The Blackbirds (44 page)

From Chapter 25 of the Memoirs of Dr. Debra Dubois

“Excuse me for being late, Mrs. Stockwell.”

“I understand,” she said. “Your duties take precedence.”

I didn't say anything else.

Her arms were folded in front of her cream suit. Her shoes were blue, just like her silk blouse. This was as contemporary as I'd ever seen her. But she still had her Bible in her purse.

Ericka wasn't with her.

My watch said 12:45
P.M
. and my watch was ten minutes fast.

I decided I would donate fifteen minutes to her. Twenty at most.

“Miss Mitchell, thanks for taking time away from your day and meeting me.”

“You're not working today?”

“We had a shortened day. The school let out at noon.”

“That explains all the kids hanging out at the mall.”

Mrs. Stockwell and I were upstairs in the clamor of the food court in the Fox Hills Mall, standing near the rail that faced Macy's. One side of the mall was two levels; the side with the food court had three levels. The mall was near my job, but I drove due to the heat, then spent more time and energy searching for a parking space than if I had walked the two hundred yards. That was what we did in California. Driving was in vogue. People who walked looked broke and homeless. Mrs. Stockwell
had called my job first thing this morning and asked me to meet her for lunch.

She asked, “Would you like something to eat?”

“Thank you, no. I've eaten. And I only have a few minutes.”

“Then I won't delay.”

We moved to the food court and sat in the blue metal chairs. She sat straight-backed, formal in a casual world, kept her purse in her lap. I waited for her to talk. Another glance at my watch was my not-subtle hint for her to get the show on the road.

Mrs. Stockwell started, “I don't want you to think badly of me.”

“What do you mean?”

“My behavior has not been the best. Do you agree?”

I agreed with a simple, definite nod.

She tapped her Bible. “I've never behaved in such a way.”

I didn't agree or disagree.

“I want you to understand, this isn't easy for me. Or Ericka. As you know, I can't bear any more children.”

“I know. I'm aware.”

“So the child in her womb means the world to me. It is not just her child. It's my first grandchild, my mother's first great-grandchild. She is the seed of my seed.”

“Without a doubt.”

“Either way, I'll carry a burden. If I allowed her to go on with this, well . . .” She closed her eyes tight, like she was trying to squeeze a vision out of her head, then opened her eyes and looked beyond me and continued. “You know what this would do to her life. She's a smart girl.”

“In some ways.”

“And she has a long life ahead of her.”

“Without a doubt.”

“So it wouldn't just be Ericka getting an . . .” She cleared her throat, then let me fill in the
A
-word in my mind. “. . . It would be all of us. Her, me, my mother, my mother's mother, and their mothers.”

“I don't understand.”

“What do you need clarification on, Miss Mitchell?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

She shrugged. “Guilt. I have to tell someone. I have lost too much sleep.”

“Why?”

“I've been questioning my parenting.” She patted her Bible, soft and unsure. “Questioning a lot of things. I have asked for answers, but there are only more questions.”

I sighed, almost reached over and patted her hand, but I didn't.

I remembered who I was. More like, who I wasn't. I wasn't her friend.

She said, “Ericka sees you as a role model. I've been her mother all of her life, and she's hardly known you a day, but she'll listen to you before she listens to me. What I say has no value. She'll do what I say, but takes your words as the brand-new gospel.”

“Have you always struck her?”

She shifted in her seat and moved her eyes from me. “I discipline my child. Spare the rod and you'll end up with a gang member staring at you from the other side of Plexiglas. I need her on the right path. It worked for my mother. You understand?”

“Yes. You discipline with disdain.”

Mrs. Stockwell twitched. “Not disdain. I'd give my life for her. She had lied to me about the whole thing. Looked at me like I was crazy, then swore on the Bible she wasn't having sex. You think she's all sweet, but she's slick and not to be trusted.”

“Children gravitate toward whom they can trust.”

“If I hadn't been counting her pads, if I hadn't seen that none had been used for two months, then she would've kept dressing in those baggy clothes and the next thing I would've known she would've had a bellyache and had the baby at the dinner table.”

“You don't have to strike her. We don't have to imitate slave masters.”

She shook her head. “I pray you never find yourself in my position.”

“How is she?”

“She asked that I give you this.”

She took a card out of her purse. It was a handmade card decorated with smiley faces and glitter and ribbons. Inside was a school picture of Ericka. She had ponytails and wore a peach, sleeveless mock turtleneck. Ericka had sent me a thank-you note.

The envelope had already been ripped open, the message already read.

My eyes went to Mrs. Stockwell.

She said, “I had to open it.”

“Invasion of privacy.”

“A child has no privacy, not when I have the responsibility for all she does.”

My lips tightened when I looked at her. I shook my head a little.

She said, “It says you're her big sister.”

I read it and then put it in my purse. “That it does.”

“Did she tell you who the boy is?”

“No.” A moment passed. I said. “You made your decision?”

“Yes. I've made her an appointment. Time is of the essence.”

I wanted to know where, but I didn't ask.

I glanced at my watch again.

Mrs. Stockwell said, “I need to know something from you.”

I nodded.

She asked me to explain the two-day procedure to her.

I did. I told her everything in detail, in clinical terms.

She said, “It's going to be a rough couple of days for us all.”

“And she will need a lot of healing after that. A lot of physical and psychological healing will follow.”

She let a moment go by, then exhaled unsure air.

She said, “As a nurse, what do you think I should do?”

“It's not for me to decide. I can only tell you what to expect.”

“Now I am asking you your opinion, as a woman; what do you think I should do?”

“Do what you think is best for your child. She is young with life growing inside her. You are a woman of faith. So am I. You have to convene with God. I have no answers.”

“I don't want to kill my grandchild. I can't . . . have my child go through that. But I can't allow her to be a mother when she barely knows how to wipe her own ass.”

“Maybe you should have this conversation with someone else.”

“I have no friends. There is no one else to talk to about this.”

“I'm sorry. But I can't advise you.”

She shrugged. “I don't think I'll ever be the same.”

“No doubt.”

“I guess I called you because I wanted to say thank you.”

“For?”

“Thanks for getting my child back home safely to me.”

“Will I be able to see her anytime soon?”

“I am thinking about letting her go live with my sister in Oklahoma. This is giving me a breakdown. Maybe she needs to be away from me, and maybe I need to be away from her. At least until the next school term. Her father agrees that would be wise.”

“Oh. So he has been informed.”

“A few people know. I think we should let the rumors and shame die down.”

Mrs. Stockwell stood to leave. I did the same.

She wore two-inch heels. I wore running shoes.

She said, “Well, I won't be seeing you for a while.”

We said simple, shallow good-byes and walked in opposite directions. Left like we didn't know each other. She headed toward JCPenney. I put on my shades, moved across the tile, held on to my purse and went in the direction of the stairwell located in the middle of the food court vendors, the one that went up to the open asphalt parking lot.

I saw a pay phone and had the urge to call my mother and father in Montana and thank them for everything I could think of. I wanted to thank them for life. Thank them for staying together. I wanted to thank my mother for disciplining me, but doing it with love. I wanted to thank my father for always being involved in my life.

We were all Ericka, lambs in the world, but some of us had had love and guidance.

We didn't feel like we had to procreate to feel loved.

I had to get back to the clinic, but I was more in the mood to listen to some sad music, something sadder than
Beaches
and
Terms of Endearment
combined, or just walk until my legs gave out or the anguish went away. Maybe when I got off work I'd skip the gym and go down to the Santa Monica Pier and walk the sands and give my thoughts to the
sunset. Maybe ride the roller coaster over and over by myself and eat cotton candy until my stomach ached.

I had almost made it to my car when I turned around and sprinted back into the mall. I raced past security and headed toward JCPenney, peeping inside every store along the way. When I made it to the far end of the mall, Mrs. Stockwell was on the escalator, going down. In a panic, I called her name. Yelled it over the rail. Did one of the ill-mannered things I used to get on my best friend, Shelby, about doing. I shocked Mrs. Stockwell. She waited at the bottom. When I got to her, I stopped in my tracks. Tears were quietly rolling from her eyes.

She spoke in a whisper, “Yes, Miss Mitchell?”

I said, “I'll take her to her appointment. I can go with her when she has it done. If you like, if it's too much for you, if you don't think you'd be comfortable, I will go with her.”

She chewed her lip. “I'm her mother. This is my cross to bear. This is our cross.”

I said, “It's up to you, but if you need me, please call me.”

Tension was in her neck. So much pain in her face, in her eyes. When I started to move away, she reached out and touched my shoulders. She was trying to say something.

Her words barely got out, “The boy. Some boy did this. Some damn boy.”

I nodded.

She said, “She will not tell me who he is. I don't want her to go through this alone. That boy should be there. He should hold her hand through this. But I know he won't. When this happens to a woman, a girl, the man, the boy moves on. The boy will bear no scars. The boy will forget what Ericka will always remember.”

I nodded again.

She said, “I am no saint. I have fallen short and I am trying to stay on the right path. It happened to me. The cycle repeated. I failed.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, Mrs. Stockwell. It wasn't on your records.”

“And now it has happened again. To my daughter. At the same age I was.”

“I just wanted to offer my help, my professional advice.”

“God is showing me that he has not forgotten my sins. This is my test from above.”

“What will you do?”

“I will pray. I will ask God to show me what He wants me to do.”

I was back on the escalator going up before Mrs. Stockwell could close her purse. Wiping the tears from my own eyes, never knowing that after that day I'd never hear from Ericka Stockwell again. Her mother never called me, and I never interfered.

But not a day has gone by when I didn't wonder where Ericka was, how she was, if she had had the baby, and if so, how she was doing, how her baby was doing.

I imagined her with her child, past the drama, happily married, out of college with a PhD, in a great relationship with her mother, reconnected with her father, flourishing.

Ericka sat at the formal dining table, uncomfortable, shifting, facing Mrs. Stockwell.

Mrs. Stockwell had refused to change from her kimono into regular clothing, refused to get dressed as she granted Ericka an audience, was being arrogant, haughty, defiant, self-righteous, defensive. She was being herself. She was being her hypocritical, damaged self.

Ericka watched Mrs. Stockwell put on her glasses, watched her mother read each page, watched her mother read another woman's words and take that same trip down Memory Lane, down the rabbit hole, watched her mother become outraged line by line, paragraph by paragraph, page by page. Ericka watched her mother, made sure the woman who had birthed her read every word. The first time, Mrs. Stockwell read those pages as if she felt violated, then Ericka watched her read those pages again, slower the second time, swallowing, restless, bouncing her leg, rubbing her neck, in pain, breathing deeply, trying to keep her back straight, trying to fight the tightness in her throat, trying not to admit what had been done two decades before.

The next time Mrs. Stockwell read the pages of memories, there were many tears.

Ericka stood up from the table, grabbed her mother's gun, marched toward the living room, then went up the stairs, took each step one at a time, moved down the hallway to the master bedroom, and pushed the door open. Indigo's father was sitting on Mrs. Stockwell's bed.

It was pointless trying to hide. His car was in the driveway. He had made a major error.

Mr. Abdulrahaman was there.

Indigo's father stood up in slow motion, so slow his knees popped. He stood in the dim light, nervous. He had been waiting for Mrs. Stockwell to return, maybe had hoped she could control and resolve this, and maybe that was what she had told him she would be able to do, especially when she had left with a gun in her hand.

He was now surprised to see Ericka with the gun.

Enraged, tears in her eyes, Ericka looked at him without blinking, the gun pointed at him.

He didn't look like a man who was jovial, a man who hugged and kissed his wife as if she were all that mattered in his life, no longer looked like a powerful businessman, no longer like a respectable father, looked only like a man of flesh and blood, a man foolish enough to sacrifice the empire he had built to scratch an itch with a woman who was so lost she would never be found. Ericka despised that woman, but she was still Ericka's mother.

Even in familial hate, there was an unbreakable bond.

And that man's daughter was one of Ericka's closest friends, a woman Ericka loved. Indigo was her sister, not by birth, but by choice. The message had been delivered, and it had been clear. The look of regret and terror on Indigo's father's face told Ericka that she had communicated effectively. He saw his own shame. He saw his own death. He saw a brokenhearted wife and a distraught daughter who would never forgive him for being so weak. He didn't challenge Ericka. He didn't make excuses. He knew he was wrong.

She didn't say a word, but disgust was etched on her face, carved in her expression.

Bit by bit, Ericka lowered the gun, held the weapon at her side pointing at the floor. Indigo's father reached to the side of the bed and picked up carry-on luggage.

He was here and he had packed to be here more than one night, if he hadn't already been here more than one night. He grabbed a second bag, one that Ericka assumed had his laptop and electronic devices.

He looked at Ericka, his body language asking for permission to leave. Ericka's expression told him that he didn't have to go home, but he had to get the hell out of Mrs. Stockwell's zip code. Indigo's father walked by her, his head down, and hurried down the stairs.

He rushed out the front door without so much as a glance toward Mrs. Stockwell.

He was concerned for his own safety, not her well-being.

Mrs. Stockwell was still at the dining room table, rereading the chapters again and again, trapped in an infinite loop that led only to the past. She was still crying. She was still twenty years in the past, back during when she had made the only decision she knew how to make.

Outside her door was the sound of luggage being thrown into a car's trunk.

Ericka tried to convince herself that parents were human. They became dissatisfied, cheated on each other, and made smiles for public show. They destroyed themselves and the lives of their spouses and families in one single action.

For every man who cheated, a woman was involved. Both wanted power. Some women moved from being abused to the position of power. The slave saw the master's position as powerful, then mimicked the master, became an abuser, beat and hit and slapped so he could feel as powerful as the master. When she was a child in Oklahoma, Mrs. Stockwell had been raised by a heavy hand. Her marriage to Mr. Stockwell had come with a heavy hand. A woman who had been cheated on could live in resentment and envy, could become hardened, and do to others what had been done to her.

Indigo's father waited at his vehicle, jaw tight, trapped, unable to leave.

Ericka took her time, walked past his car on the passenger's side.

She wanted to drag her keys down the side of the car.

She didn't.

She stared him down as she crossed between the hood of her roadster and the trunk of his luxury vehicle. She went to the driver's door on her car, then faced Indigo's father again.

She was not done staring.

She was not done transmitting her contempt.

She glowered at Indigo's father, at her friend's hero, and he twitched. He opened his mouth like he wanted to plead his case, to make a profound yet clichéd statement about marriage and fidelity, about the difficulties of being human, of feeling suffocated and needing to be able to breathe for a moment, and there being no real harm done to anyone because no one knew. Maybe he just wanted a woman he didn't see as a wife and the mother of his child. Maybe he desired a Half-rican American concubine he could call up at two in the morning and when the phone rang, she knew what the call was about. Maybe he wanted a woman who didn't require attachments.

Maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe, maybe.

He stood with his mouth open, face contorting with his thoughts, vacillating between fear and anger. Ericka waited to hear the excuses she had heard from her ex-husband.

But Indigo's dad said nothing. He didn't talk down to her that way a man from his generation talked down to women. An angry woman holding a gun made a man think twice about saying stupid shit.

Anything he said would not make him sound human. There was no combination of the 1,025,109 words in the English language that could make Ericka empathize with the devil.

Ericka took out her cellular.

She called Indigo. The trepidation and burden in his face quickly became a father's tears. In silence, with facial expressions and body language, he begged Ericka not to call his daughter. Ericka put the call on speaker. Gun in one hand. Phone in the other.

When Indigo answered, Ericka extended the phone toward Indigo's father. Again, in silence, practically falling to his knees, he pleaded with Ericka, and at the same time looked like he wanted to tackle her, but he didn't move from where he stood.

This was serious. He knew he wasn't good at tackling a bullet.

In a cheery voice Ericka said, “Hey, tall, dark, and sexy Blackbird. Where are you?”

Indigo said she was unhappy, having the unhappiest day of her life,
and was sitting in a café in Marina del Rey with Yaba, an engagement ring on the table between them. She didn't like the surprise. Indigo didn't like surprises. She had to gently undo what had been recklessly done. People had posted pictures of them kissing, it had streamed, was blowing up online.

YABA THE LAK
ER GETS ENGAGED
was trending on Twitter, so it was trending around the world. People had recorded from the moment Yaba had stepped on stage, and that video was now the hottest thing on Black Twitter, Facebook, this, that, and the other sites on social media.

Olamilekan had already seen it online, had seen the whole thing because dozens of people had streamed it live using Periscope, hearts flying every time they hit the
LIKE
button.

Ericka asked, “Do your mother and father know?”

“My mother would have a fit. I tried to call her, but she's not answering, so she's probably sleeping. She's already in bed by ten on most nights. This is not the breaking news I want her to wake up to in the morning. It will be seen all over Nigeria. Yaba has a country of fans that follow his every move, same as Olamilekan. Yaba knows I see Olamilekan, and asked me to marry him. That is insane. How can a man ask my mother's only Nigerian daughter to marry him and he has not spoken to her first, if our families have not met, if he has not followed tradition?”

Ericka took a step toward the luxury car. “What would your father say?”

“He would be glad that he could get free Lakers tickets. He'd sell me for a goat.”

“Where is your dad? Have you talked to him today or tonight?”

“He's on a business trip. He called me when he was driving to LAX.”

“When did he leave Los Angeles?”

“He left yesterday. He will be back tomorrow, and he will find out. Who proposes to a woman at a comedy club? That is so damn ghetto. Who listens to black racism all night, listens to black people call themselves the
N
-word all night, hear them be as biased toward white people as white people are racist to them, then gets on his bad knees and asks a woman to marry him?”

“You said yes.”

“I had no other choice. I didn't want to get booed like I was at the Apollo. Black Americans would have booed me and started throwing things at me.”

“You're Nigerian, but you're also black American, too.”

“Not to them.”

“Well, I had called because I thought I saw your father on Crenshaw near the 10.”

“You're not home?”

“I went for a drive.”

“Wasn't my dad. He's not back until tomorrow.”

“Where is Yaba the Laker?”

“Signing autographs for some man who was rude enough to interrupt us as we were arguing. These people. What, am I invisible at night? I know I'm dark, but I'm not that damn dark.”

“Those are the problems when you date famous men. You're invisible to the public.”

“I need to talk to someone who is sensible. I'm feeling overwhelmed right now. My heart is aching and my head is in a vise grip, and Olamilekan is panicking and calling every two seconds and when I don't answer he's texting and sending messages on Facebook trying to call me on Tango and Viber. I can't talk to him now. I can't deal with Yaba and I can't deal with Olamilekan while I am dealing with Yaba.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“This has stressed me out. I'm glad you called to check on me. I was about to scream.”

“Well, I called because I swear I saw your father down by Crenshaw and the 10.”

“He's out of town. Houston, I think. Maybe Dallas.”

Ericka paused. “See you when you get home, Indigo.”

“If a light is on, or the television is on, I will come by your apartment.”

“Do you really think you're coming home tonight?”

“I doubt it.”

“Enjoy Yaba. Talk to him. Express your concerns. Tell him what you want, tell him what you're afraid of. Tell him the kind of man you want
in your life and see if he can be that man. Let him know the kind of woman you are. Be real. No games. Write it down. Read it out loud. Be clear. Put it all on the table. Have him answer all of your questions, and if he falls short, slide the ring back across the table. In the end, it's your call, and I have your back no matter what. I'm here for you. The Blackbirds are here for you. Call back if you need me to run interference.”

“If one more woman comes over to Yaba while I am here, I will scream.”

“Make sure that's the type of lifestyle you can handle.”

“These bitches are so damn rude.”

“Don't end up waving no woman's panties in the air tonight. There are a lot of trifling women out there, women who will cheat and sleep with a man who is powerful and has money, and I know you would beat another woman down and pull her hair out by the roots.”

“I am bad. But my mother is worse.”

“Get back to Yaba.”

“Okay.”

“He loves you.”

“I know.”

“He told the world he loves you.”

“I know.”

“Olamilekan would never do that.”

“You're right.”

“What's wrong?”

“I have found out so much about Olamilekan.”

“How?”

“I will tell you. It's too much to tell. I can show you and tell you.”

“Focus on Yaba.”

“He stood on a stage in front of everyone and asked me to marry him.”

“Give Yaba a chance. Tell him how he has to do it based on your culture. It's his culture too. He will understand. Take your time. Be engaged a long time. Get to know him all over again.”

“This is why I love you, Ericka.”

“Bye, Blackbird.”

“Bye, Blackbird.”

Ericka ended the call. Indigo's father was in tears.

He understood the seriousness. He understood Ericka's dark side. He understood that she was a Stockwell, and the Stockwells were beautiful, but they were a cold-blooded lot.

It would take one phone call for him to wish Ericka had given him a bullet instead. She gave him her emotions, and he felt all the words she didn't have to say out loud.

But she said them anyway.

“You are
despicable
. You cheat on your wife. You lie to your daughter. I hope you rot in hell. Leave here and never look back, never come back. Whatever is missing in your life, it is not here, it is not in this bed. Never call my mother. Never speak her name. Never say a word to me ever again. I will ruin your life. I will ruin your life in ways you can't even imagine. Leave now.”