ women don’t do is back down from a fight.

*

I park my car in the driveway behind Mrs. Esop’s Jaguar. Her rose garden looks slightly neglected—I guess she hasn’t been in the mood for pruning. I ring the front doorbell twice and wait but no one answers. After several minutes I gently push the screen door open and hear two female voices shouting in the living room.

“Mom, this is Regina. She’s a captain in the Navy, and she’s my fiancée.”

“Fiancée.” Mrs. Esop looks like she’s about to faint. Her husband had better step behind her and get ready to catch.

It’s hard to feel sympathy for Mrs. Esop with all of the unnecessary drama she’s caused in my life. She’s been on a serious power trip lately and thankfully my grandmother is putting it to an end, even if it’s probably only temporary. I have a feeling Mrs. Esop always has her nose in someone else’s business.

“Excuse me,” I say, entering the foyer. I don’t want to overhear any more of their family feud—I think I’ve heard too much as it is. “I just came to drop these off,” I say, holding the envelope out like it’s a white flag.

“Jayd, is that you?” Natasia says, walking over to me. “You’re all grown up.” I hug Nigel’s big sister much to Mrs. Esop’s displeasure.

“It’s good to see you, too, Natasia. How’s Spelman?”

“It’s great,” Natasia says, leading me into the living room. “I want you to meet Regina, my fiancée.”

Nigel’s known about his sister’s girlfriend for over a year. They fell in love during freshman orientation and have been going strong ever since.

“It’s nice to meet you, Regina. And I love the hair,” I say, admiring her short style. “Congratulations on everything.”

“Congratulations?” Mrs. Esop says, snapping at me. “What is it you stopped by for again? You know that Nigel’s not here,” she says, shooting visual daggers at me like it’s my fault her son left home.

“Mrs. Carmichael said to give you these.” I hand the thick envelope to Mrs. Esop who’s eyes slit in anger.

“Natasia, why don’t you show our guest to her room,” Mrs. Esop says, gesturing upstairs. “We’ll continue this conversation later.”

“Our guest is staying in my room, mother.” Natasia’s always been bold with her swag.

“Fine,” Mrs. Esop says, holding her right hand against her chest like she’s had the wind knocked out of her. “Jayd, follow me.”

We step out of the living room and up the winding staircase into her bedroom.

“Mrs. Esop, I’m sorry I walked in when I did. I rang the doorbell but no one answered.”

Mrs. Esop looks out of the window where she has a clear view of downtown Los Angeles. My mom would love to live in a house like this. It amazes me how much the homes are in Lafayette Square when the exclusive neighborhood’s only a stone’s throw away from the hood.

“Natasia’s only doing this to spite me you know,” she says, lying across her king-sized bed filled with pillows of various neutral shades. “It’s just a test, like when she’d throw tantrums as a toddler. She’ll never marry a woman, not even over my dead body.”

I hate to break it to Mrs. Esop but Natasia and Regina are serious about their nuptials. They have rings and everything. Regina’s family is from New York where they’ll have no problem making it legal. They’re certainly going to be two of the prettiest—and wealthiest—brides I’ve ever seen.

Mrs. Esop’s not really talking to me; she just needs someone to listen to her vent and I happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. “I always wanted a daughter to groom into a proper young lady. I wanted to give her the world. All Natasia ever wanted to do was leave me.”

“Uhmm, Mrs. Esop, can you please look over everything and get your response back to Mrs. Carmichael in three days?” I say, pointing at the package. “She highlighted each signature line and even tagged the pages to make it quick and easy.”

It’s ironic how only a few weeks ago Mrs. Carmichael looked like hell when she found out that her husband’s secretary was pregnant with his baby. Now Mrs. Esop’s the one looking like a truck of despair ran over her ass in the middle of the night.

“I’ve lost both my children in less than a year, Jayd. Both of them,” Mrs. Esop says, taking the papers and tossing them onto the nightstand beside her without even glancing at them. “You give your children everything from the day they’re born until you die and they could care less.”

“I wouldn’t say that your children don’t care,” I say, eyeing an escape route. “I think they both appreciate what you and your husband have done for them.” It would be rude of me to make a break for the door but I need to get going. I want to start the week off right by getting as much homework done tonight as possible.

“Oh please, Jayd. They both think I’m a wretched old lady who wants to control everyone and everything for my own benefit when that’s the furthest thing from the truth. All I ever wanted was the best for them. Why can’t they see that?”

“Why can’t you see that you have done exactly that? Your children are blessed to have you as a mom,” I say, remembering the few good moments we shared. “You just have to see them for who they really are and not who you want them to be.” That last comment must’ve struck a nerve with Mrs. Esop because I can see her fighting back tears.

“I’ll have my attorney look over the documents in the morning and get back to your attorney by Thursday afternoon,” she says, crawling into the fetal position while hugging a body pillow. “You can see yourself out.”

Shit. I knew I went too far but I had to speak the truth. She needed to hear it and no one else seems to be giving it to her plain and simple.

“Jayd, can I ask you a question?” Mrs. Esop says to my back.

“Sure,” I say, turning around at the threshold. I should’ve walked faster.

“Did you at any moment during the weeks we spent together enjoy your time as a debutante in training?”

I gaze out of Mrs. Esop’s balcony double doors into the backyard where she’s meticulously planted award-winning roses, tulips and other flowers. Her lush, green lawn is immaculate and the furniture is worthy of being featured in one of Martha Stewart’s magazines. Being a part of her home made me feel like I was worthy of dreaming this big; that I could one day have a home like this. I look at Mrs. Esop’s blank stare in the same direction and realize that’s not what she’s looking for. She wants to know if she taught me anything about being like her in a way that surpasses my actual enjoyment.

“When you taught me how to fold my napkin just so. For some reason I really liked learning how to crease the fabric perfectly before setting it in my lap. It made me feel like a lady.” And it did, although rolling around in her custom Jaguar made me feel even better. “I’ve never really used a cloth napkin for anything, but it changed me so much that I went out and bought my own to use when I’m alone.” Mine are from Target unlike her custom designed sets but that doesn’t matter to me. I love eating with them. “If I never said it before, thank you for the experience. I’m sorry it didn’t work out as planned.”

Mrs. Esop lifts her head from the silk pillow and slightly smiles. I return the gesture and walk out of the door where the housekeeper’s standing with Mrs. Esop’s dinner awaiting permission to enter. Mrs. Esop signals for her to set the tray down on the table near the window.

“You can come by Thursday afternoon to pick up the papers, Jayd,” she says, pushing back her cream-colored Duvet cover and sitting on the side of her bed. It’s a trip how depression can cripple a body as much as any physical illness. I’m used to seeing Mrs. Esop working outside or on her away to one of her charity functions, not like this. I wonder if her children know how much pain she’s in. No matter what my mom or grandmother ever did to me I’d never want to see them like this. “And Jayd, please tell my son that I love him.”

“Why don’t you call and tell him yourself?” I ask.

“Because he won’t answer my calls. At least Natasia calls me on Sundays even if she only allows us about a minute to chat, and now I know why.”

I never thought I’d be the one sticking up for Mrs. Esop to her only son but I think I need to have a chat with my boy about compassion. I can understand him being unforgiving toward Mickey, but not neglecting his mother and daughter—ever. Granted, Nickey’s not his blood child but he said he’d take care of her like his own. As Nickey’s godmother I often have to remind her parents of their responsibilities.

“Good bye, Mrs. Esop,” I say before heading back downstairs and then home. “I’ll relay the message to your son.”

“It may not make sense to you why a nigga would want to trip you, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t watch your step.”